There are days when I genuinely wonder how I’m supposed to see the humanity in people whose beliefs strip humanity from everyone else. People who cling to ideologies that cost lives. People whose racism, misogyny, homophobia, or Christian Nationalist fantasies make them cheer for the suffering of anyone who doesn’t live like, love like, or worship like they do.
And if I’m being honest—I struggle.
I struggle deeply.
I follow Jesus. But that doesn’t mean I always live up to the example He set. And I’m learning that’s okay.
Because this struggle is real, and it’s relevant. And if you’re feeling it too, you’re not alone.
The Lie We Were Told: “If You Loved Jesus More, You Wouldn’t Struggle With This.”
Growing up in the church, many of us were handed a version of compassion so distorted it became a weapon:
- Love everyone no matter what.
- Turn the other cheek to injustice.
- If you’re angry, you’re the problem.
- If you can’t show compassion to harmful people, you’re failing spiritually.
But that’s not compassion. That’s spiritual bypassing.
Jesus never told us to ignore harm. He never told us to minimize violence. He never told us to bless oppression with silence.
He didn’t even demand we feel warm feelings toward dangerous people.
He only asked that we not let hatred rule our hearts. And that’s a very different thing.
The Truth: You Don’t Have to Have Compassion For Their Behavior
People often think compassion means:
- understanding their hateful beliefs
- excusing the harm
- pretending their actions aren’t dangerous
- giving them access to us
- forgiving them before they’ve changed
But compassion isn’t agreement.
It’s simply remembering that even the cruelest ideologies start from a wound someone refuses to heal. Not your wound to carry. Not your job to fix.
You can acknowledge someone’s humanity without sitting close enough for them to harm you again.
Compassion Doesn’t Require Proximity
This is a revelation that set me free:
“I won’t become what has harmed me. I won’t let hate reshape who I am. I won’t lose myself just because they lost themselves first.”
That is compassion with boundaries. That is compassion that protects your soul.
Seeing Their Humanity Doesn’t Mean Denying the Danger
Some people are, in fact, dangerous. Some beliefs do cost people their lives. Some ideologies are violence wrapped in scripture.
Seeing their humanity doesn’t mean pretending they’re harmless.
In fact, their humanity is what makes their hatred so terrifying—because humans choose. Humans decide. Humans turn away or turn toward justice. And some choose hatred with full awareness of the consequences.
If You Struggle to See Their Humanity, It’s Because They Aren’t Showing It
That’s not your lack of compassion—that’s their refusal to offer honesty.
You’re not meant to squint hard enough to imagine goodness where none is visible. You’re not responsible for manufacturing empathy when someone consistently chooses harm.
Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is name the reality:
“I can’t see your humanity right now because you’re choosing not to live into it.”
You can pray for someone’s heart to change while refusing to let their brokenness break you.
Following Jesus Doesn’t Require Perfection—It Requires Integrity
Jesus didn’t model flawless emotional responses. He modeled truth. He modeled boundaries. He modeled courage. He modeled righteous anger. He modeled stepping away from hostile, dangerous people.
He never sacrificed his well-being to make violent people comfortable.
So if you need distance, take it. If you need space to sort through your feelings, honor that. If you need to admit, “I can’t love them right now,” that honesty is holy.
Because love that’s forced isn’t love. Compassion that harms you isn’t compassion. Empathy that erases your own humanity isn’t spiritual maturity—it’s self-abandonment.
And Jesus never asked for that.
Maybe the Holiest Compassion Is the One You Offer Yourself
At the end of the day, here’s what I’m holding:
I may not always be able to see the humanity in people who choose hatred. But I can refuse to let their hatred dehumanize me. I can stay grounded in my values. I can draw boundaries Jesus Himself would recognize. I can keep my heart from being shaped by the very violence I reject.
And maybe that is enough. Maybe that is love. Maybe that is Christlike.
Because compassion doesn’t start with the people who harm us. It starts with the decision not to become like them.
A Celtic Blessing for the Weary and the Wounded
May the Christ who walks the wild edges walk with you now.
When your heart is tired from holding too much, may He sit beside you and remind you that you were never meant to carry the weight of the world alone.
May the Spirit who hovers over the deep steady your breath.
When compassion feels impossible, when love feels too heavy, may She rest upon you like soft morning light, opening only the space that is safe for you to open.
May the Holy One who formed you in tenderness guard the tenderness that remains in you.
May your boundaries be as strong as ancient stone, and your mercy as gentle as running water—flowing where it is welcome, withdrawn where it is not.
May you never forget your own humanity even when others forget theirs.
And may the God who sees all things clearly teach you how to see without being shattered, to care without being consumed, to love without losing yourself.
Christ before you, Christ behind you, Christ beneath your feet and above your head.
Christ to shield you from hatred’s wound, Christ to soften what has grown hard within you, Christ to keep your spirit whole in a world too willing to break it.
Go in peace, held by the One who knows your heart, honors your limits, and calls your struggle holy.
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