Panels of “experts” are everywhere today—on politics, sports, economics, even religion—and yet their track record for getting things right is remarkably poor. One begins to wonder whether they are experts at all, or simply performers chasing relevance.
Consider the American bishops who confidently opined about who would be the next pope. How many were correct? None. How many Sunday talk‑show pundits consistently predict events accurately? Again, virtually none. Yet we continue to listen.
The explanation, at least in part, is that many voices in our public discourse are less concerned with truth than with popularity—less with sound judgment than with staying in good standing with their peers and their audiences.
Compounding this problem is the blurring of news and narrative. Many commentators are not merely wrong; they are advancing a political line. Sometimes they do so out of personal conviction, but often they do so because their employers expect a particular narrative dressed up as “news” rather than honestly labeled as opinion. The result is a culture that confuses visibility with credibility and applause with accuracy.
A voice from the third century speaks to this condition with unsettling clarity. The Christian apologist Lactantius warned, “But may this senselessness be absent from us, that we should prefer to be bad with a good reputation, rather than good with a bad reputation.” His question is as sharp now as it was then: Do we prefer to promulgate a popular opinion, or dare we tell the truth? Are we so infatuated with being liked that we would rather be wrong and celebrated than right and maligned?
In politics, this tension is particularly stark. The politician is always considering the next election; politics, in practice, is a popularity contest. Rare is the officeholder who will do the right thing knowing it may damage his or her standing with voters or donors. This is one way in which Donald Trump is unusual. He is, by constitutional design, a lame duck; he does not need to face the electorate again. That frees him, at least structurally, from the constant anxiety of reelection and places him in the unique position of being able to focus on what he believes to be right rather than on what is reputationally safe. One may agree or disagree with his decisions, but it is difficult to deny that he is less constrained by the usual political calculus.
The hunger to be popular is not confined to politicians. Most people would rather be liked than be lonely. One of the easiest ways to secure approval is to share the prevailing opinions of one’s social circle. Shared opinions, however, are different from shared values. Much of what passes for “virtue signaling” today is precisely this: a public display of the right slogans to reassure neighbors and peers that one is on the approved side. Put up a sign or repeat a hashtag that 80 percent of your neighbors already affirm, and you have not engaged in courageous witness; you have merely signaled that you know which way the cultural wind is blowing.
Real courage looks different. It looks like walking onto a college campus and stating truths that the majority does not want to hear. It looks like speaking up when one’s convictions place one in a clear minority. That is not virtue signaling; that is virtue practiced. The former seeks applause; the latter risks ostracism.
The temptation to trade integrity for popularity begins early. I recall a sixth‑grade student election at a parochial school. One candidate promised better lunches—always an easy sell to eleven‑year‑olds. Her opponent upped the ante by promising to abolish homework for all eight grades. Two decades later, both had entered local politics in Ada County, and their promises had not substantively changed. The stakes were higher, the rhetoric more polished, but the underlying appeal was the same: free lunches and no homework for grown‑ups.
History offers a stark contrast in the person of Winston Churchill. He led Britain through the Battle of Britain, Normandy, and ultimately the defeat of Nazi Germany. He did not promise comfort; he promised “blood, toil, tears and sweat.” He told his people the hard truth about their situation and asked for sacrifice rather than offering freebies. Yet once the war was over, the British electorate, weary from hardship and enticed by the promises of postwar socialism, turned him out of office. His leadership made them successful; his unvarnished honesty did not make him popular.
There is a lesson here for our own politics. Good leaders would rather do the right thing than be loved for doing the wrong thing. They understand that their task is not to flatter the electorate but to steward the common good. Unfortunately, recent primary elections suggest that such leaders are in short supply. Several principled Republicans lost their primaries not to superior statesmen but to candidates backed by special interests, effectively selling “free lunches and no homework” to their constituents in more sophisticated language.
We are left with too many “brown noses” and not enough Donald Trumps—too many who anxiously watch the polls and too few who are willing to let their reputations suffer in order to do what they believe is right. A healthy republic cannot survive on a diet of pandering and platitudes. It needs men and women who heed Lactantius’s warning and refuse the “senselessness” of preferring a good reputation to a good character.
If we want more such leaders, we will have to reward courage rather than flattery, truth rather than trend, and integrity rather than relevance. The question is not only whether our experts and politicians are willing to be good with a bad reputation, but whether we as citizens are willing to stand with them when they do.
