​In a recent interview, Elon Musk claimed that empathy is “killing Western civilization.” He’s not alone. A growing number of pastors and pundits, especially in far-right Christian circles, are beginning to warn their flocks that empathy is a kind of moral corruption—a gateway to misplaced compassion and liberal decay. Empathy, they say, makes you soft.

But empathy isn’t softness, it’s strength, rooted in emotional intelligence. I teach it to my students not just because it leads to better relationships, but because it is what employers are looking for in new hires. Why? Because if you understand your employee, you build loyalty. If you understand your customer, you build trust. In sales, it closes deals. In diplomacy, it prevents war. In democracy, it allows us to coexist.

So why the backlash? To me, there is one commonality among the anti-empathy voices: they are all in positions of power. Empathy only feels dangerous if you’ve never needed it. If you’re comfortably seated atop the social or economic hierarchy, empathy is an inconvenience. It shatters the illusion that your opinion is the only one that matters.

When immigrants arrive at the border, empathy asks us to imagine the journey that brought them here—the violence they fled, the risks they took. When someone is wrongfully deported, empathy asks us to reconsider that decision (due process literally provides ‘the opportunity to be heard’). Without empathy, we stop seeing people. We start seeing problems. Albert Bandura calls this moral disengagement, a sort of psychological lubricant that makes it easier to ignore or justify harmful policies. Empathy introduces a friction that forces us to imagine how those policies affect everyone, not just ourselves or personal network.

Even something like tariffs reflects a lack of empathy. Critics point to poor economic strategy or shortsighted thinking, but they also reveal a complete disregard for the real people affected--farmers, manufacturers, small businesses, consumers—not to mention our global reputation.

When empathy is labeled a sin or weakness, what’s really at stake is our human decency. Empathy threatens systems of power and privilege because it implores us to care. If you can convince enough people that caring is wrong, that understanding is un-American and anti-Christian, then you can keep the power where it is—which is exactly the point. But, contrary to Musk’s opinion, empathy doesn’t destroy civilizations. It builds them. It has been a keystone of every civil justice movement we now celebrate—abolition, suffrage, civil rights. Contrary to some conservative Christians, empathy does not mean “never having to say no.” It is not pity or sympathy. It’s consideration in the literal sense, which I would argue, is the connective tissue of a functioning society.

As policies increasingly disregard those without influence, empathy should not just be defended, it should be championed. We should strive to practice it—and just as importantly, to notice when it’s missing, call out its absence, and choose leaders who reflect it. Because in the end, the fate of our shared future may come down to one simple question: Do we still want to understand one another—or not?

This piece was originally published on AL.com on February 13, 2025.

Last March, Alabama passed Senate Bill 129, effectively eliminating DEI programs in schools and institutions across the state. At the time, I wrote an op-ed explaining how this would negatively impact my classroom—not because I was leading formal DEI trainings, but because it would stifle important conversations. Given the similar backgrounds of my students, open dialogue was often the only way to engage with perspectives different from their own. But with the vague language of the law, I worried that these exchanges could be interpreted as “trainings.” So, I stopped them.

Fast forward to January 2025 and any ambiguity is gone. SB 129 was a warm-up act compared to the Executive Order, Ending Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing, which cast a wider net and struck a more ominous tone.

Since then, I’ve noticed a growing hesitancy in higher education circles to discuss anything that might fall under the DEI umbrella. People weigh their words carefully, not just for those in the room but for external stakeholders, policymakers, and even potential whistleblowers emboldened by the executive order. This phenomenon aligns with the Spiral of Silence Theory, the idea that when people perceive a topic as controversial or risky, they are less likely to speak about it for fear of backlash. As fewer voices engage, the silence reinforces the perception that the topic is off-limits, even if many still believe in its importance.

But the silence does not reflect reality. Sure, the DEI acronym has become politically toxic, but its components are not. Research has consistently shown the benefits of diverse groups of people, from Francis Galton’s famous wisdom of the crowds experiment in 1906, to more contemporary research on firm and team performance. More importantly, diversity isn’t just a corporate initiative or an academic talking point, it’s an undeniable reality of the world my students will navigate. Equity, too, is not a radical idea. At its core, it means ensuring that people can secure the resources they need. It does not advocate for equal outcomes, just a fair shot. Proponents of recent anti-DEI measures argue that merit alone should determine opportunity, but this position assumes a level playing field that plainly does not exist.

And inclusion? It is the belief that people should have the chance to participate. What we are really talking about is accessibility. Consider how many policies and technologies have been implemented—without controversy—to remove barriers for those who might otherwise be excluded. Everything from wheelchair ramps to eyeglasses, from medications to closed captioning. These initiatives reflect the very essence of DEI: recognizing the diversity of human experiences, addressing structural barriers to equity, and fostering inclusion by expanding access. As someone who now reads movies, I am personally grateful that Netflix provides a DEI-driven service for me.

Yet, when these principles are applied to race and gender, they are viewed as ideological wedges rather than foundational values. This is critical because, as the Spiral of Silence suggests, as fewer people engage in these exchanges, the more socially and professionally risky they seem. This is the paradox we now face, and it is especially urgent in academia. The very institutions tasked with preparing students for the interconnected global workforce must tiptoe around the concepts that will shape their success within it.
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So where do we go from here? I don’t have an answer. But I know two things: 1) learning does not thrive in silence, and 2) the purpose of higher education is not simply to transmit information. A college classroom is at its best when it challenges assumptions, broadens perspectives, and equips students for the real world. These outcomes require diversity—of backgrounds, thought, and lived experiences. This is not a personal philosophy; it’s how students become the thoughtful, well-rounded professionals that organizations want to hire. If we begin muting conversations around DEI, we don’t just lose words, we lose what makes education transformative in the first place.