Examining an ancient pattern through history, personal positioning, and contemporary service delivery
Every counsellor knows the ethical trap: the client whose work is essentially complete, who pays reliably and never complains, whose sessions you genuinely look forward to—and who you find yourself suggesting needs 'just a few more sessions' to consolidate gains. The conscious mind frames this as clinical judgement; the unconscious mind processes economic reality, professional satisfaction, and the fundamental ambiguity about 'enough' that characterises all therapeutic work. The BACP Ethical Framework (2018) explicitly addresses this dynamic through commitments around avoiding client exploitation and managing endings appropriately, and NICE guidelines (2022) on depression treatment emphasise structured duration with regular reviews and shared decision-making about continuation. Supervision structures exist specifically to catch such dynamics. They don't always succeed.
Now to consider this pattern—where ideological commitment combines with organisational precarity to produce epistemic overreach—through an unexpected lens: ancient history, contemporary service delivery, and the uncomfortable question of whether anyone examining these dynamics is truly exempt from them.
In my previous essay "The Epistemology of Safeguarding" (Young, 2026), I examined fundamental knowledge problems facing child protection professionals: how do we know what we claim to know about families? How reliable are our observations when filtered through our phenomenological lenses? How certain can we legitimately be when making life-altering decisions based on partial, interpreted information?
That essay established epistemic humility as essential to rigorous practice—acknowledging the limits of what we can know, recognising how our positioning shapes our interpretations, remaining open to evidence that challenges our assessments. But a question remained implicit: what happens when organisational or ideological pressures make epistemic humility appear to impede effective protection—when in fact its absence is what actually impedes the safeguarding it exists to achieve?
This essay examines that question through an unexpected route: ancient history. Specifically, the Jewish Zealots of first-century Judea, whose passionate commitment to protecting their faith and autonomy contributed to destroying the Second Temple—the very centre of what they sought to defend. Their story, documented by the historian Flavius Josephus under Roman patronage, offers a case study in how passionate certainty can become catastrophically self-defeating.
But this isn't simply a historical analysis. It's an examination of a recurring human pattern that manifests wherever certain conditions exist: ideological commitment combined with organisational precarity, passionate conviction meeting pragmatic constraints, the performance of certainty when uncertainty would be more honest. The pattern appears in policy development, service delivery, research agendas, and individual practice—including, as I'll examine explicitly, in my own positioning as I write this critique.
The challenge for contemporary policy and service delivery is profound: how do organisations maintain epistemic humility when their survival depends on demonstrating indispensability? How do practitioners acknowledge uncertainty when inspection regimes penalise ambiguity? How does anyone critique these dynamics without becoming subject to the same patterns they're examining?
I don't have comfortable answers. What I have is a historical example with fascinating epistemological layers, a willingness to examine my own positioning with the same skepticism I'm applying elsewhere, and some observations about how this ancient pattern might manifest in modern safeguarding contexts. Whether that constitutes insight or merely demonstrates the zealotry I'm critiquing—readers will have to judge.
The word "zealot" originates from Greek zelos (ζῆλος), meaning passionate devotion, eager rivalry, or ardent emulation (Liddell & Scott, 1940). However, this Greek term—used by Josephus and later adopted into English—may obscure how these groups understood themselves. In Hebrew, they likely identified as qanna'im (קנאים), "ones zealous for God," or in Aramaic qan'ana, terms rooted in covenant fidelity rather than mere political resistance (Hengel, 1989, pp. 146-228). The Hebrew concept of qin'ah (zeal) carried deep religious significance, modelled on biblical figures like Phinehas (Numbers 25:1-15) and Elijah who acted zealously to defend God's covenant. What Josephus labels "Zealots" using Greek terminology were, in their own self-understanding, messianic covenant defenders believing that Roman rule constituted a violation of the command "No Lord but God" and that resistance was religious obligation, not political choice (Horsley & Hanson, 1985).
Crucially, the grammatical shift from verb to noun performs epistemological work. At the time, qanna'im described people being zealous—engaging in covenant-defending behaviour—rather than identifying a factional membership. They understood themselves through the action (defending God's covenant) rather than as members of an organisation called "the Zealots." Josephus's retrospective application of "Zealots" as a noun—a factional label—reframes religious behaviour as political identity. Modern English completes this transformation: "a zealot" becomes a noun meaning fanatic or extremist, divorced from its original context of covenant fidelity. The very grammatical categorisation shapes what becomes knowable about these movements, transforming theological conviction into pathologised extremism through shifts in how language frames human action.
The term appears in the New Testament identifying Simon as "Simon the Zealot" (Luke 6:15; Acts 1:13) or "Simon the Cananaean" (Matthew 10:4; Mark 3:18)—the latter from Aramaic qan'ana—distinguishing him from Simon Peter and referencing his association with or former membership in movements of religious resistance to Rome.
The movements Josephus would later categorise as "Zealots" emerged around 6 CE in response to the Roman census of Judea ordered by Quirinius, legate of Syria (Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews, 18.1.1; Hengel, 1989). Judas of Galilee, along with Zadok the Pharisee, founded what Josephus termed the "Fourth Philosophy" of Second Temple Judaism, alongside the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes (Josephus, Jewish War, 2.118; Antiquities, 18.1.1, 18.1.6).
Their core theological and political conviction was absolute: no ruler but God (Horsley & Hanson, 1985). Submitting to Roman taxation and authority constituted apostasy, a betrayal of the covenant between God and Israel (Hengel, 1989, pp. 90-145). This wasn't mere political resistance—it was religious conviction that brooked no compromise. As Josephus reports, Zealots "have an inviolable attachment to liberty, and say that God is to be their only Ruler and Lord" (Antiquities, 18.1.6).
This conviction gained particular urgency from widespread first-century messianic expectations. Multiple Jewish groups—including Essenes, Pharisees, and various resistance movements—believed they could calculate the Messiah's imminent arrival based on Daniel's prophecy of the seventy weeks (Daniel 9:24-27; Beckwith, 1981). The expectation wasn't marginal: Luke's Gospel notes that "the people were in expectation" during John the Baptist's ministry (Luke 3:15). Josephus records numerous messianic claimants and prophetic figures throughout this period—Theudas, the Egyptian prophet, Judas of Galilee's descendants—each gathering followers who believed divine intervention was imminent (Horsley & Hanson, 1985, pp. 135-189). Within this context, what Josephus labels "Zealot" resistance represented not isolated fanaticism but one expression of widely held conviction that covenant fidelity required active preparation for God's promised intervention. The urgency of prophetic expectation helps explain why compromise with Rome seemed not merely politically unwise but religiously impossible.
Modern scholarship has complicated the picture considerably. Horsley and Hanson (1985) argue that "Zealot" functioned less as an organised party designation and more as a descriptive term for various groups and individuals pursuing armed resistance to Rome. Price (1992) suggests the movement was more diffuse and less ideologically unified than Josephus's account implies. Goodman (1987) emphasises economic and social grievances alongside religious motivation. Nevertheless, the pattern Josephus documents—religious conviction hardening into uncompromising resistance—remains historically attested (Mason, 2016).
The revolt against Rome began in 66 CE, triggered by tensions over Roman procurator Gessius Florus's confiscation of Temple treasury funds and subsequent violence against Jerusalem's population (Josephus, Jewish War, 2.293-308; Goodman, 1987, pp. 151-175). Initial Jewish military successes, including the defeat of Cestius Gallus's legion, created momentum that various factions—Zealots among them—seized upon (Josephus, Jewish War, 2.499-555; Brighton, 2009).
What followed demonstrates the catastrophic potential of ideological certainty meeting pragmatic reality. Emperor Nero dispatched Vespasian, an experienced military commander, to suppress the rebellion (Josephus, Jewish War, 3.1-8; Levick, 1999, pp. 55-63). Vespasian systematically reduced Galilee and Judea's fortified towns through 67-68 CE, approaching Jerusalem itself by early 68 CE (Josephus, Jewish War, Books 3-4).
Then Nero died. The Year of the Four Emperors (68-69 CE) plunged Rome into civil war as Galba, Otho, Vitellius, and finally Vespasian competed for imperial power (Tacitus, Histories, Books 1-2; Wellesley, 2000; Morgan, 2006). Vespasian suspended operations in Judea while he secured the throne, leaving his son Titus to complete the campaign once Vespasian was proclaimed emperor in 69 CE (Josephus, Jewish War, 4.491-502, 4.585-604; Southern, 2009).
This pause—this moment when Roman pressure lifted—might have offered diplomatic resolution. But inside Jerusalem, Zealot factions were engaged in increasingly violent internal conflicts. John of Gischala's faction fought Simon bar Giora's faction; both fought more moderate elements; all competed for control of the Temple and its resources (Josephus, Jewish War, 5.1-38, 5.98-105; Goodman, 1987, pp. 176-194). Food stores were burned in factional fighting. Leadership structures fractured. As Josephus documents with anguished detail, the Zealots' passionate commitment to resistance became directed as much against fellow Jews as against Rome (Jewish War, 5.21-38, 5.424-445).
Titus returned in 70 CE with four legions and commenced the siege of Jerusalem (Jewish War, 5.39-97; Brighton, 2009, pp. 141-178). The siege lasted approximately five months, from April to September 70 CE. Despite facing starvation, disease, and inevitable military defeat, Zealot leadership rejected diplomatic overtures (Josephus, Jewish War, 5.362-374, 5.541-547, 6.93-110). They were certain—absolutely certain—that God would intervene to deliver Jerusalem, just as He had delivered Israel from Egypt, from Sennacherib's army, from previous enemies throughout sacred history (Price, 1992, pp. 179-212).
On the 9th of Ab (August 70 CE), the Second Temple was destroyed (Josephus, Jewish War, 6.220-270; Goodman, 2007, pp. 423-442). Whether this was Titus's intention or soldiers acting beyond orders remains historically contested—Josephus reports Titus wanted to preserve the Temple (Jewish War, 6.236-243), though this may reflect Flavian propaganda interests. Regardless, the outcome was devastation. The Temple—the centre of Jewish religious, cultural, and political life—was systematically destroyed. Jerusalem itself was razed (Josephus, Jewish War, 7.1-4). Jewish autonomy in Judea effectively ended until the 20th century.
The Zealots sought to protect Jewish faith and independence. Their passionate conviction, their absolute certainty that God would vindicate their resistance, their refusal to consider pragmatic compromise—all contributed to destroying the very centre of what they most wanted to save.
Our primary source for this history is Flavius Josephus (37-c.100 CE), himself a fascinating study in epistemological positioning (Mason, 2016; Rajak, 2002). Born Joseph ben Matityahu to a priestly family, Josephus served as a commander in Galilee during the revolt's early stages (Josephus, Life, 28-413). After his garrison's defeat at Jotapata in 67 CE, he surrendered to Vespasian—and according to his own account, prophesied that Vespasian would become emperor (Jewish War, 3.399-408; Rajak, 2002, pp. 174-196).
When this prophecy proved correct in 69 CE, Vespasian freed Josephus from captivity and granted him Roman citizenship (Josephus, Life, 422-423). Josephus took the family name Flavius, receiving a pension and accommodation in Rome where he wrote his histories under Flavian patronage (Life, 422-429). His major works—The Jewish War (c. 75 CE) and Antiquities of the Jews (c. 94 CE)—were written for Roman audiences to explain Jewish history and the recent revolt (Mason, 2016, pp. 1-41).
Josephus's positioning fundamentally shapes his account. Multiple scholarly analyses have demonstrated how his narrative serves Flavian interests while simultaneously attempting to rehabilitate Jewish reputation and his own conduct (Cohen, 1979; Rajak, 2002; Mason, 2016). He presents the revolt as the work of extremist factions rather than reflecting broader Jewish sentiment—a presentation that simultaneously excuses moderate Jews (like himself) and justifies Roman suppression (Price, 1992, pp. 18-47). He emphasises Zealot atrocities and internal Jewish violence, creating moral distance between "reasonable" Jews and "extremist" rebels (Goodman, 1987, pp. 204-215).
Modern historiography treats Josephus with appropriate caution. Price (1992, pp. 18-87) provides detailed analysis of how Josephus constructs his narrative to serve particular purposes. Mason (2016) demonstrates the sophisticated rhetorical strategies Josephus employs. Rajak (2002) explores the tension between Josephus's Jewish identity and Roman patronage. Brighton (2009) cross-references Josephus against archaeological evidence and Roman sources where possible.
Yet even acknowledging Josephus's compromised positioning, the core pattern he documents—religious conviction hardening into absolute certainty, refusal of pragmatic compromise, internal factional violence, catastrophic self-defeat—finds support in archaeological evidence of Jerusalem's destruction and in broader patterns of Roman responses to provincial rebellion (Goodman, 2007; Mason, 2016).
But the epistemological complications don't end with Josephus's positioning. We don't possess Josephus's original manuscripts—what we have are copies of copies, transmitted through centuries by scribes who had their own interests and theological commitments (Whealey, 2003; Feldman & Hata, 1987). The manuscripts we rely on were preserved primarily by Christian communities, copied by Christian scribes who may have added, altered, or omitted material to serve apologetic purposes (Rajak, 2002, pp. 196-213).
The most famous example is the Testimonium Flavianum (Antiquities, 18.3.3)—the passage describing Jesus of Nazareth, which constitutes the only substantial historical reference to Jesus outside biblical texts. The passage appears oddly positioned in Josephus's narrative flow, employs vocabulary and theological claims inconsistent with Josephus's known views as a non-Christian Jew, and presents Jesus in terms more appropriate to Christian confession than historical description (Whealey, 2003; Meier, 1991). Most scholars conclude the passage contains later Christian interpolations, though debate continues about whether an authentic Josephus core exists beneath the additions or whether the entire passage was inserted (Feldman, 1989; Whealey, 2003).
This isn't unique to the Testimonium. Other passages throughout Josephus's works show stylistic inconsistencies, theological positions that seem incongruous with his broader narrative, and insertions that serve later Christian theological interests (Rajak, 2002, pp. 196-213). We cannot confidently distinguish original Josephan text from later scribal modifications without extensive textual criticism—and even then, certainty remains elusive (Feldman & Hata, 1987).
So we add another epistemological layer: not just Josephus positioned by Flavian patronage, but Josephus's text potentially altered by Christian scribes across centuries of manuscript transmission. The "primary source" we're analysing has been filtered through additional layers of positioned modification before reaching modern scholarship.
The Flavian dynasty (69-96 CE) provides crucial context for understanding both the war's conduct and Josephus's account of it (Levick, 1999; Southern, 2009; Malloch & Ash, 2023). Vespasian (r. 69-79 CE) came to power after the chaotic Year of the Four Emperors, inheriting an empire exhausted by civil war and near-bankrupt from Nero's expenditures (Wellesley, 2000; Morgan, 2006).
The Flavians were military men from relatively modest Italian backgrounds, not the old Roman aristocracy (Levick, 1999, pp. 1-21). Vespasian's father was a tax collector; Vespasian himself rose through military command competence rather than aristocratic birth. This created legitimacy challenges—the Senate and traditional elites viewed them as upstarts (Tacitus, Histories, 2.5, 4.3-4; Southern, 2009, pp. 13-41).
Their response was pragmatic self-presentation: restore fiscal discipline, rebuild Rome's infrastructure (including beginning the Colosseum using spoils from the Judean campaign), professionalise administration, demonstrate military competence (Levick, 1999, pp. 61-116; Malloch & Ash, 2023, pp. 1-45). The triumph celebrated in Rome after Jerusalem's destruction—depicted on the Arch of Titus—served multiple purposes: military legitimacy, treasury restoration, display of imperial power, and warning to other provinces (Josephus, Jewish War, 7.123-157; Malloch & Ash, 2023, pp. 171-204).
The Flavian legitimacy project required not just self-promotion but also delegitimisation of predecessors (Griffin, 1984; Champlin, 2003; Malitz, 2005). Particularly important was presenting Nero (r. 54-68 CE) as incompetent, extravagant, and tyrannical—thus making Flavian "rescue" of the empire appear necessary and justified (Griffin, 1984, pp. 211-244; Champlin, 2003, pp. 19-79).
This narrative was remarkably successful. Ancient sources written under or after Flavian rule—Tacitus's Annals and Histories, Suetonius's Lives of the Caesars, Dio Cassius's Roman History—present Nero as catastrophically bad: fiddling while Rome burned, murdering family members and rivals, bankrupting the treasury, persecuting Christians, generally incompetent governance (Tacitus, Annals, Books 13-16; Suetonius, Nero; Dio Cassius, Roman History, Books 61-63).
Modern scholarship has substantially revised this picture (Griffin, 1984; Champlin, 2003; Malitz, 2005; Buckley & Dinter, 2013). The 64 CE fire of Rome was followed by sophisticated urban reconstruction with improved building codes, wider streets, fire prevention measures—architectural and administrative competence, not negligence (Tacitus, Annals, 15.43; Griffin, 1984, pp. 129-140; Champlin, 2003, pp. 178-209). Nero's "extravagance" largely consisted of public building programs and popular entertainment that made him beloved by plebeians while alienating Senate aristocrats (Griffin, 1984, pp. 117-128; Champlin, 2003, pp. 53-79).
The persecution of Christians, central to later Christian historical memory, likely didn't happen in the form traditionally claimed—it appears to be largely Flavian-era invention to distance Christianity from Judaism and Judaism from sedition following the revolt (Shaw, 2015, pp. 83-168). Nero's alleged "bankruptcy" of the treasury reflects contested politics between Imperial fiscal policy and Senatorial resistance to Imperial taxation authority (Griffin, 1984, pp. 160-188).
Nero was unpopular with Senate aristocracy because he centralised power, bypassed traditional authority structures, and favoured popular support over elite approval (Champlin, 2003, pp. 19-52). His actual competence or incompetence is difficult to assess through sources shaped by Flavian propaganda needs and subsequent Christian theological interests (Mallitz, 2005; Buckley & Dinter, 2013).
The consequences of this wholesale discrediting extended beyond Nero's reputation. When the Flavians delegitimised Nero completely, they discredited everything associated with his rule—including genuine innovations in fire safety, urban planning, and public entertainment that benefited ordinary citizens. The improved building codes, wider streets, and fire prevention measures implemented after 64 CE represented administrative competence and progressive urban development. But because they were Nero's innovations, subsequent administrations couldn't acknowledge or build upon them without appearing to rehabilitate a discredited predecessor. Valuable lessons about urban safety and public administration were lost or minimised because they were tainted by association with a ruler who had to be presented as comprehensively failed (Griffin, 1984; Champlin, 2003).
This pattern—wholesale discrediting of a source leading to loss of valuable insights because they're now associated with rejected authority—appears repeatedly in human institutions. When zealotry demands absolute positions, nuance becomes impossible. When survival requires complete rejection of predecessors, learning from their successes becomes politically impossible. The citizens of Rome lost fire safety improvements not because the improvements were bad, but because acknowledging them would complicate the narrative required for Flavian legitimacy.
Consider what we've now uncovered through examining this "simple" historical example:
Layer 1: The Zealots—passionate conviction producing catastrophic outcomes
Layer 2: Josephus—documenting Layer 1 while positioned by Flavian patronage
Layer 3: Christian scribes—copying and potentially altering Josephus's texts across centuries of manuscript transmission
Layer 4: The Flavians—shaping historical narrative to legitimate their rule
Layer 5: Ancient historians—writing under or after Flavian influence
Layer 6: Christian tradition—interpreting events through theological lenses
Layer 7: Modern scholarship—attempting to reconstruct through these accumulated layers
Layer 8: Contemporary observers—reading this history through current concerns
Every layer examined reveals another layer of positioning, interest, and interpretive shaping. There is no neutral vantage point. We cannot reach back to "what really happened" without encountering positioned observers with interests in how events are presented.
Consider one subtle example of this cascade: the grammatical transformation from verb to noun. Those we now call "Zealots" understood themselves as being zealous for God—engaging in covenant-defending behaviour described by a verb. Josephus retrospectively applies "Zealots" as a noun, a factional label. Modern English completes the transformation: "a zealot" becomes a common noun meaning fanatic or extremist. Each grammatical shift—from action (verb) to faction (proper noun) to pathology (common noun)—performs epistemological work, reframing what can be known about these movements. We lose access to their self-understanding as people engaged in religiously mandated behaviour and gain instead a label that suggests irrational extremism. Even the grammatical categorisation shapes what becomes knowable.
The cascade becomes yet more complex when we recognise that Layers 2 and 3 weren't entirely sequential but partly synchronous. Josephus wrote his accounts in Rome (c. 75-94 CE) at the same time the Gospels were being composed—Mark around 66-70 CE, Luke around 80-90 CE—possibly in Rome or Roman-influenced communities, all writing for Greco-Roman audiences under Flavian rule (Brown, 1997). Neither source provides truly independent verification of the other because both emerged from overlapping contexts with similar political pressures and potentially mutual influence. The "Zealot" narrative that serves Josephus's Flavian patrons (portraying Jewish resistance as violent extremism justifying Roman suppression) simultaneously serves early Christian writers who needed to distinguish Jesus from violent messianic movements to make Christianity acceptable to Rome. These aren't separate layers of interpretation applied sequentially—they're co-constitutive narratives reinforcing each other's framing, making it impossible to access what these movements understood about themselves before both narratives shaped how they could be known.
This isn't historical nihilism—we're not saying nothing can be known. Archaeological evidence exists. Multiple sources can be cross-referenced. Patterns emerge despite positioning. But it does mean recognising that all historical knowledge—like all contemporary knowledge—comes filtered through phenomenological lenses shaped by interests, survival needs, ideological commitments, and pragmatic constraints (Carr, 1961; Evans, 1997; Southgate, 2009).
The Zealots story remains instructive not because we can reconstruct it with perfect fidelity, but because the pattern it demonstrates—passionate certainty destroying what it seeks to protect—appears repeatedly across contexts despite our inability to fully transcend the epistemological limitations of positioned observation.
The Zealot story, despite its epistemological complexity, reveals a recurring pattern:
This pattern appears wherever certain conditions exist: passionate conviction meets organisational precarity, inspection pressure rewards performative certainty, and those supposedly protected bear the costs of their protectors' uncompromising convictions.
Before examining how organisational dynamics might corrupt service delivery, it's essential to state clearly: specialist services in safeguarding, domestic violence, and sexual harmful behaviour are vital. They are not optional enhancements to generic provision—they are necessary responses to complex, high-stakes situations requiring specialised knowledge, skills, and therapeutic approaches.
Domestic violence services provide expertise that mainstream provision cannot replicate: trauma-informed practice, understanding of coercive control dynamics, risk assessment tools specific to intimate partner violence, safety planning, refuge provision, therapeutic interventions for victims and perpetrators (Respect, 2020; SafeLives, 2019). The complexity of domestic violence—its patterns, its escalation risks, its intergenerational transmission, its intersection with child protection—requires specialised knowledge accumulated through years of focused practice and research (Stark, 2007; Johnson, 2008).
Sexual harmful behaviour services address situations where generic child protection approaches are insufficient: specialised assessment frameworks for children displaying concerning sexual behaviour, age-appropriate therapeutic interventions, family work addressing dynamics that may have contributed to behaviour, differentiation between normative exploration and genuine concern (Hackett, 2014; NSPCC, 2019). These situations require practitioners who understand child sexual development, trauma responses, neurodevelopmental factors, and appropriate intervention strategies—expertise that cannot be improvised by well-meaning generalists.
Safeguarding specialists provide essential knowledge about recognition, assessment, and intervention in child protection contexts: understanding of attachment difficulties, trauma responses, neglect indicators, physical abuse presentations, fabricated or induced illness, professional dangerousness (Munro, 2011; Brandon et al., 2020). They bring experience working with families under extreme stress, navigating statutory frameworks, making complex decisions under uncertainty, managing risk in ways that both protect children and preserve family relationships where possible.
These services exist because they're needed. Children are harmed by domestic violence. Some children engage in sexually harmful behaviour. Families sometimes require intervention to protect children from neglect or abuse. The harms are real, the needs are genuine, and the expertise required to address them effectively is substantial.
The critique this essay offers is not of these services' necessity or their practitioners' commitment. It's about what happens when organisational precarity, funding fragility, and inspection pressure create structural conditions that can corrupt even necessary, well-intentioned services. It's about recognising patterns that appear predictably under certain conditions—not dismissing the vital work these services provide when functioning optimally.
The Zealot pattern—passionate commitment hardening into destructive certainty, organisational survival overriding mission, performance of conviction when humility would be wiser—manifests predictably wherever certain structural conditions exist: ideological conviction meets organisational precarity, passionate advocacy encounters funding fragility, inspection regimes reward demonstrable action over nuanced judgement.
This section offers brief observations about how the pattern might appear in contemporary policy and service delivery contexts. These aren't comprehensive critiques but illustrative parallels—recognising ancient dynamics in modern institutional behaviour whilst acknowledging that many services maintain integrity despite these pressures.
Drawing on institutional theory (Powell & DiMaggio, 1991), resource dependency perspectives (Pfeffer & Salancik, 2003), and analyses of performativity in public services (Power, 1997; Ball, 2003), we can identify conditions likely to produce zealotry-like patterns:
Funding precarity creates incentives to expand scope, emphasise severity, and overclaim effectiveness (Milbourne, 2013). Inspection regimes that penalise ambiguity reward performative certainty over epistemic humility (Hood et al., 2022; Wilkins & Antonopoulou, 2019). Ideological commitment in research can prioritise advocacy over rigorous investigation (Hammersley, 1995). Organisational survival pressures can corrupt mission, directing energy toward demonstrating indispensability rather than delivering proportionate service (Featherstone et al., 2018; Parton, 2014).
These dynamics don't require malicious individuals—they're structural. When your professional existence depends on being seen as necessary, you develop sophisticated justifications for necessity. When you believe passionately in your cause, you can't easily distinguish between evidence supporting it and evidence you'd like to support it. When inspection scrutiny threatens your organisation, epistemic humility appears to threaten organisational survival.
The epistemological framework from my previous essay remains relevant: our observations are filtered through phenomenological lenses (Husserl, 1970; Heidegger, 1962), power shapes whose knowledge is valued (Fricker, 2007; Fieller et al., 2022), and irreducible uncertainty characterises complex systems (Munro, 2019; Stevens & Hassett, 2007). But here we add organisational dimensions—examining how institutional dynamics interact with epistemic challenges.
Research zealotry appears when advocacy commitment shapes methodology: studies designed to demonstrate harm rather than test whether harm exists at hypothesised levels, definitions expanding to serve funding or ideological goals, counter-evidence dismissed as minimisation (Hammersley, 1995). The harms being studied are genuine—domestic violence, child abuse, harmful behaviour all exist and warrant investigation. But does research shaped by advocacy rather than rigour lead to services that actually protect and heal families, or does it produce interventions that serve organisational survival whilst missing what children and families genuinely need?
Organisational zealotry manifests in threshold expansion when referrals decline, severity claims that justify specialist intervention, effectiveness overclaiming, and performance of indispensability (Featherstone et al., 2018; Parton, 2014). Services under funding threat can't afford to admit uncertainty or acknowledge that mainstream provision might handle cases adequately. Better to expand definitions, emphasise complexity, demonstrate comprehensive action—even if this serves organisational survival rather than family welfare.
Practice zealotry appears in performative intensity: case conferences becoming more formal, documentation becoming more detailed, ambiguous situations presented as certain to demonstrate vigilance (Hood et al., 2022). The reading of verbatim disclosures in meetings, for instance, may serve organisational anxiety about demonstrating seriousness rather than therapeutic or protection goals.
I don't develop these observations extensively here—that would risk making contemporary critique the essay's focus rather than illustration. The point is pattern recognition: how the dynamics Josephus documented 2000 years ago might manifest in modern institutional contexts where similar conditions exist.
Before examining how zealotry manifests in modern safeguarding, I need to address an uncomfortable reality: my own positioning. This section risks self-indulgence—who wants to read someone's extended meta-commentary on their own critique? But without it, this essay becomes precisely what it critiques: positioned knowledge presented as if transcending positioning.
I've worked in family safeguarding and early help for over twenty years. I hold professional qualifications. I maintain statutory employment. I write critiques of the systems I work within. This creates obvious questions:
If systems are as problematic as I suggest, why have I stayed? Am I simply cynically maintaining employment while performing critique? Or does my continued participation reveal that the problems aren't actually as severe as my rhetoric suggests? Is this essay itself performative zealotry—passionate conviction about the dangers of passionate conviction?
These aren't rhetorical questions I'm dismissing. They're legitimate challenges to my positioning.
Several dynamics shape what I'm able to perceive and present:
I hold statutory employment alongside developing a private business (YoungFamilyLife Ltd). This creates survival pressures identical to those I critique. My critique must be careful enough not to jeopardise current employment. My business positioning requires demonstrating credibility while avoiding reputation-destroying confrontation with former colleagues and systems. These aren't abstract pressures—they're material constraints shaping what I write and how I write it.
My background is integrative counselling, systems thinking, and epistemology. This shapes both what I notice (knowledge construction, power dynamics, systemic patterns) and what I miss (operational realities faced by those in different roles, constraints I don't directly experience, possibilities I haven't considered). My phenomenological lens privileges certain observations while obscuring others.
I'm approaching retirement (May 2031). This provides freedom—reputation damage matters less when professional climbing is finished—but also shapes motivation. Is this critique genuinely about service improvement, or primarily about securing post-retirement positioning? Both can be true simultaneously, but acknowledging that possibility matters.
Like Josephus writing for Roman patrons while attempting to rehabilitate Jewish reputation, I'm writing positioned between multiple interests: current employer, future business clients, professional credibility, personal integrity, service users I've worked with, colleagues I respect despite disagreeing with systemic dynamics. These interests don't align neatly. The resulting positioning shapes what gets emphasised, what gets softened, what remains unspoken.
Positioned observation creates blind spots. Some dynamics I likely cannot perceive from my location:
Acknowledging these limitations doesn't resolve them. I remain positioned. But the acknowledgement might create space for readers to bring their own observations rather than treating this analysis as authoritative.
Here's where it gets genuinely uncomfortable: this section itself might be performative. Academic and professional writing increasingly demands reflexive positioning statements. "Here's my location" has become conventional. But convention can be performance—displaying awareness of positioning biases while using that display to claim epistemic superiority over those who don't perform similar self-examination.
Is this section demonstrating epistemic humility or performing it? How would I know the difference from inside my phenomenological experience? The reflexive loop continues: acknowledging that the acknowledgement might be performance could itself be performance of sophisticated epistemic awareness.
I don't have resolution. What I have is: recognition that positioned critique remains positioned, that survival pressures shape even critique of survival pressures, that claiming epistemic humility can itself be intellectually arrogant. The best I can offer is: take everything here—including this positioning statement—as provisional observation from a particular location rather than authoritative analysis transcending positioning.
Having examined historical example and personal positioning, how might zealotry manifest in contemporary child protection and family support? This section explores patterns without claiming exhaustive analysis. These are observations from my location, inevitably partial and shaped by positioning.
Modern safeguarding demonstrates characteristic mission expansion. Originally focused on protecting children from significant harm, the remit has progressively expanded to include: emotional wellbeing, educational outcomes, healthy lifestyle choices, digital safety, environmental awareness, community cohesion, preventing radicalisation, addressing child criminal exploitation, county lines involvement, modern slavery indicators, and increasingly complex forms of peer-on-peer abuse (Department for Education, 2015, 2018, 2021).
Each expansion reflects genuine concern about actual harms children face. But the cumulative effect creates systems claiming responsibility for virtually every aspect of child development and family functioning—a scope impossible to deliver with available resources (Bywaters et al., 2020; Hood et al., 2022). The pattern mirrors Zealot mission expansion from taxation resistance to total rejection of Roman authority.
Third sector organisations demonstrate particularly clear dynamics. Many exist through contract delivery rather than block grants, creating direct competition for finite funding (Milbourne, 2013). This produces:
Organisations must demonstrate they address critical needs others cannot meet. This incentivises claiming unique expertise, overstating impact, and presenting problems as requiring specialist intervention (Milbourne, 2013, pp. 67-94). The more "critical" and "complex" the identified need, the stronger the funding case.
When one funding stream declines, organisations pivot to emerging priorities. The same organisation might sequentially focus on teenage pregnancy, gang affiliation, knife crime, county lines, and online safety—not necessarily because organisational expertise matches these topics, but because funding follows governmental priority (Milbourne, 2013, pp. 127-148).
When organisational survival depends on demonstrating measurable impact, research inevitably shapes toward demonstrating effectiveness. This isn't necessarily deliberate corruption—it's survival pressure shaping what gets measured, how it's measured, and what gets reported (Hammersley, 1995). Survival pressure shapes conviction expression, as it did for Zealots in occupied Judea.
Ofsted's inspection framework for children's services creates particular pressures (Wilkins & Antonopoulou, 2019). Inspection grades significantly impact organisational reputation, staff morale, recruitment capability, and political sustainability. Poor grades can trigger intervention regimes, leadership changes, and budget scrutiny (Hood et al., 2022).
This creates powerful incentives toward performative certainty. Acknowledging limitations, expressing uncertainty about complex cases, or questioning established practice frameworks appears to threaten inspection ratings and organisational reputation. Inspection frameworks value consistency, confidence, and clear decision-making—qualities that can conflict with epistemic humility (Wilkins, 2017). The result mirrors Zealot internal dynamics where questioning absolute positions risked marginalisation.
Academic research follows similar patterns. Funding increasingly requires demonstrated "impact"—measurable effects on policy or practice (Hammersley, 1995, pp. 89-116). This creates several dynamics:
Research proposals must demonstrate significance—the bigger and more urgent the problem, the more fundable the research. This incentivises presenting issues as widespread, severe, and requiring immediate intervention.
Funding favours research proposing solutions over research examining complexity. Studies finding "this intervention works" receive more attention than studies finding "actually, we don't really understand what's happening here" (Hammersley, 1995).
When government or organisations commission research, there's inevitable pressure toward findings supporting commissioner preferences. This doesn't require explicit corruption—positioning and survival pressure shape what gets emphasised and how findings are presented (Hammersley, 1995).
The Josephus parallel is clear: positioned observers with survival interests produce knowledge shaped by those interests while claiming objective observation.
Modern policy development demonstrates a troubling pattern: when problems emerge with existing approaches, responses often involve wholesale rejection rather than incremental refinement.
The death of Peter Connelly ("Baby P") in 2007 triggered wholesale rejection of relationship-based, partnership-focused practice in favour of "decisive" child protection focused on rapid assessment and legal intervention (Parton, 2014). This shift occurred despite evidence that the relationship-based approach had reduced harm when properly resourced and supported (Featherstone et al., 2018).
The problem wasn't the relationship-based approach itself—it was under-resourcing, poor management, missed information, and systemic failures in case coordination (Brandon et al., 2020). But wholesale rejection proved politically simpler than addressing complex systemic problems.
In the 2000s, "social pedagogy"—a European approach to residential child care—gained traction in English policy discussions. Pilot programmes were established. Initial enthusiasm was considerable. Then the model struggled to demonstrate dramatic outcome improvements in English contexts, funding diminished, enthusiasm waned, and social pedagogy largely disappeared from policy discourse (Featherstone et al., 2018).
What didn't happen: careful analysis of which elements worked in which contexts, refinement of implementation approaches, integration of useful insights with existing practice knowledge. Instead: wholesale adoption followed by wholesale abandonment.
Currently, "Signs of Safety"—an strengths-based assessment and planning framework—dominates local authority adoption (Featherstone et al., 2018). It's spreading not primarily through evidence of effectiveness (which remains contested) but through organisational adoption patterns, consultant networks, and political appeal of "positive" approaches (Forrester et al., 2019).
Concerns about evidence quality, implementation fidelity, and theoretical coherence receive limited attention compared to enthusiastic adoption (Forrester et al., 2019). We might be witnessing another cycle: wholesale adoption without adequate evaluation, followed eventually by disappointment when promised outcomes don't materialise, leading to wholesale rejection and adoption of whatever becomes next fashionable. The pattern echoes Zealot dynamics: wholesale rejection losing valuable knowledge.
The parallel to Flavian treatment of Nero is striking. Just as the Flavians' need to delegitimise Nero led to discrediting his fire safety innovations and urban planning improvements—losing valuable lessons because they were associated with a rejected predecessor—contemporary safeguarding can lose effective practices when they're associated with discredited frameworks or leaders. The expertise isn't actually invalid, the practice knowledge isn't genuinely wrong, but acknowledging value in "failed" approaches becomes politically impossible when organisational or ideological survival requires absolute rejection. Citizens lose fire protection, families lose effective support—not because the innovations were bad, but because nuanced assessment becomes impossible when zealotry demands certainty.
All these dynamics operate within contexts of severe resource constraint. English local authorities experienced approximately 40% real-terms budget reductions between 2010-2020 while demand for children's services increased substantially (Webb et al., 2022). This creates impossible tensions:
When resources cannot match need, systems respond through either rationing (raising thresholds, narrowing eligibility) or performance (claiming greater efficiency, adopting "innovative" approaches promising more impact with fewer resources). Both strategies avoid confronting the fundamental mismatch between expectations and capacity (Bywaters et al., 2020). Resource constraint amplifies every zealotry dynamic identified above.
Across these contemporary manifestations—mission creep, organisational survival pressures, inspection regimes, research funding, policy development, and resource constraint—the same ancient pattern recurs. What Josephus documented two millennia ago in first-century Judea appears recognisably in twenty-first century English children's services: survival pressure shapes conviction expression, passionate advocacy hardens into uncompromising positions, performative intensity demonstrates commitment more reliably than thoughtful uncertainty, wholesale rejection loses valuable knowledge, and those supposedly protected—then Jerusalem's citizens, now families—bear the costs of their protectors' certainties. The conditions producing zealotry haven't changed: organisational precarity meets passionate conviction, funding fragility encounters ideological commitment, and epistemic humility appears to threaten the agency's ability to demonstrate the indispensability, certainty, and definitive action upon which funding and legitimacy depend.
The deepest problem might be structural rather than individual or organisational. Consider:
The Political Dimension: No politician can campaign on "actually, we can't protect all children from all harm—the task is too complex, resources too limited, and knowledge too uncertain." Such honesty guarantees electoral defeat. Political survival requires claiming problems are solvable with sufficient will and resources.
The Public Expectation: When child deaths occur, public response demands accountability, system reform, and assurance that "this will never happen again." Acknowledging that some tragedies remain unpredictable and unpreventable despite competent practice proves professionally impossible (Munro, 2011).
The Inspection Framework: Regulators evaluating services cannot reward epistemic humility without appearing to endorse uncertainty. Ratings require definitive judgements. Acknowledging complexity conflicts with the clarity inspection frameworks demand (Wilkins & Antonopoulou, 2019).
The Media Environment: Coverage of child protection focuses disproportionately on failures. Successful prevention receives minimal attention because prevented harm remains invisible. This creates distorted public perception that systems fail more often than they succeed (Parton, 2014).
The Funding Apparatus: Demonstrating measurable impact becomes essential for securing resources. This incentivises overstating certainty, claiming effectiveness, and avoiding acknowledgement of complexity or limitation (Milbourne, 2013).
These aren't individual moral failures—they're structural dynamics shaping what can be publicly acknowledged. The system rewards performative certainty and punishes honest uncertainty. In such contexts, zealotry isn't deviation from professional norms—it's adaptation to survival pressures.
The Zealots faced similar structural impossibilities: acknowledging Roman military superiority would betray theological conviction, pragmatic compromise appeared as apostasy, and passionate resistance seemed the only honourable response despite inevitable catastrophic outcome. Modern safeguarding operates within comparable constraints—different content, similar structural dynamics.
This essay's title poses a challenge: when does passionate certainty impede what it seeks to protect? I don't have an answer for the counsellor and their supervisor, navigating the ambiguity of 'enough' whilst meeting mortgage payments. I don't have an answer for the service commissioner, balancing budget constraints against genuine need. I don't have an answer for the policy developer, trying to create guidance that acknowledges complexity without licensing inaction. I don't have an answer for the researcher, whose funding depends on demonstrating indispensability whilst maintaining epistemic rigour. I don't have an answer for the practitioner, whose audit outcomes require confident assertions about uncertain assessments. I don't have an answer for the organisation, whose survival depends on demonstrating impact in contexts where causation is genuinely unclear. And I don't have an answer for myself, examining these dynamics whilst subject to the very patterns I'm critiquing.
What I can offer:
Zealotry isn't individual moral failure—it's organisational and systemic adaptation to particular pressures. When survival depends on demonstrating indispensability, mission creep becomes inevitable. When inspection regimes penalise uncertainty, performative certainty becomes necessary. When funding requires impact demonstration, evidence shaping follows.
Recognising these patterns doesn't eliminate them but might reduce moral judgement directed at those caught within them.
Even when organisational contexts punish uncertainty, individuals can practice internal epistemic humility: recognising the limits of what we actually know, acknowledging how positioning shapes our perceptions, remaining open to evidence challenging our assessments, treating positioned knowledge (including our own) with appropriate skepticism.
This might not change systems, but it might reduce harm produced when passionate conviction overrides pragmatic reality.
When organisational remits expand beyond sustainable delivery, families ultimately bear costs through either unmet need or performative intervention. Paying attention to when "doing more" becomes impossible rather than admirable might create space for honest conversation about priorities and limitations.
When policy or practice frameworks promise transformation, revolutionary improvement, or "evidence-based" solutions to complex problems—skepticism proves valuable. What gets lost when previous approaches are wholly rejected? What survival pressures might be shaping the enthusiasm? What positioning produces the evidence claimed?
The Flavian-Nero example remains instructive: when Nero was comprehensively discredited, fire safety innovations and urban planning improvements were lost because acknowledging their value would complicate the required narrative. Contemporary safeguarding risks similar dynamics—valuable practice knowledge discredited not because it's ineffective, but because it's associated with rejected frameworks or discredited predecessors. Credit where credit is due, humility about what we're discarding, and careful attention to what gets lost in wholesale rejection—these remain essential even when passionate conviction demands absolute positions.
This doesn't mean rejecting innovation—it means treating claims carefully rather than adopting frameworks wholesale without adequate evaluation.
Political realities, inspection frameworks, funding mechanisms, and media environments create genuine constraints on what can be publicly acknowledged. Working effectively within these constraints while maintaining internal honesty requires recognising their existence rather than pretending they don't shape outcomes.
The most uncomfortable conclusion: some dynamics might be structurally irresolvable. Systems requiring performative certainty cannot simultaneously reward epistemic humility. Organisations competing for survival cannot collectively acknowledge resource insufficiency. Political discourse demanding "solutions" cannot accommodate honest complexity acknowledgement.
The Zealots destroyed the Temple while believing they were saving it. The best I can offer is: pay attention to that dynamic. Notice when passionate conviction overrides pragmatic reality. Recognise organisational survival pressures that corrupt mission. Maintain skepticism toward positioned knowledge—including this positioned knowledge examining positioned knowledge.
And accept that some questions don't have comfortable answers—only the ongoing challenge of navigating uncertainty with as much honesty as we can manage.
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The Epistemology of Safeguarding: What We Know, How We Know It, and Why It Matters: Examines the fundamental knowledge problems in child protection and why epistemic humility is essential
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Topics: #safeguarding #childprotection #socialwork #thirdsector #organisationalculture #epistemology #zealotry #policymaking #researchintegrity #servicedelivery #auditculture #therapeuticpractice #professionalethics #missioncreep #evidencebasedpractice
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