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Early one morning I was watching a clip from an old Batman TV show — the Adam West version, years old now. It was hilarious. Batman was trying to dispose of a lit bomb, running around the dock area of some city, clearly aware that time was running out. Every time he thought he could safely detonate it, someone or something stopped him — nuns walking by, a couple of lovers embracing, a family of ducks, and on and on. The interruptions just kept coming. It was screamingly funny.
But as I laughed, I also found myself thinking: what kind of humor produces a scene like this? What assumptions are baked into it?
What struck me was the abundance of empathy in the writing. The joke only works because Batman refuses — absolutely refuses — to harm anyone. Not people. Not animals. Not even ducks. Every living creature matters enough to slow him down, even with a bomb ticking in his hands.
That kind of empathy feels rarer now. Or perhaps it’s still there, but far less admired.
What We Mean When We Talk About Empathy
Empathy is the ability to imagine another’s experience — to sense what someone else might be feeling, and to let that understanding shape our actions. It’s more than feeling sorry for someone. It requires attention, restraint, and humility. Empathy asks us to pause long enough to say: Your life matters too.
Yet in recent years, empathy has been increasingly criticized. Some public figures argue that empathy is sentimental, manipulative, or even dangerous — that it clouds judgment or weakens moral clarity. Charlie Kirk, for example, had publicly rejected the concept, calling empathy a harmful modern invention and preferring sympathy instead.
It’s a striking claim — because if empathy is truly a flaw, then some of the most enduring characters in our literature would have to be reclassified not as heroes, but as fools.
And yet… readers keep loving them.
You might also be interested in reading Organic Granny's article on ten gentle ways parents and grandparents can teach young children empathy and compassion through everyday connections.
Empathy in Beloved Books: Three Examples That Endure
Atticus Finch — To Kill a Mockingbird
Atticus Finch is perhaps one of the clearest literary examples of empathy as moral practice. He insists on seeing others — even those who disgust or anger him — as human beings shaped by fear, history, and circumstance. His advice to Scout about climbing into another person’s skin isn’t abstract; it governs how he lives.
For decades, readers admired Atticus precisely because of this quality. His empathy was understood as strength — quiet, disciplined, costly strength.
Over time, especially with the publication of Go Set a Watchman, readers have revisited Atticus with more complexity. Some younger readers now see him as limited by his era, or constrained by paternalism. And yet, even in reassessment, empathy remains the standard by which he is judged. We don’t reject empathy itself — we ask whether it went far enough.
That tells us something important.
Samwise Gamgee — The Lord of the Rings
Samwise Gamgee is not powerful, noble, or ambitious. What he has is loyalty — and an almost stubborn empathy for Frodo’s suffering. Sam notices exhaustion, despair, hunger, and fear long before others do. He doesn’t try to fix it with speeches. He stays.
For many readers, Sam has become the most beloved character in the trilogy. Early on, he was sometimes dismissed as simple or secondary. But over time — and especially through the film adaptations — his empathy has come to be seen as the very reason the quest succeeds.
Sam is not weak because he feels deeply. He endures because he does.
Anne Shirley — Anne of Green Gables
Anne Shirley feels everything. She empathizes with loneliness, with beauty, with small injustices and quiet griefs. For generations, she was loved — but also gently mocked — for being too sensitive, too talkative, too emotional.
And yet, as readers grow older, many discover that Anne’s empathy is her greatest strength. She repairs relationships. She transforms communities. She notices what others overlook.
Modern adaptations, especially *Anne with an E,* have reframed her sensitivity as trauma-informed and resilient — not a flaw, but a survival skill. What once looked excessive now looks wise.
So What Do We Do With This?
Across these stories, empathy does not make life easier for the characters who practice it. They are misunderstood. Delayed. Burdened. Sometimes ridiculed. Empathy slows them down.
Which brings me back to Batman — standing on a dock, holding a bomb, waiting for ducks to pass.
The scene works because the writers assumed something we no longer say out loud very often: every life is worth stopping for. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when the clock is ticking.
Empathy doesn’t mean we never act. It means we refuse to become careless with who gets harmed along the way.
Maybe that kind of empathy isn’t outdated after all.
Maybe it’s just harder? And more necessary than ever.
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