Trump & the End of Republicanism Cont’d (again)

•January 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment


A Note on Language

In my second installment on the consequences of the election of Donald Trump for republicanism, I wrote of what it might mean for the religious landscape in the United States, and sketched ever so briefly and inadequately what I took to be the history behind the relationship between Christianity and republicanism hitherto.  In this blog, I want to discuss what his election might mean in concrete terms for Christianity in the U.S., as well as what might be done to shore up its institutional independence in the face of an increasingly hostile and uncomprehending society.

But I wanted to first explain why I use the terms that I do to discuss this whole issue.  Very frequently, conservative religious or cultural commentators will bemoan the rampant belief in the unfettered “autonomy” of the individual that modernity (or modern society, or modern something or other) have unleashed, and this idea is applied as an explanation of whatever said commentator finds objectionable in contemporary life.  Now, there are of course a great many things that are objectionable about contemporary life, but I doubt that “autonomy” has anything much to do with those things, or that the word itself is an adequate descriptor of such phenomenon.  I have a couple of reasons for this.  The first is that “autonomy” is a rather airy abstraction, and though abstract thought is a necessity for serious reflection, in this case the term conveys a sense of solidity and absoluteness that is not present in daily human experience.  For “autonomy,” as I take it, means something more than mere independence; it means quite literally what the original Greek suggests, that of being a law unto one’s self—self-governing, complete and total, without any hint of external influence.  Such a thing, of course, is a fantasy:  as I indicated in the first blog on the subject, our human nature is defined by our dependence, though even that has it limits as well.  I favor the independence/dependence binary because it conveys both the ineradicable nature of dependence in human life, but also its relative nature as a feature of human society.  Dependence should not be hated so excessively nor independence prized so highly as it often tends to be in our public life, and if possible, the way we talk about such things ought to reflect that.

I know such concerns may sound pedantic, which is why I feel obliged to explain my word choices.  In my experience, both as a teacher in an academic setting and merely as someone observing modern political discussions in the media, I would say that modern political/philosophical ideas tend to be more about talk than anything else.  Since you cannot eradicate dependence and inequality from human life, most moderns seem to want either to ignore it altogether or treat any obvious instance of it as an aberration that they can easily remedy with some sort social engineering, by a gradual historical evolution that they themselves will direct and of which they represent the vanguard.  Mostly, in practice, this means enforced rules about not mentioning social dependence or inferiority of any kind—or officially redefining it so that those who are don’t feel insulted about it.  This is the origins of “civility” in the 18th century and “political correctness” in the 20th—indeed, it is a rather logical consequence of the hyper-awareness of any sort of dependence that modern life produces.  Usually anything that attaches the word “modern” to itself these days I automatically assume to be a bullshit advertising gimmick, until I have good reason to think otherwise, for that very reason: “modernity” is a partisan metaphysical and philosophical point of view, and is just as questionable as any other; its votaries’ attempts to convince me otherwise almost always amount some sort of special pleading, designed to shield a sacrosanct element of “modernity” (whatever it may be) from the criticism they so boldly direct at the beliefs (usually religious) of others.  I hope that by using more accurate terms I can at least be open to such criticism, as I know my opinions here are eminently questionable, to say the very least.


Problems With the “Benedict Option”

Religious conservatives have been concerned with the decline of a religious sensibility in the West for at least the last fifty years, if not more; philosophers as irreligious but profound as Nietzsche and Heidegger have been lamenting it in very different ways for much longer.  But no one has been as solicitous for the future of Christian community as a journalist over the past ten years as has been Rod Dreher, the writer and blogger now currently wielding his pen for the site The American Conservative.  There, he has been documenting and attempting to raise the threats to religious believers of the conservative, traditional type, and in general inveighing against the dominant cultural elites that threaten them.  Dreher has written for the National Review and other more mainstream conservative publications, but has evolved toward farther and farther in the direction of “crunchy conservatism,” a phrase which served the title of one of his books, and which denotes an environmentally friendly, communitarian, small-is-beautiful sort of philosophy on society and politics.  Over the years, he has connected all sorts of threats that he believes are related and threaten the integrity of religious communities in the U.S.:  Islamic terrorism, mass immigration, the Sexual Revolution, transhumanist and aggressive secularism, to name a few.  For the past few years he has been thinking out loud about what he calls “the Benedict Option”:  the idea that, rather than seeking to uphold the larger polity in which they live, faithful, small “o” orthodox Christians should focus on living out their faith in small communities, where they can practice the virtues and hold onto their traditions in the face of the cultural solvents threatening them on every side. In a recent blog post on mass immigration entitle “Blindly Staggering to the Precipice,” Dreher sums up the situation thus:

My sense is that it is going to get much worse before it gets better, and that those who stand a better chance of surviving the dark age upon us without losing our children and our humanity are going to be those who respond by committing themselves to solidarity through strong forms of religious community that produce strong families. This is what I mean by the Benedict Option. It’s not religious escapism; it’s a general strategy for surviving and even thriving in chaotic and tumultuous times.

Critics have charged Dreher with being unnecessarily defeatist or, as the above paragraph indicates, with being escapist—of abandoning the world to its fate while religious believers huddle together and cultivate their gardens.  Most of these criticisms miss the mark; Dreher has been quite explicit that he does not mean everyone has to enter a monastery or become Amish (though his idea does sound a bit like Dostoevsky’s notion of the “monasticization” of society, put into the mouth of the Elder Zosima in The Brother’s Karamozov).  His idea is that Christian and other religious communities need to live in a consciously different way from the rest of American and Western civilization, in order to transmit their beliefs to future generations.  This is in some ways a truism, and Dreher has been at pains to make clear he is sketching a general outline for what these communities should do, and help to start the conversation about the necessarily difficult task of hammering out specific recommendations.  To that end, he has just sent the manuscript of a book to his publisher, which will be published before the year’s end.  I eagerly look forward to reading it.

Despite my general agreement with Dreher, I have two major issues with his “Benedict Option.”  One is that, in all his discussions of the topic, you never hear the word “power” mentioned once.  That is a problem.  I say this reluctantly, because I have listened to undergrads pen the most trite and silly things in their papers over the years, the essence of which can be summed up in that idiotic phrase, “it’s all about power.”  That is a peculiarly modern pathology, to think that all that matters in human life is power.  But this error is a response I think to an equally modern one:  that all human relationships can be arranged in terms of mutuality, equality, love, without any reference to power or authority at all—in short, to a sort of utopianism which, though it has antecedents, seems to be particularly strong in modern societies.  This side of eternity, all human relationships are marked by some sort of power dynamic, and anyone who wishes to think seriously about human community must come to terms with this. Dreher has talked at length about the need for authority, solidarity, tradition, customs, etc., but nothing of how power would be structured in “Benedict Option” communities.  Will these communities be patriarchal in nature?  Will they subordinate in a fairly restrictive manner the freedoms of individual members, for the sake of solidarity and community? Perhaps these are questions Dreher will address in his book, but I do recall reading anything of them in his blog on the subject.  But until he does, his idea will be susceptible to the charge of utopianism; there is, after all, and long and even venerable tradition of building utopian communities in American history, and the “Benedict Option” will probably amount to little more than “religious escapism” if Mr. Dreher cannot articulate how workable power structures might be constructed to sustain his “BenOp” communities.

There are of course historical examples might serve as guide for such communities.  The very name “Benedict Option” derives from a famous passage in Alasdair MacIntyre’s book After Virtue about the supposed analogy between the fall of ancient Rome and late modernity, and he is quite fond of monastic institutions (as am I).  One might also mention in this regard medieval Jewish communities, which have a long history of trying to sustain themselves amidst generally hostile societies.  (Interesting in this regard is the Erasmus Lecture given to the First Things crowd a few years ago by Lord Jonathan Sacks, a Rabbi from Britain who talked of what could be called a “Jeremiah Option” in contrast to a “Benedict Option.”)  But there is an even more apposite example from within American history itself:  the Church of Latter Day Saints.  Whatever one thinks of their theological beliefs, there can be no doubt about the organizational genius of Joseph Smith and the other founders of that body.  Scorned and persecuted for their beliefs wherever they went, Smith and Brigham Young founded a hierarchical and firmly patriarchal community which was able to not only sustain a community of thousands on the move from persecution, but to move it across thousands of miles into an arid wilderness, settle and then flourish there, all within a generation or so.  Small-o “orthodox” Christians might balk at looking to the Saints as a model, but if they are serious about preserving their traditions, they could find much worse to imitate.  My point is not that these historical examples represent ready made solutions without dangers or problems.  It is the fact they succeeded in transmitting their faith, their minority culture, in spite of internal and external struggles, fairly well.  Whatever the internal problems of communities run by rabbis, such as the Hasidim, or the Mormon church, with its entrench patriarchy, they have managed to keep their beliefs intact while keeping the wolves at bay.

And this has meant they had to deal with the governments and polities in which they lived more intimately than they would have liked.  This is the other sense in which Dreher’s project doesn’t deal with the realities of power:  his BenOp communities, in order to live the manner of life to which they have been called, will need political protectors.  Which is another way of saying, they can no longer count on being independent in the manner that perhaps we think they should be.  They will have to make hard choices in exchange for that protection, and some hard reflection will have to be done in order to do that without compromising the beliefs that they are meant to protect.

All of which leads me back to Trump, and the present moment.  The other major issue I have with Dreher’s idea is that it seems to rest too much upon the analogy of contemporary America with ancient Rome.  The differences between the late republican or late imperial eras of ancient Rome (both scenarios get thrown around a great deal, and both are wrong) and our situation that I think it is dangerous to proceed upon this analogy.  Which is why a clear appraisal of what is possible at the present moment is urgent.  And that means finding political protection from the legal, cultural and political forces that would dissolve those communities.  And that means dealing with Trump, and what his presidency might mean for the future of what is left of that Christian, republican tradition in this country.  As this post has gone on longer than I had planned, I will address this last topic with one final post.

1356 & All That

•January 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment


Until I read Bernard Cornwell’s novel 1356, I had never thought of using the word cliché as a verb before,  but the experience of reading that book certainly suggests it.   Set against the backdrop of the military campaigns during the Hundred Years War, culminating in the English victory at Poitiers that year, the novel tells the story of Sir Thomas of Hookton, a fictional English bowman who fights as a mercenary for his liege the Earl of Southampton in English occupied France.  Hookton is given a mission by his noble lord: find a quasi-mythical relic, the la malise, the sword that Peter used to cut off the servant’s ear in the Garden of Gethsemane, before the wicked Cardinal Bessières and his henchman, the sadistic Fr. Marchant, can acquire it and use its power to make Bessières the new Pope.

The main plot is based upon the legends that have been spun throughout the ages about the so-called “treasure of the Cathars”:  the Cathars were a heretical movement in the 12-14th centuries in Western France, and in the novel la malise had been in their possession. Hookton’s father had been one of the “seven dark Lords” charged with keeping the Cathar treasure hidden. Hookton and his wife, Genevieve, are both excommunicate: Hookton because he rescued and married Genevieve, who was to be burned at the stake for heresy.  It is not clear from the novel what heresy she condemned for, though it seems to suggest it was Catharism.  (Genevieve denies that she is a heretic in the book.)

As the forgoing summary indicates, the Good Guys are the outcasts–the heretics, the bastards (Hookton is illegitimate, and calls himself le batard–illegitimacy sounds so much more refined in French), those who question authority, etc.–while the Bad Guys are almost all people in positions of power and authority–Cardinals, priests (with one exception), noblemen, etc.  Hookton, for example, daringly tells a theologian at Montpelier that infants who die without baptism don’t go to hell (the theologian is a stuffy academic, who takes the opposite line, naturally), and, implausibly unique for a mercenary, forbids his “Hellequin” (hell fighters, the name he gives his band of merry men) from raping women.  Conversely, Father Marchant is a sadist who tortures people with a hawk that pecks their eyes out; Cardinal Bessières thinks nothing of ordering the murder of otherwise innocent people, so long as it gains him the power he seeks.  Besides this simplistic typology (orthodox=evil, heretics=good), the novel also indulges in some nationalist stereotyping as well:  there are three Scottish characters in the novel, two of them are little more than bloodthirsty killers, while the third is decent but ineffectual (he gets his head cut off in battle for trying to help his friend, Hookton).  Of the two major French characters who are not swine, Sir Roland de Verrec, a French knight so in love with chivalry that he vows to keep his chastity until he marries (on the orders of the Virgin Mary, who he saw in a vision as a child), is probably the most interesting, though he is portrayed as naive.  The other is Father Levonne, the priest in the French town which Hookton has captured, and whose church walls are decorated with the plunder that Hookton has taken from raiding his fellow Frenchmen, which apparently troubles Father Levonne not a bit.  Neither does he care much for orthodoxy; he ministers to the excommunicated Thomas and his wife, and during one of the many and frequent dialogues between two characters which have precious little to do with the story, Fr. Levonne informs Roland de Verrec that there are really two churches:  one greedy and corrupt, lusting after power, and another that is kind, and good.  This Gnostic sermon must have been intended for particularly dull readers, since the action of the story makes quite clear that, in Cornwall’s mind, the “bad church” is made up of those who blather about orthodoxy and torture people, while the “good church” is comprised of those who aren’t so uptight about what they believe, and who love kittens and fluffy bunnies.

It is a shame that the book’s characters are so relentlessly and belligerently monotone, because when Cornwell is not lecturing his readers on theology, he is quite a good storyteller.  Despite a fairly complex plot, the goals, motivations, and stakes for pretty much every character involved are clear and easy to follow.  (If you think is not an achievement, try writing a novel yourself.) And Cornwall is at his best when describing the military buildup to Poitiers and several other battles in the novel. You get both a clear and historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare but also what feels like a pretty psychologically realistic depiction of what felt like to be a soldier in those battles.  I first encountered Cornwell as the author of the “Sharpe” novels, about the leader of a corps of riflemen, on the History Channel’s presentation of the BBC’s production of some of those novels.  They were really fun adventure stories, fit for someone with a love of history and a sort of boyish love of things martial, and there is some of this in 1356.  This is apparently how Cornwell has made his career, writing historical entertainments about Anglo-Saxon England, King Arthur, the Napoleonic Wars, and other historical epochs.  And if you like a good yarn, and lots of graphic violence, this book is for you.   If you are looking for interesting, well rounded characters, I would look somewhere else.

Trump & the End of Republicanism, Cont’d

•December 27, 2016 • Leave a Comment


In the late medieval period, the small city-states of the Italian peninsula wore each other down through warfare and internal conflict, and eventually, toward the end of the period we usually call “the Renaissance” began to be replaced by various forms of hereditary rule or to be swallowed up by larger powers.  The proud republic of Florence, so long ruled behind the scenes by the Medici family, was eventually replaced by a ducal form of government centered on that family.  It was in this context that Niccolo Machiavelli wrote his infamous work The Prince, whose pages breathed the air of that earlier republicanism; Machiavelli was a convinced republican, and much of what critics vilified in Il Principe was its unrelenting focus on maintaining the independence of the state in an era of financial instability and endemic warfare.  The situation is not analogous to the situation in contemporary America any more than the often invoked comparison of the United States with the ancient Roman republic.  But Machiavelli’s analysis of what makes a ruler successful calls to mind our situation in one respect:  in both cases it took great political shocks for people to realize their institutions and political arrangements had changed, largely without their noticing until those shocks came.

In my last post, I posited the thesis that Donald Trump’s election to the presidency signals the end of a certain form of republicanism that has dominated American life since its inception, one that is obsessed with political independence.  I do not suppose that republican ideas are reducible to this overarching emphasis on independence, but it does seem to me the most salient aspect of it.  It is also the most problematic; as Alasdair McIntyre called them, human beings are “dependent, rational animals,” whose dependence is inscribed into our biological nature.  This overwhelming exaltation of independence seems to me sit rather uneasily with the tenets of Christian faith, which largely have to do with obedience, and an acceptance of one’s dependence upon God.  There are versions of republicanism that try to reconcile a robust, active view of citizenship with an acknowledgement of human limitations, many of whom emphasize, as did the old Anti-Federalists, the local, face to face nature of human community.  In contemporary America, there are still a few political philosophers and writers who advocate something like this.  But their lack of success (and adherents) is instructive; such ideas no longer seem to have much purchase outside of the small communities they represent, at least not to most of their fellow citizens, and indeed some of them don’t want a larger following.  For many of these authors, such as the journalist and author Rod Dreher, the whole idea is to create small communities that are (relatively) independent of the main currents of American society, which they see as inimical to virtue, or Christian faith, or both.  I’ll have occasion to talk more about Rod Dreher’s work in a further post, but for this blog I want to concentrate on the consequences for American Christianity of the withering of republican ideology.

As the historian Mark Noll wrote many years ago, republicanism in America was bound up from the beginning with a revivalist, quite voluntaristic form of Christianity, and that both are declining at roughly the same time is not a coincidence.  Now that the type of independence espoused by the older republicanism seems to be on the wane, so is the form of Christianity that supported it.  At least part of its decline can be traced to the way in which its detractors have managed to successfully brand American Christianity as the belief of the dependent, the weak minded.  Christianity can be seen, legitimately, as a “liberating” force, both socially and culturally speaking, as historians have noted with regard to the Abolitionist movement of the 19th century.  In that earlier version of Christian republicanism that flourish in the 19th century, the Christianity part was key, because it placed great emphasis upon the personal, moral regeneration of the individual.  Being saved meant not only would you go to heaven, but that you were in part responsible for building heaven on earth.  The parallel with being a redeemed as an individual with being redeemed as a nation was perfect, in some respects:  just as the States had been redeemed from political “slavery” to monarchical Britain and reborn as a republic, so now could individuals be freed from both sin but also from the shackles of religious and political institutions—religion as an individual or communal experiment has a long history in the U.S., as does the history of religion as a series of movements or revivals, from the pre-Revolutionary revivals of the 1740s and 50s through the birth of the Pentecostal movement in the early 20th century, to the great success of Billy Graham and other postwar evangelists later in the same century.  The most explosive of these movements was the abolitionist movement, of course, the prime example of Christian ideals being used to liberate people from dependence.  Christianity was a force upholding this ideal of independence, and therefore an integral part of the country’s republicanism.

But not anymore.  Now, it is associated with debilitating psychological weakness—usually, some sort over reliance on authority, excessive dogmatism, sexual dysfunction, etc.  The great desire of the modern political progressives is to liberate as many people from as many types of dependence as possible:  not only the authority of religion, but of parental, social, even biological authority must bend its knee before the god of choice and independence.  Gender is not determined by biology, children’s beliefs cannot be “imposed” upon them by parents, and so forth.  Christianity, with its dogmatic claims and emphasis upon obedience—the way Christians refer to Jesus as the “the Lord” sounds odd and not a little suspicious to anyone who thinks of themselves as being self-consciously “modern”—can easily made to look as if it were a pathology of dependence, rather than a muscular religion of independence.

All of this means a great reorientation for the religious life of the United States, as can be seen by the dwindling political influence of Evangelical Protestantism over the past decade and a half.  This change has been taking place for some time, actually, and is still under way.  Most of that Christian republican vision described above was the work of a peculiarly American form of Protestant Christianity—the theological and social voluntarism, the emphasis on personal regeneration, the drive to “reform” society of its ills, to name only a few items.  This dynamic form of Christian faith provided much of the vitality but also the volatility of American society in the past two hundred years.  But those Protestant movements and institutions did so from a vantage point of relative social independence—from the Federal government at least (though in the early republic some churches were state supported).  But the fact that, by the end of the 19th century, as the late Richard John Neuhaus once noted, pretty much every Protestant denomination called itself “Evangelical,” also gave Protestants a sense of psychological independence as well. It is easy to assume one’s place in society if you think most people share your beliefs, which despite continuing denominational and theological differences, most Protestants did.  This began to change, however, with the split between “Fundamentalists” and the “Modernists” within Protestant bodies in the early 20th century.  By the time the 1960s rolled around, Protestant Americans could no longer even count on their shared contempt for the obvious outlier in their midst—Roman Catholics. For most of Americans, many if not all Protestants had seen Catholics as suspect because they were supposedly dependent upon the authority of the Pope, and therefore incapable of thinking for themselves in religious matters.  And thus by extension they were unfit for a Christian, republican society of the American type.  The election of a Catholic president, as well as the postwar economic boom that allowed working class Catholics to join the ranks of the middle class in large numbers put an end to this last vestige of Protestant unity.  This ceased to matter for several decades, as Evangelicals took the place of the old so-called “Protestant Establishment” as the religious element in the New Right from the late 70s through the presidency of George W. Bush, of course, but the eclipse of Evangelical political influence is an undiscovered country:  for the first time since becoming a nation, Protestants are going to be a dependent political minority in the United States.

This is and of itself is not earth shattering; there are still Catholic and Jewish Americans who can recall the old Protestant Establishment and how it utilized its superior social position against them who I doubt will shed many tears over this development.  But the fate of Evangelicals points to a larger problem for those Christians, of whatever stripe, who take their faith seriously.  In the past few years under the Obama administration, legal opinions treating traditional Christian doctrines about marriage, family and sexual mores as the moral and legal equivalent of racism have gained such traction that many religious voters swallowed their objections to Donald Trump on a personal level to help vote him into office, a phenomenon several observers noted even before the election.  I can easily understand traditional Christians of whatever sort having serious qualms about Trump; the comments that one Evangelical leaders made about Russell Moore, the Baptist leader who has been highly critical of Trump, do indicate a lack of perspective on their part.  They appear too concerned about power politics and not enough about how Christians are to practice and transmit their faith in an increasingly hostile society.  But those Evangelical and other Christian voters who voted for Trump did so for what I think are good reasons.  If republican beliefs really are no longer operative in American life, if, as appears the case, they can no longer simply assume that the legal institutions of the United States will protect their religious liberty, then Christians of a “traditional” or conservative bent (usually about doctrines concerning sex, of course) will in the future need political patrons willing to protect their right to practice their religious faith openly, as members of a dependent class of citizens.  And if I am right, Trump will not be the last politician to successfully appeal to voters who might otherwise find him otherwise so unacceptable.  Or at least, they had better hope so, because their days of living their faith unmolested are likely at an end, Trump’s election notwithstanding.  In my last post on this subject, I will come back to Trump and his possible policies towards Christians, and what Christians might do in this changed landscape where their political independence can no longer be taken for granted.


Trump & the End of Republicanism

•December 10, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Donald Trump

Donald Trump, to say the very least, has inspired a great deal of consternation and anguish with his election to the presidency, destroying with relish standards of decorum and civility, hurling insults at virtually every person or group hitherto considered to be beyond the pale, but especially ethnic minorities—primarily, women and Hispanics.  But as Jet Heer, a writer for the New Republic, who is certainly no fan of the Donald, noted during the campaign, there is one group of people the president-elect did not target with his ubiquitous insults: people on public assistance.  Noting the difference between the “makers and takers” rhetoric of Mitt Romney and other Republican politicians, he pointed out that Trump consistently referred to people on welfare and unemployment as “down on their luck.”

One can tell a great deal about a person from the way they treat their social inferiors—or even whom one considers to be inferior in the first place.  In Love’s Labour’s Lost, the three noble lords who spend their time flirting at court mock the schoolmaster Holofernes, who indignantly replies, “This is not generous, not gentle, not humble,” protesting the ignoble behavior of those aristocrats who would demean their inferiors, something that was considered beneath the dignity of nobility to do.  Of course, in a modern, democratic society we are not supposed to have any inferiors, politically speaking—we are all equal before the law, at least in principle.  That is partly because this equality before the law is an ideal or legal fiction to which reality does not always (or even often) correspond, but also because of the ambiguity of the word “democracy” as applied to a republic like the United States, since in no constitutional sense does the demos govern it.  In any case, it is republicanism—that body of thought stemming from ancient Roman thinkers such as Cicero and Livy, revived by Guiccardini, Machiavelli and other Italian writers in the Renaissance, developed by English and American thinkers in the 17th and 18th centuries such as John Milton, Algernon Sidney, John Adams, and many others—which has truly animated American society for much of its history, rather than democracy.  In his Notes on the State of Virginia, Thomas Jefferson praised the yeoman farmer precisely for his self-sufficiency, and voiced a common sentiment among the Founders of the republic that “dependence begets subservience and venality, suffocates the germ of virtue, and prepares fit tools for the design of ambition.”  Political philosophers continue to debate the precise nature of this early modern republicanism that so influenced the Founders of the Republic, and whether or not their notions of liberty and active citizenship were truly consonant with classical republican ideals.  But there can be little doubt that a hatred of dependence—“negative liberty,” if you like—was a crucial part of this republican heritage.

Early visitors to the United States saw immediately the effects of this belief.  Alexis de Tocqueville famously described Americans as “individualists” who refused to any accept any other man’s opinion but their own, and whose servants were notorious for being difficult to employ (early in the republic, they stopped referring to their employers by the name of “master” and began using the Dutch term “boss” instead, which sounded less servile to them). But Tocqueville was hardly unique in this respect.  The English novelist Anthony Trollope visited the U.S. during the first years of the civil war (1861-2), and made a striking observation about the Irish men and women he met in America.  At home, he wrote, the Irish were much more pleasant, and, in so many words, more docile than in America.  Irish immigrants in the United States seemed to him pretentious, rude—in short, they were not willing to acknowledge him as their social superior, despite his education and status as a writer.  But he also admitted that, however less likeable they may have been, Irish Americans had more self-respect, walked with more confidence than their cousins in Britain.  This characteristic—not just the principled detestation of any sort of dependence but also a hyper-awareness of it—is part of what makes America unique.  This characteristic has other sources, to be sure, but this overwhelming valorization of independence and the concomitant vilification of dependence surely owes much to this republican ideal.

In that sense, it is also a source of the non-stop agitation that marks our public life.  No matter how stupid, ill informed, or merely puerile talk radio and cable television news programs may be, they still reflect this emphasis.  But it is not clear, however, whether republicanism is still distinguishable from other political ideologies.  One of the things that scholars of republicanism debate is whether or not it is conceptually distinct from liberalism, or whether or not liberty as independence is concerned with being independent from “arbitrary power” (to use the early modern phrase) or simply from interference of any kind.  The election of Donald Trump may signal that republicanism has finally been superseded as a distinct political philosophy in our country.  Liberalism or progressivism still values independence but largely in a personal sense, with regards to sexual freedom or matters of self-expression, as do libertarians of course; the modern conservative movement (“fusionism”) was also concerned with independence but mostly from the modern administrative state.   But Americans by now seemed to have accepted the permanent growth of the administrative state and its role in their everyday lives.  The preference for “independence” is highly selective for most political options in the U.S. (saved for those few completely consistent libertarians, bless their hearts), and is largely an exception to an otherwise changed set of attitudes towards political dependence.  The nationalism that helped elect Donald Trump also had something to do with a desire for independence, though it has more to do with economic independence—namely, the independence that much of the white working class seems to have lost over the past thirty years—and with the strident contempt for immigrants, who they think deprive them of such independence as they once had, by depriving them of jobs.  But on the whole, it is not independence but protection that seems to be the driving force behind politics today.  On the left, the clamor for more and more protections from racism, sexism, intolerance of any kind, seems to be the guiding force behind its most enthusiastic members. And Trump’s economic platform (at least in its rhetoric) was all about protections, from globalization, from immigrants, from Islamic terrorists, etc.  And protection, of course, is something powerful people offer to dependents.

My point is that those who would uphold something like Jefferson’s ideals of what a republic should be (and here I am thinking mostly of the small government conservatism of the last fifty to sixty years) have failed to persuade their fellow citizens that their republicanism provides for the vulnerable, the dependent.  That is to say, that independence should be the norm and not the exception has largely been rejected in favor of a politics of patronage and protection. For progressives, it is the federal government with its many social welfare programs that is visible evidence of their commitment to their dependents; for Trump and his supporters, it is (putatively) trade tariffs and a border wall with Mexico.  What about small-r republicans, in a classical sense?  What about the champions of small government? What tangible commitment can they make that would be as convincing?  It is hard to see what someone committed to limited government or who embraces a more classical, republican vision of society could do to persuade people on this point, since that form of republicanism presumes that there shouldn’t be any dependent citizens—that such a thing would simply be a contradiction in terms.  And it is this that has been left behind by contemporary politics.  Whether this is a good or ill development is unclear; but I believe it is the direction in which our country is heading, for better or worse.

Many writers have seen Donald Trump’s rise and election in almost apocalyptic terms, with some, such as David Frum and Andrew Sullivan, seeing in his success the end of democracy, while others believe Trump to herald the coming of fascism to America.  Most of these predictions are hyperbolic in the extreme.  The United States has suffered from plenty of corruption and incompetence in the both distant and recent past, and its electoral politics have sometimes been marked by violence, as they occasionally were in 2016.  The idea that Donald Trump is a fascist is risible, given his notable lack of military prowess and the distinct lack of a paramilitary presence in his campaign.  Our republican institutions are likely to survive this and many more elections like it, and that is my point:  it’s perfectly possible to have republican political institutions in the absence of republican beliefs; the Roman Principate was one example of this; another would late medieval Florence under the Medici or others like it.  The United States might be headed long term towards something similar as a polity.  A President Trump or a future president might well usher in a sort of Latin American “strongman” type of governance, or at least a type more like that of Silvio Berlusconi, the flamboyant former Prime Minister of Italy (sans the dalliance with prostitutes, one hopes).  Or perhaps already has, for this is what I think Trump’s success as a candidate demonstrates: a deep seated change of belief.  It may or may not herald the end of the republic, but it very well may portend the demise, if not of republicanism as such, then at least of a very American type of republicanism, one that for good or ill no longer appears to speak to the needs and interests of a majority of its citizens.


•July 9, 2016 • Leave a Comment



Why would the painter stay his hand

When he’d illumined the easel

With brush strokes broad of piquant light

And dark colors filled the canvass,

Leave his figures’ faces bereft

As ancient, mummified Pharaohs.


Reminders of ingratitude

Are bitter holes in my life’s hour,

For them I scan in mother’s tongue

The Creator’s pen provided.

So soft and tender tell the lines

Of greater gifts that bind my book.


Mother’s, father’s patient love gives,

And friendship’s virtues not in vain

Did my blessèd Father bestow

On this little life unworthy.

My easy brow, my hands unbled,

Are His great love’s last testament.


But one stanza he feeds with stones

That in two seeks to be one flesh:

Without this psalm or glory’s gloss

Leave’s me unknowning and unknown,

Like a pock-marked, mysterious

Mesopotamian tablet.


Haven of hopes, destroyer of dreams,

All these barren spaces in between

The ghostly marks of Holy Writ

That brand our souls; but not our strength

Can salve our woe—we crushed must wait

Till God himself shall fill them up.

Of Safe Spaces & “Sacred” Values

•May 1, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Immaculate Conception

Two separate items inspired this post:  one is the rash of stories eructating from the press these days about groups of students on campuses across the country, demanding “safe spaces” and other escapes from ideas and campus speakers they find unpleasant.  The other was a very long and interesting interview with the sociologist Jonathan Haidt, founder of the website, a site dedicated to trying to expand “viewpoint diversity” within the American world of academia.  Haidt is someone who has done rather interesting and helpful studies on the lack of “conservative” professors/views within higher education, and he recently wrote a very long and popular article in the Atlantic Monthly on why today’s students seem to react so violently to ideas they don’t like.

Haidt’s interview is well worth your time.  The interview, Tyler Cowen, is an economist at George Mason University, and he asks some rather interesting questions in the course of the interview.  And while I agreed with much of what Haidt had to say about the academy, and the reasons why students seemed so overly sensitive, and much else, I was struck by an exchange between him and Cowen toward the end of the interview, in which Cowen asked him “what the best replacement for religion in modern secular society.”  Haidt’s answer is worth quoting in full:

A few years ago I would have tried to give you an answer and say we should have some other sacred value to replace it, but given what’s happened in the last year on campuses, I’m really afraid of it, because you might think, “Humanitarianism should replace it. We should all have a religion of helping the poor, helping each other.” Now, of course, it’s really important to help the poor. It’s really important to help people who are oppressed.

But once you make it a religion, that means you are impervious to evidence. You are committed to certain religious rituals even if those rituals make things worse. For example, I’ve been studying the research on affirmative action and diversity training. As far as I can tell there’s no evidence that they make things better and there is some evidence that it makes things worse.

Now, it’s messy. I can’t say for sure that they do, but the point is, we seem to be doing things on campus that are making things worse. The activists are largely asking for things that will make things worse. Much more affirmative action, much bigger racial preferences, which will cause much bigger gaps between Asians at the top and African-Americans at the bottom. Which is going to inflame prejudice, not reduce it.

Once you make something a religion, you’re not open to evidence. You do really crazy, stupid things. What I would say is, let’s not have a replacement for religion. Let’s set things up so that there isn’t a big religion that unites us all to take on our enemies. Let’s try to return to a climate in which people find meaning and purpose in their private lives and in their smaller associations, but we don’t have a big sense of national purpose.

This was from later in the interview, but it struck me as being relevant to something Haidt said earlier in it, where he was speaking directly about the problems on college campuses today:

You have to see college campuses as being institutions that were designed or intended to be places where people come up against diverse ideas, they’re challenged, and as within the marketplace — monopoly destroys a lot of the value of the marketplace — if you have a monopoly on ideas in the intellectual marketplace, you kill the marketplace. Campuses are supposed to be places where nobody has a monopoly on ideas, but they’ve become that in the last few years.

Now what I find interesting here are a couple of things.  One is Haidt’s semi-explicit definition of religious as being obscurantist (“impervious to evidence”), and the other is his assertion that college campuses were designed to be a “marketplace” of ideas.  I say they are interesting because as to the first, as I am sure Haidt must be aware, “religion” is a rather hotly contested phenomenon, and indeed there are many scholars who insist the concept is so variable as to be no use at all.  Of course, he may just be referring to the supernatural or divine elements in a faith or religion as being the essence of it, which would make some sense.

As to the second, I’m not sure how well Haidt knows the history of the modern university, but it was not really designed to be a “marketplace” of ideas.  For those who are not aware, the modern idea of a research university (which is what I take him to be referring to) was largely a German creation:  educational reformers in early 19th century Germany like Wilhelm von Humboldt wanted to replace the older religious curriculum with what he and others called “Wissenschaft,” or learning that was systematic, and that implied the unity of all knowledge, as well as both research and teaching.  By research these reformers did not mean empirical research necessarily (though it would come to mean that, under the influence of the modern natural sciences) but what was important was that this all encompassing unity was discoverable for oneself, without having to have it handed down via tradition or authority.

Now, the goal of these reformers as well as others was not to reduce knowledge to subjective experience but to put it on a different footing.  Gone was the Christian and humanist worship of ancient/and or sacred texts (even though the German philological tradition remained quite obsessed with them thank you very much) and in was their “critical” examination, along the combing of archives for evidence–empirical research in other words. Eventually, by the end of the 19th century, this sort of emphasis  yielded the idea that, if every discipline would publish its findings in its major journal, where all educated people could read them, and the sum total of this research would preserve the unity of knowledge which the older, religiously inspired model had done but without dogmas, authority, or old books. That at least was the intention behind the modern research university as I understand it.

It’s a long story, but in the main this effort has failed spectacularly.  It has increased our depth of knowledge in virtually every field of endeavor (and spawned some new ones, including Haidt’s own discipline of sociology, which didn’t exist before the late 19th century) but the breach between the humanities and the hard sciences which had opened up in the nineteenth century has if anything widened even further.  And make no mistake, the reason why many intellectuals backed this change in the 19th century was to overcome the fragmentation of knowledge caused by the loss of the older religious view among them.  Thus the philosopher Georg Hegel could proclaim that “our Universities are our churches,” and the Harvard reformer Charles Eliot could see in his renovation of the Harvard curriculum a “liberal culture” replacing the older religious underpinnings of the university.  All of which is a long winded way of saying that Haidt’s desire to see the academy denuded of “sacred values” is at odds with the purpose of the university, in either its medieval or re-founded modern form.  Though I admire his efforts to increase intellectual diversity in the academy, I can’t say I am very sanguine that it will succeed. Openness of inquiry is a relative thing; it depends on some ideas, some beliefs being closed off from inquiry and discussion, off limits, taboo.  It is a means, and not an end. And the modern form of the university espouses a hollowed out, dumbed-down version of the singular, “sacred” value which is implied by the name “university” itself.  I doubt that will change very much any time soon, if at all.

Does Persecution “Work”?

•March 8, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Amidst all the recent flurry of news regarding ISIS, the Islamic militant group, I had occasion to read an essay by Candida Moss, an historian of early Christianity at Notre Dame, at The Daily Beast website, which argued that ISIS brutal campaign of terror will undermine its cause.  In effect, she argues, persecution of this kind doesn’t “work.”  As she puts it, “making martyrs of one’s opponents never wins the battle for hearts and minds. It only intensifies opposition, polarizes the undecided, and provokes righteous and justified anger. The North African Church father Tertullian proclaimed that “the blood of the martyrs is seed” for the Church. His prediction turned out to be correct. Martyrdom breeds not fear and obedience, but more martyrs. The only contest that ISIS have a chance of winning is the race to be the most ignominious regime in history.”

I am pondering this because I am teaching a Tudor-Stuart history course this semester, and I am preparing a lecture on ideas of conscience and martyrdom for my class, and this is a topic I would like to include in my lecture.  Persecution is much in the news these days, largely because of ISIS, and I have tried to emphasize religion in my lectures so far this semester.

One wants to agree with Moss’s sentiments; certainly, a terrorist state like ISIS might be said to have violated modern canons of judgment on persecution—and by that I mean Machiavelli’s, who said when you take over a state you should get all of your killing over with right away, because if you keep having to do it that will ruin your reputation, and make you hated.  But on the whole I think the answer to the question of whether persecution works has to be more ambivalent than Moss allows for.  In the first place, I think it depends on what you mean by persecution, and what you mean by it “working.”  Persecution just means inflicting suffering, but then suffering is largely a matter of subjective definition, isn’t it?  Of course, we could limit it to the imposition of death or excessive violence, which is what Moss was talking about, but I don’t think that necessarily covers all we mean by the term.  But more importantly, what does it mean for it to “work”? I suppose part of what Moss means by this is that one can’t establish or prove one’s religion is the true faith via such means.  I think we would be on safer grounds there:  the persecution of the Donatists never settled the issue in North Africa, for example; only the Islamic conquests of the 7th century did that.  Certainly, the Roman persecution did not bring back the old religion, and it was swamped under by Christianity following Constantine’s conversion

But if this is the case, that one cannot establish one’s religion via violent persecution, I think a good argument can be made that it “works” in another sense.  That is to say, violent persecution may not establish the “true” faith as you see it, but it can destroy, or at least permanently marginalize, false ones.  One obvious case is the Albigensian Crusade, which destroyed a Manichean religion which had its own institutions, set beliefs, and many loyal followers.  It disappeared, never to return.  (Though, alas, its Manicheanism seems never to die for some reason.) Or take the Christian persecution of paganism following the edicts of Theodosius:  one might claim that it lingered on in the countryside, but it was effectively finished as an independent force.  Better still, take the case of Catholicism in England.  Catholicism survived, barely, into the eighteenth century, and eventually would flourish again thanks to the Emancipation laws of the 1820s, with a big assist from Irish immigration.  But as an institution with a prominent place in public life, it was effectively finished.  Perhaps better still, one should take seriously the reaction of the Christians to the conversion of Constantine.  Modern historians tend to pooh pooh the Diocletian persecution (including Moss, who made her name by writing book which essentially claimed that the idea that early Christians suffered extreme persecution a myth), but Christians at the time did not agree, and praised Constantine, who was a pretty ruthless, bloodthirsty figure, to the heavens (he is a saint in many Orthodox traditions) for having saved Christianity.  I seemed to recall having read somewhere that during the ten years or so of the Diocletian persecution there only a handful of martyrs were recorded in Palestine, indicating most must have sacrificed to the gods.  I think they better understood the precariousness of their position, perhaps, than we sometimes do today.

One might add other examples to that list as well.  I am thinking of former communist countries where religion was wiped out.  I know there is something of a resurgence in places like Russia, but I’m not convinced those places are necessarily hotbeds of faith.  And for my own time period, it might well have been the case the Mary Tudor’s persecution of Protestants might well have worked to eradicate Protestantism, had she lived as long as Elizabeth.  In any case, it might just be a bit optimistic to think that persecution can never work in any sense at all, comforting though it may be.  My own study of history leads me to  a more depressing conclusion:  though it can never “establish” anything, persecution combined with other forms of power, given time, can indeed work, at least in a destructive sense.  Alas!

Alypius Minor

%d bloggers like this: