Whether conservative, liberal, or independent, most Americans want broadly similar things: lives that are happy, healthy, prosperous, and meaningful for those they love. We also want what we believe is best for our country.
With over 340 million citizens in the United States, there are likely more opinions than citizens about how best to govern the most powerful and prosperous nation on Earth. The difficulty begins when we move beyond broad agreement and attempt to define what “best” actually means and, more importantly, how it might be achieved.
I have certainly been known to change my opinion, but it often feels like defeat, when in actuality, admitting being wrong is conceding a point but not the entire contest. Yet admitting such a change in our current political climate can sometimes seem like a betrayal — especially to those who mistake certainty for strength. What concerns me is not that people hold strong opinions, but how deeply and dangerously their identities have become intertwined with those opinions, transforming conversations from an exchange of ideas into active conflict.
I have a friend, John, who offers a striking contrast to this tribalism. John once described himself as being “to the left of Trotsky.” He is exceptionally well-read and possesses a command of political and historical facts that I find impressive. Though we disagree on many subjects, I enjoy our conversations because they are driven less by allegiance and more by curiosity. His positions are firmly held, but they do not appear fragile.
I recall my surprise when he expressed agreement with the Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision. He criticized fellow liberals who opposed it, pointing out that if corporations are legally treated as persons in order to be held accountable, it is consistent, though perhaps uncomfortable, that they should enjoy certain constitutional protections. Whether one agrees with his conclusion is beside the point. What struck me was his willingness to depart from the expected orthodoxy of his political tribe. That willingness has become increasingly rare.
Modern political culture often demands not merely agreement but public affirmation. Silence itself can be treated as evidence of guilt, indifference, or complicity. Yet democratic societies have long recognized abstention as meaningful. Individuals may remain silent because they lack sufficient knowledge, because competing obligations command their attention, because they are unconvinced, or because prudence counsels restraint. Not every issue requires a declaration, nor does every undecided citizen become morally accountable for every wrong committed in the world.
The assertion that silence is always compliance rests upon an impossible standard. No individual possesses enough knowledge, time, or attention to publicly engage every political controversy. To insist otherwise is to assume a degree of certainty that no human being can consistently sustain.
The biblical story of Abraham and Isaac offers a useful metaphor for political commitment. Abraham becomes willing to sacrifice what is most precious to him in obedience to a higher command. Citizens can become similarly devoted to political causes. When ideology becomes identity, reason often ceases to evaluate conviction and instead becomes its servant. Political movements are often born from legitimate concerns. Yet history repeatedly demonstrates that the desire to save a nation can become so intense that it justifies actions that damage the social trust, institutions, and civic bonds upon which the nation depends. If citizens are Abraham and the nation itself is Isaac, excessive partisanship risks sacrificing the very thing it seeks to preserve. But politics offers no holy covenant, and the modern partisan can claim no divine guarantee that providence will step in to stay the knife.
The danger is not conviction itself. The danger is conviction detached from humility.
In examining this relationship to uncertainty, philosopher Soren Kierkegaard used the story of Abraham to distinguish between the Knight of Infinite Resignation and the Knight of Faith. Both possess conviction, but they differ fundamentally in how they confront uncertainty. The former accepts sacrifice within the limits of reason. The latter acts despite reason’s inability to provide certainty.
Modern politics increasingly rewards the spirit of resignation. Loyalty is prized above reflection, certainty above humility, and tribal solidarity above intellectual honesty. Democratic citizenship may require something closer to Kierkegaard’s Knight of Faith: the willingness to pursue what one believes is right while acknowledging the possibility of error.
President Abraham Lincoln contemplated a similar problem during the darkest days of the Civil War — a time when Americans were equally convinced of the righteousness of their respective causes. In a private reflection later discovered among his papers, he wrote:
“In the present civil war it is quite possible that God’s purpose is something different from the purpose of either party — and yet the human instrumentalities, working just as they do, are of the best adaptation to effect His purpose. I am almost ready to say this is probably true — that God wills this contest, and wills that it shall not end yet.”
Lincoln’s observation is remarkable not because it weakens conviction, but because it tempers certainty. He prosecuted a war he believed necessary while simultaneously admitting that neither side might fully comprehend the larger purpose being served. He acted decisively while remaining humble before the limits of his own understanding.
WHEN POLITICS BECOMES YOUR IDENTITY, DISAGREEMENT BECOMES WAR
Perhaps that is the lesson modern American politics most needs to learn. We may pursue what we believe to be good. We may argue passionately for our views. We may devote ourselves to causes we consider morally necessary. But wisdom begins with the recognition that our opinions, however cherished, remain opinions. The moment we become incapable of questioning them, they cease to be instruments of understanding and become articles of a dogmatic public orthodoxy.
The measure of conviction is not certainty. It is the willingness to pursue what one believes is right while retaining the humility to recognize that one may be wrong — and the wisdom to avoid destroying what one hopes to save.
Andrew Moore is a small-business owner and author of the Primus Aeternus series.