The Founding Fathers warned about the dangers of an “excess of democracy” and designed the Constitution in large part with a view toward preventing it. Judging from most commentary on American politics, with respect to most of the intervening two hundred years, they need't have worried: The mass public has only occasionally been a dominant force in national policy making. Elites, although often responding to broad public concerns, have usually defined the specific directions of policy change.

The conventional wisdom on how managed care came to replace traditional fee-for-service reimbursement as the nation's dominant mode of health insurance is that enlightened businesses and their employers led the way in responding to the emergence of market forces in health care in the 1990s. A common textbook treatment of managed care's ascendancy puts it this way: “Transformation of the health care delivery system through managed care has been driven principally by market forces, and reinforced by government.” The irony is that the opposite sequence of events is a more accurate portrayal of what actually happened. As this article shows, the transformation of America's health-care system through managed care was initially triggered—albeit indirectly—by government actions and then driven by market forces. In other words, before business behavior was a cause of managed care's extraordinary growth, it was largely a response to and an unintended consequence of government policymaking: in this instance, Congress's reform of Medicare in 1983.

In August 1969, President Richard M. Nixon approached the American people with a radical proposal to do what the federal government had never done before: guarantee a minimum level of income for every American family unable to provide one for itself. Eight years later, in August 1977, President Jimmy Carter announced a similar proposal for a federal guarantee of income, this time along with an expansion of public works jobs. Like Nixon before him, Carter soon abandoned his bill, and with it the quest for a federal income guarantee. Thus, inconclusively, ended a decade-long struggle to replace the nation's uncoordinated, incomplete collection of welfare programs with a single, comprehensive system of federal relief. This struggle took place against a backdrop of economic stagnation and demographic change that sent social spending soaring and made existing poor-relief arrangements seem increasingly obsolete. It also tapped into growing taxpayer resentment and a rising tide of popular animosity toward welfare. In part for these reasons, the quest for a guaranteed income marked the end of an era of liberal government activism against poverty, and ushered in a new era of poor-law reform. Welfare, not poverty, was the social problem of the 1970s. And the idea of a guaranteed income was the solution embraced by a new, more chastened and conservative, ideological center.

This article examines the increasingly important and often contentious relationship between international trade and environmental regulation in the United States. It begins by explaining why these two policy areas have recently become more interdependent and then explores some of the specific controversies surrounding the contemporary linkages between trade policy and environmental regulation. The article concludes by analyzing the long-term political and economic impact of the relationship between trade and environmental policy.

State-building in America is a tortuous process. Policy entrepreneurs who seek to establish new state capacities face significant ideological and institutional constraints. These constraints often limit the scope of their entrepreneurship and typically force them to compromise or adapt their ideals to fit political circumstances. Yet, although its path of development has been convoluted, there is an American state and not a trivial one at that. Indeed, the same features of the polity that constrain state-building can also motivate and support it.

During the last twenty years, several writers have drawn attention to the role played by friendly societies and other mutual-aid organizations in the development of Britain’s welfare state. Proponents of mutual aid have argued that these organizations were part of the rich associational culture of working-class life; that they represented a viable alternative to state welfare; and that they were eventually undermined by it. However, this article highlights the challenges that these organizations were already facing toward the end of the nineteenth century as a result of changes in working-class culture and the rise of more commercial insurance agencies. It suggests that the rise of state welfare was not so much a cause of these difficulties as a response to them. It also examines the role that friendly societies played in the expansion of welfare services after 1914 and their attitude to calls for further expansion before 1945.

The emergence of the environmental justice movement in the 1980s has stimulated much debate on the extent to which race and class have been or should become central concerns of modern environmentalism. Leaders in the environmental justice movement have charged that mainstream environmental organizations and, in turn, environmental policy have demonstrated a greater concern for preserving wilderness and animal habitats than addressing health hazards of humans, especially those living in cities; have embraced a “Save the Earth” perspective at the expense of saving people's lives and protecting their homes and backyards. Some advocates of environmental justice have gone so far as to dissociate their movement from American environmentalism altogether, rather identifying with a broader social justice heritage as imbedded in civil rights activities of the 1950s and 1960s.

Refugee policy in the United States is a recent offspring of American immigration policy. Like its parent, refugee admissions are firmly entangled in the thicket of national politics and are Janus-faced. One face presses for admission, the other urges restriction. While the gates of admission are always guarded, time and circumstance determine which face prevails.

Epidemic disease, like war, is the health of the state. Since the dawn of the American Republic, state and local governments have wielded powers both plenary and plentiful to defend the people against smallpox, yellow fever, cholera, and other pestilences. Individual liberty and property rights melted away before the state's power—indeed its inherent legal duty—to protect the population from peril. Under the broad authority of the police power, state and local governments in the nineteenth century confined suspected disease-carriers against their will, established armed quarantines on land and at sea, seized private homes for smallpox pest houses, and enacted, in the approving words of the U.S. Supreme Court, “health laws of every description.”

On August 13, 1953, Dwight Eisenhower signed Executive Order 10479 establishing the President's Committee on Government Contracts (PCGC). Designed to oversee federal agencies' efforts to ensure nondiscrimination in firms with government contracts, the committee could receive complaints of discrimination, conduct educational campaigns, make recommendations to agencies on how to combat discrimination, receive agency enforcement reports, and establish ties with private and public organizations working on equal employment issues. Enforcement powers, including the authority to cancel contracts, would remain with individual agencies. Eisenhower designated Vice President Richard Nixon to head the committee, which consisted of six individuals from agencies awarding the largest contracts and nine representatives from business, labor, and civic groups. A small full-time staff would implement policies set by these members.

Interpreting the 1970s is a difficult business. On the one hand, reformers struggled earnestly and effectively to codify the exalted vision of a good society that was celebrated during the 1960s. And yet in doing so, they appeared to routinize rather than resolve the virulent conflicts of the previous decade. Scholars tend to agree that the reforms of the 1960s and 1970s marked a transformation of political life no less important than the Progressive Era and the New Deal. Unlike these earlier reform periods, however, the 1960s and 1970s did not embrace national administrative power as an agent of social and economic justice. Instead, reformers of the 1960s and 1970s championed “participatory democracy” and viewed the very concept of national governmental authority with deep suspicion. Indeed, Hugh Heclo characterizes the reform legacy of the 1960s and 1970s as one of intractable fractiousness, as a “postmodern” assault on the modern state forged on the anvil of reforms carried out during the Progressive and New Deal eras. “In the end, it appears that a great deal of postmodern policymaking is not really concerned with ‘making policy’ in the sense of finding a settled course of public action that people can live with,” he writes. “It is aimed at crusading for a cause by confronting power with power.”

In January 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued an executive order creating a National War Labor Board (NWLB) to arbitrate wartime industrial disputes. Roosevelt's order provided enormous power for the board, which could, on its own motion, intervene in any labor conflict it deemed a threat to “the effective prosecution of the war” and subsequently impose settlements on the parties. In practice, the board replaced free collective bargaining for the duration of the war. Most scholars of the era agree that the NWLB, operating at a time when New Deal labor policy was still in formation and many unions had not yet become entrenched in their industries, had a profound impact on the evolution of the American industrial relations system during the war and thereafter.

Despite a superficial similarity to earlier labor boards, the NWLB was a curious creature born, in the words of one of its members, “out of deadlock,” and of a breed uncommon on the American political landscape. The board's authority was nominally grounded on an agreement by a 1941 national labor-management conference to eschew strikes and lockouts in lieu of arbitration. Yet this conference had reached an impasse and its “agreement” had been forced on the business delegates by Roosevelt.

Policymakers transfer knowledge about policies, ideas, and institutions between political systems, learning from one another in a process of policy learning; lesson drawing; diffusion; or policy transfer. As Dolowitz and Marsh observe: “While terminology and focus often vary … studies are concerned with the process by which knowledge about policies, administrative arrangements, institutions, and ideas in one political system (past or present) are used in the development of policies, administrative arrangements, institutions and ideas in another political system.” The literature on policy transfer has mainly addressed how policymakers glean potential lessons and use those experiences to devise reforms. It asks questions about why policy transfer occurs; who was involved; what was transferred; from where; the extent of the transfer; and how the process of transfer is “related to policy ‘success’ or ‘failure.’” Greener distinguishes this from policy learning, where policymakers make deliberate adjustments in response to experience or new information, and learning is evident when policy changes as a result of this process. Some scholars see policy transfer as a subset of policy learning, since these are often part of the same procedure. Oliver and Pemberton advance a model, for example, of how ideas are absorbed through learning, in which bureaucratic battles ensue to institutionalize a new policy, and reformers' success in securing support can be critical in determining the extent of policy learning and transfer.

NASA has put people in unique and extreme environments for over six decades. Supporting these individuals with a comprehensive health-care system has evolved over this period. As the Apollo program ended and NASA began to contemplate a space shuttle and space station program, societal pressures in the late 1960s and early 1970s caused federal agencies such as NASA to reconsider how to link the needs of the space program with a growing pressure to address societal needs by forging interagency partnerships. The Space Technology Applied to the Rural Papago Health Care (STARPAHC) project provides an example of how NASA sought to balance these two imperatives in an age of diminishing federal support. This project can provide lessons for today’s uncertain budgetary future for agencies such as NASA, which are once again being asked to find creative and innovative ways to support their missions while demonstrating their larger value to society.

In January 1938, James Landis, Dean of Harvard Law School, author of much of the New Deal's securities legislation, and a former member of the Securities and Exchange Commission, traveled to New Haven, Connecticut, to deliver the prestigious Storrs Lectures at Yale Law School. His subject was “The Administrative Process.” Of particular interest to Landis was defining the correct relationship between courts and the administrative state. According to Landis, the interaction between agencies and courts “gives a sense of battle.”1 He continued: “Here one is presented with decisions that speak of contest between two agencies of government— one, like St. George, eternally refreshing its vigor from the stream of democratic desires, the other majestically girding itself with the wisdom of the ages.”2

One way of approaching the following essays is to pause here at the beginning and consider the peculiarity of the conversation we will be overhearing. In this volume we will be listening to a group of scholars who are Catholic, Episcopal, mainline Protestant, evangelical, and secularist in their varied backgrounds. They are considering the place of religion in public policymaking. The peculiarity arises if we think about American public life historically. For one thing, we are listening to people who most likely would not have been inclined to interact with each other at the outset of the twentieth century. More than that, they are talking about something that hardly anyone a hundred years ago would have thought even needs discussing.

As winter descended on Washington in December 1878, the Forty-fifth Congress gathered for what promised to be a hectic third and final session. Emotions ran high. In this era, Congress habitually reserved much of its business for these brief, intense “lame duck” sessions that fell between the election of legislators in November and the adjournment of Congress the following March. Compounding the usual sense of urgency was the startling result of the recent election: the Democratic party had gained control of the Senate and, when the next Congress convened, would control both the Senate and the House for the first time since before the Civil War. Senate Republicans well understood that they had but a few precious months to close ranks and enact legislation on some of the burning issues of the day: civil rights, the currency, the tariff. Yet when the session opened, none of these issues made their way to the floor. Instead, and despite howls of protest from senators eager to move on to what they plainly regarded as more urgent concerns, the Senate assembled on many afternoons for several weeks to debate a completely different matter: a proposed law concerning the rights of inventors. At this critical juncture in American politics, the Senate found itself embroiled in a long and complex discussion of the virtues and deficiencies of the patent system.