In “The Crisis of Profligacy,” Andrew Bacevich paints a sobering picture of America’s future, warning that the real danger isn’t coming from foreign adversaries, but from the internal rot of extravagance and entitlement. He identifies that America’s true crisis is one of self-indulgence and unwillingness to recognize limits, whether material, moral, or geopolitical. He argues that American society has become addicted to a lifestyle of excess, inexpensive energy, and military adventurism abroad. This result of this pattern of consumption and entitlement has produced a political culture unwilling to confront hard truths. Instead of addressing the core issues of wastefulness and moral drift, American leaders have chosen to double down on military interventions abroad, particularly in the Middle East, to preserve the illusion of limitless growth. According to Bacevich, genuine national renewal requires a cultural and political transformation that embraces limits, self-restraint, and a rethinking of America’s role in the world.
I find Bacevich’s argument particularly in its moral framing of national decline very compelling. It highlights the deep interconnections between domestic habits and foreign policy misadventures. His observation that American politics feeds off public complacency is accurate. We have been conditioned to believe that prosperity is a birthright, not something tied into responsibility or external realities. Speaking of wars, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, were not just strategic missteps but expressions of deeper national denial. Yet while he skillfully dissets the broad cultural ethos of excess, I believe he gives insufficient attention to the structural inequalities that shape who benefits from, and who pays for, this profligacy. His framing somewhat risks obscuring how the burdens of debt, war, and economic insecurity have disproportionately fallen on working class and minority Americans, while political and economic elites have largely insulated themselves; something that we have examined multiple times over the course of this semester. His portrayal of “Americans” sounds monolithic, when in fact this profligacy has been unevenly distributed.
The relevance of Bacevich’s warning has only deepened since he first wrote these words. Today, we face mounting debt ceilings, endless political polarization, and growing anxieties about America’s global standing – all of which symptoms a society unwilling to accept its limits. The COVID-19 pandemic revealed both the resilience and fragility of American society, that exposed glaring inequalities and institutional dysfunctions long masked by economic growth. Meanwhile this temptation to maintain global supremacy through military and weaponized foreign aid remains strong, even as the costs – both human and financial – continue to mount. Bachevich’s analysis urges us to ask: what would it actually mean or take for America to embrace the philosophy of limits? In an era where both political parties still sell visions of restored greatness, how can a national conversation begin around sacrifice, sustainability, and moral humility? Until Americans can imagine the form of greatness rooted not in dominance but in stewardship, resilience, and moral seriousness, the crisis Bacevich describes will only deepen. His work invites not just policy shifts, but a profound transformation of the national imagination; one that remains, even now, painfully elusive.
Will Wright 