Category: History

The Second Why: Authority, Suppression, and the Death of the Questioner

Prefatory Note

In The First Why, I sought to explore the sacred trembling of humanity’s earliest question—the moment when consciousness dared to disturb the hush of creation. There, I argued that the act of questioning was not a fall from grace, but the beginning of wisdom, the awakening of wonder, and the first movement toward meaning.

This essay, The Second Why, turns from the theological to the historical, the philosophical to the political. It examines the ancient and recurring pattern by which those in authority, threatened by the murmur of the question, have sought not merely to answer but to silence it—sometimes by exile, sometimes by imprisonment, sometimes by death, and sometimes by the corrosion of meaning itself.

If The First Why was the breath before the question, The Second Why is the cost of speaking it aloud.

William Blake, The Ancient of Days (1794), frontispiece to Europe a Prophecy: a vision of creation measured, and mystery confined.
William Blake, The Ancient of Days (1794), frontispiece to Europe a Prophecy: a vision of creation measured, and mystery confined.

I. The Question That Threatens

In the hush before thought, in the stillness before speech, there stirred a murmur—the first Why.

In The First Why, I sought to explore that primal trembling: the moment when consciousness first turned inward upon itself and outward upon the world, daring to ask what had not been asked. Yet if that first question marked the birth of wonder, it also, inevitably, sowed the seeds of fear. For in every age thereafter, those who have sought to guard power have found their greatest threat not in armies nor in weapons, but in the fragile, defiant utterance of the questioner.

Throughout history, the act of questioning—not the conclusions it might yield, but the mere audacity of inquiry—has been regarded by authority as a mortal transgression. Again and again, societies have answered the quiet and insistent “Why?” with the grim decree: “Thou shalt surely die.” Whether whispered in the Athenian marketplace, charted among the stars, recorded in forbidden books, or muttered in the corners of censored universities, the question has been met with exile, imprisonment, silencing, and execution.

The pattern is ancient and unrelenting. Socrates, forced to drink the hemlock; Galileo, commanded to renounce the stars; the Inquisition’s pyres; the Nazi bonfires of thought; the gulags swallowing dissenters; the purges and bans now rising anew in the name of security, patriotism, or purity. In every case, the underlying offense is the same: the refusal to leave the hush undisturbed.

In what follows, I will trace the political, historical, and theological burden borne by those who dare to ask. For the suppression of the questioner is not merely an incidental cruelty, but the essential mark of an authoritarian impulse. To disturb the hush is to call into doubt the inevitability of power, the permanence of truth, the sanctity of the given order. Thus, the first Why was not merely a beginning. It remains a perpetual provocation—an act of revolution still echoing, and still condemned, across the centuries.

II. Historical Pattern: The Death Sentence for the Questioner

The history of civilization is marked not only by the questions that advanced knowledge, but by the relentless attempts to silence those questions and destroy their askers.

Socrates, that midwife of inquiry, was sentenced to death not because he espoused a particular heresy, but because he taught the youth of Athens to question the established wisdom of the city. His crime, ultimately, was to disturb the hush.

Galileo, peering through a telescope toward the stars, disturbed a cosmic silence maintained by theological decree. It was not heliocentrism itself that threatened the authorities—it was the precedent that nature, rather than authority, might answer the question.

The Inquisition institutionalized terror against those who inquired beyond the sanctioned bounds, who sought to hear a different resonance in scripture or reason.

The Nazi regime, recognizing the existential threat posed by free inquiry, did not merely censor books—it burned them, seeking to annihilate the memory of questioning itself.

The Soviet Union consigned dissenters to gulags not because their ideas were dangerous in themselves, but because their questioning undermined the infallibility of the Party’s pronouncements.

From the gulags of the Soviet Union, the pattern unfurled still further eastward.

In Maoist China, the Cultural Revolution unleashed an orchestrated assault on memory and inquiry: libraries ransacked, teachers denounced, ancient traditions obliterated in the name of ideological purity.

Today, under the reign of Xi Jinping, that spirit persists: a resurgence of suppression masquerading as stability. Re-education camps, purges of dissenters, the silencing of Tibetan voices, the systematic erasure of Uyghur culture—all stand as testament that the death sentence for the questioner is not an artifact of the past but a method renewed in our own day.

Nor is this pattern confined to other shores.

In contemporary America, the same ancient reflex stirs. Books are banned from public libraries under the guise of protecting the young; universities face funding threats unless they conform to ideological demands; scientific research in fields such as climate change and public health is censored, altered, or silenced.

The Department of Defense has scrubbed the achievements of minority service members—Tuskegee Airmen, Navajo Code Talkers, Medal of Honor recipients—from public websites, erasing memory itself in service of a homogenized narrative. Students at Pentagon-operated schools have sued for the restoration of forbidden books and histories, fighting against the burial of truth.

The administration has attacked the free press, threatened the licenses of broadcasters who report unfavorably, and sought to strip public media of its funding.

At the same time, Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives have been dismantled across the federal government, corporations, and law firms—silencing efforts to reflect a fuller human story.

This temptation is not confined to any one nation or ideology. Across Latin America under military juntas and authoritarian leaders, across the Middle East under rigid theocracies, across Africa under autocratic regimes, the suppression of questioning has reappeared, adorned in different garments, but always driven by the same ancient fear.

It is not a flaw of one party or one epoch. It is a perennial temptation: the temptation of all power to silence what it cannot control.

III. The Keepers of the Keys: Monopoly of Truth and the Death of the Question

Yet the suppression of questioning is only part of the authoritarian project. Its deeper ambition is the monopolization of truth itself.

Authority, when it turns tyrannical, declares not merely that certain questions must not be asked, but that the answers have already been determined, possessed, and sealed.

The rulers, the priests, the inquisitors, the commissars—each claims the sacred keys: the key to salvation, the key to justice, the key to moral righteousness. Good becomes what they pronounce; evil becomes what they forbid.

There is no longer a living search for meaning—only a mandated adherence to the truths held by the gatekeepers.

To question is not simply to err; it is to betray the natural order as they have defined it.

This monopolization is rooted not merely in political expediency but in an ancient theological distortion. In the story of Eden, as handed down by scribal hands shaped by authority, the knowledge of good and evil—the living tension of discernment—is forbidden. The human capacity to navigate complexity is recast as sin; the hunger for understanding becomes rebellion.

Thus the pattern is sanctified:

Only those who possess the keys may speak.

Only those who serve the keepers may think.

The rest must accept silence or accept exile.

Interlude: The Flattening of Knowledge—From Merism to Dualism

In the ancient myth, the Tree offered not a simple dichotomy but a totality: the knowledge of good and evil—the full sweep of moral discernment, the wholeness of moral understanding.

This fullness, this richness, could not be tolerated by those who would rule. Thus the merism was flattened into dualism: Good became what the rulers commanded; evil what they condemned.

The tree of knowledge was not destroyed; it was redefined.

The living dynamic of discernment was replaced with dead certitude.

The gift of discernment became a forbidden fruit.

The complexity of moral vision was narrowed to the dictates of authority.

Thus was the wonder of knowledge itself corrupted, stripped of its vitality, pressed into the service of domination.

IV. The Usurpation of Wonder: Authority’s Theft of Creation

In suppressing the question, in flattening knowledge, and in monopolizing truth, the authoritarian spirit commits not merely political crimes but spiritual ones. It usurps the wonder of divine creation itself.

Creation was never intended as a dead thing, frozen into rigid forms. It was meant as a living, breathing mystery—an invitation to seek, to discern, to wonder.

By claiming sole possession of truth, by forbidding inquiry, authority places itself above the living act of creation, mocking and profaning it. It substitutes its brittle edicts for the breathing Word; it erects idols of certainty in the place of the living search for truth.

Thus, the authoritarian repeats the ancient blasphemy:

Denying the image of God in the questioner,

Denying the breath of the Spirit in the seeker,

Denying the sanctity of wonder.

To defend the right to question is therefore not merely a political duty. It is an act of fidelity to the structure of creation itself.

V. Silencing the Search, Silencing the Finding

Authoritarianism, in its most persistent form, does not merely seek to silence answers it dislikes. It seeks to silence the very act of searching.

The question, the seeking, the wondering—these are intolerable because they suggest that truth is not yet fully possessed, that knowledge is not complete, that authority is not absolute.

Thus, authoritarian power strikes first at the searchers: the scientists, the philosophers, the journalists, the seekers of every kind.

Yet where seekers persist, and truth is found despite them, the authoritarian hand strikes again—this time at the truth itself. Inconvenient findings are erased from records, public data is withdrawn from view, scientific reports are rewritten to serve political ends.

The silencing extends from the human act of questioning to the very realities those questions uncover.

So it has come to pass in our own time: climate science censored, health research distorted, public knowledge reshaped not by the unfolding of discovery but by the fiat of rulers.

In this, the authoritarian spirit reveals its deeper fear: not merely that questions might arise, but that truth might emerge—and stand beyond its grasp.

VI. The Collapse of Meaning: When Words Are No Longer Words

Perhaps the most chilling expression of authoritarianism is not the silencing of speech but the disintegration of meaning itself.

When a government refuses to comply with a Supreme Court order—one plainly written, unambiguous in its demand—by claiming that it does not say what it says, we enter a realm beyond censorship. We enter a space where words no longer signify; where legal language is emptied of content and refilled with the will of power.

This is not merely a constitutional crisis. It is a metaphysical one.

The shared meanings that allow a society to function, to reason, to hold power accountable—these are dissolved.

And in their place arises a new doctrine: that truth is not what is said, but what the ruler claims was meant.

In such a world, there are no longer laws—only declarations. No longer language—only slogans. No longer truth—only the assertion of power over meaning itself.

VII. The Eternal Struggle to Disturb the Hush

The first Why was not a mistake. It was the beginning of the journey, the necessary shattering of silence, the first movement toward wonder.

Those who fear the questioner seek to stop the world from becoming, to freeze it into the shape of their own certainties. They usurp creation itself, not out of strength, but out of terror—the terror that their towers of power might crumble under the lightest whisper of a question.

Yet not all authority need fear the question. Rightly ordered authority—whether of parent, teacher, judge, or priest—can nurture questioning, guiding it without silencing it, guarding freedom without abandoning wisdom.

It is not authority itself that is the enemy of the question, but the corruption of authority into the idolatry of its own certainty.

Nor is the impulse to question so easily extinguished.

Though libraries burn, though words are twisted, though questioners are exiled or slain, the Why rises anew. It survives in secret conversations, in hidden manuscripts, in the defiant wonder of each generation that refuses to accept silence as its inheritance.

To ask Why is to affirm the livingness of being.

To defend the questioner is to defend creation.

To disturb the hush is to proclaim that the world is not finished, that meaning is not the possession of the powerful, that wonder still breathes.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)

The First Why: Innocence, Confusion, and the Misreading of Eden

Donald S. Yarab

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained;
what is man, that thou art mindful of him?
— Psalm 8:3–4 (KJV)

Original Sin, Hermitage of Vera Cruz, Maderuelo (Segovia) Anonymous Copyright ©Museo Nacional del Prado

Original Sin, Hermitage of Vera Cruz, Maderuelo (Segovia)
Anonymous
Copyright ©Museo Nacional del Prado

A child, in the earliest unfolding of consciousness, turns to the parent and asks: Why? Why is the sun hot? Why did my pet goldfish die? Why must we grow old? The loving parent does not scorn the child for such questions. Even when the answers stretch beyond what the child can yet comprehend, even when no answer can satisfy the deep, intuitive wonder stirring in the young mind, the parent listens. A gesture, a story, a silence full of tenderness—all serve as a response, for the asking itself is a sign of life, of spirit, of the soul reaching beyond itself.

How then can it be imagined that the Divine—source of all wisdom, all love—would greet humanity’s first Why not with the hush of welcome but with wrath? How could the natural longing to know, to understand the world into which humanity was born, be met not with compassion, but with a condemnation unto death?

It cannot be so. It is not the divine who pronounced guilt over the sacred question; it is man.

The doctrine of original sin, as shaped by priests and theologians, emerges not from divine decree but from human artifice. It is born of fear—fear of questions too vast to answer, fear of mysteries that human authority could neither command nor contain. It is a doctrine not of heaven but of earth, devised by those who sought to regulate the soul’s native reaching beyond the bounds of certainty.

For what is the story of Eden if not the story of the first Why? The yearning for knowledge—the desire to taste, to see, to know good and evil—was not the rebellion of prideful beings but the natural unfolding of consciousness itself. To portray this reaching as disobedience is to misread the very nature of the soul. It is the innocence of the child, multiplied and deepened, that yearns toward the silence, that dares to disturb the hush with a question.

The Genesis narrative itself frames the matter plainly:

“But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.” (Genesis 2:17, KJV)

Yet in the original Hebrew, “good and evil” is not a narrow moral distinction, but a merism—a pairing of extremes meant to evoke the totality of human experience. The knowledge at stake was not merely of right and wrong, but of the complexities, ambiguities, and perplexities of life and being itself. It was the awakening of discernment, the painful blessing of full consciousness—the soul’s first stretching beyond the silence into the unknown.

In the unfolding of the tale, it is the serpent who first stirs the question, bidding the woman to see beyond the command to the possibility of knowledge itself:

“For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5, KJV)

Yet the serpent, in the original narrative, is not named as a satanic force. That identification is a later gloss, a retrospective layering by later traditions. In Genesis itself, the serpent is simply described as subtle—”more cunning than any beast of the field.” It is not evil in the mythic sense, but a catalyst: a figure who provokes the first stirring of conscious wonder.

The temptation it offers is not toward cruelty or depravity, but toward awareness—the dangerous and sacred gift of discernment. When the woman saw that the tree was “good for food,” “pleasant to the eyes,” and “a tree to be desired to make one wise” (Genesis 3:6), it was not pride that stirred her, but wonder. It was not rebellion, but reverent reaching—the first trembling articulation of the soul’s native Why—that set humanity upon its long and necessary journey into the unfolding mystery.

Later theological traditions, particularly within Christianity, would recast this moment as the origin of inherited sin, a fall from grace so profound that it marred all generations to come. Even softer interpretations would speak of exile—a banishment from divine presence, a sundering of primordial innocence.

But this, too, misreads the deeper rhythm of the story.

There is no fall in the truest sense. There is no exile. There is only awakening.

Awakening carries consequence: the loss of effortless innocence, the onset of labor, of mortality, of sorrow. But it is not severance from the divine. It is the beginning of the soul’s true journey—the movement from unknowing participation in being into conscious, perilous freedom. It is not punishment, but transformation: the invitation to become beings capable of discernment, of wonder, of seeking the infinite even while clothed in dust.

The expulsion from Eden, if it can be called that at all, is no casting away. It is a sending forth—a sorrowful and sacred commissioning. It is humanity’s first trembling step into a world no longer given but always to be made meaningful by seeking, questioning, remembering.

Nor is this reaching confined to Eden alone. Even in the later unfolding of the sacred story, it is the struggle, not the submission, that is honored. Jacob wrestles through the long night with the divine being, refusing to release his grip until a blessing is given. And far from being punished for his audacity, he is renamed—Israel—“one who struggles with God.” (Genesis 32:28) Thus the struggle is made sacred. The refusal to let go, the daring to seek, the ache of confusion: these are not condemned but crowned. The journey was never meant to return to innocence; it was always to pass through mystery, bearing the wound and the wonder of awakening.

Across cultures and ages, humanity has imagined a lost Golden Age—a time when the world was right, when peace and justice reigned, when innocence was unbroken. In religion, in philosophy, in politics, the pattern repeats: there was once a perfection; we have fallen from it; we must find a way back.

Why does this myth endure? Perhaps it speaks to something innate within us: a yearning for wholeness, for rootedness, for a home we can no longer name. Perhaps it soothes the terror of our confusion, offering the hope that disorder and suffering are not our native condition, but a wound that can be healed.

Yet in our fixation on a lost Eden, we risk becoming prisoners of backward-facing time. The myth orients our spiritual gaze toward the past—toward what was allegedly lost—rather than toward what might yet be discovered. We become archaeologists of an imagined innocence rather than explorers of an unfolding mystery. The soul’s natural movement—reaching forward into new understanding—becomes replaced by a desperate scrambling backward toward a manufactured memory.

This temporal disorientation fundamentally misunderstands the nature of spiritual growth. Wisdom is not the recovery of what once was, but the discovery of what has always been waiting to be known. The soul does not develop by returning to an infantile state of pre-questioning, but by maturing through its questions into deeper and more profound questions still.

When we orient ourselves toward a mythical past rather than an unfolding future, we deny the essential nature of consciousness itself, which is not static but dynamic, not preservative but creative. We mistake the spiritual journey for a return ticket when it is, and has always been, a one-way passage into greater mystery, greater wonder, greater questioning.

Moreover, what we call Eden is not a historical reality but a projection of our deepest yearnings. It is the mind casting upon the blank canvas of prehistory its own longing for belonging, for certainty, for uncomplicated being. We imagine a time before questioning not because such a time existed, but because questioning—the fundamental condition of human consciousness—carries with it the necessary burden of uncertainty.

Eden, then, is not a lost homeland but a psychological construct. It is the mind’s attempt to escape the very condition that makes it mind: the capacity to ask, to wonder, to reach beyond what is immediately given. The myth provides a name for our discomfort with confusion, allowing us to imagine that our questioning nature is not our essence but our fall.

And here lies the deeper danger: what begins as a fabricated consolation becomes, in the hands of authority, an instrument of control. The artificial memory of Eden, manufactured to soothe our existential disquiet, transforms into a weapon wielded against the very questioning that makes us human.

For when the myth of a lost Eden is seized by those who would govern—whether priest or king—it becomes a tool of manipulation. The lost paradise becomes a justification for power. If the people can be made to believe they have fallen, they can be led to believe that only through obedience—obedience to those who claim to hold the keys to return—can they be restored.

Thus Eden becomes not a symbol of hope, but a lever of command. Thus nostalgia becomes a chain.

For those who seek to honor obedience as a spiritual virtue, there remains a profound distinction between the willing surrender that flows from understanding and the blind submission that stifles questioning. The former may indeed be sacred—a conscious alignment with wisdom greater than one’s own. It is only when obedience is divorced from the soul’s natural reaching, when it demands the silencing rather than the maturing of questions, that it betrays both the human and the divine.

And the chain wounds. It wounds the individual, teaching him to distrust his own questions, to despise his own longings, to silence the sacred impulse toward wonder within himself. It wounds the collective, stifling thought, suppressing creativity, narrowing the imagination of what a human life or a human community might be. It breeds conformity where there might have been diversity of spirit; it fosters submission where there might have been genuine reverence; it exalts obedience over understanding.

Under the weight of this imagined Eden, humanity turns inward in fear rather than outward in joyful seeking. The soul bows not in awe before mystery, but in terror before judgment.

Thus the myth that was meant to console becomes a force that deforms, a memory that imprisons rather than frees.

Some might argue that certainty provides comfort, that boundaries offer safety, that answers—even if incomplete—shelter us from the storm of unknowing. There is truth in this. Structure can indeed nurture growth, just as the trellis supports the vine. Yet when structure calcifies into dogma, when the trellis becomes a cage, the soul withers rather than flourishes.

Man is neither innately good nor innately evil. Man is innately confused. Born into a world more vast than his mind can grasp, woven from mysteries too great for his language to name, humanity’s first impulse is not toward sin, but toward understanding. The soul, bewildered and reaching, gropes for knowledge not out of pride, but out of need—the need to make sense of the strange and wondrous being into which it has been thrust.

Confusion, then, is not a defect; it is the ground of wonder. It is the blessed ignorance that precedes the sacred question: Why?

It is this confusion—the condition of the in-between creature, made of dust and breath—that makes the human journey necessary. Without it, there would be no seeking, no questioning, no striving toward the silence that calls from beyond the edges of comprehension. Without it, there would be no reaching for the fruit, no ache for the infinite, no longing to pierce the hush with a voice.

The theologians, in their haste to impose clarity where mystery should have remained, mistook confusion for corruption. They mistook the stumbling search for the willful turning away. But confusion is not sin; it is the evidence of our created nature, the signature of beings fashioned for a journey, not for stasis.

To ask Why? is to live as we were made to live: poised between the known and the unknown, between the immediate and the eternal. To forbid the question, to cast the seeking as rebellion, is to deny the very condition of being human.

Thus, the first reaching toward the tree of knowledge was not a crime against the divine. It was the first true act of humanity: the confused, innocent soul daring to stretch toward the beyond.

In our questions, then, we find not our fall but our rising. Not our sin but our salvation. For to ask Why? is to begin the journey home—not to an Eden that never was, but to a wholeness that awaits us in the brave and beautiful reaching of the confused, beloved human heart.

The sacred path is forward—into uncertainty, into wonder, into the endless unfolding of mystery.

For the gates of Eden swing but one way.

Bread, Balance, and the Burden of Freedom in Dostoevsky’s The Grand Inquisitor

A Meditation on the Grand Inquisitor in Light of Metaphor and Meaning

“Man seeks not so much God as the miraculous… For man seeks not so much freedom as someone to bow before.”
— The Grand Inquisitor, The Brothers Karamazov

Francisco Goya’s The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters (1799)—an image of what emerges when the mind abdicates its responsibility: not freedom, but fantasy; not peace, but nightmare. Where reason sleeps, the trinity of miracle, mystery, and authority awakens to devour.

In Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, the tale of the Grand Inquisitor remains one of the most unsettling parables in modern literature. Told by Ivan Karamazov to his younger brother Alyosha, the fable imagines Christ returning during the Spanish Inquisition—only to be arrested and silenced by the Church. The Inquisitor, a cardinal of imposing intellect and grave compassion, does not accuse Christ of falsehood, but of cruelty: You gave them freedom, he says, when they needed bread. You gave them mystery, when they needed answers. You gave them love, when they needed order.

There was a time, decades ago, in the earnest conviction of my youth, when I found myself perplexed by the Grand Inquisitor’s logic. I did not admire him, nor excuse his authoritarianism, but I recognized the ache that underpinned his argument. Bread matters. Peace matters. Even then, I sensed the moral gravity of the dilemma he posed: How does one respond to suffering in a world that is often brutal, hungry, and unforgiving?

But I also responded viscerally to something else: the pen of Dostoevsky was not just crafting a fable, but weaponizing a caricature. The Inquisitor was not simply a tragic figure—he was also a polemic against Catholicism, a projection of Dostoevsky’s own religious bigotry. As someone educated within the Catholic tradition, I saw the ugliness beneath the fable—the prejudice tucked behind the parable’s grandeur. The critique was not only of power, but of Rome. The Inquisitor’s mitre bore the unmistakable weight of Jesuit anti-types, cloaked in suspicion and veiled accusation. My disquiet, then, was not only with the Inquisitor’s words, but with the frame within which they were uttered.

And yet, despite its polemical underpinnings, the parable remains one of the most profound meditations on freedom and faith in modern literature. Its imaginative force exceeds its prejudices. The Inquisitor endures not only as a critique, but as a haunting embodiment of the human temptation to trade liberty for comfort.

And that temptation has not faded. The Grand Inquisitor endures because he gives voice to something deeply human, and psychologically real: the desire for security, for certainty, for order amidst chaos. It is a desire that remains active—arguably ascendant—in our own time. One hears the Inquisitor’s voice today in populist strongmen, in the cynical strategist’s smirk, in the media apparatus that soothes while it divides, and in slogans that promise greatness through obedience—Make America Great Again, for instance, the rallying cry of a leader who proclaimed, “I am the only one who can save this nation,” inviting not deliberation, but devotion. The trinity he offers—miracle, mystery, and authority—is the very catechism of modern demagoguery.

This reflection, then, is not a defense of the Inquisitor, but an attempt to understand his appeal, and to reclaim the concepts he distorts. In my recent essay on literalism, metaphor, and balance, I sought to describe the menace of the literalist disposition—a mentality that cannot live with ambiguity, that flees from the poetic, and that finds in surface meaning a shield against the deeper, riskier call of the soul. Here, I apply that lens to the Inquisitor’s three pillars.

Miracle and the Tyranny of the Literal

The Inquisitor offers miracle as literal spectacle: bread conjured from stone, laws suspended, proof offered to silence doubt. He rebukes Christ for refusing to perform such signs in the desert, calling His restraint an act of cruelty rather than spiritual wisdom.

Even as a young reader, I did not mistake the Inquisitor’s miracle for holiness. But I understood that hunger cannot be spiritualized away. In a world where the body is often broken before the spirit can rise, the refusal to give bread seems harsh.

What I have since come to understand is that bread must be shared, not wielded—and that miracles, if they mean anything at all, must point beyond themselves. A miracle that ends conversation is not a miracle but a manipulation.

We have seen modern versions of such miracles: promises made and spectacles staged not to elevate understanding, but to prove power. Consider the border wall—hailed not merely as a policy, but as a singular, salvific act. Its construction, real or exaggerated, was brandished as proof of providence, as the visible sign that the nation could be made great, pure, and safe again. Nor was it the only such “miracle.” Similar wonders were promised: the immediate end of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the revival of a fading industrial economy, the return of jobs long gone, and the rapid reordering of the global market in our favor. These, too, were presented as guarantees—not to be debated, but to be believed. And like the Inquisitor’s miracles, they have largely yet to be seen.

In my essay on literalism and metaphor, I argued that literalism becomes a menace when it displaces metaphor—when it insists on one meaning, one proof, one visible sign. The Inquisitor’s miracles are precisely that: spectacles that end the need for faith. They are miracles without meaning.

Mystery and the Collapse of Metaphor

The Inquisitor’s use of mystery is a case study in spiritual containment. Mystery becomes the guarded unknown, parceled out by clerical authority to pacify rather than provoke. It is not a sacred unknowing, but a fog of confusion meant to keep the people docile.

But true mystery, like true metaphor, does not confuse—it illuminates by depth. It renders the world porous to truth. It refuses finality not because it is evasive, but because it is more honest than premature closure allows.

I did not reject mystery in youth, nor do I now. But I reject the collapse of mystery into secrecy, the transformation of the ineffable into the inaccessible. Metaphor must breathe. Mystery must invite. When weaponized, they become not sacred, but sinister.

In our current dysfunctional era, mystery is often replaced by conspiracy—a counterfeit that plays the same psychological role, offering significance without wisdom, awe without humility. The literalist disposition, fearing true complexity, gravitates toward these shallow depths. Conspiracy is mystery stripped of humility. It retains the trappings of hidden knowledge but closes the mind rather than opening it. It flatters the believer with secrets while shielding them from ambiguity. It is not reverence for the unknown, but a refuge from the supposed unbearable complexity of reality.

We see this vividly in the ecosystem of conspiracy theories surrounding Trump’s political movement. Whether it is the belief that a global cabal of elites and pedophiles is secretly running the world (QAnon), or that massive voter fraud orchestrated by shadowy networks altered the outcome of the 2020 election, or that figures like Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, or George Soros are puppet-masters in an international scheme to undermine American sovereignty—each offers an illusion of secret insight in place of the real work of understanding. These narratives are not pursued for their truthfulness but for their emotional certainty. They replace sacred mystery with a kind of gnosis—fierce, insular, and self-reinforcing.

And like the Inquisitor’s mystery, they are not shared to free the soul, but to bind it—to a worldview, to a figure (whether cult, religious, or political leader, a distinction without merit or significance), to a sense of exceptionalist belonging. The effect is not illumination but containment.

Authority and the Displacement of Balance

The Inquisitor’s authority is final, paternal, and brutal in its compassion. It replaces freedom with peace, conscience with obedience. Its appeal lies not only in its force, but in its promise: You no longer have to choose. I will choose for you. And I will feed you.

As I have aged, I have come to see that this vision is not merely imposed—it is desired. Much of the populace is psychologically predisposed to respond favorably to such authority, whether it comes in vestments or slogans. It offers relief from the burden of discernment. It relieves the anxiety of paradox.

This recognition—that the hunger for certainty is as much internal as external—has shaped my own philosophical trajectory.

And that is where the menace lies. This is not a top-down problem alone, but a convergence of design and desire. The Inquisitor gives the people what they already, in some meaningful manner, want: a world made safe through submission. The leader becomes the sole interpreter of truth, the guarantor of safety, the vessel of meaning. Authority becomes a theology in itself.

We have seen this in our time, where devotion to a figure supplants loyalty to principle. When a leader proclaims “I am the only one who can save this nation,” and is met not with unease but with cheers, authority has ceased to be a mediating presence and has become a metaphysical claim. It no longer balances tension; it obliterates it.

In contrast, the authority I defended in my earlier essay was not coercive, but mediating—a balancing presence, a harmonizing voice. It does not dominate or dismiss. It holds the tension without collapsing it. It does not provide peace through closure, but through co-suffering. It listens. It waits.

The Bread and the Burden

So no, I did not approve of the Grand Inquisitor—not in youth, not now. But I acknowledged, and still acknowledge, the ache beneath his argument. It was not cruelty that made him persuasive, but compassion twisted into control—a desire to ease pain by removing the possibility of choice.

What I now see more clearly is that this fable is not merely a theological drama. It is a psychological map. The Grand Inquisitor is the high priest of the literalist disposition—offering miracle that silences, mystery that obscures, authority that absolves.

That disposition is not confined to Dostoevsky’s century. It is at work now—in every movement that prefers spectacle to sign, dogma to dialogue, power to presence. It thrives in political rhetoric, in media narratives, in spiritual systems that replace grace with control.

Dostoevsky does not argue against it. Christ does not rebut it. He answers with a kiss.

A kiss without domination.
A kiss that respects freedom.
A kiss that does not resolve the tension, but chooses to love within it.

That is the burden of freedom: not only to bear it ourselves, but to offer it to others, knowing they may prefer their chains.

To offer bread, but not as bribe.
To teach, but not as demand.
To speak, but not to silence.
To live, still and quietly,
within the balance that resists the Inquisitor’s call.

To refuse the miracle that enslaves,
To offer bread and still preserve the soul,
That is the quiet defiance the world most needs.

The Flaws of AI Detection Tools

Auguste Rodin, The Thinker (conceived 1880, cast c. 1917).
Bronze. Cleveland Museum of Art. CC0 
Originally conceived as part of The Gates of Hell, Rodin’s The Thinker was not merely a passive figure lost in thought, but a representation of Dante himself, contemplating the fates of souls below. Cast in tension and muscle, he embodies the labor of intellect—the weight of reflection, the cost of authorship, and the solitary burden of making meaning in a world of mechanized shortcuts. A fitting emblem for the human writer mistaken for a machine.

Preface: A Writer Mistaken for a Machine

The main essay that follows this preface was generated wholly by ChatGPT’s “Deep Research” feature, produced at my request after a recent experience that was equal parts amusing and unsettling.

In a recent essay I had written—carefully and thoughtfully—I found myself admiring a few turns of phrase that seemed, perhaps, too polished. Seeking to determine whether I had unconsciously absorbed and repeated something from my recent reading, I turned to a site I had used before—one that aggregates reviews of AI and plagiarism detectors commonly employed by educators. From there, I selected not one, but three highly rated tools to review my essay and determine whether I had inadvertently borrowed a phrase from Blake, Eckhart, Pseudo-Dionysius, or anyone else I have recently been reading.

The results were, to put it mildly, contradictory, though not for the issue I had set out to explore. The first site was no longer operational, citing the unreliability of AI detection in view of the accelerating complexity of AI language model algorithms. The second tool confidently declared that my essay was entirely free of both plagiarism and AI-generated content. The third, by contrast, just as confidently pronounced that my essay was likely 100 percent AI-generated, both in style and content, based on the presence of twenty phrases—unhelpfully left unidentified—that appeared more frequently in AI-generated material. The site explained that those mysterious phrases had been used in training language models and thus their use in my writing rendered it suspect. It passed no judgment on whether I had plagiarized any statements, only that the content bore resemblance to machine-generated text.

My immediate reaction, I confess, was to teeter between horror and bemusement. The accusation—if one may call such pronouncements generated by AI algorithms such—felt surreal. After all, I knew the truth: I had written every word of the essay, agonized over phrasing, amended lines multiple times, and left the final version still slightly flawed in its characteristic manner—overwritten in places, a bit repetitive, and too fond of “dollar words” when “nickel words” might have sufficed. In other words, it bore the unmistakable hallmark of my own inimitable style and vocabulary—a style and vocabulary that had been mine long before AI and computers were available to assist writers.

My suspicion is that some AI detectors struggle with refined style and elevated or scholarly vocabulary, not because the language itself is artificial, but because such prose deviates from what the detectors expect. Many of these tools appear to assume that typical writing samples—particularly from Americans—will reflect a sixth- to eighth-grade reading and writing level, which is often cited as the norm in American education. As a result, writing that demonstrates syntactic complexity, lexical richness, or familiarity with classical or theological sources may be flagged as anomalous—if not by design, then by statistical accident.

But perhaps this is not so much a matter of cynicism as it is a reflection of changing cultural baselines. It may be that AI detectors are most often trained and tested on writing submitted by individuals who, through no fault of their own, have received a relatively standard education—one that is no longer grounded in the Western canon, rhetorical tradition, or literary cultivation. Meanwhile, the language models themselves were trained on vast bodies of material that included precisely such literary and scholarly writings. The result is a curious inversion: those whose writing reflects a more literary or humanistic sensibility may appear “too AI-like” because the models were trained on the very texts that once defined erudition. We have, in a sense, taught the machines what good writing looks like—and then turned around and accused anyone who writes well of being a machine.

Once the bemusement passed, I turned to curiosity. How could this happen? What is the current scholarly consensus on these tools? Are they reliable? Ethical? Legally defensible? And what risks do they pose—to students, educators, or professionals whose authentic work is misjudged by algorithm? The essay that follows is the product of those inquiries: an AI-assisted deep research essay on AI detection tools, their promises and pitfalls, their technical limits, and their unintended consequences.

To be clear, I do use AI tools—but not to draft my writing. I use them as an editor and as a very well-informed assistant. Tasks assigned to AI include reviewing essays for spelling and grammatical errors, formatting footnotes and endnotes, formatting essays for publication on my website, converting material into HTML, creating SEO-friendly titles and tags, checking poetic meter, or assisting me as a thesaurus when a word feels off. AI assists at the margins. It does not craft essays, as writing is my work.

Anyone still in doubt need only glance at my desk—or my nightstand or dining room table. There, amid scattered books, notebooks, half-drafted pages, and layers of revisions, is the reality of my writing process. It is rarely clean, often circuitous, and always human.

Writing is a laborious but enjoyable process. Many essays and poems take months to write, others take weeks, a few only days. Now and then, an essay or poem does arrive nearly whole, a rare gift, as if sprung from the brow of Zeus. But more often, it is a time-consuming process, coming line by line, revision by revision.

So, with that somewhat overwrought introduction, I offer the following AI-generated essay on AI detection tools—an essay which, in my professional and legal opinion, should dissuade any reasonable educator or institution from ever using AI detectors to determine authorship. AI plagiarism detection may still serve a purpose. But AI authorship detectors? Never. Do not be tempted.

And if I may offer some unsolicited advice in their place, grounded not in machine logic but in the lived practice of teaching and learning: when I taught history, reading, and religion to seventh and eighth graders at St. Edward Catholic School in Youngstown, Ohio, I insisted that all assignments be written in ink. “If one is to err, one should err boldly, in ink,” I told my students, and I refused to accept work written in pencil. This approach taught them not only to commit to their words but, more importantly, to reflect on them before committing anything to paper. It encouraged thought and contemplation—qualities essential to authentic writing and learning—rather than the careless drafting and endless erasing that pencils with erasers, and now mechanical tools, permit. That ethic, I believe, translates well to our current moment.

Educators should begin by becoming familiar with the voice, habits, and capabilities of the writers whose work they are assessing. Ask for drafts, notes, outlines, or written reflections that reveal the student’s thinking process. Structure assignments so that substantial components are completed in class, or are grounded in personal experience or classroom dialogue—subjects that AI cannot credibly fabricate. Make clear whether AI tools may be used, and if so, how. Explain why certain shortcuts, especially in formative stages, may undermine the very skills students are meant to acquire.

For developing writers especially, I am inclined to believe it is best to eschew AI altogether—and perhaps even computers and, dare I say, typewriters, should any still have access to them—in the early stages of learning. Write by hand, with ink. Let not an algorithm be found in the process.

Scholarly and Critical Perspectives on AI Content and Detection Tools

A CHAT GPT ESSAY

Introduction

AI content detection tools – such as Copyleaks, Turnitin’s AI-writing detector, GPTZero, and others – have emerged to help educators and publishers identify text that might have been generated by AI. These detectors typically analyze text for telltale patterns or “low perplexity” that could signal machine-written prose. However, as these tools proliferate in classrooms and journals, many academics, educators, and legal experts are raising alarms about their reliability, transparency, and potential harms. Recent studies and critiques suggest that current AI detectors often fall short of their promises and may even produce unintended negative consequences​ theguardian.com​vanderbilt.edu. This report provides an up-to-date overview of how academic, educational, and legal communities view AI content detectors, focusing on concerns over accuracy, fairness, and the risk of false accusations.

Accuracy and Reliability Issues

Detectors’ claims vs. reality: AI detector companies often tout extremely high accuracy rates – some advertise 98–99% accuracy for identifying AI-generated text​citl.news.niu.edu. For example, Copyleaks has claimed 99.12% accuracy and GPTZero about 99%​citl.news.niu.edu. In practice, independent evaluations have found such claims “misleading at best”​ theguardian.com. OpenAI’s own attempt at an AI-written text classifier was quietly discontinued in mid-2023 due to its “low rate of accuracy”​insidehighered.com​businessinsider.com. Even Turnitin, which integrated an AI-writing indicator into its plagiarism platform, acknowledged that real-world use revealed a higher false positive rate than initially estimated (more on false positives below)​insidehighered.com​insidehighered.com. In short, consensus is growing that no tool can infallibly distinguish human from AI text, especially as AI models evolve.

False negatives and AI evolution: Critics note that detectors struggle to keep up with the rapid progress of large language models. Many detectors were trained on older models (like GPT-2 or early GPT-3), making them prone to “overfitting” on those patterns while missing the more human-like writing produced by newer models such as GPT-4 ​bibek-poudel.medium.com. A recent U.K. study underscores this gap: when researchers secretly inserted AI-generated essays into real university exams, 94% of the AI-written answers went undetected by graders​ bibek-poudel.medium.com​reading.ac.uk. In fact, those AI-generated answers often received higher scores than human students’ work ​bibek-poudel.medium.com, highlighting that advanced AI can blend in undetected. This high false-negative rate suggests detectors (and even human examiners) can be easily fooled as AI-generated writing grows more sophisticated. It also reinforces that educators cannot rely on detectors alone – as one analyst put it, trying to catch AI in writing is “like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands” ​bibek-poudel.medium.com.

Transparency and Methodological Concerns

Many in academia criticize AI detection tools as “black boxes” that lack transparency. Turnitin’s AI detector, for instance, was rolled out in early 2023 with almost no public information on how it worked. Vanderbilt University – which initially enabled Turnitin’s AI checks – reported “no insight into how it [the AI detector] works” and noted that Turnitin provided “no detailed information as to how it determines if a piece of writing is AI-generated or not.” ​vanderbilt.edu Instead, instructors were told only that the tool looks for unspecified patterns common in AI writing. This opacity makes it difficult for educators and students to trust the results or to challenge them. If a student is flagged, neither the instructor nor the student can see what specific feature triggered the detector’s suspicion. Such lack of transparency runs counter to academic values of evidence and explanation, as decisions about academic integrity are being outsourced to an algorithm that operates in secrecy.

Lack of peer review or independent validation: Unlike plagiarism checkers (which match text against known sources), AI detectors use proprietary algorithms and often haven’t been rigorously peer-reviewed in public. Experts point out that “AI detectors are themselves a type of artificial intelligence” with all the attendant opaqueness and unpredictability ​citl.news.niu.edu. This raises concerns about due process: should a student face consequences from a tool whose inner workings are not open to scrutiny? Legal commentators note that relying on an unproven algorithm for high-stakes decisions is risky – any “evidence” from an AI detector is inherently probabilistic and not easily explainable in plain terms  ​cedarlawpllc.com​cedarlawpllc.com. Some universities have therefore erred on the side of caution. For example, the University of Minnesota explicitly “does not recommend instructors use AI detection software because of its known issues”  ​mprnews.org, and advises that if used at all, it be treated as an “imperfect last resort.”

Privacy concerns: Another transparency issue involves data privacy and consent. Using third-party AI detectors means student submissions (which can include personal reflections or sensitive content) are sent to an external service. Vanderbilt’s review concluded that “even if [an AI detector] claimed higher accuracy… there are real privacy concerns about taking student data and entering it into a detector managed by a separate company with unknown data usage policies.”​  vanderbilt.edu Educators worry that student work could be stored or reused by these companies without students’ knowledge. This lack of clarity about data handling adds yet another layer of concern, leading some institutions to opt out of detector services on privacy grounds alone.

False Positives and Bias Against Certain Writers

Perhaps the most pressing criticism of AI content detectors is their propensity for false positives – flagging authentic human work as AI-generated. Researchers and educators have documented numerous cases of sophisticated or even simplistic human writing being mistaken for machine output. A dramatic illustration comes from feeding well-known texts into detectors: when analysts ran the U.S. Constitution through several AI detectors, the document was flagged as likely written by AI​  senseient.com. The reason is rooted in how these tools work. Many detectors measure “perplexity,” essentially how predictably a text aligns with patterns seen in AI training data​  senseient.com​senseient.com. Paradoxically, a text like the Constitution or certain Bible verses, which use common words and structures, appears too predictable and yields a low perplexity score – causing the detector to misjudge it as AI-produced. As one expert quipped, detectors can incorrectly label even America’s most important legal document as machine-made​  senseient.com. This highlights a fundamental flaw: well-written or formulaic human prose can trip the alarms because AI models are trained on vast amounts of such text and can mimic it.

Bias against non-native English writers: A growing body of scholarship reveals that AI detectors may disproportionately flag work by certain groups of human writers. A 2023 Stanford study by Liang et al. found that over half of essays written by non-native English speakers were wrongly flagged as AI-generated by popular detectors​  theguardian.com. By contrast, the same detectors judged over 90% of essays by native English-speaking middle-schoolers to be human-written  ​theguardian.com. The disparity stems from linguistic style: non-native writers, or those with more basic vocabulary and simpler grammar, inadvertently write in a way that the detectors identify as “low perplexity” (too predictable)  ​theguardian.com. Detectors, trained on AI outputs that tend to be straightforward, end up penalizing writers who use simpler phrasing or formulaic structures, even if their work is entirely original  ​theguardian.com. The Stanford team bluntly concluded that “the design of many GPT detectors inherently discriminates against non-native authors”​  themarkup.org. This bias can have serious implications in academia and hiring: an ESL student’s college essay or a non-native job applicant’s cover letter might be unfairly flagged, potentially “marginalizing non-native English speakers on the internet” as one report warned  ​theguardian.com​theguardian.com.

Beyond language background, other kinds of “atypical” writing styles trigger false positives. People with autism or other neurodivergent conditions, who might write in a repetitive or highly structured way, have been snared by AI detectors. Bloomberg reported the case of a college student with autism who wrote in a very formal, patterned style – a detector misidentified her work, leading to a failing grade and a traumatic accusation of cheating  ​gigazine.net. She described the experience as feeling “like I was punched in the stomach” upon learning the software tagged her essay as AI-written  ​gigazine.net. Likewise, younger students or those with limited vocabulary (through no fault of their own) could be at higher risk. In tests on pre-ChatGPT student essays, researchers found detectors disproportionately flagged papers with “straightforward” sentences or repetitive word choices​  mprnews.org​gigazine.net. These examples underline a key point from critics: AI content detectors exhibit systemic biases – they are more likely to falsely accuse certain human writers (non-native English writers, neurodivergent students, etc.), raising equity and ethical red flags.

Real World Consequence: False Accusations and Student Harm

For students and educators, a false positive isn’t an abstract statistical problem – it can derail a person’s education or career. Recent incidents show the tangible harm caused by over-reliance on AI detectors. At Johns Hopkins University, lecturer Taylor Hahn discovered multiple instances where Turnitin’s AI checker flagged student papers as 90% AI-written, even though the students had written them honestly​  themarkup.org​themarkup.org. In one case, a student was able to produce drafts and notes to prove her work was her own, leading Hahn to conclude the “tool had made a mistake.”​  themarkup.org  He and others have since grown wary of trusting such software. Unfortunately, not all students get the benefit of the doubt initially. In Texas, a professor infamously failed an entire class after an AI tool (reportedly ChatGPT itself) “detected” cheating, only for it to emerge that the students hadn’t cheated – the detector was simply not a valid evidence tool  ​businessinsider.com​businessinsider.com. Incidents like this have fueled professors’ concerns that blind faith in detectors could lead to wrongful punishments of innocent students.

The psychological and academic toll of false accusations is significant. Students report experiencing stress, anxiety, and a damaged sense of trust when their authentic work is misjudged by an algorithm​  citl.news.niu.edu. For international students, the stakes can be even higher. As one Vietnamese student explained, if an AI detector wrongly flags his paper, it “represents a threat to his grades, and therefore his merit scholarship” – even raising fears about visa status if academic standing is lost  ​themarkup.org​themarkup.org. In the U.S., where academic misconduct can lead to expulsion, an unfounded cheating charge could put an international student at risk of deportation​  themarkup.org. These scenarios illustrate why students like those at the University of Minnesota say they “live in fear of AI detection software”, knowing one false flag could be “the difference between a degree and going home.”  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org

Unsurprisingly, some students and faculty have fought back. In early 2025, a Ph.D. student at the University of Minnesota filed a lawsuit alleging he was unfairly expelled based on an AI cheating accusation​  mprnews.org​mprnews.org. He maintains he did not use AI on an exam, and objects that professors relied on unvalidated detection software as evidence  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org. The case, which garnered national attention, underscores the legal minefield institutions enter if they treat AI detector output as proof of misconduct. Similarly, a community college student in Washington state had his failing grade and discipline overturned after lawyers demonstrated to the school’s administration how unreliable the detection program was – notably, the college vice-president admitted that even her own email reply was flagged as 66% AI-generated by the tool  ​cedarlawpllc.com  ​cedarlawpllc.com. In voiding the penalty, the college effectively acknowledged that the detector’s result was not trustworthy evidence​  cedarlawpllc.com. These cases highlight a common refrain: without corroborating evidence, an AI detector’s output alone is too flimsy to justify accusing someone of academic dishonesty​  cedarlawpllc.com.

Responses from Educators and Institutions

The educational community’s response to AI detectors has rapidly evolved from initial curiosity to growing skepticism. Many instructors, while concerned about AI-assisted cheating, have concluded that current detector tools are “a flawed solution to a nuanced challenge.” They argue that “they promise certainty in an area where certainty doesn’t exist”  ​bibek-poudel.medium.com. Instead of fostering integrity, heavy-handed use of detectors can create an adversarial classroom environment and chill student creativity  ​medium.com. For these reasons, a number of teaching and learning centers at universities have published guides essentially making the case against AI detectors. For instance, the University of Iowa’s pedagogy center bluntly advises faculty to “refrain from using AI detectors on student work due to the inherent inaccuracies” and to seek alternative ways to uphold integrity​  teach.its.uiowa.edu. Northern Illinois University’s academic technology office labeled detectors an “ethical minefield,” arguing their drawbacks (false accusations, bias, stress on students) “often outweigh any perceived benefits.”​  citl.news.niu.edu Their guidance encourages faculty to prioritize fair assessments and student trust over any quick technological fix​citl.  news.niu.edu.

Importantly, some universities have instituted policy decisions to limit or reject the use of AI detection tools. In August 2023, after internal tests and consultations, Vanderbilt University decided to disable Turnitin’s AI detector campus-wide  ​vanderbilt.edu  ​vanderbilt.edu. Vanderbilt’s announcement cited multiple concerns: uncertain reliability, lack of transparency, the risk of ~1% false positives (potentially hundreds of students falsely flagged each year), and evidence of bias against non-native English writers  ​vanderbilt.edu​vanderbilt.edu. Northwestern University likewise turned off Turnitin’s AI detection in fall 2023 and “did not recommend using it to check students’ work.”  ​businessinsider.com  The University of Texas at Austin also halted use, with a vice-provost stating that until the tools are accurate enough, “we don’t want to create a situation where students are falsely accused.”  ​businessinsider.com   Even Turnitin’s own guidance to educators now stresses caution, advising that its AI findings “should not be used as the sole basis for academic misconduct allegations” and should be combined with human judgment​  turnitin.com. In practice, many colleges have shifted focus to preventative and pedagogical strategies – designing assignments that are harder for AI to complete (personal reflections, oral exams, in-class writing), educating students about acceptable AI use, and improving assessment design  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org. This approach seeks to address AI-related cheating without leaning on fallible detection software.

On a broader policy level, OpenAI itself has cautioned educators against over-reliance on detectors. In a back-to-school guide for fall 2023, OpenAI explicitly warned that AI content detectors are not reliable for distinguishing GPT-written text​  businessinsider.com. The company even confirmed what independent studies found: detectors tend to mislabel writing by non-English authors as AI-generated, and thus should be used, if at all, with extreme care  ​businessinsider.com. As a result, many institutions are rethinking how to maintain academic integrity in the AI era. The emerging consensus in education is that no AI detection tool today offers a magic bullet, and using them blindly can cause more harm than good. Instead, instructors are encouraged to discuss AI use openly with students, set clear policies, and consider assessments that integrate AI as a learning tool rather than treat it as a forbidden trick  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org.

Legal and Ethical Considerations

The controversies around AI writing detectors also raise legal and ethical questions. From an ethical standpoint, deploying a tool known to produce errors that can jeopardize students’ academic standing is highly problematic. Scholars of educational ethics argue that the potential for “unfounded accusations” and damage to student well-being means the costs of using such detectors may outweigh the benefits  ​themarkup.org  ​themarkup.org. There is an implicit breach of trust when a student’s honest work is deemed guilty until proven innocent by an algorithm. This reverses the usual academic principle of assuming student honesty and has been compared to using an unreliable litmus test that forces students to “prove their innocence” after a machine accuses them​  themarkup.org. Such an approach can poison the student-teacher relationship and create a climate of suspicion in the classroom.

Legally, if a student is disciplined or loses opportunities due to a false AI detection, institutions could face challenges. Education lawyers note that students might have grounds for appeal or even litigation if they can show that an accusation rested on junk science. The defamation lawsuit at Minnesota (mentioned above) may set an important precedent on whether sole reliance on AI detectors can be considered negligent or unjust by a university  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org. Additionally, since studies have demonstrated bias against non-native English speakers, one could argue that using these detectors in high-stakes decisions could inadvertently violate anti-discrimination policies or laws, if international or ESL students are disproportionately harmed. Universities are aware of these risks. As the Cedar Law case in Washington illustrated, once informed of the detector’s fallibility, administrators reversed the sanction to avoid unfairly tarnishing a student’s record​  cedarlawpllc.com​cedarlawpllc.com. The takeaway for many is that any evidence from an AI detector must be corroborated and cannot be treated as conclusive. As one legal commentary put it: the “lesson from these cases is that colleges must be extremely conscientious given the present lack of reliable AI-detection tools, and must evaluate all evidence carefully to reach a just result.”​  cedarlawpllc.com

Finally, there are broader implications for academic freedom and assessment. If instructors were to let fear of AI cheating drive them to use opaque tools, they might also chill legitimate student expression or push students toward homogenized writing. Some ethicists argue that the very concept of AI text detection may be a “technological dead end” – because writing is too variable and AI is explicitly designed to mimic human style, trying to perfectly separate the two may be futile​  bibek-poudel.medium.com​bibek-poudel.medium.com. A more ethical response, they suggest, is to teach students how to use AI responsibly and adapt educational practices, rather than leaning on surveillance technology that cannot guarantee fairness.

Conclusion

Current scholarly and critical perspectives converge on a clear message: today’s AI content detectors are not fully reliable or equitable tools, and their unchecked use can do more harm than good. While the idea of an “AI lie detector” is appealing in theory, in practice these programs struggle with both false negatives (missing AI-written text) and false positives (flagging innocent writing) to a degree that undermines their utility. The lack of transparency and independent validation further erodes confidence, as does evidence of bias against certain writers. Across academia, educators and researchers are warning that an over-reliance on AI detectors could lead to wrongful accusations, damaged student-teacher trust, and even legal repercussions. Instead of providing a quick fix to AI-facilitated cheating, these tools have become an object of controversy and caution.

In the educational community, a shift is underway – away from automated detection and toward pedagogy and policy solutions. Many universities have scaled back use of detectors, opting to train faculty in better assessment design, set clear guidelines for AI use, and foster open dialogue with students about the role of AI in learning  ​mprnews.org​mprnews.org. Researchers are continuing to study detection methods, but most acknowledge that as AI writing gets more advanced, the detection arms race will only intensify​  edintegrity.biomedcentral.com​edintegrity.biomedcentral.com. In the meantime, the consensus is that any use of AI content detectors must be coupled with human judgment, skepticism of the results, and a recognition of the tools’ limits  ​edintegrity.biomedcentral.com​edintegrity.biomedcentral.com. The overarching lesson from the past two years is one of caution: integrity in education is best upheld by informed teaching practices and fair processes, not by uncritically trusting in artificial intelligence to police itself​  cedarlawpllc.com​citl.news.niu.edu.

The Art of Praise: Tariff Impact on Economics and Ethics

Recently, I published an essay titled The Certainty of Wealth Redistribution Amid Tariff Chaos, in which I argued that the true function of the current administration’s tariff policies was not economic revival, but the deliberate and predictable transfer of wealth from working households to the uppermost tier of financial elites.

Events of the past several days—culminating in imposition of a market-crashing tariff decree swiftly reversed for maximum opportunistic gain—have confirmed my worst fears. That some now praise this spectacle as “brilliant” only adds insult to economic injury.

In response, I offer the following satirical memo from a fictional Wharton Annex ethics professor—one Professor Basil P. Whisker, Chair of Ethical Opportunism at the Weasel School of Business. His observations regarding the situation and the logic he embodies—even though he is fictional—are uncomfortably real.

Professor Basil P. Whisker

On Ethics, Market Manipulation, and the Power of Praise

Buy the Dip, Praise the Dipper: A Wealth Transfer Playbook

By Professor Basil P. Whisker, PhD, MBA, CFA (Parole Honoré Distinction)
Chair of Ethical Opportunism, Weasel School of Business, Wharton Annex
Formerly of the Federal Correctional Institute for White Collar Refinement
“Our Honor Code is Flexible. Our Returns Are Not.”

Some in Congress have raised the unfashionable concern that the recent tariff saga looks suspiciously like market manipulation.

To which I reply: Of course it is.
But for whom?

Not the little people—they lack both the reflexes and the capital reserves. No, it is for the elite few trained in the disciplines of anticipation, flexibility, and pliable morality.

At the Weasel School of Business, we teach that ethics must be nonlinear and dynamic—responsive to the moment, like high-frequency trading algorithms or a presidential memory when questioned under oath. The recent 90-day tariff “pause” (following a dramatic market collapse) teaches students everywhere that sometimes the most profitable thing to do is to:

  1. Create a crisis
  2. Seize the resulting dip
  3. Declare victory through reversal
  4. Congratulate the disruptor for his “brilliance”
  5. Move on before the subpoenas arrive

The Art of the Non-Deal

When a policy announcement wipes trillions from the markets, only to be reversed days later with a triumphant “THIS IS A GREAT TIME TO BUY!!!” post, we must acknowledge we are witnessing not governance but performance art.

Like all great art, it asks difficult questions:

  • Is it market manipulation if you announce the manipulation in real time?
  • Can one declare “Liberation Day” and then liberate oneself from that declaration?
  • If financial whiplash creates billionaire gratitude, is it still whiplash—or merely strategic spine realignment?

Billionaires praising such tactics is not sycophancy—it is advanced portfolio management by other means.

As we say in Weasel Finance 101:
“Praise is just another form of leverage.”

Looking Ahead: A Curriculum of Chaos

We are entering a new phase of global commerce—what I call the Era of the Glorious Lurch. In this new age, tariffs are not policies but market mood regulators, deployed tactically to evoke loss, recovery, and eventual Stockholm syndrome-like gratitude.

My revised syllabus for the coming semester will include:

  • Advanced Self-Dealing (OPS-526)
  • Narrative Arbitrage: Writing History Before It Happens (OPS-618)
  • Strategic Sycophancy and Influence Leasing (co-listed with Communications)
  • Tariff Whiplash: Creating Wealth Through Vertigo (OPS-750)
  • When Textbooks Fail: The Art of the No-Deal Deal (Senior Seminar)

Applications are open. Scholarships available for those with prior SEC entanglements or experience declaring “everything’s beautiful” while markets burn.

A Word on Timing

Critics who suggest that one should wait until an actual deal is struck before declaring brilliance simply do not understand modern finance.

In today’s economy, praise is a futures contract—you are betting on the perception of success, not success itself.

When a policy costs the average American household thousands in higher prices and market losses, only to be partially reversed with no actual concessions gained, the correct reaction is not analysis but applause. After all, it takes real courage to back down without admitting it.

A Final Toast

To the president, I raise a glass of vintage tax shelter with notes of plausible deniability.

To the billionaires celebrating the “brilliant execution” of a retreat, I offer a velvet-lined echo chamber.

And to my students, past and future, I remind you:
If you cannot time the market, at least time your praise.

Because in today’s economy, there is no such thing as too soon, too blatant, or too obviously beneficial to the 0.01%.

So next time markets plunge on policy chaos, do not ask “who benefits?”
Instead ask, “am I positioned to be among those who do?”

Thank you. And as always—
buy low, tweet high, and declare victory before the facts catch up.