When asked whether he intended as prime minister to offer the British public moral guidance, Harold Macmillan answered that if the people wanted moral instruction, “they should consult their bishops.” Macmillan wasn’t suggesting that people don’t need guidance, nor was he without convictions himself. He just didn’t think that (most) politicians were equipped to furnish moral instruction or that the public should expect such things from elected officials.
This may be a peculiarly British attitude on the subject. Britain, after all, has an established church, which we manifestly do not, and a constitutional monarch who functions as head of state. Prime ministers, who are party politicians dependent on votes in a fractious parliament, are mere heads of government. By contrast, the American presidency combines both functions in one—head of government and state—and given our constitutional balance of power, divided as it is among the three separate branches, the office has acquired a status resembling royal prestige.
This was brought home to me in the waning days of the Nixon administration, when some of the president’s more stalwart defenders likened impeachment/resignation to regicide, as in the execution of King Charles I. To be sure, Nixon’s downfall was a shocking series of events, since no president had ever resigned his office, and Watergate featured much partisan opportunism. But it was a political episode—Richard Nixon was vulnerable and congressional Democrats had the votes—not the overthrow of a monarch who ruled by divine right.
Yet by 1974, so embedded in our system was the notion of an imperial presidency that Nixon’s successor, Gerald Ford, was swiftly embraced as an embodiment of national unity, soothing America’s nerves. Of course, the irony was that Ford’s perceived modesty (he was famously photographed toasting English muffins at home) was favorably compared with Nixon’s alleged pretension—thereby affirming Ford’s own royal touch. We were a lot less sentimental in the previous century: After the genuine trauma of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, his successor Andrew Johnson was treated contemptuously—and very nearly removed from office—by Congress.
I am not certain if this is progress. With the 20th-century shift in power toward the White House, the status of the chief executive has long since surpassed what the Founders had in mind. Thomas Jefferson disdained the idea of delivering a state of the union address in person to Congress, believing that it bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a monarch’s speech from the throne at the opening of Parliament. It is not for nothing that Woodrow Wilson, who deplored what he called “congressional government,” revived the practice of speaking in person on Capitol Hill, a ritual that now features television coverage, half-hour entrances and exits (“Mr. Speaker, the president of the United States!”), and rounds of applause after every pronouncement.
Indeed, the president is not just regarded as first among equals in our system but enjoys a peculiar cultural status as well. He arrives and departs to the tune of a Scottish anthem entitled “Hail to the Chief.” The president’s consort is called first lady and commands a substantial taxpayer-funded secretariat. Older presidential offspring are objects of public interest and occasionally get married in semi-state White House ceremonies. Presidents don’t just entertain visiting foreign dignitaries but are also expected to graciously receive winners of professional sports championships, recipients of the Nobel Prize, and honorees of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. America is strewn with great pyramids called presidential libraries, and the nation’s highest civilian award is called the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
The networks devote a fair amount of their evening “news” segments to chronicling the president’s daily activities while generally disdaining Congress and the Supreme Court. The Gridiron Club of the Washington press corps offers “but one toast” at its annual dinner—“to the president of the United States.” It is the president, not the chief justice or Senate majority leader, who lights the National Christmas Tree, comforts the afflicted after natural disasters, and travels in ever-lengthening royal progresses around the capital city and country.
I suppose it should be obvious, at this juncture, where this is leading. It is certainly obvious to me, at any rate, whenever I read another impassioned essay about President Trump’s character or lack of it: Whatever you may think of Donald Trump’s politics, he has certainly challenged the accelerating mythification of the presidency. And that, by any measure, is a welcome development. I say this partly because it is healthy to have a clear eye about the fallible people who hold public office, especially the presidency, and partly because the dignity of office is a two-edged sword.
Extending ritual deference to politicians—especially politicians elected in national ballots—is a natural instinct; but just as the admiration of Trump voters for Trump enrages his detractors, both attitudes seem largely a symptom of political prejudice. From my standpoint, the hero-worship of Barack Obama was equally as dangerous, and implausible, as Trump-worship. And as the present reputations of admired past presidents (Jefferson, Wilson, Andrew Jackson, etc.) suggest, standards of character and virtue may be variable.
If all presidents were Caesar Augustus, or even George Washington, obeisance might seem tenable. But they’re not. And while it may be a personal defect that I find Trump more amusing than disturbing, the fury he inspires tells us more about the infuriated. For Trump neatly illustrates Machiavelli’s notion that a “most excellent captain” may not necessarily be “among the most excellent men.” Trump’s impulsiveness can be disconcerting, and his Twitter habit is a decidedly mixed blessing. But in my view, the effect of both has proven (in certain foreign and domestic instances) to be salutary, even commendable. And a lot of the contemporary frenzy about Trump is a high-fevered version of standard partisan conflict.
I, too, wish that the president were more temperamentally attuned to the conventions of his office and came closer to my own ideal of a president. But it is always useful to separate policy from personality, to judge actions by results, and expect that not all presidents are “most excellent men.” I wouldn’t seek moral instruction from Donald Trump, but I wouldn’t have sought it from John F. Kennedy, either.
