Rather than go back to school to get a master’s degree in theology or sociology or philosophy, I’ve decided to just hang out with people who are already in school for these things. I’ll ask them super general questions, and, when they respond with never-ending, yet highly educated answers, I’ll nod slightly, look thoughtfully to the side, and say, “I was thinking that myself.” This would also be the point where I take a slow drag on a cigarette. (Note to self: take up smoking.) Then I’ll scribble down everything they say. After a couple years, I figure I’ll have plenty of notes for a decent master’s thesis. I’ll just type it up and bring it down to the nearest university.

“Howzit going, provost? That rhymes with ‘toast.’ Provost with the most toast, that’s your name. Anyway, I wrote this. Where do I pick up my master’s degree?” 

I bring this up because a while ago I had a conversation with my friend, Dave. Dave is in school to earn a master’s in theology. He has a lot of thoughts about complex subjects—compassion and social justice, for example. I’d pegged “compassion” and “social justice” as approximations of one another or, more accurately, hadn’t really given much thought to distinguishing them, one way or the other. But Dave said, “Compassion and social justice are two different things. Compassion would be like some kind of merciful work you do because your heart is bent toward a suffering individual or group. Volunteering at a homeless shelter, for example.

“Social justice, on the other hand, would be deep diving into societal systems that create unfair gaps between groups of people. With an eye to changing them, to making them fair for everybody. Getting involved in community development as an advocate for affordable housing would be working for social justice. In other words, you’re trying to change the conditions that make homeless shelters necessary.”

I took a gigantic drag on my cigarette. Like, half the cigarette was gone in a single breath. Heavy stuff, Dave. I had to think about that for a long time. But I did. 

And here’s what I came up with: Compassion is the doorway to social justice. Performing works of mercy—synonymous, as far as I can tell, with “acting compassionately”—makes people see the need for social justice. Taking a church small group to serve dinner at a homeless shelter exposes the group to the injustices homeless men, women and kids face. That exposure might look like any number of things. Maybe somebody in the group has a one-on-one conversation with a shelter resident who, because of an ancient felony on his record, is continually discriminated against when looking for a job. Maybe somebody else in that small group, and let’s say this person is white, has a conversation with a black resident. That small-group member learns about the crippling power of racism, something they never experienced—and, in fact, could never experience. 

Fair warning: Compassion is apt to radically change the person who takes any merciful action in its name. The slope from compassion to social justice is slick. Don’t, for example, volunteer at a homeless shelter if you don’t want to rework your politics, your theology, even your concept of self. I knew a woman in Chicago, a pastor’s wife, who, one day, noticed the throngs of homeless people who hung around her husband’s church. In an act of compassion, she made them soup and coffee. Now, nearly 30 years on, she’s executive director of an organization that ceaselessly advocates for housing and racial justice. Her plan, from the outset, wasn’t to start a big organization or become an expert on homelessness and its myriad attendant issues. She just wanted to help.

The point is that works of mercy invite us to look more deeply, even critically, at the structures we live by—just like they did for my friend in Chicago. Not only that, but we realize these structures created the need for our compassionate action in the first place. If we never performed the compassionate work, the societal injustices would never have become apparent. 

Back to our small group: When they leave the shelter, there ought to be a reckoning with social injustice in each member’s mind. If those members leave the shelter feeling utterly powerless—maybe even saying, “I feel so bad, but the problems are just too huge, and it’s not fair”—I dare say they’re on the right track. Each member has to place the newly-revealed truths of social injustice somewhere in their own conscience. It’s difficult personal work, and it’s no wonder that many who witness a social injustice first hand choose denial. 

Denial is the least genuine and least helpful response, but it’s also the response that, in the immediate moment, mitigates the pain that accompanies compassion. Caring hurts—it’s supposed to—and nobody likes pain. Empathetic pain, though, is the soul’s indicator that the person who co-hurts realizes that something—big picture—must be changed. It’s not enough just to serve homeless people sandwiches. Something must be done about homelessness. 

I hope my friend Dave will be pleased with this little essay. I’m sure he, and many other experts who have master’s degrees, could write books on this stuff. But I am hitting print right now, and running down to the provost’s office. I’m sure my parchment is ready.