Wednesday, Dec 31, 2025
By Devin Savage
I came back to Ohio for the holidays this year, as I do every year to celebrate the holidays with my family. There’s something about returning to the place everyone considers to be ‘home.’ It’s like comfort food- the old routines, old friends, ongoing relationships interrupted by geographic separation and the attention sinkhole of day jobs and careers. Despite that discontinuity, certain conversations seem to pick up exactly where they left off years ago. And with them, the old family dynamics resurface like clockwork. The alliances, power struggles, ideological trenches, the things we’ve all learned not to say but somehow always end up saying anyway. And there’s always something I really don’t miss: that die-hard tribalism that refuses to stay under the surface.
This year, one of those conversations was with a family member—a committed right-winger whose views have drifted from what used to seem extreme into what now appears to be quite typical of white Christian nationalist thinking. We were talking, as families do during the holidays when they’ve run out of safe topics, and he launched into his objections to same-sex marriage. (Why me, why now? I thought) The argument was the standard one: it’s a slippery slope. If we allow two men or two women to marry, what’s to stop three people from demanding a three-way marriage? And then four? Where does it end?
“Besides, we’re NOT a democracy, we’re a Constitutional Republic” he said.
I’ve heard this argument before—many times, in many forms- and not directed at me in this particular case, since my marriage is quite traditional. But this time I said something I’d been thinking for a long while: “Conservatives need to realise that nobody owns marriage.”
He didn’t have a good answer to that. In fact, he seemed to accept it, at least in that moment. The conversation moved on. But the exchange stuck with me, gnawing at something deeper than just the marriage debate.
Because what he wanted—what he couldn’t quite articulate but what hung in the air between us—was precisely the opposite of what I’d said. He wanted to own marriage. Or more accurately, he wanted his community, his tradition, his understanding of Christianity to own it.
We are a WASP family, our ancestors go back to the foundational generation and before that as well, and at least for this time in history, we’re still in the majority. Typical of majoritarian thinking, his words revealed an unarticulated need for the authority to define societal boundaries, to decide who gets to participate and who doesn’t, to draw the line between the legitimate and the illegitimate, the sacred and the profane, the ‘us’ and the ‘them’.
This is what I’ve come to understand as the defence of a Cultural Monument—those defining features of a culture that a community holds so dear, treats as so foundational, that the ‘immersed’ become unable to see them as accidents of history, and as human constructions subject to change. The monuments become instead timeless truths, sacred inheritances, things to be protected at all costs from those who would corrupt or destroy them. You can almost envision the moat surrounding the castle- like a bastion of culture defended against those who would vandalise it.
Marriage is one such monument for American conservatives. But as I reflected on that conversation with my relative, I realised there’s an even bigger monument at stake in our current political moment, one that shapes nearly every debate we’re having about democracy, voting rights, wealth distribution, and political power.
That monument is “The Constitution”—or more precisely, a particular interpretation of what the Constitution means and who gets to decide. And the defence mechanism deployed to protect this monument is a talking point you’ve probably heard a thousand times, repeated like a broken record across conservative media, dinner tables, and comment sections:
“We’re not a democracy. We’re a constitutional republic.”
I used to think this was just pedantry—technically true but irrelevant hair-splitting meant to sound sophisticated. But over time I’ve come to see it as something more predictable: a rhetorical device designed to legitimise minority rule by claiming constitutional authenticity. It’s a way of saying that the Constitution—properly understood, which is to say, understood their way—trumps the will of the majority. That when the people want something these conservatives don’t like, the system is working correctly by thwarting them.
This is monument defence masquerading as constitutional principle. Like all monument defence, it creates a blind spot: the inability to see that the monument itself—the venerated constitutional mechanisms that increasingly produce undemocratic outcomes—might be the design flaw that’s steering us toward disaster.
Let me explain what I mean by thinking systematically about what American conservatism actually conserves, and why the “republic not democracy” talking point is less about political theory and more about protecting power…
What the American Brand of Conservatism Actually Conserves
If you ask most conservatives what they stand for, you’ll get a fairly consistent list: limited government, fiscal responsibility, individual liberty, free markets, traditional values, respect for institutions (the institution of marriage, not necessarily governmental institutions). These are the stated principles, the official platform, the rhetoric that sounds reasonable in polite company.
But if you watch what American conservatism actually does—what it fights for, what it’s willing to burn political capital on, what it treats as non-negotiable—a different picture emerges. What conservatism actually conserves is not a set of principles but a set of boundaries. Who gets to define what counts as legitimate. Who belongs and who doesn’t. Who gets to interpret the sacred texts of American civic life.
In other words, conservatism conserves the right to own and defend Cultural Monuments. And, to conservatives, Cultural Monuments are about power. (See my essay on Cultural Monument Enforcement, Sept, 2025)
My relative’s objection to same-sex marriage wasn’t really about marriage as an institution. It was about who gets to say what marriage is. His discomfort wasn’t triggered by the idea of commitment or love or family formation—it was triggered by the loss of definitional authority. By the fact that his community no longer gets to be the gatekeeper. It’s a mourning of the loss of cultural power.
This same pattern repeats across virtually every culture war battle going on today:
-Immigration: Not just about numbers or economics, but about who gets to define who can be “American”
-Voting rights: Not just about election security, but about who counts as a legitimate voter
-Patriotism: Not just about loving your country, but about who gets to decide what that means
-Religion: Not just about faith, but about whose values get to shape public life, and just whose dogma gets canonised into statutes, regulations, and even common law
-The Constitution: Not just about law, but about whose interpretation is “authentic”
Notice the pattern? In each case, there’s a claim to ownership wrapped in the language of protection. “We’re not against immigrants, we’re protecting American culture.” “We’re not suppressing votes, we’re protecting election integrity.” “We’re not imposing religion, we’re protecting religious freedom.” “We’re not subverting democracy, we’re protecting the constitutional republic.”
The monument being defended is always framed as something precious and fragile, under assault from those who don’t understand it or who actively want to destroy it. And the defenders position themselves as the authentic interpreters, the true inheritors, the ones who really understand what the Founders intended or what the tradition really means.
The “Constitutional Republic” Gambit: Anatomy of a Talking Point
Let’s look closely at this “constitutional republic, not a democracy” formulation, because it’s a masterclass in monument defence.
On its surface, the claim is technically accurate. The United States does have constitutional constraints on majority rule. We do have representative rather than direct democracy. The Founders did express concerns about “mob rule” and “tyranny of the majority.” So far, so pedantic.
But listen to when this talking point gets deployed. It’s not part of the ‘cultural drinking water’, it appears, like a whack-a-mole game, in specific contexts:
When popular vote loses to Electoral College: “We’re a republic, not a democracy—that’s how the system works.”
When Senate represents land (especially sparsely populated areas) rather than people: “We’re a republic, not a democracy—small states need protection.”
When Supreme Court blocks popular legislation: “We’re a republic, not a democracy—rights aren’t subject to majority vote.”
When gerrymandering protects minority rule: “We’re a republic, not a democracy—the Constitution allows state control of elections.”
Notice what’s happening? The talking point emerges precisely when democratic outcomes would threaten conservative power. It’s a trump card played to end the conversation: “This isn’t a bug in the system, it’s a feature. The Constitution is working exactly as designed.”
But here’s the sleight of hand: the claim that “this is how the system works” is being used to shut down the question of whether the system should work this way. The Constitution is being treated not as a designed artefact that can be evaluated and potentially reformed, but as a sacred monument whose mechanisms must be defended regardless of their consequences.
When Bush won the presidency in 2000 despite losing the popular vote, conservatives didn’t say “well, that’s an unfortunate quirk we should probably fix.” They said “we’re a republic, not a democracy.” When Trump won in 2016 despite losing by nearly three million votes, the response was identical. We heard all about how the small rural states need to have their voices heard. The talking point doesn’t acknowledge a problem—it denies there’s a problem to acknowledge. Besides- wasn’t the design of the Senate a bid to correct for states with small populations?
This is monument defence in action. The Constitution becomes not a framework for democratic self-governance but an altar upon which democratic accountability is sacrificed.
The Titanic Algorithm: When Systems Override Their Operators
Here’s a thought experiment that could keep one up at night:
Imagine the Titanic approaching the iceberg. The lookouts spot it. The officers on the bridge assess the danger. The captain orders a course correction. The helmsman turns the wheel. Everyone with eyes and authority agrees: we need to steer away from the iceberg.
But imagine the ship has an embedded algorithm—some automatic navigation system installed by the designers—that overrides the wheel. The more the crew tries to steer away from the iceberg, the more the algorithm corrects their “error” and steers toward it. The system is working exactly as designed. It’s just designed to produce an outcome that will kill most of the passengers.
Now imagine that a certain group of passengers—let’s say the ones with lifeboats already secured—argue strenuously that this algorithm must be respected. “The designers installed this system for a reason,” they say. “You can’t just override it because you don’t like where it’s taking us. That would be mob rule. We’re a navigation republic, not a democracy of steering.”
This is where we are with American constitutional mechanisms and democratic will.
The popular vote says “steer away from the iceberg.” The Electoral College says “stay the course.” The majority wants voting rights protected. The Senate filibuster says “not possible.” The people want wealth inequality addressed. The Supreme Court says “corporations are people, money is speech.” At every turn, constitutional mechanisms override democratic will—and we’re told this is the system working correctly.
But working correctly for whom? Who benefits when the algorithm steers toward the iceberg?
This is the question the “constitutional republic” talking point is designed to suppress. Because if we ask it honestly, we have to confront an uncomfortable truth: the constitutional mechanisms being defended don’t protect democracy from mob rule. They protect minority rule from democratic accountability.
The Altar and Its Priests
Every altar needs a priesthood—a class of interpreters who claim special access to sacred truth and who position themselves as the only legitimate mediators between the monument and the people. One of the job perks is that they get to decide who gets sacrificed upon their altar- another perk is that the priests can read the minds of someone who has been dead for almost 200 years, divining the intent from a tiny sliver of information passed on in written form.
For the Constitutional Monument, that priesthood is clear: originalists, Federalist Society judges, constitutional “conservatives” who claim to know what the Founders “really intended.” These are the authentic interpreters. Everyone else is either ignorant or acting in bad faith.
Notice how this works rhetorically. If you question whether the Electoral College makes sense in the 21st century, you’re not raising a legitimate design question—you’re revealing that you “don’t understand” the Constitution. If you suggest the Senate’s equal representation of states regardless of population might be problematic, you “don’t understand” federalism. If you think lifetime appointments to the Supreme Court might create issues, you “don’t understand” judicial independence. Especially in light of the fact that the winner of the algorithm gets to appoint members of the Supreme Court.
The monument’s defenders have positioned themselves so that any critique of the mechanism is treated as a confession of ignorance rather than a substantive argument. They’ve made the Constitution itself—or rather, their interpretation of it—beyond question. Sacred. Untouchable.
And what’s being sacrificed on this altar? Democratic accountability. Majority rule. The principle that government derives its legitimacy from the consent of the governed. The idea that when the people want something and vote for it consistently, they should get it.
These principles aren’t discarded openly—that would be too honest. Instead, they’re sacrificed with great ceremony to “higher principles”: constitutional fidelity, the Founders’ wisdom, protection of minority rights, the rule of law. Noble-sounding justifications for fundamentally undemocratic outcomes.
But let’s be clear about what’s actually happening: a minority that cannot consistently win democratic majorities is using constitutional mechanisms to maintain power anyway. And they’re defending this arrangement by claiming it’s not a flaw but a feature—not minority rule but “constitutional republicanism.”
It’s monument defence dressed up as principle. And like all monument defence, it’s steering us toward catastrophe. Especially now, at the end of Trump’s second ‘first year’ in office.
Truly and Sincerely,
Devin Savage
(Currently in fly-over country)
