The Unbearable Lightness of Being Concerned
Susan Collins and the Theater of Moderate Dissent
Susan Collins is “extremely troubled” again. This time, it's over the revelation that Trump administration officials have been texting war plans to a reporter. This is merely the latest episode in her long-running performance of concern that stretches back to the earliest days of the Trump era.
In January 2017, she called Trump's refugee travel ban “likely unconstitutional” and his appointment of Steve Bannon to the NSC "entirely inappropriate." In May 2017, she was “concerned” about Comey's firing. By August 2017, she expressed that many Republican colleagues “are as concerned as I am” about Trump's Charlottesville response. In January 2018, she thought adding “extra safeguards” to protect Mueller “certainly wouldn't hurt.” June 2018 saw her express “deep concerns” about family separations. In July 2018, she “sharply disagreed” with Trump's Helsinki comments. October 2018 found her calling Trump's mocking of Dr. Ford “just plain wrong.” In July 2019, Trump's racist tweets were “way over the line.” By February 2020, she famously assured us that Trump had “learned his lesson” after his first impeachment. In June 2020, she found Trump's Lafayette Square photo-op “painful to watch.” Most recently, she was “very concerned” about mass firings in the federal government.
This litany of concern would be impressive if it had ever translated into meaningful action. But time and again, Collins' expressions of discomfort have proven to be performances of moral seriousness that demand neither courage nor consequence. It is virtue-signaling for the Beltway class—a series of weightless linguistic gestures designed to satisfy the Washington press corps while avoiding the inconvenience of actual conviction.
Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And Susan Collins' “concerns” are worth precisely nothing if they don't translate into concrete action.
Susan Collins is a bad politician who puts the interests of the Republican Party and the maintenance of its power ahead of the interest of a nation she swore an oath to serve. That's a breach of faith. In her, we see what Hannah Arendt might have recognized as the banality of complicity—not the spectacular evil of the true believer, but the more insidious corruption of the functionary who normalizes the unacceptable through procedural routine. She embodies the dangerous space between knowledge and action, between seeing clearly and responding ethically—a space where language becomes not the vehicle of truth but its substitute, where the vocabulary of conscience serves to alleviate its demands rather than fulfill them.
While Collins did vote against some of Trump's nominations this time around—including conspiracy theorist Kash Patel for FBI Director—she did so only in instances where it didn't matter, where her vote wasn't decisive. Does anyone believe she would have voted against Patel if she had been the deciding vote? If so, I have a bridge in Bangor to sell you. Her moral courage extends precisely to the point where it carries no actual risk—no further, no less. She is a party hack who genuflects at morality. That's what she is.
Consider how, despite her position as chair of the powerful Senate Appropriations Committee, she has so far refused to hold hearings addressing the very concerns she so publicly expresses. When pressed about the administration blocking spending approved by Congress—a direct violation of constitutional authority—her response was simply to suggest “it would be decided by the courts” and that “a lot of these issues are going to end up in court.” This isn't governance; it's abdication masquerading as process.
Or consider her role in Brett Kavanaugh's confirmation—a judicial nominee who now appears more than happy to ally himself with Alito and Thomas in embracing “unitary executive theory”. This isn't just another obscure legal doctrine; it's a radical reimagining of presidential power that would transform American governance into something barely recognizable as a democracy.
The unitary executive theory, in its most extreme form championed by these justices, holds that the President possesses virtually unlimited authority over the entire executive branch. It argues that Congress cannot create independent agencies or impose meaningful constraints on how the President manages federal employees. In practical terms, this would mean a President could fire anyone in the executive branch for any reason—including for refusing to pursue political vendettas or for investigating presidential wrongdoing.
This theory would invalidate decades of legislation designed to protect good governance. It would nullify the 1883 Pendleton Act, which ended the corrupt spoils system where federal jobs were handed out as political patronage. It would obliterate the 1939 Hatch Act, which prevents federal employees from engaging in partisan political activities. It would destroy the post-Watergate reforms that created inspector generals and special counsels. In short, it would eliminate every meaningful safeguard against presidential corruption and abuse of power. It should most appropriately be called the “elected monarch theory.”
The advocates of this theory justify it by selectively quoting Alexander Hamilton's Federalist No. 70, which argued for “energy in the executive,” while conveniently ignoring Hamilton's extensive warnings about the dangers of executive tyranny elsewhere in the Federalist Papers. They claim the Constitution's original meaning renders a professional, politically neutral civil service—a cornerstone of every functioning modern democracy—unconstitutional.
This is actually what this crazy person, who now has a lifetime appointment to the bench thanks to Collins' vote, believes. Her speech expressing “concerns” about allegations against him wasn't just empty theater—it was cover for installing a justice who has proven perfectly willing to dismantle the constitutional guardrails that prevent executive tyranny. Her moral performance helped empower one of the most radical judicial agendas in American history.
If Collins represents what's left of the old Republican establishment, it clearly deserves to die. Its purpose is apparently to engage in moral performance while staying committed to moral inaction—to give ethical theater a speaking role in our politics while ensuring it never affects the outcome of the play. It is the political equivalent of a safety valve, releasing just enough steam to prevent an explosion without ever addressing the dangerous pressure building in the system.
What passes for Collins' conscience is merely an algorithm designed to calculate precisely how much verbal discomfort she must express to maintain her brand as a “moderate” while never risking the consequences of actual moderation. She has reduced ethical deliberation to a public relations strategy—a series of carefully calibrated statements that create the illusion of independence while preserving the reality of compliance.
The woman specializes in adopting the facial expressions and verbal intonations of ethical distress without accepting any of its obligations. She has perfected what might be called the politics of performative anxiety—appearing perpetually on the verge of principled action that somehow never materializes. Her brow remains permanently furrowed, her voice consistently troubled, while her voting record demonstrates all the moral complexity of a party-line calculator.
What's genuinely offensive about this charade isn't merely its obvious insincerity, but the insult it offers to the concept of moral seriousness itself. Collins treats ethical discomfort as a rhetorical device rather than a call to action—as if repeatedly announcing one's concerns about a fire constitutes an adequate substitute for calling the fire department.
The media, of course, enables this farce with its credulous reporting of these expressions of concern as if they constitute actual news rather than the predictable ambient noise of Washington's moral vacuity. “Collins Expresses Concern” is not a headline; it's a ritualistic incantation signifying nothing except the continuation of politics as empty theater. It might as well read “Senator Once Again Pretends to Have Principles While Avoiding Their Consequences.”
Collins perfected this approach during the Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, delivering a 43-minute speech explaining her “concerns” about the allegations against him before voting to confirm him anyway. The speech served not to explain a difficult decision but to insulate herself from the consequences of an easy one—to create the impression of thoughtful deliberation when the outcome was never in doubt. It was, in essence, an elaborate performance of consideration designed to mask the absence of its substance.
This matters beyond the tedious spectacle of Washington politics because it represents the substitution of theatrical gestures for actual governance. If politicians can satisfy the requirements of moral seriousness through mere expression rather than action, then voters lose the ability to judge them based on the consequences of their decisions. Politics becomes not the art of the possible but the art of the performative—a competition to see who can most convincingly pantomime concern while avoiding its implications.
The danger here extends well beyond Collins herself. She is merely the most visible practitioner of what has become a standard Washington routine: express concern, furrow your brow, leak to reporters about how troubled you are, then vote in lock-step with your party anyway. It is the coward's version of independence—all the appearances of moral agency with none of its risks.
As we face the increasingly serious threats of an authoritarian administration—from mass deportations to the politicization of military planning—we can no longer afford to treat performances of concern as meaningful political acts. Those who merely express discomfort about authoritarianism while enabling it at every crucial juncture are not moderates or independents; they are collaborators with theatrical flourishes.
The old Republican establishment that Collins represents has become a hollow shell, preserving the aesthetics of responsible governance while abandoning its substance. It exists now primarily as a rhetorical buffer zone—a linguistic DMZ between democracy and its destruction where words like “concerned” and “troubled” substitute for the genuine resistance that the moment demands.
The thing is, I don't believe Susan Collins loves this country. I don't. I think she's the human equivalent of saying “nations don't have allies they have interests.” She's a piece of infrastructure with rehearsed lines—a political automaton whose primary function is to simulate the appearance of thoughtful deliberation while reliably delivering votes for whatever her party demands.
As I wrote in a piece yesterday, the concept of loving one's nation, “Love of country isn't measured in flags on lapel pins or patriotic platitudes. It's measured in the willingness to take risks for democratic principles when those principles are threatened.” It requires a love that is “principled rather than tribal, aspirational rather than nostalgic, and inclusive rather than exclusive.” By that measure, Collins has demonstrated not love of country but love of position—a commitment not to American democracy but to her own political survival regardless of what happens to that democracy.
True love of nation, I argued, involves “love attached to ideals rather than mere identity.” It's the kind of love that includes “criticism, challenge, and a vision of what the country could become.” It's “love as ethical attachment rather than unconditional loyalty—love that can say no to nationalism when it contradicts deeper values.” Instead, Collins offers a simulation of ethical concern that costs her nothing while preserving her status and power. What vulgar convenience.
The next time Collins expresses her “concerns,” remember: this is not the prelude to resistance but its surrogate. This is not the voice of moderation but its simulation. This is not the language of moral seriousness but its appropriation by those who have long since abandoned its demands.
The only proper response to such performances is not to report them credulously but to judge them against the only standard that matters: action. By that measure, Collins' concerns have the moral weight of helium and the practical value of thoughts and prayers—a linguistic gesture designed to create the appearance of ethical engagement while carefully avoiding its substance.
“We have now sunk to a depth at which restatement of the obvious is the first duty of intelligent men.” — George Orwell
I will never forget that 43 minute, serpentine speech Susan Collins delivered to justify her reasons she would not be voting for Kavanaugh. There were over 100 of us standing on a downtown Portland, Maine street near her office listening together as the loudspeaker droned on with her rambling justifications. Prior to that, so many of us visited her office frequently and wrote letters begging her to not vote for confirmation. She simply does not show up to discuss issues or listen to her constituents unless she can benefit politically. Sadly, when our esteemed Republican Senator Olympia Snowe resigned in 2013, Susan Collins totally shed any semblance of character, and showed her true colors. Mike Brock, you nailed it with this description. Susan Collins is no Margaret Chase Smith (nor Olympia Snowe).
Wow! You dissected the eternal senator from Maine with incisive precision and a verbal tour de force!