So many cultural controversies have erupted on social media recently that it sometimes seems as if we have entered a new era of public denunciation. Twitter recorded the strong backlash against the outspoken writer/musician Henry Rollins, who was compelled to apologize for writing that Robin Williams’s suicide made the much-loved actor unworthy of respect. An outpouring of tweets also helped to force Mozilla CEO Brendan Eich out of his job as a group of his employees spread word that he had supported Proposition 8, California’s anti-gay marriage amendment. Student activists organized protests online against the academic dean of Duke Divinity School over remarks he made at a new-student orientation that they considered inappropriate and homophobic. And Dan Snyder, owner of the Washington NFL franchise, is under constant fire online for refusing to change the team’s name, widely considered derogatory of Native Americans. Many sports announcers and media outlets refuse to utter or print the name (which I won’t use here!).

Incidents like these are proliferating, and they have become the daily bread not only of political activists and media commentators, but of millions of social-media users. A prominent person or organization says or does something offensive and is pressured to retract or mitigate words and actions deemed socially unacceptable. The list is long: Los Angeles Clippers owner Donald Sterling, actor Alec Baldwin, television cook Paula Deen, Duck Dynasty patriarch Phil Robertson, and the late comedian Joan Rivers are just a few who found themselves in hot water for overstepping perceived bounds of decency in the last year or so. The fast-food chain Chick-fil-A has been subject to protests and boycotts because its late founder, S. Truett Cathy, contributed to groups opposed to same-sex marriage and gay rights. And my Facebook feed lit up with calls for a boycott of Burger King after the fast-food chain announced it was buying the Canadian coffee shop business Tim Horton’s and moving its headquarters to Canada, a move branded as a form of US tax evasion.

Each episode exhibits a by-now familiar pattern: an offending behavior is exposed, publicized, and “goes viral” through social media. Sites like Facebook and Twitter explode with calls for the offender to be “held accountable.” Corporate sponsors withdraw their support (or threaten to do so) until the offender goes into damage control mode and devises a suitable public apology or is otherwise censured. (And, to be clear, I consider the domestic and child abuse issues that have dogged the NFL early in its 2014 season to encompass an entirely different realm of objectionable, even criminal, behavior that deserves widespread condemnation and discipline, as well as recognition of the due process rights of the accused.)

These periodic flurries of intense public controversy typically culminate in a call for some sort of “punishment” for the offender: Sterling was forced to sell his team for his racist remarks; Baldwin lost his MSNBC show on account of homophobic insults directed at a photographer; both Deen and Robertson were taken off the air for their words and opinions—though both subsequently returned to television, their celebrity enhanced. Only Rivers seemed to flourish in the face of controversy, and usually with no apologies.

But the uproar usually doesn’t stop there. Typically, a backlash against the backlash ensues, and the efforts to sanction perceived offenders are decried as “political correctness run amuck.” Impromptu Facebook groups form to support the accused, and the “comments” sections of news outlets and websites are riddled with bitter defenses and furious charges of hypocrisy, often expressed more offensively than the initial incident that provoked controversy. Leaders of religious organizations frequently weigh in on the issue, and not always to effect reconciliation or peace between contending factions. What usually results is a brouhaha: serious discussion is lost amidst overexcited polarities and paroxysms of outrage.

During these outbreaks of cultural warfare, we are told that public figures must be “held accountable” for their words and actions. Tea Party activists, for instance, denounce Republican politicians whom most other people would consider already very conservative. They celebrated the defeat of former House Majority Leader Eric Cantor for not holding closely enough to their ideals. I’ve concluded that the intensity of their animosity is not strictly political and ideological. Rather, it masks a deep-seated urge to render a judgment and impose a punishment for everyone to see, and fear.

But what explains the heightened forms of cultural outrage increasingly displayed by self-identified political and religious progressives? People like me. We champion diversity and peace, tolerance and reconciliation, priding ourselves on being more fair-minded and even-handed than our opponents. Yet, we can be just as self-righteous and strident and unforgiving in our reactions to a perceived offense. What’s going on here?

Progressives may respond by reasoning that we love justice and have contempt for hateful conduct, but even those honorable motivations can be corrupted by darker impulses to which all people are prey, regardless of their persuasion. Thus, we must give more thought to the increasingly poisonous tone of our public discourse, even if what we discover is discomfiting. Let me propose the following three, admittedly tentative, theses.

First, I think the urge to punish is our way of reclaiming power in a seemingly hostile cultural landscape. We know the incendiary or ­insensitive comments of a Paula Deen or Alec Baldwin may have a disempowering effect, especially upon those who feel targeted. But instead of responding with measured anger, we choose to demonstrate our power over those who earn our disapproval. We pronounce ourselves offended, then demand “accountability,” a passive-aggressive way of showing that we, too, can hurt back. The language of reconciliation never comes into play (except sometimes, as at Duke Divinity School, from the offending party, which should always be met with healthy suspicion).

Second, anyone who has studied American social history knows that the marginalization of gender and minority communities has deprived millions from active participation in our nation’s development. Women, racial and sexual minorities, the poor, and other disenfranchised groups have contributed to the many splendid achievements of progressive reform movements but continue to face barriers to full inclusion in American life. This creates an ironic situation for many who subsequently claim a place in a privileged white male world: the once-marginalized begin to use their newly acquired access to power in ways that can all too easily make them marginalizers themselves. Now it’s our turn to exile and condemn.

Such reflexive marginalization—particularly when it is directed against public figures—often fosters in us the illusion that we inhabit a society and culture that matches our ideals. Anyone who punctures that ideal image must be sidelined or silenced or made invisible: take them off the air (Deen), fire them from their jobs (Baldwin), force them out of their positions (Sterling), take away their livelihoods (Eich). Never mind that millions of the so-called silent majority hold similar views but lack a public platform or media profile to make their voices heard. We prefer our cultural opponents to be invisible to us, and we will make them so, if need be. The power to marginalize is a temptation not easily resisted.

And this leads me to my third thesis: despite what we say, progressives are as ambivalent about free speech and civil liberty as our counterparts. We may deplore censorship and intolerance, we may declare our commitment to diversity and hatred for discrimination, but the diversity we recognize and accept has boundaries. Religious fundamentalists, cultural conservatives, and the like are fair game for exclusion. Too often we announce our support for working-class people, but do we respect—or even hear—their often culturally conservative voices? We fantasize about the impact of corporate boycotts on wealthy executives and stockholders, but do we take into account their impact on minimum-wage workers and struggling franchise owners? We reject making employment subject to political litmus tests, but when public records reveal Brendan Eich’s $1,000 personal contribution in support of Proposition 8, we’re out for blood.

I think one reason why so many of us are absorbed by these unending cultural skirmishes is that we feel powerless when confronting intractable societal problems, overwhelming economic forces, and a political system that seems utterly resistant to meaningful change. Any apparent victory for “our” side—changing a corporate policy, getting an offensive speaker to apologize, removing an opponent from a position of power—creates a sense of empowerment in contrast to the despair that sets in when we contemplate systemic evils beyond our control. And, worse, it ­perpetuates the all-too-common illusion that our complex world is amenable to simple corrections.

Certainly, we must recognize and confront social injustices, demand change, and even urge personal atonement, but we need to better manage and focus our outrage, justifiable as it may be, and rein in our passions to expose and humiliate, exact revenge, and vindicate our positions. Progressives can justify our claims to being fair and open-minded by learning and exercising skills that help us argue for what we hold most dear, rather than brandishing the rhetoric and weapons of marginalization and disempowerment. Rather than decomplexifying the world, we can argue for a more dynamic view, even if that doesn’t fully comport with our ideals. We should choose our battles carefully and conduct them in ways commensurate with the values we profess. This is a first crucial step toward realizing the healed world we imagine and for which we hope.

David Lott is a freelance book editor living in Washington, D.C.