The Sword Behind the Ballot
On the founding promise and what it costs to keep it
There is a polite fiction at the center of liberal democratic discourse, and I want to name it plainly because I think the current moment requires it.
The fiction is this: that the republic rests on ballots, institutions, norms, and the peaceful transfer of power — and that these things are self-sustaining. That the liberal order is maintained by the liberal order. That the conversation continues because the conversation continues.
This is not true. It has never been true. The ballot rests on the sword. The institution rests on the willingness of armed people to defend it. The peaceful transfer of power is peaceful because enough people are prepared to make it costly not to be. The liberal order is not self-sustaining. It is sustained, always, by people who have decided they will pay the price of sustaining it — including, at the limit, the ultimate price.
To pretend otherwise is not civility. It is a form of moral freeloading.
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The founding document of this republic is not a document of peaceful petition. Read it again, if you have forgotten. “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another” — necessary. Not preferable. Not desirable. Necessary. The men who signed that document were signing their own death warrants if the revolution failed. They knew this. They signed anyway. Because they had decided that certain things were worth fighting for, and that fighting meant what it has always meant.
The Declaration of Independence is a justification of armed revolution. It is the founding act of the liberal tradition on this continent. And it contains within it a precise moral logic: when government becomes destructive of the ends for which it was instituted — the securing of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness — the people have not just the right but the obligation to alter or abolish it. This is not a metaphor. It is not ceremonial language. It is a statement of political philosophy with a sword behind it.
The liberal tradition did not begin in a debating society. It began on a battlefield.
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George Orwell understood this in a way that most liberal intellectuals of his era did not, and most liberal intellectuals of our era still do not.
In 1936 Orwell went to Spain. Not to write about the Spanish Civil War. To fight in it. He picked up a rifle and stood in a trench because he had decided that fascism was a thing worth fighting — not worth critiquing, not worth analyzing, not worth writing a very good essay about from a comfortable distance. Worth fighting. With a rifle. In a trench. In the cold.
He was shot through the throat by a fascist sniper. He survived. He wrote Homage to Catalonia, which is among other things an honest account of what it costs to take the liberal proposition seriously enough to defend it with your body.
Later, in Notes on Nationalism and elsewhere, Orwell wrote about the pacifist position within the liberal tradition with characteristic precision. The pacifist, he observed, is in the position of someone who benefits from the violence of others while refusing to acknowledge that benefit. The Royal Navy keeps the sea lanes open. The armed forces hold the line. And the pacifist sleeps soundly and calls themselves more civilized than the people standing watch.
Orwell was not arguing for militarism. He was arguing for honesty. For the willingness to name what the liberal tradition has always known but preferred not to say in polite company: that the conversation is protected by people willing to end conversations with people who want to end the conversation permanently.
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The oath to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, is not ceremonial language.
I want to sit with that phrase for a moment, because I think we have allowed it to become ceremonial through repetition. Domestic enemies. The oath-taker is swearing to defend the Constitution against people inside the republic who would destroy it. This is not a hypothetical provision included for rhetorical completeness. It is a recognition — baked into the founding logic of the republic — that the threat to the liberal order can come from within, that it can wear the costume of legitimate authority, and that the obligation to resist it does not dissolve because the enemy holds office.
The liberal who reads “domestic enemies” and thinks only of foreign-funded operatives has not read the phrase carefully enough. The domestic enemy is the one who uses the instruments of the republic to destroy the conditions that make the republic possible. The one who places the prior above the data and the leader above the law. The one who would use liberty to end liberty, democracy to end democracy.
Jefferson named the test: when government becomes destructive of the ends for which it was instituted. Not when it governs imperfectly. Not when it makes policies you disagree with. When it becomes destructive of the ends — when it turns against the securing of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for the people it was instituted to serve.
We are in the process of answering whether that threshold has been crossed. I have my own view. But the point I want to make here is prior to that question: the threshold exists. The obligation exists. The sword is real.
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I want to be precise about what I am and am not saying, because precision is what separates this argument from its dangerous cousins.
I am not calling for violence. I am not calling for insurrection. I am not suggesting that disagreement with current policy justifies taking up arms. The Declaration’s logic is precise and its precision must be honored: the threshold is when government becomes destructive of the ends for which it was instituted. That threshold is high. It should be high. A republic that justifies armed resistance to every political outcome it dislikes is not a republic. It is an armed mob.
What I am saying is this: the liberal who is unwilling, in principle, to name the sword — who cannot say “there is a point at which I would take up arms to defend the republic” — is engaged in a kind of bad faith. They are claiming the protection of the founding tradition while refusing to honor the commitment that tradition demands. They are, in Orwell’s sense, freeloading.
The market fundamentalists and the technocrats who have made their contempt for democratic self-governance explicit — who have said plainly that they view democracy as an obstacle to their preferred outcomes, who have used their accumulated wealth to purchase the instruments of the state they claimed to despise — these people are making a bet. The bet is that the liberals will not name the sword. That the commitment to civility and process and peaceful norms will hold even as those norms are systematically dismantled. That the republic can be disassembled piece by piece while the people who believe in it respond with strongly worded op-eds and vigils and the appropriate expression of concern.
I want them to know that this bet may not be as safe as they believe.
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I believe in the republic. I believe in its institutions, its norms, its processes, its extraordinary capacity for self-correction. I believe the ballot is the right instrument for the current moment and I am using it — I am writing, I am speaking, I am doing the civic work that the tradition asks of me.
But I also believe what Jefferson believed. What the founders believed when they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. What Orwell believed when he got on a boat to Spain. That the proposition — that a free people can peacefully govern themselves — is worth more than my comfort. More than my safety. More, if it comes to it, than my life.
This is not a threat. It is a statement of values. It is the liberal tradition speaking in its own founding voice, the voice it uses when it is being honest about what it is and what it costs.
The ballot is the instrument. The sword is what the ballot rests on. The liberal who forgets this is not more civilized. They are less prepared.
And I am prepared.
We like to say things like “freedom isn’t free” but for most it is of no more visceral impact than “live, laugh, love.”
Many of us are.