The Jeffrey Epstein case periodically returns to the public eye with new revelations that promise, but fail, to provide a complete picture. Instead, the same reaction emerges: outrage, distrust of institutions, suspicion of elites and insatiable curiosity. Why does this story continue to captivate us?
Jeffrey Epstein was an American financier who, in the 1990s and 2000s, became an extremely influential figure and a key player in the global elite network. Alongside his public life, he established a network of abuse and sexual exploitation involving teenage girls, whom he brought to his properties in the US and abroad.
The first scandal broke in 2005 when Florida authorities discovered that Epstein had allegedly paid underage girls, some as young as 14, for sex. In 2008, he pleaded guilty to only two lesser charges in a highly controversial deal negotiated by federal prosecutors, and served a reduced sentence. Initially kept secret from the victims, this agreement shocked the public and was later described by the courts as a national disgrace.
The case resurfaced in July 2019 when Epstein was arrested on federal charges of sex trafficking and exploitation of minors. Just one month later, on 10 August 2019, he was found dead in his cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York. While the official investigation concluded that it was suicide, irregularities in the prison surveillance footage and camera malfunctions fuelled controversy and theories that another cause of death was involved.
Ghislaine Maxwell, Epstein’s close friend and partner, was later arrested and sentenced to 20 years in prison for her role in recruiting minors into the trafficking network.
Between 2025 and 2026, US authorities began to declassify millions of documents related to the case in an attempt to release emails, financial transactions and other evidence showing not only Epstein’s abuses, but also his social and economic connections. While some of this material does suggest contact with prominent public and political figures, the FBI has stated that there is insufficient evidence to support the claim that Epstein ran a sex trafficking ring among the global elite, and the so-called “client lists” remain unconfirmed.
Scandal as social glue
At first glance, the collective interest in the Epstein case appears to be a strange combination of morbid curiosity, a desire for sensationalism, and a kind of moral voyeurism. In reality, however, the mechanism is much more mundane. People talk about rule breaking because it helps them to align their values. Scandal does not occur in a vacuum; it functions as a collective exercise in moral orientation.
One of the most influential hypotheses in this regard was formulated by anthropologist Robin Dunbar: in human societies, gossip plays the same role that grooming plays in primates, namely maintaining the cohesion of large groups. By recounting transgressions, the theory goes, people convey information and establish who is trustworthy, who has broken the rules, and which behaviours are informally sanctioned.
In other words, when we discuss a scandal, we are not just talking about someone; we are talking to each other to confirm a set of common rules.
Why some cases attract us more than others
Not all violations of norms become major scandals. Those that capture collective attention usually combine several factors, such as the vulnerability of the victims, a power imbalance, suspicion of institutional complicity, and ambiguity of responsibility. In such situations, public discussion is not only about the deeds themselves, but also about how an entire system facilitates them.
Sometimes, however, this social reflex loses its direction, and the clarification of norms is replaced by spectacle, with protecting the vulnerable becoming secondary to circulating the story. At that point, gossip no longer functions as an instrument of moral control, but as a form of collective entertainment.
Moral instinct or a corrupt reflex?
The line between these two responses is very fine. The same impulse that can mobilise a community to condemn abuse can degenerate into the obsessive consumption of details, speculation, and lists. Rather than reinforcing the norm, this can dilute it, turning its violation into a media product.
Therefore, interest in scandal is not in itself evidence of moral decay; rather, it is an ambivalent social instinct. It can be channelled into vigilance, responsibility, and solidarity with victims. Alternatively, it can be diverted into gossip, cynicism, and moral self-righteousness.
This distinction is qualitative, not quantitative; it does not depend on how much we talk about a case, but on the reasons why we talk about it and our approach to the subject. If the discussion helps the community defend its norms, it fulfils its function. However, if it becomes constant noise without consequences or memory, it is no longer an instrument of cohesion but a symptom of moral erosion.
Moral outrage as a language of belonging
Outrage appears to be one of the purest public emotions. It appears as a natural reaction to injustice, abuse, and violence. In theory, it should be a sign that a society is morally alive and capable of explicitly asserting its limits. In practice, however, things are more complicated. In the public sphere, outrage functions as both an ethical reaction and a social signal. When we express moral outrage, we are not only condemning an act, but also positioning ourselves: showing who we are, who we associate with, and which side of the moral border we are on.
When someone publicly expresses moral anger, the message is not only addressed to those being condemned; it is especially addressed to other observers. Outrage becomes a form of self-presentation: “Look at my values,” “Look at what I don’t tolerate,” and “Look at how trustworthy I am.”
In this sense, outrage functions as a language of belonging. In online groups, among other places, a quick and firm reaction to a scandal is a way of showing that you are properly aligned. Silence can be interpreted as ambiguity, and ambiguity is frowned upon. This creates implicit pressure not only to be outraged, but to show it.
Platforms that fuel anger
Social networks amplify this process. Outrage is easy to express and understand, and the platform rewards it generously through its algorithms. It receives reactions, shares, and validation. Over time, these micro-rewards reflect and shape emotion in ways ranging from the most subtle to the most obvious.
This dynamic is not about individual hypocrisy, which we have become accustomed to condemning in association with social media, where we all present our best selves. Unfortunately, it is the online social environment itself that favours intense, absolutist reactions to the detriment of slow, nuanced, or uncomfortable ones. The more decisive a reaction, the better it circulates. The more complex it is, the more likely it is to go unnoticed. Users internalise this pattern as an intermittent psychological reward, turning their outrage into a learned reflex rather than an authentic reaction.
When anger takes the place of responsibility
There is a real risk that public outrage will replace other forms of moral response. If declaring our outrage becomes sufficient to obtain validation, cohesion, and reinforcement of norms, the urgency of the subsequent action is lost: What do we do next? Who protects the victims? What changes institutionally? What does long-term responsibility entail?
Outrage is in the spotlight because it has one major advantage: it is free. It requires no time, consistency, or involvement beyond expression. This makes it tempting as a form of moral consumerism—a gesture that offers immediate ethical satisfaction without further obligation. It is a form of cheap morality.
Morality at a reduced price
Paradoxically, in today’s increasingly secular society, public outrage often serves as a substitute for religion. It has recognisable rituals, its own language, taboos, heretics, and moments of collective purification. In the absence of a shared spiritual framework, the moral response to scandal is one of the few ways in which the community experiences something akin to the sacred, namely the sense that there are still some absolute limits.
It is no coincidence that major scandals are accompanied by almost theological language. Talk of “absolute evil”, “monsters”, “hell”, and “the need for punishment” abounds. Even when religion is rejected as an institution, its moral reflexes continue to structure public emotions.
Why outrage is not enough
Nevertheless, Christian tradition makes a distinction that the public sphere often loses sight of: the difference between judgement and justice. While judgement is quick, visible, and emotionally satisfying, justice is slow, uncomfortable, and costly. The former produces symbolic cohesion, while the latter requires real transformation.
In this sense, moral outrage can serve as a form of self-absolution. If we rebel strongly enough against extreme evil, we can convince ourselves that we are, by contrast, on the side of good. Evil becomes externalised and localised to a single figure or small group, while the wider community remains largely unquestioned.
Christianity does not deny the existence of radical evil or the obvious differences between actions. However, it rejects the idea that evil is always external and reserved for monstrous figures who are completely separate from the rest of the community. From its perspective, sin is not just what “others” do; it is a constant possibility present in every human being, in both actions and omissions, silences, convenient adaptations, and indifference.
In this precise sense—not factual and not legal—Christianity affirms a moral continuity between the extreme criminal and the person who publicly condemns them without subjecting themselves to the same moral questioning. The difference between them remains real at the factual level, but the comfort of an innocence obtained exclusively by contrast disappears.
When hopelessness breeds anger
There is also another, more subtle, religious dimension. Public outrage is often fuelled by a lack of hope in justice. If institutions seem incapable or uninterested in protecting victims, anger becomes the dominant emotion. In many cases, this anger is an expression of moral despair: the feeling that no one will be held accountable, that the truth will never come to light, and that evil will go unpunished.
The biblical tradition addresses this tension directly. The Psalms, for instance, contain many cries against injustice, but also express the expectation of a definitive judgement. In the Bible, anger does not have the last word. It is always placed in a broader context in which justice is rooted in the character of God Himself, independent of public reaction or the efficiency of human judges.
The judgment that cannot go viral
One of the most uncomfortable truths of Christianity is that the final judgement is not a live show for the entertainment of onlookers. In fact, in the Gospels, Jesus Christ reserves His harshest warnings not for notorious sinners, but for those who consider themselves righteous and are certain of their moral standing. This completely subverts the usual relationship with scandal.
If the way we react to scandals reveals what we believe or what remains of our faith after losing its language, outrage cannot be all we have. If that were the case, the stakes would be low and short-lived. However, if we are convinced that justice is not just an emotion, but a reality that precedes and transcends us, the stakes change.
Christianity is not content with mere outrage because its message is not focused on publicly exposing the guilty, but on personal and collective responsibility with the aim of healing and rebuilding what has been destroyed. In Christianity, evil is not merely something to be publicly denounced; it is something to be prevented, stopped, and healed.
The Epstein files will continue to come and go within the realm of public attention. The lists will be the subject of speculation, refutation, and reinterpretation. Outrage will also come, as it always does, in waves. The question that remains is whether we will learn anything lasting from all this outrage. This would be counterintuitive to our exposure-obsessed culture, which prioritises discussing evil in all its grim facets over caring about those we can protect.