Congress is on pace to pass tax reform. Polling shows that Republicans support it, and, well, Democrats don’t. In the first year of Barack Obama’s presidency, the Affordable Care Act was similarly passed along partisan lines.
It’s little wonder then that 77 percent of Americans, according to Gallup, say the nation is split over “the most important values.” While there’s reason to believe that the divide isn’t quite as dire as Gallup’s survey suggests, today’s Democrats and Republicans are far more inclined than two decades ago to give “uniformly liberal” or “uniformly conservative” answers to political questions, according to Pew Research Center data.
Achieving cooperation amid an era of polarization is not simple. But paradoxes may offer solutions by keeping extremes in check and allowing for ideological flexibility.
Utah—a Mormon-heavy state with an overwhelmingly conservative populace—serves as an interesting case study in how holding seemingly contradictory principles can influence politics for the better.
Michael Kammen’s People of Paradox captured the Pulitzer Prize in 1973 for illuminating the enduring incongruities that influenced America’s culture—i.e., idealism vs. materialism, puritanism vs. hedonism, passivity vs. pugilism. Paradoxes, Kammen argues, shaped the nation’s identity. Any astute tourist will note that the nation’s seal displays an eagle clutching an olive branch in one talon and a baker’s dozen war arrows in the other.
The bird’s beak clinches a ribbon with the phrase “e pluribus unum”—out of many, one.
The overarching trope of America’s two-party system—from Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson to Ted Cruz and Elizabeth Warren—is that individual liberty clashes with collective responsibility. One party’s ying conflicts with the other party’s yang in a Hegelian dialectic that, at its best, produces synthesis out of a thesis and antithesis.
Today, however, too little synthesis is taking place. The problem is too few politicians and constituents are incorporating opposing principles within their own political frameworks.
Utah, on the other hand, is a place where at least some paradoxes have produced cooperation across the aisle.
A little more than two-years ago, deep-red Utah—where more than 80 percent of the state legislature is Republican—passed robust non-discrimination protections for LGBT citizens in both housing and employment. “When conservative legislators and lawmakers in support of gay rights met to hash out an amendment to Utah’s anti-discrimination law, they did something remarkable for today’s political climate — they compromised,” the Boston Globe editorialized at the time.
Several years earlier, the New York Times’ editorial board similarly rhapsodized about the “Utah Compact,” a set of humane, family-oriented principles on immigration that shattered stereotypes and garnered support from across the state’s political spectrum. “Not all the political news this year involves the rise of partisan extremism and government by rage,” the New York Times wrote about the compact. “There has been lots of that. But maybe there is a limit, a point when people of good sense and good will band together to say no. As they have just done in Utah.”
More recently, an article in Politico Magazine marveled at the broad bipartisan backing of an expansive rail-heavy, clean-air conscious, long-term land-use plan in Utah’s urban core that has brought together some 90 municipalities in an effort to strategically shape the state’s future growth. Dubbing the initiative “the most ambitious and successful long-term land-use planning effort in American history,” the article observed that the plan was something one might expect in a “liberal bastion like Portland, Oregon or Burlington, Vermont” but not in “ultra-conservative Utah, a state with powerful ranching, mining and energy interests and a reflexive distrust of top-down government solutions.
While media outlets wonder how such policies pass in a conservative state, those most familiar with Utah’s unique politics—and its religious roots—are likely not as surprised. Utah is known for its rugged Western individualism, but one can scarcely drive a mile on its interstate without seeing a highway-homage to the beehive, the state’s ubiquitous communitarian symbol. This strong cooperation spirit keeps the state’s equally strong libertarian streak in check.
But it’s much more than that. While Utah has a reputation for cultural homogeneity—many residents are Mormons—the state’s founding as a place of refuge for a persecuted religious minority has engendered a sense of empathy for those who may not fit in or may feel otherwise marginalized. It’s a paradox that helps account not only for the robust non-discrimination ordinances supported by Utah’s religiously conservative population, but also for the state’s strong rejection of the proposed “Muslim ban” during the 2016 presidential race.
The tension that such paradoxes create helps catalyze nuanced analysis, principled thinking, and even the occasional cross-party cooperation. Utah is certainly no utopia. The state has its share of corruption, oddball politicos and needless partisan wrangling. But, it’s hard to dismiss the power of paradoxes. And few are as potent as those learned in Utah’s church pews.
In a state where most politicians are Mormon, a legislator might have strongly held conservative positions on self-reliance. But, on any given Sunday, that same lawmaker could encounter a sermon on caring for the poor or a scripture condemning those who withhold their substance from beggars. Suddenly, pull-yourselves-up-by-your-bootstraps must confront an admonition to help the needy.
In an allusion to Michael Kammen’s work, noted scholar Terryl Givens has looked at Mormon culture through the prism of paradoxes, pointing to the faith’s founder, Joseph Smith, who taught followers that “by proving contraries, truth is made manifest.” Although Mormonism’s paradoxes may seem unique to some, Utah’s political paradoxes are by no means impossible to replicate. The process begins with an appreciation for perspectives that are opposite one’s own, and it grows when individuals have undertake experiences that move them to integrate opposing perspectives into their own political ideologies.
This could be as simple as making a habit of listening and learning from those with whom one might disagree. But what Utah seems to understand more than other states, is that it’s far harder for a politician to reject a principle with which they might otherwise disagree if, in fact, that principle is encountered not as an ideological musing from a partisan opponent, but instead as a divine command or civic virtue.
Hal Boyd is the opinion editor of the Deseret News.
