A theology of compassion (remembering my father)
I grew up in a small Iowa town, and my dad was the minister at the Congregational church. Like most small-town clerics, he was expected to be a self-assured, virtuous role model, but was, of course, just as human and vulnerable as everyone else.
Sometimes he struggled to balance his responsibilities as both a pastor and a prophet. There were prophetic occasions when he would walk in front of his flock, passionately condemning injustice — racism and war and poverty — and espousing new theological insights as a mandate for action. Though he soon learned that his University of Chicago education didn’t translate well in small-town Iowa — that theologians like Paul Tillich and Reinhold Niebuhr were less important than corn prices and high school football. And he figured out that storytelling was more useful than dense biblical exegesis.
He also grew into his pastoral role — walking behind the flock, wading through all the mess and assisting anyone who got trampled or left behind. The essential skill for a pastor was not speaking but listening — an aptitude that I presume is related to prayer, to listening for God amid the routine and exhaustion of everyday life. A small-town pastor must also pursue a theology of daily life — of endless potlucks and coffee shop discussions and late night prayers in some dark hospital room. He or she must try to choose love every single day. And in hindsight, it seems like that was a pretty good strategy for being both a “good Christian” and a good father.
Dad’s ministry was rooted in a theology of compassion. A word that literally means “to suffer with.” Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about that word. And about how intensely divided the church has become, mirroring the deep political divides of the wider culture. Compassion, once a moral imperative, is now treated by some as a liability.
Were he alive today, I think my father would be stunned by the lack of compassion in our government, and society. He would be appalled by the brutal slaughter in Gaza, and by the scapegoating and deportation of immigrants and refugees. And by the cutting of USAID and SNAP and funds for the National Parks and college loans and environmental protection. And by President Trump’s proposed budget, which offers huge tax cuts for the wealthiest and harsh cuts in Medicaid for the poor, “the least of these.” And Dad would be bewildered by Elon Musk’s claim that “the fundamental weakness of Western civilization is empathy.” And by JD Vance’s belief in “ordo amoris,” that one should privilege the needs of their own family, community and nation over those of the rest of the world. And the list goes on and on.
Like most of the pastors I’ve known over the years, my dad did his best to live toward a faith rooted in compassion, and a few core beliefs, such as the love and welcoming of the stranger (Leviticus 19:34), the love of neighbor (Mark 12:31) and, even the love of enemies (Matthew 5:44). Though it was not always clear or easy. And he was, like all of us, both beautiful and flawed — or, beautifully flawed — which may be why his faith centered on mercy and inclusion rather than certainty and separation.
On this Father’s Day, I find myself missing not only my dad, but the kind of moral clarity he embodied — rooted not in dogma or ideology, but in deep compassion. His faith wasn’t about separating the worthy from the unworthy, but about drawing the circle wider. In today’s political and religious climate, where cruelty is often mistaken for strength and empathy for weakness, I’m reminded of how important my father’s faith was to me. He taught me that love — especially for the forgotten, the wounded, the lonely — isn’t sentimental. It’s courageous. And it’s the only thing that endures. As we navigate a world sorely lacking in compassion, I return to his example as both a challenge and a comfort.
• Tom Montgomery Fate is a professor emeritus at College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn. His most recent book is The Long Way Home.