At the Intersection of Faith and Culture

Newt Gingrich was mistaken when he referred to Mitt Romney as “a Massachusetts moderate.”  The author of “Romneycare” is a Massachusetts liberal.

Regularly, I hear from my fellow Ron Paul supporters (as well as many others) that Romney and Obama, Republican and Democrat, are for all practical purposes indistinguishable.  These same people inform me that under no conceivable circumstances will they ever again vote for “the lesser of two evils.”

While the impulse underwriting these sentiments is understandable enough, it nevertheless reflects a refusal to recognize that this isn’t the next “American idol” for which we are about vote in November. 

To put it bluntly: anyone who is interested in arresting “the fundamental transformation” of America that President Obama set in motion four years ago has no other real option but to vote for the liberal from Massachusetts.

The objection, launched not just by Paul supporters, but some others on the right, that this election is a wash because the difference between Romney and Obama is one without a distinction is easily met.

First of all, it simply isn’t true to say that there is no difference between the two candidates: a liberal Republican is not a hard leftist like Obama.

Secondly, let’s just suppose for argument’s sake that this is true, that the policies of Obama are interchangeable with those of Romney.

From the perspective of those of us who share none of Obama’s enthusiasm to fundamentally transform our country, Romney would still be preferable to Obama.

There is one crucial reason for this that, to my knowledge, no one has touched upon:

No country lives by policy alone.

Invariably, those on the right who equate Romney with Obama do so by concentrating exclusively on the policy prescriptions of the two candidates.  This approach, though, is as narrow in focus as it is politically immature.

Above all else, Americans at least claim to value liberty. But the liberty to which we have grown attached isn’t some abstract universal concept.  It is a concrete, particular way of life that is determined at least as much by extra-political or cultural considerations as the legislation—the policies—for which politicians advocate.

What this means is that things being what they are, our liberty is threatened as much by the environment that allows Barack Obama to advance his leftist agenda as by his leftist agenda itself.

It is an axiom to the lover of liberty that the greater the concentration of power, the greater the threat to the object of his affections. Now, the President of the United States of America is among the most powerful people on the planet.  As such, he must be vulnerable to every conceivable kind of criticism, whether fair or entirely baseless.

However, because Obama is widely heralded as our “first black” president, a “world-historical” figure of sorts, he has been inoculated to a significant extent from the same type of treatment to which past presidents have been subjected.

To put it starkly, because Obama is the first black president, legions of mostly white Americans are reluctant to express their true feelings about him for fear of being considered a “racist.”  And those Americans, from Republican politicians to working class folk, who are openly critical of the President almost always take exceptional care to speak only to his policies, or to reassure us that, as a person, they find Obama to be just dandy.       

Yet it isn’t just that Obama is black. A black conservative or Republican would have a much tougher go at the presidency than Obama could ever dream of having. 

What is far more relevant is that Obama is a black leftist, a black Democrat.

This is more relevant because, sadly, the vast majority of those who have traditionally served the invaluable social function of checking abuses of power—the media, popular artists (like comedians and actors), and academics—share Obama’s ideology. 

But this isn’t the only incentive that they have to aid and abet his program to fundamentally transform America.  Obama’s readiness to play the race card has succeeded in rendering “the watchdogs” no less fearful than the majority of their compatriots of being charged with the “r” word.

If, though, Romney is elected, his standing as the Republican Party’s titular head alone will suffice to relieve the press and others of the fears that currently inhibit full throated objections to Obama.  

Again, the President of the United States must be vulnerable to all sorts of criticisms, from the most intelligent in nature to the most satirical and unjust. 

Furthermore, the conservative base of his party will be sure to forever keep the pressure upon Romney to at least think twice about indulging whatever liberal proclivities happen to possess him at any given moment.  In contrast, Obama’s left-wing constituents, coupled with the fact that he will never again face another election, make it all too easy for him to plow full steam ahead with his robust socialist agenda.

So, even if Romney wanted to do exactly what Obama wants to do, it would still make better sense for right-leaning dissidents to vote for Romney.  

In other words, the lover of liberty who wants to halt the fundamental transformation of his beloved homeland must see to it that the Massachusetts liberal wins.

The government, every one who has ever lived under a modern democratic government knows all too well, “works” for the citizen.  Citizens delegate authority to their elected representatives on the condition that such representatives will do just what “the people” want.

This, at any rate, is the ideal of democracy. 

It is an ideal that reached its apex during the eighteenth century, and that hasn’t shown any signs of abating since.

It is also an ideal that the twentieth century conservative theorist Joseph A. Schumpeter decidedly debunked long ago.  

Schumpeter was born and raised in what is now the Czech Republic in 1883.  In 1906, he earned his Ph.D. from the University of Vienna, where he studied law. In 1909, Schumpeter acquired a post at the University of Czernowitz where he was a professor of government and economics. Twenty-three years later, he left forAmerica, where he would began his teaching assignment at Harvard University. Throughout his life, Schumpeter would write extensively on politics, economics, and sociology.

Schumpeter explains that the theory of democracy ascribes “to the will of the individual an independence and a rational quality that are altogether unrealistic” (emphasis original).  In reality, the citizen’s “will” is nothing more “than an indeterminate bundle of vague impulses loosely playing about given slogans and mistaken impressions.” 

If, as is assumed, “the will of the citizen per se is a political factor entitled to respect,” then this would mean that “everyone would have to know definitely what he wants to stand for.”  This, in turn, would mean that each person would have to possess “the ability to observe and interpret correctly the facts that are directly accessible to everyone and to sift critically the information about the facts that are not.” 

If the will of each person is, as the theory of democracy supposes, a determinate thing, then from its union with the facts that it ascertains each person, “according to the rules of logical inference,” should be able to render “a clear and prompt conclusion as to particular issues,” verdicts possessing such “a high degree of general efficiency” that “one man’s opinion could be held…to be roughly as good as every other man’s.”

Schumpeter adds that all of this would have to occur “independently of pressure groups and propaganda, for volitions and inferences that are imposed upon the electorate obviously do not qualify for ultimate data of the democratic process.”

However, this idea of the individual voter as a rational machine carefully attending to his wants and needs and acting accordingly is, like so much else that came out of the eighteenth century, a fiction.

Schumpeter notes that “even in the most ordinary currents of daily life,” our “wants are nothing like as definite” and our “actions upon those wants…nothing like as rational and prompt” as theorists have imagined. 

Take the consumer-producer relationship.  Schumpeter tells us—what we already know—that consumers “are so amenable to the influence of advertising and other methods of persuasion that producers often seem to dictate to them instead of being directed by them.”  With its commercial advertising, this relationship is particularly informative when considering the relationship between the voter and his elected representative. 

The best advertising “indeed nearly always involves some appeal to reason.”  However, “mere assertion, often repeated, counts more than rational argument [.]”  Moreover, “the direct attack upon the subconscious which takes the form of attempts to evoke and crystallize pleasant associations of an entirely extra-rational” character is also far more formidable than any appeal to the sheer intellect could hope to be (emphasis added).

The voter’s will “is largely not a genuine but a manufactured will.”  It is a creation or product of the political process—not its impetus.   

Schumpeter remarks:

“The ways in which issues and the popular will on any issue are being manufactured is exactly analogous to the ways of commercial advertising. We find the same attempts to contact the subconscious.  We find the same technique of creating favorable and unfavorable associations which are the more effective the less rational they are. We find the same evasions and reticences and the same trick of producing opinion by reiterated assertion that is successful precisely to the extent to which it avoids rational argument and the danger of awakening the critical faculties of the people.”

Schumpeter never denies that, in some areas of life, individuals can and do act rationally.  Still, “when we move…farther away from the private concerns of the family and the business office” toward the realms of national and international politics, “individual volition, command of facts and method of inference” begin to fade. 

To put it more bluntly, “the typical citizen drops down to a lower level of mental performance as soon as he enters the political field.”  Schumpeter elaborates:

“He [the typical citizen] argues and analyzes in a way which he would readily recognize as infantile within the sphere of his real interests. He becomes a primitive again. His thinking becomes associative and affective.” 

To anyone who would deny Schumpeter’s critique of the classical doctrine of democracy, Schumpeter poses a challenge:

“The reader who thinks me unduly pessimistic need only ask himself whether he has never heard—or said himself—that this or that awkward fact must not be told publicly, or that a certain line of reasoning, though valid, is undesirable.”

Schumpeter was no foe of democracy, it is important to grasp. This should be clear when we read the words with which he ends his critical appraisal of “the classical doctrine,” as he describes the object of his critique:

“More than anyone else the lover of democracy has ever reason to accept” that the ideal is flawed “and to clear his creed from the aspersion that it rests upon make-believe.”

As we enter into the final days of but another election cycle and find ourselves on the receiving end of a dizzying array of polls informing us of what we want, we should recall the wisdom of Joseph Schumpeter.


For centuries and millennia, the inhabitants of the Western world have recognized the indispensable role that stories play in shaping moral character. 

Human beings are born neither virtuous nor vicious, as Aristotle correctly noted.  Rather, both excellence and vice are habits that we acquire by way of imitating others—whether these others are flesh-and-blood beings or works of fiction.

The superhero comic or—as it is more commonly, and accurately, called today, “the graphic novel”—is especially illustrative in this regard.  

Today, untold numbers of people from across the country (and the world) forgo all to pack themselves into movie theaters to enjoy cinematic adaptations of these graphic novels. Unfortunately, though, relatively few people look beyond the action and the glitzy special effects to discern the provocative moral insights supplied by the films’ protagonists. 

Let’s take Superman. 

The Man of Steel is the prototypical superhero, the Babe Ruth of superheroes, as it were. Yet not infrequently, and especially as of late, commentators of one sort or other have demeaned this perennial symbol of “Truth, Justice, and the American Way,” comparing him unfavorably with, say, Batman. 

Batman, as anyone who is at all familiar with DC Comics lore knows, has no super powers, and yet he tirelessly wages war against all manner of evil doers.  This, the Superman detractors contend, renders him more admirable than the god-like Man of Steel who is virtually invulnerable.

To look at Superman and see only an immovable object whose campaign to rid the world of evil must be easy and, thus, less than fully admirable, is like looking at the Grand Canyon and seeing only a big hole in the Earth.   

Far from detracting from his goodness, that Superman possesses enormous power actually accentuates it. 

The historical record is a depressing one on this score, but it is abundantly clear: the greater the power that is concentrated in the hands of a person or group, the greater the danger they pose to others.  Lord Acton famously summarized this point when he said that, “power tends to corrupt, and absolute power tends to corrupt absolutely.”

Superman, though, in spite of having at his disposal far more power than the Earthlings among who he lives, chooses to use that power to serve, not his own selfish interests, but the well being of others—meaning the entire population of the planet.  His gifts—his awesome strength; his heat, x-ray, telescopic, and microscopic modes of vision; his “super” hearing; his ability to move at the speed of light; his “super” cool breath; and, of course, his ability to fly—he employs inexhaustibly to save strangers.

Like Jesus Christ, with whom he has been long compared, Superman voluntarily assumes to himself the incredible, and incredibly selfless, responsibility of serving as a beacon of hope, justice, and goodness to the world.  Both Christ and Superman could have deployed the enormity of their resources toward the same end—self-aggrandizement—upon which the powerful have been preoccupied from time immemorial.

Yet they refused to do so, instead ordering their very lives as a standing rebuke to oppressors the world over.

What this means, however, is that if Superman is insufficiently heroic or admirable because he is like a god, then Jesus—who Christendom affirms is none other than God—should resonate even less with us.

It will do no good to object that Christian theology also recognizes that Jesus is fully man.  Superman too is fully a man (even if he isn’t an Earthling by birth). 

Interestingly, there are Christians who seek to re-imagine the Person of Christ by emphasizing His humanity at the cost of de-emphasizing His divinity. This tendency has been particularly acute among contemporary Biblical scholars.  Some of these scholars—like those who compose “the Jesus Seminar”—deny that Jesus was divine at all. On the other hand, there are others who concede His divinity while all the same concurring with their unbelieving colleagues that unless we opt for a “lower Christology”—a more human-centered depiction of Jesus—we will not be able to relate to Him.

That our heroes must be relatable and, thus, human, no reasonable person would dare to deny.  But what both the detractors of Superman and the proponents of “lower Christologies” fail to notice is that the objects of their critiques are that much more human because of their unimaginable powers and the purposes that they elect to serve with those powers.     

Just as the deity of Jesus compliments and enhances His humanity, so too does the awesome power of Superman and his selfless use of it distinguish him as the finest of human beings.

Contrary to their critics, in choosing to devote themselves to serving others, Jesus and Superman do indeed render themselves vulnerable.  How could things be otherwise?  After all, the readiness with which Christ and Superman surrender themselves for the good of others is a function of their boundless love, and as anyone who has ever loved knows all too well, the price of love—any love—is pain.  But the greater the love, the greater does the pain promise to be.

Superman is a fictional character.  Jesus is real.  Still, there are crucial insights that this analysis yields.

First, neither the power of Superman nor that of Jesus makes them less heroic and worthy of imitation.  Quite the contrary, given what they have chosen to do with this power, they are actually the finest specimens of humanity.

Second, though none of us can ever become Superman or Jesus, we can learn from their example and aspire to use what power we have for similarly noble purposes. 

originally published at The New American







President Barack Obama is not a “nice guy.”

From Republican campaign strategist Ed Rollins and Republican House Speaker John Boehner to Republican presidential contenders John McCain and Mitt Romney, far too many Republicans have fueled the popular perception that Obama is a nice guy.

This perception is an illusion.  But it is a most dangerous illusion, for it has permitted our President to advance his militantly leftist agenda. 

In The Republic, Socrates engages several friends in a discussion over the nature of justice and its relationship to the good life. The question to which they attend is: 

Which is more beneficial for its possessor, justice or injustice?

Glaucon, a brother of Plato, contends that the unjust man is actually better off than the just man—so long as he is not recognized as an unjust man.  Injustice is superior to justice, Glaucon reasons, because the unjust man knows no limits while the just man imposes constraints upon himself.  So, for example, the just person will abide by the terms of a contract even after he realizes that he may have more to gain by violating them.  The unjust man, in sharp contrast, will have no such reservations.

But if the unjust man is recognized as such, then others will not only deprive him of the opportunity to treat them unjustly; in addition to this social ostracism, he could as well face legal punishment.

To substantiate his position, Glaucon alludes to the legendary figure of Gyges.

Gyges was said to have been a poor, obscure shepherd who happens to stumble upon a magical ring, a ring that endows him with the ability to become invisible at will.  With his new found power, Gyges manages to have the King murdered, seduce his wife, and assume control over the kingdom.

Glaucon’s point is clear. As long as a person is thought by all to be just, his unjust character is essentially invisible.  He then has both the ability and the will to pursue his wants at all costs—including and particularly the cost of treating others unjustly.

Thus, injustice is better than justice, and the unjust person is better off than the just person—as long as injustice goes undetected.

This debate that transpired close to 2500 years ago assumes new significance in light of the rise of Barack Obama.

Obama became nationally recognized eight years ago when he gave the keynote speech at the Democratic National Convention.  Immediately, something like a trans-partisan consensus emerged on the speech’s inspirational character, and both Democrat and non-Democrat alike began to view Obama as a rising star, a “new” kind of politician.

Even in 2008, when Obama became a presidential contender in the Democratic primaries, few and far between were those Republicans who were disposed to assail him with just a fraction of the aggression with which they attacked Hillary Clinton. In fact, Obama was regularly being depicted by Republican commentators as the beleaguered contestant in that race, the unsuspecting and undeserving victim of theClintonkilling machine.

Then Obama became the Democrats’ presidential nominee.

He became the focus of Republicans’ attacks, it is true, but even so, the tendency on the part of his opponents—including John McCain—to qualify their criticisms with assurances that Obama was a good and talented man persisted.

When Obama became the first black American president, it seemed that the entire planet erupted in rapture.

And Republicans went right along with it, joining the celebration of this “historic” election.

Obama’s election to the office of the presidency promised to redeemAmericaof her checkered racial history. He was going to be our first “post-racial” president, a bipartisan politician who would usher in a new millennium full of “hope and change.”

To this day—after four years of a disastrous first term comprised of effort after effort to fulfill his promise to “fundamentally transform” the country—Obama’s personal likeability numbers remain reasonably high.  And though it has been a couple of months since he has said as much, even the presumptive Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney had expressed on more than one occasion his admiration for Obama as a person: “He’s a nice guy; he’s just in over his head.”

Romney is no longer referring to Obama as a nice guy.  Indeed, he should not, for in doing so, he flatters no one while revealing himself to be astonishingly naïve. 

Given the relentless campaign that Obama is currently waging against him, and, specifically, the latest super PAC ad that implicates Romney in the death of the wife of a steel worker, it is no longer possible (if it ever was) to sustain either the claim that Obama is a nice guy or the claim that Romney really believes that he is a nice guy.

Obama is most emphatically not a nice guy.

 Some of us—those of us who actually looked into Obama’s past—have always known this.

In Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, the lead character’s love interest tells him: “It’s not who we are underneath, but what we do, that defines us.”   Nice guys, or good guys, do not do the sorts of things that Obama has done over the course of his career.

A nice guy does not ally himself with all manner of anti-Americans, from unrepentant domestic terrorists like Bill Ayers to self-avowed “Black Liberation” theologians like Jeremiah Wright.  

More tellingly, a nice guy doesn’t ally himself with anti-Americans while trying to convince voters that he is actually a great American patriot, let alone someone who deserves to become the President of the United States of America.

In other words, a nice guy is not a person who is chronically deceptive.

A nice guy does not make promises—like the promise of a “transparent” administration—that he does not keep.

A nice guy does not seek, as Obama successfully sought to do in 1996 while running for a State Senate office in Illinois, to eliminate three of his Democratic rivals from the ballot while invalidating the legions of signatures that they accumulated in voters’ petitions.

A nice guy doesn’t use his position of power to bully the operators of businesses and coerce millions upon millions of people to acquiesce in “the fundamental transformation”—the destruction, as David Limbaugh more aptly puts it—of their homeland, their lives.

A nice guy doesn’t exacerbate racial tensions by availing himself of “the race card” whenever it suits his purposes to do so.

And a nice guy most certainly does not exploit the tragedy of a person’s death by baselessly accusing his competitor of being complicit in it.

Like Gyges, Obama has heretofore managed to preserve for himself the image of the just man.  But unlike Gyges, that façade is cracking. 

If we would only open our eyes and connect the dots, we will readily discover for ourselves that Obama is not a just man at all.

originally published at American Thinker as “Is Obama Just or Unjust?”