The true humanist maintains a just balance between sympathy and

Hear the words of Irving Babbitt, the teacher of humanism and discipline, who proclaimed: “The true humanist maintains a just balance between sympathy and selection.” This saying is no idle ornament of philosophy, but a torch passed down the corridors of time, calling us to measure both our compassion and our discernment. For in these two virtues—sympathy and selection—lies the harmony of the human spirit, the capacity to love widely without losing clarity, and to judge wisely without losing kindness.

The meaning of Babbitt’s words rests in the tension of opposites. To be human is to feel sympathy—the heart’s capacity to ache for another, to be stirred by their joy, to be wounded by their sorrow. Yet sympathy alone, unchecked, can dissolve into weakness, smothering judgment under a flood of indulgence. At the same time, the mind must practice selection—the art of choosing what is right, true, and worthy, even when it means saying no, even when it means walking away. But if selection stands alone, cold and untempered, it hardens into cruelty. The true humanist, then, is not the one who embraces only one path, but the one who holds both, balanced as a sword in its scabbard.

The ancients themselves wrestled with this balance. Consider the story of Solomon, the king of Israel. When two women came before him, each claiming the same child, his sympathy might have driven him to despair at their plight, yet his wisdom led him to test their love. He proposed to divide the child, knowing that the true mother would rather lose her claim than see harm done. In this moment, sympathy guided his heart, but selection—the choosing of truth and justice—guided his judgment. Without one, he would have erred; without the other, he would have been cruel. Together, they made him wise.

History offers another witness in the figure of Abraham Lincoln. In the agony of the American Civil War, his heart was filled with sympathy for the enslaved and for the wounded of both North and South. Yet he also practiced selection, choosing the hard path of preserving the Union, delaying proclamations until the moment they could stand, and refusing compromises that would weaken the cause. He wept for the suffering, but he never allowed compassion to cloud the greater purpose. Thus, by balancing mercy with judgment, he carried his nation through its darkest trial.

The lesson for us is clear: to live as a humanist is not to surrender wholly to the heart, nor wholly to the mind, but to let each correct the other. Too much sympathy makes one blind to justice; too much selection makes one deaf to the cries of the weak. The greatness of a life lies in the weaving together of compassion and discernment, in knowing when to embrace and when to withhold, when to forgive and when to stand firm.

Practical action follows: in your own dealings, measure your heart against your judgment. When you are moved to mercy, ask also what is just. When you are tempted to be severe, ask also what is kind. Do not give blindly to all, nor deny harshly to all, but weigh with balance, as one who carries scales of both love and reason. Train yourself daily—through reflection, through listening, through honest speech—to hold this just balance.

Thus let Babbitt’s words endure as a guide: the true humanist is not swayed by impulse, nor frozen by reason, but walks the middle path where heart and mind unite. In such balance is the strength of leaders, the wisdom of sages, and the dignity of every soul that strives to live nobly. And may we, in our time, learn to bear this balance well, leaving behind neither love nor truth, but holding both, as twin pillars of our humanity.