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Our public discourse needs responsible rhetoric before it is too late

The right turn of phrase can turn a nation, the wrong one can destroy

Tom has a PhD in Theology and works as a hospital physician.

A crowd of people stand in the side steps of the Lincoln Memorial
Easter services, Lincoln Memorial.
George Pflueger, via Unspash.

When was the last time a brilliant piece of rhetoric made the headlines? 

“Empty rhetoric.”  

“Form over function.”  

“Sloganeering.” 

These—and other accolades—are stock trade when it comes to the art of denouncing public discourse. Red flags are rightly waved in the face of baseless claims and insincere promises. Scroll through a news reel; open a newspaper: language far stronger in style than in substance is not hard to find. 

Nowadays we are sensitive to these kinds of abuses of public platforms. When Donald Trump speaks of the ‘Great Big Beautiful Bill’ or Elon Musk of the ‘Big Ugly Bill’ we know the cogs at BBC Verify are likely to be turning. Fact-checking is an established trade.  

Sometimes political turns of phrase are just careless, inadequately thought through. Granted, a politician’s public address is often put together at a pace. Time is so remarkably tight that phrasing and formulations are not interrogated as fully as they might be. (Krish Kandiah recently picked up the Prime Minister’s “island of strangers” line and its unfortunate resonance) 

But of course, the critiques I’ve listed above are themselves sharply rhetorical. They are punchy. Not drawn-out logical deductions. They aim to make us sit upright and win us over. Or move us to a course of action. 

So: is rhetoric the problem? No. Its misuse is the problem. This isn’t always clear. And it’s the reason why simply decrying “rhetoric” won’t get us very far.  

I am sympathetic to the suspicion. When efficiency and pragmatism tower high among the canons of public discourse, it is easier to trade in polarising x versus y expressions. Being guarded in the face of such potent idiom is understandable.  

And yet the most remarkable public discourses in human history have been rich in rhetoric.  

Martin Luther King at the Lincoln Memorial: “I have a dream.”  

Churchill in the House of Commons: “we shall fight them on the beaches.”  

Lincoln’s Gettysburg address: “government of the people, by the people, for the people.”  

All these speakers knew that bare understanding doesn’t typically move people to action. An impassioned speech, a plea to respond, or beautifully woven prose often serve as the tipping point for social engagement. 

Which leads me to wonder, what if a suspicion of smart speech-making ends up stunting social engagement, rather than fostering it? Perhaps political discourse today has gone too far; perhaps rhetoric is beyond repair. And yet: abuse doesn’t mean there isn’t proper use. There is a better way.

When persuasive powers are uncoupled from sound argument, then rhetoric obscures understanding and has become irresponsible. 

In the classical era, training in rhetoric was a prominent feature of an education. You might say it was the way to avoid the charge: “All substance, no style”. It was about turning a sound argument into an art form. For Aristotle, rhetoric was about making use of the tools of persuasion—substance with style. But skill in persuasion was not a virtue of itself; it never stood alone. As Roger Standing has reminded us, “the function of rhetorical skills was not to persuade in and of themselves.” Indeed, training in rhetoric was training in responsibility.  

In his classic 1950s text Ethics of Rhetoric, Richard Weaver put his finger on this. He highlighted that “rhetoric passes from mere scientific demonstration of an idea to its relation to prudential conduct.” True rhetoric, then, is this: the art of lighting up the path that leads from sound logic to good action

Today, it seems that when it comes to the rules of rhetoric, communicators are answerable to polls and popularity. These ends justify the means, which makes fancy formulations fair game. If style secures votes, then it’s a good job done. But this means the communicator has no real accountability for his or her language. Pragmatism is in the driving seat. In a sense, responsibility has been handed over to the hearer.  

This is problematic. When persuasive powers are uncoupled from sound argument, then rhetoric obscures understanding and has become irresponsible. Language is no longer illuminating, but misleading. It is trading on falsehood, or perhaps half-truths, instead of magnifying what is true for the sake of what is good. 

Take an example. In the recent parliamentary debate over amendments to the assisted dying bill, the proceedings opened with the claim that “if we do not vote to change the law, we are essentially saying that the status quo is acceptable.” I don’t for a moment doubt the good intent in this claim—securing the most compassionate care possible for terminally ill adults. But let it be said: no, those who do not advocate assisted dying are not “essentially” saying this. This claim is a non sequitur: the conclusion does not follow the premise. It is logically unsound. 

Like many tools, the art of persuasion can be wielded carelessly; sometimes maliciously. But rhetoric-free public discourse would make for a colourless and lifeless thing indeed. What we need now is rhetoric that is responsible—responsible to what is true and responsible to good outcomes. These should not be split; as soon as they are, speech-making becomes sterile or hollow. I recently heard the neat phrase: “Some people reach your mind by going through the heart, and some people reach your heart by going through your mind.” Yes, as the Christian faith has always maintained: mind and heart belong together. Give us words that awaken both, like those once spoken by that obscure wandering rabbi, Jesus of Nazareth, in one of the most studied and penetrating speeches in human history:  

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. 

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. 

I pray for public discourse brimming with both substance and style. It might help lead us to better things. 

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Culture
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5 min read

The story from a galaxy far, far away that's just made for these times

Andor holds up a galactic mirror to our media-saturated world.

Krish is a social entrepreneur partnering across civil society, faith communities, government and philanthropy. He founded The Sanctuary Foundation.

A montage shows the lead characters from Andor.

It’s an unlikely setup for success: a series set in a forgotten corner of the galaxy, a prequel to a prequel, telling the backstory behind Rogue One - the fourth highest-grossing Star Wars film. It’s a show with none of the original characters—no Darth Vader, no Luke Skywalker, no Obi-Wan. And yet, Andor has garnered widespread critical acclaim and fan appreciation. This Disney+ series has become the first true Star Wars content for grown-ups. 

Disney invested heavily in acquiring the rights to both the Marvel and Star Wars franchises, paying $4 billion for each. The returns have been massive—an estimated $13 billion from the Marvel Cinematic Universe and $11 billion from Star Wars. Yet, despite the financial success, something has been lost along the way: mediocre storylines, convoluted time-travel plots, and repetitive tropes have dulled the creative edge. 

But Andor stands apart. It offers something different—a grounded, character-driven narrative with rich, resonant themes that speak directly to today’s audience. 

Tyranny needs resisting at all levels

Andor follows a number of intersecting character arcs. Although the series is named after Cassian Andor (played by Diego Luna), a disillusioned smuggler turned Rebel Alliance operative, the story is much larger than a single man.  

As the Empire tightens its grip—both openly through military might and brutality, and in the shadows with a vast array of spies, surveillance, and an ever-expanding intelligence network—the need for resistance at every level becomes urgent. Those with a voice need to speak up while there is still a semblance of democracy and freedom of speech. Money is required to fund an insurgency and foot soldiers from all walks of life need to be found and prepared to rise and challenge the systemic injustice and rising imperial oppression. 

Enter Cassian Andor, orphaned at age six and adopted by Maarva and Clem Andor. His early experiences with poverty and oppression awaken something within him—something that solidifies when Clem is executed by stormtroopers. At the other end of the spectrum is Mon Mothma, born into privilege and political influence. Her arc centres on a moral crossroads: whether she will risk her status, her wealth, and her safety to support the resistance from within the halls of power. 

The relevance of Andor's message couldn’t be timelier. In an era marked by rising authoritarianism, disinformation, and increasing political polarization, the show insists that tyranny must be resisted at every level. It reminds us that democratic institutions are fragile, and silence in the face of injustice enables oppression to grow unchecked. Whether it’s fighting against despotic leadership, the erosion of freedom of speech, or systemic inequality, Andor suggests that the burden of resistance cannot simply fall solely on the heroic few. It requires people at every level of society to act with courage, integrity, and purpose before it’s too late. 

 Truth matters 

One important storyline in Andor is how the Empire constructs a moral justification for its actions through state-controlled, propagandist media. Good people can be manipulated, and truth can be twisted. In real time, we witness spin doctors denying or reframing the brutality unfolding around them—even as the Empire violently crushes a peaceful protest in Gorman. 

Showrunner Tony Gilroy uses every world-building tool at his disposal to draw parallels with both historical and contemporary injustices. For instance, the costuming of the Empire’s senior leadership and Imperial Security Bureau agents evokes eerie similarities to Gestapo uniforms. In contrast, the Gorman resistance fighters appear as if they’ve stepped off the set of Les Misérables, echoing the June Rebellion of 1832. They even speak in a French-accented galactic dialect, reinforcing the connection. 

It's difficult not to read this as a critique of how modern news outlets reframe and re-narrate global conflicts—such as the war in Israel and Gaza—to suit and shape their audiences. This agenda-driven reporting distorts facts and desensitizes viewers, often at the expense of those suffering on the ground. The complicity of the press in disinformation and facilitating or justifying atrocities, is contributing even today to ongoing humanitarian crises in places like Sudan and Gaza. 

In a supposedly post-truth era, Andor reminds us that truth still matters. The series holds up a mirror to our media-saturated world, revealing how outrage is manufactured, narratives are controlled, and reality is often mediated through selective storytelling. It challenges us to reflect on the reliability of the news we consume—and on our own role in questioning or accepting the stories we're told. 

Which side are you on? 

One of the most compelling aspects of Andor is its portrayal of parallel lives on both sides of the conflict. While much of the action follows Cassian’s transformation from smuggler to reluctant operative to key rebel leader, we also witness the rise of Dedra Meero—a driven, ambitious surveillance officer within the ISB, the Empire’s intelligence arm. 

Dedra begins as an underdog fighting workplace sexism in a male-dominated bureaucracy. But as her career advances, so does her capacity for cruelty. She becomes one of the Empire’s most ruthless enforcers, willing to sacrifice anything and anyone in her relentless pursuit of Rebel operatives. Her story is a chilling reminder of how authoritarian systems reward efficiency and zeal, no matter the moral cost. Ironically, her single-mindedness may end up helping the rebellion—her recklessness potentially exposes secrets about the Death Star. 

Throughout the series, we see similar tactics employed on both sides—surveillance, betrayal, sacrifice. The only difference is the larger narrative arc that ultimately vindicates the Rebellion’s cause. But in building complex, believable antagonists like Dedra, Andor shows us the banality of evil—how ordinary people, convinced they are doing the right thing, can become instruments of oppression. 

The question the series leaves us with is chillingly simple: in a world sliding toward growing injustice, which side are you on? 

Celebrate our 2nd birthday!

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,000 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?

Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief