The Fire of Democracy
Ah, democracy. A word so frequently uttered, yet so rarely understood. A grand idea, draped in noble intentions, yet constructed with the cunning hands of men who feared it. But stick with me. I have a library card and the internet. Everything I say here is readily available to the curious and I’ve provided links.
Shall we begin?
Let us step back—far back—to the fourth century BCE, when Aristotle, ever the philosopher, observed a peculiar dance between the rich and the poor. In his Politics, he noted that in a democracy, the poor, being the majority, would naturally seek equality, often at the expense of the wealthy. His solution? A welfare state. Keep the masses fed, lest they rise. A wise notion.
Fast forward to 1787. The American experiment was brewing, and James Madison, the "Father of the Constitution," had concerns. He believed in democracy, yes, but with caveats. Real power, he mused, should reside with the wealthy—the “more responsible set of men.” The solution? Democracy, but diluted. Controlled. Shackled.
And so, the grand design was laid:
The Senate—not elected by the people, but handpicked by state legislatures, ensuring a buffer between the rabble and real power.
The Electoral College—a mechanism to ensure that wise and wealthy electors had the final say in choosing the president, lest the commoners get reckless ideas.
Voting rights—restricted to property-owning white men, because only those with land and wealth had a proper stake in governance.
A government of the people, by the people, for the people? Perhaps. But which people, exactly?
Now, before you brand me a heretic, know this: America, as an idea, is beautiful. And when people fight for that idea, remarkable things happen. The end of slavery. Women’s suffrage. Black suffrage. Civil rights. The expansion of democracy. Each wave of progress tested the foundations Madison built, proving that democracy’s great strength lies in its ability to grow.
Naturally, those in power took note. And they were worried.
Enter the Powell Memorandum, a corporate battle cry penned in 1971 by Lewis F. Powell Jr. In it, he declared that democracy had gone too far. Business was under attack—by universities, intellectuals, the media, even the people themselves. His solution? Organize. Fight back. Reclaim control. And so began an era of corporate dominance:
Media influence—to shape public perception and stifle dissent.
Corporate lobbying—to ensure laws favored the wealthy.
Deregulation—because profit should never bow to public welfare.
Academic control—to silence critiques of capitalism and elevate pro-business ideology.
Not to be outdone, the Democrats had their own reckoning. The Crisis of Democracy, a report by the Trilateral Commission, lamented the rise of public participation. Too many people, they argued, had a voice. Too many demands. Too much questioning of authority. Their solution? Curb the excess. Limit participation. Manage democracy so that it remained efficient—predictable—controlled.
Democracy, you see, is much like fire. When contained, it provides warmth, stability, comfort. But left unchecked? It spreads. It consumes. It threatens the very structures built to control it. Those in power understand this well. And for centuries, they have worked to ensure that the fire never burns too brightly.
And if you were still unsure of the game being played, let us consult the wise and unflinchingly candid George Kennan. In his infamous PPS 23 memoranda, he wrote:
"We have about 50% of the world's wealth, but only 6.3% of its population.... In this situation, we cannot fail to be the object of envy and resentment. Our real task in the coming period is to devise a pattern of relationships which will permit us to maintain this position of disparity.... To do so, we will have to dispense with all sentimentality and day-dreaming; and our attention will have to be concentrated everywhere on our immediate national objectives.... We should cease to talk about vague and ... unreal objectives such as human rights, the raising of the living standards, and democratization. The day is not far off when we are going to have to deal in straight power concepts. The less we are then hampered by idealistic slogans, the better."
A stunning admission, is it not? That those in power have never truly spoken of democracy as a shared ideal, but rather as a useful phrase—a convenient mask for the mechanics of dominance and disparity. Oddly enough, section IX, where this remark is made, has been conveniently removed from the archive.
And yet, the masks continue to slip. Project 2025, a grand design to consolidate executive power and restructure governance, follows in the footsteps of the Powell Memo, the Crisis of Democracy, and Kennan’s blunt realpolitik. The game is always the same; only the pieces move. The architects of control have never feared democracy as a concept—they have only feared what happens when the people demand it be applied equally.
The structures that govern us were built with intent. But intent is not destiny. Change is not given; it is taken. The power to reshape democracy lies not in the hands of those who guard it—but in the hands of those who dare to claim it.
But this is not just about democracy. It never was. This is about empire.
Empires have always feared the voices that rise against them—the prophets who speak truth to power, the revolutionaries who refuse to kneel, the exiles who sing songs of another kingdom. And yet, it is within this resistance that hope is found.
The question is not merely who will hold power, but who will stand in defiance of its abuses. Who will take up the call to resist empire—not with swords, but with truth and a rage birthed from an unyielding love of our neighbors cast aside? The followers of Jesus knew this well. Their kingdom was not of this world, and yet they showed up in this world, in the streets, among the oppressed, in defiance of the imperial order that sought to crush them.
To follow Jesus is to resist empire—not in secret, not in silence, but in action. It is to stand where the empire demands you kneel. It is to uplift those it seeks to trample. It is to light the fire the empire so desperately fears.
And so, dear reader, I leave you with this: The empire will not stop. The architects of power will not yield. But neither should you. The question is not whether empire will fall—it always does.
The question is—will you stand?