Yesterday someone at work handed me an article describing a study conducted about empathy. There were seminary students, as in trying for an advanced degree in kindness, who were told to go from one building to another on campus. Some of them had prepared a presentation about the Good
Samaritan, and others were speaking on a different topic. One group were specifically urged to go quickly, another was told to be prompt, and a third were not rushed.
On the sidewalk there was an actor who pretended to be sick, and was doubled over in pain. The ruse was to find out whether anyone paused to help.
Apparently, having the parable about stopping to help a stranger in need on one's agenda did not necessarily slow the steps of someone passing a stranger in need. Less than half of the people felt called to offer aid, and the determining factor seemed to be the time crunch. The bigger the hurry, the lower the chances.
Later that day I was reading a book about altruism and the same story showed up. What are the odds of that? Over my shoulder I heard the rumblings of Benjamin getting frustrated with the computer.
"Quiet down, Ben," I reminded. I secretly hoped he would get loud enough to alert John in the next room who is better with calming him anyway. Besides I was reading. For my job.
It wasn't until I finished the chapter and felt more willing to be distracted that I noticed the similarity
between myself and the seminary students. Oh. That's right. I prefer reading about compassion to actually giving it.
Years ago when I was still floundering with being a young mother I went to a parenting class. We talked about gems like How to Talk So Your Kids Will Listen and Listen So Your Kids
will Talk, and I was giddy with new ideas to implement. But when I got home my children were asleep with a babysitter. I resisted the temptation to wake them up and invite them to speak to me. About anything. I was ready.
Later in the week they would challenge me with their whining and clogged ears, and it would be up to me to put into action the thoughts I had been
so pumped about. I would have prefered to practice with pretend children, on a full stomach, when I was well rested and free of distractions.
But it seems the School of Compassion holds hours when we are hurrying to do something much more important.
