'IT'S GETTING HARDER TO GIVE'

I'm not getting anything for Christmas. Oh, maybe a trinket or two from the kids -- a jazz record or a tie or some such. But nothing big. My wife and I are having some work done on the house, and we've decided to let that be our gift to each other this year.

For me, at least, it's something of a cop-out. For several years now, I've found it increasingly difficult to come up with an answer to the seasonal query, ''What do you want?''

The truth is, Sondra and I don't want anything. Or more accurately, we don't want for anything. We're at the stage of life where if we want it, and we can afford it, we already have it. I'm grateful for that.

So why does this Christmas Day find me feeling a little sorry for myself? I think it may have something to do with the fact that, in my mind, Christmas is for giving, and it's getting harder to give. And not just at home.

I do give, of course. Not only to my family, or grudgingly through the income tax that supports the needy, but also through gifts of clothes and food and toys and money for those in want of these things. But whether it is money extracted from a paycheck, goods dropped into a barrel or payroll deductions for the United Way, the giving doesn't satisfy. I find myself envying the people who labor in soup kitchens or who minister to the homeless or who otherwise manage to give something of themselves to people whose needs they see first-hand.

Marvin Olasky, a resident scholar at the Heritage Foundation, in a recent Christmas meditation on compassion, came close to what I'm trying to say.

Olasky, on leave from the University of Texas, where he teaches journalism, looks at two meanings of ''compassion'' listed by the Oxford English Dictionary. The first definition given is ''suffering together with another, participation in the suffering.'' The second definition -- the one that comes closer to its current meaning -- is ''the feeling, or emotion, when a person is moved by the suffering or distress of another, and by the desire to relieve it.''

''There is a world of policy differences between the two definitions,'' he points out. ''One works, the other feels. . . . One is action, the other is 'feeling' that does not require personal involvement except a willingness to send a check -- yours or someone else's.''

It's the first definition of giving that has become so difficult. Olasky spoils his essay by turning it into a conservative diatribe against liberals and big government. But for a few paragraphs, he is on target.

''Mother Teresa is truly compassionate,'' he writes. ''Those who, week in and week out, counsel women at crisis pregnancy centers are truly compassionate. Those who adopt hard-to-place children are truly compassionate.''

He is also on the mark with his observation that personal involvement is more satisfying, and more in keeping with our charitable history, than the second- or third-hand giving that is the norm today.

''The historical record is clear: Individual action and public policy was based on the idea of suffering with. In 17th century New England, for example, it was common for families to share the care of the destitute: Some would share their homes for parts of the year, and others would pitch in for food costs, and supply clothing and medical care as well. At that time, options other than suffering with, including governmental income transfers, were not unknown, but those who followed biblical precepts concluded that placement in poorhouses or distribution of alms without personal involvement was not suffering with.''

But I have trouble with the implication that we ought to get out of the business of organized charity. Millions of us who lack the time for personal involvement can still make possible, through our taxes or our gifts, the personal involvement of others. Without those gifts, Olasky's ''truly compassionate,'' whether Mother Teresa or Mitch Snyder, would have their good work tragically diminished.

It isn't that I don't consider my gifts of things worthwhile. What makes me uncomfortable is the fact that while I envy those who give of themselves, I can't quite manage to bestir myself to join them.

So I'll keep giving, taking what comfort I can in the knowledge that my gifts will advance the efforts of the ''truly compassionate,'' and suppressing my envy that theirs is the greater joy.

I just thought I ought to explain the embarrassment on my face when my friends confront me with that awful question, ''What did you get?'' Maybe one Christmas soon, I'll have a good answer to the question more appropriate to the season: ''What did you give?''

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