Our family loves college football, like many American families. The opening weekend had its share of surprises — Florida State might be good, Alabama might be bad and Bill Belichick might be better off retired.
But perhaps the most talked-about surprise was the poor performance of Texas quarterback Arch Manning. In the weeks leading up to the season, he was everywhere: commercials, interviews and highlight reels proclaiming him the next Heisman winner.
Our family bought into the hype like everyone else. On a recent trip to Austin, two of my kids even bought Arch Manning T-shirts, despite Texas not being “our” team. Expectations were sky-high. But in his first game of the season, he faltered.
We were a bit disappointed, and our new shirts felt a little less valuable, but we consoled ourselves knowing that Ohio State is an excellent team and that Arch still has a long season ahead.
When I opened our social media feeds, though, we realized not everyone was so forgiving. Ridiculing memes, angry fans and endless commentary filled our screens.
Hey everyone, the kid is only 21. While he may have jumped too quickly into commercial deals, he didn’t create all the propaganda himself. Yet no matter, he had fallen woefully short. And the online reaction was merciless.
Mob-like attacks online are increasingly common. Whether it’s a Coldplay concert exposing an adulterous couple, or a viral video of a CEO stealing a hat from a child at a tennis match, the internet horde has no shortage of victims. Guilt or innocence hardly matters — once chosen, the target receives no mercy. Watching the barrage of memes and articles directed at Arch Manning, I couldn’t ignore its resemblance to something far more barbaric.
What I saw online reminded me of history lessons from childhood. I remember being horrified to learn about the crowds that cheered at the Roman Colosseum as people were torn apart by lions. How could people do such things? It seemed so obvious that no one alive today could be capable of such inhumanity.
I was perhaps a bit naive about human nature because of my own sheltered upbringing. Yes, there were bullies at school and rude drivers on the road, but nothing that resembled open torture or humiliation. The idea of large groups gathering to deride someone, reveling in their anguish, felt unimaginable to me. The internet has shown me since, that maybe we aren’t that far removed from the atrocities of past centuries.
We can never know how we would have acted under Nero’s reign, as Roman guards at the cross of Jesus, or in the streets of Paris under Robespierre.
But we can all ask ourselves: who are we in the Reign of the Internet? In ancient Rome, people filled stadiums to watch slaves, Christians and gladiators being ripped apart. In the Middle Ages, men, women, and even children gathered in communal squares to watch heretics or thieves being burned at the stake. Now, with the rise of digital platforms, are we channeling those same dark impulses into the online arena?
Laughing at a video making fun of Arch Manning might feel harmless, and you might think I am taking it all a bit too seriously; memes are not a public execution.
But are these collective jeers so different in spirit? Both ancient and modern spectacles rely on a lack of empathy and a sense of moral superiority — believing the victim “deserves” humiliation or pain.
If you want to know if you would have been part of the merciless mobs of history, maybe ask yourself if you are currently part of the mocking, condemning, trolling mob on the web.
A more difficult example is the adulterous couple at the Coldplay concert. After they were caught on camera, their private betrayal quickly became public entertainment. One might argue they deserved exposure and ridicule. After all, infidelity causes real harm.
But all who mock feel justified in their actions. Crowds once believed heretics deserved to be burned and Christians deserved to be fed to lions. Even if the one being ridiculed seems clearly guilty — who made us a stranger’s executioner? Even when mobs are right in principle, their destruction often sweeps up the innocent along with the guilty.
It’s not judgment, which is the problem here, since judgment is necessary for us to recognize immorality for what it is. Adultery is wrong, and our society should recognize that. Even shame has its place.
Yet rather than reinforcing norms crucial to public morality, the flurry of internet gossip today feels much more about condemnation and glorying in others’ downfall.
In “The Lord of the Rings,” Frodo is disgusted by the squirmy and duplicitous Gollum, and for good reason. But when he expresses his regret that Bilbo did not kill Gollum, Gandalf gives a surprising response:
“Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”
Gollum, though despicable to the end, plays a crucial role in Frodo’s ultimate success in destroying the ring.
We are not God. We do not see all ends. And when we set ourselves up as arbiters of punishment, we almost always get it wrong.
The adulterous couple’s children, already mourning a broken home, must now endure public shame. Even friends, coworkers and extended family feel the ripple effects.
Yet for those still stuck on whether online ridicule is anything at all like more ancient public spectacles, maybe you should ask someone who has lived through the rampage of an internet mob.
Their lives and perspectives are forever changed.
Why are we so drawn to these spectacles — whether it’s ridiculing an athlete, laughing at an overweight woman falling in public, or jeering at an unhinged political outburst? Perhaps it makes us feel superior, or perhaps we’re just bored and addicted to endless streams of content.
But whatever the reason, the result is the same: we are repeating the historic cycle of justifying the public humiliation of others.
Even when people “deserve” it, hoping for and encouraging the misery of another person is indulging a dark, unhealthy impulse. If we continue, we will grow numb to human suffering. We will stop seeing those on our screens as real human beings — yes, with a mother who loves them.