I often wonder if I should adopt a cause to call my own or start

In the words of Max Joseph, a seeker of authenticity in an age of noise, there arises a question both haunting and profound: “I often wonder if I should adopt a cause to call my own or start tweeting inspirational messages. And when tragedy strikes and the world takes to social media, is it now my responsibility to respond with #RIPs and #prayfors?” These words echo through the hollow chambers of our digital age like a bell that tolls for meaning. They are not spoken in cynicism, but in yearning—a longing for truth in a time where expression is often confused with virtue, and where silence is mistaken for indifference.

Max Joseph’s reflection springs from the heart of the modern dilemma—the tension between authentic feeling and performative empathy. In ancient times, the sharing of grief, of prayer, of protest, was done face to face, voice to voice, heart to heart. The mourning was seen, the comfort was felt, the deeds were lived. But now, in the swirling ether of the internet, we are urged to declare our care in hashtags and public gestures, lest we be thought careless. The noble instinct to stand with others has, in many hearts, become entangled with the hunger for visibility. Thus does Joseph ask: When did compassion become a performance?

Yet this struggle between appearance and essence is not new. In the days of Rome, the philosopher Seneca warned that virtue must not be displayed for applause. He saw how public mourning, once sacred, became a theater of sentiment—citizens crying not from sorrow, but from the fear of seeming unfeeling. The robes of mourning grew darker, the laments louder, but the hearts behind them emptier. And so Seneca counseled: “Do not let your tears fall for the eyes of others. Let them fall for the heart that feels them.” Joseph’s question carries this same ancient wisdom, whispered into the electric winds of the 21st century.

When tragedy unfolds today—whether a war, a famine, or the loss of a stranger—the world takes to social media in unison. The act can be beautiful, for there is a kind of collective solace in shared grief. Yet there is danger, too, when grief becomes currency, when our need to appear compassionate overshadows the quiet labor of truly being compassionate. The flood of #RIPs and #prayfors can numb the very feeling they seek to express. The symbols of care, repeated endlessly, begin to replace care itself. What once was sacred becomes spectacle.

But Joseph’s question also invites mercy toward the self. He is not condemning the act of public mourning, but asking how one may live sincerely amid the roar of expectation. For the human spirit was not made to echo every sorrow, but to respond deeply to the ones it truly feels. No one can bear all the world’s grief. Yet each of us can bear some—and when we do, we can turn it into action rather than appearance. To light a candle quietly in a dark room may, in truth, mean more than ten thousand retweets. To comfort one soul in silence may be holier than broadcasting sympathy to millions.

Consider the story of Mother Teresa, who did not speak of compassion—she embodied it. While the world argued about the suffering of the poor, she touched the leper’s skin with her own hands. There was no camera, no trending topic, no hashtag—only love made real. Her example reveals what Joseph’s question yearns for: authentic humanity. When compassion becomes action, it transcends the need for validation. It becomes truth, pure and unshakable.

Thus, dear listener, learn this from the wisdom of Max Joseph’s wondering: it is not what we post that defines us, but what we practice. In times of sorrow, let not the pressure of performance steal the sanctity of sincerity. If your heart is moved, let it move you to do—to help, to listen, to create, to heal. And if you are silent, let it not be out of indifference, but because your soul is gathering depth to act meaningfully later.

So, when the world shouts its hashtags and summons your response, pause. Ask yourself: Is this my voice, or the echo of expectation? Then speak only if your words are true, and act as though the world depends on your quiet integrity—because it does. For in every age, it is not the noise of the multitude that redeems humanity, but the quiet sincerity of the few who still remember that compassion, to be real, must be felt, lived, and embodied—not performed.