Why I would rather live with “toxic empathy” than terminally selfish
I would still rather live with what some call “toxic empathy” than drift into the far more dangerous condition of terminal selfishness—but that preference becomes sharper when placed alongside the arguments in Toxic Empathy by Allie Beth Stuckey. Stuckey warns that empathy, when detached from truth, can become manipulative, morally blinding, and even destructive. That concern deserves to be taken seriously. But when I weigh it against the words and life of Jesus Christ, I find that what she calls “toxic empathy” often looks remarkably similar to the radical compassion he consistently embodied.
Stuckey’s central claim is that empathy should never override truth—that feeling with someone can lead us to affirm what is wrong. Yet Jesus did not present truth and compassion as competing forces. He held them together, but always moved toward people, not away from them. When he encountered the woman caught in adultery, he did not deny her sin—but neither did he weaponize truth against her. “Neither do I condemn you,” he said, before telling her to leave her life of sin. The order matters. Compassion came first. Dignity came first. Relationship came first. Truth followed, but it was delivered within the safety of mercy.
In contrast, the fear of “toxic empathy” can lead to a posture that prioritizes correctness over care. It risks turning truth into a barrier rather than a bridge. Jesus’ approach suggests something different: truth is most transformative when it is carried by empathy, not guarded from it.
Another argument in Toxic Empathy is that empathy can cloud justice, leading people to excuse harmful behavior. But Jesus’ life complicates that claim. Consider his interaction with tax collectors—men who were widely seen as corrupt collaborators. Instead of distancing himself, Jesus ate with them, drawing criticism from religious leaders who valued moral separation. His response was clear: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.” This was not a denial of wrongdoing. It was a reorientation of justice itself—not as exclusion, but as restoration.
If anything, Jesus’ critics might have accused him of the very thing Stuckey warns against: excessive empathy that blurs moral lines. Yet Jesus did not seem concerned with that accusation. He consistently chose proximity over purity culture, relationship over reputation. His empathy did not negate justice—it redefined its goal.
Stuckey also argues that empathy can be exploited, that it can turn individuals into emotional hostages of others’ feelings. That risk is real. But Jesus’ life shows that the answer is not to reduce empathy—it is to root it in something deeper than emotion alone. Jesus was not merely reactive to feelings; his compassion was intentional and grounded. He withdrew at times to rest, he confronted hypocrisy directly, and he did not heal every person in every place. Yet even in those boundaries, his posture remained outward-facing.
The danger in overcorrecting against empathy is that we begin to justify hardness. Terminal selfishness rarely announces itself as such. It often appears as “discernment,” “boundaries,” or “standing firm in truth.” These can be good things—but without the counterweight of compassion, they become tools of distance. Jesus warned about this kind of spiritual posture more than almost anything else. His harshest words were not for sinners, but for religious leaders who used truth to elevate themselves while neglecting mercy. “You give a tenth of your spices,” he said, “but you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy, and faithfulness.”
This is where the contrast becomes unavoidable. The framework of Allie Beth Stuckey seeks to protect truth from empathy. The framework of Jesus Christ insists that truth is fulfilled through love. One is cautious about emotional overreach; the other risks it entirely.
Even the command to “love your enemies” pushes beyond what most would consider healthy empathy. From a purely pragmatic standpoint, this looks excessive—perhaps even “toxic.” Loving those who harm you opens the door to vulnerability, misunderstanding, and pain. Yet Jesus not only taught this; he lived it. In the midst of his crucifixion, he prayed for those responsible: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” If empathy has a breaking point, that moment should have been it. But he did not withdraw it.
That example forces a difficult question: if Jesus’ model of love appears excessive by human standards, should we scale it back—or reconsider our standards?
None of this means that every expression of empathy is good or wise. Empathy can be misused, distorted, or detached from truth. But the corrective is not to fear empathy—it is to refine it. Jesus never called his followers to love less in order to stay morally clear. He called them to love more, while staying rooted in something deeper than emotion alone.
So when I compare the caution of Toxic Empathy with the life and teachings of Jesus Christ, I find myself leaning toward the risk of excess rather than the safety of restraint. Because the greater danger is not feeling too much—it is allowing the heart to close.
I would rather risk being misunderstood for caring too deeply than become skilled at justifying why I should care less. Jesus’ life does not leave much room for comfortable detachment. It calls for a kind of love that stretches, disrupts, and sometimes overwhelms—but ultimately reflects something far greater than ourselves- namely Loving Jesus and Loving Like Him in the world.
