by Joel Alicea
Americans are experiencing a crisis of confidence. The challenges we face are monumental: burgeoning and bankrupt entitlement programs, an appalling national debt, a corrosive moral culture, and national security threats unlike any in our history. Americans keenly perceive that things are not well, but they are even more shaken by the utter failure of national leadership. Conscious of the inadequacy of politicians in the foreground, they look to the horizon of American politics, only to discover a setting sun. There is no Washington in the distance, no Lincoln in the offing. Before us lies a wasteland of cynicism, corruption, and ineptitude, the scarred remains of demagogic wildfire.
Left alone, abandoned by those entrusted with their leadership, Americans can look to the past for comfort and counsel. They can read biographies of Benjamin Franklin, watch a miniseries on John Adams, or reflect on the crucible of the American Civil War. But what guidance does the past offer? What feature do we discern in our history that is so lacking today? The great moments in our national story draw our attention, and we see in these the presence of titans. We perceive Madison and Adams at the Founding, Clay and Calhoun ante bellum, and Lincoln and Douglas during the Civil War Era. These were not merely politicians eager for power, though they certainly were that; they were statesmen, among the greatest political theorists of their times. These were men who had spent their lives contemplating the meaning of public service, the purposes of government, and the aims of civil society. Versed in the philosophy of the ancient and classical philosophers and inheritors of the Enlightenment’s intellectual tradition, these giants of the American political scene were leaders of men and lovers of ideas. They were, in a sense, “astonished at the world and yet at home in it,” to quote Chesterton. Comfortable with wielding power and the burdens of leadership, they nonetheless were capable of transcending the decisions of the moment to reflect on the great questions of history and political theory. They were not always correct. In fact, such as in the case of Calhoun and the slavery question, they could be profoundly wrong, but with a solid intellectual foundation beneath their feet, they approached the crises of their eras with a steady gait and a fixed gaze.
But their legacy has long since passed away. There are no Madisons in the Congress, no Lincolns in the White House. Gone are the days of the American statesman. It is not that current politicians do not have a political theory; it is that they believe they do not need one. Party platforms are taken for political philosophy. The clichés and colloquialisms of American politics become the foundation of political ideologies. What, after all, is American conservatism? Limited government? A strong national defense? A focus on family values? These are sound-bites, not theories. Why limit government? Why is the family so central to our civil society? These are heady questions that demand real answers, but they are the kinds of questions American politicians are content to let lie. To today’s politician, these are topics for academia, not Congress. It is, apparently, elitist to venture responses at all, for the common sense of the American people is the only necessary guide. Conservatives are particularly guilty of this way of thinking, and it accounts in large part for the intellectual bankruptcy of the mainstream conservative movement.
Political theory is not the exclusive domain of academia; it is an essential prerequisite of sound policy. Policy divorced from a theoretical framework and the fruits of a proper liberal arts education is erratic, arbitrary, doomed. We must understand the purpose of law before we can enact sound law. But the politician of today sees such questions as above his pay grade. Today’s politician, for instance, makes grand pronouncements about the “right to health insurance” but has no theoretical referent from which to derive this alleged right. Is this a right that only exists in wealthy societies or a basic human right enforceable everywhere? Is there a meaningful distinction between a right to health care and a right to health insurance? He does not pause to ask what rights are, how they are discovered, and why health insurance ought to be included within the universe of rights. Our leaders, confident in their own intellectual abilities and armed with a Congressional Budget Office report and party committee talking points, pull the trigger of public policy—without first taking aim or knowing why they are shooting. The American citizen, watching from afar, is the unintended victim of this mad exercise in self-assured ignorance, while the politicians reload for a new session of Congress.
The reader may object that a sound and consistent political theory is no guarantee of good policy, nor is the lack of one a guarantee of bad outcomes. My claim, however, is not empirical. I am not suggesting that having a theoretical framework results in policies that are beneficial or morally praiseworthy. In fact, the example of Calhoun and other proslavery Antebellum Era statesmen proves that this is not always the case. Rather, I am making the argument that having a theoretical framework ought to be part of the policymaking enterprise because policy and theory are conceptually interconnected. Separating them does not mean that one cannot still make good policy, but the policies will not be as well reasoned or grounded as they would be when joined with theory. Perhaps a legislature that segregates theory and policy will continue to produce beneficial legislation, but this is more the result of fortune than purpose. The legislature does not have the ability to create consistent and sound policy because it has no basis upon which to build such a legislative agenda. Consistent and sound policy may obtain, but it will not be because of any conscious efforts on the part of the legislators.
In addition, the lack of strong theoretical frameworks undergirding the policies of the competing parties renders it more difficult for citizens to make comprehensible political decisions. Rather than being presented with competing visions, voters are provided with dueling platforms comprised of assortments of internally inconsistent and often self-defeating policy positions. True, the average voter may not understand the nuances of theory, but it would not be impossible for politicians to put forward competing political theories in accessible language. Politicians instead offer voters a platform that will lead to electoral success, even if the particular configuration of policies does not cohere. The result is a politics not of reason but of reassurance. Instead of advocating strong theories of governance and society, leaders say what voters wish to hear, theoretical complications be damned. Good policy may result, but it is not because anyone understands why the good policy is being chosen or why, in fact, it is good at all.
One may wonder whether it is the voters themselves who bear responsibility for this dynamic. It is they, after all, who elected the current leadership and do not demand the articulation of theoretical visions in elections. The point is well-taken, and I do not deny that, in our republican society, the citizens may be faulted for a great deal of the current crisis of leadership. But leaders exist among men precisely for such times. It is the statesman who is summoned by history to lead his people even when the people resist doing that which would be in their interests. The fact that no such person has stepped forward, that there appears to be little prospect of one in the near future, and that current leaders actively resist undertaking the roles of statesmen, all serve as an indictment of today’s politician. This article focuses on this failure of leadership, though another article could certainly be written criticizing the decisions of the American electorate.
I should also make clear that I am not claiming, as it may at first appear, that we ought to be ruled only by philosophers, though I think we would greatly benefit from having more of them in government. The great statesmen I mentioned earlier did not serve in governments of philosophers; they stood out precisely because they were unique. It is entirely consistent with my argument that Congress be comprised of a mixture of statesmen and non-statesmen, the latter supplying the insight into common experiences so vital to policymaking. There are those who will go to Congress with sincere hearts and a commitment to the public good but who have no education in theory or the time to master it. They may, in fact, have no formal education at all. These servants lend their own perspectives to the debate, bringing with them the wisdom of the citizen-legislator, the common sense of the average man. They supply a heavy dose of pragmatism where pure theory could otherwise mislead the legislature. What is problematic is a politics which sees this valuable citizen-legislator as the ideal legislator. The ideal legislator is the statesman for the reasons set forth above, but theory tempered by the experiences of the average citizen only improves theory and the resultant policies. Policy cannot be detached from theory, but neither can it be separated from the wisdom of tradition and practical experience.
Let us then, for a moment, lower our sights to examine our own role in this crisis of leadership. It is the mission of the American university to produce the discerning citizen and the wise leader. But when we turn our gaze towards American higher education, we discover a familiar and disheartening panorama. An institution that ought to be providing an intellectual foundation instead supplies the quicksand of relativism. Where the academy of old preached the subordination of passion to reason, today’s schools encourage the indulgence of the vilest vices. Students are told to disown the wisdom of the ancient and classical philosophers and to embrace the egotism of modern liberalism. The leaders of tomorrow are crippled by the professors of today.
How has Princeton, specifically, responded to the crisis of leadership? An increase in public service initiatives, of course, and the continued adoration of the Woodrow Wilson School. But the Wilson School inculcates precisely the attitude characteristic of today’s politician. Students are encouraged to write their theses on how best to reform immigration visas without being asked to first consider the moral obligations of citizens to non-citizens, the ethical issues surrounding the existence of borders, or the overarching purpose of civil society and the role that immigration plays in it. And so Wilson School concentrators immerse themselves in CBO reports, census data, and myriad statistical analyses, all the while ignoring the fundamental issues which are antecedent to any discussion of policy.
Of course, it is entirely possible that Wilson School graduates will not fall into this trap. There may be some students who recognize the importance of theory and embrace its role in policymaking. But the culture of the school does not foster theoretical investigation, and the requirements hinder mastery of a given academic field. The concept of a policy-training school at a liberal arts institution is deeply problematic because a liberal arts degree ought to teach students a discipline and provide them with a broad theoretical context in which to situate decisions. Wilson School concentrators, by contrast, generally sample various fields and then plunge into the morass of policymaking with no clear idea of what they are aiming at or why. They take their Disciplinary and Distribution requirements, ensuring that they are exposed to enough liberal arts to hold their own at cocktail parties while being shielded from engaging in an academic discipline. They keep their eyes focused on policy; all else is merely instrumental and subordinate. They graduate from Princeton thoroughly prepared to become the next generation of policymakers unqualified for the demands of national leadership.
And so we come to it: the passing of the American statesman. The life of the mind is shunted aside, acts of policymaking disaggregated from a philosophy of governance. The angry cries of the citizenry finally reach the ears of the American university, and, contemptuously, the academy sneers, another graduating class sent off unsuited for leadership. Americans, ever the optimists, look longingly towards the future, eager for a statesman to lead them through the crises of the moment. They look towards the horizon, and watch the sun set.
