There’s a particular kind of arrogance I’ve come to recognize. It’s not the arrogance of intellect or even ambition—it’s the arrogance of the misinformed. That unwavering confidence of those who speak falsehoods with the heat and clarity of gospel truth. Lately, I’ve seen it everywhere: in political debates where facts are optional, in sermons where scripture becomes a cudgel, in everyday conversations where “I’ve done my research” usually means “I found someone who agrees with me.”
And perhaps the most disturbing part is this: they believe it. Not tentatively, not curiously—but completely. As if the volume of their voice were proof enough. That unshakable certainty has become a kind of cultural virtue. But it isn't wisdom. It’s theatre.
When I first encountered Jan Massys’ Riddle: The World Feeds Many Fools—not in a gallery, but on a screen, through study—I felt a jolt of recognition. Two figures—one in a jester’s cap, the other in clerical garb—lean in conspiratorially. The jester smirks with spoon in hand. The scholar hushes with a finger to his lips. Above them hover absurd, disjointed symbols: a foot, a key, an astrolabe. All the objects of knowledge—stripped of context, emptied of use. Meaning without meaning. Knowing without understanding.
I recognized them not as medieval curiosities, but as archetypes I see daily: the meme-slinger, the confident preacher of bad science, the politician who peddles slogans in place of substance. But if I’m honest, I also saw something of myself in them—not now, maybe, but in who I used to be. Or more accurately, in who I am still trying to outgrow.
Because I’ve spent most of my adult life in the company of what philosophers call post-positivism. I believed there was a truth—one we could never fully grasp, but which we could approach. Slowly. Carefully. Through triangulation. Through method. Through humility. I was trained to look for bias, to test assumptions, to revise what I believed based on evidence. And I still believe in that discipline.
But something has shifted. Or maybe I have.
Increasingly, I find myself less interested in the truth that sits “out there” and more in how people come to name something true. I care less about debunking and more about understanding: Why does this belief feel so right to them? What social forces shaped it? What pain does it soothe or justify?
And in that, I feel myself drawn toward a more constructivist way of seeing. Not because I reject reality, but because I no longer think we ever stand outside it. We live within it, entangled. We speak in language we did not invent. We believe with bodies and histories that shape us before we even know what belief is.
So does truth change? Or do I?
I used to think truth was a mountain—fixed, solid, waiting for me to summit it with the right gear. Now I wonder if it’s more like a river: constant in its flow, yet always new. We step into it, and it shapes us. We draw from it, and what we draw is shaped by our hands, our thirst, our time.
And this, too, makes Massys’ painting more haunting. Because the fools don’t just misread reality—they perform a truth that serves them. The symbols above them float like religious relics or academic tools, but they mean nothing. The foot cannot walk. The key opens no door. It’s all confidence without content. A parody of knowing.
Philosophers from Nietzsche to Foucault would say that truth is always bound up in power—constructed by those who have the authority to define it. William James would say truth is what proves useful. But perhaps the real insight lies with the mystics and poets: truth is relational. It lives in the encounter. And what I see now is that real research—the kind I still strive for—is not about possession but about participation. It is a conversation, not a conquest.
So when someone tells me “I’ve done my research,” I no longer respond with data alone. I ask questions. I listen. I try to understand the story they’re living inside. Because the danger of false narratives isn’t just that they’re wrong—it’s that they’re seductive. They give meaning. They soothe fear. They offer belonging. And if we don't see that, we’ll never know how to speak to the person behind the certainty.
Massys knew this. His fools aren’t dangerous because they lack facts—they’re dangerous because they don’t know how little they know. They are joyful in their echo chamber. The jester smiles because the joke is on us. The scholar shushes us not from reverence, but from collusion.
And maybe that’s the riddle: Not just who the fools are, but how easily any of us could become one. How thin the line is between seeking truth and performing it. How seductive certainty can be—especially when we stop asking what truth is, and start using it to win.
These days, I don’t know everything. But I know this: I am changing. My tools are changing. My relationship to truth is changing. And maybe, in the end, the most honest posture isn’t certainty, but curiosity. The kind that doesn’t point the spoon or hush the room—but asks, gently, “What do you mean by that?” And waits to listen.