Media, Moral Certainty, and the Recovery of Judgment
The Leader Who Said She Would Work
When Sanae Takaichi was elected president of the Liberal Democratic Party on October 4, 2025, she spoke about the amount of work waiting before her. There were many policies that had to be implemented quickly, she said, and the party itself had to be rebuilt. She then repeated a phrase that became widely known: she would “work, work, work, work, and work.” At the time, she had not yet formally become prime minister, but she was already speaking with an awareness that she might soon assume responsibility for governing Japan.
The phrase was controversial. Some people heard in it an outdated glorification of long working hours, particularly in a country where overwork has caused serious social and human costs. That concern should not simply be dismissed. A national leader’s words have effects beyond their immediate context, and they can influence how employers, workers, and society understand commitment.
Yet I heard something else in her words. I heard an expression of personal determination. Takaichi did not appear to be telling every Japanese citizen to sacrifice health, family, or personal life for work. She appeared to be describing the seriousness with which she intended to accept the responsibility placed before her. She later explained the phrase in similar terms, saying that she had wanted to contribute to the people as someone who might become responsible for managing the nation.
Since then, based on the documents I have read and the conduct I have observed, I have continued to sense that her commitment is real. I do not mean that every policy she proposes must therefore be correct. Hard work does not guarantee wisdom, and sincerity does not protect anyone from error. A democratic leader must remain open to criticism regardless of how diligently that leader works.
Nevertheless, effort matters, responsibility matters, and the willingness to carry a difficult burden matters. We normally understand this in daily life. When a colleague assumes a demanding role, we may disagree with some decisions while still recognizing the commitment involved. When a family member struggles with a difficult responsibility, we do not reduce the person to every mistake made along the way. We see the work, the limitations, and the person together.
Something changes when the person is a political leader. When I look at sections of the news, X, YouTube, and political commentary, I often see Takaichi discussed not as a person carrying enormous responsibilities, but as an object of suspicion and ridicule. Some critics examine her facial expressions, social interactions, personality, manner of speaking, clothing, or supposed psychological motivations. A brief gesture can become evidence of arrogance. An attempt to develop a relationship with another leader can be described as shallow performance. A determined statement can be interpreted as proof of personal abnormality.
What makes me sad is not simply that a politician I support is being criticized. Criticism is unavoidable and necessary. What troubles me is the apparent refusal to acknowledge anything admirable in a person once that person has been classified as belonging to the wrong political category. It sometimes seems that recognizing Takaichi’s diligence would be treated as a political concession, while acknowledging her sincerity would weaken the critic’s position. Her actions must therefore be interpreted negatively, even before their actual results are examined.
The problem is no longer disagreement. It is the gradual disappearance of generosity from political judgment.
The Watchdog That Does Not See Its Own Power
The media has an indispensable role in a democratic society. Governments possess legal authority, administrative power, access to confidential information, and the ability to make decisions affecting millions of people. Political leaders cannot simply be trusted because they claim to serve the public. History gives us many reasons to be cautious toward those who hold power.
Journalists must therefore investigate official conduct, challenge explanations, examine policies, reveal conflicts of interest, and bring hidden failures into public view. A government free from serious scrutiny would become dangerous. No admiration for Takaichi, or for any leader, should lead us to abandon that principle.
The difficulty is that the media is also an institution of power. Newspapers, broadcasters, news agencies, editors, producers, and prominent commentators make decisions that influence how people understand the world. They decide which story leads the evening news, which allegation appears on the front page, which expert is invited to speak, which video clip is repeated, and which incident receives only a short report.
These decisions do not merely deliver reality to the public. They help construct the public form in which reality is encountered. A political event may last several hours, but television viewers may see only twenty seconds. A complicated dispute may contain uncertain evidence, competing explanations, and unresolved questions, but the headline may present a simple moral conclusion. An international summit may involve negotiations, documents, and private meetings, while commentary concentrates on whether a leader appeared socially awkward in one short scene.
Selection is unavoidable because no newspaper or television program can report everything. The problem begins when the institution making those selections forgets that selection itself is an exercise of power.
The media often understands its role through the image of the watchdog. The watchdog observes the government, sounds an alarm, and protects society from danger. It is a valuable image, but it contains a possible blind spot. The watchdog may begin to assume that because its function is protective, its own conduct is beyond examination.
A media organization may demand complete transparency from politicians while remaining defensive about its own sourcing and editorial choices. It may expect immediate corrections from government officials while correcting its own mistakes quietly. It may examine ideological bias in political institutions while treating questions about its own political culture as attacks on press freedom.
Press freedom must be protected. Yet criticism of the press is not necessarily opposition to press freedom. On the contrary, the media’s freedom becomes more credible when it accepts that its power should also be examined.
Democratic accountability cannot move in only one direction. Governments must answer to journalists, opposition parties, courts, and citizens. Journalists must answer to evidence, professional standards, competing reports, corrections, and public criticism. Intellectuals must be willing to examine not only the assumptions of those they oppose, but also the assumptions shared within their own circles. No institution becomes harmless merely because it describes itself as a defender of society.
When Habitus Replaces Judgment
It would be too simple to explain media behavior as a conspiracy. Journalists, academics, opposition politicians, activists, and commentators do not need to gather secretly and agree on a common strategy. Their actions can move in a similar direction without any central coordination. This is where the idea of habitus becomes useful.
People working within a particular social or professional environment gradually acquire shared instincts. They learn which arguments sound respectable, which political figures appear trustworthy, which historical references carry moral authority, and which positions are immediately associated with danger. These patterns are developed through education, professional relationships, institutional traditions, and repeated interaction. Habitus does not operate mainly as a written rule. It shapes what feels natural.
Within a particular media or intellectual environment, a conservative politician may already appear suspicious before any specific action is examined. A claim against that politician may feel credible because it fits an established image. A favorable explanation may be dismissed as political communication, while a hostile interpretation is treated as evidence of critical intelligence.
A person may sincerely believe that they are approaching every question independently. Yet the same vocabulary, judgments, and emotional reactions repeatedly appear across people belonging to similar professional and ideological communities. This becomes especially troubling when liberal principles are separated from liberal conduct.
Liberalism contains some of the most valuable achievements of modern political thought. It protects freedom of expression, individual dignity, pluralism, minority rights, legal restraint, and the right to question authority. These principles should not be abandoned merely because people acting in the name of liberalism sometimes fail to embody them.
The problem arises when people become so certain of their liberal identity that they no longer apply liberal standards to those they oppose. They may defend dignity in principle while treating a conservative leader without dignity. They may oppose prejudice while assuming the worst about anyone associated with a disliked political tradition. They may praise open inquiry while regarding certain conclusions as morally unacceptable before the evidence has been examined.
The target is no longer evaluated action by action. The person is interpreted through a complete political category. Hard work becomes ambition. Confidence becomes arrogance. Friendliness becomes manipulation. Diplomacy becomes performance. Silence suggests guilt. An explanation becomes a cover-up. A correction shows fear. Even success may be interpreted as evidence that the person is dangerously effective.
This is a closed system of interpretation. Nothing can count in the target’s favor because every new fact is adjusted to fit the original conclusion. Such a system often presents itself as sophistication. A generous reading appears naïve, while a suspicious reading appears intelligent. To say that a leader may genuinely be trying to serve the country sounds unsophisticated. To say that every gesture conceals ambition, calculation, or ideological danger sounds analytical.
But suspicion is not automatically wisdom.
Critical thinking requires the ability to detect hidden interests and misleading appearances. It also requires the ability to recognize when suspicion has exceeded the evidence. A person who always assumes the worst is not necessarily more perceptive than someone who considers several possible interpretations. Sometimes cynicism is simply prejudice expressed in an intellectual tone.
When the Person Becomes a Target
Most people would not use the language of political social media when speaking to friends, family members, or colleagues. Even during serious disagreements, ordinary relationships create limits. We see the other person’s face, hear the tone of the response, and understand that the relationship will continue after the argument.
We also know more about the person than the disputed issue. A colleague is not only the opinion expressed during one meeting. A relative is not only a mistaken remark. The person remains larger than the moment of disagreement.
Public figures are encountered differently. They reach us through headlines, photographs, party labels, edited video, brief quotations, and commentary provided by others. They are physically distant and symbolically enlarged. We know their public identity but rarely experience their complete humanity.
A commentator is normally not speaking directly to Takaichi. The commentator is speaking about her to an audience. That difference weakens the restraint created by reciprocity. The target cannot respond personally to every accusation. The speaker does not have to see the effect of the words. The relationship is one way, and the public figure gradually becomes an object used for political communication.
Takaichi then becomes more than an individual politician. To different critics, she may represent conservatism, the Liberal Democratic Party, Shinzo Abe’s legacy, constitutional revision, national security policy, traditional values, or a vision of Japan they fear. Once a person has become a symbol, an attack on the personality can be justified as an attack on an ideology.
The critic may believe that the prime minister is too powerful to be harmed. Public office is treated as permission for unlimited hostility. Since the leader chose public life, it is assumed that she surrendered the right to ordinary dignity. Since she possesses institutional authority, every insult directed at her can be described as speaking truth to power.
This confuses scrutiny with dehumanization.
A prime minister must accept a degree of examination that would be inappropriate for a private citizen. Policies, public statements, official relationships, financial interests, and administrative decisions must be open to investigation. Yet public status does not erase personhood. Institutional power does not make humiliation harmless.
A political leader can be powerful in one relationship and vulnerable in another. She may command a government while being unable to answer thousands of daily insults, distorted clips, hostile interpretations, and personal speculations. Power is not a magical shield that turns cruelty into something morally neutral.
This is why criticism should become more disciplined as the critic’s influence increases. An anonymous user may reach a few people. A journalist, professor, television personality, or established influencer can legitimize a manner of speaking for thousands of others.
When a respected intellectual mocks a leader’s personality, the insult carries the authority of education. When a professional journalist uses contemptuous language, the audience may understand that such contempt has become intellectually acceptable. The professional does not merely participate in the crowd. The professional gives the crowd permission.
Education does not automatically protect anyone from this behavior. Intelligence can help us analyze difficult questions, but it can also help us create sophisticated justifications for our hostility. A crude insult can be surrounded by historical references, psychological language, and moral theory without becoming any less cruel. The vocabulary improves, but the underlying act remains the same.
From “Hosanna” to “Crucify Him”
The mechanism is not new. The Gospels present one of its most powerful images in the movement from public acclamation to collective condemnation.
Jesus enters Jerusalem amid cries of “Hosanna.” Soon afterward, another crowd demands, “Crucify him.” We should be careful about assuming that the crowds were composed of exactly the same individuals. The deeper meaning does not depend on that assumption. The narrative shows how rapidly a public figure can move from hope to rejection once authorities, fears, expectations, and group emotions converge.
The cry “Crucify him” is not an argument. It contains no careful account of evidence, responsibility, or proportion. Its purpose is to transform uncertainty into a unified demand for punishment. The crowd no longer needs to understand the accused person. It needs only to agree that the person has become the problem.
René Girard described a similar pattern through the scapegoat mechanism. A divided community can recover a temporary feeling of unity by concentrating its fear, anger, and unresolved conflict on one victim. The victim becomes the symbolic cause of a disorder that is actually distributed across society.
Once the target is selected, accusation becomes self-reinforcing. The fact that many people condemn the person appears to prove that condemnation is justified. Each participant receives confirmation from the others. The crowd becomes certain because it hears its own certainty repeated.
The comparison must be used carefully. Takaichi is not Christ, and no political leader should be identified with Christ simply because that leader receives criticism. Politicians are fallible human beings who exercise real power. Some accusations against leaders are justified, and some leaders have used claims of persecution to escape accountability.
The parallel concerns the psychology of the crowd, not the identity or perfect innocence of the target. Scapegoating can happen to someone who is innocent, partly responsible, or genuinely mistaken. It occurs when a person receives a concentration of hostility that goes beyond the careful assessment of specific actions. The target becomes a container for wider resentment.
A leader may then be blamed not only for a policy but for an entire social world. Economic anxiety, fear of war, frustration with institutions, anger toward a political party, and unresolved historical conflict can all be projected onto one recognizable figure.
Another Gospel scene offers a different image. In the account of the woman accused of adultery, a crowd is prepared to throw stones. Jesus does not turn the situation into a general statement that conduct never matters. Instead, he interrupts the accusers’ confidence in their own righteousness: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.”
The intervention introduces self-examination. The accusers had looked only at the woman, but Jesus turns their attention toward themselves. He asks not only whether an accusation exists, but what kind of people they become when they gather to punish.
That question remains relevant to modern political communication. A report may contain a legitimate concern. A critic may identify an actual mistake. Yet another question follows: what are we trying to accomplish with this information?
Are we seeking clarification, correction, public protection, and better government? Or are we seeking humiliation, exclusion, and the pleasure of seeing a disliked person suffer?
In the digital world, stones take the form of insulting posts, clipped videos, repeated allegations, cynical jokes, personal speculation, and demands for public disgrace. Each participant may insist that their own contribution was minor. One person only reposted. Another only made a joke. Another only repeated what a magazine reported.
But collective violence is often composed of small actions whose participants refuse responsibility for the accumulated result. Social media makes this ancient mechanism faster and more persistent. The crowd does not need to gather in a physical square. Its members may never know one another. The chant is produced through repetition across timelines, television programs, parliamentary exchanges, and commentary.
The digital crowd may also remain active long after the original event. A false or misleading claim can be corrected, but the first accusation remains searchable. The dramatic clip continues circulating after the complete recording becomes available. Punishment becomes detached from time.
The Crowd Is Loud, but It Is Not Everyone
It would be easy to conclude that this mechanism is unstoppable. The biblical movement from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him” could be read as a permanent account of public life. People admire a leader, become disappointed, and eventually join a crowd demanding destruction.
Yet the current situation also gives us reasons for hope.
Despite months of criticism and controversy, support for the Takaichi Cabinet has remained substantial. Polling organizations produce different results because they use different methods and samples. The numbers should not be treated as identical measurements, but they show that support has remained broad even amid negative commentary.
The February 2026 general election offered a stronger expression of public judgment. Takaichi’s coalition achieved a historic victory, giving her government a powerful electoral mandate. Election results do not prove that every voter admired her personality or agreed with every policy. They do show that the hostility visible in some parts of social media and commentary did not represent the whole electorate.
We should remain cautious about interpreting this support. Approval ratings cannot tell us exactly why each person supports a government. Some may value security policies, others economic plans, and others the apparent weakness of the opposition. A person may support Takaichi while agreeing with particular criticisms of her.
Still, something important can be said. The loudest voices have not gained complete control over public judgment.
The atmosphere of X is not the same as the atmosphere of society. Political discussions are disproportionately shaped by people who post frequently, possess strong ideological commitments, and participate actively in conflict. A noisy minority can create an illusion of universal anger. Hundreds of hostile posts appear on the screen, while millions of people who are quietly forming their own judgments remain invisible.
Ordinary citizens do not spend every hour producing political commentary. They work, care for families, read selectively, and vote when required. Silence should not be confused with the absence of judgment.
This is where the modern information environment reveals a positive side. Social media can spread misinformation, reward anger, and intensify division. Yet the internet also weakens the old monopoly over interpretation.
A citizen can watch a full press conference rather than relying only on a short television segment. Diet proceedings can be viewed directly. Government documents, speeches, statistics, and diplomatic statements are often accessible online. People can compare several newspapers, read independent analyses, and return from an opinion piece to the primary material on which it is supposedly based.
Several decades ago, most citizens depended on a limited number of national newspapers and television networks. Those institutions often contained serious professional journalism, but audiences had fewer practical opportunities to compare their framing with complete source material. Today there is more false information, but there is also more access to verification.
Media literacy may therefore be improving in response to the very disorder created by the internet. People increasingly understand that a headline is not the complete article, an opinion column is not a factual report, and a short clip is not the whole event. They may notice that several outlets are repeating one original allegation rather than independently confirming it.
They can also recognize familiar patterns. When the same commentators interpret every action by the same politician negatively, audiences begin to understand that they are hearing a stable ideological position rather than a fresh analysis. Repetition can then become counterproductive. The attack intended to persuade may instead reveal the habit of the attacker.
I recognize this possibility in my own judgment. I do not claim to be perfectly objective. My connection to my hometown of Nara, which is also Takaichi’s electoral district, and my respect for Takaichi certainly affect how I see her. Everyone approaches politics through personal history, values, experiences, and sympathies.
Yet being influenced is not the same as being controlled.
Independent judgment does not require complete freedom from bias, which may be impossible. It requires awareness of one’s starting point, a willingness to consult several sources, and readiness to revise a conclusion when stronger evidence appears.
I can support Takaichi while remaining open to criticism of her policies. I can recognize that some allegations remain unresolved without accepting every hostile interpretation. I can appreciate her commitment while refusing to treat sincerity as proof that every decision is correct. That is not perfect neutrality. It is an attempt at responsible judgment.
Perhaps many citizens are doing something similar. They hear the criticism, but they also observe the leader’s conduct. They compare commentary with full speeches. They distinguish a policy disagreement from an attack on personality. They do not automatically believe the loudest voice merely because it appears repeatedly on a screen.
The crowd may be shouting, but other people are listening, examining, and deciding not to join it.
Accountability Without Crucifixion
A democracy cannot function without criticism. Political leaders must be observed, questioned, and sometimes strongly opposed. Respect for Takaichi’s diligence should never become a reason to excuse misconduct or dismiss every concern as hostility.
At the same time, criticism should have a purpose beyond punishment. Responsible criticism identifies the policy, decision, contradiction, evidence, or consequence being examined. It distinguishes an error from a lie, an allegation from an established fact, and disagreement from moral corruption. It remains open to correction when the available evidence changes.
It also respects reciprocity. The standard applied to Takaichi should be applicable to politicians whom the critic supports. A journalist demanding transparency from government should accept questions about journalistic sourcing. An intellectual analyzing prejudice among political opponents should be prepared to recognize contempt within their own community.
The answer to unfair journalism is not automatic rejection of all journalism. The answer is better comparison, stronger verification, more transparent correction, and continued support for reporting that meets serious professional standards. The answer to hostile social media is not silence. It is speech that refuses to imitate the hostility it criticizes.
Respectful language is sometimes mistaken for weakness. A calm person may appear less passionate than someone shouting an accusation. A balanced explanation may attract less attention than a sarcastic attack. Yet restraint can require greater courage, especially when one’s own group expects condemnation.
To resist a crowd does not always mean defending the target from every criticism. Sometimes it means insisting that the criticism remain truthful, specific, and proportionate.
The deepest source of my sadness is not that some people oppose Takaichi. Political disagreement is natural. What troubles me is the refusal to see effort, dignity, and humanity in someone once she has been classified as an enemy.
A society loses something important when it can no longer say, “I disagree with this leader, but I recognize her commitment.” It loses the ability to see a person whole. Politics then becomes a competition to remove every admirable quality from the opposing side.
The Christian warning against throwing stones does not require us to abandon judgment. It asks us to examine the spirit in which judgment is exercised. It reminds us that righteousness can become a disguise for aggression, and that a crowd can sincerely believe it is defending morality while participating in violence.
Yet the Gospel narrative also leaves room for hope. The crowd is never the whole of humanity. Some people step away. Some refuse to repeat the accusation. Some remain near the condemned person when others have disappeared. Some look at the stone in their own hand and place it on the ground.
Modern citizens possess more stones than before. Words can be produced instantly, distributed widely, and preserved indefinitely. But citizens also possess greater access to information, competing interpretations, original recordings, and public documents. The same technology that accelerates the crowd can help people resist it.
The future of democratic culture therefore depends not only on preserving freedom of expression. It depends on cultivating people who know how to use that freedom without surrendering judgment to the loudest group.
Governments must remain accountable. The media must remain free. Citizens must remain vigilant. None of these principles requires us to abandon generosity, fairness, or human dignity. We can investigate without humiliating. We can oppose without dehumanizing. We can criticize a leader’s decisions while recognizing the burden she carries. We can refuse both naïve trust and automatic suspicion.
The movement from “Hosanna” to “Crucify him” remains a permanent human possibility. It is not, however, an unavoidable destiny.
The crowd may continue to chant. Hope remains with those who listen carefully, examine the evidence, look again at the person standing before them, and decide not to throw the stone.
Photo by Angel Sanchez on Unsplash
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