Would it not be much better to have a president who deliberately

The priest, sociologist, and storyteller Andrew Greeley, known both for his moral insight and his sharp wit, once asked a question that burns with uneasy truth: “Would it not be much better to have a president who deliberately lied to the people because he thought a war was essential than to have one who was so dumb as to be taken in by intelligence agencies, especially those who told him what he wanted to hear?” In these words lies a challenge that pierces the heart of power, and a lament for the decay of wisdom in leadership. Greeley speaks not only to his time, but to all times — to the eternal tension between truth, intelligence, and the temptation of comfort. His question is a paradox, one that forces us to examine whether it is ignorance or deceit that more deeply endangers the fate of nations.

To understand this saying, one must remember the world in which it was spoken. Andrew Greeley, writing in the aftermath of the early 2000s and the wars that followed the attacks of September 11, was wrestling with the bitter revelation that the great machinery of state — the intelligence agencies, the advisors, the councils of decision — had failed to deliver truth. Falsehoods about weapons, threats, and intentions had marched nations into war, and thousands had died upon the altar of misinformation. Yet Greeley’s words reach beyond that moment; they speak to the very core of governance itself. He asks: what is worse — the leader who lies knowingly, or the one who cannot discern truth from illusion? Both bring destruction, but in different forms: the liar sins by intention, the fool by incapacity.

In his wisdom, Greeley seems almost to prefer the liar — for the liar, at least, understands reality, even as he twists it. He sees the board upon which he plays, even if he moves his pieces with cruelty. The fool, however, is blind to the board entirely. He cannot see that he is being played by those around him, that his own desires have become the leash by which he is led. Thus, the danger of stupidity in power is not merely incompetence — it is corruption through self-deception. The fool in high office is the easiest pawn of all, for he believes his manipulators are servants, and his delusions are destiny. Greeley’s question cuts with irony: perhaps a cunning liar, guided by grim necessity, is less perilous than a fool wrapped in the illusion of righteousness.

History itself gives testimony to this tragic choice. Consider the fall of Emperor Nicholas II of Russia, who, blinded by faith in divine right and misled by courtiers and spies, led his people into war and famine. He was not evil; he was unwise — and that made him dangerous. His ignorance, like a slow poison, weakened his nation until it crumbled beneath him. Contrast him with the cunning of Otto von Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor, who lied often and without shame, but whose lies were tools of design, calculated to unify his people and preserve his state. Both men played with fire, but only one understood its nature. The lesson is bitter: moral blindness, not moral compromise, may be the greater peril when lives hang in the balance.

Yet Greeley’s question is not meant to glorify deceit — it is meant to awaken vigilance. He calls upon the people to demand leaders who are wise enough to know when they are being deceived, and humble enough to seek truth even when it discomforts them. He warns that the gravest danger to democracy is not the existence of corrupt rulers, but the apathy of citizens who prefer comforting ignorance to painful understanding. For when the people themselves “want to hear” what flatters them — as he says of the president and his intelligence agencies — then the sickness has spread beyond the throne and into the heart of the nation.

The ancients, too, wrestled with this dilemma. In Plato’s Republic, the philosopher spoke of the “noble lie” — the myth told to preserve social harmony. Yet Plato also warned that the rulers must themselves be philosophers, lovers of truth, lest the noble lie decay into tyranny. Greeley echoes this timeless warning: leadership without wisdom becomes a theatre of delusion, where both ruler and ruled play at truth while descending into ruin. The question he poses is not about presidents alone — it is about the moral intelligence of humanity itself.

So let this be the lesson: do not trade discernment for comfort, nor truth for the illusion of safety. Whether you are a leader or a citizen, cultivate the courage to question, the humility to doubt, and the integrity to face unpleasant truths. Beware of those who tell you only what you wish to hear — they are not friends of your freedom. Seek instead those who challenge your thinking, who remind you that wisdom begins where certainty ends. For in the governance of nations, as in the governance of the soul, ignorance disguised as conviction is the deadliest enemy of all.

In the end, Greeley’s words are both warning and mirror. They remind us that the health of a society depends not merely on the brilliance of its leaders, but on the intelligence of its conscience. A wise people produces wise rulers; a complacent people invites deceit. Therefore, let the pursuit of truth be your first duty, and the defense of reason your sacred trust. For though the world will always have liars, it can endure them — but a world ruled by fools, and applauded by the blind, cannot long survive.