Brother, the times are sick, and people have grown used to calling light what is only a thin shadow. Empathy, as the world praises it, is a thin garment, stitched from psychological threads, not from tears and repentance. It is a garment that tears at the first trial, because it does not cover the heart, it only polishes it on the surface. In the desert of the world I have seen many masks, but none more dangerous than the mask of empathy, for it pretends to be love, yet inside it hides selfishness, which seeks to be seen as good; vain‑glory, which wants to be praised for its sensitivity; pride, which feeds on the image of being a “deep person”; validation, which demands applause for every “altruistic” gesture; and self‑opinion, which believes itself to be the healer of the world. This worldly empathy is not love, but a mirror in which a man admires himself while pretending to see his neighbor. True love of neighbor does not need empathy — it needs the Cross. Empathy says, “I feel what you feel,”
but love says, “I carry what I cannot bear even for myself.” Empathy says, “I understand you,”
love says, “I deny myself so that you may live.” Empathy seeks emotional comfort,
love seeks sacrifice. Empathy wants to be recognized, love wants to be forgotten. Empathy is a psychological garment,
love is a garment of fire. Know, my brother, that a man cannot love as long as he loves his own reflection in the mirror, cannot love as long as he protects his ego, and cannot love as long as he seeks to be appreciated for his “sensitivity,” for love is not an emotion but a death — the death of pride, the death of self‑will, the death of vain‑glory. And only after the old man dies does something arise within him that no longer resembles empathy, but the mercy of God, which does not feel but lifts, does not get emotional but heals, does not seek to be seen but hides. Flee from the empathy that makes you feel good about yourself, and seek the love that makes you feel unworthy, for only there does the true work begin.
Pustia Inimii 