Tag Archives: history

Some revolutions are too big to see

August 17, 2026 – 9:29 am

If you want to understand the 21st century, take a wide-angle view of the 20th.

During the 1800s, the technological underpinnings of the 20th century economy gradually arose and got implemented on a large scale. The steamboat and then the railroad revolutionized transportation. The telegraph, telephone, and mass-market newspapers revolutionized communication, creating new possibilities for democracy, but also for advertising and propaganda. Eli Whitney’s interchangeable parts allowed low-skill factory workers to mass produce goods that formerly required highly skilled craftspeople. The limited liability corporation and developments in banking and security trading enabled a unified management to wield quantities of capital far beyond what any individual entrepreneur could raise.

Each of those developments was of historical significance on its own, and many people recognized that they were living in an age of wonders. The introduction to Lilaquat Ahamed’s recent book 1873 calls attention to three enormous infrastructure projects that all were completed in 1869-70: the American transcontinental railroad, the Suez Canal, and the rail link from Bombay to Calcutta.

One French paper even hazarded a guess that these three critical links in the global transportation chain would now enable a traveler to go around the world in fewer than eighty days.

What was harder to see than the individual wonders, though, was what they added up to: Large chunks of humanity, tens of millions of people, were becoming economically, socially, and culturally integrated in a way the world had not previously seen.

The first large-scale demonstration of the new possibilities came during the American Civil War, when the North mobilized the Union states into a vast war-production machine, fielding a well-equipped army far larger than Napoleon had used to invade Russia just half a century before. (Unlike Napoleon, the Union managed to keep its army supplied.) That integrated productive machine was largely allowed to dissolve once the war was won, but its example raised a question that first got a full expression in Edward Bellamy’s 1888 utopian time-travel novel Looking Backward: 2000-1887: What if a similar nationwide integration could be directed towards peaceful goals? Could a war-style mobilization provide everyone with enough to eat and clothes to wear and decent housing to live in?

While Bellamy’s vision and others like it may have been politically inspiring, no mobilize-for-peace movement gained power in the United States. But private-sector visionaries like J. P. Morgan and John D. Rockefeller were grasping the business possibilities of large-scale integration. All (or nearly all) of the oil wells in the country could become Standard Oil. All the steel mills could become U. S. Steel. With Morgan’s capital and guiding hand, industry after industry united into trusts that could monopolize their particular markets. Rather than a dozen or more competing entities risking the over-production that regularly crashed prices in a boom-and-bust fashion, a nation-spanning monopoly corporation could manage production and keep prices consistently high. Simultaneously, the lack of competition for labor could keep wages low. Concentrated wealth enabled political manipulation that kept the laws friendly and insured streams of government contracts for railroads and other infrastructure projects.

The result was the Gilded Age. Rockefeller became the world’s first billionaire, but he was just the apex of a wealthy class that became a kind of shadow government. The epitome of the new organization was the company town: a small city dominated by a single mine or factory, whose owner also owned the houses workers lived in and the stores where they had to shop. The town might even have its own money: Workers could be paid in company scrip that could only be redeemed in company shops. The spirit of the times is captured retrospectively in the 20th-century song 16 Tons about a worker in a coal-mining town:

St. Peter don’t you call me, cause I can’t go. I owe my soul to the company store.

Eventually, the progressive political movement pushed back against the excesses of the Gilded Age oligarchs: Antitrust laws were passed, unions eventually were protected rather than broken by police, and government regulation limited corporate power. The process took decades, but Standard Oil was broken up into smaller companies that became known as the Seven Sisters. Morgan’s dominance of banking was replaced by the Federal Reserve, which at least nominally had a responsibility to the public.

Over the same time period, Europe was developing similar technological infrastructure, and in World War I the major European powers shared the American experience of full-scale mobilization: An entire nation could become one big engine powered by a single purpose. By the end of the war, people all over Europe were (in a variety of partial or limited ways) asking Bellamy’s question: Large-scale economic integration made a new level of production possible. What could or should be done with it?

That question raised additional questions: Who would manage this engine? And manage it for whose benefit? One way to read the turmoil of the 20th century (from the end of World War I through the Cold War) is as a battle between different answers to those questions.

  • Fascism took society’s power structure as it found it and integrated the pieces into a corporate state with a single leader. Industries would still be dominated by huge corporations like Krupp in steel or I. G. Farben in chemicals. But the ruling political party would take over the media and the educational system so that it could mold public opinion to its liking. The Leader would have a cult of personality, and the frustrations of the working classes would be channeled to target scapegoats like Jews or foreigners. Gleichschaltung, an engineering term related to synchronization, was a system of political, economic, and social pressure — ultimately backed by the police and the concentration camps — to bring individual opinions (or at least public expressions of individual opinions) into line with the state’s official ideology.
  • Communism upended the existing power structure and replaced it with institutions created by the state. Like fascism, it controlled media, education, and the police. But it demolished private-sector institutions entirely: Individual farms were gathered into collective farms. Leaders of the various industries were government officials without even nominal independence. Centralized authority attempted to script economic development in five-year plans.
  • Liberal democracy roughly followed the model of the Progressive Era United States: Private-sector corporations continued to exist and were allowed to manage themselves within bounds established by an elected government. Wealthy individuals and corporations would, of course, try to influence the electorate or corrupt the government, and would sometimes succeed. But when public misery reached extreme levels — as it did during the Great Depression — a political revolution like the New Deal became possible.

Each of these systems had its moments of success. Fascism took Germany from desperation to a continent-bestriding empire in eight short years, creating the autobahn and other large-scale infrastructure projects. Soviet Russia became one of the world’s two superpowers, with nuclear weapons and the first artificial satellite. Though the quantity and quality of Soviet goods never caught up with the West, Russian consumers who remembered the deprivations of the 1930s felt very fortunate indeed by the 1960s.

But the winner of the 20th-century competition was liberal democracy, with a victory so clear that in 1992 Francis Fukuyama heralded “the end of history“. To be fair, Fukuyama did not mean to say that history was over, but that — on this question at least — it had reached an answer.

the end-point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.

You might expect a trend created by technology to be disrupted by subsequent technologies. But the pull of integration was only reinforced by the major developments of the 20th century: radio, television, the electrical grid, automobiles, highways, chain stores, and eventually computers and the internet.

The propaganda industry of World War I inspired a post-war advertising revolution that did not simply announce products but shaped public opinion, creating markets rather than simply responding to them. (See Walter Lippman’s 1922 classic Public Opinion and Edward Bernays’ 1928 Propaganda. By 1967 John Kenneth Galbraith had put it all together in The New Industrial State. Focusing on the Ford Motor Corporation, Galbraith concluded that the market-defining power it shared with GM and Chrysler made it an altogether new kind of entity that Adam Smith would not recognize as a firm.)

It’s important to realize that no major nation refused to integrate. The possibilities of increased production and wealth were just too tempting, both to leaders and to the general public. Much was lost in the transition to the new integrated society: The pressure to conform restricted individuality. Physical and social mobility disrupted families and communities. Materialism challenged religion. By the mid-20th century, we had a new word, totalitarianism, to express the new level of intrusion and oppression that an integrated society made possible. But eventually, ordinary people (most clearly in liberal democracies, but also in fascist and communist countries) came to experience a level of luxury their ancestors could not have imagined. Refusing, or going back, was never really an option.

What the 20th century example means to us. So now let’s talk about the 21st century. It has become a commonplace observation that cheap personal computers and the internet are revolutionary in the way that the printing press was in the 15th century. But the early manifestations of that revolution were fairly trivial: You could order and start reading an e-book without leaving your bedroom, or download a real-time satellite image of the current weather system, or carry your entire music collection on a device in your pocket. Those who didn’t live through this period may have a hard time imagining how marvelous it all seemed. It was indeed an age of wonders. And yet, society was still society. If you wanted to go on living your life as if nothing were changing, you could.

But consider what has happened since, not as a series of individual developments, but as a whole:

  • Surveillance capitalism. The services and devices we all use give each of us an enormous data trail. Your phone knows where you’ve carried it. Your car knows where you’ve driven. Your TV knows what you’ve watched. Your voice-activated Siri or Alexa can listen to your conversations. Your supermarket tracks your purchases. Your smart house knows what hours you keep and what rooms you like to use. Your internet browser knows what you’ve shown an interest in. All those entities are owned by companies that can and do sell the information they collect.
  • Social media algorithms. TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube don’t just show you what you look for, they also make models of your interests and suggest what you might look at next. The algorithms that do this are not designed for your benefit. Instead, they exploit addictive patterns in the human mind, hooking you with anger or fear, and then drawing you ever further down various rabbit holes. Their goal is to hold your attention longer so that they can sell the advertising they can show you. In addition, Elon Musk’s X has a clear propagandistic purpose. It privileges Musk’s own neo-Nazi posts, and possibly similar voices. In short, the algorithms don’t just reflect your interests, they can and do change your interests, and perhaps your personality as well.
  • Artificial intelligence. The tech giants are building out a massive computing infrastructure that can process data on scales never before imagined.

The weakness of 20th-century totalitarian surveillance was simple: Who was going to listen to all those recordings or watch all those camera feeds? Who was going to assemble the clues you inadvertently left to figure out what you intended to do? Maybe if you were a world leader or a suspect in some important investigation, the KGB or FBI or some similar organization might assign you enough watchers and analysts to make sense of it all. But the vast majority of us just aren’t worth that kind of attention.

We aren’t worth that kind of human attention. But maybe going forward we will be worth that kind of AI attention.

Similarly, 20th-century marketing and propaganda was based on statistical models. What were most people thinking? How would an average person respond to this message or that one? But 21st-century attempts to influence consumers and voters are increasingly personalized: What message would motivate you to do what the messenger wants?

20th-century corporations used mass-market advertising to create and alter large-scale trends. (How could Proctor and Gamble turn bad breath or body odor into embarrassing social problems that required its mouthwash or deodorant?) But a 21st-century marketer has the time and energy to analyze you as an individual. (Are you ready to buy a new car? What would cause you to choose this one rather than that one?) 21st-century politicians can target a message at you individually, whether the purpose is to change your vote, or just to make you give up on the possibility of figuring out what is true or what you should do about it.

Put it together: Just by living your life, you create an enormous data stream. The capability to analyze that data stream either exists or soon will exist. That analysis might produce a pretty good picture of what you know, what you believe, and how you think. Knowing that, the algorithms that decide what information comes to your attention might know just what to show you to make you do what their clients want you to do — buy a product, vote for a candidate, join a movement, or whatever.

It’s easy to make a dystopia out of this, but hold off on that thought for a second. What this all points to is that a deeper level of social/economic/cultural integration is now possible. That power could be used for good or ill, just as the power created by the previous integration was.

In a dystopia, AI might analyze your data trail, figure out exactly what conspiracy theory might hook you, and at a key moment send you just the right upsetting pseudo-fact that pushes you towards mass-murder or suicide bombing.

In a utopia, the algorithms might cheer you up when you’re depressed, nudge you to make that career change you’ve been thinking about, or even search out (or create) a place in the economy for someone with your exact combination of talents and disabilities.

The near-universal psychological trauma of 20th-century was the thought that the system is indifferent to us, that we don’t fit and there is no place for us. In order to survive, we need to hide our inner selves and become organization men or men in grey flannel suits who are made of ticky-tacky and all look just the same.

In a utopia, the system would not be indifferent. It would try to meet us halfway and find roles we could fill with our authentic selves.

And maybe along the way, we could have another productivity bump, similar to the last one. Maybe in a few decades that increased integration will have ordinary people living in what would seem like unimaginable luxury now, albeit with the loss of some cultural values that seem important today.

Which way things will go depends on the same questions as last time: Who is going to manage this integrated society, and for whose benefit?

Right now, we’re on the Gilded Age track. Musk, Bezos, et al. are managing the transition for their own benefit, just like Rockefeller and Morgan did. They’re collaborating with a corrupt government and using their increased power to squeeze the rest of us ever tighter. We may end up in the online equivalent of the company town, owing our souls to the owners.

But look for each of the three 20th-century competitors to make their cases again. The fascism of the Trump regime is not particularly well-founded in the new possibilities, and is being derailed by Trump’s own greed and ignorance. But the last two years do point out how eagerly Gilded Age oligarchs will line up behind a fascist leader.

Communism may also get a second chance. One reason Soviet Communism failed was the sheer impracticality of central planning in a large modern economy. A market in essence is a distributed-processing system for managing production and consumption. The market-oriented liberal democracies simply had more processing power and greater flexibility and creativity than any Soviet central planner could apply to the job. But a 21st-century central planner’s capabilities may may be better suited.

If we are lucky, liberal democracy will also get a second chance. But for that to happen, some significant number of people need to grasp what’s happening and apply our creativity to doing something about it. Certainly we’ll have to revive the 20th-century progressive tools of antitrust and unions. But we also have to hope that the new possibilities include new tools for fighting back against oligarchy and escaping the company town.

It may seem impossible, but the first Gilded Age seemed unassailable too. As George Orwell put it, “Whoever is winning at the moment will always seem to be invincible.”

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Reclaiming the Spirit of ’75

April 14, 2025 – 10:43 am

In its 250th year, New England’s revolutionary history has become relevant again.

Here in Massachusetts, April is the month of patriotism, centering on the April 19 anniversary of the battles of Lexington and Concord.

I live in Bedford, a town that sits between Lexington and Concord, and so has an understandable sense of inferiority (though Bedford’s Minutemen joined several other nearby community militias in mustering to defend Concord Bridge). Longfellow never wrote a poem about us, but we do have our own April revolutionary celebration: Pole Capping Day, on which people dress in colonial-era costumes, Minutemen march and fire muskets, and speeches are given. The center of the ritual is the erection of a pole, which some agile person climbs and adorns with a liberty cap, symbolizing Bedford’s rebellion against King George and the English monarchy.

Saturday, hundreds of people braved drizzle and sleet to celebrate. This year’s pole capping had an extra flavor, as autocratic rule no longer seems like a historical curiosity. For some while, townspeople have been decorating their yards with ambiguously historical/political signs: “No King”, “Resisting Tyranny Since 1775”, and so on. If anyone objects to these “partisan” messages, they have so far stayed quiet for fear of confessing their pro-dictatorial aspirations.

My church’s retired minister John Gibbons is the chaplain of the local Minuteman corps, and annually officiates in his colonial-parson costume. This year’s homily was cribbed from the Declaration of Independence, but seemed like a denunciation of the Trump administration’s current deeds and near-term ambitions. Consider these accusations against King George:

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences

Back in 2009, conservatives (and various other people upset to find themselves living in a country with a Black president) misappropriated New England’s revolutionary tradition and called themselves the Tea Party. As I pointed out in 2014, in one of the Sift’s most viral posts, they were actually a Confederate party, and drew much more from John Calhoun than John Adams.

Over the next 15 months, a lot of 250th anniversaries are going to roll around. I hope we use them to reclaim the true spirit of American patriotism from the fascist posers who so often usurp that legacy. Let us rededicate “our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor” to the cause of the inalienable rights of all people, and resist all attempts to impose one-man rule on these hallowed shores.

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The Republic of Babel

March 5, 2012 – 1:36 pm

I owe a debt to this year’s crop of presidential candidates. Time and again, one of them says something so outrageous that it brings my thoughts into focus.

First it was Herman Cain saying, “If you’re not rich, blame yourself!” Until that moment, I had vaguely wondered about the role of shame in keeping the 99% down, but it took Herman to crystalize it for me.

More recently, Rick Santorum has been my teacher:

When you marginalize faith in America, when you remove the pillar of God-given rights, then what’s left? The French Revolution. What’s left is a government that gives you rights. What’s left are no unalienable rights. What’s left is a government that will tell you who you are, what you’ll do and when you’ll do it. What’s left in France became the guillotine.

Yep. Secular government inevitably leads to the Reign of Terror. (If you don’t believe it, go visit some secular hellhole like … just about anyplace in Europe, where mobs roam the streets beheading people at will.) Blue Texan has already exposed Santorum’s ignorance of the actual French Revolution, but I want to go somewhere else with the quote: What the heck is Santorum talking about? What could be burning so brightly in his mind that he needs this mangled French Revolution analogy to express it?

I think Santorum has mushed two ideas together: One is an important insight that I wish everyone would think about, and the other is totally wrong. Here’s how I pull it apart:

  • Important insight: American democracy is losing its language of discourse.
  • Wrong: Until recently, conservative Christianity provided that language.

Put them together and you get Santorum’s point: Unless we get back to God, our democracy is going to fall apart.

But let’s not put them together. Let’s discuss the insightful part first, and then step around the Evangelical rabbit hole Santorum has fallen down.

Language in the broad sense. By “losing our language” I don’t mean English. I’m thinking about all the social and intellectual infrastructure that allows us to talk through our differences: taken-for-granted assumptions, shared frames, common concepts, a portfolio of shared heroes to emulate, and so on.

Sharing a language of discourse with somebody doesn’t mean that you necessarily agree. But it does mean that you can explain your problems to each other and empathize with each other’s difficulties. It means that you have some basis on which you can construct a compromise.

Dictatorships can get along without that kind of language. A master-slave relationship functions just fine with grunts and gestures and maybe a few words of pidgin-speak. Common understanding? Just show the slave what to do and beat him until he does it.

But democracies need to be able to talk. I have to know more than just what you want to do or want me to do. I need to understand why you want what you want, and I need to be able to explain why I want something different. We have to be able to discuss the nuances of our hopes and fears and plans — what’s absolutely essential and what isn’t — so that we can cobble together a solution that we can all live with.

A democracy that can’t do that devolves into mob rule or military coup or Potemkin elections that rubber-stamp decisions already made by a governing elite. That’s when the French Revolution analogy starts to make sense: Without a language of discourse, you can have Robespierre or you can have Napoleon, but you can’t really achieve Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity.

Consensus and compromise. The Bible doesn’t tell us what kind of government developed in post-Tower Babel. But we can be pretty sure it wasn’t a democracy.

As I’ve described in more detail elsewhere, democracy only works when the issues worth killing and dying for — genocide, slavery, the legitimacy of the property system, and a few others — have already been decided by consensus. Otherwise you’ll have civil war, because the 49% will not march meekly to their fate.

In that essay, though, I treated consensus as a static thing — as it is in the short term. But any lasting democracy has to be able to evolve consensus on new issues as they come up. That can happen if you have a language of discourse. You can make temporary compromises and tinker with them over time until they acquire the prestige of tradition.

Think about pacifism, which is as stark a moral issue as any: To one side, war is humankind’s greatest evil. To the other, it’s essential to defending our way of life. What room is there for compromise?

And yet, we have compromised: The nation continues to defend itself, but pacifists who don’t interfere with the military aren’t jailed or considered traitors. They’re allowed to claim conscientious objector status in a draft, but their taxes support the military just like everyone else’s.

No simple principle would lay down that boundary, but each part of it has become time-honored.

Now think about abortion, where the argument has not really changed since Roe vs. Wade. Either you want to kill babies or you want to subjugate women. It’s been that way for 40 years.

What the Culture War is about. When you grasp the Babel problem, you see the Culture War in a whole new light. What we’re fighting about isn’t abortion or homosexuality or traditional values or even religion. We’re fighting about what the language of American democracy is going to be. What worldview is going to frame the issues that we will then debate and vote on?

One candidate is a secular worldview of reason and science. Another is the worldview of conservative Christianity.

Either one could work, up to a point, if we could reach consensus on it. And neither would require that everyone convert to that worldview completely, only that everyone learn to speak that language in the public square.

Other religious worldviews could work as well as Christianity. There’s no inherent reason we couldn’t have an Islamic Republic or a Jewish Republic or a Hindu Republic, if that’s what we decided we wanted.

But what we can’t have is a Republic of Babel. Not for long.

The Language of the Founders. You know whose language of discourse really worked? The Founders.

The Constitution is a masterwork of compromise. Effective government vs. individual rights; state power vs. federal power; the mob vs. the propertied elite — they worked out a series of good-enough solutions that let the country move forward. Only slavery was too much for them, and even then their band-aids held things together for most of a century, giving their children and grandchildren a chance to avert disaster.

You think abortion or same-sex marriage would have stumped the Founders? No way.

That’s why there’s so much Founder-nostalgia today. At the Constitutional Convention, problems didn’t just sit there, and factions didn’t move further and further apart forever. Whatever came up, they figured out how to keep the process moving.

One frustrating part of Founder-nostalgia is the unending clash of examples “proving” that they were either for or against religion: Franklin calling for prayer at the Constitutional Convention (and invoking the threat of Babel), or Adams signing the Treaty of Tripoli declaring that “the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion”.

It goes round and round. If you’re selective, you can quote Jefferson, Madison, and Franklin on either side. Washington was a lifelong Anglican, but he didn’t take communion. No one knows why.

The reason we keep arguing about this is that we’re asking the wrong question. It doesn’t really matter what theology the Founders believed in their private hearts. What matters is how religion influenced their public language of discourse.

God in the Declaration. The most quoted phrase of the Declaration of Independence is

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights

This mention of “the Creator” is supposed to back up the claim that the Founders’ worldview was fundamentally religious, and to counter the observation that God was completely left out of the Constitution.

God is mentioned exactly two other times in the Declaration: “Laws of Nature and Nature’s God” in the first paragraph and “a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence” in the last.

Interestingly, these phrases were altered from Jefferson’s original draft. The edits cut both ways. “Self-evident” (an Enlightenment philosophical term) was originally “sacred and undeniable” (a religious term). Rights originally came “from that equal creation” with no personification of the Creator. And “Divine Providence” did not appear at all.

Notice what you don’t find in any version of the Declaration: Jesus Christ, the God of Abraham, or any other sectarian name of God. God is given purely functional names that any monotheistic religion would recognize. (Even a polytheistic Hindu would understand: “Creator” means Brahma, and “Divine Providence” refers to Vishnu the Preserver.) The Declaration finds God in the Laws of Nature, but it makes no no reference to any sect’s scripture.

Now think about the era: 18th-century science provided no well-founded theories of origin — no big bang, no primordial soup in which proteins could randomly develop, no evolution by natural selection. If you talked about origins and foundations at all, you ended up talking in religious terms, because there was nothing else. (David Hume was as close to an atheist as the 18th century allowed. The participants in his “Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion” eventually converge on a theory of intelligent design.)

So here’s what you (and Rick Santorum) should notice about the Founders’ most important products: The Declaration and the Constitution were written in the most secular language that existed in that era.

But weren’t the Founders religious? Individually, yes. But they didn’t all have the same religion, and they knew it. Patrick Henry would fit right in at a fundamentalist megachurch in Virginia today. If he brought Franklin along, old Ben would probably keep his objections to himself and leave everyone charmed. But Jefferson and Madison would get themselves ejected in short order, and an outspoken New England Universalist like Ethan Allen would be completely beyond the pale.

What’s more, the Founders could see the bad example of England, where Anglicans, Catholics, and Puritans had been hanging each other since Henry VIII. That, they knew, is where sectarian government leads.

But unlike the worst excesses of the later French Revolution, the Founders didn’t attempt to eliminate religion or create a new one. Instead, their public gatherings worked in secular language, because that was a language that everyone could understand. If you needed sectarian language to justify what you wanted to do, they figured, the government probably shouldn’t be doing it.

The Secular Tribe. Something important has changed between the 18th century and today: Secularism has developed into a more complete worldview. It has a theory of origins, a psychology, and humanistic ethics. 18th-century secularism did not threaten sectarian worldviews any more than medieval Latin threatened vernacular French or Spanish. One was a rich, earthly language of everyday life and the other a more philosophically subtle language for widespread professional communities.

In the 18th century, essentially no one spoke Secular at home, so it was not involved in the tribal rivalries of the individual sects. But today, many people do speak Secular at home. And so, while I think it’s a mistake to talk about Secularism as if it were a rival religion, it is a rival tribe. Today, secularism is part of many people’s individual identity. And so, demanding that other people express themselves in secular terms in public can mean that I want them to adopt my tribal identity and abandon their own.

More and more, then, the sects are digging in their heels against this threat to their identity. They are building their own parallel institutions and becoming separatist. As they do this, they are developing their own set of acceptable “facts” and establishing defenses against any non-sectarian evidence or logic. (The idea that the Founders established a Christian Republic is one those false “facts” they are rallying around.)

If that trend continues, it will kill democracy. Elections will give one side or the other a temporary advantage, but will solve nothing for the long term. When the options on the ballot are Kill Babies and Subjugate Women, the losing side just reloads and tries again.

How do we save democracy? First, we have to realize what we’re doing. Whether you speak Secular or Evangelical or something else entirely at home, you need to stop trying to use the public square to validate your identity. That’s not what the public square is for.

Second, all sides need to examine themselves for tribalism — secularists most of all, perhaps, because many of us are unaware of the possibility of secular tribalism. We may need to construct a meta-secular language that purges the tribalism out of secularism. Religious people need to keep asking what is really essential to their religion and what is simply a tradition that has become a comfortable habit and a source of tribal identity.

Third, we all need to understand that a compromise that allows us to live together is an achievement and not a corruption.

Finally, we all need to stretch our understanding and strain to hear each other’s deepest meanings rather than react reflexively against whatever we can perceive as an insult. The Republic of Babel cannot last, but it can move in either direction: towards the war of all against all, or towards the struggle of all to understand all.

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