Compassion Fatigue and Faith: How Christians Can Stay Tender-Hearted in an Age of Turmoil
We weren't made to carry this much horror. Climate disasters. School shootings. Political violence. The weight of tragedy is no longer a surprise—it's an expectation. It shows up in our social media feeds, our headlines, and our neighborhoods.
If you're honest, you might be scared of going numb. You fear your heart might freeze to protect itself. That you might get used to this.
Here's the truth: numbness is often self-protection. Your nervous system is trying to keep you from breaking. Many people live with what clinicians call compassion fatigue or secondary trauma—a slow exhaustion from repeated exposure to others' pain. You're not weak for feeling it. You're human.
But what starts as protection can harden into a lifestyle if we never return to God's presence for healing.
The central question: How do we keep tender hearts in a harsh world? How do we mourn without being crushed? Can we stay soft enough to weep and strong enough to act?
The answer is yes, but not by our own strength. The answer lies in God's invitation to receive a new heart.
Anchor in the Word
Key Verse for Combating Emotional Numbness
And I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.
—Ezekiel 36:26 (NLT)
Understanding the Context: From Old Covenant to New
Ezekiel spoke to a traumatized people. Israel lived in exile—displaced, broken, spiritually desensitized. They'd turned from God into idolatry and injustice. Their hearts were no longer sensitive to suffering around them or to their Creator's voice.
God doesn't merely condemn. He offers the most intimate promise: to remove hardened hearts and replace them with hearts that feel again. Hearts that beat in time with mercy, justice, and divine compassion.
This promise also points forward. Jeremiah echoes the same hope: "I will put my instructions deep within them, and I will write them on their hearts" (Jeremiah 31:33, NLT). And Hebrews confirms this promise is now carried into the life of God's people in Christ: "I will put my laws in their hearts" (Hebrews 8:10, NLT).
This isn't superficial change. It's soul-level transformation. The same God who spoke through Ezekiel speaks now to our weary culture, our exhausted Church, to those numb from repeated sorrow. He still offers tender hearts to those who dare to receive them.
What We're Facing
Recognizing Compassion Fatigue: When Horror Becomes Background Noise
We live in constant crisis. The news cycle churns endlessly. Wildfires. Mass shootings. Families displaced by floods and economic uncertainty. Children lost. Democracies trembling.
No wonder we retreat inward and grow numb. It feels like too much because it is too much.
Sometimes numbness looks like scrolling past agony with a blank face. Sometimes it's rage that flares fast and disappears faster. Sometimes it's cynicism that pretends to be wisdom. And sometimes it's just silence—because you don't know what to say anymore.
If any of this sounds familiar, you're not alone. Here are a few signs your heart might be shutting down to survive:
- You notice tragedy but can't feel it.
- You feel irritated at the idea of caring again.
- You avoid news, people, or conversations because they feel unbearable.
- You feel guilt for being numb, then go numb about the guilt.
- You feel exhausted by sorrow before you even start.
Theologian Richard Rohr describes this as the "tragic sense of life"[1]—a growing awareness of sorrow and injustice that can either tenderize us or desensitize us. The danger isn't feeling overwhelmed. It's choosing numbness as a permanent state.
Important distinction: If you're living in direct trauma—domestic violence, war zones, chronic poverty, active persecution—your experience of compassion fatigue differs from secondary exposure. You can't simply "turn off the feed" when the crisis is your daily reality. If this is you, please skip to the section on biblical lament as protest and seek immediate support from trusted friends, counselors, or crisis resources.
God didn't make us to live numb. He formed us in His image, and God feels deeply. Scripture doesn't shame our overwhelm. It calls us into His presence where hearts can soften again. As it says, "I will give you a tender, responsive heart" (Ezekiel 36:26).
Then and Now—Drawing Parallels
In Ezekiel's day, God's people lived in the ruins of their own failure. Corruption was rampant. Prophets spoke of princes who devoured people, priests who violated law, and citizens who shed innocent blood (Ezekiel 22:25-29). Society drowned in injustice. Hearts grew cold.
Today we see echoes of this condition. Leaders who exploit. Institutions protecting power instead of the vulnerable. Climate disasters worsened by greed and neglect. A public too weary or distracted to act. Our hearts, too, are at risk of calcifying under the weight of the news cycle.
In exile, people didn't just lose land. They lost stability, identity, and safety. Trauma changes how people feel. It compresses the soul into survival mode. Our modern version differs, but creates similar effects. We're flooded by constant outrage and atrocity with little time to grieve, process, or act wisely. So hearts do what hearts do under pressure—they try to conserve themselves.
But God's invitation in both eras is identical: return to Me, and I will remake your heart. Walter Brueggemann writes,
"The prophetic task is to nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness of the dominant culture"[2].
That alternative consciousness begins when we refuse to normalize the numbing.
To be prophetic in this age—to embody an alternative way of seeing and being—means staying soft when the world demands we harden.
What Staying Tender Looks Like: A Living Example
In Uvalde, Texas, after the 2022 Robb Elementary School shooting that killed 19 children and two teachers, Father Michael K. Marsh of St. Philip's Episcopal Church faced a choice familiar to many faith leaders after tragedy. He could offer initial prayers and move on, or he could stay.
He stayed. For three years and counting, Father Marsh has been at the heart of efforts to provide financial assistance and spiritual guidance to impacted families, alongside other local churches. When survivor Arnulfo Reyes visited the church asking for gas money to see a doctor, Father Marsh handed him a check for $1,000. Reyes recalled using it to pay rent and ensure he kept his home. Father Marsh didn't offer answers or fix broken theology—he showed up with tangible support, even as the community struggled with inadequate resources and bureaucratic barriers.[5]
This sustained presence came at personal cost. After 20 years leading St. Philip's, Father Marsh retired in 2024—described as a huge blow to a community that has not found its way out of the tragedy. Yet his ministry demonstrated what sustained tenderness looks like: not a single emotional response, but an embodied commitment to presence over time. Not performance, but companionship in grief.
Theological Truth in Plain Language
God doesn't want you numb. He wants you new.
Newness begins not with hustle, but with surrender. With prayer. Not performative, distant prayer, but real prayer—honest, aching, gut-level prayer that aligns our hearts with God's. This is where "thoughts and prayers" stops being a slogan and becomes sacred resistance. When we truly pray, we're not escaping the world's pain. We're opening ourselves to God's heart for it.
E.M. Bounds reminds us,
"Prayer fills man's emptiness with God's fullness. It gives a vision of possibility, not just survival"[3].
Prayer turns us from passive spectators into Spirit-filled responders. In this posture of spiritual attentiveness, we learn to weep again. To mourn what God mourns. To see what God sees.
Christian theology teaches that Jesus is Emmanuel—God with us. Not God above atrocity. Not God ignoring disaster. He is with us in it. If God hasn't turned away from suffering, neither should we.
But let's say something clearly, because many tenderhearted people need permission to hear it: staying soft doesn't mean staying flooded.
A tender heart isn't the same thing as constant exposure. Boundaries aren't stone—they're stewardship. You can limit the firehose of tragedy without becoming indifferent. You can turn off the feed for an hour and still remain faithful. You can rest and still love. You can step back to pray and still stand with the suffering.
Tenderness requires discernment. Not all suffering demands equal response. Sometimes compassion means saying no to secondary exposure so you have capacity for direct presence. This isn't hardness. It's wisdom.
Biblical Lament: More Than Emotional Expression
Grief is sacred. Jesus wept at Lazarus's tomb (John 11:35). He grieved over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41). When you grieve, you walk in your Savior's footsteps.
But biblical lament does more than process emotions. It petitions God to act. The Psalms don't just express pain—they demand justice:
- "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?" (Psalm 13:1, NLT)
- "Arise, O Lord! Punish the wicked, O God!" (Psalm 7:6, NLT)
- "Rescue the poor and helpless; deliver them from the grasp of evil people" (Psalm 82:4, NLT)
Lament is protest. It names injustice and calls on God to intervene, restore, and judge. It refuses to pretend everything's fine. It keeps faith alive even when faith feels fragile.
This is why lament is theology, not therapy. It maintains relationship with God through pain rather than despite it.
Practical Moves of Faith: Overcoming Compassion Fatigue
At a glance: Name what's numb, return to Scripture, practice lament as protest, pray like it matters, and take one concrete mercy action. Tenderness isn't a mood. It's a way of living.
Acknowledge the Numbness
You don't have to fake strength. Begin by noticing what you've stopped reacting to. Gun violence? Climate collapse? Racial injustice? Is it easier to scroll than to feel? That's not sin. That's a signal. Write it down. Say it aloud.
Do this today: Name one specific news story from the past month that you scrolled past. What did you feel when you saw it? What kept you from engaging? Then pray: "God, meet me there."
Return to the Word
Revisit Ezekiel 36:26. Don't just read it—let it read you. Meditate on each phrase. Pray: God, make my heart responsive again. Pull out what has hardened. I want to feel what You feel.
Use the Psalms as a guide. They're full of tears, rage, despair, and hope. They remind us that faith doesn't silence emotion. It sanctifies it.
Do this today: Read Ezekiel 36:26 out loud once. Slowly. Like medicine.
Practice Lament as Protest and Petition
Take time for real lament. Write a prayer. Light a candle. Speak the names of the lost. Weep with the families. Cry for the Earth. These aren't empty gestures. They're how hearts stay alive.
But don't stop at expression. Include petition: God, intervene. Bring justice. Heal what's broken. Stop what's evil.
Do this today: Practice a 60-second lament—name the pain, name what it costs, ask God for specific intervention, then sit in silence listening for response.
Pray for Alignment and Discernment
Bring raw honesty to God. Rage, sorrow, longing—all of it. God doesn't need polished words. He longs for surrendered ones. Aligning with God in prayer isn't passivity. It's power redirected.
Prayer trains our empathy. It deepens our compassion. It clarifies our action. As you align your heart with God's, ask: What is mine to do? What is mine to carry? What should I release?
As Karl Barth said,
"To clasp the hands in prayer is the beginning of an uprising against the disorder of the world"[4].
Do this today: Pray one unpolished paragraph for one specific tragedy. Then ask God: "What faithful action should I take?" Listen for clarity on whether that's direct involvement, financial support, advocacy, or sustained prayer.
Do One Small Act of Mercy
Tenderness becomes real through action. A note of comfort. A generous gift. A shared burden. These things may seem small, but they're seeds of resurrection.
Every time we choose mercy over apathy, we push back the dark.
Do this today: Choose one—text one grieving friend, give to a local aid group, bring a meal to someone exhausted, or write one public word of truthful compassion instead of performative outrage.
More Light for the Journey
Matthew 5:4 (NLT)
"God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
→ Mourning isn't weakness. It's the doorway to divine consolation.
Romans 12:15 (NLT)
"Be happy with those who are happy, and weep with those who weep."
→ Empathy is the shared rhythm of the Spirit.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NLT)
"He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others."
→ Compassion flows from the comfort we first receive.
Psalm 34:18 (NLT)
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed."
→ God's proximity to pain is a model for our own.
Isaiah 58:10 (NLT)
"Feed the hungry, and help those in trouble. Then your light will shine out from the darkness."
→ Compassion ignites light in the darkest places.
Let's Walk This Out Together
The world is loud with pain. But the whisper of God still calls us: stay soft. Stay human. Stay mine.
This isn't about doing more. It's about becoming more available to the heart of Christ. About learning to listen again. To cry again. To act not out of fear or guilt but love.
For Christians wrestling with compassion fatigue, prayer isn't avoidance—it's preparation. Numbness isn't safety—it's soul decay. You were made to feel deeply, to love boldly, to act gently. Let God renew your heart.
If we stay soft together, we won't break. We'll become the Church the world desperately needs—tender-hearted truth-tellers in a brutal world.
Share your reflections in the comments or on social media using #StaySoft. Let's cultivate communities of compassion that resist cultural numbness.
Journaling and Meditation Prompts
Learning to Feel Again
- What specific image or news story have I turned away from this month?
Name the story. What did you feel when you first saw it? What kept you from engaging? Ask God to meet you in that moment of turning away. - Where do I confuse tenderness with being flooded?
Are there places where I need better boundaries, not a harder heart? What would wise stewardship of my compassion look like? - What might tender faithfulness look like for me right now?
Reflect on how your compassion can become prayer, your prayer can clarify action, and your action can embody Christ's presence.
[1] Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer (Crossroad Publishing, 1999), p. 88.
[2] Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination, 2nd ed. (Fortress Press, 2001), p. 3.
[3] E.M. Bounds, The Necessity of Prayer (Baker Book House, 1976), p. 14.
[4] Karl Barth, quoted in Eberhard Busch, Karl Barth: His Life from Letters and Autobiographical Texts (Wipf & Stock, 2005), p. 213.
[5] Aitana Vargas, "Three Years After The School Shooting In Uvalde, Survivors Struggle To Find Ongoing Support," Economic Hardship Reporting Project, August 5, 2025, https://economichardship.org/2025/08/three-years-after-uvalde-shooting-survivors-support/
Compassion Fatigue and Faith FAQ
Compassion fatigue is a slow exhaustion that comes from repeated exposure to other people’s pain and suffering. Burnout usually grows from stress and overload in your own life—work demands, pressure, responsibilities. Compassion fatigue is different. It comes from absorbing sorrow that isn’t “yours,” whether through the news, ministry, caregiving, advocacy, or simply staying close to people in crisis. It’s sometimes described as secondary trauma because you’re carrying emotional weight from tragedies you did not directly experience.
No. Numbness is often your nervous system’s way of protecting you from breaking under the weight of constant tragedy. It’s a human response, not a spiritual failure. God understands our limits. The danger isn’t in occasionally feeling numb. The danger is letting numbness become your permanent way of living. God invites us back to His presence where our hearts can soften again.
Hold on to this: soft doesn’t mean flooded. Boundaries aren’t stone—they’re stewardship. You can limit your exposure to the constant firehose of tragedy without becoming indifferent. Step back to pray. Rest when needed. Choose a few places where your compassion can be faithful and sustainable, instead of trying to carry everything. Sometimes the most compassionate thing you can do is say no to secondary exposure so you have energy for direct, steady presence with the people right in front of you.
Biblical lament does more than process emotions—it petitions God to act. The Psalms don’t just express pain. They appeal to God for justice. Lament is protest. It names what is wrong and refuses to pretend everything is fine. This is why lament is theology, not therapy. It keeps relationship with God alive through pain, and it expects God to respond.
Prayer becomes empty when it’s performative—when it’s used to look spiritual while avoiding the cost of love. But real prayer is different. Real prayer is honest, gut-level prayer that aligns our hearts with God’s. It’s not escaping the world’s pain. It’s opening ourselves to God’s heart for it. Prayer trains our empathy, clarifies what action to take, and sustains us for the long-haul presence that survivors and suffering communities actually need.
As Karl Barth said, “To clasp the hands in prayer is the beginning of an uprising against the disorder of the world.”
There’s no set timeline. Recovery isn’t a destination. It’s an ongoing practice of returning to God’s presence, setting healthy boundaries, practicing lament, and taking concrete acts of mercy. Some days you’ll feel more tender. Other days you’ll need to rest. A good sign of progress is this: you can feel again without being consumed, and you can act again without collapsing. Keep coming back to God for the new heart He promises in Ezekiel 36:26.
If you’re living in direct trauma—domestic violence, war zones, chronic poverty, active persecution—your needs differ significantly from those experiencing compassion fatigue from secondary exposure. You can’t simply “turn off the feed” when the crisis is your daily reality. Please seek immediate support from trusted friends, professional counselors, and crisis resources. The practices in this article can support your healing, but they are not a substitute for the specialized care you deserve.
Start small. Keep it simple. Make it real:
- Name one specific tragedy you’ve scrolled past recently and pray: “God, meet me there.”
- Read Ezekiel 36:26 aloud—slowly, like medicine.
- Practice a 60-second lament: name the pain, name what it costs, ask God to intervene.
- Do one concrete act of mercy: text a grieving friend, give what you can to an aid group, bring someone a meal, or write one word of truthful compassion instead of performative outrage.
Tenderness isn’t a mood—it’s a way of living, built through small, consistent choices.
