THE CASE FOR KNOWING MANY THINGS

I have known myself to be a generalist, rather than a specialist, for a long time. The reader may think they know the type- the jack of all trades and master of none- a clever fellow who is likely his own worst enemy by being unfocused, does not stay in his own lane, and refuses to became a specialist in any one area. (And this confusion applies to female generalists, also.) After all, becoming a specialist “in something” is implied by our parents, teachers, and mentors as a key to success. This trend has accelerated to the point that education is valued if it prepares students for careers, not by focusing on the liberal arts.  I beg to differ on that assessment in that in we find ultimate value in our education if indeed we are prepared to be successful in the totality of life and not by our schools assigning us to narrow vocational niches.

Rather than model this purely in my higher education pursuits, I was educated through a hybrid process. I had always enjoyed my history classes in high school and when I entered the University of Oklahoma, I declared myself a political science major with the intent of taking as much history as possible. And when the foreign language requirement became an impossible barrier for me to overcome, I changed my major to social studies education which permitted me access to the history and political science courses I desired and put me on a vocational track of teacher preparation (which paid dividends a few decades later).

 

So, when the experts and commentators denigrate the liberal arts, the humanities, and the social sciences as possible majors for college students in favor of engineering and other technical degrees, I feel they miss the point of a liberal arts education, which is to enhance one’s ability to read, write, and think across disciplines, and not to be a narrowly focused technocratic specialist. Granted, the world needs both specialists and generalists, and the tendencies of both should be discovered, encouraged, and developed throughout the years.

Then I was introduced to another increasingly popular metaphor for identifying my gifts, talents, and skills- that of being a fox rather than a hedgehog. British philosopher Isaiah Berlin, working off the fragment of a poem by an ancient Greek, introduced the fox/hedgehog dictomy to the academic world almost 80 years ago. The fox, as interpreted by Berlin, is clever and knows many things while the hedgehog is focused on knowing the one big thinG,

Then business researcher Jim Collins, in his book Good to Great, further popularized the dictomy to the general public. And Collins takes sides in that he asserts that persons with the hedgehog temperament are better suited to be organizational leaders because they possess the focus and dedication to do so than foxes. While I recognize there is some truth to his assertions, I do believe that Collins is mistaken particularly when it comes to small organizations like non-profits and NGOs.

This is because leaders of small organizations were vulnerable when they were one-dimensional specialists instead of multi-talented generalists especially when it comes to staff reorganizations and staffing assignments. Some organizational roles such as IT and accounting are so technical that they are best left to specialists rather than to generalists, perhaps those responsibilities even could be out-sourced to specialty boutique firms.

How do I know I am a generalist and fox rather than a specialist and hedgehog? First, I read widely, from history to theology to education to management and leadership to philosophy. Second, I write from similar perspective as my blog posts and books of essays cover topics such as culture, faith, family, history, leadership, and politics. Third, I am curious about many diversified topics ranging from whether rear gunners on dive bombers could be counted as aces if they were credited with shooting down five or more enemy aircraft to the identification of s certain school board member in Kansas City Missouri from whom I first heard the term “limo liberal.” Fourth, I gravitate towards diverse personalities and issues. I do not “stay in my lane.” And fifth, I have had a portfolio career of related employment opportunities ranging from the US Army to Christian ministry and education to public education and in retirement, to community service and writing.

Now while generalist equates to my breath of interests and being a fox describes my temperament, I can also be identified with a term associated with having depth in multiple areas- polymath. This term is from the Greek generally meaning “one who learns much.” Leaning for polymaths is about mastery in one discipline, or even more,  with interests ranging as far as their minds will take them. So, polymaths are not dilettantes and dabblers in learning, rather they are purposefully focused life-long learners in various fields of interests.

Not long ago it was suggested to me that I was a polymath due to the nature of my writing. Even though I used this term to describe myself to promote my books I felt an unease in doing so. The unease stemmed from a sense that using this term was a bad sense of self-promotion akin to someone claiming one has a doctorate from a degree mill university.

Then recently I came across a YouTube presentation by Dr. Angela Myers on the seven qualities of polymaths-     

They are curious on how the world works.     

They connect on how the world works.

3.     They are learning for their own sake and not performing for others.

4.     They develop depth in more than one discipline.

5.     They do not “stay in their own lane” nor do they stay focused in any one domain.

6.     They are energized by solving difficult problems.

7.     They never feel like they belong in one box.

A few days later I encountered another YouTube video describing five characteristics of polymaths, albeit in a more in-depth psychological manner-

1.     Polymaths are divergent thinkers.

2.     Polymaths are easily bored  once mastery of a field is achieved.

3.     Polymaths are cross-domain synthesizers.

4.     Polymaths resist cultural pressures to conform.

5.     Polymaths are not necessarily original thinkers, rather they engage in conceptual meshing.

I am a generalist not because I am smarter than most other folk (I am not), but because I value breadth of knowledge. I am a fox not because I am better looking than most others (I am definitely not), but because of my temperament for learning and after watching the videos several times, I am convinced that I am indeed a polymath not because I value both breadth and depth of knowledge as evidenced by my body of writing- my essays and poetry on my blog and in my books- and by my portfolio career in the military, in ministry and Christian education, in public education, and in community service and writing, 

In conclusion, Angela Meyers, whom I mentioned earlier, argues that polymaths are the qualified ones to lead us through the era of AI (aka SI), In a similar vein, I contend that the leaders we need must be broadly educated in the liberal arts, the classics, and humanities. While we differ in the preparation of leaders for this massive technological disruption, we agree that narrowly focused specialists (aka technocrats) will not possess the aptitude, the skills, and the temperament to take the reins in this endeavor. And as economist Tyler Cowen warns us- only the ones who will add value to the machines will be successful in the future.

 

Selected Bibliography

Berlin, Isaiah. Hedgehogs and Foxes, 1953.

Collins, Jim. Good to Great, 2001.

Cowen, Tyler. Average is Over, 2014.

Epstein, David. Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World, 2021.

Marlow, Joe D. A Beginner’s Guide to AI: Essays and Resources for Christian Boomers,

          2026.

Marlow, Joe D. HEROES AND BIOs: 7 Men Who Are Helping Me Shape My Life, 2026.

Myers, Angela C. Versatile, 2026. 

Ricks. Thomas E. First Principles: What America’s Founders Learned from the Greeks

          And Romans and How That Shaped Our Country, 2020.

 

 

THE COAST GUARD @ GUADALCANAL

The story of Guadalcanal is usually told in the language of Marines and naval battles—Henderson Field, the Tokyo Express, and the long nights of Ironbottom Sound. But running beneath that familiar narrative is another current, quieter but no less decisive: the work of the United States Coast Guard. Their presence in the Solomons was not ornamental. It was essential. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. The campaign’s success rested, in no small part, on their hands.

What strikes me first is how ordinary their expertise was. These were men trained in surfboats, rescue stations, and coastal patrols—craft shaped by routine, not glory. Yet when the nation needed amphibious skill in 1942, it was the Coast Guard that possessed it. Nineteen of the twenty‑three transports in the Guadalcanal invasion force carried Coast Guard crews. They were the ones who put Marines ashore, boatload after boatload, in the first uncertain hours of the campaign. They were the ones who returned again and again with ammunition, fuel, rations, and the wounded. Their war was not the dramatic clash of fleets but the relentless grind of small‑boat work under fire.

The Coast Guard also conducted ant-submarine operations. Higgins landing craft were loaded with depth charges and assigned sectors to patrol in the waters around the island. This was dangerous work. One night a Japanese submarine surfaced and sunk a Higgins boat with its deck gun and then began killing the survivors with small arms fire. One “coastie” survived this ordeal by pretending to be dead.

Despite the danger, there is something morally clarifying about that kind of labor. It is not glamorous. It is not celebrated. It is simply necessary. And necessity has a way of revealing character. The Coast Guard’s contribution to Guadalcanal was not a single moment but a pattern—steady, disciplined, uncomplaining service that kept the beachhead alive. In a campaign defined by scarcity, their constancy became a form of courage.

Yet even within that quiet pattern, one moment stands apart. On September 27, 1942, near the Matanikau River, a battalion of Marines found itself trapped under heavy Japanese fire. The evacuation seemed impossible. The beach was raked by machine guns. The boats would have to run straight into it. And it was a Coast Guardsman—Signalman First Class Douglas Munro—who stepped forward.

Munro’s actions that day have been recounted often, but they bear repeating because they reveal the moral center of the service he represented. He led the rescue boats in, placing his own craft between the enemy and the Marines. He drew fire so others could load. He freed a grounded boat under fire. He silenced a machine‑gun nest with his bow guns. And when he was mortally wounded during the withdrawal, his last question was simple and unadorned: Did they get off? When told yes, he smiled.

There is a purity to that moment—a man whose vocation was service, fulfilling it to the end. Munro did not die in a grand naval battle or a sweeping assault. He died doing what the Coast Guard had done every day of the campaign: protecting others. His Medal of Honor is not an outlier; it is the distilled expression of the institution’s character.

When I think about Guadalcanal now, I see the Coast Guard’s presence as a kind of moral counterpoint to the violence around them. They were not there to destroy but to deliver. They were not there to seize territory but to sustain life. Their courage was logistical, practical, embodied. And in a war that often rewarded spectacle, theirs was a courage that asked for no audience.

Institutions at their best form people capable of such work—people who understand that duty is not a performance but a commitment. The Coast Guard on Guadalcanal reminds us that the strength of a nation rests not only on its warriors but on its stewards: those who carry the wounded, those who bring the supplies, those who keep the fragile machinery of survival running when everything around them is breaking.

Guadalcanal was a turning point in the Pacific War. But it was also a testament to the quiet goods of ordinary life—skill, discipline, reliability—brought to bear in extraordinary circumstances. The Coast Guard did not ask to be the backbone of the landings. They simply were. And in doing so, they left a legacy of service that deserves to be remembered alongside the more famous stories of the campaign.

Their work was not loud. But it was indispensable. And sometimes, indispensable things are the ones that teach us the most about courage.

 

CAN THE CLASSICS SPEAK TO THE POOR?

My Experience 

During the 2009-2010 school year, I was back at the Paseo Academy of the Fine and Performing Arts in Kansas City, Missouri, this time as an instructional coach. (An instructional coach is part of a school’s leadership team who coaches the teachers to improve matching best practices in teaching strategies with effective use of the district’s curriculum.) One day the principal brought me a student and directed me to tutor the student on Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. Apparently, the student was having difficulty in the classroom understanding the text to the point teacher had referred the student to the office.

Even though working directly with students was not in my official job description, I had learned not to say “ no” to this principal unless I had a very good reason and I did not have one. So I accepted the principal’s directive and met with the student privately while the principal returned to her routine duties.

The student was an African American female who was a junior at the school. Although she was friendly and appeared to be bright and eager to learn, I questioned whether she could learn from a dead white male as I was briefly reminded of the 1999 movie The Sixth Sense in which psychologist Malcolm Crowe played by Bruce Willis befriends Cole, a patient of his, a traumatized boy played by Haley Joel Osment. A highlight of the film was when Cole confesses to Malcolm, “I see dead people.” Thus, I was concerned that my student would see only “dead people” as she began her study of this piece of classic literature.

I was wrong about her and I was glad. We met several times a week over the next month or so. She was present at all our tutoring sessions and on time, willing and eager to discuss her engagement with the text. I could see her heart-felt connection to Willy Loman, a tired traveling salesman, of his deferred and often quashed dreams that led to his suicide. I could also sense that her connection to Loman was not merely intellectual in that she perhaps knew an adult relative or a friend of the family who had Loman-like deferred or quashed dreams. Since she did not discuss a possible emotional connection, I respected her privacy and did not go there.

But isn’t this why some literature is deemed “classic”, in that such literature reaches beyond boundaries that divide us and unite us because classic literature speaks to the human condition? It would appear so in this case as Arthur Miller had penned a masterpiece of a play that spoke to a student who is a human first and then an African American female living in Kansas City.

 

 

The Classics Behind Bars

Some years ago I came across a small article—Wall Street Journal, I think—describing a program that brought the Greek and Roman classics into a prison classroom. The premise was disarmingly simple: give ex‑felons the intellectual and moral resources they were never offered, and you might give them a fighting chance at not returning to the life that landed them behind bars. What struck me wasn’t the novelty of the idea but its quiet confidence in the humanities as instruments of moral repair. In an age that treats the classics as decorative or elitist, here they were being used as tools of survival.

The professor in the story taught Homer and Gilgamesh, Aristotle on anger, the Greek tragedians. She asked men who had lived hard, violent lives to wrestle with Achilles’ rage, with Heracles’ self‑destruction, with the long arc of consequence that follows a single ungoverned impulse. And the men responded. They recognized themselves in these ancient figures—not in the heroism but in the volatility, the wounded pride, the inability to imagine the downstream cost of a moment’s fury. The old stories gave them a vocabulary for their own interior lives, a way to name the forces that had shaped them long before the criminal justice system ever did.

What moved me most was the program’s underlying wager: that human beings, even those who have done real harm, can be strengthened by serious thought. That moral imagination is not a luxury but a lifeline. These men were not being lectured about responsibility; they were being invited to see themselves in a tragic tradition that understands how fragile agency can be. And in that recognition, something like dignity re‑entered the room.

As such, they were treated not as cases but as thinkers—people capable of reflection, capable of change. They were equipped to ask questions such as “What would Shakespeare/Burke/the American Founders do in the situation in which I now find myself” and then discover answers to their dilemmas that would expand and amplify their moral imaginations.

Programs like this are small, almost invisible in the larger debates about crime and punishment. But they reveal something institutions once knew: that formation precedes behavior, and that without a moral vocabulary, a person is left defenseless against his own impulses. The classics do not redeem anyone. But they do what good institutions have always done—they give a person the means to understand himself, and in that understanding, the possibility of choosing differently.

Conclusion

Based upon my forementioned limited experience and a newspaper article, yes, classic literature can speak to the poor, the marginalized, across boundaries that tend to divide us, to give us the intellectual tools and the moral imagination for all of us to find success in our lives; for if it cannot, I maintain that it ceases to be the classics. But the genius of the Western Canon is that it can unify us out of the many divergent backgrounds from whence we came.

 

TALARICO AND THE BIG TEN'S SECRET CLOCK

If you missed Saturday night’s college football game between the Western Michigan Broncos of the Mid America Conference (MAC) and the Michigan Wolverines of the Big Ten Conference (B1G) you missed the “second heard around the world.” Not merely willing to play for a fat paycheck by showing up in uniform in Ann Arbor’s “Big House” stadium of over 100,000 fans, the visiting Broncos outplayed the hometown Wolverines for 40+ minutes as they took a 12-7 lead to win the game, despite being a four-touchdown underdog.

Hold on a darn second (wordplay intended)- the refs penalized the Broncos and put one second back on the clock allowing Michigan to “win” 13-12. Despite the fact that both the stadium and play booth clocks read 0:00 with Western Michigan winning, the B1G’s explanation that they had an official secret clock not synced with the other clocks the rest of America thought displayed the official time. As egregious as that secret clock incident was, we fans were assured that it never happen again.

Hold on a darn second (wordplay intended)- US Senate candidate in Texas James Talarico seems to also to possess a secret clock, albeit a metaphorical one. And Talarico may well use it to get his extra second against his opponent Ken Paxton, but if Talarico is successful, the real losers will be the good folks of Texas, not Paxton.oldHold

Talarico was interviewed by Fox News correspondent Brooke Taylor on September 10. In that interview Talarico renounced nearly every controversial view he has held. Among the changes:

 

60-Minute Stadium Clock:          God is non-binary.

Extra-Second Secret Clock:         I was being provocative.

 

60-Minute Stadium Clock:           Opposed restrictions on trans athletes.

Extra-Second Secret Clock:         Now opposes biological boys playing in girls’ sports.

 

60-Minute Stadium Clock:           There are six biological sexes.

Extra-Second Secret Clock:         There are two sexes with some genetic abnormalities.

 

60-Minute Stadium Clock:           Voted against Texas SB14 which opposed trans surgeries & puberty blockers for minors.

Extra-Second Secret Clock:         Now opposes trans surgeries for minors.

 

Most Americans, Texans included, encourage and even expect our politicians to re-examine evidence and change their minds as needed. But what Talarico did during that interview was not that, it was a wholesale full frontal lobotomy.  Say what you want to about Jasmine Crockett, she would have doubled down, stood her ground, and fired both barrels (metaphorically speaking, of course!) to share her beliefs. Apparently, Talarico’s staff, consultants, and handlers, and even Talarico himself, thought this was a good idea perhaps based on what the B1G got away with in front of millions on a Labor Day weekend.

In the interview, Talarico showed himself to be a mere corrupt politician. Talarico is not corrupt in the same manner as he charges his opponent, Talarico has a corruption in his soul- a corruption in the same way as the end justifies the means. The people of Texas deserve a candidate for the US Senate of a major party who is proud of his beliefs, who will double down and stand his ground, and will not change his mind on the core tenets of his belief system as the polls change in a tight race.

Football is a game. Elections are not. And it is vital in our constitutional republic we citizens can have trust in trustworthy candidates. A final word- I will be rooting for my Sooners to wallop those pesky Wolverines this Saturday in Ann Arbor!

THE FAILURE OF INTELLIGENCE LEADERSHIP ON GUADALCANAL

The tragedy of the Goettge Patrol is not, at its core, a story about cowardice or incompetence among the Marines who stepped off that boat west of the Matanikau River. It is a story about leadership failure at the level of intelligence judgment—a failure that cost brave men their lives before the Guadalcanal campaign had even found its footing. To understand it properly, one must hold two truths together: the men of the patrol acted with courage, discipline, and trust; their leaders sent them into an impossible situation built on hope, misreading, and wishful thinking.

Lieutenant Colonel Frank Goettge was not an amateur. He was a seasoned Marine officer, a veteran of Haiti and China, a man respected across the division for his competence and character. But intelligence leadership is not merely the accumulation of experience. It is the discipline of skepticism, the refusal to let desire shape interpretation, and the moral responsibility to protect the men who rely on your judgment. On 12 August 1942, that discipline failed.

The failure began with a story—one told by a Japanese warrant officer who had been given alcohol and who claimed that a group of Japanese west of the Matanikau were starving, sick, and ready to surrender. It continued with the sighting of what appeared to be a white flag. In the first week of the campaign, when the Marines were still trying to understand the enemy’s psychology, these signals were tempting. They suggested that the Japanese might break early, that the perimeter could be secured with minimal bloodshed, that the enemy’s will was already eroding.

But intelligence leadership cannot afford temptation. It must assume deception until proven otherwise. It must assume the enemy is capable, cunning, and committed. It must assume that the jungle hides more than it reveals. Goettge—normally a cautious officer—allowed himself to believe a narrative that fit his hopes more than the facts. He believed he could walk into the jungle and negotiate surrender. He believed the Japanese would behave as Western soldiers might behave under similar conditions. He believed the terrain would not swallow his patrol whole.

The men who followed him did not fail. They did what Marines do: they trusted their officer, they boarded the boat, they stepped into the dark, and when the ambush came, they fought with everything they had. Their courage is not diminished by the fact that they were sent into a trap. If anything, their bravery is sharpened by the knowledge that they faced a situation they never should have been placed in.

The failure was not tactical. It was moral and intellectual. Intelligence leadership must be governed by restraint—by the willingness to say “no,” by the humility to admit uncertainty, by the discipline to demand corroboration. Goettge’s patrol had none of these safeguards. It had hope, a single prisoner’s story, and the illusion of a white flag. That is not intelligence. That is wishful thinking dressed in the language of opportunity.

The consequences were immediate and brutal. The Japanese used deception with precision. The patrol was funneled into dense vegetation, pinned down, and destroyed. Goettge was killed early. Only three men escaped. The rest died in a fight they never had a chance to win.

Yet the tragedy did produce clarity. After the patrol, Marine commanders abandoned any trust in Japanese surrender signals. Patrols became larger, more deliberate, more heavily armed. Intelligence officers learned—quickly and painfully—that the Japanese would not break easily, would not surrender readily, and would use every tool of deception available to them. The lesson was written not in doctrine but in blood.

The Goettge Patrol stands today as a reminder that intelligence leadership is not merely analysis. It is stewardship. It is the moral obligation to protect the men who depend on your judgment. When that obligation falters, even briefly, brave men pay the price.

The men of the patrol deserve to be remembered for their courage. Goettge deserves to be remembered for his service—and for his mistake. And the Marine Corps deserves to remember the lesson: in war, intelligence is not the art of believing what you hope is true. It is the discipline of refusing to be deceived.

 

COLONEL WHALING AND THE MORAL IMAGINATION OF INSTITUTIONS UNDER PRESSURE

The story of Colonel William J. Whaling and his Guadalcanal scouts is, at its core, a story about institutional formation under duress—about how a single officer, working inside a battered division on a hostile island, could reshape the moral and operational imagination of the Marine Corps. It is the kind of story I return to often: a moment when an institution is forced to decide whether it will shrink to its fears or grow toward its ideals.

Whaling arrived on Guadalcanal at a time when the 1st Marine Division was learning, painfully, that its inherited habits were insufficient for the jungle. Patrols were too loud, too large, too linear. The Japanese moved like smoke; the Marines moved like a parade. The institution was not yet equal to its responsibilities.

What strikes me is that Whaling did not respond with cynicism or complaint. He responded with creation. He built something that did not exist—an improvised scout‑sniper school, a composite detachment of Marines trained in stalking, camouflage, silent movement, and the disciplined patience of small‑team reconnaissance. He taught Marines how to see again, how to listen, how to move with humility through terrain that punished arrogance. In other words, he restored the moral imagination of the division by restoring its sensory imagination.

This is the deeper lesson: institutions lose their way when they lose their ability to perceive reality. They drift, they grow sentimental, they cling to old forms. Whaling’s contribution was not merely tactical; it was epistemological. He gave the division a new way of knowing the world. His scouts became the eyes and ears of the 1st Marine Division, and in doing so, they became its conscience—reminding the larger body that survival depended on truth, discipline, and the courage to abandon comfortable habits.

There is also something profoundly human in Whaling’s method. He did not create a school of supermen. He selected ordinary Marines and taught them to trust small teams, quiet movement, and the slow accumulation of understanding. He believed that excellence was not a matter of heroic temperament but of practiced attention. In that sense, his scouts embodied a kind of moral realism: the belief that institutions are strengthened not by grand gestures but by the steady formation of people who can see clearly and act decisively.

The Guadalcanal scouts also reveal the paradox of leadership in crisis. Whaling was not the division commander; he was not the architect of the campaign. Yet his work shaped the division’s future more than many decisions made at higher echelons. This is a reminder that institutional renewal often begins at the edges—where someone sees a problem clearly, refuses to accept drift, and builds a small, durable solution that eventually becomes doctrine.

When I think about Whaling, I think about the leaders who refuse to let their institutions become smaller than their responsibilities. He did not wait for permission. He did not ask for a committee. He saw Marines dying on patrols because the institution had not yet learned how to fight in the jungle, and he acted. His scouts became the prototype for Marine reconnaissance and scout‑sniper doctrine for decades. But more importantly, they became a testament to what one person can do when he insists that an institution must be equal to the world it inhabits.

In the end, Whaling’s legacy is not simply that he taught Marines how to move through the jungle. It is that he taught them how to move through uncertainty—quietly, intelligently, humbly, and with a disciplined imagination. That is the kind of leadership I admire: the kind that enlarges the institution by enlarging the people within it.

XENOPHON AND THE FOUNDERS

When the American Founders reached for classical models to understand republican government, they did not turn only to Plato’s lofty idealism or Aristotle’s analytic precision. They turned—often, deliberately—to Xenophon. It is striking: a soldier, memoirist, gentleman‑farmer, and political realist became one of the quiet architects of the Founders’ political imagination. Xenophon offered something the new republic desperately needed: a vision of leadership grounded in character, prudence, and practical wisdom.

For men trying to build a republic in a world of empires, Xenophon was not merely a historian of antiquity. He was a manual.

Xenophon’s appeal: Practical wisdom over philosophical abstraction

The Founders admired Xenophon because he wrote about politics the way they experienced it—messy, contingent, dependent on character, and inseparable from the moral formation of leaders.

Three qualities made Xenophon uniquely attractive:

• Practicality. Xenophon’s works are filled with logistics, persuasion, morale, and the daily burdens of command. This resonated with Washington, who lived those realities.
• Moral seriousness. Xenophon believed leadership was a moral vocation. Adams and Jefferson, both steeped in virtue ethics, found in him a classical ally.
• Executive insight. Cyropaedia offered a study of how a leader educates, unifies, and governs. The Founders saw in Cyrus a prototype for executive power without tyranny.

Where Plato gave ideals, Xenophon gave operations. The Founders needed both—but they trusted Xenophon when the stakes were real.

Washington: Xenophon’s American heir

No Founder embodied Xenophon's spirit more than George Washington. Washington owned and annotated Xenophon’s works, and his contemporaries frequently compared him to Xenophon’s Cyrus and to Xenophon himself.

The parallels are striking:

• Xenophon’s Anabasis tells of a reluctant leader who rises to command through steadiness, courage, and moral authority. Washington’s ascent from Virginia planter to commander of the Continental Army mirrors this arc.
• Xenophon’s emphasis on self‑command—the leader who governs himself before governing others—became Washington’s signature virtue.
• Xenophon’s belief that a leader must be both visible and restrained shaped Washington’s understanding of republican executive power.

Washington’s Farewell Address, with its warnings about faction, ambition, and the fragility of civic virtue, reads like a Xenophontic meditation adapted to a modern republic.

Adams and Jefferson: Xenophon as a theorist of virtue and education

John Adams admired Xenophon’s moral clarity. In his writings on republican government, Adams repeatedly stressed that liberty requires virtue, and virtue requires formation. Xenophon’s portraits of Socrates and Cyrus offered Adams a classical vocabulary for discussing:

• the education of citizens,
• the dangers of luxury,
• and the moral responsibilities of leaders.

Thomas Jefferson, though more enamored of Epicurus and the civic humanists, still drew on Xenophon’s Oeconomicus and Memorabilia in thinking about agrarian virtue and the formation of republican citizens. Xenophon’s Socrates—gentler, more practical, more civic‑minded than Plato’s—fit Jefferson’s belief that philosophy should serve public life.

Both men saw Xenophon as a bridge between moral philosophy and political practice.

Hamilton and Madison: Xenophon and the problem of executive power

For Alexander Hamilton, Xenophon’s Cyropaedia was a study in the constructive uses of executive authority. Hamilton believed that republican government required energy, decisiveness, and unity in the executive—qualities Xenophon attributed to Cyrus. Hamilton did not want a king; he wanted a leader capable of acting.

James Madison, more cautious, read Xenophon as a warning. Xenophon’s admiration for Cyrus revealed how easily admiration for virtue could slide into admiration for monarchy. Madison used Xenophon as part of his broader argument that ambition must be checked by structure, not merely by character.

Thus Xenophon helped shape the Founders’ debate about executive power:

• Hamilton saw the promise.
• Madison saw the peril.
• Both saw the relevance.

Xenophon’s deeper gift: A vocabulary for republican character

The Founders did not imitate Xenophon. They used him. He gave them a language for thinking about:

• the moral formation of leaders,
• the relationship between freedom and discipline,
• the fragility of republican institutions,
• the need for citizens capable of self‑restraint,
• and the dangers of faction, luxury, and ambition.

Xenophon’s world was not democratic in the modern sense, but his insights into human nature, leadership, and civic virtue were timeless. The Founders believed that republics rise or fall on the character of their leaders and citizens. Xenophon taught them how to think about that character.

Conclusion: Xenophon as a companion in the American experiment

For contemporary Americans, Xenophon’s significance lies in what he offered the Founders: a sober, humane, and practical vision of leadership. He reminded them—and reminds us—that:

• republics are sustained by disciplined citizens,
• leaders must be formed, not merely elected,
• and freedom requires character as much as it requires laws.

In a moment when American institutions strain under polarization, mistrust, and moral exhaustion, Xenophon returns as a quiet voice from antiquity: Freedom is fragile. Leadership is moral. Character is destiny.

 

XENOPHON AND THE MORAL IMAGINATION

There are thinkers who teach us how to act, and thinkers who teach us how to see. Xenophon belongs to the second category. His writings—spare, disciplined, attentive to the grain of human character—train the reader not only in leadership or civic virtue but in the deeper work of moral imagination. He helps us inhabit the interior world of others, understand the pressures that shape them, and discern the fragile goods that sustain a community. In an age when public life is loud and shallow, Xenophon invites us to see more deeply.

The moral imagination, at its core, is the ability to perceive the world in its moral dimensions—to see people in their full humanity, institutions in their moral purpose, and choices in their long consequences. Xenophon does not define this explicitly. He shows it.

Seeing the Other in their full humanity

Xenophon’s portraits of leaders and citizens are marked by interpretive generosity. He does not flatten people into types. He does not caricature motives. He tries to understand what they are attempting to preserve, what fear they are trying to avoid, what good they are trying to protect.

In Anabasis, he describes soldiers not as instruments but as men with families, loyalties, wounds, and hopes. In Memorabilia, he presents Socrates not as a philosophical abstraction but as a teacher who sees the potential in young Athenians and calls them to moral seriousness. Even Cyrus, in the Cyropaedia, is drawn with empathy—his strengths and flaws intertwined, his ambition tempered by a desire to cultivate virtue in others.

This is the heart of the moral imagination: the ability to see the Other not as an obstacle but as a fellow participant in the moral drama of life.

Modern public life, with its incentives toward suspicion and reduction, desperately needs this Xenophontic generosity.

Seeing institutions as moral ecosystems

Xenophon never treats institutions as machines. He treats them as moral communities shaped by the character of their members. The household in the Oeconomicus flourishes because husband and wife share responsibility and cultivate trust. The army in the Anabasis survives because its leaders restore deliberation, discipline, and mutual accountability. Even the city in the Hellenica rises or falls on the moral imagination of its citizens.

This way of seeing institutions is profoundly moral. It requires leaders to ask not only What is the structure? but What kind of people must we become to sustain it? It requires citizens to see their institutions not as distant bureaucracies but as fragile goods entrusted to their care.

The moral imagination, for Xenophon, is institutional as well as personal.

Seeing freedom as a moral achievement

Xenophon’s reflections on freedom are unsettling to modern ears, but they are morally clarifying. He believed that freedom requires discipline, and that discipline must be cultivated. A free people without self‑command becomes vulnerable to demagogues; a free leader without restraint becomes a tyrant.

This is not cynicism. It is realism shaped by moral imagination. Xenophon sees freedom not as an entitlement but as a moral achievement—a fragile good sustained by the virtues of citizens and the character of leaders.

Modern Americans, who often speak of freedom as a right, may find in Xenophon a reminder that freedom is also a responsibility. It must be stewarded, protected, and morally nourished.

Seeing leadership as moral formation

Xenophon’s leaders are educators. Cyrus teaches Persians courage and discipline. Socrates teaches Athenians self‑examination and civic responsibility. Xenophon teaches the Ten Thousand how to endure hardship without losing their humanity.

This is leadership through moral imagination: the ability to see what people can become and to help them grow into it. It is the opposite of modern leadership-as-performance. Xenophon’s leaders do not seek visibility; they seek formation. They cultivate the interior life of their communities.

The moral imagination, in Xenophon’s world, is inseparable from the vocation of leadership.

Why Xenophon matters now

We live in a moment when public life is thin, institutions are brittle, and the interior life of citizens is often neglected. Xenophon offers a way of seeing that is older than ideology and deeper than technique. He reminds us that:

• the moral imagination begins with seeing others in their full humanity,
• institutions are sustained by the character of their members,
• freedom is a moral achievement, not merely a political arrangement,
• and leadership is the work of forming people, not performing for them.

Xenophon’s world was ancient, but his insights are perennial. He understood that the moral imagination is not a luxury; it is the foundation of civic life. It shapes how we see one another, how we steward our institutions, and how we sustain the fragile goods of freedom and responsibility.

In a time hungry for depth, Xenophon offers a quiet, demanding truth: To renew a community, you must first renew the way you see it.

 

XENOPHON AND INSTITUTIONAL RENEWAL

Every generation inherits institutions it did not build. Some receive them in strength, others in decline. Ours, increasingly, receives them in a state of drift—uncertain of their purpose, anxious about their future, and often hollowed out by years of neglect. In such a moment, it is tempting to reach for structural reforms, new policies, or fresh branding. But Xenophon, writing twenty‑four centuries ago, would tell us that institutional renewal begins somewhere else entirely: with the character of the people who inhabit the institution.

Xenophon is not a theorist of institutional design. He is a witness to institutional life under pressure. His writings—whether the disciplined household of the Oeconomicus, the embattled army of the Anabasis, or the fragile city of the Hellenica—show how institutions rise or fall on the moral imagination of those who lead them. Renewal, for Xenophon, is not a matter of innovation but of restoration: recovering the virtues that make collective life possible.

Institutions are extensions of character

Xenophon’s world is filled with leaders whose interior lives become the fate of their communities. Cyrus’s discipline becomes Persia’s strength. Socrates’s integrity becomes a quiet rebuke to Athens’s corruption. Xenophon’s own steadiness becomes the backbone of the Ten Thousand’s survival.

Modern Americans often treat institutions as machines—systems to be optimized, structures to be reengineered. Xenophon treats them as moral ecosystems. When the character of leaders decays, the institution follows. When leaders recover discipline, clarity, and restraint, the institution begins to heal.

Institutional renewal, in Xenophon’s view, begins with the renewal of the people who steward it.

Renewal requires returning to first principles

Xenophon’s leaders do not innovate their way out of crisis; they return to fundamentals. Cyrus rebuilds Persian strength by restoring courage, obedience, and shared purpose. Xenophon restores order in the army by re‑establishing deliberation, discipline, and mutual accountability.

This is the opposite of modern institutional instinct. We often respond to drift with novelty—new programs, new slogans, new initiatives. Xenophon would say that drift is cured not by novelty but by clarity. Institutions must remember what they are for, what goods they exist to protect, and what virtues they require from their members.

Renewal begins with remembering.

Renewal depends on moral education, not managerial technique

Xenophon’s institutions are held together by teaching. Leaders educate their people in courage, prudence, loyalty, and self‑command. They form habits, not just policies. They cultivate virtues, not just competencies.

Modern institutions often invert this. They train for skills but neglect character. They measure performance but ignore formation. They assume that technical excellence can compensate for moral thinness.

Xenophon would warn us that institutions cannot be repaired by technique alone. They require leaders who teach—who form the moral habits that make collective life possible. Renewal is pedagogical before it is structural.

Renewal requires shared sacrifice

In Xenophon’s world, institutions are renewed when people accept burdens together. The Ten Thousand survive because they share hardship. Cyrus’s Persians become strong because they embrace discipline. Even the household in the Oeconomicus flourishes because husband and wife commit themselves to mutual labor and responsibility.

Modern institutional culture often resists sacrifice. We prefer autonomy, comfort, and minimal obligation. But institutions cannot be renewed by people who refuse cost. Xenophon’s reminder is sharp: renewal requires shared sacrifice—leaders who bear weight, members who accept duty, communities that choose responsibility over ease.

Institutions are rebuilt by people willing to give more than they receive.

Renewal is threatened most by cynicism

Xenophon understood that cynicism is the acid that dissolves institutions. Once people believe their leaders are self‑interested, their colleagues unreliable, and their mission hollow, the institution begins to collapse from within. Cynicism is not merely an attitude; it is a form of institutional rot.

Modern Americans know this well. Cynicism has become a default posture—toward government, schools, churches, corporations, even families. Xenophon would insist that renewal requires recovering trust: trust in leaders who govern themselves, trust in colleagues who share burdens, trust in missions that are worthy of sacrifice.

Civic and institutional life cannot survive on suspicion.

Why Xenophon matters now

We live in a time when institutions feel brittle—overextended, underloved, and often adrift. Xenophon offers a vocabulary for renewal that is older than managerial theory and more demanding than structural reform. He reminds us that:

• institutions rise or fall on the character of their leaders,
• renewal begins with returning to first principles,
• moral education is the heart of institutional strength,
• shared sacrifice is the price of collective goods,
• and cynicism is the enemy of every enduring institution.

Xenophon’s world was ancient, but his insights are perennial. He understood that institutions are not machines but moral communities. They flourish when leaders cultivate virtue, when members embrace duty, and when the quiet goods of ordinary life—fidelity, restraint, steadiness—are honored.

In an age hungry for renewal, Xenophon offers a simple, demanding truth: Institutions are restored when the people inside them become worthy of the work they are entrusted to do.

  

XENOPHON AND CIVIC VIRTUE

There are moments in the life of a nation when the old questions return with new urgency. What kind of people must we be to remain free? What habits sustain a republic? What virtues must citizens cultivate if they hope to govern themselves rather than be governed by others? Xenophon—soldier, statesman, student of Socrates—speaks directly into these questions. He does not give us a theory of civic virtue; he gives us portraits of it lived out under pressure. And in those portraits, modern Americans can see both what we have lost and what we must recover.

Xenophon’s world was not democratic in the modern sense, but it was deeply concerned with the character of citizens. He understood that political life is downstream of moral life, and that the health of a community depends on the formation of its people long before it depends on the design of its institutions. Civic virtue, for Xenophon, is not a slogan but a discipline.

Civic virtue begins with self‑command

Xenophon’s leaders—Cyrus, Socrates, Xenophon himself—are men who govern themselves before they govern others. This is the first and most demanding form of civic virtue: the refusal to let appetite, anger, or ambition rule the soul. A citizen who cannot master himself becomes easy prey for demagogues; a community of such citizens becomes easy prey for tyranny.

Modern Americans often imagine civic virtue as outward-facing: voting, volunteering, participating. Xenophon reminds us that it begins inwardly. A republic depends on citizens who can restrain themselves, deliberate carefully, and act with steadiness rather than impulse. Without self-command, freedom becomes noise.

Civic virtue is the willingness to be formed

Xenophon’s writings are full of education—not the technical kind, but the moral kind. Socrates teaches young Athenians how to examine their lives. Cyrus teaches Persians how to cultivate courage and discipline. Xenophon teaches the Ten Thousand how to endure hardship without losing their humanity.

This is the part modern civic culture often neglects. We speak of rights more easily than responsibilities, and of autonomy more easily than formation. But Xenophon insists that citizens must be shaped—by mentors, by institutions, by shared practices—if they are to sustain a free community. Civic virtue is not innate; it is cultivated.

A republic that abandons the work of forming citizens is already drifting toward fragility.

Civic virtue is practical, not sentimental

Xenophon is allergic to abstraction. His civic virtues are lived in the grain of daily life: keeping one’s word, honoring obligations, working diligently, showing respect to elders, caring for the household, serving the community. These are not heroic acts; they are ordinary ones. But Xenophon understood that ordinary virtues are the scaffolding of public life.

Modern Americans often romanticize civic virtue—grand gestures, stirring rhetoric, dramatic stands. Xenophon would smile at this. He knew that the republic is sustained by the quiet goods: neighbors who help one another, citizens who fulfill their duties without complaint, leaders who act with restraint rather than spectacle.

Civic virtue, in Xenophon’s world, is the art of doing the necessary things faithfully.

Civic virtue protects freedom from its own excesses

Xenophon’s reflections on freedom are sobering. He believed that freedom without discipline becomes dangerous, that citizens who cannot restrain themselves eventually require rulers who will restrain them. This is not a rejection of liberty; it is a warning about its fragility.

Modern Americans live in a culture that prizes self-expression, autonomy, and choice. Xenophon would ask a harder question: Are we the kind of people who can handle the freedom we claim to love? Civic virtue is the answer to that question. It is the set of habits that keep freedom from collapsing into license, and license from collapsing into disorder.

Freedom, for Xenophon, is not merely a political arrangement; it is a moral achievement.

Why Xenophon matters now

We live in a time of institutional drift, political exhaustion, and civic fragmentation. The old virtues—steadiness, duty, restraint, neighborliness—feel increasingly rare. Xenophon does not offer nostalgia; he offers clarity. He reminds us that:

• a republic is sustained by the character of its citizens,
• civic virtue is formed through discipline and education,
• freedom requires self-command,
• and the quiet goods of ordinary life are the backbone of public life.

Xenophon’s world was ancient, but his insights are perennial. He understood that civic virtue is not about perfection but about fidelity—fidelity to one’s duties, one’s community, and one’s better self. Modern Americans, weary of spectacle and hungry for substance, may find in Xenophon a companion who speaks with calm authority: If you wish to remain free, cultivate the virtues that make freedom possible.

 

XENOPHON AND MODERN LEADERS

There are ancient writers we consult for ideals, and there are ancient writers we consult for operations. Xenophon belongs to the second category. He is not a theorist of the perfect city or the abstract good; he is a student of human beings in motion—commanders, citizens, soldiers, householders—trying to act well in the world as it actually is. That is why modern leaders, especially those entrusted with institutions under strain, still have something to learn from him. Xenophon understood the moral drama of leadership: how character shapes action, how action shapes institutions, and how institutions shape the fate of a people.

In our moment—when leaders are pulled between performance and responsibility, between charisma and competence—Xenophon offers a different model. He reminds us that leadership is not a posture but a discipline.

Leadership as the governance of the self

Xenophon’s leaders begin with self‑command. Before Cyrus governs an empire, he governs his appetites. Before Xenophon leads the Ten Thousand, he steadies his own fear. This is not Stoicism in its later, polished form; it is the older insight that a leader’s interior life becomes the fate of others. The modern world, with its relentless incentives toward self‑promotion, often forgets this. Xenophon does not.

He insists that the leader’s first battlefield is inward. A leader who cannot master his impulses will eventually ask the institution to carry the weight of his disorder. We see this today in every organization where volatility at the top becomes volatility everywhere else.

Xenophon’s counsel is simple: govern yourself so that you do not govern others badly.

Leadership as moral education

Modern leaders often imagine themselves as problem‑solvers or strategists. Xenophon imagines leaders as teachers. Cyrus educates Persians into courage and discipline. Socrates educates young Athenians into self‑examination and civic responsibility. Even Xenophon’s own leadership in the Anabasis is pedagogical—he teaches the army how to endure, how to deliberate, how to act as a community under pressure.

This is the part modern leaders resist. Teaching requires patience, presence, and a willingness to form people rather than merely deploy them. But institutions decay when leaders stop educating. Xenophon’s world makes clear that the health of a community depends on whether its leaders cultivate virtue or merely extract performance.

A modern leader who refuses the role of educator is already shrinking the institution he leads.

Leadership as practical wisdom

Xenophon is a realist. He knows that leadership is logistics, morale, persuasion, and the thousand small decisions that determine whether a group survives. His genius is that he never separates practicality from morality. For him, competence is a moral duty.

Modern leaders often split these apart: the “visionary” who cannot execute, or the “operator” who cannot inspire. Xenophon refuses the dichotomy. He expects leaders to be both morally serious and operationally capable. He would look at many contemporary executives—brilliant rhetoricians with thin managerial skill, or efficient managers with hollow moral centers—and see not leaders but fragments.

His reminder is sharp: wisdom is not abstraction; it is the ability to act well under pressure.

Leadership as stewardship of freedom

Xenophon’s reflections on freedom are unsettling to modern ears, but they are instructive. He believed that freedom requires discipline, and that discipline must be cultivated. A free people without self‑restraint becomes vulnerable to demagogues; a free leader without restraint becomes a tyrant. Xenophon’s warnings echo in every modern democracy wrestling with polarization, institutional drift, and the erosion of civic virtue.

Modern leaders often speak of freedom as a right. Xenophon speaks of it as a responsibility. He would tell today’s leaders that freedom is sustained not by slogans but by the habits of citizens and the character of those who guide them.

Freedom, in Xenophon’s world, is fragile—and leaders are its guardians.

Why Xenophon matters now

We live in an age of spectacle. Leadership is often confused with visibility, and institutions with platforms. Xenophon cuts through the noise. He reminds modern leaders that:

• character is the foundation of authority,
• teaching is the heart of leadership,
• competence is a moral obligation,
• and freedom survives only when leaders discipline themselves before disciplining others.

His world was ancient, but his insights are perennial. Xenophon understood that leadership is not about the leader’s self‑expression but about the community’s survival. Modern leaders—political, corporate, educational—would do well to recover that older, humbler, more demanding vision.

In a time when institutions tremble and public trust thins, Xenophon offers a steadying truth: Leadership is the art of forming people and stewarding the fragile goods entrusted to you.

 

THE ROTTEN APPLE PROBLEM

Every institution eventually faces the same crisis: a single incident, a single name, a single face becomes the symbol of failure. A police officer caught abusing authority. A teacher violating trust. A pastor misusing power. A soldier crossing moral lines. And almost immediately, the institution’s leaders reach for the familiar phrase — “a few bad apples.”

The phrase is meant to reassure. It is meant to contain the damage. It is meant to suggest that the institution itself remains sound, that the problem is isolated, that the public should not lose confidence. But the phrase is a half-truth, and like most half-truths, it obscures the deeper reality.

The full proverb is: “A few bad apples spoil the whole barrel.” The modern truncation reverses the meaning. It turns a warning into an excuse.

The truth is harder: institutions are not destroyed by a few bad apples. They are destroyed when institutions fail to detect, constrain, or remove the people whose temperament, habits, or worldview are incompatible with the vocation of public authority. The rot is rarely sudden. It is almost always visible early. And it is almost always tolerated until it becomes impossible to ignore.

Police departments are especially vulnerable to this dynamic because they combine three volatile ingredients: coercive power, discretionary judgment, and a tight internal culture that can either elevate or deform its members. But the lessons apply far beyond policing. They apply to schools, churches, military units, corporations, and governments. They apply anywhere human beings are entrusted with authority.

The question is simple and serious: How can institutions spot the rotten apples before damage occurs — and how can they remove them?

This essay is an attempt to answer that question with the moral seriousness it deserves.

The Myth of the Isolated Bad Actor

When misconduct erupts, institutions often respond as if the problem is individual rather than systemic. “This officer acted alone.” “This teacher violated policy.” “This pastor betrayed trust.” “This soldier failed to uphold standards.” The institution frames the incident as an aberration, a deviation from the norm.

But misconduct rarely emerges from nowhere. It grows from a culture — from norms, incentives, habits, and silences. A single officer with a taste for domination or cruelty can reshape a unit’s culture within months. A single teacher who cuts corners can normalize mediocrity. A single pastor who manipulates can create a climate of fear. A single executive who bullies can deform an entire department.

The “bad apple” explanation is not wrong. It is simply incomplete. The deeper truth is that bad apples thrive in barrels that refuse to confront them.

Institutions fail not because they cannot spot dangerous people. They fail because they choose not to.

The Early Signs: Temperament Before Behavior

Most future misconduct is visible long before it becomes public. The earliest signs are not dramatic. They are subtle, often dismissed as personality quirks or “rough edges.” But they matter.

The first sign is temperament.

Temperament is the moral weather system inside a person — the pattern of emotional responses, impulses, and attitudes that shape how they wield authority. In policing, the red flags are unmistakable:

• chronic anger
• contempt for civilians
• thrill-seeking around force
• inability to de-escalate
• disdain for procedural rules
• “us vs. them” worldview
• fascination with weapons or tactical gear
• bullying behavior in training environments

These traits are detectable in academy settings, field training, and early performance reviews. They are visible to instructors, peers, and supervisors. They are often joked about, shrugged off, or rationalized. But they are the seeds of future misconduct.

The second sign is pattern.

Misconduct rarely appears suddenly. It grows from repeated minor violations:

• unnecessary escalation in routine stops
• sloppy or dishonest report writing
• excessive complaints (even if not sustained)
• inability to accept feedback
• aggressive social media presence
• chronic defensiveness

These patterns are early warning signals. They reveal a temperament that is incompatible with the vocation of public authority.

The third sign is peer perception.

Peers know who is dangerous long before supervisors do. In elite military units, anonymous peer evaluations are the most accurate predictor of future misconduct. They reveal arrogance, impulsiveness, dishonesty, cruelty, and lack of emotional control.

Police departments rarely use them because they fear union backlash. But they work.

The fourth sign is field training officer (FTO) influence.

The FTO is the most formative figure in a young officer’s life. If the FTO is cynical, aggressive, or burned out, the rookie will be too. If the FTO normalizes shortcuts, contempt, or domination, the rookie will absorb those habits.

Institutions that select FTOs casually are cultivating future scandals.

The fifth sign is psychological screening that screens nothing.

Most departments use psychological tests as liability shields, not as real filters. Effective screening requires:

• longitudinal interviews
• stress-response testing
• scenario-based moral decision-making
• evaluation of empathy and impulse control

The military does this far better than most police departments.

The sixth sign is silence.

When good officers fear retaliation for reporting misconduct, the institution has already begun to rot. Silence is not neutral. It is complicity.

The Courage to Remove: Early-Termination as Moral Stewardship

The most important moment in preventing institutional rot is early-career termination. The first three to five years are decisive. If an officer shows repeated temperament issues, the department must terminate early.

This requires:

• strong HR backing
• union negotiation
• clear documentation
• leadership courage

Most departments fail here because they fear lawsuits. But lawsuits from misconduct are far more costly — financially, morally, and institutionally.

The second mechanism is decertification.

States can revoke an officer’s certification, preventing them from simply moving to another department. This is essential. A “wandering officer” — fired from one department, hired by another — is one of the most dangerous phenomena in American policing.

The third mechanism is leadership modeling.

If supervisors tolerate small misconduct, they will inevitably tolerate large misconduct. Leadership must:

• enforce minor rules consistently
• model calm, disciplined behavior
• reject “warrior culture” rhetoric
• emphasize service over dominance

Culture flows downward.

The fourth mechanism is whistleblower protection.

Institutions must reward officers who report misconduct, protect them from retaliation, and publicly affirm their courage. When good officers know the institution will stand with them, misconduct becomes far easier to detect.

The Deeper Problem: Institutional Drift and Moral Imagination

The rotten apple problem is not merely a personnel issue. It is a moral issue. It is about the imagination of the institution — what it believes about itself, what it values, what it tolerates, what it fears.

Institutions drift when:

• courage is costly
• silence is rewarded
• drift is easier than discipline
• loyalty is confused with complicity
• leaders fear conflict more than corruption

The real question is not whether institutions can identify dangerous people. They can.

The real question is whether they have the moral imagination to act before the damage is done.

Moral imagination, institutional life, leadership formation — all intersect with the problem. Institutions are moral organisms. They can be courageous or cowardly, clear or confused, disciplined or drifting. They can cultivate virtue or tolerate vice.

The rotten apple problem is ultimately a question of institutional character.

The Final Question: What Kind of Institution Do We Want?

The rotten apple problem forces institutions to confront a deeper question: What kind of people do we trust with authority?

Not: What skills do they have? Not: What training have they completed? Not: What procedures do they follow?

But: What kind of moral horizon do they carry within themselves?

Institutions rise or fall on the seriousness of their mentors, the courage of their leaders, and the clarity of their moral imagination. They rise or fall on their willingness to confront dangerous people early, before the damage is done.

The rotten apple problem is not about fruit. It is about formation. It is about courage. It is about the slow, serious work of building institutions that do not drift, do not excuse, do not tolerate, do not hide.

It is about the willingness to say: We will not allow the barrel to rot.

And that is the work of leadership — the work I have spent my life thinking about, teaching about, and writing about.

 

THE ORDINARY LOYALTIES THAT KEEP US HUMAN

 

Every so often, I am reminded that the things which keep us human are not the grand abstractions we argue about, but the ordinary loyalties we live by. They are small, familiar, and often dismissed as trivial by people who believe that only political commitments matter. But I have come to believe the opposite: it is the ordinary loyalties — the ones woven into our days, our memories, our affections — that preserve our humanity when the world tries to flatten us into ideological silhouettes.

I think of the loyalties that have shaped my own life. The University of Oklahoma, where I was bonded into a "band of brothers" and learned what it meant to belong to something larger than myself. The Sooners on a fall Saturday, a ritual that has outlasted presidents, movements, and every political storm of the last half‑century. The quiet routines of home in South Lyon, the presence of my wife, my son and daughter‑in‑law, and the dogs who remind me daily that joy is not an argument but a companionship. These loyalties are not distractions from the “real” world. They are the real world.

Ordinary loyalties teach proportion. They remind us that life is not meant to be lived inside a single political tunnel. When I cheer for OU against Texas, I am not escaping politics; I am participating in a tradition that binds generations together. When I sit with my family at the end of the day, I am not ignoring the world’s problems; I am honoring the people who give my life meaning. These loyalties anchor us in the goods that do not depend on winning an argument.

They also teach humility. Politics tempts us to believe that our convictions are the measure of our worth. Ordinary loyalties remind us that worth is found in fidelity — to people, to places, to memories, to the institutions that formed us. You cannot “win” a Saturday morning routine or a family dinner. You can only show up. And showing up, again and again, is a moral act.

Most importantly, ordinary loyalties protect the interior life. They give us space to be more than our positions. They allow us to disagree without losing ourselves. They remind us that the world is full of goods that cannot be captured by slogans or platforms. When someone demands that politics be the highest loyalty, they are asking you to shrink your life to the size of their cause. Ordinary loyalties resist that shrinkage. They insist that a human being is larger than any ideology.

I have seen friendships collapse under the weight of political absolutism. I have watched people treat disagreement as betrayal, as if the only loyalty that matters is loyalty to their side. But I have also seen how ordinary loyalties — shared memories, shared rituals, shared affections — can hold people together even when their politics diverge. These loyalties do not erase differences. They simply remind us that differences are not the whole story.

In the end, the ordinary loyalties are what keep us human. They tether us to the world as it actually is: messy, beautiful, full of people we love and traditions we cherish. They remind us that life is not a battlefield but a home. And they teach us, quietly and persistently, that the measure of a person is not found in ideological purity but in the fidelity of a life lived among others.

If politics demands that we abandon these loyalties, then politics has asked too much. I will choose the broader world — the one filled with family, faith, vocation, and the Sooners — every time.

 

WHEN FRIENDSHIP COLLAPSES INTO POLITICS

There are moments in a friendship when you discover, almost abruptly, that the ground beneath you has shifted. You thought you were standing on shared history, mutual respect, and the ordinary goods that bind two people together. Then, without warning, you find yourself standing in a political battlefield you never agreed to enter. That is what happened to me recently, and I have been trying to understand it with the tools I have: memory, moral imagination, and a stubborn belief that human beings are more than their ideological tribes.

The rupture began with a disagreement — nothing unusual, nothing catastrophic. Friends disagree. But this time, the disagreement was not treated as a conversation between equals. It was treated as a test of loyalty. My friend, someone I had once considered dear, insisted that I join him in a political dispute he regarded as urgent and defining. It was not an invitation. It was a demand.

When I explained why I could not simply enlist — that his side had, in fact, called me a Nazi because of my beliefs — he brushed it aside. My wound, which was real, was dismissed as fragility. The harm done to me was not even worth acknowledging. In that moment, the friendship bent under a new weight: the weight of ideological hierarchy. He was not arguing with me; he was arguing at me. And when someone trivializes your arguments, they are telling you that your reasoning no longer counts unless it serves their cause.

I tried to widen the frame. I told him that I hold other matters — even something as ordinary and joyful as Oklahoma–Texas football — just as important, or more so, than this particular political dispute. That was not a joke. It was a declaration of proportion. Life is not meant to be lived inside a single political tunnel. We are shaped by loyalties that are older, deeper, and more humane: family, faith, vocation, the Sooners on a fall Saturday. These are not distractions from the “real” world. They are the real world.

But he could not hear that. To him, my refusal to elevate his political fight above everything else was evidence of unseriousness. And when I did not comply, he stopped communicating altogether. The friendship ended not because of politics, but because politics had become, for him, the only measure of moral worth.

I have come to see this as a failure of moral imagination. A friend should be able to hold two truths at once: that political convictions matter, and that the person across from you is more than those convictions. A friend should be able to hear your wounds without mocking them. A friend should be able to disagree without demanding allegiance. A friend should be able to recognize that the quiet goods of ordinary life — home, routine, football, dogs underfoot, the hum of a Saturday morning — are not trivialities but anchors.

What happened was not a political disagreement. It was a relational collapse. He wanted a partisan soldier. I remained a person.

And so the friendship ended. Not with a dramatic confrontation, but with silence — the kind of silence that follows when someone decides that your humanity is less important than their ideology. I mourn the loss, but I do not regret the stance I took. I will not allow politics to swallow the whole of life. I will not surrender the interior goods that make life worth living. I will not let anyone conscript me into a fight that requires me to abandon my own dignity.

If this is the cost of refusing to make politics my god, then so be it. I will choose the broader world — the one filled with family, faith, vocation, and yes, the Sooners — every time.

  

WHAT JON OSSOFF'S LINE REVEALS ABOUT OUR POLITICS- AND OUR LEADERS

There are moments in political life when a single line, tossed into the roar of a rally, reveals more about the state of our institutions than a dozen white papers. Jon Ossoff’s remark yesterday — the one invoking Natalie Harp as the president’s constant companion aboard a “defenseless flying palace” — was one of those moments. It wasn’t the sharpness of the jab that struck me. Politics has always had its barbs. It was the target: not a policy, not a scandal, not even the president himself, but an aide. A staffer. A name that, in healthier times, would never appear in a senator’s prepared remarks.

When a republic begins aiming its fire at the aides, something deeper is happening.

Ossoff’s line worked because it touched a truth that has been hiding in plain sight: the modern presidency has become a stage on which personal loyalty often eclipses institutional responsibility. Natalie Harp has become a symbol — not because she holds formal authority, but because she represents the gravitational pull of personalism in American politics. Her constant proximity to the president, her role as emotional buffer and information filter, her presence on the plane and in the motorcade — all of it signals a presidency increasingly shaped by intimacy rather than structure.

Ossoff’s criticism, then, was not really about Harp. It was about the ecosystem that produces aides like her.

But here is the danger: when political rhetoric targets the aide rather than the system, it risks becoming small, even petty. It shifts the conversation from the responsibilities of leadership to the personalities orbiting it. It invites speculation, insinuation, and the kind of voyeuristic politics that corrodes public seriousness. And it tempts us to treat symptoms as causes.

The deeper issue is not Natalie Harp’s devotion. It is the vacuum that devotion fills.

In strong institutions, leaders are surrounded by people who challenge them, sharpen them, and enlarge their imagination. In fragile ones, leaders are surrounded by people who soothe them, reinforce their instincts, and protect them from discomfort. The former produces statesmen; the latter produces courtiers. And courtiers, by their nature, become lightning rods — not because they seek power, but because they reflect the leader’s vulnerabilities.

Ossoff’s line landed because it pointed to a truth: the presidency has become a place where comfort often substitutes for counsel. But the line also revealed something about our politics: we are increasingly willing to personalize institutional critique, to collapse structural concerns into human drama, to treat aides as proxies for the leaders they serve.

The republic deserves better than that.

If we want to restore seriousness to our political life, we must learn to distinguish between the aide and the architecture. Natalie Harp is not the cause of presidential drift; she is a symptom of a presidency that prizes loyalty over formation. And Ossoff’s remark, however sharp, will not fix that. Only leaders who seek mentors rather than comforters — who welcome friction rather than flattery — can repair the moral imagination of the institutions they steward.

In the end, the question is not why Natalie Harp is always at the president’s side. The question is why so few Fox Conners remain in American public life — and why our politics no longer seems to know how to cultivate them.