A friend of mine, embedded in the political game, asked me for a quote for his Election Day Substack.

Maybe he wanted a prediction—if so, I thwarted him. (After all, I’m the guy who confidently picked Arkansas over Ole Miss on the radio. So much for gut instincts.) Instead, I told him there had never been an American presidential election where the choice seemed so clear to so many, where so many people trembled at the possibility of defeat. I said this election would test the core assumptions of the American experiment; that we were about to find out what kind of people we really are, stripped of pretenses, facing ourselves without illusions.

But looking back, I’m not sure I was right about that last part. I think most of us, deep down, know exactly what kind of people we are.

We’re ordinary people, neither particularly blessed nor cursed, but shaped by the unique, turbulent circumstances of our history. We’re not greater than our ancestors or any other people across the globe. Maybe we’ve just been luckier, blessed by geography, a relative lack of invasion, and a wealth of resources. But no luck holds forever. And luck, as much as we like to believe otherwise, is rarely a marker of virtue.

Some believe differently. I know there’s a significant number of folks who would argue I’m wrong, who believe America is uniquely favored by a God who loves us best and grants us special dispensations. That we’re not merely lucky, but blessed in a way other nations aren’t, and that God’s interest in our fortunes validates all our desires, even giving us dominion over the Earth and an inherent right to prosper, as if by divine appointment.

This sort of American exceptionalism combines pride with a conviction that our values and history are uniquely moral, even divinely sanctioned. That’s how we got Manifest Destiny, the 19th-century doctrine that we were destined to expand across North America. And Christian nationalism, too. Some would argue this narrative served a purpose in its time, but today it’s an inherited belief that’s lost sight of the costs it exacted. In our self-assurance, we risk forgetting how close we are to repeating the mistakes of the past.

True grace, I’d argue, isn’t something we can acquire through effort or national pride, nor does it justify our whims. Rather, grace is a gift that can help us transcend our natural pettiness, selfishness, and short-sightedness. Grace, if it’s present at all, leads to an inner transformation that flows outward, compelling us to live lives of compassion, generosity, and integrity. When someone exhibits genuine goodness—selflessness, empathy, a quiet willingness to serve—it can be perceived as a sign of grace working within them.

The saying “By their works you will know them” comes to mind. I believe it’s from Matthew in the Bible. It means that one’s actions reveal more than words or outward appearances ever could. It’s by our deeds, not our lofty ideals, that we show our true nature.

And that’s a standard that applies to nations, too. Beautiful words enshrined in a constitution don’t make a country great; doing the ongoing, often difficult work of living up to those promises might. Talk is cheap—and perhaps that’s in the Bible, too.

To truly understand America, to see our true nature, we must look past our narratives and ideals to the actual work we do. A nation that talks about equality and freedom but permits suffering and inequity does itself no justice; its words are hollow unless its deeds reflect them. It’s easy to drape ourselves in high ideals, but true greatness demands that we question how those ideals play out in reality.

One perspective on American history is that our nation was founded on conquest and slavery, its soil soaked in the suffering of the peoples who were already here and those brought here in chains. We often tell ourselves a story of liberty, justice, and equality, but the reality is more complicated. From the outset, the pursuit of freedom for some came at the price of profound subjugation for others. This legacy of domination isn’t merely a distant historical chapter we can close and set aside; it’s woven into the fabric of who we are, embedded in the land, and reflected in our institutions.

Recognizing this foundation doesn’t diminish the ideals America professes; in fact, it should deepen our commitment to them. If we acknowledge our beginnings in conquest and slavery, we’re better able to understand our responsibilities today. True greatness isn’t achieved by burying our origins in myth but by facing them with honesty. This is the task of a mature nation: to reckon with its own contradictions and work tirelessly to bridge the gap between its ideals and its actions. To embrace liberty and justice for all, we must start by confronting the costs we imposed to claim those principles for ourselves.

Now, I don’t mean to be unduly harsh on us. We are what we are, “the paragon of animals…in apprehension so like a god.” (Shakespeare, not the Bible). We’re creatures full of the usual instinctive drives and appetites, tempered by hints of something greater that compel us to build cities, ideals, and belief systems. We have endless imagination and ambition, yet remain afraid of the dark. That darkness takes different forms over time, sometimes as fear of the foreign or the unknown, other times as a desire to hold onto what is comfortable even when it’s time for change.

It’s a tension that has driven human history—the remarkable blend of aspiration and limitation that characterizes us.

But there’s another element at play: we tell ourselves lies about ourselves to get through the day. We convince ourselves of convenient truths to maintain our comfort. We like to believe that most people are kind—and that’s probably true when kindness is convenient. But history has shown us what happens when cruelty is sanctioned, when it’s dressed up as “tough love” or an unpleasant necessity. Only a few people, in any time or place, will refuse to be cruel when it’s licensed, and some actively enjoy it.

Consider the employee who revels in disciplining others, the official who enjoys wielding power just a little too much, the internet troll who finds pleasure in tearing others down. It’s easy to find examples, from our daily interactions to the pages of history, of people who indulge cruelty when it feels justified or permitted. And maybe, just maybe, we’re all capable of slipping into it.

We also like to think that most people are honest and hardworking. But are they? Management types love to repeat that twenty percent of a company’s employees end up doing eighty percent of the work. Think about your own workplace: are most of the people there genuinely hardworking? Are they honest? Or are they merely kept in line by security cameras, fear of sanction, or the dread of humiliation? How much of our “integrity” is circumstantial rather than intrinsic?

We want to believe that people will, in most situations, act rationally—that they’ll balance self-interest with the common good and that we can reason with them. But the truth is that society’s cohesion depends less on the assumption that people are rational and more on the hope that enough of us will choose decency when it matters most. That takes an act of faith.

That faith is shaken but not altogether lost.

Still, you should understand the Nazis thought they were good people too. Many of them believed they were on a righteous path, serving the greater good of their nation and safeguarding their culture. They saw themselves as protectors of values, heroes of their own stories, and defenders of something noble. They thought they were on the right side of history.

But history’s harsh light reveals otherwise: their sense of self-righteousness served as a cover for atrocities, allowing them to justify what should never be justified. This uncomfortable truth—that people can commit great harm while seeing themselves as “good”—is a reminder of the dangers inherent in unquestioned belief and moral certainty.

We, too, risk falling into this trap when we tell ourselves that our actions, however aggressive or exclusionary, are justified by some larger purpose or higher calling. We must remember that the mere conviction of righteousness does not make one truly good. True goodness requires a humility that questions itself, a compassion that transcends ideology, and a willingness to look beyond tribal loyalties. Without these qualities, any group, any nation, can slip into darkness—even with the best of intentions.

In reality, most people aren’t sociopaths or narcissistic monsters, nor are they saints, martyrs, or sages. Most of us are just ordinary, muddling through life, making compromises, rationalizations, and balancing self-interest with occasional flashes of empathy and a desire to belong. We act rationally when it aligns with our interests or fears, and even then, our rationality is filtered through biases, emotions, and limited perspectives. In the end, we’re simply human—nothing more, nothing less.

Believing in the basic goodness of ordinary people is reassuring. It allows us to live with less vigilance and to view ourselves as part of a benevolent social fabric. I believe most people are decent enough if you take the time to know them. That’s why the cure for prejudice is travel, and the key to understanding is curiosity and connection. When we look closely, the differences between “us” and “them” dissolve, and we begin to see ourselves in others.

And yet, ordinary people tend to form tribes; that’s an instinct left over from our lizard-brain days. We want our tribe to be the biggest, best, and greatest because it’s cooler, smarter, and better-looking than the rest—because we’re in it. That’s the human condition, the default setting we have to resist if we’re ever to form the greatest tribe, which, paradoxically, would be the most inclusive tribe. A tribe others would look to with admiration, not because of its exclusivity but because of its expansiveness and generosity.

A tribe that would be known, not for its power, but for its love. (By our love, by our love, they will know we are Americans by our love.)

We are ordinary people, and there is dignity in that. It’s mostly ordinary people who accomplish extraordinary things, who understand that achievement takes hard work, faith, and resilience. That true success requires striving through disappointments, doubts, and setbacks. That we must fail and fail again until we fail a little better. The Cincinnatuses and Caesars, saints and sinners, who make up our history all come from the ranks of ordinary people.

History isn’t a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled; it’s something we create together. Life is far from fair, but in the end, people tend to produce the kind of culture they truly want, one that reflects their values and aspirations. We are what we do, not what we say, and we are not made better by excusing our own faults while holding others to high standards.

So when people say they want to “make America great again,” I wonder if they understand that greatness should be a challenge, not a taunt. It should be a call to reach higher, not a bumper sticker boast permitting us to look down on others. Making America great is no small task. It’s a collective effort that requires integrity, hard work, and an unflinching commitment to our highest ideals.

If greatness is to mean anything, let it mean this: that we, ordinary people—flawed, human, and full of potential—choose to be known by our love and bound by our works. That we rise above the easy comfort of self-deception to face the challenge of the America that could be. Let us earn our place in history not by claiming it but by proving it, day after day, in the quiet, often unseen acts of decency and compassion that make greatness possible.