|
Dear {name}:
The American literary critic Lionel Trilling distinguished between sincerity (the alignment of one's words with one's beliefs) and authenticity (being true to one's inner self.) Charismatic leaders trade on both. They appear sincere, genuinely believing their own narratives about fighting corruption or seeking enlightenment. And they perform authenticity by presenting themselves as unfiltered truth-tellers willing to reject convention. Yet as the Epstein files reveal, this combination can mask profound contradiction.
Can a man be sincere in his initiatives while privately admiring a predator?
Recent release of millions of pages from the Epstein files has exposed such a pattern, where influential figures maintained close ties with a convicted sex offender, even while sitting in self-made thrones of moral authority. Some startling examples come to mind. The firebrand Steve Bannon, whose show I have actually been on, who built a career railing against elite corruption, spent eighteen months in intimate friendship with Mr. Epstein, even filming hours of interviews to rehabilitate his image. Deepak Chopra, a spiritual guru who has taught millions about consciousness and ethics, invited Epstein to Israel, and asked him to "bring your girls" — nine years after Epstein's conviction for soliciting prostitution from a minor. The left faces a parallel reckoning with Chomsky. For decades, he served as a moral touchstone, the intellectual who refused to compromise. Learning that he maintained cordial relations with Epstein, offering advice and sympathy, forces an uncomfortable question: How much did admiration for his anti-establishment credentials blind followers to his actual judgment?
Revelations such as these should prompt a fundamental question. Why do we put faith in charismatic figures based upon fame without concern for their actions, in the first place?
Sociologist Richard Sennett diagnosed this as a deeper problem in The Fall of the Public Man, where a public figure appears to be someone that seems to identify with us and that is enough to abandon judging them by performance of their duties. The basis for such wishful thinking is a need for emotional connections with our leaders rather than simply holding them accountable for results. This shift reflects a dangerous pivot that encourages us to imbue our leaders with moral authority based on how they make us feel, rather than on what they actually do, and often with a trust that does not match reality.
The Epstein files reveal the results of trust turned to blind loyalty. They show us figures who demanded our moral deference while privately operating by entirely different standards. Bannon, who promoted conspiracy theories about Epstein cover-ups on his podcast, simultaneously texted affectionately with Epstein, calling him "brilliant" and "a genius." Chopra, who built an empire on teaching consciousness and right living, casually discussed "cute girls" with a known predator. Chomsky, who spent decades critiquing power structures and elite corruption, maintained close relations with a man who embodied the very worst of predatory elite privilege.
Interestingly, the betrayal of these men cuts across the political spectrum from the populist right, to the intellectual left and to the emerging spiritual marketplace, all of them prominent figures willing to overlook Epstein's crimes in exchange for access, influence, or friendship.
The betrayal cuts deeper than simple hypocrisy. These men were not obscure figures making private mistakes. They were — and in some cases still are — shaping how millions of people think about politics, spirituality, and truth itself. When we invest such figures with moral authority, we do not just risk being disappointed. We risk adopting a worldview built on a foundation of deception.
This is not an argument for cynicism or the abandonment of all leadership and guidance, but a call for something harder: maintaining our own moral compass even when following others. It means asking uncomfortable questions. It means acknowledging that eloquence, confidence, and charisma do not equate to wisdom or integrity. It means recognizing that someone can be right about some things and terribly wrong about others.
The MAGA movement's response to the Bannon revelations illustrates what Sennett warned against. Many of his followers have either ignored the news entirely or dismissed it as irrelevant to his political message. They have invested so deeply in the emotional connection, the feeling that Bannon authentically represents their grievances, that evidence of his character becomes secondary - though this is precisely backwards. Sennett provocatively argues we should elect only those officials who do what we tell them to, accepting that they all lie, rather than seeking leaders we "feel good about."
Sennett’s cynicism contains wisdom: judge leaders by their accountability to constituents, not by the emotional bonds they forge.
The principle extends beyond politics. This principle extends to spiritual seekers as well, since their teachers may speak beautiful words about consciousness while engaging in relationships that objectify and harm. In every domain where we seek guidance, we can be seduced into surrendering our judgment to someone who makes us feel certain, connected, understood. In this regard, the Epstein files offer an uncomfortable gift and that is the chance to reclaim our moral autonomy. They expose the danger in Trilling's authenticity and the trap in Sennett's emotional politics. Neither sincerity nor authenticity guarantees integrity. Emotional connection is not a substitute for accountability.
Perhaps the needed alternative is a return to something older and less romantic, which is skepticism toward all authority, evaluation based on actions rather than feelings, and recognition that inspiration may come from others, but conscience must remain our own. Sennett was right that we should judge leaders by whether they do what we demand, not by how they make us feel. But we must first know what to demand — and that requires keeping our moral judgment intact.
In the end, surrendering our moral autonomy does not protect us from a complex world. It leaves us vulnerable to those who would exploit our hunger for certainty and connection. The hardest path, and the only honest one, is to think for ourselves — even when, especially when, it means questioning those we once trusted most.
Onward,
Kevin Lynn
Executive Director, Institute for Sound Public Policy
Founder, U.S. Tech Workers
|
