The New Absolutism: Why We’re All So Exhausted

The Death of Truth and the Rise of the Moral Tribe

I don’t know if it’s my age or the changes life has thrown at me lately, but I’m struggling to summon much holiday spirit this year.

And I know I’m not alone.

Recent studies show the number of people expecting more stress this holiday season has nearly doubled since last year. Nearly half of us feel lonely—even when surrounded by loved ones.

Financially, things aren’t better. Since 2020, inflation has totaled a staggering 25%. We're spending less this season, and few of us expect the economy to turn around anytime soon.

Then there’s the political divide. According to Gallup, a record 80% of Americans believe the country is deeply divided—with most saying the other side can’t even agree on basic facts. Many expect political violence to increase, and both sides blame each other. We’re no longer debating policy. We’re drawing moral lines in the sand. Us versus them. Right versus wrong. Sometimes, human versus less-than.

These numbers don’t just reflect pessimism. They point to exhaustion.

How did we get here?

Some blame the current president. Others, the last. Some trace it back to 2011. Others to 9/11. The list goes on.

In my last blog, I explored how history often reveals its full consequences only after decades—sometimes generations.

I believe such is the case in with our current moment. It began over a century ago—at the turn of the 19th century—when relativism began its quiet coup over classical logic. Before that, much of the world operated on a basic premise: if one thing was true, its opposite was false. Good versus evil. Day versus night. Morality, though imperfectly applied, was anchored to something beyond ourselves.

We went to church. We gave alms. We served—because it was right to do so. Because, in essence, God said: thou shalt.And that was enough.

But within a single generation, that certainty began to erode.

By 1935, the average American no longer believed in moral absolutes. Everything became relative. Morality was a social construct. Truth was personal. The old ways—good and evil, right and wrong, true and false—were dismissed as simplistic, outdated, or oppressive. We deconstructed them, one by one.

By the late 1990s, relativism had become the water we swam in. And for a while, it looked like the final word.

But something strange has happened.

We’re no longer a relativist culture. At least not functionally. In fact, we’ve swung hard in the opposite direction. Scroll through social media or listen to the national discourse, and you’ll find people speaking with moral clarity—moral urgency. Not just about politics, but about everything.

Every issue is a line in the sand. Every disagreement, a test of righteousness.People don’t just believe they’re right—they believe they’re good.And those who disagree? They’re not just wrong. They’re dangerous. Sometimes even evil. Sometimes, less than human.

So what happened?

I think we underestimated the human need for moral certainty.

When we stripped away God, tradition, and objective truth, we didn’t free ourselves from morality—we just cut the cords that tethered it to anything bigger than us. And when those anchors disappeared, they left a void.

But the human heart, much like nature, abhors a vacuum.

So we built a new kind of morality—one rooted not in transcendence, but in emotion. In tribe. In identity. We didn’t return to moral absolutes based on God, scripture, or natural law. We invented new absolutes based on how we feel, who we align with, and who we oppose.

Here’s the key difference: the old moral frameworks came with humility—because they weren’t ours. They were handed down. Revealed. You were accountable to something outside yourself.

But now? Our new “absolutes” are self-generated.

They’re mine. My truth. My values.

And if you disagree, you’re not just wrong—you’re against me.

The result?

We shout louder, but listen less.

We’re more righteous, but somehow less merciful.

We cling to certainty, but we’re more fragile than ever.

Disagreement feels like betrayal.

Debate feels like violence.

And community breaks apart under the weight of our moral performance.

It turns out, we didn’t stop believing in good and evil.

We just forgot where to find them.

But here’s the good news:

There is an objective morality.

There is a light shining in the darkness.

And it’s not one we invented.

It’s one we’ve been invited into.

Maybe now is a good time to remember that.

To be that light.

To speak the truth.

And to act in love.