Free Speech, Free Reign: The Pious Speech of Andrew Sullivan

Another chapter in the radicalization of young Andrew Sullivan, generated by AI based on the essay below –


“Words connect with the rational part of our brains; images target the sub-rational. And in a sub-rational world, liberal democracy simply cannot exist” Andrew Sullivan 


Andrew Sullivan can’t get enough of the video of Charlie Kirk’s murder. In a recent Substack, he claims to have “watched that video a couple of times.” 

The video of Kirk’s shooting, along with the recording of a young Ukrainian woman’s murder on a train in Charlotte, North Carolina, especially the quasi-beheading character of the killings, seem to have reinvigorated Sullivan’s old-world imagination. 

Sullivan correctly notes that these truly horrific murders attack two core principles of any decent democratic society: “the right to be safe in public, and the right to speak freely without fear.” Sadly, Sullivan goes on to write a Tudor-era fiction, and he needs villains.

Andrew enlists “the woke” as his story’s villains: Muslims, critical theorists of all kinds, anti-exclusionary feminists like Judith Butler, faggy gays, Trans* activists, Black activists, and others. These villains are those who Sullivan believes can’t handle the truth: speech is never violent. 

“The woke left, especially in the fringes the mainstream left adamantly refuses to rein in, condemn, or control,” Sullivan asserts, “bears some responsibility [for Kirk’s murder], because it has long equated speech with violence.” The “deeply illiberal idea” that a “bullet is no different in kind than a verbal provocation” has, according to Andrew, been forced upon a nonconsenting “young generation” by “the academic and journalistic left.”

Sullivan believes that speech and violent behavior are fundamentally separate realities, and he ridicules the supposedly woke notion that speech and violent actions can—and do—overlap. However, every democracy acknowledges a connection between speech acts and violent or hateful conduct. 

In the U.S., the law makes a distinction between what is considered harm and actual harm. For example, it may hurt Andrew’s feelings if I call him a twat—but legally, my disagreement with Andrew is actionable only if I slap or scratch him. Actual harm involves a physical toll (Martha Nussbaum points out that courts recognize that smell can cause actual harm. See Nussbaum, Hiding from Humanity: Disgust, Shame and the Law [2004], e.g., 158-163). 

A similar logic applies when distinguishing between speech, protected by the First Amendment, and conduct, which the law can restrict. Consider R.A.V. v. St. Paul (1992), a case Judith Butler discusses in Excitable Speech (1997).

In R.A.V. v. St. Paul, the Supreme Court ruled that a white person burning a cross in a Black family’s front yard is speech, not violent or harmful conduct. Therefore, St. Paul’s ordinance banning such burnings was declared unconstitutional. 

The Court corrected itself in Virginia v. Black (2003). In this case, the Court ruled that Virginia’s law banning all cross burnings, regardless of context, is unconstitutional. However, the Court also decided that when context shows that a speech act, like cross burning, is intended to cause harm, it becomes unprotected speech and may be lawfully regulated. 

U.S. courts distinguish between speech and violent acts (e.g., burning a cross at a klan rally). In these cases, words can—and do—act like bullets, piercing our psyches with unforgiving force, but that doesn’t make them unlawful or punishable by law. 

U.S. courts also acknowledge a connection between speech and violent acts (e.g., a klan member burning a cross on a Black family’s yard). Every democracy affirms that words can—and do—act like bullets when they are fired off with the intent, for example, of inciting a mob to attack the U.S. Capitol.

Andrew’s beef with his young woke despisers (he’s consistently miffed that the young woke don’t like him) is that they won’t make a distinction between speech and violence. Thus, the young woke believe, according to Sullivan, that violence/self-defense/legal regulation is always justified agianst speech they don’t like because such speech is always actually harmful speech.

Sullivan, on the other hand, contends that speech is never actually harmful. Words can never actually hurt us. Thus, violence/self-defense/legal regulation is never justified against speech.

So what?

Denying any overlap between speech and violent conduct enables Sullivan to neatly drop all speech acts in one bucket and all violent acts in another. Charlie Kirk’s public murder on a college campus in Utah, the young Ukrainian woman’s slaying on a train in Charlotte, and George Floyd’s death at the knees of a white cop in Minneapolis all go in the same bucket. 

Likewise, arguments against gay marriage and abortion are treated similarly to arguments that deny or demean Trans* existence and oppose parents’ rights to make healthcare decisions for their Trans* children (while at the same time justifying the right of religious conservatives to determine the character of their children’s public school education [see also the New Thoughts Podcast, episode 4, Sex Changes]). 

Sullivan’s refusal to recognize any link between speech and violent or hateful behavior allows him to take rhetorical aim from a high position on the whitewashed tomb of piety. “Tell the truth fearlessly,” Andrew preaches, “but always be open to correction. Decency, civility, nonviolence, humor, humility, grace: these are the virtues a free society needs to endure.” 

Yet, without irony, humor, or humility, Sullivan claims, “It is never ‘hate’ to tell the truth: that men are not women; that children cannot meaningfully consent to sex changes. . . ,” while insisting that “the mainstream left . . . rein in, condemn, or control” the so-called “woke left,” including, presumably, parents of Trans* children (emphasis added). 

It is dishonest, absurd, and manifestly wrong to either (a) collapse the distinction between speech and violent actions or to (b) deny any connection between speech and hateful acts. But what should a fair democracy do about and with disturbing speech?

The delicious irony is that Sullivan’s answer to that question (i.e., no regulation) closely resembles Judith Butler’s, as it is presented in Excitable Speech (1997).

Although Butler does acknowledge the overlap between speech and harm—arguing that speech can harm the human subject (i.e., the human being) because the subject is made of language—their solution to hurtful speech is resistant speech: more speech (of a different kind).

In fact, it is Butler’s reasonable, in my view, insistence that resistant speech acts–rather than political/legal intervention/regulation, are the solution to, say, fascist speech acts, that contributes to Martha Nussbaum’s damming assessment of Butler’s theory–worked out in Gender Trouble (1990) through to The Psychic Life of Power (1997)–as “quietism.”

Nussbaum concludes that Butler’s theory “collaborates with evil” (see Nussbaum, Philosophical Interventions [2012/1999], 215; responses and Nussbaum’s reply, 215-222).

I cover the specifics of Butler’s theory and Nussbaum’s critique of it in a forthcoming essay. For now, I want to emphasize what is at stake (at least for us villains) in denying any link between speech and violent or hateful behavior, namely, the monarchic spirit manifestly possessing some speech acts is allowed to go entirely unchecked.

As I was reading Sullivan’s Substack, I kept thinking about Anne Boleyn as she’s portrayed in the Broadway musical SIX. In the song “Sorry, Not Sorry,” Boleyn reflects on her tonsorial audacity. 

Speaking of Catherine of Aragon, she says, “[King Henry VIII] doesn’t wanna bang you / Somebody hang you. . . . / Mate, what was I meant to do? . . . / Sorry, not sorry ’bout what I said / I’m just tryna have some fun / Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t lose your head / I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” 

Later, Anne recalls Henry taking issue with her flirtatious behavior with other men. She responds, “Mate, just shut up / I wouldn’t be such a b- / If you could get it up. . . . And now he’s going ’round like off with her head. Yeah, I’m pretty sure he means it (seems it).”

Even while lamenting that Trump is incapable of cooling the rhetorical temperature, and demanding that we “[c]ool the rhetoric,” Sullivan denies that what he—and any of us—says has any real consequences. Kirk/Andrew desperately wants us to believe that he is just having some good ole, traditional political fun. Like, what is he meant to do?

Don’t lose your head, Andrew. 

Kirk/Andrew’s “free” speech leads to the free reign of conservatives over the most vulnerable in U.S. society, such as immigrants, Trans* adults and children, Muslims, and others. 

That’s why any just democracy should make speech acts that re-create and re-enforce a U.S. caste system, speech acts that come at the cost of the dignity of others, speech acts that demean and subjugate fellow citizens—and those who aspire to become citizens—not worth the cost of such illiberal behavior. 

We can begin to rid our democracy of its monarchic spirits by supporting, defending, and fully funding a rigorous public school education in the sciences and humanities.

The Politics of Unity

Yinka Shonibare, Scramble for Africa (2003), 14 life-size fiberglass mannequins, 14 chairs, table, Dutch wax printed cotton. The Pinnell Collection, Dallas –

Calls for unity are being heard from across the political spectrum following the murder of Charlie Kirk. What is unity?

The production of unity requires creating a shared or “good language,” words permitted to be spoken. Unity is playing out in at least three different ways in relation to Kirk’s murder:

  1. Kirk is a saint.
  2. Kirk is a devil.
  3. Kirk is a human animal, deserving of compassion.  

However, the production of unity is not initially affirmative. Unity is predicated on censorship (see Judith Butler, e.g., Excitable Speech).

The politics of unity is founded on the creation of the zone(s) of its own dissolution, on the “bad speech” that must be silenced for unity to take its affirmative shape. Thus, at least three different speech acts are prohibited, depending on which one of the three unities you find appealing:

  1. Kirk is a devil.
  2. Kirk is a saint.
  3. Kirk is inhuman, undeserving of compassion.

Similar scenes of unity usually unfold for me on an ecclesial stage. Consider the following examples:

Scene 1: I am prohibited from preaching/speaking of LGBTQ+ themes from the pulpit, to avoid being labeled as “controversial,” and to have the opportunity to preach about unity.

Scene 2: A lesbian pastor is prevented from asking for accountability when a guest delivers an anti-LGBTQ+ sermon from her pulpit, to maintain the unity of the church.  

There is no escape from the scene(s) of unity. The subject is founded on its exclusive stage. Our readability as human animals entirely depends on an initial exclusion, on the prior “knowledge” of what constitutes the off-stage, the inhuman.

Another example from the ecclesial sphere may help us understand how the politics of unity shapes or fashions the subject. I wrote about it on a friend’s blog ages ago, in 2015.

I was asked to contribute to a blog series inquiring about the character of pastoral identity. Instead, I wondered about what was beyond pastoral identity. I illustrated my argument like this (I am amused by the person who decided to draw out his argument):

I explained:

The square[s constitute] the world. The circles (thin lines) represent various modes of life, the Hetero-social::State::Church and the homo-social::church::world, respectively. The thick black lines symbolize the circuitry of desire.

The image on the left represents our problem. The image on the right represents what is beyond pastoral identity. The dotted-line between the images indicates that the two images do not overlap; the church (right) is in a non—relationship-or to the side of—the Church (left). How are we to interpret the image on the left?

The fact that there are three circles is not important. The Church, the State, and the Hetero-social occupy the same sphere. As you can see, [those spheres keep] desire [. . .] in its place.

Desire is stuck to the Institution and is, therefore, necessarily immobilized within the system imaged on the left. The Church, let us say, is structured like a certain ego [subject, identity, etc].

The image on the right is my attempt to represent a step to the side of the system within which our problem makes any sense. Note the square(s) at the center of the circle(s) on the right. The church’s desire is in the world—where the church always-already re-finds itself—welcomed. The church corresponds with the world.

I did not know it then, but by sidestepping the invitation to define pastoral identity, I was, in fact, describing it. Pastoral unity or identity depends on what is outside or beyond it, namely, the world.

Thus,

we may not say:

  1. The pastor is the world;

we may say:

  1. The pastor is the Church/State/Heterosexual.

Given that we cannot escape the politics of unity, the question arises: What do we do with it? It is a possibility/question inherent in the politics of unity itself.

In 2015, referring back to my drawings, I wrote, “This [threatening] possibility is imaged on the left by the diagonal sphere [formed by a dotted black line meeting a solid black line that then spins outside of the Institution, into the world], that exceeds the system within which it is initially confined. We might understand this movement as desire’s resistant drift.”

We may not be able to escape the pull of unity, but unity’s regulatory power is not fully within its direction. Spinning off-stage, we may occupy the space of unity’s first creation: the sphere of its dissolution, disruption, or redefinition.

If we remain strictly within the scene(s) of unity, we are obliged to lie and deceive. Specifically, we are compelled to confuse the world with our projections or phantasms, pretending that what we are not is strictly outside of us, in the world.

As I have written elsewhere, the author of Ephesians offers us an alternative to the normative politics of unity. We may speak the truth in irony (Ephesians 4[:15]).

One way to understand speaking the truth in irony is as a practice of not . . . taking ourselves too seriously. Unity is not worth the price of someone’s or some other group’s degradation.

In the resistant ecclesial space, we may say that the pastor is the church (lowercase c) in the world (illustrated by the image on the right). In the resistant murder scene, we may say that Kirk is a human animal undeserving of compassion.

Speaking the truth in irony, we may, or at least this is what the author of Ephesians hopes will happen, grow up in unity.

The Murder of Charlie Kirk

– Judith Beheading Holofernes, 1599 by Caravaggio –

Why is it difficult for progressives to respond to the murder of Charlie Kirk?

Yes, gun-related violence is tragically all too common in our country. Yes, murder is not an appropriate way to resolve disputes with our fellow citizens. Enough said, no?

Apparently not, as Kirk is quickly becoming an exemplar of American politics, which means having the “courage” to make the most extreme, anti-democratic arguments in a democratic forum (e.g., that the 2020 election was stolen . . . ).

Tears are being shed because Kirk’s kids are now in the worst possible situation—well, at least the worst situation conservatives (and more than a few, it seems, male progressives) can imagine: alone in the world with their mother . . . . It occurs to me, since their mother is white, Kirk’s kids are not, from a conservative perspective, in the worst possible situation.

One of the things the HIV/AIDS crisis taught many of us is that conservatives enjoy dancing on the graves of those who lived in ways with which they disagree. “Bad” lifestyles, they continue to argue, inevitably meet with God’s wrath–or, in his stead, the subcommittee of the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith: the Supreme Court of the United States.

Of course, that kind of theology is stupid and gross. Nonetheless, it makes sense when viewed as a strictly social phenomenon.

We can (a) agree that murder—that gun violence—is not an acceptable political strategy, and we can (b) insist that compassion for Kirk is not warranted. The facts of his life make him culpable for his death.

One may counter that (c) compassion must eventually follow (b) one’s lack of compassion for Kirk. But that is to misunderstand the logic of compassion itself. Compassion is warranted only in those instances where a subject is not responsible for the tragedy that befalls them.

Traveling around the country, disparaging and demeaning your fellow citizens—even arguing that “[i]t’s worth it to have a cost of, unfortunately, some gun deaths every single year so that we can have the Second Amendment”—will inevitably make some number of amygdalae twitchy. Flight is not the only response to perceived threats to one’s dignity, freedom, and well-being (and all that is about to get worse as it seems Kennedy is calling the efficacy of SSRIs, like Lexapro, into question).

I take no pleasure in Kirk’s death, and I am not indifferent to it, either. A human being was murdered yesterday. Yet, c need not (eventually) follow a and b.

If you encourage cruelty, you should not be surprised when it finds you. If you live by the sword, why are you surprised when you die by it, too?

In any case, Kirk is God’s problem now.