Boulders & Backpacks

I have to be honest.

This morning’s study felt less like a devotional and more like an intervention.

One of those moments where you’re quietly drinking your coffee, nodding along, thinking, “Wow…this is really good.”

Then somewhere around Galatians 6, the Holy Spirit gently slides the chair across from you, makes direct eye contact, and says, “We’re actually talking about you.”

I wish I could tell you I felt encouraged.

Instead, I felt exposed.

Not condemned.

Corrected.

There is a difference.

Hebrews 12 reminds us that God’s correction isn’t rejection. It is evidence that we belong to Him.

“If you are left without discipline…then you are illegitimate children and not sons.” (Hebrews 12:8)

Correction has become one of the greatest evidences of God’s love in my life. It rarely feels comfortable, but it has always been necessary.

Today, that correction came wrapped inside a conversation about empathy.

Apparently, even good things can become unhealthy things.

Apparently, empathy can become toxic.

And apparently…

I’ve been carrying backpacks that never belonged to me.

Before we can understand Galatians 6, we have to understand why Paul wrote Galatians in the first place.

The churches in Galatia had started well.

Paul had preached the gospel. People experienced freedom in Christ. Grace was changing lives.

Then Paul left.

After he left, another group arrived.

They didn’t completely reject Jesus. They simply added to Him.

They began teaching that grace wasn’t enough. If believers really wanted God’s approval, they also needed to follow the Jewish ceremonial law, particularly circumcision and other legalistic practices.

It sounded spiritual.

It sounded responsible.

It even sounded biblical.

But it quietly shifted people’s confidence away from Jesus and back onto themselves.

Paul writes this entire letter almost like a father watching someone dismantle the home he just built.

He isn’t writing because he enjoys confrontation.

He’s writing because love refuses to stay silent when destruction is disguised as wisdom.

That alone challenged me.

Sometimes we call it being nice.

Sometimes we call it keeping the peace.

Sometimes we call it avoiding drama.

Scripture calls it something different.

If love refuses to speak truth because it might make someone uncomfortable, that isn’t love.

It’s fear wearing empathy’s clothes.

Then I reached Galatians 6.

And honestly…

Paul confused me.

Verse 2 says,

“Carry one another’s burdens.”

Then three verses later…

Verse 5 says,

“For each will have to carry his own load.”

Excuse me, Paul.

Which one is it?

Am I carrying people or not?

At first, it almost feels like Scripture is contradicting itself.

Until you look closer.

Paul actually uses two completely different Greek words.

The word translated “burden” in verse 2 describes something crushing.

A weight too heavy for one person to carry alone.

Think grief.

Tragedy.

Crisis.

Overwhelming suffering.

Those are the boulders.

God never intended us to carry those alone.

We were created to step underneath those kinds of weights together.

But in verse 5, Paul uses a completely different word.

This word describes a personal load.

More like a backpack.

The ordinary responsibilities God has assigned each person to carry.

Their obedience.

Their choices.

Their growth.

Their consequences.

Their maturity.

Their walk with God.

Those backpacks belong to them.

And suddenly…

Paul wasn’t contradicting himself at all.

He was teaching discernment.

Help people carry boulders.

Don’t steal their backpacks.

I wish I could tell you this came naturally to me.

It doesn’t.

One of the biggest areas God continues to work on in me is my empathy.

I feel everything.

I notice subtle changes in people’s voices.

I can sense when someone is hurting before they ever say a word.

If someone is overwhelmed, I immediately start calculating how I can help.

If someone is struggling, my instinct isn’t to pray first.

It’s to solve it.

To fix it.

To carry it.

For years, I thought that was compassion.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it isn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, my empathy quietly crossed a line.

It became toxic empathy.

Toxic empathy happens when our care becomes so consuming that we begin carrying the very things God designed someone else to carry.

We rescue people from consequences that were supposed to become teachers.

We lower standards because correction feels uncomfortable.

We repeatedly make exceptions for the same people while calling it grace.

We avoid hard conversations because we don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.

We feel personally responsible for outcomes that belong to God and another person’s choices.

It looks loving.

It feels loving.

But it slowly robs people of the opportunity to develop the muscles God is trying to build.

If every time someone falls, I pick them up before they ever learn to stand…

Who actually benefited?

Not them.

Me.

That realization hurt.

Because toxic empathy doesn’t only affect the other person.

It slowly destroys the helper too.

Resentment begins growing where compassion once lived.

Exhaustion replaces joy.

Boundaries disappear.

You start feeling responsible for everyone else’s emotional weather.

You carry guilt that God never placed on your shoulders.

Meanwhile, the people you’re trying to help never actually become stronger.

They simply become more dependent.

That isn’t discipleship.

That’s enabling.

Hebrews 12 reminded me of something I desperately needed to hear.

God disciplines those He loves.

Not because He enjoys watching us struggle.

Because He loves us too much to leave us immature.

Correction develops us.

Discomfort develops us.

Accountability develops us.

So why would I try to protect someone from the very thing God says produces righteousness?

This question alone humbles me.

It also forced me to ask a much deeper one.

Why is it so difficult for me to watch people struggle?

What is happening inside me that feels responsible for fixing everyone else?

What wound am I trying to soothe every time I overextend myself?

Because usually our strongest impulses reveal our deepest beliefs.

If I always feel responsible for everyone, maybe somewhere inside I believe everything depends on me.

If I can’t tolerate disappointing people, maybe I’m still finding my worth in being needed.

If I feel guilty every time I say no, maybe I still believe love has to be earned through performance.

Those are uncomfortable questions.

But healing usually begins there.

Romans 12:15 tells us to “weep with those who weep.”

It does not tell us to become their Savior.

Jesus already filled that position.

I can sit beside someone in their pain without carrying their backpack.

I can cry with someone without assuming responsibility for changing their circumstances.

I can tell someone the truth even if it temporarily hurts.

Because sometimes the most loving thing we can do is refuse to interrupt what God is producing.

Maybe that is what healthy empathy actually looks like.

Not absorbing everyone’s burdens until we collapse under them.

Not rescuing people from every uncomfortable consequence.

Not confusing compassion with control.

Just faithfully carrying the boulders God invites us to help lift while trusting Him enough to leave the backpacks where they belong.

Today’s study didn’t leave me with answers.

It left me with prayer.

“Lord, show me where my empathy has become self-appointed responsibility.”

“Show me where I have mistaken rescuing for loving.”

“Reveal what this impulse is exposing in my own heart.”

Because if Hebrews 12 is right, and I believe it is, then correction isn’t something to fear.

It’s one of the clearest signs that the Father is still committed to making me look more like His Son.

And maybe that’s the beautiful irony.

The God who tells me not to carry everyone’s backpack…

Is the same God who has been carrying me all along.