American moral imagination—the collective framework that shapes how we understand right and wrong, virtue and vice, and our national purpose—has collapsed and reassembled itself more times than we’re willing to admit.

We’ve moved from traditional heroism to a marketplace of self-appointed saviors. This isn’t evolution. It’s fragmentation with consequences.

And those consequences are driving us toward fascism.

Let me show you how we got here.

Early American moral imagination was shaped by religious doctrine, Enlightenment ideals, and the brutal work of nation-building. Heroes were people who embodied civic virtue, self-sacrifice, and commitment to foundational principles.

At least, that’s the story we told ourselves.

The Roman citizen-soldier Cincinnatus profoundly influenced early American thought. This ideal emphasized public service over personal gain, willingness to relinquish power, and commitment to agrarian values. George Washington, often cast as the “American Cincinnatus,” embodied this archetype when he voluntarily stepped down from military command and, later, from the presidency.

That act cemented a narrative of leadership rooted in humility and rejection of authoritarianism.

It also became a story we repeated every time we needed to pretend American power was inherently benevolent.

Protestant Christianity, particularly Puritanism, played a crucial role in shaping moral precepts. The idea of America as a “city upon a hill”—a beacon of moral rectitude for the world—fostered a sense of collective purpose and individual responsibility.

Figures like Cotton Mather, controversial today, were once seen as moral exemplars due to their perceived piety and intellectual contributions.

The American Revolution produced a pantheon of heroes—from the Founding Fathers to ordinary soldiers—celebrated for their courage, commitment to liberty, and willingness to challenge tyranny.

Benjamin Franklin, with his emphasis on self-improvement and civic engagement, represented a pragmatic yet equally valorized form of heroism.

He was also a slaveholder.

We’ve always been better at celebrating contradictions than resolving them.

As American society diversified and confronted new challenges, the definition of a hero expanded beyond the military and political spheres.

Some of those new avenues were genuine. Others were just rebranded power.

The 19th and early 20th centuries saw industrial magnates lauded for their contributions to national prosperity and philanthropy—despite often employing ethically brutal business practices.

Andrew Carnegie is remembered both for his ruthless union-busting and his dedication to public libraries and education.

This era introduced the complex hero: a figure whose virtues were intertwined with significant societal impact, even if achieved through methods we now recognize as exploitation.

The fight against slavery, the women’s suffrage movement, and later the civil rights movement brought forth a new class of heroic figures.

Frederick Douglass, Susan B. Anthony, and the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. exemplify this archetype. Their heroism was defined by their ethical stands, their willingness to endure hardship and persecution, and their ultimate success in pushing society toward a more equitable future.

Their actions also exposed the limits of American moral imagination.

We celebrated them only after we could no longer ignore them—and only after sanitizing their most radical demands.

Jackie Robinson’s breaking of the color barrier in baseball transcended sports to become a powerful symbol of racial equality. Artists who challenged societal norms or expressed profound truths through their work also garnered heroic reverence.

But cultural heroism is fragile. It depends on who controls the narrative.

The latter half of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st century witnessed a significant erosion of trust in traditional institutions and increasing skepticism toward conventional heroism.

Some of that distrust was earned.

The Watergate scandal and the Vietnam War significantly damaged public trust in government and established institutions. This era fostered deep-seated cynicism toward official narratives and those in positions of power.

The idea of an infallible leader or an unquestionable moral authority became increasingly difficult to sustain.

The collective moral imagination began to question the very foundations of American exceptionalism.

That questioning was overdue.

The increasing emphasis on individualism and personal expression, coupled with the fracturing of traditional communities, led to a proliferation of “micro-narratives” of heroism.

People began to define their own moral compasses and identify with figures who resonated with their specific values or experiences.

This often meant a departure from broadly accepted national heroes toward more specialized or subcultural icons.

It also meant the end of any shared moral vocabulary.

The internet and social media accelerated this fragmentation. The constant flow of information—both verified and unverified—made it difficult to maintain idealized images of public figures.

Every hero could be deconstructed, their flaws exposed, their motives questioned.

This constant scrutiny contributed to a landscape where sustained, widely accepted heroism became increasingly rare.

In the vacuum created by the decline of traditional heroism and institutional trust, new forms of moral authority have emerged.

These “makeshift messiahs” often rise rapidly, offering solutions or a renewed sense of purpose. But their appeal is often transient and their authority frequently self-appointed.

And increasingly, these makeshift messiahs have become vehicles for white supremacy and fascist politics.

The digital age has spawned a new class of moral guides: influencers and opinion leaders. These individuals, often without formal qualifications or established credentials, gain significant followings by expressing strong opinions, sharing personal experiences, or offering life advice.

Their legitimacy is derived from the size of their audience and their perceived authenticity.

You encounter these figures daily. Their pronouncements shape your perception of current events and societal norms—whether you recognize it or not.

What many don’t recognize is how easily this infrastructure can be weaponized.

QAnon began as a fringe conspiracy theory and evolved into what scholars now describe as “a Nazi cult, rebranded,” spreading antisemitic blood libel narratives and white supremacist ideology through social media influencers who gained millions of followers.

In the political sphere, the decline of trust in established parties and institutions has paved the way for populist leaders who present themselves as saviors from a corrupt system.

They tap into public frustration and offer simple solutions to complex problems, often by identifying external enemies or scapegoats.

Their appeal is emotionally driven, bypassing rational discourse and appealing directly to a sense of shared grievance or aspiration.

They also bypass accountability.

Political scientist Anthony DiMaggio argues in his 2022 book “Rising Fascism in America” that fascist politics have taken root in the United States.

While America isn’t yet a one-party dictatorship, DiMaggio documents how “undercurrents, or elements of fascistic politics in America have steadily grown more extreme in recent decades, particularly in recent years under Trump’s presidency.”

Trump didn’t create this movement. As DiMaggio writes, he “rose to power because of the longstanding cultivation of racist, authoritarian and xenophobic beliefs on the American right in the years and decades running up to his election in 2016.”

Umberto Eco, who grew up under Mussolini’s fascist regime, identified 14 characteristics of what he called “Ur-Fascism” or “Eternal Fascism”—features that transcend specific historical moments.

Among them:

Read that list and tell me you don’t recognize contemporary American politics.

The most dangerous fusion of makeshift messianism and fascist politics has occurred through Christian nationalism.

This isn’t about Christianity. It’s about power.

As Amanda Tyler of the Baptist Joint Committee for Religious Liberty argues, Christian nationalism is “the single biggest threat to religious freedom today.”

The ideology merges political and religious authority, promoting the anti-democratic notion that America is a nation exclusively for Christians.

But here’s what matters most: “The ‘Christian’ in Christian nationalism,” Tyler explains, “is more about identity than religion and carries with it assumptions about nativism, white supremacy, authoritarianism, patriarchy and militarism.”

Christian nationalism doesn’t just threaten religious freedom. It actively undermines pluralism, the separation of church and state, and democratic norms.

It serves as justification for circumventing nondiscrimination protections. It fuels antisemitism and anti-Muslim bigotry. And it creates the theological infrastructure for authoritarian rule.

The messianic framing of Donald Trump by charismatic Christian leaders—self-proclaimed prophets who use mass media to share “prophetic declarations”—has intensified this danger.

After the 2024 assassination attempt, these figures doubled down on rhetoric portraying Trump as chosen by God, persecuted like Christ, destined to save America.

Scholar Matthew D. Taylor, who studies the intersection of religion and authoritarianism, warns that this prophetic fervor is “a threat to us all.”

DiMaggio identifies several “enablers” who contributed to creating fertile ground for fascist politics:

Scholars who downplayed the threat

Journalists who used euphemisms like “populist” instead of confronting authoritarianism directly

The Democratic Party's neoliberalism, which abandoned progressive economic policies

The Clinton-era shedding of “commitment to poverty and inequality reduction, regulation of business and other progressive reforms” significantly increased public disillusionment, depressing voter turnout among disadvantaged groups and paving the way for Trump’s 2016 victory.

The Obama administration’s continuation of anti-labor policies and the rise of corporate power deepened this alienation.

Right-wing media played a crucial role. Outlets like Infowars and Breitbart mainstreamed extremist viewpoints through “increasingly conspiratorial, authoritarian, racist and xenophobic messages.”

The 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville—when white supremacists, neo-Confederates, and neo-Nazis violently protested the removal of a Confederate statue—became what DiMaggio calls the neo-fascist movement’s “coming out party.”

Trump’s response? False equivalencies and romanticization of Confederate politics. He condemned “hatred, bigotry, and violence” on many sides, drawing false moral equivalence between neo-fascists idealizing white supremacy and activists opposing it.

Historian Ruth Ben-Ghiat, who studies authoritarian leaders from Mussolini to Putin, has documented the authoritarian playbook that strongmen use to consolidate power:

We’re watching this playbook unfold in real time.

Hundreds of scholars surveyed by political scientists warn that the U.S. is sliding toward authoritarianism.

The current landscape of moral imagination presents both challenges and opportunities.

The fluidity of moral authority and the proliferation of diverse voices can lead to more inclusive and democratic discourse. It can also lead to confusion and cynicism.

We’re living in both realities at once. But only one leads to survival.

In an environment saturated with competing claims to moral authority, the ability to critically discern genuine leadership from self-serving pronouncements is essential.

This requires engagement with diverse perspectives, evaluation of evidence, and healthy skepticism toward unexamined narratives.

And consider who benefits when you stop asking questions.

Traditional institutions have faced significant setbacks, but their importance in providing a stable framework for moral discourse and public service remains.

Rebuilding trust in government, educational institutions, and independent media is crucial for fostering a more coherent and collectively beneficial moral imagination.

This requires transparency, accountability, and a renewed commitment to ethical conduct within these institutions.

It also requires those institutions to stop acting like public trust is owed rather than earned.

DiMaggio argues that any effective antifascist movement “will not be won with fists in the streets, but by reaching millions of American minds in classrooms and through public political dialogue and discourse.”

Fighting fascism must become a regular topic of conversation in homes, schools, media, and everywhere else we discuss the future of this nation.

The challenge isn’t just resisting one political figure or one movement. It’s confronting “the underlying commitment to racism, misogyny, xenophobia and neofascistic politics” that makes strongman rule possible.

It’s recognizing the Republican Party’s “growing commitment to white supremacy, authoritarianism and its eliminationist attachment to one-party rule.”

The future of American moral imagination may not lie in finding new messiahs, but in a renewed emphasis on foundational values—understood and debated in a contemporary context.

Principles like empathy, justice, civic responsibility, and the pursuit of truth offer a lasting framework for moral discourse that transcends transient figures or fleeting trends.

But here’s what matters: Abstractions don’t save lives. Actions do.

Values mean nothing without the political will to defend them.

Democracy doesn’t protect itself. Religious freedom doesn’t enforce itself. Justice doesn’t arrive on its own.

Ultimately, the American moral imagination is a reflection of the cumulative actions and choices of individual citizens.

While grand narratives and prominent figures play a role, the everyday acts of integrity, compassion, and courage contribute significantly to the collective moral fabric.

But in this moment, those everyday acts must include recognition of the threat we face.

The shift from “heroes” to “makeshift messiahs” isn’t just a transitional phase. It’s a warning sign that we’re trading democratic accountability for authoritarian certainty.

True moral progress stems not from singular, towering figures, but from the collective striving of individuals committed to ethical principles.

You hold a piece of this evolving tapestry. What you do with it matters.

If this essay resonated with you, here are some essential texts that shaped my thinking:

What makeshift messiahs do you see rising in your communities—online and offline? How are you practicing critical discernment? And what concrete actions are you taking to resist the slide toward authoritarianism?

Hit reply. I read every response.

And if this piece mattered to you, share it. We need more people naming what we’re facing.

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