Wheat and Tares in America’s Field

For a time, America looked like wheat. The young nation that rose from the improbable victory of independence carried the air of something chosen, something blessed. It grew swiftly, spreading its influence beyond its own borders, and came to be called the “leader of the free world.” To many, it appeared a field heavy with golden grain, ready to nourish not only its own people but also nations far beyond its shores.

But now, the field looks different. What once looked like wheat increasingly resembles tares. The noble stalks we thought would feed the world reveal weeds entwined among them—poisonous, deceptive, choking out the good. The nation that once inspired others to strive for liberty and justice seems now to be voluntarily giving up its place among the sisterhood of nations, ceding its moral authority in exchange for division, resentment, and short-sighted gains.

Do we know what we planted? Perhaps that is the wrong question, for the truth is that the seeds were given to us. America did not invent liberty. It did not create justice, nor did it fashion human dignity from nothing. These seeds were gifts—sown from English common law, from Enlightenment philosophy, from the lived faith of persecuted minorities, and from the wisdom of those who declared that “all men are created equal.” But mingled among these were other seeds: slavery, exploitation of the vulnerable, arrogance cloaked as destiny, and the compromise of principles for power. The field was never pure.

For a long season, the harvest looked good. America prospered, outpaced rivals, and seemed to embody the ideals others only spoke of. But wheat and tares look the same until the time of maturity. Only when they ripen do you see which feeds and which poisons. Now, as the world realigns and America stumbles under the weight of its contradictions, we begin to see clearly what was sown.

This is not cause for despair, but for reckoning. To ask what we planted is to remember that we were entrusted with seeds we did not own. They were given to us by Providence, by history, by generations past who believed enough in freedom to risk everything for it. What will we do with that trust? Will we allow tares to choke the field, or will we, with humility, labor to preserve the wheat?

The harvest is not yet complete. There is still time to distinguish, to protect, and to cultivate what is good. But the season is advancing, and the signs are visible. America must look again at its field and remember: the gift was never ours to squander.

For a time, America looked like wheat. The young nation that rose from the improbable victory of independence carried the air of something chosen, something blessed. It grew swiftly, spreading its influence beyond its own borders, and came to be called the “leader of the free world.” To many, it appeared a field heavy with golden grain, ready to nourish not only its own people but also nations far beyond its shores.

But now, the field looks different. What once looked like wheat increasingly resembles tares. The noble stalks we thought would feed the world reveal weeds entwined among them—poisonous, deceptive, choking out the good. The nation that once inspired others to strive for liberty and justice seems now to be voluntarily giving up its place among the sisterhood of nations, ceding its moral authority in exchange for division, resentment, and short-sighted gains.

Do we know what we planted? Perhaps that is the wrong question, for the truth is that the seeds were given to us. America did not invent liberty. It did not create justice, nor did it fashion human dignity from nothing. These seeds were gifts—sown from English common law, from Enlightenment philosophy, from the lived faith of persecuted minorities, and from the wisdom of those who declared that “all men are created equal.” But mingled among these were other seeds: slavery, exploitation of the vulnerable, arrogance cloaked as destiny, and the compromise of principles for power. The field was never pure.

For a long season, the harvest looked good. America prospered, outpaced rivals, and seemed to embody the ideals others only spoke of. But wheat and tares look the same until the time of maturity. Only when they ripen do you see which feeds and which poisons. Now, as the world realigns and America stumbles under the weight of its contradictions, we begin to see clearly what was sown.

This is not cause for despair, but for reckoning. To ask what we planted is to remember that we were entrusted with seeds we did not own. They were given to us by Providence, by history, by generations past who believed enough in freedom to risk everything for it. What will we do with that trust? Will we allow tares to choke the field, or will we, with humility, labor to preserve the wheat?

The harvest is not yet complete. There is still time to distinguish, to protect, and to cultivate what is good. But the season is advancing, and the signs are visible. America must look again at its field and remember: the gift was never ours to squander.

Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven

Everybody wants to go to heaven (because they don’t like conflict), but nobody wants to live there (because they can’t accept everyone). That paradox says as much about our politics as it does about our faith.

We imagine heaven as a place of perfect peace, where conflict is resolved and all is harmony. But if we are honest, what most people mean by “heaven” is the absence of struggle, not the presence of justice. We want quiet, not reconciliation. We want relief, not responsibility.

The problem is that real heaven—whether we conceive it religiously or as the political community we claim to be building—cannot exist without acceptance. If heaven is where “all are welcome,” then it is not enough to want to go there. We must also learn how to live there, side by side with those we would rather avoid.

The Constitutional Parallel

This is precisely the dilemma the framers of the American Constitution handed us. They drafted a structure designed not to abolish conflict, but to discipline it—to make a durable peace out of disagreement. The Constitution does not promise heaven. What it does promise is a community of self-government strong enough to absorb differences without falling apart.

But that only works if we are willing to live in it. And here is the echo of my opening paradox: Americans want the benefits of constitutional order without its demands. We want rights, but not responsibilities. We want liberty, but not the acceptance of those who exercise it differently. We want the shelter of constitutional heaven without learning how to live with our constitutional neighbors.

Marbury and Voidness

Chief Justice John Marshall’s great lesson in Marbury v. Madison was that acts repugnant to the Constitution are void. That principle was not about power, but about fidelity. It was meant to remind every branch of government—and every citizen—that constitutional responsibility belongs to all of us.

Yet over time, we have distorted Marshall’s insight into a myth of judicial supremacy. Instead of embracing our shared responsibility, we offloaded it onto the courts. Like people who say they want heaven while expecting someone else to do the work of living there, we have expected judges to preserve our constitutional order while we pursue private comfort.

This is why we are surprised when our constitutional “heaven” feels more like a battleground. We wanted peace without acceptance, order without participation.

The Hydraulic Constitutional Force

There is, however, a deeper truth that refuses to be ignored. The Constitution has what I call a Hydraulic Constitutional Force—an energy that self-corrects, nudging us back toward fidelity even when we resist it. We saw a glimpse of this when the D.C. Court of Appeals acknowledged that force in Trump v. Thompson. The Constitution pushes back against attempts to make it an instrument of exclusion, just as heaven pushes back against our attempts to privatize it.

But the Hydraulic Constitutional Force does not abolish responsibility. It only reminds us that responsibility cannot be escaped. To want the Constitution without living in it is to miss the point entirely.

Living with Our Neighbors

So the question is not whether we want heaven. Of course we do. The question is whether we are willing to live there—willing to accept our neighbors, political and otherwise, as fellow residents in a shared order.

That is the harder work. It means tolerating dissent without equating it with treason. It means recognizing that the Oath of office binds every official, regardless of their ideology, to protect and defend the Constitution—not as a weapon, but as a common home.

We may not always like the neighbors. We may not even fully trust them. But if heaven is real, and if constitutional self-government is to endure, then we must learn to live with them anyway.

The Real Invitation

The paradox I began with is more than clever wordplay. It is a test of fidelity. To want heaven but refuse its terms is to want an illusion. To want constitutional government but deny its responsibilities is to build on sand.

We have to decide: are we content with imagining peace while avoiding our neighbors, or are we willing to accept the invitation to live in it?

---

Darius A. Lecointe, PhD, JD

The Founders Didn’t Plan the Great American Experiment — They Found Themselves in One

When we talk about “the Great American Experiment,” we usually speak as though it were deliberate — as though the Founders had a blueprint and set out to design the most ambitious government in human history. But that narrative is backwards.

The Founders did not plan an experiment. They found themselves inside one.

Identity Before Governance

The first constitutions drafted by the newly independent states were less about governance and more about identity. These were not technical manuals for running governments. They were declarations of being; documents that said, this is who we are now.

Their purpose was to mark the break with Britain and to enshrine in writing that sovereignty now resided with the people. Rights were listed not so much to protect against imminent abuse, but to announce a new political identity to the world and to one another.

Governance Was an Afterthought

Because identity was the focus, the structures of government that emerged were often improvised, inconsistent, and in some cases, deeply flawed. Many states simply repurposed colonial charters or borrowed heavily from English models. The first national framework — the Articles of Confederation — reflected this mindset. It preserved state sovereignty above all else and offered little in the way of actual governing power.

For a time, this seemed enough. The Revolution had been won, independence secured, and the idea of a strong central government still made many nervous. But the weaknesses of the Articles quickly became obvious: Congress couldn’t regulate trade, enforce laws, or even reliably pay soldiers. Governance — neglected at first — now demanded urgent attention.

When Crisis Forced the Question

The Constitutional Convention of 1787 was not the final act of a carefully laid plan. It was a response to a national crisis. Only when the Articles failed did governance become the central concern. In that sense, the Constitution was not so much invented as discovered.

By trial and error, the states had learned what would not work. By 1787, they were ready to design something that might. The result was not perfect — it never is when humans are involved — but it has endured longer than any other written constitution in history.

We Are Still Part of the Experiment

If we did not plan this experiment, then we are not its masters — we are its participants. That means we are not at liberty to bend it to our will, as some among us, seem to think they can.

And that raises deeper questions: Who planned this experiment? And who is running it now?

The best answer may be that the experiment was planned by the same force that orders the natural world — by Providence, or by what the Founders themselves called “the laws of nature and of nature’s God.” The Constitution, viewed in this light, is not merely a human invention but a discovery: a record of principles waiting to be recognized.

And who runs the experiment? Not any one person or party — not even the Supreme Court — but the Constitution itself. Its structure contains what I call the Hydraulic Constitutional Force (HCF): a self-correcting mechanism that resists distortion and rebalances the system over time. Chief Justice Marshall captured this reality in Marbury v. Madison when he declared that “a law repugnant to the Constitution is void.” That principle of voidness is not an assertion of judicial supremacy, but a reminder that no branch of government — not even the judiciary — is free to bend the constitutional order to its own preferences.

And this is not just historical reflection. The D.C. Court of Appeals, in Trump v. Thompson (2022), effectively recognized the same reality when it described how the constitutional system itself responds to crises. That decision reads less like a narrow ruling and more like a description of the HCF at work — acknowledging that the Constitution’s design contains within it the very pressures and pathways by which it protects itself.

A Lesson — and a Challenge — for Today

Remembering that our constitutional order began as an experiment should give us both humility and courage. Humility, because we are not the final word — our generation can still learn and correct. Courage, because the Founders themselves did not wait for perfect solutions before acting.

But reflection is not enough. The experiment is ongoing, and its survival depends on us. Each constitutional crisis — from Dobbs to Trump v. United States to the debates over presidential immunity — is a signal that the HCF is active, pressing us toward correction. These moments are not merely partisan battles. They are invitations to reassert constitutional fidelity.

The Great American Experiment is not ours to end. It is ours to honor — by learning, by teaching, and by acting to keep the system in balance.

I am back

 After a long hiatus I'll be publishing my ideas on the gap between mythology and reality.

Research analysis of January 6 report

In the next few weeks I'll be sharing my views on the disappearance of the January 6 report from public discourse.

On the way back

Recent events in the United States have propelled me to return to providing content on thie blog.

Many people think of the SAT as just another test, and the SAT test score as just another number that can be used to make decisions about college admissions. The truth is that it represents a systems-based philosophy that reflects the transition from high school education to college education.