By Eddy Smith
Watch a person’s face the moment they reverse themselves. Not the words; the words will sound smooth, practised, almost reasonable. Watch the face. There is a flicker, gone in under a second, where the eyes check to see if anyone noticed. Nobody usually does, because the person doing the reversing is mid-sentence, fully convinced that what they are saying now is what they have always believed.
I have come to think that flicker, quick, almost embarrassed, gone before you can name it, is the truest tell of our era. We have built entire social systems on the premise that a man’s word means something, then spent every waking hour proving it doesn’t, not when the wind shifts.
Call it rhetorical elasticity. Stretch a moral position toward your own interest, and it holds whatever shape you need, snapping back to its original form only once the inconvenience has passed. The remarkable thing isn’t that people do this; people have always done this. What’s new is how little shame attends it, how casually a person holds two incompatible convictions in the same week and feels no friction at all.
Start where the stakes are oil tankers, because the pattern is easiest to see when the actors are large and the cameras are rolling.
For years, the United States has cast itself as enforcer of a global order, the power that polices sanctioned petroleum and natural gas, sending warships after “ghost fleet” tankers running Iranian or Russian crude through grey waters. Smuggling sanctioned fuel is a moral violation, a thumb in the eye of the rules-based order Washington claims to defend. Treasury issues statements; senators give floor speeches about the sanctions regime’s integrity.
Then the Strait of Hormuz tightens, oil markets twitch, and gasoline prices threaten to do what they always do to approval ratings, and the same mechanical act gets a different vocabulary entirely. JD Vance, during the recent Hormuz flare-up, didn’t condemn the smuggling subtly easing the squeeze; he rationalised it as a pragmatic necessity, the sort of thing reasonable people do when the alternative is an oil shock at home. I want to be precise: this is not a brief for Tehran or Moscow, whose conduct deserves no defence from me. It’s an observation about the American political mouth, how the identical act is a crime against civilisation on Tuesday and a regrettable necessity on Thursday, depending on whose ox is gored and whose gas tank is getting expensive.
This isn’t hypocrisy in the simple sense, the kind where someone gets caught and squirms. It’s structural. The moral content of the act was never the point. The act is a vessel; you pour in whatever argument serves you, and pour out whatever doesn’t.
Drop the altitude to the church parking lot, the family group chat, the comment section, and you find the identical machinery, smaller and somehow more intimate in its dishonesty.
A man preaches fire against infidelity and the corrosive effect of scandal, right up until the man caught in scandal wears his jersey, attends his church, votes his way. Then the fire becomes context, grace, a reminder that we are all sinners. The standard didn’t soften because the behaviour changed. It softened because the standard was never about the behaviour. It was about the tribe. I’ve watched a person organise the neighbourhood against a loud party, then throw an identical one two weeks later, aggrieved that anyone would complain. The moral claim is stable; its application bends like wet cane toward whoever is holding the ruler.
The deeper question isn’t whether people do this; that’s settled, but why the bending feels, from the inside, like standing firm.
Most people don’t arrive at convictions through investigation. They arrive at them the way a person arrives at an accent: by immersion, until it stops sounding like a choice. Sitting with evidence is costly, and most people aren’t willing to pay. It’s cheaper to adopt whatever position is already circulating in the room. The reward isn’t truth. It’s belonging.
Eric Hoffer understood this with a clarity that still unsettles me. The true believer, he argued, is drawn to a mass movement not by the soundness of its doctrine but by the escape it offers from the self, a chance to dissolve a frustrated individual identity into something larger and unaccountable. The crowd doesn’t ask you to think; it asks you to belong, and belonging absorbs the burden of thinking on your behalf. Once that trade is made, the movement’s exceptions become your exceptions, unexamined. This is how a person roars against smuggling Monday and shrugs Thursday. They were never evaluating smuggling. They were evaluating allegiance, which never requires consistency, only loyalty.
Eckhart Tolle gets closer to the machinery underneath, where the switching actually happens. His claim is uncomfortable: most of what we call thinking is the automatic churn of an ego maintaining itself, a subconscious script mistaking its own noise for insight. The ego wants confirmation, safety inside a group, never the small death of admitting it was wrong, so it rewrites the standard in real time. The smuggling is wrong, then necessary, then wrong again, and the person never experiences this as inconsistency, because the ego doesn’t narrate its own flinching. It narrates only conclusions, dressed as principles, when they were self-defence the whole time.
The instinct, spotting the double standard, is to name it loudly and expect shame. That instinct fails almost every time; it hands the other person exactly the cover their ego wanted: a fight, not a contradiction. The discipline is unglamorous. Don’t match heat with heat. Slow it down and ask the question the standard itself would demand, not “how could you defend that,” which invites defence, but “would this still be fine if the other side did it,” which invites a thought before the autopilot reasserts itself. You aren’t trying to win. You’re locating the sliver of ground where the standard the person actually holds, not the one they’re performing, might still be intact. It’s always there. People rarely abandon their values; they suspend them selectively, which means the values are recoverable.
This doesn’t stay contained in op-ed pages and senate hearings. A culture that rewards selective outrage trains its members to apply that selectivity everywhere, including home, where the stakes are not abstract. The parent who teaches a child the rule bends for “our side” teaches that child to expect it to bend for them, until the day they’re on the other side of someone else’s bent rule.
True north is not your party, your pastor, or your tribe’s preferred conclusion. It is the standard you’d apply to a stranger you’ll never meet, in a country you’ll never visit, with no stake in the outcome. Ask, before you speak: would I accept this argument if my side were the one being judged by it? Most people fail that test instantly. That is exactly why it’s worth taking, because a society that won’t take it eventually can’t keep a promise to anyone, including the people sitting at its own table.
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