Lecture delivered at the Hillsdale College Lifelong Learning Seminar.
Hillsdale, Michigan.

 

Let’s start by defining some of the terms I’ll be using to describe our foreign policy.

The word ‘policy’ comes from the same word as ‘politics.’ Politics means ruling and being ruled. The way we rule and are ruled depends upon the political regime under which we live. So, for example, if we live under a tyranny we won’t be doing much ruling, but we will be ‘doing’ a lot of being ruled. Aristotle explains that political regimes have four dimensions:

1. The persons who rule. One, few, or many? Good or bad? In the United States, “We the People” rule, albeit through our elected representatives. Thus we have a republic or representative government, but a democratic republic in the sense that almost all adult citizens can vote and hold office. Although contemporary critics of the 1787 Constitution point to the lack of suffrage for women and slaves, they seldom mention the fact that the United States had by far the widest franchise anywhere in the world at the time—far greater than the British House of Commons, for example.
2. The institutions, structures, or forms by which the rulers rule. The Constitution establishes three separated and balanced branches of government, establishes procedures for election to office, and generally provides the ‘power grid’ for the energies of the governing bodies.
3. The way of life, the habits of mind and heart, of the people who rule and are ruled. You’ll recall that in the Bible God often speaks of His “way,” sharply distinguishing the way he has prescribed for His people from the ways of other peoples. The American “way” includes freedom of worship and of speech, and freedom of commerce. America is a commercial republic, as distinguished from the soon-to-be established French republic, a military republic soon overthrown by the most gifted and ambitious military officer it would valorize.
4. The purpose or purposes of the political community. What are its founders trying to accomplish? For example, the purpose of the Islamic Republic of Iran is to advance the practice of Shi’a Islam. The purposes of the Soviet Union included the advance of socialism, the formation of the new ‘Soviet man,’ and the eventual establishment of worldwide communism. The purpose of the American regime, as stated in the Declaration of Independence, is to secure our natural rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These are the foundational principles of our regime.

Policy or the planned actions of a political community aiming at achieving the purposes of the regime does or should follow from the character of its regime. This goes for foreign policy as well as domestic policy. When a given policy—slavery, for example—contradicts the principles of our regime, debate will ensue. If sufficiently serious, the dispute might even culminate in civil war or, in foreign policy, international war.

When considering foreign policy, there are two more considerations to keep in mind in addition to regimes. The phrase ‘foreign policy’ implies that there is an ‘us’ and there is a ‘them’—insiders and outsiders, citizens and non-citizens. This in turn implies that the world’s human population finds itself divided among discrete populations, each in some significant degree independent of the others—self-governing or sovereign. To maintain their sovereignty, a people will need to achieve a certain size and also a certain degree of governmental centralization—enough in both instances to defend itself against the many ‘thems’ out there. So, we need to classify political communities not only in terms of their regimes but in terms of size and centralization. Let’s call that political form ‘the state.’ There are several kinds of ‘state’:

1. The ancient polis or ‘city-state,’ small but highly centralized.
2. The ancient empire, huge and decentralized. Typically, an emperor would extract tribute in the form of soldiers, slaves, and goods from the vassal-states he ruled, but otherwise would allow the local ruler or rulers to govern themselves under their own laws.
3. The feudal state, large and decentralized. If the feudal state were a liquid, we would call it a colloid: globs of more or less independently funded and defended in a condition of equilibrium.
4. The modern state, large and centralized. This is the state envisioned by Machiavelli, actualized by the Tudors in England and the Bourbons in France. Aristocrats and churches have been brought to heel under the rule of a central government, often with a system of bureaucratic overseers.

It turned out that State #4 defeated #3, just about every time. Europe quickly turned into a collection of modern states. The problem for those who wanted to preserve genuinely political rule—reciprocal rule, ruling and being-ruled in turn (in a word, political liberty)—sought a modern state that had the capacity to defend its sovereignty without succumbing to over-centralization. This led to

5.  The modern federal state—large, partly centralized (especially for foreign-policy purposes but also for commerce) and partly decentralized (retaining a substantial degree of local self-government).

The American Founders designed their state as a federal state. And the questions that arose from it were, first, can such a federal state avoid or at least survive civil war? and second, can it conduct a successful foreign policy against rival states that will attempt to split it up? If the answer to either of these questions had turned out to be “No,” America would have become what we now call a ‘failed state.’

The third and final element in considering the sources of foreign policy is what we’ve come to call ‘geopolitics.’ ‘Geo’ means ‘earth,’ as in ‘geography.’ Geopolitics means the territory of the country (its topography, its soils, its water resources and so on) as overlain by a given regime in state, in relation to all other such regimes and states with which it has relations. For much of human life geopolitics has been regional. For centuries, many American Indian tribes and nations had no idea that Europeans existed, and the ignorance was mutual; for a long time after that the Indians had no idea how many Europeans there were. But now geopolitics is truly worldwide, even if (as Mr. Putin has reminded us) one’s nearest neighbors often remain the most relevant ones.

Geopolitics takes note of a fact we sometimes forget in the age of the Internet, namely, the world is not flat. We do not really live in cyberspace, although at times we seem to. We live in a world where all territories are not created equal. When it comes to controlling key resources and strategic lines of communication, including military transport, the Straits of Gibraltar and of Hormuz, the Panama Canal and the Suez Canal are simply more important than, say, Hillsdale County. Such geopolitical ‘choke points’ will always be fought over in a way that Hillsdale County will never be.

When we think about the foreign policy of the American Founders, we need to think about all of these sources of policy: regimes, states, geopolitics. Let’s start with geography and look at the map. The United States that saw the inauguration of George Washington as its first president consisted of thirteen states strung along the Atlantic coastline in the middle of the North American continent. It was surrounded by regime enemies on all sides:

1. Many if not all of the American Indian tribes and nations. The regimes were warrior-oligarchies, but without modern centralized states. Some were settled in one location and were termed by the Americans the ‘civilized’ tribes, and some were hunting-and-gathering societies with no fixed territory—called by the Americans the ‘savage’ tribes.  When the Declaration of Independence refers to “merciless Indian savages” it does not mean Indians as such, but rather these latter groups. Today we usually don’t recognize that early Americans understood how the Indians, allied with European imperial powers, posed a considerable danger to the new republic.
2. The British Empire, consisting of Canada and the Caribbean colonies in this hemisphere, but perhaps above all with the great British Navy, which ‘ruled the waves’ in the Atlantic Ocean, making our extensive coastline vulnerable to attack. Great Britain was what Aristotle called a ‘mixed’ regime, with a monarch, an aristocratic legislative branch, and a ‘house of commons’ which enfranchised only about fifteen percent of the population of the country.
3. The Spanish Empire controlled Florida, Caribbean colonies, and Mexico. The regime was an absolutist monarchy.
4. The French Empire, which was about to re-acquire “Louisiana.” France during the American founding era was first an unstable absolutist monarchy, then an unstable military republic, and then a military despotism.

As for the key geopolitical points in early America, we had

1. Port cities such as Boston, New York, Baltimore, and Charleston. Today we are inclined to overlook the importance of Charleston, but at the time it was a major commercial site dealing in slaves and the agricultural products slaves produced; this accounted for what we sometimes think of as the curiously large influence wielded by South Carolina in the first 85 years of our independent existence.
2. The Appalachian and Allegheny mountains. In the days before railroads and good roads, these were substantial barriers to the expansion of the Americans into the west.
3. The Mississippi River flowing to New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico. The North American continent uniquely features the largest expanse of rich soil in the world, which we now know as our Midwest, overlain by a network of rivers flowing into one giant river, the Mississippi. Any people that could control this territory would becomes a major world power, but, as Thomas Jefferson said, any foreign power which controlled New Orleans was merely by reason of such control the enemy of the United States. Such a power would control the flow of commercial goods coming down the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. As late as 1848, the Mexican government hoped to seize New Orleans as a prize in the ongoing war with the United States.

Given this geography, and given the nearby hostile regimes, American statesman saw that one of their most pressing needs was to acquire what we now call strategic depth. We needed to move west in order to become less exclusively dependent upon our vulnerable coastal cities and to control the Mississippi Valley and New Orleans.

The policies they settled on included Indian removal and regime change, along with the establishment of a standing army and a standing navy, obviating dependence upon state militias.

In terms of the American federal state, the principal need was union. How far could the extended republic extend? Would it be a republican empire? How could it be kept together, so that North American would not become another Europe, or even what it was under the Indians: a cockpit of war, prey for the European empires playing divide-and-rule with the aid of the Amerindian allies, eager to contain the ever-advancing Americans?

And in terms of the American regime of democratic, commercial republicanism aimed at securing our natural rights, on this point the philosopher Montesquieu had made a crucial observation, known to all the Founders. Commercial republics, Montesquieu argued, don’t fight wars with one another. To this day, it is simply a fact that commercial republics—republics defined in the American sense of representative governments elected by a very large portion of the adult population—have not fought wars with one another, although of course they have fought many wars against regimes organized around opposing moral and political principles: monarchies, tyrannies, oligarchies both military and religious. This means that Americans are likely to include regime change among their several instruments of foreign policy, on the grounds that the more commercial republics there are, the fewer enemies we will have and, consequently, the more peace and prosperity.

These aims of strategic depth, political union, and commercial republicanism can be seen in the two most important foreign-policy documents of the founding period: the Declaration of Independence and George Washington’s Farewell Address. And of course in between these documents we find the United States Constitution, which sets down the structures whereby our foreign policy shall be conducted.

I. The Declaration of Independence

The Declaration was of course the first act of truly foreign policy by the United States. The previous Continental Congresses had been congresses of colonies under the British Empire. There had been declarations of Americans’ rights as British citizens within that empire. But the Declaration of Independence makes a different kind of argument.

No document before 1776, anywhere in the world, had been called a “declaration of independence.” Since then, there have been more than 100 such declarations, as new states have emerged from old empires. But few of these have invoked natural rights as the moral foundation or justification of independence. Most such declarations assert national rights.

The great English jurist William Blackstone defined “declaration” as a legal complaint made by a plaintiff in court. In diplomacy, a declaration is a formal international announcement made by an official body and delivered by an ambassador. Taken together, the American Declaration is an appeal or complaint under the law of nations, that body of international customs and treaties governing the conduct of states with one another and with foreign peoples. The most recent and authoritative treatise on the law of nations at the time of the founding was written by the Swiss jurist Emer de Vattel. Titled The Law of Nations, its subtitle was On the principles of the laws of nature, applied to the conduct of nations and sovereigns. That is, the law of nations as understood by Vattel and his students, including the American Founders, had a standard, namely, the laws of nature and of nature’s God.

The United States Congress had already issued a declaration of war against the British Empire on July 6, 1775: “A Declaration Setting Forth the Causes and Necessity of Taking Up Arms.” But this was a declaration of civil war—as it had to be, absent independence. The 1775 Declaration was distributed in London, Canada, and Jamaica—that is, within the British Empire. Not so the 1776 Declaration, which was distributed in many foreign capitals.

This leads to the second unique feature of the 1776 Declaration. It isn’t merely a series of assertions or claims. It is a logical syllogism. That is, it is an argument governed by the principle of non-contradiction. Socrates gives the first definition of the principle of non-contradiction in Plato’s Republic: the same thing won’t be willing to do or to suffer opposites at the same time, with respect to the same part, and in relation to the same thing. He gives the example of a child’s top, which can be said to move and stand still at the same time because its circumference rotates while its axis remains in one place. Another example would be the opposite shades of black and white, which can be combined in many ways but never to produce something ‘blackwhite.’ Nor is there anything that can rightly be described as a ’round square.’

Accordingly the Declaration follows the formula of a syllogism, beginning with the major premises of the argument—all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, along with other basic principles—going on to the minor premises of the syllogism—the charges against King and Parliament, stating actions they had taken which contradict the major premises, that is, violations of the laws of nature and of nature’s God—and then reaching a conclusion: that these states are, and of right ought to be free and independent states.

The principle of non-contradiction is the principle of human reason. Human reason or the ability to think logically is the distinctive characteristic of human nature as such. Not only do we need the capacity to reason in order to perceive and understand the laws of nature and of nature’s God, we need it to state our case to other human beings insofar as they are human—that is, insofar as they, too, reason, insofar as they, too, recognize those natural laws. The regime founded upon the rights of human beings as such will have justified the independence of the people who founded it by a declaration to its fellow human beings as such.

The Founders were not so naïve as to suppose that all human beings would recognize their claim. That’s why they say “We hold these truths to be self-evident.” They don’t expect King George III to hold them self-evident, and he didn’t. They submit their logical proof to “a candid world”—meaning, the world insofar as it is free from prejudice, from passion, ready to deliberate and to consider claims based on right, ready to follow a logical syllogism and to concur with it. This is why the Declaration can say that Americans hold all nations “Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.” To make war on this regime is to make war against a regime that aims at securing the natural rights of all human beings within its territory. To maintain peace with this regime is to recognize those rights and to endorse those rights—rights which, when secured, establish in practice the friendship among all human beings, which are by nature rational and civil beings.

Once the British Empire recognized American independence in 1783, European authorities on public law incorporated the Declaration into the law of nations. Previous discussions of international ‘recognition’ of states had concerned individual rulers’ rights of dynastic succession. For example, Henry III of France had been assassinated in 1589; as the last of the Valois line, he was replaced by Henry IV, the first king of the Bourbon line. Henry IV was duly recognized as the sovereign of France by the other European states, themselves monarchies. Now, in 1983, the law of nations needed to include recognition of a sovereign people.

A second consequence of American independence was our promotion of similar regimes of popular sovereignty in the Americas and in changing the way of life of some of the Indian nations. In 1786, the Articles of Confederation Congress signed a treaty with the Chickasaw nation in upstate New York, making them a protectorate of the United States. The Chickasaws also agreed to certain legal reforms, such as foregoing the practice of “punishing the innocent under the idea of retaliation”—the lex talionis—and the regulation of their trade by the United States. Several years later, President Washington’s Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, began pushing for the breakup of the Spanish and Portuguese empires in the New World. In 1786 he met secretly with a Brazilian medical student named José Maio de Barballo, who carried a copy of the Declaration to Brazil.

More importantly, Washington and his Secretary of War Henry Knox determined that “a system of coercion and oppression” regarding the Indians would “stain the character of the nation” and would also be far too expensive of blood and treasure. Washington wanted Army veterans to be granted some of the unsettled lands in the west, partly as payment to them for their services during the war and also, as Washington said, to have a population there “always ready and willing (in cases of hostility) to combat the Savages, and check their incursions.” The Indians, he said, should be given a fair price for the land “to induce them to relinquish our Territories, and to remove into the illimitable regions of the West.”

Meanwhile, the British took their time in turning over the western lands to the U. S. and in evacuating their extensive system of forts. They also encouraged the Indians to harass American settlers, practicing a ‘containment’ strategy in North America after the war was over.

Washington and Knox saw that they needed to form alliances with some of those tribes, but to do so they needed them to moved toward civilization and away from a way of life consisting of hunting, gathering, and raiding. They formulated a policy of regime change for those Indian tribes which did not want to move out. Knox wrote: “How different would be the sensation of a philosophic mind to reflect that instead of exterminating a part of the human race by our modes of population that we had persevered through all difficulties and at last imparted our Knowledge of cultivating and the arts, to the Aboriginals of the country by which the source of future life and happiness had been preserved and extended. But it has been conceive to be impracticable to civilize the Indians of North America. This opinion is probably more convenient than just.”

In his third annual message to Congress, Washington wrote: “Commerce with [the Indians] should be promoted under regulations tending to secure an equitable deportment towards them, and… such rational experiments should be made, for imparting to them the blessings of civilization as may, from time to time, suit their condition.” Therefore, Article XIV of the 1791 treaty with the Cherokee stated: “That the Cherokee nation may be led to a greater degree of civilization, and to become herdsmen and cultivators, instead of remaining in a state of hunters, the United States will from time to time furnish gratuitously the said nation with useful implements of husbandry, and further to assist the said nation in so desirable a pursuit, and at the same time to establish a certain mode of communication, the United States will send such, and so many persons to reside in said nation as they may judge proper, not exceeding four in number, who shall qualify themselves to act as interpreters.”

Notice that this policy of regime change aimed at altering the Chickasaw and Cherokee regimes and states in significant ways, but only so far as the current condition of those nations would make feasible. Policy as distinct from principle is contingent, a matter of prudential reasoning and not of theoretical reasoning, which is the kind of reasoning which discovers natural right. Regime change has remained one important instrument of U. S. foreign policy since independence, but as with all instruments, its use must be governed by both natural right and prudence, reasoning drawn from principle and reasoning drawn from practical experience and judgment.

II. The United States Constitution

With independence, American sovereignty—including the power to provide for the common defense and all other foreign-policy powers—went ‘from’ the King of England—the “defender of the realm”—to the American people. But how would the newly-sovereign American people allocate those powers in order to exercise their natural right to self-government, including self-defense, under the laws of nature and of nature’s God?

Our first constitution, the Articles of Confederation, proved inadequate to the task. Under it, all national powers—legislative, executive, and judicial—were lodged in one branch of government, the Congress. Most of the legislative powers remained in the states. One or more of the states might embroil the others in a war without their consent. Congress was charged with foreign-policy decision making, but lacked the legislative powers to carry out such decisions. In other words, the sovereign American people had failed to delegate enough foreign-policy power to Congress to make the United States especially united, and therefore credible, in international politics—giving it no power to regulate or tax foreign commerce. Further, Congress had no power to protect American rights under the law of nations; Congress could only recommend that the states pass laws on that. There was no way to frame and implement a coherent foreign policy. Hence the need for what the Preamble to the 1787 Constitution calls “a more perfect Union” to (among other things) “provide for the common defense.”

In addition to provision for the common defense, under the new Constitution Congress received the powers to legislate regarding foreign policy: to collect duties and imposts, regulate commerce with foreign nations and the “Indian Tribes,” to “define and punish piracies committed on the high seas, and offenses against the Law of Nations.” Also under the legislative powers were the power to declare war, grant letters of marque and reprisal—that is, to authorize the use of privateers—and of course to raise and support armies and a navy and to regulate those services. States were not allowed to do most of those things, although they retained the right to raise militias.

The executive branch received the power to command the army, navy, and militia of the United States; the president also has the power to negotiate treaties and to appoint ambassadors  who negotiate them. Ratification of treaties and approval of ambassadorial appointments provides a check on these executive powers. The treaty power comes out of Locke; it is what he calls the “foederative” power: foedus in Latin means “treaty.”

For its part, the Supreme Court has original jurisdiction in all cases concerning ambassadors and consuls; cases involving treaties, maritime disputes, cases involving alleged treason, and the like go to the federal judiciary, with the Supreme Court enjoying appellate jurisdiction. Treason itself is defined narrowly: levying war against the United States, or adhering to our enemies, “giving them aid and comfort”—serving as a guide to an invading force, for example.

One of the most important features of the new Constitution—oddly overlooked by many commentators, but indispensable in understanding American foreign and domestic policies as they have intersected—may be seen in Article IV, sections 3 and 4, which govern the admission of new states into the Union. “New states may be admitted into this Union,” but only if they have “a Republican Form of Government.” We admit them as equals—two senators, the number of representatives apportioned according to population, and so on—but only as equal republics. James Madison and Gouvereur Morris both pointed out that insofar as a state was controlled by slave-owners it was an aristocracy, not a republic—a point that would turn out to make a difference that eventuated in civil war. But this also has implications for America as an empire. Jefferson called America an empire, but “empire of liberty.” Previous empires had founded colonies (such as the British colonies in North America) which were subordinate to the central, imperial power. But American territories were from the beginning acquired in order to be made into equal  states—consistent with a regime and an empire founded upon the principle, “All men are created equal.”

John Locke had justified imperialism under certain conditions. Locke argued that God gave the world to men in common for “the Support and Comfort of their Being.” The right to property derives from this common gift: In order to survive in nature, each person takes what he needs; this act of taking, this labor, makes wheat we take our property, and no one needs the consent of another in order to appropriate needed natural objects. Having “mixed his labor” with nature, man adds to nature; the common possession of nature is of no real use to human beings if they as individuals do not undertake this appropriation. You can eat my lunch, but not on my behalf. Thus the Indian who kills a deer owns that deer. By nature, such appropriation is limited to one’s own use; no waste or destruction can be rightful, inasmuch as it depletes the common natural storehouse without producing any benefit to human beings.

This goes for the appropriation of land as well. You own it if you mix your labor with it, thereby “inclos[ing] it from the Common.” No one else has just title to that land. Civilization occurs because the natural plenty that supported such free acquisition prevailed in “the first Ages of the World,” but subsequent population increase required civil laws governing and protecting the property so acquired. Such laws allow the increase in the value of the property. Man as such is “the great foundation of property”; it is better to have a large population than al large territory because human labor is more valuable than the land it works; “of the Products of the Earth useful to the Life of man 9/10 are the effects of Labor.” (Locke subsequent revises this estimate upwards to 99/100). He that “incloses Land” has “a greater plenty from the conveniences of life from ten acres, than he could have from an hundred left to Nature, [and] may truly be said, to give ninety acres to Mankind.”

This is why “The great art of government” is to employ “established laws of liberty to secure protection and encouragement to the honest industry of mankind.” That is to say, natural right can be enhanced by conventional or positive right. What is more, thanks to the invention of money—a thing that exists by civilizing convention or human law, not nature—human beings can engage in extensive commerce without the risk of spoilage, inasmuch as money, for which perishable goods can be exchanged, cannot spoil. By establishing civil property rights for English settlers and guarding them by absolute monarchic rule over Indian tribes and nations which had a sense of territory but not of property, the British Empire advanced human prosperity and liberty. The British settlers objected most when the king started to treat them like Indians.

Locke concludes that land rightly belongs to the industrious and rational, not the idle. This is the basis of the right to conquer nomadic and hunting peoples. American Indians, he writes, “are rich in Land, and poor in all the Comforts of Life” because they unknowingly leave vast tracts of land in a condition of relative waste, thus depriving mankind of the best use of that land. They are rather like the aristocratic idlers of Europe—a point Tocqueville would note, more than a century later. Notice that this is a regime conflict, a clash of opposing opinions about the best way of life and the right purpose of life for human beings.

Thus Jefferson’s “empire of liberty” had two foundations: one was the political and Constitutional/legal foundation of conquering territories in order to elevate them to equal status as states of the Union; the other was the civilizational/economic foundation of the cultivation of land for human use. Both of these foundations in turn had a moral foundation, namely, the industrious and rational securing of natural rights.

American foreign policy from 1776 to today has been anti-imperialist in the sense that it denies the right of any person or people to subordinate another people perpetually. The foundation of this right to self-government is natural, not ‘nationalist,’ although of course by nature human beings group together into social and political communities, sharing a language. This gives nations a right to self-government not because they are nations but because they are human, regardless of their nation. None of this precludes conquest, if such conquest occurs as the result of a just war and aims at either incorporating the conquered territory into the United States as an equal state or raising it to the status of an independent but friendly state. A friendly state is likely to be a fellow commercial republic, although not necessarily. This depends upon the condition of the people conquered and the disposition of the regime in place toward the United States. The exact limits of the American empire itself would prove controversial, as would the policy of regime change as the result of victory in war. These are matters of prudence, not principle.

 

Suggested readings

The best general account of early American foreign policy is Patrick J. Garrity: In Search of Monsters to Destroy? American Foreign Policy, Revolution, and Regime Change, 1776-1900 (Fairfax: National Institute Press, 2012).

There are several informative recent studies of the Declaration of Independence: David Armitage: The Declaration of Independence (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007); Allen Jayne: Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence: Origins, Philosophy, and Theology (Lexington: The University of Kentucky Press, 1998); and Danielle Allen: Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence (New York: Liveright Publishing Corporation, 2014).

On the United States Constitution, see Michael D. Ramsey: The Constitution’s Text in Foreign Affairs (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007).

Giorgi Areshidze: Democratic Religion from Locke to Obama: Faith and the Civic Life of Democracy. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2016.

 

First and foremost, modern liberalism aimed at ending the moral, political, and intellectual conditions underlying the savage religious wars which had resulted from the founding of centralized, monarchic states and the Protestant challenge to Roman Catholicism in Europe. Although the earliest liberals—Francis Bacon, Thomas Hobbes—advocated religious establishments strongly supported by the new states as a means to impose civil peace on warring factions, liberalism took a new turn with John Locke, who argued for republicanism in politics and toleration toward religion. In the three centuries since Locke, liberalism has retained its republicanism, albeit in a form that admits a substantial measure bureaucratic rule. But in recent decades its relation to religion has become shaky, as religious people have come to fear the advance of ‘secularization’ and liberals have come to fear religious ‘fundamentalism.’

Giorgi Areshidze offers a succinct and penetrating analysis of liberalism’s most recent iteration, seen in the theory of John Rawls and the political thought of Barack Obama. How does Rawls’s theory compare with the natural-rights liberalism of Locke and the postmodern liberalism of Jürgen Habermas? And how do Obama’s attempts to address the religio-political question compare with the thought of his two greatest heroes, Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? Do the troubled relations between the modern state and contemporary religious communities derive from the Rawlsian liberalism we have now, or do they inhere in liberalism as such?

In his book Political Liberalism, Rawls advocates a doctrine of universal toleration—of political “impartiality” respecting not only religions but all “comprehensive doctrines,” whether derived from revelation or from reason. Government should maintain strict neutrality regarding all conceptions of ‘the good.’ Citizens may invoke religious or philosophic reasons for policy only insofar as they form part of the “overlapping consensus” of opinions in civil society. So, for example, if I assert that all persons stand as equal before God, that is admissible only insofar as public opinion generally favors human equality. Justice in Rawls’s view has no religious or philosophic foundation; it simply reflects the prevailing consensus. Debate proceeds along the lines of “public reason,” which means reasoning within the bounds of the prevailing consensus. Thus “Political Liberalism demonstrates a latent dependence on historically inherited metaphysical and theological foundations that support liberal politics” [italics added]. Rawlsian liberalism is a specimen of historical relativism.

This historicist tendency of contemporary liberalism both influences and troubles Barack Obama. As an admirer of the Abolitionist movement of the 1800s and the civil rights movement of the 1900s, Obama would revive an appreciation of Christianity on the American Left. He doesn’t want to leave religiosity as a province of social and political conservatism. But he also esteems social and religious pluralism, invoking a need for “the religiously-motivated” to “translate their concerns into universal, rather than religion-specific, values.” For him as for Rawls, that means “consensus-building.” He regards America as a post-Christian society, a “mosaic” of religions and of irreligion. Areshidze wonders, “to what extent is it possible to update American civil religion so as to take into account the nation’s increasing pluralism without at the same time diluting religion so much as to render its contribution to democracy practically useless?” If “the standard of public reasonableness requires all claims of revealed religious authority to submit themselves to the tribunal of unassisted human reason,” why does that not render religion politically superfluous? Obama understands the Bible in exactly the same way that he and other liberals of historicist leanings understand the United States Constitution: “it is not a static text but the Living Word,” open to “new revelations,” inviting us to employ “a method of creative interpretation.” In so arguing, “Obama never explains why religious accommodation to modern life should come at the expense of those religious views which do not simply support present-day cultural norms,” although he admits that “the absolutists” have led the causes he most esteems. This “conceptual impasse” of contemporary, historicist liberalism leads Areshidze back to the founder of republican liberalism, John Locke, and a preeminent American political practitioner of liberalism, Abraham Lincoln.

Locke was no historicist. He based liberalism squarely on a doctrine of natural, not historical rights. Very astutely, Areshidze remarks that the argument for religious toleration Locke makes in his Letter on Toleration differs from his argument in the Essay Concerning Human Understanding “bases toleration on a religious argument about the sanctity of human conscience” as each individual searches for “religious truth.” The Essay “grounds toleration on the limits of human knowledge”—on a form of skepticism. The Letter rests on an appeal to the prevailing opinion of Locke’s time and place, relying on Biblical exegesis; the Essay rests on reason alone. One book is ‘popular,’ the other ‘philosophic.’

Not that the Biblical exegesis Locke propounds in the Letter fully comports with the prevailing Christian orthodoxy of his time—or indeed with the teaching of the Bible itself. Mutual toleration among Christians is alleged to be “the chief characteristic of the true church,” although the New Testament attests to love, not toleration. When Locke does testify to the fact of Christian loving-kindness, he makes it serve toleration and good works. Crucially, in quoting Paul’s Letter to the Galatians, Locke accurately lists sins not to be tolerated by Christians—”works of the Flesh,” generally—but leaves out such doctrinal sins as “seditions and heresies”—works of the mind, as it were. It was the threat of spiritual sins that persuaded Augustine, Aquinas, and Calvin to enlist governments in the task of suppressing the full range of unchristian acts; Aquinas went so far as to urge the death penalty for heretics. Perhaps glancing back at Rawls and Obama, Areshidze describes this as a “nearly uninterrupted Christian consensus”—bad news indeed for Rawlsian liberals.

To this, Locke replies in the Letter that coercion can never genuinely persuade, and that only a persuaded soul can enter Heaven through the strait gate. But in the Essay Locke admits that, on the contrary, beliefs are indeed formed by a mixture of coercion and consent. There, he argues not from the Bible but from what later writers would call epistemology: the Bible speaks of “knowing” God, but what is knowledge? Locke answers, famously, with a materialist form of Cartesianism; knowledge consists of clear and distinct “ideas,” which are at bottom nothing more than sense-impressions (black is not white, round is not square). If so, when we say we “know” God we really mean we believe He exists, we are really asserting our faith in His loving (therefore patient but far from tolerant) care. God transcends our sense-impressions, and therefore our knowledge as Locke understands it. The philosophic foundation for religious toleration turns out to be our non-knowledge of God, in whose omniscient Spirit alone judgment of heresy may be safely and exclusively lodged.

Abraham Lincoln resembles Locke. Deploying Biblical imagery while resting his core argument against slavery squarely on the principles of the Declaration of Independence, “principles which themselves were publicly contested”—the slaveholders, following John C. Calhoun, denied them—”and required theological support if they were to be successful at reforming the political status quo.” Whereas the young Lincoln openly described his “civil religion” of law-abidingness as thoroughly and exclusively rationalist, the mature Lincoln invoked the Bible. Yet he did so in a Lockean way, transforming human labor from its status as divine punishment for sin into a theory of value, “the source of man’s natural entitlement to the fruits of his labor” and therefore a proof against slavery. Like Locke, and unlike Rawls, Lincoln did uphold a rationally ascertainable “standard of justice” beyond public opinion, a standard whereby Americans deserved to be scourged by the “living God” whose existence Lincoln mentions but never explicitly affirms.

Martin Luther King goes much further, “aim[ing] to achieve a spiritual transformation of American democracy through the testimony of religious witness.” King “sensed that Christianity had probably been more transformed by American democracy than American democracy had been by Christianity.” But what would a “religious tutored liberalism” be? To justify civil disobedience, King couldn’t overlook the Pauline disavowal of disobedience to law; rather, he appealed to the Thomistic claim that unjust laws are not laws at all—a point parallel to the Declaration’s charge that the tyrant-monarch had by his tyranny “abdicated government here.” More, King asserted that the idea of the sanctity of the human person, made in the image of God, justifies the equal-rights teaching of the Declaration, which of course does indeed say that all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights. That is, King saw that the Declaration reconciles Locke with Christianity—much to the consternation of that good Lockean, Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the first draft quite evidently without consulting the Bible. It might be said that Locke, a more careful man, would have few things without at least consulting the Bible.

Do the Gospels really advocate social change? No, but to that objection King replied that social conditions had changed—twentieth-century America isn’t ancient Jerusalem—and, moreover, the apostles wrote in the expectation that the world would end and the Messiah would return in very short order. The two-millennia-long delay of the Parousia necessitated a Christian response, namely, non-violent social and political reform based upon  the standard of equality set down in the Book of Genesis and affirmed by the American founders. King then added a historicists trope: “God reveals himself progressively through human history, and… the final significance of the Scripture lies in the outcome of the process”—a claim quite foreign to the Founders or to Lincoln. Areshidze doubts that such eclecticism “is ultimately sustainable.” In his final chapter he turns to the postmodern, Jürgen Habermas, and finally to Tocqueville, in quest of a more stable liberalism.

He doesn’t find it in Habermas, who himself has shifted from Enlightenment-style secularism to the admission that liberals may be able to learn a thing or two from religion, after all. Habermas offers a bow to revelation, going so far as to say that it can serve as a source of insights for social action that unassisted reason cannot find. As a postmodern, he no longer believes in Enlightenment rationalism, which he now regards as eminently fallible. But he also cannot bring himself to piety. He “appears to remain deeply divided and uncertain.”

Tocqueville is more successful. The first volume of Democracy in America shows the origins of American democracy (by which he means social equality in the sense of the absence of an aristocratic class) in the Puritan founding. The Christianity that guided the Puritans itself served as a bridge between aristocracy and democracy: “It was necessary that Jesus Christ come to earth to make it understood that all members of the human species are naturally alike and equal,” Tocqueville wrote. Christianity is “the most precious inheritance from aristocratic centuries” in that it comes ‘from above’ to an ancient people accustomed to being ruled from above. But the message itself reveals human nature, which undercuts any conventional aristocracy. In a final twist, however, once democracy as a social condition finally erodes aristocracy and establishes itself in civil society, it begins to show the characteristics Tocqueville describes in Volume II: in a phrase, materialist Cartesianism. Tocqueville “gently reveal[s] how the Enlightenment and modern democracy transform religion,” bringing us quickly to the crisis of our own time.

Perhaps it was not for nothing that Augustine described the City of God as captive and stranger in the Earthly City. Areshidze’s fine book leaves us wondering if the dilemma of liberalism may not be a subset of that more fundamental problem, ameliorated by liberalism but insoluble until the return of Messiah.

Note: This pamphlet was written as an analysis of the presidential campaign rhetoric of former U. S. president Jimmy Carter and Walter F. Mondale, a former United States Senator from Minnesota and Vice President of the United States in the Carter Administration, who ran unsuccessfully against the incumbent president, Ronald Reagan, in 1984.

Originally published by Dawn Publishing Company, Dollard des Ormeaux, Quebec, Canada, 1984. It appeared between the Democratic Party nominating convention and the general election.

 

“The one-time protégé of Hubert Humphrey softly articulated the politics of compassion.”
–Fay S. Joyce
“Notes on the Campaign Trail”
New York Times Magazine
July 8, 1984

 

“The New Realism”
While accepting the presidential nomination of his party, Walter Mondale made a statement that may be unique in the history of such occasions. He apologized to the American people.

Specifically, he apologized for the Democratic Party’s recent past. An “honest, caring man—Jimmy Carter—picked me [as] his running mate, and in 1976 I was elected Vice President,” he recalled. But in the next four years something, or several things, went very wrong because “in 1980 Ronald Reagan beat the pants off us.”

“So tonight I want to say something to those of you across the country who voted for Ronald Reagan—Republicans, independents and yes, some Democrats: I heard you. And our party heard you. After we lost we didn’t tell the American people that they were wrong. Instead we began asking you what our mistakes had been.”

Mr. Mondale left the identification of those mistakes to his audience. But he did offer some hints.

“Tonight we come to you with a new realism…. Look at our platform. There are no defense cuts that weaken our security, no business taxes that weaken our economy, no laundry lists that raid our treasury.
“We are wiser, stronger, and we are focused on the future. If Mr. Reagan wants to rerun the 1980 campaign, fine. Let them fight over the past. We’re fighting for the American future.”

To praise “a new realism” must mean that the ‘old’ Democratic Party was not realistic enough. What was the character of this (as it were) old surrealism? That is, what is “the past” that Republicans may want “to fight over”? Have Mr. Mondale and the Democratic Party truly abandoned this surrealism of the past? Or has he, and his party, merely camouflaged it for partisan political reasons?

 

The Old Ideology
A few years ago, American television ‘covered’—the metaphor tells more than its users know—” a gathering of “New Deal” alumni: men and women who wrote speeches and contrived programs for the remarkable Franklin D. Roosevelt. Nostalgia reigned (in FDR’s absence) and sentimental stories were told. One alumnus went so far as to tell a reporter that “the New Deal institutionalized compassion.” Whether it did or not—whether that is possible or not—is of course debatable. It tried, and American politics underwent at least a partial revolution.

Of American politicians, Woodrow Wilson first recognized the rhetorical utility of compassion as a theme, not merely as a tone. [1] In his book A Discourse on Statesmanship, Paul Eidelberg calls Wilson’s public teaching “the politics of compassion,” quoting Wilson’s praise of “a government rooted… in the pains and sufferings of mankind… a government which is not pitiful but full of human sympathy.” [2] Wilson did not live to see the realization of his dream, but after a dozen years of Republican dominance, the Democrats, with Roosevelt, won their chance. Thereafter, more than one Republican candidate was caught between exasperation and the impulse to cry, ‘Me, too.’

But by the late 1960s, the Democratic Party’s rhetoric wasn’t working. Neither was its celebrated coalition of Northern labor unionists, academics, and Southern politicians. The debate on the Vietnam War damaged the Party by separating those who wanted to extend the politics of compassion to the North Vietnamese communists and those who did not. Vice President Hubert Humphrey, a man who proudly identified himself with the now-old politics, lost to Richard Nixon after being attacked on his ‘right’ by the racist, George Wallace, and on his ‘left’ by the war critic, Eugene McCarthy. In the early 1970s, a declining economy brought the politics of compassion to its nadir; the middle classes complained, with perhaps less justice than passion, that none of this compassion was for themselves. George McGovern lost the 1972 presidential election so badly because Americans saw him as ‘too permissive’—that is, too tolerant of what pundits called, with customary impercipience, ‘the counter-culture.’ Composed mostly of the sons and daughters of middle-class liberals, the counter-culturists merely pushed the politics of compassion to its so-to-speak logical conclusion: the dream of a world without conflict, without competition, where one ‘makes love, not war,’ where one makes love, not business deals, not arguments—where one makes nothing that is inharmonious and not-fun. Mr. Nixon, obsessed with competition, didn’t have much trouble beating something so congenitally unable to defend itself as McGovernism.

Fortunately for the Democrats, fortune never rests. Nixon failed even as he succeeded, as many have chronicled so exhaustively. The Democrats got another chance, but they needed a new rhetorical strategy. Enter the amiable-but-serious “peanut farmer” (owner of a government-subsidized peanut warehouse) and “nuclear physicist” (former engineer on a nuclear submarine) from Plains, Georgia.

 

Jimmy Carter and Political Religion
Georgia Governor James Earl “Jimmy” Carter explicitly identified himself with the New Deal’s politics of compassion. At an AFL-CIO convention he averred that “we are part of the currents of history,” and “this campaign [of 1976] was under way in 1932, when [Republican President Gerald Ford’s] party nominated [Herbert] Hoover and ours [the number of Republicans at AFL-CIO conventions is small] nominated Franklin Roosevelt.” [3] Carter traced the not-quite-apostolic succession through Harry S. Truman (“a common man like many of you, and like myself”), John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, Humphrey, and McGovern. And after the Party nominated him, Carter delivered the campaign “kickoff speech” at Warm Springs, Georgia, where “the warm waters gave [FDR] strength and hope.” As president, Roosevelt “gave strength and hope to an afflicted nation.” [4]. Now Jimmy Cater, too, came to Warm Springs, whence he would go forth to heal the afflicted.

However, when he campaigned for the nomination, many politicians of compassion opposed Mr. Carter. Henry Jackson, Morris Udall, Birch Bayh, Lloyd Bentsen, Frank Church, Freed Harris, and, at the end, California Governor Edmund G. “Jerry” Brown wandered through all or part of the maze of Democratic primary elections. Carter defeated them for several reasons. One of the most important was his tone—the way he spoke and the way he carried himself—which calmed and reassured a nervous electorate. But one important thematic cause of his victory was his use of (will historians be able to conceive of it?) love. Wallace and Nixon had countered the politics of compassion with a politics of self-righteous anger. Mr. Carter apparently had the wit to see that love (purged of the ‘permissive’ sexual content of the slogan ‘make love, not war’) is more respectable than self-righteous anger, and that everyone, especially the middle class (the class that elects American presidents) would much rather be respectable. He confessed his love for humanity, a love that supplemented and, as Christians would say, ‘saved’ the politics of compassion. Government, he insisted repeatedly, should be, can be, “honest and truthful and fair and idealistic, compassionate, filled with love.” [5] At the same time, government should be strong (Ford’s lack of ‘leadership qualities’ was an issue) and competent (Ford’s lack of competence was also an issue). One model for this was a Christian social activist named Eloy Cruz, whom Carter met while visiting Mexico:

“He had a remarkable ability to reach the hearts of people in a very natural and unassuming way and quickly convinced them that he loved them and God loved them. I observed him closely as we spent that inspiring week together.” [6] Such close observation proved electorally profitable.

A more famous model was the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who was “the man, more than any other of his generation, who gazed upon the great wall of segregation and saw that it could be destroyed by the power of love.” [7] Somehow, power and love intersect; Mr. Carter demonstrated that they can seem to–and did seem to, in American electoral politics in 1976, as he won the presidency.

 

Political Christianity
That demonstration was possible because American electoral politics is a matter of winning the consent of a people composed principally of Christians and secularized ‘christians.’ While pundits described the Carter style of speech-making as gospel-sermonizing, and noticed that he professed “born-again” Christianity, they overlooked the fact that the substance of what he was saying was also derived from Christianity. They too were essentially Christian in morality if not in belief; to them, compassion and love seemed entirely natural sentiments for a person to invoke, although some were more doubtful than others concerning the politician’s sincerity.

Compassion and love in politics, humanitarianism, obviously comprise a secularized form of Christianity—charity metamorphosed into sentiment. It’s no accident that the humanitarian Woodrow Wilson came along after American intellectuals had turned from the consolations of religion to those of modern science. Wilson was Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, Baconized. And Carter, the “nuclear physicist,” yet less secularized than Wilson, told one audience, “It’s completely anachronistic [sic] in the makeup of a nuclear physicist or an engineer or a scientist to be satisfied with what we’ve got, or to rest on the laurels of past accomplishments.” [8]. For the most part, modern scientists are what Bacon wanted them to be: engineers of progress, gradually satisfying the human desires for comfort and self-preservation. And government “is a contrivance of human wisdom to provide for human wants.” [9]  Christianity, politics, and modern science intersected in the mind of Jimmy Carter. After becoming present, he told one journalist that he had studied “philosophy” by reading Bertrand Russell’s A History of Western Philosophy six or seven times, underlining pertinent sections; Russell (in many of his moral teachings if not in his private life) is the perfect example of a Christian-without-Christ. We may assume that Mr. Carter simply added his own belief in Christ as he read along.

The synthesis doesn’t work. Nietzsche charged the Christian teaching with gratifying the self-pity and resentment of slaves—a harsh contention one might wish to dispute, or at least qualify. But Nietzsche’s contention does unmask the politics of compassion and love. Transplanted to political soil, especially in the modern world, Christianity mutates. Christians teach that men need God’s love, without which they are justly damned. But citizens need no love from the gods of the political world. As citizens, rich and poor alike need not compassion but something approaching justice: that which, in Christian eschatology, would leave humanity damned. Love binds Christians; justice—as imitated by law, custom, precept, example—binds citizens. And the things that imitate justice are things of this world.

 

The Politics of Resentment

Mr. Carter knew that. “I have spoken a lot of times this year about love,” he told the Democratic delegates, “but love must be translated into simple justice.” [10] Perhaps regrettably, love does not so “translate.” With Christian love, intention counts more than results; in politics justice counts as an end, not an intention. To Christianity, God is love; love is the greatest power in the universe. But genuine Christianity never teaches that love is the greatest of the secular powers.

To approach justice (shall we dismiss the utopian insistence that we can attain it?) one must win, here and now. One has opponents whose defeat must not wait until the Day of Judgment. (It wasn’t such a bad thing that the likes of Hitler and Stalin were opposed by other men of this world; we may reasonably thank God for some politicians). America’s judgment day is the first Tuesday in November, and the judges are fallible. Turning the other cheek pleases Jesus; voters tend toward the unsublime. Inevitably, the politician of compassion and love, while claiming to appeal to conscience, in fact rouses less exalted sentiments from a lower part of the soul:

“Too many have had to suffer at the hands of a political and economic elite who have shaped decisions and never had to account for mistakes nor to suffer from injustice. When unemployment prevails, they never stand in line looking for a job. When deprivation results from a confused and bewildering welfare system, they never do without food or clothing or a place to sleep. When the public schools are torn by strife, their children go to exclusive private schools….” [11]

Mr. Carter expresses compassion and love but evokes self-pity and resentment. The politician of compassion and love wins votes not by exhorting us to love our enemy but by promising to turn him out of office. And although at times he may contend that society is imperfect because man is imperfect [12], he more frequently implies that evil is not so much within us, the result of a freely-chosen fall from grace, but that evil is out there, oppressing decent folks like you and me. Vox populi, vox Jimmy.

Having attained office, the politicians of compassion and love fails for much the same reason as his predecessor, the politician of compassion, failed. The self-pity and resentment he exploited in order to win the election don’t go away, and all the love-talk in Creation can’t really unify the country. His carefully-wrought consensus dissolves. And because “Jesus teaches us not to judge other people,” and “You can’t enforce morality” [13], Mr. Carter had difficulty bringing himself to enforce a consensus, or at least a workable majority, in the country; he wanted to persuade, in effect to campaign for consent. Campaigning was the one thing he was good at, the one thing that made him feel morally strong. But campaigning isn’t governing.

 

The Foreign Policy of Surrealism

In foreign policy, the politics of compassion and love accomplishes even less than it does at home—as the compassionate President Wilson learned sixty years ago. Love and power rarely meet when fellow-citizens meet; they meet even more rarely when statesmen meet.

Still, Carter should not be confused with the entirely secularized ‘christians’ on this. For one thing, he was not afraid of death. (“I just look at death as not a threat. It’s inevitable, and I have assurance of eternal life”) [14]  Nor did he define peace in merely negative terms: “… peace is not the mere absence of war. Peace is action to stamp out international terrorism. Peace is the unceasing effort to preserve human rights. Peace is a combined demonstration of strength and good will.” [15] He was sufficiently clear-headed to say he wanted “an international framework of peace within which our own ideals can become a global reality” [16]—which implies the dissolution of regimes founded upon Marxism-Leninism. He recognized that “indirect challenges” in which the United States and the Soviet Union “confront each other by proxy in various trouble spots… make a mockery of the very concept of détente.” [17]. In defending human rights (which are “our greatest source of strength”) he wanted to balance “idealism” and “realism.” [18].  Realistically, he saw that communists live under “an even greater level of oppression” than do victims of right-wing oppression. [19]. And he offered Americans an understated warning: “We do not seek to intimidate, but it is clear that a world which others can dominate with impunity would be inhospitable to decency and a threat to the well-being of all people.” [20]

Unfortunately, the president’s “balance” of “idealism” and “realism” tilted in the direction of “idealism.” It did so because Mr. Carter’s sense of the real was infused with idealism. Such an infusion sensitizes one to the world of the Gospels, but that world is not the world of international politics. His notion of “strength” (as in his phrase, “a combined demonstration of strength and good will”) was itself infused with the Christian notion of “good will.”

 

Sentimental Populism

One of the anecdotes Carter enjoyed telling during the 1976 campaign concerned his first reading of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Tolstoy’s lesson, as Carter summarized it, is that “the course of human events, even the greatest historical events, are not determined by the leaders of a nation or a state, like presidents or governors or senators. They are controlled by the combined wisdom and courage and discernment and unselfishness and compassion and love and idealism of the ordinary common people.” [21]  He went on to observe that if such was true of Czarist Russia and Imperial France, how much more it must be true of democratic America. Tolstoy combined nationalism and pacifism, egalitarianism and Christianity (sometimes secularized, sometimes not); Mr. Carter found him a congenial voice, and took his view of history from him.

That is why he could deliver himself of such sentiments as:

“Because we know that democracy works, we can reject the argument of those rulers who deny human rights to their people. We are confident that democracy’s example will be compelling.” [22]

“The great democracies are not free because we are strong and prosperous. I believe we are strong and influential and prosperous because we are free.” [23]

“Our country is strong in international affairs. And we ought to once again assert our leadership, because we lost it [this was another slap at Ford]. But that leadership ought not be based on military might or political pressure or economic power [now hitting the ‘Metternichean’ Nixon and Ford Administration Secretary of State, Henry Kissinger], but on the basis of the fact that this country in its foreign affairs is honest and truthful and fair and predictable…. I don’t see any difference in the orality that we ought to assert in foreign affairs than what the character of the American people is.” [24]

This is Tolstoy Americanized. The sane people who assumed, during the campaign, that they were hearing a flatterer in search of votes were too ‘sophisticated’ to imagine that the man meant what he said.

Carter the president acted, for the most part, as Carter the campaigner told us he would. At the University of Notre Dame, he elaborated:

“Being confident of our own future [because democracy is a “compelling” “example” to peoples who do not enjoy it], we are free of that inordinate fear of communism which once led us to embrace any dictator who joined us in that fear…. For too many years. we have been willing to adopt the flawed and erroneous tactics of our adversaries, sometimes abandoning our own values. We have fought fire with fire, never thinking that fire is better quenched with water.” [25]

By “fire” he meant fighting; by “water” he meant negotiating (the international equivalent of campaigning) and exemplifying. Exemplifying what” American “values”: compassion, love, and so on. How examples serve to compel remained mysterious. It was all very reminiscent of George F. Kennan’s conception of ‘containing’ the Soviet Union, which was to be a diplomatic not a military effort. And like Carter, Kennan was a liberal Christian who hoped to advance American interests with Christian and ‘christian’ sentiments.

Carter the campaigner said: “I want the United States of America to be pre-eminent in all the world, but I do not equate pre-eminence solely with military might nor with the ability to subjugate others or to demonstrate prowess on the battlefield We must have adequate forces to defend ourselves. But…. [26]  A list of Carterian virtues followed. The list ended, of course, with compassion and love.

 

Love as Political Power

But how shall America defend itself? “[W]e should cease trying to intervene in affairs of other countries unless our own country is endangered” [27]. Because “danger” meant, to Carter, only direct and immediate danger, he “would never again see our nation become military involved in the internal affairs of another country unless our own security s directly involved” [28]. The American Tolstoyan seriously believed that “Had we spent another fifty thousand lives and had spent another 150 billion dollars in South Vietnam and had we dropped the atomic bomb on North Vietnam, we still could not have propped up the governments of Thieu and Ky,” the last rulers of the non-communist regime in the south [29]. You can’t beat The People, whom Carter assumed were on the side of the Communists. You can only win their hearts with compassion, love, and ‘simple justice.’ After all, one can win an American election by talking up those things.

That goes for relations with the Soviet Union, too. It is as if he expects an invocation of their great national writer, Tolstoy, will melt their hearts. “[A] genuine spirit of cooperation between the democracies and the Soviet Union should extend beyond a negative cessation of hostilities and reach toward joint efforts in dealing with such world problems as agricultural development an the population crisis” [30].  To those who would reply that Marxist-Leninist ideology, combined with non-pacifist nationalism, tends to cause the Soviet rulers to see “such world problems” rather differently than American Tolstoyans do, Mr. Carter might reply, again, that in the long run The People will prevail. “The great challenge we Americans confront is to demonstrate to the Soviet Union that our good will is as great as our strength until, despite all obstacles, our two nations can achieve new attitudes and new trust, and until in time the terrible burden of the arms race can be lifted from our peoples.” [31]  To demonstrate this good will to skeptical Russians, he responded the aforementioned “indirect challenges” of confrontation-by-proxy by attempting to negotiate a reduction of weapons supplies to the Third World. He showed unilateral inaction—or, as he would say, “restraint”—when faced with Soviet intervention. He wanted to negotiate “a freeze on further modernization and continuing substantial reductions of nuclear weapons as well” [32], without suggesting exactly how one monitors and enforces a “freeze” on modernization and without mentioning that really substantial reductions in nuclear weapons might lead to a return to large-scale ground warfare. (It is worth remarking that half of Tolstoy’s novel depicts The People at war). There, are limits to the secular power of good will. Yet even after his years in office, after the 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Carter could respectfully quote the late Soviet ‘President’ Leonid Brezhnev’s absurd jibe, “If we do not succeed [in limiting nuclear arsenals] God will not forgive us.” Remembering this, Carter could actually bring himself to write, “I felt close to him.” [33]

In his laborious negotiating/campaigning for the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt, Carter displayed the power and the weakness of liberal-Christian good will. Good will lent him tenacity; he was as tenacious in negotiating with Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin as others have been in fighting. But good will again overrode realism. Example: on March 10, 1979, in Cairo, President Carter addressed Egypt’s “People’s Assembly.” He told them that while “the forms of our faith [Islam, Judaism, Christianity] are different…. the message of Providence has always been the same,” and he quoted peace-celebrating passages from the Koran, the Bible, and the New Testament to ‘prove’ it [34]. He overlooked the non-pacifist, even anti-pacifist content of certain religious teachings, thus missing part of the spiritual (not merely secular) reality of the Middle East. He could do this because he had faith in The People’s love of peace, and believed The People are the ones who determine the course of events. But of course Egyptian policy after Sadat’s murder remains to be seen. Dictatorship enders populism fragile.

So does fanaticism. Or perhaps one should say that populism can eschew humanitarianism and partake of fanaticism.

 

The Irony of Populism

It is an irony that this most populist of presidents was victimized by a populist uprising: the overthrow of the Shah of Iran, his replacement by the Ayatollah Khomeini, and the subsequent capture of United States embassy employees by men acting in the name of the Ayatollah. “How could any decent human beings, and particularly leaders of a nation, treat innocent people like this—week after week?” [35]  Carter’s naïve indignation at the treatment of the hostages was tempered nonetheless, with compassion: “The safety and well-being of the American hostages became a constant concern for me, no matter what duties I was performing as President.” [36]  Decent compassion be came an obsession, an obsession communicated to the public. In his memoirs Carter blames his defeat in the 1980 presidential election on public disappointment over failure to settle the hostage crisis. He gives no sign of seeing that his own magnification of that crisis caused conditions that made severe disappointment possible, if not inevitable. Humanitarian populism, thwarted by fanatical populism, fell victim to a populism of frustration.

Carterian populism, based on a liberal-Christian view of politics and (therefore) history, upholds a politics of compassion and love at home and abroad. At home, that politics yields a mood of self-pity, envy, and resentment; abroad, it yields tenaciously-negotiated decline. Because the politician of compassion and love dislikes any power that is not based on compassion, love, and the consent derived therefrom, he prefers not to do much more than exhort. Eventually, people notice that and act accordingly. In Mr. Carter’s case, it didn’t take long.

 

There They Go, Again

“Here I go, again.” Ex-president Carter’s opening words before the 1984 Democratic Party Convention described not only his own speech but every speech to come. Speaker after speaker invoked the politics of compassion and love, with special emphasis on its ‘tough’ side—namely, the resentment self-pity generates. From New York governor Mario Cuomo (who praised government “strong enough for compassion and love”) to the Reverend Jesse Jackson (“My constituency is the desperate, the damned, the disinherited, and the disrespected”), the continuity was clear. But perhaps the most revealing charge of all was ignited by Rep. Geraldine Ferraro, who questioned President Reagan’s Christianity because Reagan does not endorse the particular form of political Christianity to which today’s liberals adhere.

In his speech accepting his party’s nomination, Walter Mondale praised Carter before condemning his opponent in Carterian terms. “What we have today is government by the rich, by the rich and for the rich…. Mr. Reagan believes that the genius of America is in the board rooms and exclusive country clubs…. When he raises taxes, it won’t be done fairly. He will sock it to average-income families… and leave his rich friends alone.” Or, even more colorfully: “He gave each of his rich friends enough tax breaks to buy a Rolls Royce… and then he asked your family to pay for the hubcaps.”

Turning to foreign policy, Mr. Mondale descended to hysteria. “Every President since the [atomic] bomb has gone off has understood that [we have the capacity to destroy the planet] and talked with the Soviets and negotiated arms control. Why has this administration failed? Why haven’t they tried? Why can’t they understand the cry of Americans and [sic] human beings for sense and sanity and control of these God-awful weapons? Why? Why?” The fact that it was the Soviet ‘negotiating’ team that walked away from the arms talks went conveniently unremarked. Once again, sentiment overbore reality.

There can be no question on one point. The politics of compassion and love works ‘on the campaign trail.’ It makes for effective speeches. If carefully modulated it can even make for inoffensive, if not good government. (One cannot say the same for its opposite, the politics of cruelty and hate—that is tyranny). But, like any passionate thing, the politics of compassion and love tends to maximize itself. It runs to extremes. It cannot by itself govern well because it cannot govern itself at all.

The nature of his politics thus gives Walter Mondale a chance to win the presidency. But his politics would also make his presidency nearly impossible to sustain. Voting is often a sentimental act. Governing is not.

 

Notes

1. Abraham Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address commends charity, not compassion. Lincoln associates charity with the aftermath of just punishment and repentance.
2. Paul Eidelberg: A Discourse on Statesmanship: The Design and Transformation of the American Founding (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1974), p. 343. When reading previous inaugural addresses, President-elected Carter “was touched most of all by Woodrow Wilson’s.” See Jimmy Carter: Keeping Faith: A President’s Memoir (New York: Bantam Books, 1984), p. 19.
3. Jimmy Carter: A Government As Good As Its People (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1977), p. 172.
4. Ibid. p. 162.
5. Ibid. pp. 60-61.
6. Jimmy Carter: Why Not the Best? (New York: Bantam Books, 1976), p. 149.
7. Jimmy Carter: A Government As Good As Its People, op. cit., p. 109.
8. Ibid., p. 35.
9. Ibid., p. 15.
10. Ibid., pp. 129-130. The phrase “simple justice” was current at the time, popularized by the title of a best-selling book on discrimination against American blacks which had been published a year before the election.
11. Ibid., p. 128.
12. See, for example, his “Law Day Speech,” May 4, 1974, in A Government As Good As Its People, op. cit., p. 34. Here he goes so far as to claim that “the structure of law is founded on the Christian ethic that you shall love the Lord your God and your neighbor as yourself.”
13. Ibid., p. 181 and 182. The context of these relatively ‘permissive’-sounding remarks was a briefly-famous interview in Playboy magazine.
14. Ibid., p. 187. This also was said (surprisingly enough) during the Playboy interview. The interviewer, predictably, questioned Mr. Carter rather forcefully on his religious beliefs.
15. Ibid., p. 131.
16. Ibid., p. 132.
17. Ibid., p. 120.
18. Ibid., p. 166.
19. Ibid., p. 168.
20. Ibid., p. 261.
21. Ibid., p. 41.
22. Jimmy Carter: “Remarks of the President at the Commencement of Notre Dame University,” May 27, 1977, White House Press Release, p. 2.
23. Ibid., p. 4.
24. Jimmy Carter: A Government As Good As Its People, op. cit., p. 63.
25. Jimmy Carter: “Remarks” at Notre Dame, op. cit., p. 2.
26. Jimmy Carter: A Government As Good As Its People, op. cit., p. 27.
27. Ibid., p. 69.
28. Ibid., p. 149.
29. Ibid., p. 70.
30. Ibid., p. 120.
31. Ibid., p. 120.
32. Jimmy Carter: “Remarks” at Notre Dame, op. cit., p. 5.
33. Jimmy Carter: Keeping Faith, op. cit., p. 245.
34. Jimmy Carter: “Address to the People’s Assembly of Egypt,” in “Text of Addresses by Presidents Sadat and Carter,” New York Times, March 11, 1979.
35. Jimmy Carter: Keeping Faith, op. cit., p. 481.
36. Ibid., p. 459.