A reflection on how not to go mad when things seem to be going crazy

The first time I voted in the US presidential election, in 1980, I cast my vote for Congressman John Anderson. He was a former Republican running as an independent on a socially-liberal, fiscally-conservative platform. Anderson’s quixotic campaign is mostly forgotten now, but he was both innovative and middle-of-the-road, positioned squarely between the two main-party candidates, incumbent President Jimmy Carter (Democrat) and his movie-star challenger Ronald Reagan (Republican). Anderson called for higher taxes on fuel and lower taxes on social security (the fees Americans pay for their retirement pensions and other benefits), decades ahead of similar-sounding calls for replacing taxes on labour with taxes on carbon. Anderson, when he was still a card-carrying Republican, was a critic of the Vietnam War. He pushed for greater funding for scientific research, argued for lower deficits, and supported equal rights for women and gay people. Those positions reflected my own increasingly centrist, progressive, soon-to-be-former Republican views at the time, and I voted for him despite knowing that he had zero chance of winning. The fact that he actually won 6.6% of the vote was admirable under the circumstances.

Centrism, which tends to focus on consensus-building and practical problem-solving, is by definition less ideological than other political positions. Drawing pragmatically and progressively from both sides of the left-right ideological divide (at least, as that divide used to be constituted) found greater political success in later decades, but it was simply not popular enough to attract a winning percentage of votes in 1980.

Nor, quite obviously, is it popular today, here in the middle 2020s. I do not regret my 1980 vote for John Anderson, but it is clear that being a pragmatic centrist today would not win many votes in either of my home countries, the US and Sweden. Anyone trying to be a voice of reason in the middle of the mud-wrestling match that passes for politics these days is destined to get body-slammed from both sides. The accumulating mountain of mud is also making it hard to know where the middle actually is, or even if there exists a recognisable middle any more. If circumstances decay to the point where the choice is between upholding the basic tenets of democracy and sliding towards authoritarianism, standing in the middle can no longer be considered pragmatic. It is more likely to be seen as apathetic, uninformed, morally compromised, or simply (and often justifiably) fearful.

So it is not surprising that some of the centrists I most admire are questioning centrism, forced out of their supposedly comfortable middle zones by the still-rising tide of ideological extremism in many western democracies. David Brooks, a wonderfully erudite New York Times columnist who identifies as conservative but has in recent years been positioned as a centrist, wrote an essay on this topic in January entitled “The Sins of the Moderates.” Citing theologian Reinhold Niebuhr’s book “The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness” (1944), Brooks agrees with Niebuhr that the “children of light” — defined as “those driven by ideals to build a just civilisation” — need to adopt more of the “wisdom of the serpent”. This phrase refers to understanding (and perhaps occasionally using) the tactics of the “children of darkness”, defined as the moral cynics who seek only power and control and who are currently in the ascendancy. Brooks wants us to re-learn the lessons that Niebuhr taught about how not to be foolish when faced with their serpent-like ways, to learn from the serpents while still retaining our own moral compass.

Brooks writes that “Outrage over these trends [i.e. the world shifting from rule-of-law toward a rule-by-force paradigm] should cause moderates to be immoderate.” If one takes the title of his essay seriously, Brooks is adopting the viewpoint that if you are not outraged to the point of “sublime madness” (another Niebuhr phrase) by the “great wave of savagery” (Brooks’s phrase) that has been released, you are being sinfully naïve.

These are touchy, difficult subjects, and my brief summary of Brooks’s argument, which is itself a brief summary drawing on his many years of deep reading and reflection, does not do justice to his sense of passionate urgency nor to his command of nuance. But “sin” is a binary concept. Something is right, or it’s not. Brooks is saying that moderate centrism, as previously practiced, is no longer in the “right” column.

So what is the “right” way to be in these difficult, increasingly perilous times? Especially for a lifelong centrist committed to advancing a globally agreed, UN-mediated dream of universal justice, prosperity, and ecological balance, which we call sustainable development? This is a variant of the question Brooks himself has been asking in several recent articles, and I admire him for his willingness to deeply challenge his own comfortable, conservative-centrist position, in public.

I would argue, however, that being a centrist — especially one who genuinely wants to create positive change in the world, and who acts systematically on that intention — has never been a comfortable place to be. It has always involved listening to both (or many) sides of a story, struggling not to get drawn into any tightly-wound ideological narratives, and trying to find a genuinely positive way forward, guided by universally agreed ethical norms. Right now, it feels exceptionally difficult to be a centrist, because those universally agreed norms are themselves under attack, often by several “sides” at once. The temptation is to become so outraged that one abandons those norms, at least temporarily, in order to “fight fire with fire.”

But if we immoderately abandon our norms, such as our belief in a society guided by respect, ethics, and the law, in order to defend those norms and repel serious challenges to them, what happens then?

Recently my wife and I watched the latest cinematic version of the classic French story The Count of Monte Cristo (2024). It is a beautifully shot and well-acted movie that captures the essence of Alexandre Dumas’s 1840s novel of betrayal and revenge, a book that both of us had read as teens. (Spoiler alert: plot details ahead.) As the future Count suffers through years of unjust imprisonment and dreams of escape and vengeance, he is counselled by his mentor, the Abbé Faria, not to fall prey to hatred. But of course, he does. The revenge he enacts on his tormentors is righteous, but his hatred is no less cruel for being clothed in justice, and this is what drives the action of the story.

The Count of Monte Cristo is a wonderful parable about what happens when you abandon an ethically principled, rule-of-law approach to achieving justice. Watching what happens makes for a great movie. I do not believe that it makes for a viable world, much less a great one.

Of course I add my voice to the global choir expressing abhorrence for the renegade legal excesses and the seemingly random threats of violence, as well as terrible acts of violence, that are becoming increasingly acceptable tools of governance in our world and staple topics in our news media. I am deeply saddened and often angered by much of what I see happening, just as I am deeply disappointed by the ignorant denigration of, and dangerous attempts to dismantle, nationally and internationally agreed law, institutions and agreements — the work of generations, designed to support the building of a just and sustainable civilisation.

But I am not willing to set aside my own commitment to those principles in the struggle to uphold them. I am not ready to embrace “outrage” and become “immoderate”, or to frame my engagement with the world in those terms, in my own modest efforts to shift the trajectory of global development onto a more sane and sustainable pathway. I understand the ways of the serpent, I have studied them, and I have been on the receiving end of some of those tactics. I can testify to the fact that “the ways of the serpent” are horribly effective. But I choose not to use them.

My personal politics have evolved with the times and with the culture of where I live. But my views still tend to centrism, which I define as a blend of strong social liberalism and fiscal conservatism (meaning that I like balanced budgets and tax systems that are smart and fair). I remain pragmatic in my general approach to policy: for example, I support a well-funded police force and a strong military defence here in Sweden, given the realities of our current domestic situation and our European neighbourhood. But I also support strong social and economic programs to address the roots of crime, and I am a passionate supporter of the UN, which was created to spread human rights and preserve peace. I believe pragmatism of this kind can and should co-exist with strong ethical principles: one can practice pragmatism in an ethically principled way. I can support a strong military defence in the present, for both pragmatic and ethical reasons, while also believing that ultimately, in the words of former Archbishop of the Church of Sweden, KG Hammar (who used this phrase as the title of a small, thoughtful book), “Peace is the way to peace.” (Svenska: “Fred är vägen till fred“)

I recognize that this kind of pragmatic centrism, combined with a stubborn adherence to the basic principles of liberal democracy, is starting to feel old-fashioned in some political contexts. I acknowledge that continuing to think in this way, and to act moderately in the public sphere, might be considered “sinfully naïve” by some. This does not mean I do not pick sides: when faced with an actionable choice between authoritarianism and democracy, for example, I will always take the side of the latter and stand against the former. But in my general approach to political engagement I will also, for as long as I can, continue to hold the center — that increasingly contested space of respectful listening, learning, coalition-building, and progressively oriented problem-solving — and resist the temptation to embrace outrage, immoderacy, or madness, sublime or otherwise.

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I have previously published a longer essay on why, and how, I am trying not to contribute to a climate of outrage and anger on social media or in other public spaces. In that essay, “Loyalties: A framework for how I intend to engage in the public sphere,” I also attempt to practice transparency about my core values-based commitments, as well as my personal biases. I acknowledge that those biases are reflected in my article above, probably in ways that I cannot yet see.

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