Will Truth And Ethics Reign Supreme Again? Have They Ever?

I keep coming back to this question lately: will truth and ethics ever reign supreme again? And almost immediately, I feel the need to interrupt myself—again? Have they ever?

It’s easy to feel like we’re living in a particularly dishonest moment. Like something essential has gone missing. Everything feels louder, faster, more performative. Lies travel faster than nuance. Power seems less interested in being honest than in being effective—more concerned with what works than with what’s true. In moments like this, it’s tempting to imagine there was once a time when integrity mattered more, when ethics had weight, when truth actually led the way.

But when I slow down and really look at history, that story doesn’t hold up. We exalt certain eras—the Enlightenment, ancient Athens, the early days of democracy—as if they were morally coherent. But Athens, for all its philosophy, was built on slavery and exclusion. The Enlightenment preached reason and liberty while colonialism expanded in parallel. Even our most admired democratic experiments were selective about who counted as “the people.” Truth was spoken, yes—but often alongside profound hypocrisy.

Even the traditions we turn to for moral clarity emerged in moments of imbalance. Plato was writing as Athenian democracy fractured. Confucius responded to social breakdown, not harmony. Spiritual teachings that emphasize compassion, restraint, and right action arose in worlds already tipped out of balance—because that is when humans begin to ask deeper questions. Ethics doesn’t arrive when things are orderly. It emerges when they’re not.

From a spiritual perspective, this makes sense. Nature itself moves in cycles—growth and decay, order and disorder, expansion and contraction. Balance is not a permanent state; it’s something constantly being lost and restored. Human societies are no different. Every era contains both wisdom and blindness, awakening and amnesia. We oscillate. We correct. We overcorrect. And then we do it again.

What feels different now isn’t that truth has vanished—it’s that we’re living in a moment of exposure. The veils are thinner. The contradictions are harder to ignore. We can see how narratives are manufactured, how incentives distort behavior, how ethics are treated like accessories rather than foundations. That can feel unsettling. But spiritually speaking, exposure often precedes recalibration.

The uncomfortable reality is that truth has never been loud. It’s never been efficient. It doesn’t thrive in systems built for speed, certainty, and spectacle. Lies move quickly because they appeal to fear and identity. Truth slows us down. Ethics asks for restraint in a culture addicted to more. Neither has ever been particularly popular.

And yet, truth persists. Not as a ruling force, but as a steady one. It appears wherever people choose clarity over convenience. In teachers, artists, mystics, parents, and ordinary people trying to live in right relationship with themselves and others. Truth doesn’t dominate history—it weaves through it.

I think we ask whether truth and ethics will “come back” because we want reassurance that the world is moving somewhere better. But spiritually speaking, humanity doesn’t evolve in a straight line. Consciousness deepens through repetition, not novelty. We keep encountering the same dilemmas—power, fear, greed, love—just dressed in different language and circumstance.

There has never been a time when ethics reigned supreme—but there has always been a countercurrent. A remembering. A pull toward balance. Toward truth. Toward right action. Not because humans become perfect, but because imbalance eventually becomes intolerable.

Which means the question eventually turns inward. If truth and ethics don’t reign from the top, they have to be upheld from the ground.

For most of us, that doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like telling the truth in small, ordinary places—especially where it would be easier to stay quiet. It looks like being honest with ourselves about what we actually believe, what we’re participating in, and where we’ve compromised out of fear or convenience. It looks like slowing down enough to notice when something feels off, rather than explaining it away.

Upholding integrity often means choosing coherence over approval. Letting your values shape your decisions even when no one is watching. Letting your actions line up with your words, even when it costs you comfort, certainty, or belonging. It means resisting the urge to outsource your moral compass—to algorithms, tribes, institutions, or trends—and staying in relationship with your own discernment.

Truth has never worn a crown. Ethics has never ruled comfortably from the top. They don’t reign. They return—again and again—through people willing to live them quietly, imperfectly, and consistently.

And perhaps that’s how balance is restored. Not all at once. Not everywhere. But right where we are.