Strength is arguably the most admired attribute in human society. We admire the strong, bodily, politically, or mentally, and attempt to follow in their footsteps. Hero myths, king myths, and conquest myths all idealize the belief that strength is the force behind history. Weakness, on the other hand, is routinely equated with failure, defeat, or even humiliation.
And yet if we examine more closely, we come to realize that weakness carries moral significance, indeed very frequently more than strength. Could powerlessness, and not power, be of higher ethical worth?
If one is powerful, one will exercise the power, even where no need to do so arises. History is replete with examples: empires that expand larger than their necessity, leaders who lead because they can, individuals who dominate others not because they have a need but because they can. Power, if left unchecked, will corrupt. Lord Acton, the philosopher, was known to say, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” That corruption is not limited to politics, it can quietly infiltrate everyday relationships, where strong wills overwhelm the meek, or confidence outweighs humility.
Conversely, weakness is coupled with a kind of innocence. The powerless cannot exploit others, and therefore their hands remain unstained by mastery. That does not mean that weakness is morally good in and of itself, but it does reduce the propensity for evil. A human who is powerless is less likely to oppress, less likely to abuse, less likely to bend others to his or her will. Because of this, weakness could be morally safer than strength.
And there is strength in weakness that cannot be seen: empathy. People who have seen what it is like to be weak are more empathetic to others’ pain. A person who has had frailty, such as illness, loss, fear, or marginalization, can have the potential to develop greater moral insight than someone who has never known anything but strength. Weakness instills humility, compassion, and seeing the common humanity in others. Strength, on the other hand, can toughen the heart, particularly when it makes us believe that we are invulnerable or independent.
Religious and philosophical communities reiterate this paradox. Jesus in Christianity, for instance, states, “The meek shall inherit the earth.” In Buddhism, the release of attachments and the illusion of control is described as the path to wisdom. In existentialist philosophy, weakness is frequently equated with authenticity, embracing our weakness, as opposed to standing behind illusions of greatness. Throughout traditions, the weak are frequently characterized as being more morally aligned with truth than the strong.
But of course, weakness has its own moral dangers. Excessive passivity allows evil to run wild against injustice. Silence in the face of wickedness, even if out of fear, continues to allow evil to exist. A helpless person might be innocently so, but his or her helplessness can also allow evil to spread. So while weakness avoids the stain of domination, it risks betraying responsibility.
And that brings us to the profound question of whether weakness or strength makes us moral, or if it’s how we use them. Perhaps strength can only be moral if tempered by restraint, and weakness can only be moral when invested with courage. The person who is strong but will not dominate, who uses strength to protect and not to tyrannize, is a moral hero. And a weak person who will not sacrifice their humanity even in weakness exemplifies another, but no less riveting, rendition of moral integrity. Perhaps the truth is that weakness is moral only when it does not yield to the jealousy of power, and power is moral only when it does not yield to temptation to dominate. The moral value resides not in power or powerlessness in itself, but in how each is endured.
And yet weakness is something deeply human. Something every one of us will inevitably have to confront: in sickness, in old age, in moments of terror or bereavement. Strength is temporary, but weakness is universal. To embrace it with dignity and to allow it to increase our sympathy might be one of the greatest moral attainments within our grasp.
Is weakness therefore more admirable on a moral basis than strength? Not necessarily. But maybe it is more morally simple, less corrupted by temptation, and nearer to compassion. Strength can create history, but weakness, in its unshowy persistence, may hold the higher moral reality of what it is to be human.