There has been much talk about America’s loss of the “moral high ground” since Abu Graib, Guantánamo, warrantless searches, renunciation of habeas corpus, and other highlights of the “war on terror.” Usually such talk focuses on America’s loss of political or strategic leverage: Other peoples and nations are less likely to follow our lead now, because they don’t trust us to “do the right thing,” as Spike Lee said. This might be called the realpolitik view: Our moral defaults have become a detriment to us because, having been caught in them, we have lost some political or strategic advantage in the world.Focusing on the practical political or strategic impact, however, overlooks a much more important and lasting consequence: America’s abdication of its status as the preeminent moral example of what ordinary people can achieve when they decide to cooperate in a free, democratic society threatens to alter the fundamental character of our country. The founding fathers embarked on an experiment unique in the history of the world, with no idea how that experiment would turn out in the end. We are living that experiment still. Now, however, the variables have been drastically altered, with little or no thought for the long-term result.
America—the land, the idea, and the political experiment—has captured the imagination of a multitude of different kinds of people from all over the planet: the well-educated gentlemen of the Enlightenment, the zealous nonconformists pushed aside by the English Reformation, hundreds of thousands of poor and oppressed seeking a new opportunity for economic security and political freedom, young and old, rich and poor, the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” and the self-made millionaires who emigrate to “the land of opportunity.” Why has America been able to appeal to so many people, for so long, from such diverse cultures?
I think America offered what other societies had not: An opportunity for ordinary citizens to feel good about themselves and their place in the world—to enjoy a dignity not dependent on royal honors or economic privilege, but upon the mutual commitment to live honorably in a society dedicated to maintaining a just peace. Religious dissenters could feel good that they were not compromising their consciences by kowtowing to a government-enforced religion in which they did not believe. The merchants, farmers, and their families who settled the rich, fertile land could feel good about themselves because they saw themselves as living out a unique opportunity to “start fresh,” to establish fruitful lives in an unspoiled land that offered beauty, opportunity, and economic reward without exacting fraud, graft, collusion, or other assaults upon the conscience. (I leave aside entirely, as moral problems largely unrecognized at the time, issues of “conquest,” slavery, and the treatment of ethnic minorities and women.)
The point is that Americans could think well of themselves and share a fundamental dignity, not because they were blind to their debasements, but because they were sincerely dedicated to common moral ideals of justice and equality, to an extent never before prevalent in western society. Sometimes people today claim that being able to think well of oneself and what one does to stay alive is a luxury we no longer can afford. The hard facts of life, they say, dictate that we “grow up,” and that means getting our hands dirty. Living in the world is for sinners, not saints. Nobody gets anything done without kicking up a little mud now and then.
This kind of moral pessimism informs the cultural background assumptions under which something like Abu Graib and all the rest of it— intentional government leaks, lying to the public, paying to plant fake news stories, stonewalling in the face of undeniable evidence confuting “official positions,” etc.—can take place. When the communal ethos has already given up on the possibility of lived morality, it will not be long before leaders openly do so too. Oh, they may try to preserve the appearance of being do-gooders, but no one is really surprised when scandals come to light because “everybody’s doing it”—they just don’t all get caught.
But, at their best, America’s leaders—backed by the great multitude of its citizens—have, in the past, believed in moral conduct as a worthwhile, if not wholly achievable goal; something we are always obliged to aspire toward, for our own sake and for the greater public good. When Lincoln mused on whether America was “on God’s side” in the Civil War, he was voicing our historic dedication to the good, the true, and the beautiful. Of course we haven’t always attained these transcendent ideals; indeed, it would be truer, perhaps, to say that we’ve rarely, if ever, attained them. But we always held ourselves accountable and, because of that, we could hold our heads high, repenting of our sins, and vowing to do better next time, with God’s help.
America was a beacon because it was a place where the lowliest need not feel ashamed of their place in society and the fortunate recognized a clear obligation to use their resources and those of the government for the common good, so that “a rising tide will lift all boats.” The tide seems to have shifted lately. Perhaps the accelerating economic inequality in America is related to the accelerating loss of moral idealism. After all, fairly distributed social burdens and benefits are part of the “good” at which morality aims.
For those of us who came of age after the rebellion of the ‘60s and thus were too young to experience the cohesion of America during World War II, social fragmentation is the norm. We have no memory of a time when everyone was “in it together.” Well . . . almost no memory. There was one time when I caught a brief—all too brief, as it turned out—glimpse of the potential America still has for truly good conduct, for living up to that ideal of moral goodness that lifts hearts, informs minds, and brings hope to all who witness it in action. When was this? 9/11 and the days immediately after it.
I was truly shocked by the outpouring of compassion and practical support from all over the country—and even the world. I wasn’t prepared for it at all. I remember the Red Cross having to turn people away because they had such an excess of blood donors. Imagine that happening today! Living fairly close to the Trade Center site, I first saw this event primarily as local. Terrible, sure. But high-jacking was nothing new. I had witnessed plenty of that before, sometimes with devastating results.
And explosions weren’t new—even before the Iraq war, they were a fairly common way to get political attention. While any loss of innocent life is regrettable, the number of casualties did not seem to loom all that large—at least not in the grand scheme of terrible world events. (Compare, for example, the people killed by the Asian Tsunami, displaced by Katrina, or made casualties of the Iraq war.) So I was just not prepared for the magnitude of the emotional and, especially, practical response the bombing drew.
More importantly, I was not prepared for the goodness Americans showed in those first few days. From the bravery of the first responders, to the daily ministry of aid workers, to convoys of construction workers from across the country, to the massive monetary donations generated in record time, I had not believed that my fellow Americans “had it in us” to do this good work. I’m sorry to have to say it but, yes, I really had already formed such a negative opinion of my fellow citizens that I believed that the vast majority of us were no longer interested in “doing the right thing.” “Greed is good” seemed to have become the slogan of the day—as we were shortly to find out in the succession of corporate scandals: Enron, Tyco, et al. (The bigoted reactions against innocent ethnic and religious minorities—though, of course, inexcusable—were also less widespread than I had feared they might be, and the solidarity of government officials and Christian organizations against such oppression was greater than I would have anticipated.)
Seeing such universal expressions of care and generosity in the American people as a whole, however, profoundly changed my view of what America could be, because it profoundly changed my view of what America is. The average American is still capable of acts of great kindness and decency. The average American is still willing to sacrifice for the welfare of people outside their own circle of companions—someone they don’t know and will never meet. The seeds of good are still alive and well; they were just dormant.
But if this is what Americans still are—basically decent, capable of good, willing to sacrifice for others in a worthy cause—then the hope of what America can be also must have survived. Despite the betrayals we have suffered in the weeks, months, and years since 9/11, I don’t think the American people are happy to have forfeited that initial opportunity of thinking well of ourselves. For a brief moment, I saw—and the world saw—what it is that America really stands for, and what it is that Americans are really capable of: And it was good. It was very good.
But things have changed greatly since then. It didn’t take long. If we have great potential, we have greatly wasted it. “To whom much is given, much is required.” Because we do still have the capacity for real goodness, it is that much more disheartening when we turn our backs on good and embrace the merely expedient—“whatever it takes,” “whatever works,” “any means necessary.”
Yet, I don’t believe that the American people, deep down, really want to turn our backs on goodness. I think we want to be able—like our ancestors—to think well of ourselves because we do good. The American reputation for “doing the right thing” is not a luxury to be cast off lightly in times of real national challenge. If we don’t cling to our fundamental identity when faced with a genuine threat, when will we? Tough times are precisely when we most need to live into our full potential to lead by example—to show the world what goodness really looks like.
Our leaders may have betrayed us, but I don’t believe that the American people have yet betrayed themselves—certainly not irretrievably. I don’t think Americans really want to be torturers. I don’t think most of the soldiers at Abu Graib wanted to be torturers. I don’t think the American people want to tell lies, engage in corrupt practices, violate human rights, or sell out to lobbyists. This may be what some (most?) of our leaders want to do, but I don’t think it’s what the American people really want. Maybe it’s not what our leaders want either—if they were not too blinded by power to see some other way forward.
The worst part of losing “the moral high ground” isn’t just that we’re no longer so influential in the big wide world. And it isn’t, as John McCain and others have warned, that “as you do unto others, so will it be done unto you.” The worst thing is that we’ve lost our identity as Americans; you know, the ones you can count on to be the “good guys”—or at least we’re in danger of losing it. And all because some of our political leaders decided that we can’t afford the “luxury” of thinking well of ourselves because we do the right thing, not merely the expedient thing. Through our leaders, we have harmed ourselves as much or more than the foreign peoples who suffer daily for our blunders. The question is whether it is too late for us to turn back; whether we can still reclaim that vision of moral goodness, the transcendent ideals that lit the way for the founders and so many generations preceding us.
Can “We, the People,” regain charge of the moral leadership of this country—or has it passed permanently to a political-corporate class wholly uninterested in the good, the right, and the just? I believe that the vast majority of American citizens still wants to be able to think well of our country and ourselves, because we do right here. But will our corporate and political leaders let us? Will they lead us? Only time will tell . . .
