Dramatic tragedy, according to Aristotle, should not only depict the fall of a hero from a tragic mistake but also arouse fear in the audience that the same fate could befall us.

The Joe Paterno story ought to terrify everyone.

The core of the moral tale occurred 10 years ago, shortly after then-Penn State football coach Jerry Sandusky had been seen sexually assaulting a young boy in the showers of the Penn State football building. The university's president, athletic director and vice president overseeing campus police had agreed to report the crime to state authorities. But then the athletic director — after, in his words, "talking it over with Joe" — suggested that they back off. The others agreed.

It was a decision of tragic moral cowardice that ruined many lives — including the lives of the decision-makers. But outsiders who glibly reassure themselves that they would have reported Sandusky to state authorities are placing themselves morally above these four men and everyone who had known something of Sandusky's assaults going back to 1998. That's a tempting conclusion to make, but it risks missing the crucial moral lesson to be taken from this tragedy: how easily the desire for power can deactivate one's moral sensors.

There is a big difference between the moral thought experiment we do in our heads when we imagine ourselves in Paterno's situation and the actual experience of Paterno and the three administrators and the janitor and the assistant coach and everyone who knew but didn't go to the police. Those people who decided to protect Sandusky and Paterno and Penn State were trapped inside power's disorienting force field — a field that disabled their consciences and warped their judgment. For people lucky enough to be outside that poisonous cloud, it's hard to know what you would do if you were inside it.

Paterno was so in thrall to the virtuous image of himself and his football program that he couldn't think straight when confronted with a simple moral question: What should you do when a man rapes a boy?

Everyone is stunned, of course. People thought they knew Paterno. But you don't really know people until you know the pain they can't bear and what they will do to avoid it. Apparently, Paterno couldn't bear the pain of allowing any dent in his sainted self-image.

He had earned a reputation as a morally upright man. He recruited good kids, taught them fair play, helped them graduate and won a lot of football games against teams that were less conscientious about the rules.

Those were real accomplishments. But moral character is proved in sacrifice, and Paterno wasn't forced into any great sacrifice to achieve his two aims. He was able to get both a winning team and a reputation as a moral guy who did things the right way.

The true moral test for Paterno came when he faced a choice between protecting defenseless, fatherless boys from a sexual predator and maintaining the stainless reputation of his football program. Confronted with that moral dilemma, Paterno corrupted himself to preserve his image of purity.

In a tragic irony, if Paterno had gone immediately to the police when he learned of Sandusky's crimes, his reputation would not have been diminished; it would have been enhanced, and many children would have been spared.

That is how completely the need for power corrupts. It not only warps moral decision-making but also distorts even self-interested calculations.

Paterno didn't mean anyone any harm. He was just doing what most powerful people do — trying to hold on to power. In a further irony, those who most revered Paterno were accomplices in his fall, for it was their good regard that he couldn't bear to give up, and that's what brought him down.

This isn't just a story about Paterno; it's a lesson for everyone. The moral caution is captured in C.S. Lewis' brilliant talk to students at the University of London in 1944. Lewis titled his speech "The Inner Ring," a phase he used to describe people's morally dangerous longing to be inside ever more elite circles.

In his talk, Lewis warned the students, "Of all the passions, the passion for the 'Inner Ring' is most skillful in making a man who is not yet a very bad man do very bad things."

Tom Rosshirt was a national security speechwriter for President Bill Clinton and a foreign affairs spokesman for Vice President Al Gore. Email him at [email protected]. To find out more about Tom Rosshirt and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.