In every sense that matters, there’s a blackout on the Hill—not of electricity, but of empathy. This fruitless fiscal year, Congress has chosen obstinacy over obligation, boarding up “non-essential” federal services—even the paychecks of its own workers—in the name of principle, or perhaps pride.
Many of us marvel at the unbelievable headlines in disbelief: “‘Substantial’ federal employee layoffs have begun,” “Tempers flare over shutdown with no end in sight.”
We wonder how those entrusted as stewards of the people could act so hypocritically. So childishly? We’d like to think that our morality would outlast the temptation of politics, that we’d keep our promises where Congress has not.
But we couldn’t. We wouldn’t. And we don’t. Only our stubbornness and insincerity aren’t broadcast for all the world to see on C-SPAN.
We don’t act in others’ best interests when we refuse to publicly praise a rival’s idea, lest we yield a bit of credit. When we insist on standing alone, even when banding together would bring far more good. When an argument becomes more about being “right” than about being truthful. The scope shrinks, but the blemish remains.
Our debates don’t freeze paychecks or furlough workers, of course, but the cost remains. When we conflate compromise with capitulation, we erode the smaller institutions we inhabit: our friendships, our educations, our lives. If we can’t overcome our resistance to concession in our lower-stakes conversations, how can we expect our politicians to yield when millions of lives hang in the balance?
When Congress grinds our government to a halt, closing national parks, halting research, and leaving millions of federal employees to wonder when—and if—they’ll be paid, it’s clear they aren’t exactly representing the people they were elected to serve. But again, we’re no more selfless, only less visible.
All of us—including the government—have forgotten that leadership was never supposed to be about volume or visibility. When leaders become obsessed with power and success, they forsake the reason they were chosen to be in power in the first place: to speak for those who can’t. As former Senator George Hoar best put it, “The Senate … was created that the deliberate will, the sober second thought of the people might find expression.”
While Washington recites the same tired script for the 11th time, we can rewrite the playbook. Many of us instinctively ask: How can I advance what I believe is right? But the better question—the one Congress still hasn’t mastered—is: How can I extend to others the same benefit of the doubt I give myself? Only by starting there can we build understanding beyond our own echo chambers.
By intentionally combating the very mindset Washington has and continues to fall prey to, we can nurture a generation that turns to discourse before gridlock, humility before hubris, and empathy before pride. For conviction without compromise is just grandstanding by a better name.
