A little less Christian Compassion please

While in Thailand I read a couple of books, one being the Painted Veil. I was touched by one particular passage. For those who have not read it I'll give a little background (a.k.a. spoil the ending--so don't read on if you don't want to know what happens!): The husband of the main character has died of cholera. It was not surprising since he had volunteered to work in an area of cholera epidemic. So the woman is in a sort of mourning period. There's a lot more to the story which makes her mourning both selfish and yet deep, but I won't try and rewrite the book right here. The main character had been volunteering at this nunnery while her husband was working as a doctor in the area. Now that her husband is dead one of the nuns tries to console her by talking about the love of God and the peace that is found in Christ, something like that anyway.

The main character wants to say the following (maybe even yell it out) to the nun but doesn’t:

"I'm a human being, unhappy and alone, and I want comfort and sympathy and encouragement: oh can't you turn a minute away from God and give me a little compassion; not Christian compassion that you have for all suffering things, but just human compassion for me?"

I sold the book to some bookstore in Koh Tao, but before I handed it over I wrote down that passage in my little black notebook. I'm afraid if I write much more it'll come out weird and preachy, but this passage really spoke to me. Having been on both the giving and receiving end of both that refined and somewhat impersonal "Christian compassion” and that more raw and maybe a bit clumsy "human compassion" I know what the author means. Sometimes you just need to set aside the all powerful, all knowing, invisible God figure for a minute and just connect human to human.

Even though it's been over a year since that moment I remember vividly sitting on the rug in Lindsay's bedroom telling her the painful details of my breakup. She listened and let the tears come to her eyes as I explained the deep sense of loss and feelings of helplessness that consumed my young heart at that time. She knew me, she knew the details of my life and because she had taken the time to know me she understood the deep pain I was feeling right then. She didn't undermine my feelings by telling me it'd all be OK in the end, she didn't remind me that the Lord had a plan for me, she didn't even try to give me some pep talk on the usefulness of trials. She just sat there on that rug and wept right along with me. Her tears meant more to me than any "comforting" words she could have uttered.

And she wasn't the only one that provided a bit of that human compassion. There was Kelvin who held me while I cried all over his shoulder trying not to get snot on his shirt. And Christine who listened night after night as I sifted through my emotions until I found happy ones. And Kjerstin who would call me out on my crap and then show love the best way she knew how--some delicious home cooked food and an insightful and meaningful compliment. And Veronica who coached me through it all—letting me know that I wasn’t alone.

I know, I know you're probably saying, but Liann what about John 11:35? John 11:35 states explicitly that after Mary tells Christ that her brother, Lazarus, has died, Jesus wept. Isn't that real Christian compassion Liann? Well yes, as I read that passage I recognize that maybe Christ understood what it was like to really connect with people, people who aren't so perfect. And maybe the author of the Painted Veil would say, stop shoving Jesus in my face and start connecting with me as Jesus would, mortal to mortal. And maybe I need to cut those trite little pep talks out of my Christian repertoire and just listen to the one that suffers and let her know her feelings are (as Christine would say) valid. It would mean I'd have to live in the moment with that person as Lindsay had lived in that moment with me. And then after living that moment eventually we could together bring Christ into the picture and allow him to do what he does best, provide hope for the future.