Cult of safety, cult of death

For today’s lesson in failed leadership we turn to Missouri, where the governor recently said he hoped the people of his state would vote in local elections, “but their safety should be No. 1.” In other words, if the media and politicians had succeeded in scaring enough Missourians out of their wits about a virus that isn’t dangerous for most people, then democracy could be waved off.

Or we could turn to Minneapolis where a police official was asked why law enforcement did nothing as nearly two hundred businesses were looted and destroyed. He said he was concerned for officers’ safety.

Or we might reflect on the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which says that government “shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,” and then notice that, in the name of safety, all but a shockingly small number of religious leaders unquestioningly bent the knee to edicts that shuttered churches, synagogues and other meeting places.

Then there are the school systems. The coronavirus is a non-problem for the vast majority of school children but “educators” seem incapable of absorbing basic information because, in the words of a Wall Street Journal article, teachers “are concerned with safety in the reopening.”

And the universities? College counselors say most parents want their kids to return to school in the fall, “but they’re worried about their safety.”

We all know it: Our country is in deep trouble. But at least we’re safe.

Actually, we’re not safe. Gutlessness, even when wrapped in the whispered tones of concern and pseudo-wisdom, is still gutlessness. It never makes life better. It always makes life less secure.

Everyone can see — everyone can feel — that something awful is brewing. At the moment in Siloam Springs, the looting and burning seems distant, but our collective, unfolding trouble is still playing out. We find it in the words of a guy at the bottom of the 100 stairs on JBU’s campus who told me about the canceled sporting event he was preparing for “before all this crap started.” I asked how school had gone for his kids after the virus shutdown. He said, “not good.” I asked if it felt like the spring semester had been lost. He said, “Yes.” I asked about his job. He said he’d been unemployed since March — a shutdown statistic. His wife? The same.

I spoke with a rancher across the Oklahoma line. How were things for him? “Devastation.”

I talked with a woman whose family includes a member with an underlying health condition that actually does make the coronavirus a concern. I expected she would favor the lockdown regime. But she said that if people want to go around wearing masks and living in fear, it’s up to them, but they shouldn’t force it on everyone else. I asked what the 83-year-old in her family thinks. “He thinks it’s insane.”

I spoke with a business owner on Mount Olive Street who nearly closed but now is benefiting from the fact that a competitor hasn’t been able to fully reopen. The underlying tone wasn’t happiness but exhaustion.

I talked with a pastor who was required to wear a mask and gloves while trying to minister to a family that had lost a two-year-old. The death had nothing to do with the virus, and no one in the family wore a mask. But there he was, following the “safety” rules, trying to console a family while masked and gloved. He shook his head at the lunacy of it.

The coronavirus didn’t take the job from the man at the 100 stairs. Frightened people did. The coronavirus does not prevent us from opening schools and fully opening businesses. Frightened people do. And the burning and looting of late has little to do with George Floyd. It has to do with human stupidity, traceable to the Garden of Eden and blasting into your social media.

Twenty years from now, what will today’s young people say of us? It’s a long shot, but perhaps there’s still time for a critical mass of us to stir up the moral, spiritual, psychological and, yes, physical strength it takes to preserve a free society.

The statement made last Friday night by Atlanta’s mayor indicates that such strength has not yet been completely extinguished. Take a moment to look it up.

— Preston Jones is a Siloam Springs resident and history professor. The opinions expressed are those of the author.