This lecture was delivered at the Lifelong Learning Seminar at Hillsdale College, Hillsdale, Michigan.

 

With respect to geopolitics, the first several generations of Americans concerned themselves with achieving ‘strategic depth’—sufficient land and population to defend themselves against European navies along the Atlantic coast and American Indian nations, nations sometimes in alliance with European powers, along their western border. With respect to their new state, these generations were preoccupied with the maintenance of the Union in an effort to avoid the condition of perpetual warfare which prevailed among Europeans and the North American Indians. With respect to the regime of democratic and commercial republicanism they established for that state, they pursued an “empire of liberty” in the western lands and an improved navy to defend worldwide commerce. They also undertook a policy of regime change among some of the neighboring Indian nations.

By the time George Washington published his Farewell Address in September 1796, the United States had added three new states: Vermont, Kentucky, and Tennessee. The substantial Northwest Territory was waiting to be populated. Out of it would come the states of Indiana (1800), Ohio (1803), Illinois (1818) and, a generation later, Michigan (1837). Washington knew some of this land quite well, having surveyed and purchased Ohio property before the Revolutionary War. A major domestic and foreign-policy objective takes up the first half of his Address, namely, the political union of the United States, which he calls “the main pillar in the edifice of your real independence,” providing tranquility at home and peace abroad—the foundations of American safety, prosperity, and liberty. The Union provides safety by making the United States more formidable to would-be invaders; it provides prosperity by establishing a large free-trade zone; and it provides liberty because it obviates the need of “those overgrown military establishments” which “are to be regarded as particularly hostile to Republican liberty.” A broken-up North America would feature a collection of small and medium-sized states suspicious of one another, armed against one another, and (to the extent armed) prey to military coups d’état. No mere alliance among such a collection of states could substitute for their constitutional Union, Washington argues. Indeed, disunion or faction is by itself “a frightful Despotism,” quite apart from the threat of military oligarchies.

In terms of the first two considerations I mentioned in the previous lecture, Washington addresses the need for a unified, modern, federal state as the means to a stable republican regime—both at the service of securing Americans’ natural rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

The second half of the Address, which is now the most celebrated portion, addresses geopolitics. Unlike self-describe foreign-policy ‘realists,’ Washington regards geopolitics as no less a realm to be governed by moral standards as domestic politics. In fact, he regards so-called ‘idealism’ and ‘realism’ as indispensably linked, not contradictory.

Americans should observe good faith and justice to all nations while cultivating peace and harmony with all. As we’ve seen, this policy had governed his dealings with the Chickasaw and Cherokee nations, and it had also governed his insistence that the United States remain neutral regarding the wars attendant upon the French Revolution, during which the French ambassador to the United States, Edmond Genêt, had attempted to whip up sentiment for U. S. intervention on behalf of his country. Washington says that we should adhere to neutrality because “religion and morality enjoin” it and prudence does, too. In sharp contrast to the advice of Machiavelli, who contended that a prince must learn “how not to be good,” Washington’s anti-monarchic, non-‘princely’ republican foreign policy rests on the claim that it’s smarter to be honorable.

But how to bring this general set of rules into action?

The centerpiece of Washington’s advice to his countrymen is to avoid “permanent, inveterate antipathies” or “passionate attachments” to any particular nation. In the 1790s, with memories of the Revolutionary War still vivid, Americans understandably inclined toward antipathy regarding Great Britain—our “unnatural Mother,” as one patriot described her—and attachment to our ally, France, without whose naval intervention the war would have dragged on for years longer. But a policy—which, as we’ve seen, must derive rationally from the politics of the political community (its regime, its state, its geography)—must avoid such impassioned, unreasoning sentiments. Passions are slavish, not self-governing. Specifically, permanent antipathies and passionate attachments—hostility or alliance unrelated to changing circumstances—most likely will have bad economic and political consequences.

Economically, such sentiments put our trade at a disadvantage. If we favor one nation for reasons of sentiment alone over another, we will lose the vale of the free market, given the westward march of Americans that had already begun. Politically, our passions open us to foreign influences—Genêt had exemplified this—which exacerbate our own internal factions and thus threaten the Union.

Therefore, Washington urges, “The great rule of conduct for us, in regard to foreign nations is in extending our commercial relations but to have with them as little political connection as possible.” He is thinking particularly of Europe, which “has a set of primary interests, which to us have none, or very remote relation. Hence she must be engaged in frequent controversies, the causes of which are essentially foreign to our concerns. Hence therefore it must be unwise in us to implicate ourselves, by artificial ties, in the ordinary vicissitudes of her politics, or the ordinary combinations and collisions of her friendships, or enmities.” Fortunately, we are “detached and distant” from Europe; our geographical position across the Atlantic Ocean affords us the capacity to “choose peace or war, as our interest guided by justice shall counsel.” That is, under ordinary circumstances we will stay out, although there may be extraordinary circumstances—presumably, a situation directly affecting our safety and happiness—where we might intervene. Washington isn’t opposed to alliances, much less war (he was, after all, the Commander in Chief of U. S. armed forces and the hero of the Revolutionary War). He is against alliances that commit us to war in advance and thus, as he puts it, “entangle our peace and prosperity” with European ambitions and interests. Two decades later, Washington’s former protégé James Monroe and Monroe’s Secretary of State, John Quincy Adams, would formulate the Monroe Doctrine, intending to limit the expansion of Old-World empires of monarchy and aristocracy in the New World, where the Empire of Liberty was beginning to see republican regimes—friendly regimes—replacing Spanish imperial rule to the south of us.

Beyond Europe, and respecting the foreign world generally, we should also “steer clear of permanent alliances” and “safely trust to temporary alliances for extraordinary emergencies.” A good example of this policy was the war against the three Barbary States—Morocco, Algiers, and Tripoli—which sponsored piracy against our Mediterranean shipping. The Jefferson and Madison administrations fought those states in the early 1800s, and rightly so, by Washington’s standards. The Barbary States were attacking the commercial dimension of the American commercial republic by defying the principle of free transport on the oceans, which Jefferson called “the great highway of the nations.” Similarly, the War of 1812—our first of five declared wars under the 1787 Constitution—was fought in defense of the principle, “Free ships, free goods, free men.”

Washington concluded his address by explaining, “With me, a predominant motive has been to endeavor to gain time to our country to settle and mature its yet recent institutions, and to progress without interruption, to that degree of strength and consistency”—the foreign-policy equivalent of moral character—”which is necessary to give it, humanly speaking, the command of its own fortunes.” Unlike Machiavelli, who claims that the prince can determine his own fortunes and those of his principality, Washington understands that the laws of nature and of nature’s God have a moral content, that foreign policy can issue in peaceful friendships and not a perpetual war of all against all.

Washington’s policy of gaining time, extending the republican “empire of liberty” westward while avoiding major wars with major powers, governed American foreign policy for the next century. It is of course not at all clear how far west Washington himself would have wanted to go—for example, the Whig Party tended to prefer not to go farther than the Mississippi River. The Democrats—more favorable to the extension of slavery and also amenable to very substantial self-governance by the states even at the expense of the coherence of the Union—optimistically pressed the nation ahead, through Texas and on to the Pacific Ocean. This conflict over policy regarding the western territories nearly split the Union, but by 1890, when we’d consolidated Pacific claims and the frontier was judged to be ‘closed,’ we had some very substantial choices to make.

As far back as 1787, in The Federalist, Alexander Hamilton had argued that oceans are as much highways as they are barriers. As a Caribbean-born immigrant to the port of New York, he knew that very well. By 1890, technology had made this much more so, with steam-powered vessels having replaced the old sailing ships and telegraphs making ‘messaging’ nearly instantaneous. These improved means of transportation and of communications had strengthened European empires. By Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897, Britannia not only ruled the waves but about one-fourth of the land on earth and about one-fifth of its population, while France, Russia, Austria-Hungary, Turkey, and even Belgium had substantial holdings as well.

Also as a result of these technological advances, rulers were beginning to reconceive the world as one ‘system’; our term ‘geopolitics’ was invented at this time. The leading naval strategist of geopolitics was the American, Alfred Thayer Mahan, among whose readers and correspondents numbered an ambitious and vigorous young American politician, Theodore Roosevelt. In the English-speaking world, the leading geopolitical writer who concentrated his attention on land masses was Halford Mackinder. Whereas Mahan focused on the importance of control of key oceanic chokepoints as indispensable to world commerce, Mackinder pointed to what he called the “World Island”—the giant land mass comprised by three interconnected continents: Asia, Europe, and Africa. Mackinder understood that if you laid a political map over a map of the World Island in 1900, you would see that the tinderbox for conflict in the twentieth century would be the large, flat European plain running from the Atlantic to the Urals; along this plain, the central region (the flashpoint in the tinderbox) was the space between Germany and Russia. World Wars One and Two would in large measure be ‘about’ control of that Heartland of the World Island, and the Cold War would ‘freeze’ rival forces in that place, too, as NATO confronted the Warsaw Pact.

Such a radically changed circumstance presented American strategists with a set of problems noticeably different from those seen by Washington and his successors. Would the strengthening empires block American trade? Would they once again threaten American shores, as they had not done since 1812? Further, having fought a devastating civil war, a war on our own territory, we were less likely than ever to want to fight a war on our own territory—especially given the increasingly devastating power of modern weapons and of well-organized and trained mass armies, one result of modern statism. In other words, we needed to re-think the question of strategic depth, which we thought we’d settled in turning the middle part of North American into an empire of liberty. And we also needed to re-think our policies regarding international commerce.

Several choices were formulated. The first, advocated by a German immigrant and old Republican Party ally of Abraham Lincoln, Carl Schurz, was simply to continue the Washington policy: to eschew not only empire beyond our own continent (“overseas empire,” as he called it) but even to eschew any major strengthening of the military—this, on the traditional grounds that big army establishments threaten republican regimes and that a big navy would be “a dangerous plaything.” By far the most distinguished American statesman to carry this policy forward was Herbert Hoover, whose “magnum opus,” Freedom Betrayed, was published for the first time a few years ago, after decades of suppression by the Hoover Estate.

The second, and opposite, policy was advocated by the young Indiana Republican Senator Albert J. Beveridge, who called for a vast, renewed imperial project—this time based upon the alleged superiority of the white race as claimed by the ‘race science’ then predominant in the universities. The most famous of Beveridge’s speeches remains “The March of the Flag,” delivered in 1900 at a Republican Party convention in Indiana and reprinted widely for years thereafter. Beveridge called for American conquest of the rest of the Americas and their incorporation into the United States—not, to be sure, as equal states, but as colonial territories. At the time, ‘scientific’ theories of racial superiority were very much a part of the Progressive movement, and Beveridge became the most vocal representative of the militarist wing of Progressivism. Although this is now usually forgotten, Progressivism was a very broad movement when it came to military and foreign policy, ranging from the militarism of Beveridge to the pacificism of Jane Addams, the prominent Chicago social worker.

Two in-between policies also emerged, and from them flow the American versions of foreign-policy ‘realism’ and foreign-policy ‘idealism,’ respectively. Heading would evolve into the realist camp was TR, who advocated the use of a greatly-expanded navy, which he eventually got, and peacetime military conscription for the army, which he hinted at but never formally proposed. These forces, but especially the navy, would be used not so much for imperial expansion but for obtaining naval bases throughout the world, usually but not always with the consent of foreign governments. U. S. naval bases would counterbalance the much more expensive (and, as it turned out, untenable) imperialism of the Europeans. To reinforce America’s opposition to European imperialism in the New World, Roosevelt also propounded his well-known “Corollary” to the Monroe Doctrine—stipulating an American right to intervene in Latin American countries if they fell down on their debt payments to European nations. Such a refusal to repay loans, if “chronic,” invited European military intervention into the Western Hemisphere, which of course the Monroe Doctrine was intended to discourage. If looked at from this perspective, TR’s foreign policy becomes quite coherent if controversial: drive the weakened Spanish imperialists out of the Caribbean and their redoubt in the Pacific, avoiding the acquisition of those countries by any other empire (especially the British or the Germans) while eventually standing them up to govern themselves, thus using the old ‘Washington’ technique of regime change to obviate any need to (quite implausibly) make them into U. S. states while also avoiding their (un-American) use as permanent colonies of our own. Add the Panama Canal, linking the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans for both trading and military purposes, and you see that TR aimed at recovering America’s strategic depth under new circumstances. TR himself, it should be added in fairness, was himself no simple-minded devotee of Realpolitik. He understood his policies as advancing America’s rightful interests in the world. Subsequent American geopoliticians were less principled.

The other policy, advanced most conspicuously by TR’s great rival, Woodrow Wilson, has now come to be called ‘liberal internationalism.’ Wilson’s phrase, “The League of Nations,” comes from the well-known essay “Perpetual Peace” published in 1795 by the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant. Kant argues as follows. Someday, he predicts, the European system of sovereign states, solemnized by the 1648 Treaty of Westphalia, will break down into a cataclysmic war. All the major powers will exhaust themselves. Seeing the error of their ways, statesmen will form a League of Nations to prevent future wars. Wilson evidently saw in the Great War (as it was then called) exactly this Kantian apocalypse. As the war dragged on, he proposed what he initially called a “League to Enforce Peace,” which was actually more descriptive than “League of Nations,” inasmuch as the League did in fact commit its members to intervention—diplomatic at first, but military if necessary—to stop cross-border wars and to punish “aggressors.” What Wilson called “the organized major force of mankind” would be rapidly mobilized to prevent another world war, making this one (he hoped) a “war to end war.” Although the United States Senate refused to ratify the treaty that would have brought us into the League, FDR’s subsequent plan for the United Nations amounts to essentially the same thing. That is, instead of avoiding “entangling alliances” in order to avoid unnecessary wars, the United States involves itself in a sort of comprehensive entanglement in the hope of preventing small wars from becoming world wars.

Why did Wilson suppose that this would be feasible rather than exhausting? He does not say. And, again in fairness, Wilson did not lack ‘realism’ altogether; after all, he chose the winning side in a worldwide war. But given his confidence in historical progress, my guess is that he believed that human nature was getting the aggression bred out of it, that ‘History’ was ‘moving on’—progressing—beyond war-consciousness and towards peace-consciousness. That is, liberal internationalism in its more buoyant forms may depend upon the belief that peace can be permanent because human nature isn’t. For a League of Nations really to enforce peace around the world, wars will need to become not only small but rare.

With these innovations—some of them consistent with American principles, some not—we see the elements of American foreign policy today. The undermining of European imperialism continued to be discouraged by the United States and, indeed the Austro-Hungarians and the Turks went down in the First World War along with the Germans, with the Germans then reconstituting a new empire before losing that one in the Second World War. That war put the British and French empires on the path to extinction, too. The Russians expanded after the both the First and Second World Wars, then lost their empire at the end of the Cold War, in large measure due to the containment strategy enacted by the United States in conjunction with all of the above-mentioned ex-imperialists.

Without the British Empire to patrol the seas and protect commerce, this left the American navy as the ‘last man standing’ in that role, which we continue to play. (In the decades to come, the main challenger is likely to be China, at first regionally, and eventually worldwide). Although the other piece of TR’s policy—routine intervention in Latin American affairs—has been bridled, the centerpiece of his policy—the network of overseas naval bases—remains. I am not sure that Alexander Hamilton would have disapproved and, given the Jeffersonian/Madisonian defense of U. S. shipping in the Mediterranean, even the old Democratic Party might have hesitated to condemn us.

On the other hand, liberal internationalism would have been viewed by the Founders with much more suspicion, even with the substantially changed circumstances of the 20th and 21st centuries. Such a strong and continuous obligation to intervene may well strike one—as indeed it did strike the majority in the U. S. Senate during the League of Nations treaty debate—as a weakening of American sovereignty. It is safe to say that the Founders tended to frown upon any weakening of American sovereignty. Since the end of the Cold War, every president and Congress have been forced to choose which places we intervene, although the principles of liberal internationalism open the possibility of such intervention in any instance of cross-border aggression. What liberal internationalist principle do is to bias the debate on behalf of economic, military, and diplomatic intervention, arguably distracting the government from its more fundamental task of defending the self-government of the United States.

In terms of our self-government, the U. S. Constitution has also seen a subtle but profound alteration, at least in the way it is interpreted or perhaps misinterpreted by the Supreme Court. The pivotal case here was U. S. v. Curtiss-Wright Export Corporation. In this case, decided in 1936, the Court handed down an opinion holding that, first, foreign policy is preeminently the domain of the executive branch and, second, that the necessary and proper clause applies only to domestic matters and not to foreign policy. This gave President Roosevelt and subsequent presidents very great discretionary powers indeed, powers they have at times not hesitated to exercise. Now, once again, it should be noticed that in the case of war a president has always had the right and indeed the duty, as Commander in Chief, to take immediate military action against enemy attack without a declaration of war by Congress. Of the some 200 wars the United States has fought since the ratification, only five were formally declared. But the decision in Curtiss-Wright had nothing to do with U. S. military action; rather, it authorized the president to embargo two Latin American countries that were at war. While Congress continues to exercise the power of the purse, and thus can shut down presidential ventures into foreign policy in due course, ‘due course’ may take a lot of time.

In both foreign and domestic policy, the new constitutional dispensation under the aegis of Progressivism and its several variants (New Deal-ism, Great Society-ism, and so on), a dispensation makes full use of what President Wilson called “the Elastic Constitution,” has inclined toward the practice of rather generous transfers of authority to the executive branch—whether the executive branch proper, that is, the White House, or the administrative agencies, which have become a sort of fourth branch unto themselves. This was recognized by President Eisenhower in his own ‘farewell address’ on the ‘military-industrial complex.’ That is, we have moved some distance from a regime of democratic republicanism, and from a federal state, toward a centralized state governed by a mixed regime featuring an executive who enjoys somewhat monarchic powers in foreign policy and an administrative elite or ‘meritocracy’ which reminds one a bit of Old-World aristocracy, absent the blue blood. The Founders would have their reservations about that.

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.