“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?”
Jeremiah 17:9
(ESV)
The Uneasy Balance Between Artistic Brilliance and Moral Failure
Across the world this weekend that passed, people gathered in halls, hotels, and churches to celebrate Burns Night. Observing this as a Christian gave me pause. Perhaps it is a weak conscience and the tendency in myself to have a deceitful heart that gives way to emotion, but I felt a genuine unease—not as a criticism of others, that never came into my heart, but as a personal question that needed balance. I was surprised that some Christians joined these celebrations so readily, and so I sought the counsel of a trusted friend, not to criticise a case but to think it through. I am mindful of the Apostle Paul’s words about observing certain days and the importance of not judging, and I respect that freedom. Still, the question lingered.
That question touches a deeper difficulty I often encounter as a reader: the imbalance between a writer’s artistic brilliance and their moral life. I struggle with this not because it is unusual, but because it is so familiar. Again and again, writers whose words move me, challenge me, or sharpen my moral awareness turn out to be people whose lives reveal serious personal failures. Few figures illustrate this more clearly than Robert Burns.
As a poet, Burns remains compelling. His work is socially alert, emotionally intelligent, and profoundly humane. He writes with sympathy for ordinary people, with anger toward injustice, and with tenderness about love, friendship, and loss. His language feels grounded and alive, shaped by shared human experience rather than detached refinement. In his poetry, there is a strong sense of dignity, equality, and moral seriousness. Yet his life tells a different story; one marked by excess, instability, and harm to others, particularly in his relationships with women and family. The problem is not identifying this contrast, but discerning how to respond to it.
It would be far simpler if moral excellence and artistic greatness reliably accompanied one another. Admiration would then be clean and uncomplicated. Instead, literature repeatedly confronts us with writers who articulate moral insight while living without moral discipline. Burns is not admired despite his flaws, nor can his flaws be redeemed by his poetry. The two exist side by side, unresolved, and it is precisely this unresolved tension that makes the imbalance so troubling.
The difficulty deepens because the values expressed in the writing often stand in quiet judgment over the writer’s life. Burns celebrates sincerity, equality, and mutual respect, yet his actions frequently suggest self-indulgence and disregard for others. For the reader, this can feel like a subtle betrayal. The words promise one moral vision; the life contradicts it. Admiration then feels compromised, as though one must either excuse the behaviour or diminish the work, and neither response feels truthful.
At the same time, dismissing the work entirely also feels inadequate. The poems still matter. They still speak truthfully about love, suffering, injustice, and hope. Their insight does not vanish because the author was morally inconsistent. To deny their value would be to insist that truth can only emerge from virtue, something history clearly disproves. Yet to admire the writing without moral reflection risks allowing talent to become an excuse.
Perhaps the most honest response is not to resolve the discomfort, but to accept it. The imbalance may not be something to justify, but something to acknowledge. Writers like Burns remind us that moral insight does not guarantee moral character, and that beauty and wisdom can emerge from deeply flawed lives. This does not absolve the writer, but it places a responsibility on the reader to remain alert, discerning, and ethically awake.
In the end, my admiration for such writers is never uncomplicated. It is mingled with disappointment, caution, and sometimes sadness. Yet that very tension sharpens my reading. It reminds me not to confuse eloquence with goodness, nor insight with holiness. If anything, the imbalance deepens the lesson: that human beings are fractured creatures, capable of seeing clearly without living well; and that art can illuminate moral truths even when its creators could not fully live by them.
The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®)
© 2001 by Crossway,
a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.
All rights reserved.
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