Even a thick-skulled scholar can sometimes learn something new.

I wrote in 2016 that “A political movement can be based on shared virtues, shared interests, or shared passions.  The Founders of our republic hoped for the first, expected the second, and feared the third.  They desired the citizens to elect persons of virtue.  They tried to pit competing interests against each other so that none could overwhelm the common good.  As to passion, their best hope was to keep it from bursting the dams, and if it broke forth nonetheless, at least to delay decision until it dissipated:  For passion, once released, is a torrent that scorns boundary and restraint.”

I was concerned about Mr. Trump, I said, because rather than trying to direct the flood, he rode it like someone surfing a tidal wave, “slipping and skidding across the sloping water, now this way, now that, at each moment contradicting what he had said just a moment before.”  And I blamed his allies, saying it would be a wonder if they didn’t drown in the torrent.

There is a lot not to like about the former president, and I will have more to say about that next week.  Today I want to discuss only the rise in the political temperature.  Since I still think passion is deadly dangerous in politics, what in my thinking about it has changed?

The first change has been recognition that although Mr. Trump catches most of the blame for making politics hotter, most of the vitriol during the last eight years has come from the other side.  Why does he catch more blame?  That’s an interesting question.  A reason I didn’t sufficiently appreciate in 2016 is that his opponents lie with utter abandon about what he has actually says.  For example, they claim he said there were “very fine people” among the neo-Nazis at an explosive demonstration in Charlottesville, though they know he said “I'm not talking about the neo-Nazis and the white nationalists, because they should be condemned totally.”  The same smearers endlessly reiterate the many-times-discredited claim that he threatened civil war if he wasn’t elected, though in context he was obviously speaking of a “bloodbath” of automotive jobs, not loss of lives.

Another reason is that Mr. Trump’s tweets and name calling make it easier than it might otherwise have been to believe the more outlandish claims about him.  Some of his raillery is merely hilarious, like his nickname “Evita” for Alexandra Ocasio Cortez.  On the other hand, calling Gavin Newsom “Governor Newscum,” is over the top.  Yet despite his excesses, it's difficult to see how any of Mr. Trump’s satirical remarks are remotely comparable to the despicable things he himself is called, or to the numerous demands by his opponents that he be “eliminated.”  Shades of Tony Soprano!  More than one entertainer has won laughs and approval by displaying what is supposed to look like his bloody severed head.  After the first assassination attempt, a Democratic congressional aide expressed the wish that the shooter would “get some target practice so you don’t screw up next time.  Oops, I didn’t say that.”  The aide prefaced the remark, as such people always do, with the words “I don’t condone violence, but.”  Sure, you don’t.

Compounding these two reasons is strategic misdirection.  When some people at a rally whom Mr. Trump encouraged to demonstrate peacefully got out of hand, breaking and entering the capitol building, this was called an insurrection.  It was a brief riot, to be sure.  But if you want to use the word “insurrection,” you should apply it to the thousands of thugs all over the country just a few short months earlier who occupied downtown areas for weeks, terrorizing innocents, looting businesses, and setting fire to police stations, all with the enthusiastic praise of the entire woke establishment.  Apparently Mr. Trump’s opponents want even more of this sort of thing, but only provided that their own partisans do it.  Responding to his policies, Nancy Pelosi said “I just don't even know why there aren't uprisings all over the country.”  Not to worry, Mrs. Pelosi deplores violence too.  Of course she does.

The second change in my thinking has been recognition that although passion in politics is dangerous, trying to pen it up without an outlet is dangerous too.  For years, the slow simmer of the people to whom Mr. Trump appeals has been coming to a boil.

They resent being called “phobes” of one sort or another because they want their children to be safe and not taught to celebrate sexual deviance, they are tired of being called “racists” because they want criminals to be detained and the borders to be policed, and they are weary of being called “deplorables” because they don’t want their government to become ever bigger, more arbitrary, and more intrusive.  They are insulted that the government tries to bribe them by taking their money and promising to give some of it back, frightened that the law is sicced on parents who speak peacefully at school board meetings, and furious because they think they have been lied to – and not just by the other side.

For years, the strategy of most Republican leaders toward all this grievance has been to bottle it up.  To this day, politicians of an older stripe, like Mitch McConnell, who seems to be a decent man, don’t seem to grasp why people are angry at all.  The old joke about the Republican leadership was that it advocated “the same, but less.”  Despite the real differences between the parties, many of today’s voters wonder only about the “but less.”

Although I have always sympathized with the frustration of these voters, what I didn’t fully appreciate in 2016 was what happens if such frustration is given no outlet.  Mr. Trump seems to them to provide one.  His supporters may think his mouth is too big, but they don’t mind a big mouth if it gives them a voice.  He says in public what they think in private.

It’s all well and good to warn about explosions of passion, as I did and still do, but the longer resentment is bottled up, the more explosive it may be when it does burst forth.  Better a little electoral passion now, when it aspires to reform, than later, when it really could become insurrectionist.

The Left has already crossed that Rubicon.

Some people, like the late John Rawls, say that we should set aside our religious and philosophical disagreements – our “comprehensive doctrines,” he calls them -- for the sake of practical agreement.  Others say that we can’t do that, and that it’s futile to try.

Can we, or can’t we?  It depends on what you mean.

I can usually reach agreement about quite a few practical matters with an everyday materialistic atheist.  For example, he will probably agree with me that murder is wrong, even though I think God exists and he doesn’t, and even though he thinks matter is all there is but I don’t.  If this sort of thing weren’t possible, I don’t see how we could even live in the same society.

Notice, though, that this practical agreement isn’t philosophically or theologically neutral.  The very idea of a “right” and a “wrong” is itself a profound point of philosophy and theology, even if the other fellow doesn’t recognize the fact.  Very often, he doesn’t recognize it.  For example, sometimes people tell me they don’t see why there has to be a lawgiver for there to be a moral law, or why a materialist can’t have a conscience.

And I agree with them – in part.  A person doesn’t have a conscience just because he holds a theory which says that there is such a thing as conscience.  He can’t help having one, even if his theory can’t account for it.  It belongs to him as a human being.

Nevertheless, if his theory has no room for it, he has a problem.  If, as a matter of astronomical theory, I denied that there was a sun, I would still see light and dark, but I would be in an awkward position, for with no source of light, how there can even be a light and dark?  There shouldn’t be -- but there is!  How awkward.

Now if someone called the awkwardness of my view to my attention, I could do either of several things.  I could change my mind, admitting that there must be a source of light after all – or I could change in the other direction, deciding that since there isn’t any source of light, my perception of a difference between light and dark must be an illusion.

In the same way, if, as a matter of religion or metaphysics, I denied that there is a moral lawgiver, I may still experience the weight of moral law, like Raskolnikov.  If I didn’t acknowledge any authority of which conscience is the voice, I might still hear its voice.  And if I thought matter is all there is, I might still, despite myself, perceive a difference between right and wrong, both of which are nonmaterial.  My perceptions and experiences wouldn’t go away just because of my philosophy. 

But here too I face a choice.  I might try to make these perceptions and experiences go away.  For even if it is true that my having a conscience doesn’t depend on which theory I hold, it doesn’t follow that I have a well-formed conscience.  The fellow who says light and dark are illusory will probably blunder into all sorts of things that his eyes tell him to avoid.  The fellow who says right and wrong are illusory will probably allow himself all sorts of bad conduct that his conscience warns him against.

There is also the problem of what his conscience says.  If the classical theory of conscience is correct, then there are certain first principles we “can’t not know.”  For example, Thomas Aquinas maintains that deep down everyone really knows the wrong of murder.  But in the first place we may try to convince ourselves that we don’t really know what we know, for we humans are unusually capable of self-deception.  In the second place we may go badly wrong about the details.  For example, I may acknowledge the wrong of deliberately taking innocent human life, but say that you aren’t innocent because you’re descended from people who long ago took my ancestor’s land.  And in the third place, even if deep down I know that even that isn’t true, I may not allow myself to admit it.

Natural law is a fact, pressing upon us by its own weight, like gravity.  The theory comes afterward and explains it.  Unfortunately, this home truth doesn’t make it unimportant to have the theory.  Although people who don’t understand how it is with heavy objects may not often walk off the edges of cliffs, they may have a very hard time making buildings that don’t fall down – and although people who deny the natural law may not lose human society altogether, they will probably live wretchedly.

These difficulties have not been so great that people have never been able to form communities and live together, but the quality of the communities they form is another matter.  The Aztecs had law and government, but they also practiced the ritual murder of captives taken in war.  Modern societies which recognize what the Aztecs did as murder nevertheless cut themselves exceptions for the very old, the very young, and the very weak, and the cut-outs are getting bigger.  It isn’t that we can’t reach practical agreement.  The problem is that the agreements we reach are increasingly perverse.

So rather than asking whether we can set aside our religious and philosophical disagreements for the sake of practical agreement -- as though this were a yes-or-no question – we ought to ask how much religious and philosophical agreement about which matters is necessary for what kinds of practical agreement.

It may be that no abstract answer to this question is possible.  Can we reach practical agreement about this or about that?  Perhaps we can find out only by trying.

But what if one of the points of religious and philosophical disagreement is whether we even should try?  Let’s not suppose that religion and philosophy can simply be set aside.

Query from a reader in India:

I hope you are in good health.  As your country approaches its presidential election, I was wondering about your thoughts on federal policy toward abortion post-Dobbs.  You may wonder, why I ask about these matters, but politics in the U.S.A. always has global ramifications, often serving as a template for other countries, whether in the right or wrong direction.

The Harris/Walz campaign seems to have crossed over into the realm of the demonic by actively celebrating killing innocent lives.   On the other hand, the stance of the Trump/Vance campaign is that abortion should be left up to the states, so that the culture war over this issue would be ended.  Mr. Trump says he would veto a nationwide ban on abortion.  You have said some favorable things about the sincerity of Mr. Vance’s change in attitude toward Mr. Trump, with which I agree.  However, you must know that certain comments of Mr. Vance seem to support nationwide access to the abortion pill.

Given the grave evil of abortion, but also the political reality that there is no consensus on abortion and no prospect of a ban, do you think that saying “I would veto a ban” is permissible on prudential grounds?

Reply:

A federal ban is the ultimate goal, but at present, the question “Should we have a federal ban?” is moot.  At present almost all of the pressure at the federal level is to promote abortions, and this is the Harris/Walz policy too.  A federal ban could not be enacted, and if it could be, it would be overturned the next day.

This does not make it harmless to say “I would veto a federal ban.”  Words have consequences even when they cannot be acted upon.  The danger of such words lies in how they demoralize the friends of innocent life and encourage its enemies.

I understand that the Trump/Vance team does not wish to attempt the impossible, and I do not expect it to push for a nationwide abortion ban.  What I want to know is whether it will attempt the possible.  Since at this time there is no chance whatsoever of a federal ban, the pro-life strategy at the federal level must be incremental. 

First, the federal government must not be allowed to promote abortions, for example by performing them in military hospitals, by requiring insurers to cover them, by subsidizing them, or by denying medical personnel the freedom of conscience to refuse to assist in them.

Second, small restrictions on abortion can be advanced little by little even at the federal level, taking what we can get at each stage.  An obvious first step is to require enforcement of existing legislation prohibiting the killing of babies who are born alive.  Each such small gain will shift public opinion and prepare the way for the next small gain.  Another small step could be putting an end to the practices which are used to evade the ban on partial-birth abortions.  Presently, abortionists just stop the heart of a baby ready to be born and then deliver a dead baby.

Third, although turning the matter over to the states has changed nothing in the pro-abortion states, for the first time it has enabled pro-life states to do something for babies.  So another aim of action at the federal level must be to preserve the ability of pro-life states to do so.  For example, it must be made impossible to purchase mail-order abortion pills over state lines.  Probably because most abortions are now done by pill, the number of abortions is just as high now as it was before Dobbs.

Although the Trump/Vance campaign does not echo the demonic “joy of abortion” rhetoric of the Harris/Walz campaign, it has been disturbingly silent about these other aspects of federal abortion policy.  Concerning the abortion pill, it seems to want to sit on its hands.  Would it at least be willing to restrict if not forbid this deadly traffic?  These chemicals are not only murderous to babies, but highly dangerous for mothers.  And what about the other life issues?

The two strategies for ending the culture war – incremental restrictions, and “leaving it up to the states” – have a history.  In the 1800s, the Democratic Party wanted to leave slavery up to the states.  In those days too Democrats were “pro-choice,” but about slavery, not abortion.  In those days too they thought “leaving it up to the states” would end their culture war.

That hope was futile.  It didn’t end the culture war over slavery, but only prolonged and inflamed it.  Eventually we had a real war which nobody wanted.  “Leaving it up to the states” won’t end the culture war over abortion, any more than it ended the culture war over slavery.  As slavery exercised a malignant influence on our politics and culture then, so abortion exercises a beastly influence on our politics and culture today.

Ironically, in our time the mantle of “leaving it up to the states” has been taken up not by Democrats, but by the Republicans.  The Supreme Court’s Dobbs decision is treated as an excuse to drop the whole issue.  I am not surprised that the Democrats of our own day take “joy,” as they say, in the liberty to kill children, but I am gravely disappointed that the Trump/Vance campaign is repeating the mistakes which the other party made over slavery.

One would have hoped that they would take their inspiration not from Stephen Douglas, but from his opponent Abraham Lincoln.  Mr. Trump, Mr. Vance, we are listening.

Since we throw around so many buzzwords without thinking, a little bit of linguistic reverse engineering can tell us a lot about ourselves that we might not otherwise have noticed.  Let’s start with the buzzword “self-expression.”

Dressing, decorating, and defacing ourselves are called self-expression.  So are choosing where to live, enjoying entertainment, playing games, making music, and, for that matter, making noise.  Doing things, and not doing them, are both called self-expression.  It’s self-expression to sleep around, but it’s also self-expression to be chaste.  It's self-expression to go to church, but it’s also self-expression to avoid it.

Is there anything that can’t count as self-expression?  Apparently not.  In the narrow sense, we “express” an idea, a feeling, a judgment, or an opinion only by giving voice to it.  But in the broad sense, we “express” something by manifesting or revealing it, and we manifest or reveal our “selves” in literally everything we do, whether or not we intend to.  The murderer reveals or divulges his character by murdering; the sick person reveals or divulges his state of health by throwing up.

Even so, we don’t normally use the term “self-expression” for everything we do whatsoever.  We tend to use it either for innocent things we expect others to applaud, or for unsavory things we want others to applaud.  For example, most people call writing a novel self-expression.  But people don’t ordinarily call making a pornographic film self-expression unless they want us to tolerate or approve it, and hardly anyone would call a snuff film self-expression.  (Snuff films, if you aren’t familiar with the term, are films which depict real-life murders which are committed just in order to be filmed.  Yes, that’s a thing.)

Logically, then, although everything we do is self-expression, we normally describe an action as self-expression only to say “this is good.”  Used that way, the term is powerful.  For example, foul pictures and language weren’t formerly counted as free speech because they didn’t communicate ideas and arguments.  Today, though, they are counted as free speech, just because we say they “express” the “self.”  And of course, logically, they do.  If I spout a stream of profanities, I may be expressing nothing more of myself than an urge to blow off steam.  But I may also be divulging my desire for attention, my craving to sound tough, my enjoyment of filthiness, or even my inability to express a cogent argument.

But why should the term “self-expression” have such power to connect itself with our approval?  Probably for at least two reasons.  The first is that the idea of expressing ourselves validates our narcissism.  The second is that it shields us from criticism.

As to narcissism, the idea that I am doing something to “express myself” inverts the normal order of my response to the world, turning it into a reflection of myself.  Do I worship because God is great and good, then it’s all about Him, and I am just responding.  But if I worship “because I am a religious person,” then it’s all about me.  Again:  Does my love song only celebrate how the girl makes me feel?  Then it’s all about me.  But if it celebrates the charms of the girl who elicits those feelings, then it’s about her, and takes me out of myself.

Contrast the lyrics of the Rolling Stones’ Let’s Spend the Night Together with those of Stephen Foster’s Beautiful Dreamer, and you’ll see what I mean.

As to being shielded from criticism, if I merely say “I know what I like, and I like that painting of Prometheus in chains,” my statement isn’t really about the painting at all.  It is only a description of how I feel when I look at it.  As such, it conveys a sort of “So there.”  For you might say that you don’t like the painting -- but you would hardly tell me that you don’t like my feelings about it, would you?  That would be insulting.  But if I say, “that painting of Prometheus in chains is truly beautiful,” then I am not speaking of my own feelings, except by implication.  I am primarily speaking of the painting, expressing the judgment that its qualities make it worthy to be admired.  As such, you can challenge it without insulting me.  For example, you might call my attention to qualities I have overlooked but which detract from its beauty.  Perhaps the figure is rendered carelessly, the composition is out of balance, or the coloring is putrid.

If everything is just self-expression, then I am all that matters.  I don’t have to engage anyone.  I don’t have to take disagreement seriously.  If I see something differently than you do, “Well, that’s just how I feel,” and if you see it differently than I do, “Well, that’s just your perspective.”

In the end, the freedom to express myself means nothing but the freedom not to deal with anything that isn’t me.  It allows each of us to climb into the hole of self and pull it in after him.

Have you heard this line?  “Now that we know about brain physiology, it’s obvious that there could be no such thing as free will.”

That’s like saying that the circuitry of a cellphone determines the conversations which takes place on it.