It is readily recognized that the basic relationship between church and state within Euro-American political systems is relatively stabilized. This recognition prevails, even though that stability may be disturbed slightly and intermittently when older norms are reexamined by responsible public authorities. The result of such a reexamination may give rise to public outcry, such as occurred in connection with the recent Supreme Court decision on school prayers. But what is essentially a “resolved” issue in Western politics remains a problematical dilemma in many other parts of the world. It has been widely assumed that the future of all political systems lies in the same direction: namely, that political systems the world over will be secularized as much as possible and that religion, as a normative system or as a set of institutional arrangements, will have only tangential influence in the determination of public policies and the shaping of future societies.

I am grateful to Professor Dagger for his insightful critique. He brings out the continuities and differences between Democracy's Discontent and my earlier work with subtlety and care. He writes in defense of liberalism, but not without sympathy for many of the ideals I invoke in the name of republicanism—civic virtue, encumbered selves, obligations of membership, the formative project. In fact, his republican sympathies are so expansive that I found myself unsure at times whether I could identity a fundamental disagreement.

Professor Dagger's basic objection, as I understand it, is this: I overstate the opposition between liberalism and republicanism, between autonomy and civic virtue; in drawing these distinctions too sharply, I fail to acknowledge the elements of liberalism I implicitly affirm. Professor Dagger accepts the importance of civic virtue and the formative project. But he considers it a mistake to oppose liberalism as vigorously as I do, and “particularly wrong to oppose republicanism to liberalism.” Instead, he favors a “hybrid” of liberalism and republicanism that combines autonomy and civic virtue. Any republicanism worth defending must include “a commitment to liberal principles, such as tolerance, fair play, and respect for the rights of others.”

Whether liberalism and republicanism are compatible doctrines depends on how they are conceived. At a certain level of generality, there is no necessary conflict: the liberal tradition stands for toleration and individual rights, while the republican tradition stands for government by the people. Liberal rights support republican self rule by preventing the majority from oppressing the minority, while the republican emphasis on civic virtue restrains individuals from abusing their rights and ignoring the common good.

At a few places in his Philosophy of Right Hegel directly addresses the discussion with his famous predecessor Immanuel Kant. These places indicate very clearly the distinction between the two philosophical standpoints. This article focuses on Hegel's criticism of Kant's views on peace and international law. For two reasons however, it starts with Hegel's rejection of Kant's moral point of view. First, this criticism is presupposed in Hegel's rejection of Kant's view on politics. Second, at least a partial return to Kantian morality is implied in Hegel's statement that war, although not to be condemned categorically, must be limited both quantatively and qualitatively.

Political is a ubiquitous and seemingly indispensable term in the discussion of human affairs. We use it to speak of quite different kinds of things — institutions, actions, conflicts, expenditures, a type of discourse, a branch of science, and such. We apply it to the life and thought of modern nations, ancient cities, and primitive tribes. Even the internal affairs of businesses, unions, schools and churches are sometimes called “political.” In all these cases, we assume that the term has, or at least can have, some definite meaning. Yet it is difficult to say what, if anything, “political” signifies in its various applications and how it signifies what it does.

Racial innocence persists not only in American public life but in its democratic theory as well. An unwillingness to confront the implications of American racial history diminishes theorists' capacity to respond to the exclusion and dehumanization of African Americans in the post-civil rights era. Reading James Baldwin's social critical essays against Michael Walzer's writings on the practice of social criticism, this essay shows how a theorist whose work equips him to grapple with questions of racial injustice nonetheless evades them by constructing three sorts of boundaries: between members and nonmembers, between social critics and certain relations of power, and between the “core” of a people's experience and the brutalities of their history.

Within the last twenty years, a number of scholars have challenged the prevailing “Hamiltonian” interpretation of the content of James Madison's political thought and the trajectory of his political career. This essay analyzes these contributions, placing them in the context of other interpretations of Madison and suggesting that they merit the most serious attention from political theorists. In general, my hope is to confront political theorists—many of whom hold a radically different interpretation—with this revision and to renew a discussion about the character of Madison's political thought and his place within the American Founding.

Students of American political theory find themselves in general agreement concerning the character and significance of their most celebrated document, The Federalist. Few deny that this series of essays in support of the Constitution by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay represents a substantial contribution to the literature of political theory. The nature of the contribution is also well established. The Federalist, it is agreed, is a skillful exposition of the principles of constitutional republicanism — an exposition not haphazard or fanciful, but controlled by constant reference to the capacities and limitations of the political animal. The latter point is often emphasized; Benjamin F. Wright states: “The aspect of The Federalist which is of universal applicability is … its recognition of the importance of human nature in politics, togetherwith its remarkably penetrating analysis of the motives and the behavior of men in a free society.” x Finally, there is agreement on the general outlines of this theory of human nature. The authors of The Federalist, it is said, were decidedly “realistic,” brooking no illusions of the inherent goodness or rationality of man, but holding firm to “a conception of human corruptibility.” 2 The adjective most often employed is “pessimistic.”

Anyone who lived in France in the years 1945–1946 has a confused impression of both disarray and nostalgia. In the spring of 1946 Father Danielou, S.J., addressing a small group of British teachers, who had come to France at the invitation of the “Catholic Center of French Intellectuals,” described the time aptly: between the past horrors of war and occupation and the ever-present possibility in the immediate future of other horrors still more atrocious, this period seemed to him an oasis. For a great many Frenchmen this time still evokes the disorder due to the occupation, rapid liberation, and also recalls for them the beginning of a convalescence with all the relief and well-being this implies; it is the period of agitation and illusion.

Only recently have students of political theory begun to pay attention to Plato's Menexenus, and it deserves this closer study. In this article, it is argued that the dialogue is best read as Plato's at least quasi—serious critique of Pericle' famous Funeral Oration, and that a comparison of these two works leads to a paradoxical discovery. For by presenting Socrates in the Menexenus as a defender of a restrained and traditional politics against the bold imperialism of Pericles, Plato presents a figure who is hard to square with the dialectical critic of the city found in dialogues like the Apology. Whether there is nonetheless some thread tying Socrates' venture at political rhetoric to his signature form of philosophy is the deepest question posed by the Menexenus and one which offers new insight on Plato's complex view of the relation between politics and philosophy.

Tyrannicide has traditionally been distinguished from political assassination in terms of the difference between public and private life. Tyrannicide was a self-sacrificing act for public benefit (and so morally esteemed); common assassination, its opposite, namely, a self-serving act for private gain (and correspondingly censured). Terrorist assassinations, though similarly condemned, raise a special problem since they purport to be self-denying acts for the public good. It is argued that a satisfactory distinction between them and tyrannicide cannot be drawn on the basis of historical or behavioral criteria alone, and consequently a supplementary “teleological” criterion is required. This leads to a consideration of the “classical” and “ideological” styles of politics as the respective contexts of tyrannicide and terrorism. In context, terrorism and tyrannicide can be seen as not only categorically different but also antithetical kinds of political violence. Terrorism, in short, is a form of tyranny of which tyrannicide is a negation.

While recent scholarship has attempted to clarify the Founders′ opposition to religious establishment, few pause to consider public establishment as a viable alternative. This study examines one of the eighteenth century's least likely proponents of religious establishment: David Hume. Despite his reputation as an avowed enemy of religion, Hume actually defends religion for its ability to strengthen society and to improve morality. These salutary qualities are lost, however, when society is indifferent about the character of the religion professed by its citizens. Hume's masterful History of England reveals that a tolerant established church is best equipped to reap the advantages of religion while avoiding the dangers of fanaticism. Hume's differences in this respect from Adam Smith and Alexis de Tocqueville are explored.

In the last few years, we have witnessed a remarkable increase in public discourse about the role of religion in American life. From the spirited campaign rhetoric of vice-presidential candidate Joseph Lieberman to George W. Bush's faith-based initiative, our national leaders have demonstrated a growing willingness to bring religion into the public square. One result has been a renewed debate about the meaning of both the First Amendment and the Founders′ principle of nonestablishment. Often missing from this debate is a discussion of the deeper issues at play in the relationship between church and state. What exactly do individual citizens have to fear from a union of church and state?

This article explores a hitherto unexamined aspect of John Locke's political thought, his advocacy of general naturalization. It is based upon an unpublished manuscript of Locke's which appears in the Appendix. Although naturalization was supported by a number of Locke's contemporaries, the arguments for naturalization which rely on the tradition of classical republicanism must be distinguished from those such as Locke's which rely on the new political economy. The classical republicans ground naturalization in the need for increasing the number of citizens available for a civic militia; this need, in turn, is intertwined with a vision of imperialistic conquest on the Roman model. Locke's arguments are based on a theory of an expanding commercial society and the productive power of labor. They reflect a new concept of individualistic voluntaristic citizenship which provides an alternative to the common law notions of natural allegiance of Locke's day.

In his work Politics as Religion, Emilio Gentile credits Eric Voegelin with having invented, if not the expression itself, then at least the concept of “political religion” which the latter would use consistently throughout the 1960s to describe totalitarian regimes. In his Autobiographical Reflections, drawn from an interview recorded in 1973, Voegelin revisits the use of this expression and gives an indication of the sources that inspired him to adopt it:

Hegel's concept of patriotism helps specify an account of the just association of collective identity and state power. This concept has three main features. First, as a distinctly modern virtue, patriotism is limited by Hegel's account of modernity and its link to “subjective freedom.” Second, patriotism forges an important connection between critical reflection and habitual practice, illuminated in a comparison of Hegel's thoughts on ethical education with Aristotelian practical philosophy. Third, these first two dimensions are brought together with a decision grounded in the acceptance of the irreducibly collective dimension of freedom— the will to war for one–s country. Hegel's account of war is also a “test case” for his internally limited patriotism, as a comparison with Kant's argument for “perpetual peace” reveals. In conclusion, this account connects traditional liberal institutions with a republican concern for self-rule in a framework that offers legitimate bounds to a “right to national self-determination”.

Scholars disagree about whether or not there was a break between Hobbes's earlier, humanistic period and his later, scientific period. This article contends that, when judged on the epistemological level, Hobbes broke with his humanist past by exchanging the probability of the humanists' rhetorical epistemology for the certainty of scientific knowledge. Hobbes believed that only certainty could shield against the anarchy of civil war. Hobbes's rejection of the humanists' epistemology had practical consequences for the issue of religious toleration. The humanists, like the ancient rhetoricians, turned to consensus as the criterion of truth. By relying on consensus, the humanists were able to reduce the area of intolerance; only those beliefs on which there existed a broad-based agreement of the Christian faithful were viewed as essential. Hobbes's rejection of the humanists' epistemology, which included their concept of consensus, also entailed his rejection of their particular defense of toleration. Nevertheless, since Hobbesian political theory is, in principle, neutral on the question of toleration, there is nothing in the logic of Hobbes's argument that would preclude a greater degree of toleration, based on the sovereign's prudential assessment of existing circumstances.

Critics of liberalism and even some liberal theorists themselves have criticized a liberal emphasis on autonomy, because they associate autonomy with self sufficiency. That association reinforces the worst aspects of atomistic individualism: social isolation, insulation from the views of others, and a rejection of society's values and interests. But the association of autonomy with self-sufficiency is uncalled for; those who see that association are mistaken, for self-sufficiency represents not a fulfillment of autonomy but the abandonment of it. Autonomy, it is argued, has a social nature: It not only develops through sociality, but it also requires sociality for its exercise. In short, to be autonomous one must know one is autonomous; to know one is autonomous requires giving an account to others of the reasons for a decision or action. The social nature of autonomy may incline theorists to see persons as communitarian or socially situated selves. But communitarians such as Charles Taylor find the self defined in part by communal boundaries and thus see them as context-dependent. Autonomy is bounded by language, not community. It is both context-free and context-related, but not context-dependent. Liberal theorists who champion autonomy should therefore abandon any notions of selves as social atoms or isolates and build liberalism on the implications of autonomy's social nature. Part of those implications is that social institutions that foster and exercise autonomy must involve dialogue or communicative exchange. The most important and effective institutions of that kind are those of direct democracy.

This article examines the ties between the work of Václav Havel and his dissident mentor Jan Patočka. Havel's political theory consists largely of an evocative, literary reformulation of a number of themes developed by Patočka, the student of Husserl and Heidegger generally recognized as the most significant Czech philosopher of the century. Insofar as Patočka's work continues to be ignored in the West, the intuitively appealing essays of Havel will themselves fail to be fully understood. This study offers an analysis of Havel's debt to Patočka, as well as an explication of the latter's political thought. With Patočka's phenomenological interpretation of ancient and contemporary thought, of Socrates and Heidegger, a bridge is built between the classical and the postmodern that seeks to ground ethics and politics without recourse to the foundationalism of metaphysical accounts of reality.

In the antithesis of Western imperialism and colonial nationalisms and the still uncertain synthesis the United States has had a significant and in some ways a determining role. By the extension of its frontiers into the Caribbean and the Pacific at the turn of the century, the United States found itself an imperialist power. American imperialism consciously endeavored to bring what was best of the Western way of life to its colonial peoples. Nevertheless, it depended on the conventional instruments of military force and colonial-civil government imposed by the conqueror. For the United States the Philippines became the fittest subject for this Westernizing process for which Theodore Roosevelt was the outstanding spokesman and apologist. Under President Roosevelt's direction the work of civilizing a backward people received a full American expression, and from a consideration of that enterprise the temper of American imperialism may be sounded. Drawing from the Philippine experiment and from experience with the Caribbean countries Roosevelt combined practical judgments with certain intellectual and emotional attitudes to elaborate a comprehensive doctrine of imperialism.

Not since the tenth century has Islam been confronted with a greater challenge of self-examination than in the first half of the twentieth century. During its early expansion Islam came into contact with Greek science and philosophy. Its failure to adapt itself to Greek science and philosophy, and to integrate Greek methods and teachings into its own, determined the character of subsequent Islamic thought and institutions. Between the twelfth and nineteenth centuries, Islamic society lapsed into scientific and cultural stagnation, accompanied by political corruption and social disorganization. The Muslims transmitted Greek science and philosophy to Europe without having been influenced by it to any great degree. Whereas Western Europe accepted the Greek heritage and tried to harmonize it with Christian teachings, the Muslim world remained essentially unaffected. Assuming a negative attitude, it finally rejected Greek thought and learning as heretical and, in self-defense, returned to literalism and orthodoxy. Ever since, Islam has been dominated by the theology of its medieval ulama or doctors of Islamic Law.

Considerable controversy in recent decades has centered on the question of why the philosopher in Plato's Republic would condescend to participate in politics. The traditional view is that philosophers rule from a general obligation to the city in which they live, a specific duty to the kallipolis which educated them or an acknowledgement of “the rule of reason as the primary and natural imperative.” However, if the ultimate happiness of the philosopher consists in a contemplative life divorced from politics, then the justice of the city which demands that philosophers rule conflicts with the psychic harmony of the individual philosopher. The analogy between justice in the state and in the individual soul breaks down as justice in the state demands functions of the philosopher for which he has no inclination or expertise. The just rule of reason is possible for individuals but impossible for states, unless philosophers can be required to meet their obligation to rule.