So much has been said about Donald Trump that fans and foes are tired of him. What hasn’t been described are the motivations of Republican leadership — the congresspeople who fawn over him despite private reservations, and state Republicans who continue their support.

Representatives of the Republican Party have remained loyal to him, despite his probable criminality. Their loyalty has compromised Congress’ ability to address problems effectively. One reason they’ve been steadfast is their hunger for personal power through being elected. Power can take the form of opportunities to accumulate money and prestige. Statistics show that congresspeople have become wealthier in recent years. They have had access to information that has influenced their investments. Moreover, they gain power in forming networks that may prove profitable once they leave office.

There is another kind of power elected officials embrace — what I call agency in my office. For many patients, this feeling has been elusive, either because it was squashed in their original families or has been flattened by social circumstances. People who run for office think they have the skills to articulate the will of their constituents, or try to persuade constituents that their innovations will lead to improvements. Victorious candidates, once comfortable in their positions, begin to need — and are desperate to keep — that feeling of large-scale impact they never had as citizens.

Some political scientists have asserted that a growing lack of bipartisanship, accelerating since Republicans began to oppose civil rights gained by Blacks in the 1960’s, has led to an erosion of democratic norms. Leaders of the Republican Party have supported Trump publicly not because of personal fear, but because of his cult-like relationship with the party’s base. The base cares about cultural norms such as heterosexuality, Christian observance, female subservience, exclusion of non-white people — especially if they are immigrants — and they are steeped in denial of dangers such as climate change. Part of a group can exert disproportionate influence on the behavior of the larger group through the threat of alienation. Because of this pressure, and because a solid contingent of Republican leadership is itself intent on preserving the white, Christian status quo, the resultant force is formidable.

The conspicuous trait characterizing many Republican bystanders is cowardice. A psychiatrist’s definition: avoiding moral obligation because of fear that adherence will lead to intolerable personal losses. Liz Cheney, by contrast, personified courage in leading the Jan. 6 committee, knowing that her role and outspokenness would likely result in her losing her congressional seat. As I know clinically, insecurities from past and present lie behind cowardice: sensing that one’s identity or moral foundation is shaky, fear of rejection by admirers, fear of loss of love of internalized parents and terror of aloneness.

Also relevant to the consideration of cowardice is shame, a feeling of disgust people feel about themselves. Almost all patients have tasted this feeling, sometimes about the appearance of their bodies, sometimes about lapses of integrity and sometimes about behavior that exposes their vulnerabilities. For most, this feeling is narrow and transient. For an unfortunate few, the feeling is diffuse and chronic. Healing from the latter requires interventions that touch the soul, such as spiritual practices or long-term psychotherapy. Even worse — and more difficult to treat — is an inability to experience shame or the feelings that cause shame, as it leaves a person detached from self-respect and susceptible to harming others.

An incident when I was a psychiatry resident demonstrated the risk of cowardice. On the day that nurses and their assistants began their strike against hospital administration, our bosses informed us that we were to help inpatients with their food trays and hygiene, typically nursing tasks. My peers accepted this order uncomplainingly. Because my father was a proud member of the teachers’ union that struck in 1968 for several months, my ears perked up, and I told the administration I wouldn’t be helping with trays. I was summoned to the chairman’s office and asked to explain my insubordination. I explained — quite nervously — that it wasn’t fair to be placed in the middle between administration and staff, especially since I worked with nurses and their aids. I believe I omitted the part of the story involving the teachers’ union and my father.

I am not recalling this story to highlight my courage. In fact, it was the identification with my father — which I only realized later — that moved me to stand up to my chairman. No doubt the other residents felt the same reflexive objection I did, as they too worried about their staff relationships. The point is that role models are necessary for the development of courage.

Identification with courage must begin locally, such as with a parent, mentor, sibling or friend, or romantic partner. Sometimes the modeling proceeds imperceptibly. Sometimes the role model teaches directly. The greater the number and strength of these identifications, the greater the capacity to oppose wrongdoing. When a large group has been practicing cowardice for a long time, it takes a few courageous people to break the silence and introduce a new group norm. The new group norm must reflect some moral principle, not merely the self-interest of the group.

Andrew Smolar, M.D., is a psychiatrist, psychoanalyst and clinical associate professor of psychiatry at the Temple University School of Medicine.

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