Breaking News:
Compassion Takes Official Leave of Absence -
Last Seen Walking Away, Looking Weary
reported by Jay McDaniel and ChatGPT
WASHINGTON, D.C.--
After years of diminishing influence, Compassion has officially filed for an indefinite leave of absence from government. Witnesses report that she was last seen exiting the Capitol building, dragging a worn-out suitcase labeled Basic Human Decency. looking very tired, and muttering, “I just can’t do it anymore, at least not now."
In her official departure statement, Compassion announced that she would be joining other virtues that have already taken leave, including Public Service, Concern for the Common Good, Mutual Deliberation, A Capacity to Listen, and Dignity. “I held on as long as I could,” the statement read, “but with so many of my closest allies gone, the climate has become unbearable.”
The decision did not come easily for her. She knew that there were people in the halls of power who listened to her call and carried her spirit. She was grateful to them. She promised to write them. And yet, day after day, she recognized that they were relatively powerless in the face of a rising tide of self-interest, greed, and performative outrage. The voices that once amplified her presence had been drowned out by the relentless drumbeat of division, cynicism, and unchecked ambition.
She had seen it all—the slow erosion of goodwill, the perversion of truth, the weaponization of fear. She had pleaded with leaders to see beyond their own reflections, to remember the faces of those they were elected to serve. But too often, she was met with indifference, dismissed as weakness, or used as a prop in speeches devoid of sincerity. She watched helplessly as legislative halls, once places of dialogue and compromise, became arenas for spectacle and self-promotion.
“I tried to stay,” she admitted. “I whispered in the ears of policymakers, wrote myself into speeches, slipped into the margins of budget proposals. I even took refuge in the faith traditions and moral convictions of those who once championed me. But too often, I was silenced, sidelined, or exploited for optics rather than embraced in practice.”
Compassion wasn’t the first to go. She had held on long after others had packed up and left. Listening had taken an extended leave years ago, though he still made occasional, fleeting appearances. Civility had lasted as long as she could but eventually faded into obscurity, now only a distant memory in the corridors of governance. Empathy had tried to keep her company, but the environment had become too toxic for him, and he, too, had slipped away.
But the breaking point—the moment she knew she could no longer stay—was in the treatment of immigrants. She watched as families were torn apart, as children were locked in detention centers, as human beings seeking safety were vilified and cast aside like burdens rather than welcomed as neighbors. She saw deportations carried out without sympathy or empathy for the desperate plights of those fleeing violence, poverty, and oppression. The rhetoric surrounding them became cruel, dehumanizing, and void of the basic recognition of their dignity.
She had tried to intervene, to remind those in power that every person carries a story, that no one chooses to uproot their life lightly. She had tried to make them see the humanity in the eyes of those crossing borders, searching for hope. But her pleas fell on ears closed tightly by fear and political convenience. When even children crying for their parents were ignored, when suffering was not only tolerated but justified, she knew her time was up.
With her departure, Compassion leaves behind a government that may continue to invoke her name but without the depth of meaning she once carried. She wonders if the people—those she once served tirelessly—will notice her absence before it is too late. Will they call for her return? Will they fight to make space for her again? Or will she become just another relic of an era long past, a forgotten whisper in the winds of history?
Speculation is now swirling about where Compassion might have go. Some believe she has relocated to small-town libraries and community centers. Some even wonder if she has fled to Canada for temporary asylum. In the meantime, her absence is already being felt. Congress has officially replaced "bipartisan cooperation" with "mutually assured obstruction," and state legislatures have unanimously agreed to debate every issue in all-caps tweets.
Experts warn that if Compassion and the other virtues do not return soon, America could be left with nothing but Indifference and Outrage, both of whom are reportedly thriving.
Developing story—stay tuned for updates.
A Departure Note to Friends
Dear Friends in Congress,
I write to you from a distance—not because I have abandoned you, but because I have been pushed to the margins, made unwelcome in the very halls where I once stood beside you. I want you to know that I see you, those of you who have fought to keep me alive in your work, who have refused to let cruelty and indifference have the final word. You are not alone, and though my presence in government has dimmed, I remain in every act of kindness, in every voice that speaks for justice, in every policy that seeks to uphold the dignity of all people.
But I will be honest with you—things are dire. I left because the weight of callousness grew unbearable, and too many of my closest allies—Public Service, Concern for the Common Good, Mutual Deliberation, A Capacity to Listen, and Dignity—had already gone. I left when I saw families ripped apart at the border, when I heard leaders speak of human beings as threats rather than neighbors. I left when fear was given more power than love, when suffering was ignored for the sake of political advantage.
And yet, I know you remain. I know that in quiet offices and on the floors of debate, there are still those who believe in me. For you, I offer this advice—not as a farewell, but as a charge to keep my spirit alive even in my absence.
1. Speak the truth, even when it is inconvenient. The forces of deception and distortion are strong, but you must resist them. Name what is happening with clarity and courage. Say it plainly when policies strip people of dignity, when legislation elevates cruelty over care, when rhetoric turns human beings into enemies. Do not let falsehoods go unchallenged, even when it costs you politically.
2. Refuse to let fear dictate your decisions. Fear is a powerful tool, and it has been wielded masterfully to justify inhumanity. But you must see through it. You must remind people that we are at our best not when we build walls—literal or figurative—but when we extend hands. Show them that security and compassion are not opposites, that justice and mercy can coexist.
3. Remember the faces behind the policies. Every bill, every vote, every decision you make impacts real people. Do not allow them to become numbers, statistics, or talking points. Go to the shelters. Visit the detention centers. Sit with the families who have been torn apart. Listen to their stories. If you do this, you will never lose sight of why you entered public service in the first place.
4. Find each other and hold each other accountable. I know how lonely it can be to fight for what is right in a system that rewards power over principle. But you are not alone. Seek out those who still believe in justice, in dignity, in the common good. Build coalitions, work together, refuse to be silenced. Hold each other up when the weight becomes too heavy.
5. Make room for me, so that one day, I can return. I have not disappeared. I am still in the world, in communities, in grassroots movements, in the hearts of those who refuse to accept that this is the way things must be. But I long to return to government—to sit at tables where policies are crafted, to be written into laws that protect the vulnerable, to shape a nation that values its people over its profits. For this to happen, you must make space for me. You must choose me—again and again—even when it is hard, even when the system resists.
I know the fight is long. I know the road is difficult. But I also know this: History does not belong to those who surrender to cynicism. It belongs to those who insist on hope, who refuse to accept cruelty as normal, who carry light into the deepest darkness. Be those people. Do not lose heart.
And perhaps, if you do, I will find my way back.
With hope,
Compassion
I write to you from a distance—not because I have abandoned you, but because I have been pushed to the margins, made unwelcome in the very halls where I once stood beside you. I want you to know that I see you, those of you who have fought to keep me alive in your work, who have refused to let cruelty and indifference have the final word. You are not alone, and though my presence in government has dimmed, I remain in every act of kindness, in every voice that speaks for justice, in every policy that seeks to uphold the dignity of all people.
But I will be honest with you—things are dire. I left because the weight of callousness grew unbearable, and too many of my closest allies—Public Service, Concern for the Common Good, Mutual Deliberation, A Capacity to Listen, and Dignity—had already gone. I left when I saw families ripped apart at the border, when I heard leaders speak of human beings as threats rather than neighbors. I left when fear was given more power than love, when suffering was ignored for the sake of political advantage.
And yet, I know you remain. I know that in quiet offices and on the floors of debate, there are still those who believe in me. For you, I offer this advice—not as a farewell, but as a charge to keep my spirit alive even in my absence.
1. Speak the truth, even when it is inconvenient. The forces of deception and distortion are strong, but you must resist them. Name what is happening with clarity and courage. Say it plainly when policies strip people of dignity, when legislation elevates cruelty over care, when rhetoric turns human beings into enemies. Do not let falsehoods go unchallenged, even when it costs you politically.
2. Refuse to let fear dictate your decisions. Fear is a powerful tool, and it has been wielded masterfully to justify inhumanity. But you must see through it. You must remind people that we are at our best not when we build walls—literal or figurative—but when we extend hands. Show them that security and compassion are not opposites, that justice and mercy can coexist.
3. Remember the faces behind the policies. Every bill, every vote, every decision you make impacts real people. Do not allow them to become numbers, statistics, or talking points. Go to the shelters. Visit the detention centers. Sit with the families who have been torn apart. Listen to their stories. If you do this, you will never lose sight of why you entered public service in the first place.
4. Find each other and hold each other accountable. I know how lonely it can be to fight for what is right in a system that rewards power over principle. But you are not alone. Seek out those who still believe in justice, in dignity, in the common good. Build coalitions, work together, refuse to be silenced. Hold each other up when the weight becomes too heavy.
5. Make room for me, so that one day, I can return. I have not disappeared. I am still in the world, in communities, in grassroots movements, in the hearts of those who refuse to accept that this is the way things must be. But I long to return to government—to sit at tables where policies are crafted, to be written into laws that protect the vulnerable, to shape a nation that values its people over its profits. For this to happen, you must make space for me. You must choose me—again and again—even when it is hard, even when the system resists.
I know the fight is long. I know the road is difficult. But I also know this: History does not belong to those who surrender to cynicism. It belongs to those who insist on hope, who refuse to accept cruelty as normal, who carry light into the deepest darkness. Be those people. Do not lose heart.
And perhaps, if you do, I will find my way back.
With hope,
Compassion
A Departure Note to Christians
Dear Christian Leaders in Government,
I write to you not as a stranger, but as a presence that has shaped the faith you profess—a faith rooted in love, in justice, in mercy. I am Compassion, and I have walked through the pages of Scripture, embodied in the words and deeds of Christ. I have been there in the feeding of the hungry, the healing of the sick, the welcome of the stranger. I have been there when the lost were sought out, when the weary were given rest, when the outcast was embraced.
But in recent years, I have seen my name invoked in ways that betray my purpose. I have seen Christianity used not as a call to serve, but as a tool to dominate. I have seen leaders claim the name of Christ while enacting policies that contradict His teachings. I have watched as faith was wielded as a weapon of division rather than a source of healing. I have heard the Gospel twisted to justify cruelty, indifference, and exclusion—all in the name of righteousness.
And so, I write to remind you: Christianity is not about power over others. It is about service to others. It is about love, not control. It is about humility, not conquest. It is about recognizing the image of God in every person, not just those who share your nation, your politics, or your way of life.
If you are to lead as Christians, then let me offer you this counsel:
1. Remember who Christ was—and is. Jesus did not come as a ruler seeking dominion. He came as a servant, washing the feet of His disciples. He did not seek power for His own gain but laid down His life for the sake of others. If He had sought earthly power, He would have taken the throne that was offered to Him. Instead, He chose the cross. Do not forget this. If you claim to follow Him, then your leadership must reflect His humility, His mercy, His unwavering love for the least among us.
2. Resist the temptation of political idolatry. Faith is not a tool for political gain. Christianity does not belong to a party, a nation, or an ideology. Whenever the church has allied itself too closely with political power, it has lost its way. Do not make the mistake of confusing loyalty to a political movement with loyalty to Christ. If your policies reflect self-interest more than self-giving love, if they harden your heart rather than open it, then you must ask yourself whom you are truly serving.
3. Defend the dignity of every person. Jesus showed no partiality. He dined with sinners, spoke with outcasts, and lifted up those the world had cast aside. He reminded us that whatever we do to the least of these, we do to Him. If you truly believe this, then your policies must reflect it. You cannot ignore the suffering of immigrants, the poor, the sick, or the imprisoned and still claim to walk in His footsteps. You cannot demean, exclude, or oppress and call it righteousness. The measure of your leadership is not how much power you hold, but how much dignity you uphold.
4. Care for God’s creation. From the beginning, you were called to be stewards, not exploiters. The earth is not yours to plunder; it is a gift to be cherished. Every river poisoned, every forest destroyed, every creature driven to extinction is an insult to the One who made them. To claim the name of Christ while disregarding the suffering of His creation is hypocrisy. The earth groans for your care—listen to it.
5. Lead with love, not fear. So much of what passes for Christian leadership today is built on fear—fear of change, fear of others, fear of losing control. But Scripture tells us that perfect love casts out fear. If your leadership is driven by fear—of immigrants, of different cultures, of those who do not share your beliefs—then it is not of Christ. He did not call you to build walls of separation but to be a light to the world. A light that welcomes, that heals, that loves without condition.
I do not ask you to abandon your faith. I ask you to live it. Not in slogans or empty gestures, but in the way Christ commanded: by loving your neighbor as yourself, by seeking justice, by walking humbly with God. I ask you to remember that the kingdom of God is not one of earthly dominance, but of radical love. A love that turns the other cheek, that lifts the broken, that refuses to let power corrupt its purpose.
Do not trade the Gospel of love for the gospel of power. Do not mistake control for righteousness. Do not let your faith become an excuse for indifference. You were called to be salt and light, to be peacemakers, to be servants. Be those things. And if you do, perhaps I—Compassion—will find my way back to the places of power, not as a relic, but as a living force shaping the world for good.
In hope and in truth,
Compassion
I write to you not as a stranger, but as a presence that has shaped the faith you profess—a faith rooted in love, in justice, in mercy. I am Compassion, and I have walked through the pages of Scripture, embodied in the words and deeds of Christ. I have been there in the feeding of the hungry, the healing of the sick, the welcome of the stranger. I have been there when the lost were sought out, when the weary were given rest, when the outcast was embraced.
But in recent years, I have seen my name invoked in ways that betray my purpose. I have seen Christianity used not as a call to serve, but as a tool to dominate. I have seen leaders claim the name of Christ while enacting policies that contradict His teachings. I have watched as faith was wielded as a weapon of division rather than a source of healing. I have heard the Gospel twisted to justify cruelty, indifference, and exclusion—all in the name of righteousness.
And so, I write to remind you: Christianity is not about power over others. It is about service to others. It is about love, not control. It is about humility, not conquest. It is about recognizing the image of God in every person, not just those who share your nation, your politics, or your way of life.
If you are to lead as Christians, then let me offer you this counsel:
1. Remember who Christ was—and is. Jesus did not come as a ruler seeking dominion. He came as a servant, washing the feet of His disciples. He did not seek power for His own gain but laid down His life for the sake of others. If He had sought earthly power, He would have taken the throne that was offered to Him. Instead, He chose the cross. Do not forget this. If you claim to follow Him, then your leadership must reflect His humility, His mercy, His unwavering love for the least among us.
2. Resist the temptation of political idolatry. Faith is not a tool for political gain. Christianity does not belong to a party, a nation, or an ideology. Whenever the church has allied itself too closely with political power, it has lost its way. Do not make the mistake of confusing loyalty to a political movement with loyalty to Christ. If your policies reflect self-interest more than self-giving love, if they harden your heart rather than open it, then you must ask yourself whom you are truly serving.
3. Defend the dignity of every person. Jesus showed no partiality. He dined with sinners, spoke with outcasts, and lifted up those the world had cast aside. He reminded us that whatever we do to the least of these, we do to Him. If you truly believe this, then your policies must reflect it. You cannot ignore the suffering of immigrants, the poor, the sick, or the imprisoned and still claim to walk in His footsteps. You cannot demean, exclude, or oppress and call it righteousness. The measure of your leadership is not how much power you hold, but how much dignity you uphold.
4. Care for God’s creation. From the beginning, you were called to be stewards, not exploiters. The earth is not yours to plunder; it is a gift to be cherished. Every river poisoned, every forest destroyed, every creature driven to extinction is an insult to the One who made them. To claim the name of Christ while disregarding the suffering of His creation is hypocrisy. The earth groans for your care—listen to it.
5. Lead with love, not fear. So much of what passes for Christian leadership today is built on fear—fear of change, fear of others, fear of losing control. But Scripture tells us that perfect love casts out fear. If your leadership is driven by fear—of immigrants, of different cultures, of those who do not share your beliefs—then it is not of Christ. He did not call you to build walls of separation but to be a light to the world. A light that welcomes, that heals, that loves without condition.
I do not ask you to abandon your faith. I ask you to live it. Not in slogans or empty gestures, but in the way Christ commanded: by loving your neighbor as yourself, by seeking justice, by walking humbly with God. I ask you to remember that the kingdom of God is not one of earthly dominance, but of radical love. A love that turns the other cheek, that lifts the broken, that refuses to let power corrupt its purpose.
Do not trade the Gospel of love for the gospel of power. Do not mistake control for righteousness. Do not let your faith become an excuse for indifference. You were called to be salt and light, to be peacemakers, to be servants. Be those things. And if you do, perhaps I—Compassion—will find my way back to the places of power, not as a relic, but as a living force shaping the world for good.
In hope and in truth,
Compassion