‘The Two Standards’

At a time when the public discourse has become fixated on colors — each hue standing for faction, identity, or fleeting allegiance — let’s set aside this crowded spectrum and bracket the noise of these colors.

Instead, I turn to the blue banner — not so much as a partisan marker but as a moral lens.

It brings to mind a powerful allegory by Fr. Horacio de la Costa that was later brought to the stage by Fr. James Reuter: “The Two Standards.”

The play featured stalwarts of Ateneo, namely, Soc Rodrigo, Moro Lorenzo, Butz Aquino, Vic Diaz, Robert Arevalo, Leo Martinez, Subas Herrero, Noel Trinidad , classmates F. Balboa, Ariosto Nonong Reyes, Tony Antonio, Toti Casiño, and Ramsey Hormillo. Although written in a different era, its central tension remains unnervingly current.

The story is rooted in the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola on his meditation on the standards of Christ or the standards of Satan. At its core, The Two Standards is not about color at all. It is about choice.

Two banners are raised — not of party, but of principle. One stands for truth, humility, discipline, and service. The other for vanity, expediency, deception, and self-interest. The drama unfolds not in grand battlefields, but in the quiet, interior arena where decisions are made — where individuals, and by extension, institutions, choose which standard they will follow.

To invoke this story is to remind ourselves that beneath the spectacle of political color-coding lies a far more consequential divide. It is never about these colors but between governance anchored in integrity and governance driven by convenience.

Nowhere is this tension more visible than in Congress. Legislative power exists to craft laws that advance the public good. In practice, the line between public service and political self-preservation is often blurred.

Consider the recurring debates over the national budget. Each year, allocations are defended as instruments of development, yet controversies over insertions, realignments, and opaque line items persist. When legislators prioritize district-level visibility over coherent national planning, they may still claim to serve — but the standard has shifted. The banner is no longer reform; it is the retention of influence.

The same duality appears in oversight functions. Inquiries can be powerful tools for accountability, but they can be platforms for political theater. When hearings are used to genuinely expose inefficiencies or corruption, they align with the higher standard of truth. But when they devolve into grandstanding — designed for headlines rather than reform — they risk serving the lower standard: power as performance.

The contrast is even more consequential in the executive branch. Policy decisions carry immediate, nationwide impact, and the temptation to favor expediency over principle is constant.

Procurement, for instance, is most vulnerable. Transparent, competitive bidding reflects a commitment to the stewardship of public funds. Yet when contracts are steered, specifications tailored, and processes rushed under the guise of urgency, the system begins to tilt. These are not always headline-grabbing scandals; more often, they are incremental deviations — small accommodations that accumulate into systemic distortion.

Appointments and promotions within the bureaucracy also reflect two standards. Merit-based selection strengthens institutions, ensuring continuity and competence beyond electoral cycles. Patronage weakens them from within.

When loyalty becomes the primary currency, professionalism is eroded and agencies become extensions of political networks rather than instruments of policy execution. This affects not just efficiency but credibility.

The blue banner, in this sense, is not a claim to virtue but a call to introspection.

For those who now find themselves at the center of authority — those who wear influence as comfortably as they do their chosen color — the question posed by De la Costa’s allegory lingers: Which standard guides our decisions when no one is watching? Which banner do we serve when power tempts us to blur the line between public duty and private gain?

The enduring power of The Two Standards lies in its refusal to simplify. Choosing is not easy and virtue is not always rewarded in the short term. What it insists is that choice is unavoidable.

In a political climate increasingly defined by branding rather than belief, by optics rather than outcomes, the temptation is to treat colors as substitutes for character. Colors, however vivid, cannot govern, legislate, enforce, or serve. Only people can — and only insofar as they choose the standard by which they act.

So let the colors remain, if they must. Let them animate rallies, define coalitions, and shape narratives. But let us not forget that beyond the banners we wave lies the standard we live by.

It is not the color we carry that will define our legacy — but the standard we choose to uphold.