Virtue Signaling Is Complicated: Choosing Grocery Bags in the Church of Climate

There are few modern rituals more spiritually affirming than standing at the checkout counter, gazing into the cashier’s eyes, and declaring, “No bag, thanks. I brought my own.” It’s a moment of environmental piety—a reusable tote pressed reverently to the chest, cotton fibers woven with the smugness of 149 plastic bags not used (but, as it turns out, probably still made). The problem is that like all good sermons, the gospel of the grocery bag is riddled with contradictions, caveats, and a whole lot of carbon.

The New York Times, ever ready to preach the faith of “climate responsibility,” recently published a piece titled “What Shopping Bags Should I Use?” It’s a fascinating read, not because it provides clarity, but because it demonstrates just how convoluted eco-virtue has become. Spoiler alert: you can’t win. But you can feel like you’re winning, and maybe that’s the point.

Let’s start with the usual demon in the pews: plastic. Plastic bags, we are told, are the spawn of fossil fuels, and as such, must be banished. Their recycling rate is a dismal 10%, and their afterlife often involves floating past a turtle’s nose or breaking into confetti-sized microplastics that haunt us for centuries. But here’s the twist—according to not one but two studies cited by the article (from Britain’s Environment Agency and Denmark’s Environmental Protection Agency), those unholy plastic bags actually have the smallest environmental footprint of the lot when judged by greenhouse gas emissions​.

So how did they become public enemy number one? Simple. They look bad. They’re flimsy, crinkly, and associated with other people who don’t bring their own bags to Trader Joe’s.

Then there’s paper—renewable, biodegradable, and about as sturdy as wet tissue paper and prone to tearing dramatically halfway across the parking lot, right as your oat milk makes a break for it. Surely this is the sanctified option? Not quite. Paper bags, according to the same British study, need to be reused three times to match the global warming impact of a single plastic bag. Which, for anyone who’s ever had a soggy-bottomed paper bag explode in the rain, is optimistic bordering on delusional​.

Still, paper has better PR. Its recycling rate is 43%—respectable, though still meaning most paper bags end up decomposing into methane and carbon dioxide in landfills. Methane, for those keeping theological score, is one of the top demons in the pantheon of greenhouse gases. That’s right: while plastic might just sit there, paper actively farts its way through the afterlife​.

And then we arrive at the high priests of environmental virtue: the reusable totes. These cotton-clad chalices of consumer conscience are everywhere—handed out at conferences, weddings, political rallies, yoga studios. Each one whispers, “You’re a good person.” But the truth, as always, is inconvenient. The British study concluded a cotton tote needs to be reused 131 times to match a plastic bag. The Danish study said 149. And that’s assuming you ever use them more than once, instead of stuffing them into the growing pile of canvas guilt under your sink​.

This begs the question: are we really trying to save the planet, or just auditioning for sainthood?

Dr. Samantha MacBride of Baruch College offers a clue. She notes that plastic bags “perpetuate the fossil fuel industry,” and that “system needs to retract if we’re going to have a future.” Ah, there it is. The issue isn’t just emissions or landfill space. It’s symbolism. Plastic is original sin. Paper is purgatory. And totes—well, they’re your chance at salvation, provided you repent and reuse until your shoulder gives out​.

Even the article’s “bottom line” is a masterclass in hedging. “Experts agree that reusing [your bag] as many times as possible is key.” So, after thousands of words, we arrive at a tautology: reuse the thing you have, unless you have too many of them, in which case, feel bad. But also, don’t use plastic. And try not to kill trees. And maybe learn to sew your own bags from discarded hemp curtains sourced locally from your grandmother’s attic.

Virtue signaling, it turns out, is a full-time job.

But perhaps this is the real story here—not the science, which is flimsy and contradictory—but the performance. Climate consumerism doesn’t demand outcomes; it demands gestures. It doesn’t care if your tote has the carbon footprint of a coal train, so long as you mean well. It’s not about solving problems; it’s about demonstrating allegiance.

Because if the numbers mattered, we’d be mass-producing low-density polyethylene bags and setting up efficient return-reuse programs. But that would be practical, and practicality doesn’t trend on Instagram.

In the end, we are left with a strange theological message: the road to environmental heaven is paved with good intentions, reinforced stitching, and a sturdy sense of self-righteousness. And if you can’t save the Earth, at least make sure your bag says you tried.

Stay tuned for the next sermon: compostable dog poop bags—divine miracle or methane-spewing indulgence?

H/T Marc Morano