I remember it clearly: a warm July evening, huddling around a black-and-white television immediately after Sunday night church service, watching the first images from Apollo 11 on the surface of the moon.
 
I was seven years old and well into my lifelong passion for all things space. What I didn’t know was that, on that toasty night in 1969, I was part of a global audience of 600 million people captivated by those grainy, ghostly images—and what they represented.
 
While neither the first nor the last space mission to be carried on TV, Apollo 11 was unique in the power of its singular message, summed up in a single word: We.
 
“I was amazed that everywhere we went, people said, ‘We—we did it. We, you and me, the inhabitants of this wonderful Earth. We did it,’” recalls Michael Collins, Apollo 11 command module pilot, narrating a new Google Doodle honoring the first moon landing.
 
Today, our society is more individualistic, more insular, more likely to consume news on our respective smartphones than to watch an event together. From politics to philanthropy, we’re more inclined to seek what “I want” rather than what “we need.”
 
And yet, as I spend my days communicating with and on behalf of clients, I sense a different wish. I sense a deep-down yearning to connect, to tack back toward the We.
 
How might that happen? Only when we have the courage to embrace what a wise man once said, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.”
 
As we reflect on half a century since “one giant leap for mankind,” perhaps we’ll be inspired to embrace the We once again.

My shower has this small spot where a little mildew grows. I scrub away the mildew, yet it springs back a few weeks later.
 
That’s roughly how I feel about today’s news that Sarah Huckabee Sanders is out as the White House press secretary.
 
I won’t revisit at length my dismay at Sanders’ record of half-truths-at-best—excuse me, “slip(s) of the tongue"—during her tenure, and how her behavior taints the communications profession I hold dear. You can read my earlier blog here. Suffice to say that her exit is, at best, a temporary win for truth and respect for the Fourth Estate.
 
Yes, I said “temporary.”
 
I realize the role of White House press secretary is a difficult balance—perhaps more difficult than other spokesperson roles—between serving the President and providing factual information to the news media. But the fact is, Sanders never tried to find that balance. She deliberately rejected transparency, honesty and integrity at the behest of her master. I’m not confident that her successor, whoever it is, will be less inclined to play loose with the truth.
 
That said, I hold out a small hope that the next press secretary will care about truth and ethics as articulated by PRSA’s Code of Ethics. But it's likely a foolish hope. Given the profound lack of concern for truth and integrity at our nation's highest levels, I fear this will be much like the mildew in my shower: a brief cleansing, then a return to darkness.

Since December, I’ve been pummeled with emails and caution-yellow postcards warning me of an urgent deadline. Indeed, the latest mailings announce that I’m now, all-caps, “PAST DUE.”
 
Did I miss a bill payment? Neglect to pay a parking ticket? Forget to renew a magazine?
 
None of the above. No, it seems that I failed to update my personal information in my old school’s alumni database—and thus missed the opportunity for a marketing firm to sell me stuff.
 
This is why so many people despise marketing and public relations.
 
For the record: I reached out to my alma mater and shared my concern. (Out of respect for the school and its good people, I’m leaving out names.) The alumni director, a delightful and dedicated person who has no staff support, explained that the school lacks internal resources to keep the alumni database up to date. That hurts the school's ability to stay in touch with its former students. Thus it contracted with an out-of-state marketing firm with a 50-year track record of successfully gathering this data. Their compensation: the profit from selling school-branded stuff to those who respond.
 
I sympathize with the school and the alumni director. In fact, after hearing this explanation (and knowing I'd missed the "deadline"), I initially decided not to blog about this—until yet another pair of notices arrived. For the sake of the profession, I can’t let it go.
 
I have no problem with the marketing firm’s basic model—provide a service to the school, profit off sales. However, I do have immense problems with its approach.
 
One, it’s deliberately deceptive. The firm forcefully presents its message as if there’s an urgent deadline you are expected—just short of “required”—to meet. Both the American Marketing Association and the Public Relations Society of America have ethical codes that stress truth and transparency. Hard to see how these mailings “foster trust in the marketing system … [by] avoiding deception in product design” (AMA) or “build respect and credibility with the public” (PRSA).
 
Two, it hurts the most vulnerable people. In Michigan alone, 43% of households are either in poverty or struggling to make ends meet—what’s known as ALICE (Asset Limited, Income Constrained, Employed). Imagine you’re among them. Imagine you’re already behind on your bills; you get your share of actual past-due notices every month. The stress and anxiety are enormous. And then a postcard shouting “PAST DUE” arrives. Sure, a moment’s attention will make clear this isn’t another bill or a collection agency threat. But the moment before then is frightening, cruel and unnecessary.
 
Three, it fosters distrust of professional communicators. In an era where politicians call news media “the enemy of the people,” when some spokespersons lie with aplomb, and when some (wrongly) consider "spin" a tool of the trade, this approach trashes the credibility of everyone in the field—every marketing firm, every PR professional, and every organization that employs them.
 
What could the marketing firm do differently? Simple: Be honest. Had I received an email or postcard explaining the arrangement and asking me to respond, I would have gladly updated my file and tolerated a short sales pitch. Heck, I might have even bought something. Now? No way.
 
What should we as marketing and communications professionals do? Call out this behavior. Refuse to participate in it. Embrace the ethics of our respective fields and hold each other to a higher standard.

To my shame, sometimes I read those click-bait “worst [fill in the blank] ever” stories. I recently came across this amusing one:
 
An obnoxious traveler on a jetliner makes demands on a flight attendant, insisting that he deserves special attention because of he’s supposedly a close friend of the airline’s CEO. A woman across the aisle hears this and challenges the man to tell her the CEO’s nickname. When he tells her to mind her own business, the woman pulls out her wallet and shows him a photo from her wedding; it turns out the CEO is her father-in-law.
 
The morale of the story is clear: Your lies will find you out.
 
But the question it raises today is troubling: Does anyone care?
 
Over the past two years, I’ve started to write blogs about the behavior of White House spokeswoman Sarah Sanders—and Sean Spicer before her—only to abandon them out of concern they’d be taken as political screeds. Let me be clear, I’m no fan of President Trump, who has a passed-it-in-the-hallway relationship with truth. But as a critical link between the administration and the Fourth Estate, spokespersons like Sanders bear a tremendous responsibility—to the nation and to her profession—to uphold transparency, honesty and truth. Indeed, Sanders claims that’s what she desires as her legacy.
 
In my opinion, she’s failed at all of them. While hardly a revelation, the evidence in the newly released (and heavily redacted) Mueller report underscores the fact.
 
This should sweep away whatever shred of credibility Sanders might still have with the media. Indeed, some news outlets are calling for her to resign or be fired.
 
I think it’s 50-50, at best, that she’ll go. Why? Because in this administration, loyalty trumps credibility. In this administration, and among many of its supporters, truth is a “who,” not a “what.”
 
What does this say about the public relations profession?
 
Some of my colleagues will brush it off. “That’s her, not me.” Problem is, Sanders’s “slip of the tongue” behavior reflects on all of us.
 
As a member of the Public Relations Society of America, I embrace a Code of Ethics, which says in part: “We adhere to the highest standards of accuracy and truth in advancing the interests of those we represent and in communicating with the public.”
 
I firmly believe in the Code. It’s one of many reasons why I’m a frequent critic of the word “spin”—which is synonymous with deceit.
 
But here’s the thing: If PR professionals don’t call out unethical behavior, we’re no better than those who do it. If we don’t call out dishonesty and spin, we’re saying it’s actually okay.
 
That’s the moment we sacrifice our professional morals and credibility. That’s the moment we give up our place as champions of truth.
 
No more. I regret that I didn’t post this long ago. Call it (incorrectly) a political post if you want, but regardless of person, place or party, we must call out and condemn the practices of spinning, lying and misdirecting.
 
Does it matter? If the answer is “no,” God help us all.

Surf the web and social media for comments about the latest iteration of Star Trek, and likely as not you’ll find a wretched hive of scum and villainy.
 
Whoops! Mixed my franchise metaphors. (Star Wars fans will recognize the latter reference.)
 
Back on topic: Star Trek: Discovery, which debuted a year ago and recently kicked off its second season, is a look at the decade before Kirk, Spock and the starship Enterprise as seen in the original 1966-69 television show. As regular readers know, I’m a huge fan of The Original Series (or TOS); in fact, I had the honor of writing episodes for a fan-produced series that continued the TOS storyline.
 
Where the villainy enters in is the grousing around Trek canon. “Canon” refers to the history built by a franchise’s narrative through previously told official tales. Many fans consider canon to be inviolable, and woe to those who don’t agree.
 
Not every film series or TV show creates such devotion to canon. (Remember the 1970s series Happy Days? Do you recall that Richie Cunningham had an older brother during the first season? That character was dropped without explanation. Few viewers complained.) But genre shows such as Star Trek, Star Wars and Doctor Who face an almost tyrannical commitment to canon among fans.
 
Case in point:
 
I wrote an episode of Star Trek New Voyages, “The Holiest Thing,” in which Captain Kirk first meets Dr. Carol Marcus during the TOS era. Marcus would become the mother of his child, David, whom we met in the 1982 film Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. In that film, set many years after TOS, David was in his 20s. That presented a challenge to accepted canon. In Khan, the bad guy, Khan Noonien Singh, makes a statement suggesting the TOS era happened 15 years earlier. That would make David far younger than portrayed in the film.
 
How did I get around this? I used a line from a different film, Star Trek III: The Search For Spock, in which a character says the Enterprise is 20 years old. But canon indicates the Enterprise is far older, probably closer to 40. Most fans chalk this up to an error in the film’s script. I, however, decided to take it at face value. What if he meant 20 years had passed since the Enterprise’s major refit as shown in 1979’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture? That would easily allow David to be born during TOS. Thus the timing of “The Holiest Thing” fits perfectly.
 
But my logic didn’t dissuade fans from brandishing torches and pitchforks when that episode was released. Never mind that “15 years” in Khan could just as easily have been a script error as “20 years” is assumed to be in the Spock film. I was ripped online for that decision.
 
Since then, I’ve been both fascinated and troubled by the ownership that fans have assumed over franchises. The storyline for the last two Star Wars films have been savaged in some quarters—so much so that some fans demanded a director’s cut to change the outcome of The Last Jedi (it didn’t happen) while a few others are calling for a boycott of the next movie.
 
For the record, I thoroughly enjoyed The Last Jedi and loved how it shook up the storyline. I’m less enthused about the new Star Trek: Discovery TV series—less due to canon, mostly because I didn't like the first-season narrative at all, and the second season is still struggling for my interest. But I recognize the difficulty its producers face: Star Trek has 50 years and hundreds of episodes’ worth of stories under its belt. How do you keep all that canon in place without hamstringing your storytellers?
 
While I do think canon ought to be respected when possible, I don’t understand the rabid, almost nonsensical devotion to it. And fans comparing new stories to “raping” a their historical view of a franchise is beyond the pale.
 
And yet a lot of them do this. They believe they own the narrative, and any story must tack to the course they assert. They forget that the franchise is actually owned by a corporation, and that corporation is within its rights to do whatever it wishes with it. Obviously, they want to appeal to as broad an audience as possible, not just the fanbase.
 
So while I'm a bit blase' about Discovery, and I find the most recent season of Doctor Who  disappointing, my right to complain must cease somewhere before I reach rabid anger and threats. Sadly, social media and the current Era of Outrage have made it all the easier for people to wallow in that dark place.

A few weeks ago, I came upon three kids in a parking lot—a teenage boy, a slightly older teen girl, and a preschool-age child. The older boy had one of those sticky rubber toys that you hold at one end and throw so it snaps back. He was hitting the two other kids with it.
 
As I approached, I determined these were siblings, possibly waiting for a parent inside the building. As I approached, the boy started smacking the girl again with his toy.
 
“Hey!” I snapped. “How do you know that’s not hurting her?” He shrugged. “It ain’t hurting her.” The girl, however, disagreed. “It IS hurting me,” she insisted.
 
“Maybe you should cut it out,” I told the boy. This earned me a menacing scowl. “These are MY people,” he declared.
 
Here I abandoned politeness. I pointed in his face and snapped in my sternest Dad voice, “I don’t care. STOP IT!”
 
He held my glare for only a moment. Then he averted his eyes and slipped the toy into his pocket.
 
That encounter went as it should: an abusive or bullying situation identified and stopped. Seemed reasonable to me then, and still so now.
 
So imagine my surprise to learn today that I might have contributed to the, quote-unquote, “demasculinization of America.”
 
What brings this to a head is the social media backlash over an advertising campaign by Gillette, the razor business of Proctor & Gamble, aimed at raising awareness among men of bullying and sexual harassment. Called “We Believe: The Best Men Can Be,” the campaign—including a video and other online elements—calls out men of all ages for fostering or ignoring these acts.
 
Said P&G President Gary Coombe,  "We knew that joining the dialogue on 'Modern Manhood' would mean changing how we think about and portray men at every turn.” Coombe said Gillette would review all public-facing content against a set of defined standards “to ensure we fully reflect the ideals of Respect, Accountability and Role Modelling in the ads we run, the images we publish to social media, the words we choose, and more."
 
Fortune Magazine writes, “The ad explicitly hails the #MeToo movement as a turning point for men and—through the inclusion of some old Gillette advertising material—it implies that the company’s own messaging hasn’t always been on the right side of history.”
 
You’d think such a campaign would generate more positive vibes than negative ones, right? You’d think we could all agree that bullying kids, demeaning women or assaulting them are bad. Right? Right?
 
Au contraire.
 
From Twitter: “I'm researching every product made by Proctor & Gamble, throwing any I have in the trash, and never buying any of them again until everyone involved in this ad from top to bottom is fired and the company issues a public apology.” …. “Just sell some damn razors and keep your social justice stupidity out of it.” …. “Gillette has made it clear they do not want the business of masculine men.”
 
From Facebook: “Your new ad campaign is so dumb, that a simple boycott isn’t enough. There should be very public firings and apologies to all the men you’ve insulted. But I still hope you go bankrupt.” …. “Go straight to hell, Gillette, Spare us your virtue signaling and FALSE accusations. Shame on you and I sure will watch MY spending habits as it relates to your (soon-to-be-defunct) company.”
 
On YouTube, where the Gillette video is posted, the thumbs-down votes were outpacing thumbs-up by more than two to one. Early on, the difference was six to one.
 
The controversy rages on. Some are hailing the effort as a giant step toward eliminating false constructs of manhood and historically reprehensible treatment of women. Others say it’s a threat to traditional masculine norms and strong male social models. Still others say it’s nothing more than an effort by Gillette to sell more razors by presenting itself as socially responsible.
 
Well … yeah, okay, that last one is at least partly true. Few businesses are altruistic for the sake of altruism. But the truth is, Gillette didn’t have to take this stand. Surely they knew it would be controversial—though perhaps not to this degree. They could have gone a safer route. They could have told their customers, “Hey, we’re against clubbing baby seals,” and that would have prompted little more than a collective “awwww!”
 
But they followed a path that was both courageous and dangerous—and, in this disturbing era where misogyny is “just” locker room talk, where "tough guy" bullying is celebrated, where “20 minutes of action” isn’t enough to keep a rapist in prison … it’s a path that needed to be taken.
 
I stand with Gillette on this one. Was it blunt? Yes. Was it insulting to certain people with certain attitudes? Absolutely. Is that bad? I don’t think so. Dangerous, yes. But right.
 
In a time where companies must be socially responsible, those that embrace only “safe” issues will be seen for the cowards they are; companies that take an honest, thoughtful stand on real issues may lose clientele, but they’ll build loyalty and respect—and, in time, a stronger customer base.
 
Most importantly, they’ll be doing the right thing.

Carefully, almost reverently, he stepped up to the open hatch of the spacecraft.

An acrylic shield kept him from crawling inside, from settling into one of the insubstantial seats and brushing his small fingers across the countless switches and dials that peppered the control panels. But no matter. He would steep himself in what he could see: the ship’s seared outer skin, its dimly lit interior, its pitted windows, the blackened areas around its reaction control jets.
 
And the knowledge that this battered craft once circled the Moon.
 
The penitent was my six-year-old grandson; the cathedral was the Henry Crown Space Center at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry. The icon was the command module of Apollo 8, at rest 50 years after its single, historic mission.
 
I took a photo of this moment, and we shared a sense of awe. Words, usually my playground, were hard to come by. We simply stared together into history.
 
As it turns out, words were a struggle for the Apollo 8 crew as well.
 
By any measure, 1968 was a particularly rough year. It saw the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. North Korea captured the USS Pueblo, and the Soviets quashed a reform movement in Czechslovakia. North Vietnam launched the bloody Tet Offensive while Chicago launched a bloody putdown of protesters at the Democratic National Convention. Indeed, protests marked much of the year as young people increasingly rose up against the Vietnam War, Olympians Tommie Smith and John Carlos took a courageous stand against racism, and students clashed with police in the streets of Paris in what became known as Bloody Monday.
 
So when Apollo 8 launched atop the monstrous Saturn V rocket on December 21, 1968, the whole world was looking for something positive, something affirming. That so many put their hopes for saving this horrid year in one of the most dangerous ventures ever attempted speaks volumes.
 
And speaking of speaking, astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders were in a quandry. They were slated to orbit the Moon on Christmas Eve—a task that included a live transmission back to Earth, one that would be seen or heard by more than a billion people. What would they say? What could they say that would capture this incredible moment?
 
The angst around this began long before launch. In his book, Genesis: The Story of Apollo 8, author Robert Zimmerman writes of how the question haunted the crew for weeks, especially mission commander Borman. He asked NASA Public Affairs for guidance but was told—incredibly, given the stakes—“NASA will not tell you what to say.” Borman sought input from a widening circle of writers. A few tried to draft something; all of them failed.
 
One of the writers, a PR man named Joe Laitin, gave up trying to pen an original text. Despite his non-religious views, started nosing through a Bible. His wife, Christine, whose colorful past included fighting the Germans as part of the French Resistance during World War II, found him futilely poring over the text. When Laitin expressed frustration, Christine solved the problem: “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
 
Borman, Lovell and Anders would all agree the selection was perfect.
 
On December 24, as Apollo 8 sailed above the lunar surface, a quarter of a million miles from Earth, they spoke to the largest single audience in human history:
 
Anders: We are now approaching lunar sunrise, and for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light” and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
 
Lovell: And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.” And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
 
Borman: And God said, “Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear,” and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called the Seas: and God saw that it was good. And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth.
 
Not everyone celebrated those words from the biblical Book of Genesis. (Atheist Madelyn Murray O’Hair unsuccessfully sued over the passage.) But based on the feedback to NASA and the astronauts themselves, most did. Among the countless telegrams Borman received about the mission’s success was one that declared, “You saved 1968.”
 
Of course, the saving of 1968 was more than the words spoken on Christmas Eve. It was Bill Anders’ iconic photograph of the Earth rising over the stark lunar horizon. It was the notion that three men, supported by thousands upon thousands of scientists, technicians and salt-of-the-Earth laborers, made Apollo 8 happen.
 
It was the reminder that, by coming together, it’s possible to save something. To save us all. In today’s turbulent times, that’s worth remembering.
 
Words are important, yes. But ultimately, it’s about compassion and inspiration.
 
It’s about all of us realizing we need each other on this good Earth.

There’s a phrase turning up in many news stories these days: “So-and-So did not respond to multiple requests for comment.”
 
This is the new “no comment,” the new hand-over-the-camera-lens tactic. It’s wrong. It’s lousy public relations. It’s the coward’s way out of an uncomfortable topic. Worst of all, it does a disservice to the organization and the people it serves.
 
A wise PR friend of mine is fond of saying, “If you don’t speak for yourself, others will gladly speak for you.” In this era where messages get delivered in countless ways, many of them directly to your audience, the risks of simply ignoring an issue are far greater.
 
I call this approach, or lack thereof, a “pocket veto.” For those unfamiliar with the term: In the U.S., if the President receives a bill from Congress and ignores it for 10 days, and Congress isn’t in session at that time, the bill doesn’t become law. Presidents use this tool when they want to kill the legislation without having to explain why. (Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a master at this; of more than 600 bills he vetoed while president, more than 4 in 10 died via pocket veto.)
 
You can see the similarities. But a pocket veto in PR doesn’t make the issue magically go away. The public has questions; reporters work on their behalf to get answers. And they will get them—if not from the company, then from another source. If that source delivers wrong or misguided information, you now face the double task of correcting it and tackling the original issue—assuming you have any credibility left.
 
Ignoring media calls isn’t a new thing, but the upward trend seems more recent. Maybe it’s a result of fading PR expertise as organizations lean more heavily on marketing communications. Or maybe it’s a simple issue of capacity, with communicators stretched too thin to respond to every query from every vehicle.
 
But I don’t believe either of those explanations. I believe companies that pull this stunt are gambling that their lack of response will starve the story. With savaged newsrooms and a continuous news cycle, they reason, it’s simply a matter of waiting it out until the next big story hits.
 
That’s naïve and short-term thinking. How can your organization build trust if you aren’t willing to talk about the tough issues? Even if there are solid legal reasons not to speak in detail, then you should say so. Ignoring the issue and the questions surrounding it sends the message that you don’t care about your audience nor respect them enough to respond.
 
Make no mistake, reporters will remember your silence. So will your audience.

(Don’t know what that word means? Keep reading!)
 
A few years ago, I penned an article decrying the use of spin among PR practitioners. The word I use to describe spin is “deception.” No one in PR should dabble in deception—ever.
 
Surprisingly, I got pushback. One practitioner opined, “If I’m not spinning for my client, I’m not doing my job.”
 
I firmly disagree. And yet, to my dismay, it seems spin is a tool in increasing use.
 
While I tend to steer these blogs away from politics, I can’t help but point there this time. Every campaign season brings a cascade of exaggerations, half-truths and outright lies. Sadly, there’s nothing new in that. But what I find more disturbing today is how these falsehoods are celebrated. (Remember "alternative facts"?) Provide evidence to the contrary, and you’ll be dismissed at best, threatened at worse.
 
I can’t help but wonder if the battle against spin is helping fuel recent violence against journalists. The apparent murder of Jamal Khashoggi. The bomb sent to CNN this week. The deliberate crashing of a car into a TV news outlet in Dallas. Regular threats to reporters and affiliates.
 
The stories behind these and other attacks can be complicated. But here’s what isn’t: violence and threats against innocents is always wrong. Yet when leaders label journalists “enemies of the people” and condone violence against them, it shouldn’t surprise us when unbalanced people take them at their word.
 
So how should PR practitioners respond in such a climate?
 
As a long-time member of the Public Relations Society of America, I was pleased when PRSA and more than a dozen other communications groups collectively voiced “support for journalists who bravely seek the truth, focus on facts, and hold government, business and other institutions accountable.”
 
But is that enough? I don’t think so. I believe it’s time for the profession to indulge in some constructive omphaloskepsis.
 
Omphaloskepsis means “navel gazing.” While the term typically refers to being self-absorbed, originally it meant using one’s navel as a focal point during meditation—in short, a tool for looking inward.
 
It’s time for PR to look inward—and then turn outward. The battle against spin, which by extension upholds a free press, starts with us. We should do more to hold practitioners accountable for ensuring truth in their work. We should call them out with the facts when they knowingly regurgitate falsehoods.
 
I’m not talking about practitioners who share, say, a client’s abrasive politics or their employer’s business perspective. I’m not talking about disagreements or differences of opinion. I mean calling out communicators who willfully promote a demonstrable fiction despite proof to the contrary. I mean communicators who double down on spin by directing ire at scapegoats—the media, their critics, whoever it might be.
 
I realize this is a tall order, perhaps even dangerous. Many professionals aren’t given all the facts and sometimes must go with what they know. Others might find spin being used against them. And I realize a lot of practitioners may not want to look too deep for fear of facing a difficult choice.
 
But I feel that’s where we’re at as a profession. We’re not doing enough to police ourselves. We're not doing enough to call out those who misuse public relations. No wonder we hear calls—sometimes from within our own profession—to regulate PR.
 
If we really care about upholding an ethical code, if we aspire to be champions of truth, we must embrace accountability—ourselves first of all, and our colleagues when necessary.
 
Otherwise we’re only as good as the worst example of spin.

I mostly stopped saying “thoughts and prayers” a while ago—and that bothers me.
 
The phrase has become a target of derision, largely seen as an empty, go-to soundbite used by people who want to sound like they care but really don’t.
 
That wasn’t always the case. In fact, the phrase has deep historical roots, with references reportedly as far back as the 17th century. Hints of it appear in the Christian Bible; in the first chapter of Romans, the apostle Paul tells his readers “how constantly I remember you in my prayers at all times.”
 
The problem today is that the words have become simply that—words. For a person of faith who offers them sincerely, “thoughts and prayers” is a deliberate act in two parts. First, it’s a promise to invest time and emotional energy in another person, usually someone in crisis. Second, it’s a vow to personally seek God’s help to stop the person’s suffering or to change the circumstances causing it.
 
Unfortunately, that’s where the phrase often runs into trouble. Those who believe in a God who responds to personal prayers sometimes forget that the same God delivers miracles through people at least as often as through direct, divine action. The Bible is filled with examples of people being equipped to serve. Likewise, it’s heavy with challenges for people to make a difference for those who suffer.
 
The biblical book of James masterfully makes this point: “Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, ‘Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.”
 
In short, offering “thoughts and prayers” after a mass shooting or a natural disaster or other terrible event should be the beginning of action.
 
Thoughts, yes. Prayers, absolutely. But we have a personal responsibility to follow through with meaningful relief and change. Don’t just pray for the hungry and homeless; make sure they’re fed and sheltered. Don’t just think about the victims of horrific events; take a deliberate step toward easing their pain and stopping future tragedies.
 
Sadly, when a call to action becomes mere filler, the thoughts become empty, the prayers feeble.
 
No wonder “thoughts and prayers” has shifted from pledge to punchline.
 
There’s a public relations lesson in this. When PR is nothing but words, it’s powerless at best. Ultimately, that failure damages the reputation and credibility—and the performance—of the organization. Words must be the door to meaningful deeds.
 
Want to stop the vitriol around “thoughts and prayers”? You must be part of the change. The phrase must become more than the words suggest; it must be the start of real action, both individual and collective. Likewise, to build brand and reputation through PR, you must make sure your actions, and that of your organization, reflect what you say—and speak louder than the words themselves.