The instrument of a magnifying glass is a marvelous thing. It is science, of course — a piece of technology that allows us to take a closer look at whatever physical object we choose. Its range is limited only by the size and precision of the glass we can manufacture.
But a magnifying glass is also a device of attention. And attention is something that straddles both science as well as the mysterious. For what we attend to almost always responds to our notice. In one way or another. This appears to be true on levels ranging from the subatomic to the societal.
Cancel culture is less a single act than a social moment — when attention gathers and a person, institution or idea is publicly called into account. Often, it loses support or standing in response to something perceived as harmful, offensive or out of alignment with our shared sense of justice.
In that sense, cancel culture is, quite literally, the activity of a magnifying glass.
Of course, a magnifying glass can just as easily be used to examine what is good — to study closely the beauty that exists in nature or in ourselves. But there is something more complicated, and perhaps even meaningful, about those moments when the lens is turned toward what we question — toward what may or may not serve a loving, diverse and inclusive society.
Each of us carries our own sense of what is valuable. From liberal to conservative, we draw different conclusions about what should be amplified and what should be diminished, in hopes that the world might bend toward what we believe is best.
And yet, something deeper seems to reveal itself over time. Because, in the aggregate, what survives the focused attention of the magnifying glass begins to tell a story.
The values of the person holding the lens determine what is brought into focus. But they also determine whether that lens is angled toward the sun — whether the intent is to understand, or to burn.
We have seen this before.
The instinct to burn books comes to mind. Attention is fixed upon a text that some believe is harmful — whether for moral reasons or out of a desire to preserve authority. Often, these are books that expand human dignity. Books that give women language for their worth. Books that offer young people honest knowledge about their bodies. Books that suggest power may not be as concentrated as we’ve been shielded from truth toward believing.
And yet, when such books are condemned, they rarely disappear. Instead, sales often increase. Curiosity spreads. Attention multiplies. The attempt to erase becomes, instead, an act of amplification.
This phenomenon has been referred to as the Streisand effect. When an attempt to hide, remove or suppress information ends up drawing more attention to it instead. The name comes from Barbra Streisand. In 2003, she tried to have an aerial photo of her home removed from a public archive. Before the lawsuit, almost no one had noticed the image. Afterward, the case attracted vast media coverage, and suddenly millions of people went looking for the very photo she wanted hidden.
That pattern has repeated itself many times, both before and since. Efforts to ban books can lead to increased interest and sales, attempts to delete posts or videos can make them go viral, and trying to silence criticism can amplify it instead.
It’s almost paradoxical — you would think that if someone truly wanted to “cancel” a book, the most effective method would be to ignore it entirely.
The same dynamic appears in other directions. When a public figure is revealed to have acted in ways that are overtly harmful — using language or behavior that dehumanizes — attention gathers again. But this time, rather than amplifying, society withdraws its support. The same magnifying lens does not elevate; it exposes. And what is revealed does not endure. Not because it was attacked, but because it could not withstand the light.
There are also moments when ideas themselves are put forward — often in an effort to return to a past that feels simpler to some. A past shaped by less awareness, less questioning, less disruption of established power. Ideas that would limit women’s roles. Ideas that would constrain Black lives. Ideas that would narrow the understanding of gender into something rigid and unforgiving. These ideas, too, are placed under the withering solar focus of the magnifying glass.
And then, something important happens. For once the lens is focused, no one fully controls what others will then see. This is the risk of using attention as a weapon: it can just as easily become a revelation. Because when something is examined closely — truly closely — its nature becomes harder to disguise.
If it is rooted in fear, exclusion, or harm, that begins to show. But if it is rooted in dignity, in care, in a deeper truth about who we are — it not only survives the harsh beam of scrutiny. It grows stronger in the light of it.
This is the pattern that emerges over time. Not perfectly. Not without distortion or pain.
But persistently. The brightest light reveals the truest nature.
The danger in trying to burn something away is that not everything that can be targeted can be destroyed. Sometimes, the attempt itself becomes the test. And what cannot be burned away — what proves indissoluble in the face of that attempt — is revealed for what it is: True. Tested. And, perhaps, something made in the image of God.
Wil Darcangelo, M.Div, is an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister of the First Church of Lancaster at the Bulfinch Meetinghouse in Massachusetts, progressive theologian and essayist on optimistic spirituality in the Information Age. Follow him on Substack, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.
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