On Humanity, Rumor, and the Discipline of Decency

Every so often, the world reminds us, sometimes gently, sometimes with a jolt, that God’s plan for us still runs through the old, unfashionable virtues: love, charity, humility, friendship. Not as slogans. As practices.

Lately, the reminder hasn’t come through a clear, verified tragedy so much as through the way we react to rumor, outrage, and one another. In an age where headlines race ahead of facts and partisanship outpaces compassion, the simplest test of our humanity may be this: Do we refuse to cheer the suffering, real or rumored, of those we disagree with?

I think about friendship across differences. Actor James Woods once said of director Rob Reiner that political differences never stood in the way of their love and respect for each other. Reiner fought for Woods when others wouldn’t. They worked together. They remained friends. That’s how it is in the real world, or at least how it should be. You don’t have to agree to stay human.

I also think about families who live with addiction. Few experiences are more humbling. Rob Reiner and his wife, Michele, spoke candidly over the years about their son Nick’s struggle and recovery. Their film Being Charlie carried unusual emotional weight because it drew from real conversations, real fears, honest regret. One line still echoes: “I’d rather you hate me, and you be alive.” If you’ve loved someone through addiction, you understand the terrible bargain parents imagine they’re making—control traded for survival, certainty for hope.

Reiner later admitted that listening to credentials instead of their child was a mistake; Michele acknowledged how easily families can be persuaded to distrust the very person they’re trying to save. Those confessions weren’t a weakness. They were honest. And honesty, even when painful, is a form of love.

Which brings me back to the topic of decency in public life. I’m not a Trump fan. I’m not a Biden fan. I don’t trust most politicians. I keep my views close to my vest because they’re opinions—shaped by experience and feeling more than foolproof data. But it’s becoming harder to stay silent when vitriol replaces leadership, when mockery substitutes for mercy, and when public figures can’t resist turning even the most sensitive moments into partisan theater.

My readers are split. I’m not trying to lose half of you. But golly gee whiz, Beaver—that’s not the goal. The goal is simpler: Can we expect our leaders to lead? Can we ask them to model restraint? Can we insist that empathy isn’t weakness and that silence, sometimes, is strength?

Maria Shriver recently wrote, in response to this moment that crossed the line, that decency matters because families are real, pain is real, and words land where they land. She was right. Whether an event is confirmed or merely rumored, cruelty travels faster than truth—and leaves deeper marks.

We should also admit something uncomfortable: outrage is easy. Discipline is not. It takes discipline to wait for facts. Discipline to resist dunking on opponents. Discipline to remember that addiction, mental illness, and family conflict are not abstractions; they are kitchens and living rooms and sleepless nights.

So here’s my small plea. Maintain friendships with people who think completely differently from you. Refuse to celebrate harm. Demand better of leaders without becoming what you oppose. And when the internet tempts you to react first and verify later, choose the slower, sturdier path.

That restraint, boring as it sounds, might be the clearest sign we haven’t lost ourselves.
Grace before grievance. Humanity before hashtags.