Pluralism and Listeners’ Choices Online

“The plain, if at times disquieting, truth is that in our pluralistic society, constantly proliferating new and ingenious forms of expression, ‘we are inescapably captive audiences for many purposes.’ ”1Erznoznik v. City of Jacksonville, 422 U.S. 205, 210 (1975) (quoting Rowan v. U.S. Post Off. Dep’t, 397 U.S. 728, 736 (1970)).

The speech and technology world has changed dramatically, even unimaginably, since Justice Powell penned these words about drive-in movie theaters. In attempting to grapple with this quandary in the contemporary era, James Grimmelmann offers us the provocative and original paper, Listeners’ Choices Online.2James Grimmelmann, Listeners’ Choices Online, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1231 (2025) [hereinafter, Listeners’ Choices Online]. His contribution to this Symposium builds on earlier work in which he argues for a theoretical approach to free speech that makes listeners’ interests the central focus of First Amendment doctrine.3James Grimmelmann, Listeners’ Choices, 90 U. Colo. L. Rev. 365, 365, 372–73 (2019). As he argues in the earlier paper, freedom of expression involves what he calls a “matching problem”—ideally lining up speakers with listeners who want to hear their expression, but not with listeners who do not.4Id. at 366.

The current paper is simultaneously both too complex and too nuanced to adequately summarize in this brief Comment, but here are a few of his main points as I interpret them, and that my comments will address.

  • Facilitating matching between willing speakers and willing listeners is the goal of a system of free speech. In that regard, “listeners’ choices matter more than speakers’.. . . A consistent

commitment to protecting these willing speaker-listener pairs results in a system of First Amendment law that regularly defers to listeners’ choices.”5Id.

  • Applying that model resolves some of the important First Amendment questions arising from the regulation of contemporary electronic speech media.
  • It is useful to disaggregate communication media into four types, each of which presents distinct matching challenges: (1) Broadcast (television, radio, cable); (2) Delivery (telephone, email, messaging); (3) Hosting (providers of space for speech, but not engaged in speech themselves); and (4) Selection (directing listeners to specific content via algorithms based on the perception of listener preferences).6Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1249–64. Currently, hosting and selection functions are frequently combined, though that does not have to be so.7Id. at 1265.
  • Selection intermediaries play a key role in determining what listeners hear or see. This is an essential function because the sheer volume of speech available on the Internet creates otherwise insurmountable attention scarcity problems for listeners.8Id. at 1261–62.
  • This listeners’ choice model allows for limited regulatory interventions on the media’s selection functions that would not violate the First Amendment.
  • It would violate the First Amendment for regulators to prohibit intermediaries from offering listeners the ability to choose what speakers to listen to because that interferes with listeners’ right to listen.9Id. at 1265.
  • However, the government may permissibly intervene when a search engine (or, presumably, other selection intermediary) is dishonest or disloyal to its users, “when it shows them results that (objectively) differ from the engine’s own (subjective) judgment about what the users are likely to find relevant,”10Id. at 1261. because that also interferes with listeners’ interests.
  • It would also be permissible to have a rule requiring pure selection intermediaries to treat first-party content evenhandedly with content posted by third parties.11Id. at 1264–66.
  • “Seeing the Internet from listeners’ perspective is a radical leap. It requires making claims about the nature of speech and about where power lies online that seem counterintuitive if you are coming from the standard speaker-oriented First Amendment tradition. But once you have made that leap, and everything has snapped into focus again, it is impossible to unsee.”12Id. at 1282.

There is much to admire in Professor Grimmelmann’s paper. It makes a number of important and original contributions to thinking about the regulation of social media and is in many parts completely persuasive. First, consistent with the objective of this Symposium, it highlights listeners’ interests as a basis to evaluate the American system of freedom of expression. It is indisputable that the Supreme Court and legal scholars have underappreciated the role of listeners’ interests in articulating First Amendment doctrine.13But see Leslie Kendrick, Are Speech Rights for Speakers?, 103 Va. L. Rev. 1767, 1775–79 (2017) (observing that although much First Amendment doctrine is expressed in terms of protecting speaker interests, in many cases the resulting legal framework is ultimately designed with listeners in mind). That argument does not, of course, detract from the proposition that we have much to learn from focusing more explicitly on listeners’ interests. The primary context in which the Supreme Court expressly considers listener interests involves unwilling listeners as captive audiences, but those are the only cases that place listeners’ interests at center stage.14See, e.g., Erznoznick v. City of Jacksonville, 422 U.S. 205, 210 (1975); Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15, 21–22 (1971). The Court has upheld legal rules that bar speakers from imposing speech on unwilling listeners when the listeners’ “substantial privacy interests are being invaded in an essentially intolerable manner.”15Cohen, 403 U.S. at 21. Even in captive audience situations, as Grimmelmann points out, under current doctrine the interests of willing listeners will sometimes outweigh the rights of unwilling listeners, particularly if it is easy for the latter to avoid the speech.16Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1271–73.

Listeners’ Choices Online also offers us a way out of the ongoing effort to find the appropriate perspective through which to evaluate how First Amendment doctrine should apply to the contemporary media environment. Much recent scholarship has struggled with this question, with legal scholars sometimes seeking to find appropriate analogies from regulation of past communication technologies to justify a legal framework for thinking about the regulation of social media platforms.17See, e.g., Jack M. Balkin, How to Regulate (and Not Regulate) Social Media, 1 J. Free Speech L. 71, 89–96 (2021). Is cable television like traditional television and radio broadcast media? Does regulation of telephone services offer any insight into how we ought to regulate digital communications? Is Facebook more like a parade or a shopping mall? Can social media companies be treated like common carriers, subjecting them to greater regulatory constraints than would otherwise be permissible to impose on private companies engaged in speech?18       See, e.g., Ashutosh Bhagwat, Why Social Media Platforms Are Not Common Carriers, 2 J. Free Speech L. 127, 151–56 (2022); Eugene Volokh, Treating Social Media Platforms Like Common Carriers?, 1 J. Free Speech L. 377, 454–62 (2021).

None of the analogies work perfectly, however, because each different electronic speech medium bears some distinguishing features that complicate the analysis.19See Gregory M. Dickinson, Beyond Social Media Analogues, 99 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 109, 116–23 (2024) (criticizing the analogy-based approach to establishing norms for regulating social media). Some, as the article points out, are mere vessels for delivery of content, while others engage in important speech-impacting selection decisions that help listeners sort through the onslaught of online content, but, in doing so, may affect listeners’ interests by providing them content they do not want to hear or directing them away from content they would welcome.20See Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1287–88.

The Supreme Court has only just dipped its toes in the water, in its dicta in last term’s Moody v. NetChoice, LLC, with the majority opinion stating unequivocally that “[l]ike the editors, cable operators, and parade organizers this Court has previously considered, the major social-media platforms are in the business, when curating their feeds, of combining ‘multifarious voices’ to create a distinctive expressive offering.”21Moody v. NetChoice, LLC, 144 S. Ct. 2383, 2405 (2024) (quoting Hurley v. Irish-Am. Gay, Lesbian & Bisexual Grp. of Bos., Inc., 515 U.S. 557, 569 (1995)). But as Grimmelmann points out, that is looking at the challenged state laws exclusively from the platforms’ perspective, and not the listeners’.22Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1262–64.

Rather than attempting to argue purely by analogy with past regulations of earlier media technologies, Grimmelmann’s paper elegantly uses listeners’ interests and choices as an organizing principle that cuts across these different media to create a coherent First Amendment model for evaluating media regulations. He suggests that focusing on these interests allows us to see more clearly the competing speech interests involved in ways that the purely analogical approach simply cannot. His listeners’ choice theory emphasizes matching speakers to willing listeners, which can be accomplished by structural designs, by some content neutral government regulation, and, in part, by requiring the separation of hosting and selection functions in ways that maximize these speaker-listener connections.23Id. at 1232–37, 1265–67.

While Professor Grimmelmann’s model is intriguing and helps us think about media regulation in useful ways, I offer three modest thoughts, two focused on whether, in some circumstances, prioritizing listeners’ rights may come at the expense of other important First Amendment values, and one questioning whether there is a need for further promoting listeners’ choices on social media given the increasing market for niche social media sites.24I am also unconvinced that Grimmelmann’s model is generalizable beyond the electronic media context. However, that is not the ambition of his paper.

  1. Prioritizing Listeners’ Choices May Diminish Public Discourse

First, permitting limited regulation of selection intermediaries to protect listeners’ interests could, in some cases, have deleterious effects on public discourse. Even the modest regulatory interventions that Grimmelmann suggests would be permissible to advance listeners’ interests could be leveraged to challenge selection intermediaries’ decisions to offer a more balanced, fact-checked feed to their subscribers. Or, even if those effects do not come to fruition, the very existence of regulatory interventions might deter selection intermediaries from experimenting with innovations to promote delivery of a greater diversity of content that does not cater purely to listeners’ interests.

Consider a hypothetical new platform calling itself Balanced Social Media (“BSM”). Following Grimmelmann’s model, let us assume that a different company is the host for BSM, which exclusively serves a selection function. BSM designs an algorithm that, for the most part, favors listeners’ choices of content, but adds three specific features that veer from the default rule. First, it builds in its own fact-checking mechanism that flags content posted by third-party users that may be objectively false or come from sources that have proven unreliable or inaccurate in the past. The BSM algorithm will still direct the user to that content, but the content will be marked with a red flag that warns the user that the factual foundation of the material may not be valid, and provides a link to a source that disputes the factual validity of the original post.

Second, the algorithm is designed to monitor users’ feeds to determine if they are seeking content that is unilaterally biased toward one particular ideology, for example, if a user reads only content posted by Fox News or MSNBC. If the algorithm identifies users who seek ideologically unbalanced content, it will occasionally feed such users some third-party content that comes from a dissimilar political perspective. This counter-ideological feed could come randomly or perhaps after the user has viewed ten consecutive stories from sources with their preferred ideological perspective.

Alternatively, BSM could instead offer a slightly less intrusive option under which, rather than posting counter-ideological content, BSM could give the user a warning or notice to the effect that the user has been reading content that is exclusively coming from sources with a specific political orientation and asking if the user would like to see something from a different perspective. This might operate in a manner like TikTok’s option for its users to set a daily screen time limit and be notified when they have reached that limit.25Screen Time, TikTok, https://support.tiktok.com/en/account-and-privacy/account-information/screen-time [https://perma.cc/5E64-3RTR]. Under my hypothetical, however, users would not be able to turn off this setting.

Third, BSM occasionally posts its own independent content on the platform that discusses issues regarding the responsible use of social media and the importance of ensuring that information is factually accurate before posting it. As with the counter-ideological posts, it will feed periodically into all users’ feeds. BSM users cannot opt out of any of these functions; though, of course, they may decide they do not want to use BSM. When users sign up to use BSM, they are fully informed about the algorithm’s functions, which they agree to as part of the Terms of Service (“TOS”). The TOS even says, “BSM offers a new vision of social media, one that will deliver content that you did not ask for, or even that you do not want to see (of course, we cannot make you read it, that is up to you!). The goal of our model is to expose all people to a range of ideologically diverse content.”

Grimmelmann’s model seems to suggest that lawmakers might be able to forbid BSM to adopt these innovative features because they do not fully promote listeners’ choices. The fact-checking flags and counter-ideological feeds are content that many users may not wish to see; indeed, they may be viscerally repelled by these posts, particularly if this interferes with their ability to experience the emotional resonance associated with speech that highlights their own world views.26On the emotional value associated with the consumption of even false information, see Alan K. Chen, Free Speech, Rational Deliberation, and Some Truths About Lies, 62 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 357, 423–24 (2020). He suggests that regulators may be able to restrict selection intermediaries’ use of such algorithms to the extent that “it shows [users] results that (objectively) differ from the engine’s own (subjective) judgment about what the users are likely to find relevant.”27Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1261. In fact, BSM’s model is designed to show user content they do not want to see. In Grimmelmann’s terms, the intermediary is being disloyal to its users (although because the algorithm’s functions are fully disclosed in the TOS, they can argue they are not being dishonest).28Id.

Moreover, the BSM-produced content (and maybe even the fact-checking posts) can be viewed as first-party content.29Another question worth considering is whether even paid advertising could be construed as first-party content. Even though it is produced by a third-party, which pays the selection intermediary to distribute its content, it is being promoted by the intermediary without regard to listener interests. Surely, selection intermediaries cannot be forbidden to prioritize advertising content or the entire economic model under which social media platforms operate would collapse. BSM is in some sense trying to compete in the social media market by offering a new way of delivering content. Would a pure listener-based approach result in such experiments being shut down by regulators because they are occasionally giving their first-party content priority over content posted by third parties?30Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1276–79. Grimmelmann qualifies this statement by saying this would apply to only pure selection intermediaries, so perhaps BSM would not be subject to regulation to the extent that it is holding itself out as a content producer as well as an intermediary. But even pure selection intermediaries might flag content with fact-checking warnings, and those posts presumably could be understood as promoting first-party content. That is, by feeding users first-party content in the form of sermons on the importance of truth in the responsible use of social media, has BSM interfered with listener choice? Because Moody holds that social media platforms are speakers when they make decisions about content moderation,31Moody v. NetChoice, LLC, 144 S. Ct. 2383, 2405–06 (2024). they are unquestionably speakers if they are producing their own content. How would Grimmelmann’s model address the tension between a regulation prohibiting BSM from prioritizing first-party content to protect listeners’ choice and the platform’s First Amendment speech rights?

To the disloyalty argument, Grimmelmann might respond that because BSM is transparent about its algorithm, it is not actually being disloyal or dishonest to its users.32That is, assuming all subscribers read and fully understand the TOS, which is highly unlikely. A 2017 study by Deloitte found that 91% of people consent to TOS agreements without reading them. For respondents aged 18–34, the percentage rose to 97%. See Jessica Guynn, What You Need to Know Before Clicking ‘I Agree’ on That Terms of Service Agreement or Privacy Policy, USA Today (Jan. 29, 2020, 2:21 PM), https://www.usatoday.com/story/tech/2020/01/28/not-reading-the-small-print-is-privacy-policy-fail/4565274002 [https://perma.cc/C2JQ-LHFQ]. Listeners who do not want this type of balanced approach can simply choose a different platform that better suits their listening tastes. However, while BSM is certainly giving listeners choice at the first level (platform selection), its model will inevitably result in some BSM users receiving speech at the second level (content selection) that they subjectively do not want to hear.

  1. Elevating Listeners’ Choices Could Encourage Information Silos

A closely related concern with a system of electronic media regulation focusing primarily on promoting listeners’ interests is whether such an emphasis could have the broader systemic effect of exacerbating ideological information silos even more than under the current system.33See, e.g., Dawn Carla Nunziato, The Marketplace of Ideas Online, 94 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1519, 1527 (2019). An important function of a system of free expression is, of course, promoting robust public discourse. Public discourse is inherently oppositional—speakers of different viewpoints must be able to engage each other for it to meaningfully occur.

In many cases, speakers desire to reach listeners whom they believe will be persuaded by their messages if those listeners only had an opportunity to hear them. Anti-abortion advocates may sincerely believe that if women considering abortions only had more information, they would make different choices. Protesters concerned about the humanitarian crisis associated with Israel’s military actions in Gaza would like to reach those who are unconditionally sympathetic to Israel’s right to defend itself because they think, with additional information, these listeners may modify their positions. On social media as well, speakers try to convince unwilling listeners of the virtues of their political positions. Preaching only to the converted does not facilitate healthy discourse.

Outside of the captive audience context, which is almost exclusively applied to unwanted speech in one’s home,34See Rowan v. U.S. Post Off. Dep’t, 397 U.S. 728, 738 (1970) (“That we are often ‘captives’ outside the sanctuary of the home and subject to objectionable speech and other sound does not mean we must be captives everywhere.” (quotation omitted)); But see FCC v. Pacifica Found., 438 U.S. 726, 730, 748 (1978) (upholding placement of Federal Communications Commission order indicating that licensed radio station “could have been the subject of administrative sanctions” for broadcasting program that violated FCC’s indecency regulations during daytime hours (quoting 56 F.C.C.2d 94, 99)); Lehman v. City of Shaker Heights, 418 U.S. 298, 302, 304 (1974) (holding that passengers on rapid transit street cars are captive audiences). Under Grimmelmann’s model (and in my view, as well), it would certainly seem that Pacifica was wrongly decided because favoring the unwilling listeners’ interests there meant cutting off speech to many willing listeners. Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1269–70. a key function of the First Amendment is served by advancing the interests of speakers to influence those who are not inclined to agree with them.35This is setting aside other narrow areas in which unwanted speech causes cognizable harms, such as with true threats. See Virginia v. Black, 538 U.S. 343, 359 (2003) (defining true threats, which are not protected under the First Amendment, as “statements where the speaker means to communicate a serious expression of an intent to commit an act of unlawful violence to a particular individual or group of individuals”). As the Supreme Court has recognized:

[Speech] may indeed best serve its high purpose when it induces a condition of unrest, creates dissatisfaction with conditions as they are, or even stirs people to anger. Speech is often provocative and challenging. It may strike at prejudices and preconceptions and have profound unsettling effects as it presses for acceptance of an idea.36Terminiello v. Chicago, 337 U.S. 1, 4 (1949).

These express values are in direct tension with a purely listener-based approach. This may be particularly true of speech on social media, which the Court has argued is one of the “most important places . . . for the exchange of views.”37Packingham v. North Carolina, 582 U.S. 98, 104 (2017).

Thus, a second concern I have with a model prioritizing listeners’ choices over speakers’ is that its application, in many contexts, may impede what we might describe as lawful, but uncomfortable, speech that is intended to persuade.38On the importance of persuasion as a free speech value, see generally David A. Strauss, Persuasion, Autonomy, and Freedom of Expression, 91 Colum. L. Rev. 334 (1991). If listeners can confine themselves only to speech they want to hear, even in the social media context, then prioritizing that interest can operate as a kind of quiet heckler’s veto. In a social media environment in which listeners’ choice prevails, it is hard to imagine how persuasion might work, either individually or collectively. Are there any situations involving such speech through media in which the default position is not valuing the listener over the speaker, and if so, how could that decision be implemented?

Perhaps our society is headed in this direction already given that, as Grimmelmann observes, even in the absence of regulation of selection intermediaries, listeners might deploy a combination of pure hosting platforms with middleware, a third-party software that allows them to customize their feeds at an even greater level of detail.39Listeners’ Choices Online, supra note 2, at 1279–81. While this, too, would benefit listeners’ choices, it would move us in the direction of a more atomized speech universe—which is not necessarily a good thing, but at least it would not be the product of government intervention.

  1. Market Responses Are Already Enhancing Listeners’ Choices

Finally, one could argue that market forces are already moving toward a listener-centric model with the proliferation of niche social media platforms, even in the absence of regulatory interventions.40Aisha Jones, The Rise of Niche Social Media Platforms: Opportunities for Community Building, Kubbco (Feb. 7, 2024), https://www.kubbco.com/blog/the-rise-of-niche-social-media-platforms-opportunities-for-community-building [https://perma.cc/V8ZP-NHWB]. There is some evidence that users are beginning to migrate from more general social media sites such as X (formerly known as Twitter), to special interest platforms where they can avoid the cacophony of hostile rhetoric in favor of sites where they can engage with a smaller cohort of people who share common interests. That development certainly enhances listener choice without risking the possible unintended consequences of regulations designed to promote listeners’ choice.

Especially during the 2024 election season, there seemed to be growing dissatisfaction with general social media sites because of the unavoidability of sometimes harsh political discourse. It was not uncommon to hear calls for platforms dedicated to only discussion of books, movies, music, gaming, and other mostly nonpolitical (or, at least, not primarily political) topics that listeners sought out to find some respite. Sports lovers initially were the exception to this rule, although even those users have now started fleeing X.41Compare Jesus Jiménez, As Users Abandon X, Sports Twitter Endures, N.Y. Times (Oct. 27, 2023), https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/27/sports/sports-twitter-x-elon-musk.html [https://web.archive.org/web/20250127170503/https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/27/sports/sports-twitter-x-elon-musk.html], with Will Leitch, The Slow, Painful Death of Sports Twitter, N.Y. Mag.: Intelligencer (Feb. 27, 2024), https://nymag.com/intelligencer/article/the-slow-painful-death-of-sports-twitter-under-elon-musk.html [https://web.archive.org/web/20240927124315/https://nymag.com/intelligencer/article/the-slow-painful-death-of-sports-twitter-under-elon-musk.html].

Available statistics suggest that the market has responded to this interest and is already enhancing listener choice by serving its own matching function. About 115,000 users deactivated their X accounts on the day after the November 2024 Presidential Election.42Kat Tenbarge & Kevin Collier, X Sees Largest User Exodus Since Elon Musk Takeover, NBC News (Nov. 13, 2024, 1:40 PM), https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/x-sees-largest-user-exodus-musk-takeover-rcna179793 [https://perma.cc/FZ3E-3XKQ]. No matter how the total user base is measured, that is a very small percentage, which is unsurprising because network effects deter people from leaving even platforms with which they are dissatisfied. Of course, people can maintain active X accounts while still seeking out other outlets for speech. In comparison, niche social media platforms are still quite small. One of the largest, Goodreads, a platform to share book recommendations, had about 150 million users as of 2023.43Phil Stamper-Halpin, How to Reach More Readers on Goodreads, Penguin Random House: News for Authors (Sept. 2023), https://authornews.penguinrandomhouse.com/how-to-reach-more-readers-on-goodreads [https://perma.cc/4JP5-8D9C]. Houzz, a home design social media platform, reportedly has about 70 million users.44Terri Williams, 2025 Houzz Home Design Trends: These Are the Top 10 Predictions, Forbes (Oct. 31, 2024, 4:07 AM), https://www.forbes.com/sites/terriwilliams/2024/10/31/2025-houzz-home-design-trends-these-are-the-top-10-predictions [https://perma.cc/CCH3-42Z9]. A platform for movie lovers (especially indie) called Letterboxd now has about 17 million users.45Jill Goldsmith, Letterboxd, Indie Cinema’s Secret Weapon, Hit 17 Million Members—Here Are Their Top 2024 Films, Deadline (Jan. 8, 2025, 9:11 AM), https://deadline.com/2025/01/letterboxd-indie-films-members-surge-in-2024-favorite-films-1236251217 [https://perma.cc/U6Y7-EGP9]. Reddit, while open to a wide range of users, is well known for facilitating smaller communities to generate discussion of interest, and now has about 91 million daily active users.46David Curry, Reddit Revenue and Usage Statistics (2025), Business of Apps, https://www.businessofapps.com/data/reddit-statistics [https://perma.cc/3JLY-DYYF]. Finally, Substack, a platform for distributing individualized newsletters to both paid and unpaid subscribers, now has approximately 50 million subscribers.47Max Tani, Substack Wants to Do More Than Just Newsletters, Semafor (Oct. 6, 2024, 4:58 PM), https://www.semafor.com/article/10/06/2024/substack-wants-to-do-more-than-just-newsletters [https://perma.cc/SR96-WCPC]; A New Economic Engine for Culture, Substack, https://substack.com/about [https://web.archive.org/web/20250331060253/https://substack.com/about].

It may seem somewhat contradictory to fret about information silos while simultaneously celebrating the expansion of niche social media sites. To address this briefly, I would argue that the siloing problem is much more problematic on the larger, omnibus social media platforms than with niche social media platforms. Political discourse is one of the main features of the larger platforms, so cutting off speech that is ideologically diverse is truly undermining the opportunities for persuasion. In contrast, the niche social media sites are mostly excluding posts about other topics not because of any ideological commitments, but rather to help filter out what they regard as irrelevant information. That is not to say that political discourse cannot arise in the context of these niche sites,48I would certainly be the last to argue that things such as art or music do not evoke important social and political meaning. See generally Mark V. Tushnet, Alan K. Chen & Joseph Blocher, Free Speech Beyond Words: The Surprising Reach of the First Amendment (2017). but it is at least less likely to do so. And, of course, these users may be walling themselves off from any political speech, which could be problematic for public discourse in the long run. But there is nothing to suggest that these users might not still engage in political discourse on other platforms or in other contexts of communication in their non-online lives.

* * *

Notwithstanding my limited reservations and questions, I wholeheartedly welcome Professor Grimmelmann’s important and valuable contribution to thinking about the complex constitutional and social issues associated with regulation of electronic media in the current climate. Continued efforts to meaningfully apply standard First Amendment doctrine to new media allow us all to think critically about the best way forward.

98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1387

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* Thompson G. Marsh Law Alumni Professor, University of Denver Sturm College of Law. Thank you to Erin Miller and to the editors and staff of the Southern California Law Review, and especially Simone Chu, for their efforts in organizing this fantastic Symposium. Thanks also to Nina Christensen and Charlotte Rhoad for their helpful research.

Unchosen Listening

INTRODUCTION

A century of developments in communications technology has done wonders for listeners.1By “listeners,” I will mean consumers of speech in all forms. In the not-so-distant past, the listener had few choices regarding the speech they heard. An urban listener might find a range of choice in libraries or bookstores, or among private associations’ meetings or periodicals. But mostly listeners heard what others happened to say, on the job, at church, in the neighborhood, and on the street-corner. Today, listeners have more choices than ever, and more ability to choose which speech to hear and which not to hear.

First Amendment doctrine, for its part, has occasionally shielded these listeners’ choices about whom to listen to, even over speakers’ choices about whom to speak to.2E.g., Hill v. Colo., 530 U.S. 703, 716 (2000); Rowan v. Post Office Dept., 397 U.S. 728, 738 (1970); Frisby v. Schultz, 487 U.S. 474, 477–78 (1988). I largely agree with the authors in this symposium who argue that it should do so more often.3See generally e.g., Ashutosh Bhagwat, Respecting Listeners’ Autonomy: The Right to Be Left Alone, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1129 (2025); James Grimmelmann, Listeners’ Choices Online, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1231 (2025); Helen Norton, Fear and Free Speech, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1351 (2025). The appeal is evident. Communication goes most smoothly with a willing speaker and a willing listener. And with listeners now awash in speech options, someone must choose among them. The listener seems obviously superior, as chooser, to many looming alternatives: the stalker, the fake-news purveyor, the oligopolistic media platform, or—most antithetical to the First Amendment—the government.

Yet this Commentary urges caution in so fully embracing listener’s choice that it becomes a paradigm of First Amendment jurisprudence. One can easily move from recognizing the advantages of willing listening (and speaking) to identifying the “core” of constitutionally protected speech as not just a “joint activity”—to use Ashutosh Bhagwat’s illuminating term4Bhagwat, supra note 3, at 1135—but mutually consensual, affirmatively chosen by both speaker and listener.5See Grimmelmann, supra note 3, at 1281–82. Grimmelmann also has thoughtfully discussed the limits of listener choice, given the risks of irrational and uninformed choice, as well as the importance of other values. See James Grimmelmann, Listeners’ Choices, 90 U. Colo. L. Rev. 365, 372–73 (2019). One might even begin seeing something constitutionally suspect about speech that lacks a consenting listener. On this interpretation, the fact that the speaker on his soapbox in Washington Square Park annoys some passersby is, while inevitable, still unfortunate—a sacrifice made for the sake of the other, more willing passersby.6See Bhagwat, supra note 3, at 1143–44; Grimmelmann, supra note 3, at 1233. To be clear, Bhagwat explicitly acknowledges the need to maintain the diversity and friction of public discourse. Bhagwat, supra note 3, at 1143. I just believe the importance of that need is more cleanly understood without too much emphasis on the willingness of listeners in general.

Yet in a not-too-distant future, this fact might be “correctible” by technology, assisted by artificial intelligence and mass data collection. Every webpage you visit might seamlessly filter out any content you have elected not to see; or software might elect for you, based on your eyes’ patterns of lingering. When you step onto the street, you might wear digital glasses to blur out all written speech that you have deemed unwelcome, and digital headphones to cancel all noise except oral speech you have deemed welcome.7Thanks to Jeremy Gartland and Eugene Volokh for inspiring this thought experiment.

While this seems a paradise for listeners’ choice, it would not be one for listeners’ interests, another traditional First Amendment concern.8See, e.g., Citizens United v. F.E.C., 558 U.S. 310, 354 (2010); Red Lion Broad. Co. v. F.C.C., 395 U.S. 367, 390 (1969). The speech that we choose to hear does not always make us better off.9I assume that a listener’s interests are not inevitably reflected in their choices. The former can come apart from the latter, either because the listener’s interests are objective in some sense, or else because they are subjective but higher-order or long-term such that they do not determine every choice. Certainly, a listener’s choice is one aspect of their interests. And speech they vehemently reject—such as harassing speech—will rarely be in their interest. But a gray zone exists between chosen listening and coerced listening, which I will call unchosen listening. Some unchosen listening, I will argue, is a desirable part of being an autonomous person and citizen.

I will also argue that it is desirable for the broader society of which listeners are a part—including its collective knowledge, culture, and, especially, democratic institutions. These societal interests underlie the First Amendment, too, as Alan Chen also discusses in this symposium.10Alan K. Chen, Pluralism and Listeners’ Choices Online, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1387, 1395 (2025). Perhaps for these reasons, unchosen listening has been revered in First Amendment doctrine. As the Supreme Court declared in Terminiello v. Chicago, speech “may indeed best serve its high purpose when it induces a condition of unrest, creates dissatisfaction with conditions as they are, or even stirs people to anger. Speech is often provocative and challenging. It may strike at prejudices and preconceptions and have profound unsettling effects as it presses for acceptance of an idea.”11Terminiello v. Chicago, 337 U.S. 1, 4 (1949).

Indeed, the most fiercely protected First Amendment speech—perhaps its real “core” case—involves non-consensual listeners: speech in the public forum.12I mean by “core” only, as stated, the most stringently protected; various theories of the First Amendment might interpret the theoretical core—the cases best serving First Amendment values—differently. This means citizens trying to move or persuade fellow citizens, and especially those none too thrilled to listen. It is—for those familiar with the First Amendment landmarks—Abrams’s communist pamphlets thrown from the roof, Kovacs’s pro-labor commentary amplified from his truck, Mosley’s sign decrying race discrimination, Cohen’s jacket protesting the draft.13Abrams v. United States, 250 U.S. 616, 630 (1919); Kovacs v.Cooper, 336 U.S. 77, 79 (1949); Police Dept. of Chi. v. Mosley, 408 U.S. 92, 93 (1972); Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15, 16 (1971). And it is arguably the only speech government has a (currently recognized) positive obligation to protect—by preserving the openness of traditional public forums—under the First Amendment.14See Hague v. Comm. Indus. Org., 307 U.S. 496, 513, 515–16 (1939).

While the Court has seldom expounded on the theme of unchosen listening, its silence invites less doctrinally bound theorizing. This Commentary thus offers a brief normative case for resisting a listener’s-choice paradigm (and maintaining more of a public forum paradigm).15I take my case to be congenial and supplementary to Alan Chen’s remarks on a similar theme in this symposium. See generally Chen, supra note 10.

I. The Case for unchosen listening

What speech will a listener hear, if they mostly choose that speech themselves or have it selected for them based on algorithmic predictions of their preferences?16 Currently, these predictions often track not our choices about content but predictions of what content we will click through to––based on past listening data––or spend time listening to. I largely set aside here the enormous discrepancies in preferences that might result. For a discussion in the music context, see Liz Pelly, Mood Machine: The Rise of Spotify and the Costs of the Perfect Playlist 103 (2025) (describing how music streaming services like Spotify do not actually satisfy listeners’ preferences, but rather those of their “slightly off data double”). I also set aside the potentially grave issue of how listeners’ preferences might themselves be manipulated by media or other corporations. Chances are, it will be fairly insular and homogeneous. That is, it will be familiar, comfortable, and unchallenging; and it will come from like-minded speakers and a small number of sources.17See, e.g., Florian Arendt, Temple Northup & Lindita Camaj, Selective Exposure and News Media Brands: Implicit and Explicit Attitudes as Predictors of News Choice, 22 Media Psych. 526, 540 (2019) (finding that consumers’ positive or negative attitudes toward news media brands predict their content choice decisions); Eytan Bakshy, Solomon Messing & Lada Adamic, Exposure to Ideologically Diverse News and Opinion on Facebook, 348 Science 1130, 1131–32 (2015). Its insularity and homogeneity will be reinforced to the extent that the listener chooses with greater granularity—that is, chooses not just among sources or topics but among specific speech from each source or specific views on each topic.18Thanks to Joseph Blocher for alerting me to potential problems of more granular choosing. The result might resemble “The Daily Me” envisioned by Cass Sunstein.19Cass R. Sunstein, #Republic: Divided Democracy in the Age of Social Media 1 (2018) (citing Nicholas Negroponte, Being Digital 153 (1995)). While not all listeners will choose like this, and few will do so all the time, enough listeners will likely do so in enough cases to affect the overall patterns of communication in society.

Assuming this is true, the following discussion identifies five significant interests that can be undermined when listening becomes too tailored to a listener’s choices: preference optimization, error avoidance, innovation, self-evolution, and tolerance.20A full theory, and more space than I have, would be needed to identify and adjudicate the range of conflicts that arise between listeners’ interests and choices, as well as to determine when listener’s choosing becomes over-tailored. Each interest has an individual dimension: for listeners themselves. Each also has a collective dimension: for a society in which the total pool of speech consumed is determined largely by listeners’ choices.

A. Optimizing Preferences

Even listener-chosen speech does not always satisfy listener preferences.21Cf. Grimmelmann, Listeners’ Choices, supra note 5, at 1237 (echoing similar concerns that some listeners may make mistakes about their own preferences). Speech often defies expectations. Sometimes we have a “meh” reaction to a movie by our favorite director, or are spellbound by a movie we expected to bore. Our expectations are sometimes even insufficient for choice. I may have almost no sense of whether I would like a movie from an unfamiliar genre, because I have not experienced anything like it before. After all, the indicators of content that are available prior to hearing speech—for example, its speaker, venue, general subject, or reviews—are necessarily limited.

       With ever more personalized listening technology, our mistaken choices—or mistaken predictions of our choices by algorithms—can lock us into inferior patterns of listening. Mistaken choices are easily corrected when they produce dissatisfaction, but less so when they produce merely suboptimal satisfaction. Say that I have watched and liked one Fellini film and one Spielberg film. Perhaps I am directed, by choice or algorithm, toward more Spielberg films rather than Fellini films. I continue to like Spielberg films and hence grow my love of Spielberg. I may never know the counterfactual––whether I would have preferred the Fellini films. The best chance of exiting a suboptimal equilibrium is exposure to unchosen speech, or at least less-precisely-chosen speech. Optimizing, therefore, involves reflective equilibrium between chosen and unchosen exposure.

       A collective cultural danger lurks here, too, at least insofar as listeners rely on algorithmic services to make these finer speech selections for them.22More strikingly, sometimes we do not actively want to choose at all, but just “lean back and let Spotify choose things.” Pelly, supra note 16, at 25; see also id. (explaining how Spotify started to “optimize . . . for a less engaged user” experience). Because these services operate within a market economy, their corporate makers may face incentives to nudge listeners toward more popular, hence more easily satisfiable, preferences. Forced to rely on the same services to find listeners, speakers—including musicians, writers, filmmakers, journalists, and others—may also feel pressure to create content to win the algorithm’s game, as many have already.23Id. at 33 (describing music streaming as a system that is “not only designed by the major labels but also prioritizes the type of music engineered for and roundtabled for mass-scale success”); see also id. at 115 (“[M]usic that sounds like other music is the most data-blessed.”). The result may be a blander culture and public sphere, with fewer options over which to optimize our preferences.

B. Avoiding Error

Listening primarily to chosen speech may proliferate error. The first problem is that it may skew our available evidence. If, as assumed, we choose to listen to speakers who share our beliefs, including false ones, then they will be unlikely to offer evidence against those beliefs.24See, e.g., Jieun Shin & Kjerstin Thorson, Partisan Selective Sharing: The Biased Diffusion of Fact-Checking Messages on Social Media, 67 J. Commc’n 233, 247–50 (2017). They may even pass on new false beliefs based on old ones. These harms are well-documented within “epistemic bubbles,” that is, discussion spaces in which certain views are systematically excluded.25C. Thi Nguyen, Echo Chambers and Epistemic Bubbles, 17 Episteme 141, 143–44 (2020) (citing sources); Elizabeth Anderson, Political Epistemology 11 (2021). I do not dispute political science findings that echo chambers, those that tend to magnify and insulate extreme political views and consult limited media sources, may not currently be common. Cf. Amy Ross Arguedas, Craig T. Robertson, Richard Fletcher, Rasmus Kleis Nielsen, Echo Chambers, Filter Bubbles, and Polarisation: A Literature Review, Reuters Institute Report, 2022, at 4 (surveying recent literature); Damian Trilling & Claus Schoenbach, Challenging Selective Exposure, 3 Digital Journalism 140, 141 (2014) (explaining how current structural factors and the existence of mainstream news outlets at least tend to give most citizens decently diverse news diets, even if contrary to their preferences).

A second problem is that too much chosen listening may objectionably narrow the range of subjects on which we possess evidence. People may choose to listen to little or no speech concerning decisions they will or must take, including voting. For instance, research suggests that the most promising ways to inform voters may involve incorporating speech that they do not choose alongside speech they do—such as entertainment.26See Markus Prior, Post-Broadcast Democracy: How Media Choice Increases Inequality in Political Involvement and Polarizes Elections 17 (2007).

Yet a third problem is that a steady diet of chosen speech may dull our capacity to think itself. As John Stuart Mill observed 166 years ago, reasoning is better stimulated and optimized by speech that is uncomfortable and challenging.27John Stuart Mill, on Liberty (Rethinking the Western Tradition) 90–91 (David Bromwich & George Kateb eds., Yale Univ. Press 2003) (1859). But chosen speech is, by assumption, typically the opposite. Chosen speech can exacerbate self-favoring and in-group-favoring cognitive biases.28See, e.g., Anderson, supra note 25, at 13. Chosen speech may not even offer reasons, because it does not seek to persuade. Chosen speech can, by repeating or just assuming our beliefs, reinforce and bury them so deeply that we have trouble getting the “mental distance” necessary to scrutinize them—to question them and their justification.

C. Innovation

Unchosen listening can stimulate not just rational thought, but more creative and generative forms of thought that do not merely analyze evidence but propose new ideas or solutions.

Creativity is by its nature unexpected. It often involves making connections among facts, ideas, disciplines, cultures, and so forth that others—including oneself—had never thought to draw. We are thus sometimes likelier to arrive at an innovative solution not by continuing to think directly about the problem—constrained by our previous expectations—but by allowing our mind to wander and randomly associate.29See, e.g., Jonathan Gingerich, Is Spotify Bad for Democracy?: Artificial Intelligence, Cultural Democracy, and Law, 24 Yale J.L. & Tech. 227, 262–63 (2022). The revolutionary inventions, discoveries, insights, and movements that have been prompted by contact with unusual contexts, other disciplines, or other cultures are countless. Consider an eclectic sampling. Clinical psychology has been seriously influenced by Buddhist religious practices. Impressionism in painting was largely inspired by Japanese ukiyo-e prints30Colta Feller Ives, Japonisme, Metro. Museum of Art (Oct. 1 2004), https://www.metmuseum.org/essays/japonisme [https://perma.cc/EZP2-D6YX].; and the painting of Jackson Pollock, darling of the Supreme Court’s own First Amendment cases, was likely inspired by Native American sandpainting.31Jackson Pollock, One: Number 31, 1950, Museum of Mod. Art, https://www.moma. org/collection/works/78386 [https://web.archive.org/web/20250114000836/https://www.moma.org/collection/works/78386]. The QR code was suggested by the Go board,32Justin McCurry, ‘I’m Pleased It Is Being Used for People’s Safety’: QR Code Inventor Relishes Its Role in Tackling Covid, The Guardian (Dec. 10, 2020), https://www.theguardian. com/technology/2020/dec/11/qr-code-inventor-relish-its-role-in-tackling-covid [https://perma.cc/G6AS-3NMG]. while the foldable shape of heart stents was suggested by Japanese origami.33Wei Zhao, Nan Li, Liwu Liu, Jinsong Leng & Yangju Liu, Origami Derived Self-assembly Stents Fabricated via 4D Printing, 293 Composite Structures 1, 1 (2022). Numerous engineering innovations, from aeronautics to robotics, have come from observing animals.34See Sandy B. Primrose, Biomimetics: Nature-inspired Design and Innovation 9, 81 (2020) (describing, among many examples, innovations in bullet trains from observing birds, and in robotics from observing gripping mechanisms on gecko feet). The latest monumental computer science invention, large language models, grew from insights in both linguistics and cognitive science. And this symposium’s own Aziz Huq uses observations in sociology for thinking about digital speech.35Aziz Huq, Islands of Algorithmic Integrity: Imagining a Democratic Digital Public Sphere, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1287, 1289 (2025).

Creativity thus seems likeliest to be prompted by exposure to speech that is unexpected, or at least unguided by our own choices.36See, e.g., Charlan Jeanne Nemeth & Margaret Ormiston, Creative Idea Generation: Harmony Versus Stimulation, 37 Euro. J. Soc. Pysch. 524, 532–33 (2007). Unchosen speech can offer new concepts and frameworks of thinking that supplement or integrate with existing ones. Or it can simply interrupt habitual frameworks—generating another (creative) form of mental distance—and thus open the mind to the potential relevance of unexpected inputs. By contrast, chosen speech can lock in certain expectations of relevance.

One might expect collective, rather than individual, innovation to be fueled through highly personalized listening. It might segregate most listeners into speech subcultures, within which they could refine their own insular ideas—like members of a species separated among islands and continuing to evolve. But then a few innovators sampling from those radically diverse subcultures might produce innovations of even greater enormity. Yes, it seems just as plausible that, so long as enough listening is chosen, occasional sampling by a greater number and diversity of listeners would provide offsetting benefits of more sophisticated—if slightly less radically distinct—subcultures and more frequent innovation.37See generally Tyler Cowen, Creative Destruction: How Globalization Is Changing the World’s Cultures (2004) (arguing that globalization typically increases diversity and innovation within each society, even if cultures grow closer together).

D. Self-Evolution

Persons arguably have a fundamental autonomy interest in being able not just to make up their minds, but to change them, too. This ability to change applies to their beliefs, as described above, but also their ends—their important goals, values, commitments, and so forth—and their tastes.38See, e.g., John Rawls, Political Liberalism 186 (1993) (assuming, as part of citizens’ “moral powers,” that they “can regulate and revise their ends and preferences”); Gerald Dworkin, The Nature of Autonomy, 2 Nordic J. Stud. Educ. Pol’y 7, 12 (2015) (“Autonomy should have some relationship to the ability of individuals, not only to scrutinize critically their first-order motivations but also to change them if they so desire.”). I do not mean the mere freedom to zig when one previously zagged. Certain factors beyond our control inevitably change over time: our external circumstances vary, and our set of experiences and beliefs expands. In response, it is often appropriate or even necessary to change ourselves in order to cohere, adapt, and grow. Otherwise, we become frozen into a course determined not by us, but by the “dead hand” of our past self.39Joel Feinberg, The Concept of Autonomy, in The Inner Citadel: Essays on Individual Autonomy 34 (John Christman ed., 1989) (“Always the self that contributes to the making of the newer self is the product of both of outside influences and an earlier self that was not quite as fully formed.”); see also Gingerich, Spotify, supra note 29, at 276 (2022); Jonathan Gingerich, Spontaneous Freedom, 133 Ethics 38, 42 (2022). Indeed, one might say that autonomous self-development just is the continual evolution of our self in response to new, external inputs.

It is almost always possible to change our ends, at least insofar as nothing physically prevents us. But pursuing our ends is often habitual, or even inertial. For us to have a meaningful opportunity to change,40The freedom to change cannot mean that one simply could change. That would be either impossible or true in nearly every circumstance, depending on one’s metaphysics. We anyway do not fully choose our ends. Rather, a meaningful opportunity is all that we can hope for. we must occasionally gain mental distance—of yet another sort—sufficient to reflect directly on our existing ends and their continued desirability, with adequate understanding of alternatives.41Cf. Gingerich, Spotify, supra note 29, at 277.

Listening only to chosen speech impedes this mental distance. Because we as listeners choose speech based on who we are, that speech is unlikely either to prompt critical self-reflection or to present an adequate range of alternatives for whom we could become. It may even passively reenforce our present ends and hinder our evolution.42Id. at 276; see also Gingerich, Spontaneous Freedom, supra note 39 , at 42. By contrast, consuming speech that is unchosen and hence more unfamiliar or even genuinely surprising is likelier to enable self-transformation.

A society that lacks such dynamism among its members, too, seems destined to remain trapped in outdated ways of life. As its membership grows and shifts, and the world changes, it may not evolve—culturally, politically, or legally—to meet new needs. As a staunch advocate of “[a] constitutional regime fearful of political entrenchment and dedicated to continual adaptation,”43incent Blasi, Holmes and the Marketplace of Ideas, 2004 Sup. Ct. Rev. 1, 45 (2004). Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes saw protection of specifically “the expression of opinions that we loathe” as indispensable.44Abrams v. United States, 250 U.S. 616, 630 (1919) (Holmes, J., dissenting).

E. Tolerance and Persuadability

In a pluralistic society, we must cooperate across irresolvable differences and disagreements. We must work with and take into account the interests of those with values, beliefs, and tastes significantly different from our own (let us call them our counterparts). Sometimes we must reach compromises with our counterparts, even at partial expense of our own ends. This demands tolerance toward our counterparts, that is, engaging and respecting them as rational agents and persons as we engage with them. We must, so far as possible, attempt to understand and make sense of their claims, identify issues of agreement, and persuade them on issues of disagreement.

Highly personalized listening can be expected to decrease tolerance. Humans have a well-documented proclivity to exhibit negative personal attitudes toward those who hold views—especially moral and political views—with which they strongly disagree.45See, e.g., Cass R. Sunstein, Going to Extremes: How Like Minds United and Divide, 1–20 (2009) (detailing tendencies within likeminded groups toward both more extremism and more negative perceptions toward outsiders); Lee C. Bollinger, The Tolerant Society 111, 120 (1986). We may also interpret the speech of our counterparts in uncharitable ways, thereby missing any merit in it.46See, e.g., Julia A. Minson, Frances S. Chen & Catherine H. Tinsley, Why Won’t You Listen to Me? Measuring Receptiveness to Opposing Views, 66 Mgmt. Sci. 2801 (2019). But these effects can be countered, the more often we hear counterparts speak.47See, e.g., Diana C. Mutz, Cross-Cutting Social Networks: Testing Democratic Theory in Practice, 96 Amer. Pol. Sci. Rev. 111, 122–23 (2002). The more we so listen, the likelier we become to succeed in the social cooperative tasks mentioned above, and to empathize with our counterparts.

Tolerance is useful within any social group, but its usefulness is heightened within a democracy. For in a democracy, we exercise coercive power mutually over each other. As Jonathan Gingerich has argued, all participants in a democratic system, and especially potential losers, must have a genuine opportunity to persuade their fellow citizens on political issues.48Gingerich, Spotify, supra note 29, at 264; see also Robert Post, Religion and Freedom of Speech: Portraits of Muhammad, 14 Constellations 72, 75–75 (2007). Gingerich focuses on the importance of being able to persuade fellow citizens on cultural issues; but the point holds even if one centers political issues. See also Chen, supra note 10, at 105–06, 108–11. This logically entails that citizens must open themselves, even ever so slightly, to the possibility of being persuaded49For an enlightening discussion of persuadability as a personal virtue, see generally Joseph Blocher, “The Road I can’t Help Travelling”: Holmes on Truth and Persuadability, 51 Seton Hall L. Rev. 105 (2020)., in light of their own fallibility and the basic rationality of other citizens—at least enough to actively listen.50Teresa Bejan has cogently criticized public speakers today for talking to ourselves (those who agree with us), and thereby primarily seeking not to persuade but to acquire and bestow recognition. Teresa Bejan, A People’s History of Free Speech, Persuasion (Oct. 9, 2024), http://www.persuasion.community/p/a-peoples-history-of-free-speech [https://perma.cc/DD2Q-PRDW]. For any opportunity for a speaker to persuade, however slight, dies if all listeners tune out.51Cf. Chen, supra note 10, at 108, 111.

One might go further. Elected officials within a democracy owe a duty to their constituents to hear out their political concerns, no matter how much the officials would prefer not to. One might by extension argue that voters, as joint rulers over one another, have an obligation to hear out the political concerns of at least some of their counterparts.52Of course, choosing across many axes of preference may incidentally expose a listener to speech that is unchosen, and mitigate some of these harms. The socialist may encounter anti-socialist speech on the Yankees-fans’ or parents’ forum. However, insofar as viewpoints tend to cluster, and conversations tend to be more focused online than in-person, the mitigating effects may be limited. As Justice Louis Brandeis once declared, “public discussion is a political duty.”53Whitney v. California, 274 U.S. 357, 375 (1927) (Brandeis, J., concurring).

II. Limitations and Implications

Having made the general case for unchosen listening, I offer a few brief remarks to situate it within contemporary free speech doctrine.

Hopefully it is clear that I do not mean to reject listener choice as a critical First Amendment concept. Listener choice is rightly viewed by courts as definitive in certain limited domains, such as the home.54Frisby v. Schultz, 487 U.S. 474, 484–85 (1988). The doctrine largely limits those domains to one, the home, see Bhagwat, and it may do so rightly. The home is a place of private intimacy, where one can retreat in order to avoid the social cooperative pressures that pervade our lives in so many other spaces. Arguably courts should, even most of the time, defer to the listener’s choice, as the least objectionable, content-neutral proxy for their interests. After all, listeners’ choices usually converge with their personal interests. Respecting listeners’ choices also tends, through market mechanisms, to generate decently diverse media options, which are good for their democratic interests.55Grimmelmann is thus right that listener choice should be a significant factor guiding regulation of some intermediaries. Grimmelmann, supra note 3, at 1231–32. He also elegantly weighs the diverse interests of speakers, listeners, and intermediaries.

As mentioned at the outset, I am also inclined to believe that the First Amendment does not protect a right to coerce listeners.56See Bhagwat, supra note 3, at 1157–58; Norton, supra note 3, at 1366. The final scene of A Clockwork Orange is not a good look for the Constitution. Some speech, such as hundreds of creepy Facebook messages,57Counterman v. Colorado, 600 U.S. 66, 70 (2023). See also Norton, supra note 3, at 1365, 1367. may be constructively coercive, because of its repetition, intimidation, or substantial disruption of normal activities. Other speech may be coercive because of time-constrained psychological vulnerabilities of a listener.58See generally, e.g., McCullen v. Coakley, 573 U.S. 464 (2014) (abortion clinic patients); Snyder v. Phelps, 562 U.S. 443 (2011) (funeral attendees); Ohralik v. Ohio State Bar Ass’n, 436 US 447 (1978) (accident victims). The first two cases upheld free speech claims against listeners, perhaps rightly, but all three involve listeners who might be considered (temporarily) psychologically vulnerable. But listening is not coerced simply because unrequested, unaccepted, or even undesired. I am inclined to believe that even speech that ignores a listener’s affirmative assertion of unwillingness is not coerced, absent such exacerbating factors.59I do appreciate, however, that Bhagwat contemplates limitations on assertions of the right not to listen, such as across time, and perhaps even a requirement of one-time minimal exposure. Bhagwat, supra note 3, at 1129. Speech is not sex. Nor is listening coerced if the asserter had some minimal exposure to the speech on a prior occasion—the glimpse before we “avert our eyes” or click to delete.60The power of government to compel listening, because of its power, may be uniquely limited.

One of the main venues for speech of this sort is the public forum. Of course, speech in these spaces works better—to spark correction, creativity, transformation, or tolerance—when the listener is game. Indeed, the more actively a listener resists, the less likely speech will achieve any such benefits. But even if most listeners avert their eyes against unwanted speech in public, they at least gain minimal exposure to the message and the fact that someone wants to speak it. Even that regular exposure can heighten tolerance and reduce resistance toward other, perhaps more articulate, unchosen speech.

Virtual forums can prevent even such minimal exposure to speech. With digital listener’s-choice technology, you need not avert your eyes whenever you see an unwelcome message, but can often effectively swipe right to pre-screen all similar messages. Indeed, some messages can be silenced not because you affirmatively resisted them, but because messages you liked better were prioritized over them. Yet media platforms may increasingly turn to listener’s choice as a means of filtering principle that both satisfies users and evades responsibility.

Aggressive use of listener-chosen filtering may even portend the demise of the traditional public forum. The area of publicly owned space available for talking appears to have been shrinking for decades, as the Court has recognized.61See Food Emps. v. Logan Valley Plaza, Inc., 391 U.S. 308, 324 (1968) (describing movement from urban to suburban spaces and hence the growth of shopping malls as places of public congregation); see also Sarah Schindler, The Publicization of Private Space, 103 Iowa L. Rev. 1093, 1106 (2018) (“Fewer cities are investing in the direct creation of new publicly owned public space, and there has been an increase in privatized public space.”). Listeners, willing and unwilling, have fled those spaces even faster since the digital era. Research shows that pedestrians now walk faster, and interact less often, in public spaces.62Arianna Salazar-Miranda, Zhuangyuan Fan, Michael B. Baick, Keith N. Hampton, Fabio Duarte, Becky P.Y. Loo, Edward L. Glaeser & Carlo Ratti, Shifting Patterns of Social Interaction: Exploring the Social Life of Urban Spaces Through A.I. (Nat’l Bureau Econ. Rsch., Working Paper No. 33185, 2024) (analyzing pedestrian behavior using video evidence from 1979–2010). Many factors seem to exacerbate this trend: ever more densely developed urban areas,63Zenovia Toloudi, Are We in the Midst of a Public Space Crisis?, The Conversation (Jun. 7, 2016) (describing urban planning choices that restrict access to public space). constrained public budgets,64Nina Lakhani, Millions of Americans Lack Access to Quality Parks, Report Reveals, The Guardian (May 20, 2020), https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2020/may/20/park-inequality-access-coronavirus-wellbeing [https://perma.cc/KHT4-S5JH] (describing budget constraints as one reason why 100 million Americans lack access to public open and green spaces). perceived rises in crime, architectural features designed to make spaces less welcoming (likely targeted at the homeless),65See, e.g., Faith Ruetas, Anti Homeless Architecture, Rethinking the Future, https://www.re-thinkingthefuture.com/designing-for-typologies/hostile-architecture-anti-homeless-architecture/ [https://perma.cc/XY2M-4GUP] (depicting various forms of architecture that seem designed to exclude lingering). and increasing stretches of everyday life spent online. When we talk to strangers, it is thus mostly in private, digitally moderated spaces, to the willing. Even when we do find ourselves conversing in physical spaces, severe geographical political segregation means that our interlocutors will often still be likeminded.66See, e.g., Yongjun Zhang, Siwei Cheng, Zhi Li, Wenhao Jiang, Human Mobility Patterns Are Associated with Experienced Partisan Segregation in U.S. Metropolitan Areas, (Nat’l Econ. Bureau Rsch., Working Paper, 2025) (observing partisan segregation not just across geographical regions but within residential neighborhoods of cities). All of this stymies the serious engagement across difference that is critical to the democratic process.

Admittedly, the public forums of old were never ideal sites for reasoned discourse. Soapbox speakers are typically better at stirring passions than parsing arguments. Yet the solution should not be doctrinal abandonment of the public forum, and the commitment to unchosen listening that it represents.67See Ronald J. Krotoszynski, Jr., Our Shrinking First Amendment: On the Growing Problem of Reduced Access to Public Property for Speech Activity and Some Suggestions for a Better Way Forward, 78 Ohio St. L.J. 779, 784 n.15 (2017) (collecting cases in which courts permitted the government to exclude citizens from public spaces). Rather, courts should stand ready to approve the expansion of spaces in which we encounter at least some unbidden speech—if necessary, privately owned ones68See generally Erin L. Miller, The Private Abridgment of Free Speech, 32 Wm. & Mary Bill Rts. J. 615 (2024) (arguing for the validity of First Amendment claims against certain powerful private agents, including potentially the largest social media platforms).—and encourage reason-giving within them.69See Rebecca L. Brown, Remarks on Academic Freedom and Free Speech: Reflections on Blocher, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1379, 1385–86 (2025). That would be the First Amendment paradise.

 

98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1399

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* Associate Professor of Law & Philosophy, University of Southern California Gould School of Law. I am grateful to the participants in this symposium for inspiring this comment, to the student editors of the Southern California Law Review for their diligence at every step of the production process, and to Ashutosh Bhagwat, Rebecca Brown, James Grimmelmann, and Felipe Jiménez for detailed feedback.

The First Amendment of Fear

  Introduction

Fear can be a powerful silencer. Speakers may be thwarted not only by direct force but also when they check themselves because they anticipate adverse consequences. Some assessment of costs and benefits is involved whenever anyone decides to communicate, of course. That is normal and actually valuable. Yet acute anxiety, caused by the realistic prospect of violence or other grave harm, differs from ordinary consequential reasoning, even if both result in silence.

Today, speakers seem to be hesitating with concerning frequency. Their reticence is understandable, because disagreement and its consequences have become severe in certain settings. Acute fear of speaking has affected those on the right and on the left, though not perhaps in the same way or to the same degree. Consider an example at Columbia University. Reportedly, a truck with a billboard bearing the words “Columbia’s Leading Antisemites,” alongside the names and faces of students and faculty, appeared in Morningside Heights and drove slowly around campus.1Esha Karam, ‘Doxxing Truck’ Displaying Names and Faces of Affiliates It Calls ‘Antisemites’ Comes to Columbia, Colum. Spectator (Oct. 25, 2023, 11:45 AM), https://www.columbiaspectator.com/news/2023/10/25/doxxing-truck-displaying-names-and-faces-of-affiliates-it-calls-antisemites-comes-to-columbia [https://perma.cc/37K2-QSXM]. For reporting on a similar incident, see Anemona Hartocollis, After Writing an Anti-Israel Letter, Harvard Students Are Doxxed, N.Y. Times (Oct. 18, 2023, 5:03 AM), https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/18/us/harvard-students-israel-hamas-doxxing.html [https://web.archive.org/web/20231018090959/https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/18/us/harvard-students-israel-hamas-doxxing.html]. The truck targeted Columbia affiliates who allegedly had signed a statement of solidarity with Palestinians in Gaza. The stunt was reported to be a project of a conservative media group, which also published a website that listed students and faculty members and was updated regularly.2Karam, supra note 1. People named on the website were said to be members of various campus groups that were engaged in protests against Israel’s military actions. The website asked readers to send messages to Columbia’s board of trustees urging them to “take a stand” against “these hateful individuals.”3Id. The group also purchased domain names that corresponded to the actual names of several students and faculty on the list, and it planned to send the truck to the targets’ homes. Two Columbia law students who were named had job offers withdrawn by law firms, according to news outlets covering the story.4Id. For reporting on self-censorship surrounding the military actions in Gaza, see Emily Nayyer, Surveys Reveal Rising Student and Faculty Concern About Censorship, Self-Censorship Post-October 7, FIRE (July 12, 2024), https://www.thefire.org/news/surveys-reveal-rising-student-and-faculty-concern-about-censorship-self-censorship-post [https://perma.cc/5RJW-WXFC] (reporting the results of a survey that found increased censorship and self-censorship among students concerning the war in Gaza); Shibley Telhami & Marc Lynch, Middle East Scholar Barometer #7 (May 23-June 6, 2024), https://criticalissues.umd.edu/sites/criticalissues.umd.edu/files/November%202023%20MESB%20Results.pdf [https://perma.cc/8YKA-2GSS] (reporting the results of a poll conducted by the University of Maryland and George Washington University, finding that seventy-five percent of scholars of the Middle East responded “Yes” when asked, “Do you feel the need to self-censor when speaking about the Palestinian-Israeli issue in an academic or professional capacity?”).

Although debates over Israel’s military actions in Gaza are particularly fierce, they are not unique. Fear of speaking seems to have intensified as political conflict has escalated in the United States and elsewhere.5Again, the phenomenon probably is not limited to one political camp, however asymmetric it may be. It is possible to imagine a situation where a public identification, accompanied by a charge of racism or bigotry, could be intended to elicit violence by third parties. The 2020 Central Park incident was meaningfully different, both because the intent of the person who posted the video did not seem to be malicious, and because the speech the video depicted was not on a matter of public concern. But a variation on that incident could be invented that would constitute doxing. Olivia Land, NYC’s ‘Central Park Karen’: I still live in hiding three years after viral video, N.Y. Post (Nov. 7, 2023), https://nypost.com/2023/11/07/metro/central-park-karen-still-hiding-3-years-after-viral-video [https://perma.cc/5LUY-VDNN]. As differences have deepened and political identities have tribalized, speakers noticeably have withdrawn, nervous about the possible results. Some antagonism is inherent in healthy democratic discourse, and it is not cause for regret. Criticism is a feature of deliberation, and it is valued by First Amendment traditions. But anticipation of systematic violence is something of a different order, at least arguably. Intimidation like that can degrade democratic discourse and political cooperation—or that at least is the worry with respect to freedom of expression.

Technological changes have contributed to the climate of anxiety, of course. Although some of the activity at Columbia was analog—it took the form of a truck circling campus—other aspects have leveraged the efficiency of digital media. Today, any utterance can be preserved and disseminated, instantly and cheaply. Anonymity reduces accountability for the intimidation; though anonymity also can serve freedom of expression,6See McIntyre v. Ohio Elections Comm’n, 514 U.S. 334, 342 (1995) (describing a First Amendment tradition of protecting anonymous speech in the United States). its possible piercing can disincentivize debate. A feeling of surveillance can result—the sense that something you say can provoke reprisal that is utterly devastating.

Although this is hard to document, the university classroom itself shows signs of being impoverished by the effects of systemic fear. On questions of political controversy, students appear reluctant to volunteer views that even conceivably could expose them to retribution or stigmatization. Faced with a choice between the exploration of ideas that entails the risk of retribution and the safety of silence, many students opt for the latter, it seems. And that is true of at least some students on the right and left.

Professor Helen Norton’s insightful essay for this symposium explores a related dynamic surrounding the law of stalking.7Helen Norton, Fear and Free Speech, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1351 (2025). For purposes of this Essay, what her sophisticated analysis illustrates is a more general phenomenon, namely that speech generating fear can itself have a silencing effect. Although the constitutional debate surrounding stalking manifestly concerns the expressive rights of the stalker, its latent lesson is that there are speech interests on both sides—that the victims of harassment and intimidation themselves can become muzzled.8To get a sense of that debate, see the majority and dissenting opinions in Counterman v. Colorado, 143 S. Ct. 2106 (2023), and Genevieve Lakier & Evelyn Douek, The First Amendment Problem of Stalking: Counterman, Stevens, and the Limits of History and Tradition, 113 Calif. L. Rev. 149, 195–203 (2025) (endorsing Justice Sotomayor’s concurring opinion in Counterman). Understanding that dynamic complicates any consideration of the First Amendment of fear.

This short Essay seeks to make modest progress on understanding and approaching the relationship between extreme fear and freedom of speech. Part I draws inspiration from Judith Shklar, who famously built a liberal political theory designed to shield citizens from fear.9A representative work is Judith N. Shklar, The Liberalism of Fear, in Liberalism and the Moral Life 21, 29 (Nancy L. Rosenblum ed., 1989). Though her theory was concerned solely with government oppression, and though she built up only a minimal kind of political morality, it can be complicated and complemented to include private sources of intimidation and, relatedly, to comprehend a positive government obligation to ensure the basic social and material conditions for a healthy speech environment. Part II then applies this political conception to the problem of doxing. State statutes regulating doxing already exist, though they mostly have not yet been tested for adherence to the First Amendment.10For examples of state doxing statutes, see infra notes 34, 37. For cases testing doxing statutes, see Kratovil v. City of New Brunswick, 261 N.J. 1 (2025) (holding that a New Jersey law that shielded an official from publication of their exact home address was narrowly tailored to a compelling state interest); Atlas Data Privacy Corporation v. We Inform, LLC, 758 F. Supp. 3d 322 (D.N.J. 2024) (also upholding the New Jersey statute); DeHart v. Tofte, 326 Or. App. 720 (Ct. App. Ore. 2023) (declining to apply a doxing law on expressive grounds); Publius v. Boyer–Vine, 237 F. Supp. 3d 997 (E.D. Cal. 2017) (ruling unconstitutional a statute that protected against the publication of certain identifying information about certain officials, upon request); Brayshaw v. City of Tallahassee, 709 F. Supp. 2d 1244 (N.D. Fla. 2010) (overturning on constitutional grounds a conviction for publishing identifying information about a police officer); Ostergren v. Cuccinelli, 615 F.3d 263 (4th Cir. 2010) (holding that a free-speech advocate’s publication of social security numbers was protected); Sheehan v. Gregoire, 272 F. Supp. 2d 1135 (W.D. Wash. 2003) (invalidating a state statute prohibiting publication of identifying information about certain public officials). Whether and how those laws comport with the right to freedom of expression is a complicated issue, one that must include consideration of the expressive interests of the targets or victims of doxing, as well as of the perpetrators, and it must involve the social and economic power relationships that constitute and distort the expressive environment.

I. The Politics of Fear

A place to start is with perhaps the most prominent political theorist of fear, Judith Shklar. Reading her later work today is bracing—it elicits a jolt of recognition. At the most basic level, Shklar seeks to organize a conception of liberalism around a summum malum, namely “cruelty and the fear it inspires, and the very fear of fear itself.”11Shklar, supra note 9, at 29. Cruelty of the sort that concerns her is systematic; it is not haphazard but instead it entails the “deliberate infliction of physical, and secondarily emotional, pain” as an exercise of power by those in positions of strength against those in positions of weakness.12Id.

Terror and acute anxiety are bad, supremely bad, partly because they interfere with freedom, understood as the ability to direct one’s own life. Here is a key passage: “Every adult should be able to make as many effective decisions without fear or favor about as many aspects of her or his life as is compatible with the like freedom of every other adult. That belief is the original and only defensible meaning of liberalism.”13Id. at 21. She explains that liberalism aims to lift the burden of political anxiety from the shoulders of adults, who then can order their lives according to their own beliefs, wants, and needs.14Id. at 31 (explaining that liberalism restricts itself to politics and seeks “to lift the burden of fear and favor from the shoulders of adult women and men, who can then conduct their lives in accordance with their own beliefs and preferences”).

Shklar’s chain of reasoning—from basic security, to the fear of its violation, to the fear of fear itself, and then to the connection of security to the exercise of basic freedom—resonates. She connects power differentials and their abuse to human emotion, and she connects psychological security to the ability of individuals to function as citizens in a political community.15Id. at 29 (“Systematic fear is the condition that makes freedom impossible . . . .”). A commitment to personal security is political insofar as it concerns a necessary condition of the community—of the project of democratic cooperation.16Id. (“[W]hen we think politically, we are afraid not only for ourselves but for our fellow citizens as well. We fear a society of fearful people.”).

For theorists of free speech, it is a short step from Shklar’s liberalism to the realization that speakers cannot be free if they are fearful of physical violence or of power exercised against them in ways that threaten their safety. Is this silencing systematic? Shklar is not simply concerned with insecurity, again, but with insecurity that issues from power differentials and is patterned. Silencing that results from fear today could possibly be considered systematic, in a sense. Or you could say that some silencing is systematic in this way. In a radically polarized political climate, the content and viewpoint that risks retribution is foreseeable—and it is precisely this predictability that creates the conditions for censorship. If speakers did not know what positions or politics would endanger themselves or their families, they would not be able to avoid them. But because such viewpoints are foreseeable, and to the extent they are, they can be silenced.

Shklar is focused on public power, which she identifies with government action.17Id. at 21 (“[W]hile the sources of social oppression are indeed numerous, none has the deadly effect of those who, as the agents of the modern state, have unique resources of physical might and persuasion at their disposal.”). And her sharp distinction between public and private power is recognizably liberal.18Cf. Corey Robin, Fear: The History of a Political Idea 14–15 (2004) (describing and complicating Shklar’s exclusive focus on government, and showing how that focus relates to her liberalism). To some degree, Shklar’s work nevertheless remains relevant here, even strictly construed, because it applies to certain violations of freedom of expression that are instigated by government actors. In this pattern, a public official identifies a political enemy with the knowledge and expectation that followers will harass and intimidate the targeted person, terrifying them into submission and silence. So, although the proximate harm is caused by private persons, the coordination and instigation come from politicians.

Yet taking a broader view, Shklar’s focus on state action neglects instances in which private actors threaten potential speakers without any apparent or actual coordination by government figures. Because the effect is often the same, and because the topics involved may well be matters of public concern, her neglect of nonpublic exercises of power to systematically silence people limits the usefulness of her insights in today’s speech environment.

It is true that Shklar acknowledges the relevance of some social and institutional conditions for the exercise of individual freedom. For example, she emphasizes some differences between her theory and Isaiah Berlin’s negative liberty, which is otherwise quite similar. She sees the importance of protecting not just negative liberty as such, but also the conditions that make its exercise possible, and she realizes that in this way negative liberty is a necessary but not sufficient condition for personal freedom.19Shklar, supra note 9, at 28. “No door is open in a political order in which public and private intimidation prevail,” she says, and therefore it is important to identify the “institutional characteristics of a relatively free regime,” including mechanisms for the dispersal of power—social as well as strictly political power.20Id. (emphasis added); see id. at 30–31 (embracing property rights as a mechanism for the dispersal of power).

In a prominent critique, Sam Moyn portrays the liberalism of fear as an instance of what he calls Cold War liberalism. Chastened and traumatized by the wars and totalitarianisms of the twentieth century, Shklar pessimistically “dropped any radical expectations of improvement” and retreated to defending minimal pluralism against the persistent threat of violence.21Samuel Moyn, Before—and Beyond—the Liberalism of Fear, in Between Utopia and Realism: The Political Thought of Judith N. Shklar 24, 24 (Samantha Ashenden & Andreas Hess eds., 2019). Abandoning the aspirations of her earlier work, Shklar adopted a “ ‘survivalist’ approach to political theory,” one resigned to hope only for “damage control.”22Id. at 25; Shklar, supra note 9, at 27 (“We say ‘never again,’ but somewhere someone is being tortured right now, and acute fear has again become the most common form of social control. To this the horror of modern warfare must be added as a reminder. The liberalism of fear is a response to these undeniable actualities, and it therefore concentrates on damage control.”). This form of liberalism offered few resources to resist the rise of libertarianism and neoliberalism, though it was distinct from both.23Cf. Daniel McAteer, A Conversation with Samuel Moyn: The Cold War and the Canon of Liberalism, Univ. of Oxford: Ctr. for Intell. Hist. (Apr. 1, 2022), https://intellectualhistory.web.ox.ac.uk/article/a-conversation-with-samuel-moyn-the-cold-war-and-the-canon-of-liberalism [https://perma.cc/597Y-CEJ9] (arguing that in “the Cold War” period, “you get a much more libertarian framing of liberalism”).

We need not accept the limits of the liberalism of fear. To the degree that Shklar herself is focused solely on precarity caused by government policing, we can expand her insights and apply them to nongovernmental sources of insecurity. Political and constitutional theory can assimilate the insight that freedom of speech, like other basic liberties, cannot be merely formal but must be real for the actual human beings living in historically specific social situations.24Nelson Tebbe, A Democratic Political Economy for the First Amendment, 105 Cornell L. Rev. 959, 974–80 (2020). For a new, important account of why legal rights often are formal, not real, see Jeremy Kessler, Law and Historical Materialism, 74 Duke L.J. 1523, 1527–1538 (2025). It is essential for the meaningful exercise of freedom of speech for certain essential social and economic conditions to obtain. Some of these conditions are egalitarian, and some are sufficientarian, as argued in other work.25Tebbe, supra note 24, at 967. Here, the specific point is that speakers do not have a meaningful ability to express themselves freely if they are subject to fundamental physical and psychological insecurity. This is not just the healthy fear of avoidable pain, as Shklar emphasizes, but the systematic circumstance of political polarization and power exertion that predictably suppresses particular viewpoints.

The First Amendment of fear qualifies as a political conception because it attends to social and economic power and locates solutions, ultimately if not exclusively, in the state. Although the closest causes of anxiety today often are other citizens, leveraging digital media and other technologies of terror, they are unlikely to be stopped solely by private means. Government has an obligation to ensure people’s security, and their sense of security, as a condition of meaningful political participation as cogovernors in a democracy. Whether that obligation itself has constitutional force is an interesting but different question, and regardless government ought to be constitutionally permitted to pursue the structural conditions for real

people’s meaningful exercise of the fundamental right to freedom of expression.

Is the political commitment to freedom from fear possible to implement in law, given existing First Amendment doctrine? There is some doubt. Part II explores that question in the context of state statutes criminalizing or otherwise regulating doxing.

II. Doxing and Silencing

In the little space that is left in this Essay, let’s consider attempts by law to guard against a particular cause of fear, namely doxing. These attempts face serious challenges under the First Amendment, since doxing typically constitutes speech that does not necessarily or obviously fall within an existing category of unprotected expression, and since it is regulated based on its content.26For decisions considering the constitutionality of doxing laws, see supra note 10. From the perspective of the First Amendment of fear, this legal circumstance could be seen as a matter of regret, insofar as doxing itself can have a powerful silencing effect on those it targets.27Although doxing nearly always constitutes speech, it does not always single out its targets because of their expression. Even when it does not, however, it can exert a silencing effect. There may be no way to assimilate that insight into the existing structure of free speech doctrine. Yet this Part cautiously explores one possible pathway.

Doxing can be understood in several ways. The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as “[t]he action or process of searching for and publishing private or identifying information about a particular individual on the internet, typically with malicious intent.”28Doxing, Oxford Eng. Dictionary, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/6624632723 [https://perma.cc/V3TS-EJ3G]. At root, and colloquially, the practice involves publishing identifying information about someone in order to facilitate harm of that person by third parties. Yet not every element of this understanding is essential; arguably, the trucks that circled campuses displaying the names and images of students constituted doxing even though they did not involve the internet.29See, e.g., Karam, supra note 1 (using the phrase “doxxing truck”). And additional elements may be necessary, such as a particular level of mens rea, or a requirement that the information not already be publicly available, or that the target is not a public official.

California has an influential criminal statute that includes a specification of what constitutes doxing. It prohibits “electronically distribut[ing]” through various means “personal identifying information” of another person “with intent to place another person in reasonable fear for his or her safety, or the safety of the other person’s immediate family” and “for the purpose of imminently causing that other person unwanted physical contact, injury, or harassment . . . by a third party.”30Cal. Penal Code § 653.2(a) (West 2024). The statute also, but separately, prohibits distributing “an electronic message of a harassing nature about another person, which would be likely to incite or produce that unlawful action.” Id. Among the exceptions is the distribution of information with the target’s consent.31See id.

Though the California criminal statute does not use the term doxing, it has been understood to regulate that activity. A newer state law provides a civil cause of action for “doxing,” which it defines using much the same language as the criminal provision.32Cal. Civ. Code § 1708.89(a)(1) (West 2024). Here is the language:

“Doxes” means an act when a person, with intent to place another person in reasonable fear for their safety, or the safety of the other person’s immediate family, by means of an electronic communication device, and without consent of the other person, and for the purpose of imminently causing that other person unwanted physical contact, injury, or harassment, by a third party, electronically distributes, publishes, emails, hyperlinks, or makes available for downloading, personal identifying information, including, but not limited to, a digital image of another person, or an electronic message of a harassing nature about another person, which would be likely to incite or produce that unlawful action.
Legislative history shows that state lawmakers intended to provide a civil cause of action for doxing, referencing the criminal statute.33A.B. 1979, 2023–2024, Reg. Sess. (Cal. 2024). Also, Stanford University’s “Anti-Doxxing Policy” appears to be modeled on the California statutes and uses substantially the same definition of the prohibited activity.34Anti-Doxxing Policy, Stanford Univ. Bull., https://bulletin.stanford.edu/academic-polices/student-conduct-rights/anti-doxxing [https://perma.cc/L5D5-4UE6]; see David Cremins, Defending the Public Quad: Doxxing, Campus Speech Policies, and the First Amendment, 76 Stan. L. Rev. 1813, 1821 (2024) (noting that Stanford’s anti-doxing provision was modeled on California’s law, and that it passed the Faculty Senate with “near-unanimous support”).

Notable here is California’s use of the term “fear” to indicate the harm that it seeks to protect against. Apparently, the state believes that disabling anxiety on the part of victims is serious enough to warrant a criminal prohibition. And the statute recognizes that the electronic distribution of personal information has the power to generate a specific kind of harm, and to an extraordinary degree. Yet the statute also limits itself to fear of “physical contact, injury, or harassment,” not just anticipation of political criticism or even social ostracism, without more. Though there is considerable variation among state doxing statutes on this and other questions, the California approach is among the most straightforward.35For an example of a state statute that regulates doxing by name, see Wash. Rev. Code § 4.24.792 (2024). For an example of a law that does not use the term and is narrower in that it only applies to the disclosure of telephone numbers and home addresses, see Tex. Penal Code Ann. § 42.074 (West 2023). Also notable is that the California statute does not exempt news reporting, perhaps because lawmakers reasoned that the intent requirement would not be satisfied and therefore an explicit exemption was unnecessary.

Could the California statute withstand a First Amendment challenge?36The statute has been applied by courts, none of which have reached the constitutional question. Dziubla v. Piazza, 273 Cal. Rptr. 3d 297, 306–07 (2020); People v. Shivers, 186 Cal. Rptr. 3d 352, 356–358 (2015); see Cremins, supra note 34, at 1819 (“Since its passage in 2008, Section 653.2 has apparently never been challenged on First Amendment grounds . . . .” (footnote omitted)). The difficulty, of course, is that the distribution of personal identifying information could itself be seen to be expression, or expressive conduct. And if the Speech Clause is implicated, then plausibly it requires strict scrutiny of the California statute, which regulates on the basis of content.37See Cremins, supra note 34, at 1823, 1824 n.51 (noting that doxing rules single out speech on the basis of content). After all, the statute only prohibits a specific kind of speech, namely the distribution of certain identifying information using a particular medium. And whether the statute is narrowly tailored to a compelling government interest is unclear.38For examples of decisions finding that strict scrutiny was satisfied, see Kratovil, 261 N.J. at 26 (“we hold that when it enacted Daniel’s Law, the Legislature carefully calibrated the statute to serve a state interest of the highest order by the least restrictive means”), and Atlas Data Privacy Corp., 758 F. Supp. 3d at 337.

Under one theory, the California statute might be constitutional because it regulates a type of threat. On this approach, the regulated content would fall within a traditional category of unprotected speech. Compare California’s threat statute. It criminalizes threatening another person with “death or great bodily injury” with the specific intent that the statement be taken as a threat and under circumstances that convey a specific and immediate danger so that the target “reasonably . . . [is] in sustained fear for his or her own safety or for his or her immediate family’s safety.”39The relevant section of the statute reads, in full:

Any person who willfully threatens to commit a crime which will result in death or great bodily injury to another person, with the specific intent that the statement, made verbally, in writing, or by means of an electronic communication device, is to be taken as a threat, even if there is no intent of actually carrying it out, which, on its face and under the circumstances in which it is made, is so unequivocal, unconditional, immediate, and specific as to convey to the person threatened, a gravity of purpose and an immediate prospect of execution of the threat, and thereby causes that person reasonably to be in sustained fear for his or her own safety or for his or her immediate family’s safety, shall be punished by imprisonment in the county jail not to exceed one year, or by imprisonment in the state prison.

Cal. Penal Code § 422(a) (West 2024).
Threat statutes do typically guard against a particular kind of “fear.”40Counterman v. Colorado, 143 S. Ct. 2106, 2114 (2023) (“True threats subject individuals to ‘fear of violence’ and to the many kinds of ‘disruption that fear engenders.’ ” (quoting Virginia v. Black, 538 U.S. 343, 360 (2003))). Conceivably, California’s doxing statute regulates a subset of threat—a specific kind of statement, made through a particular medium, that causes the target to feel insecure, particularly with regard to safety. Both statutes have an intent requirement and they both apply only to reasonable fears and imminent dangers. Neither requires the violence to eventuate because both recognize that the fear itself is harmful.

To be sure, there are differences that may be important. Crucially, the doxing statute shields against statements that risk harm not by the speaker, but by a third party. For this reason, it could be reasonably argued that incitement is the category of unprotected speech that is more closely analogous to doxing.41Under this alternative, a doxing conviction would have to meet the Brandenburg test, according to which “the constitutional guarantees of free speech and free press do not permit a State to forbid or proscribe advocacy of the use of force or of law violation except where such advocacy is directed to inciting or producing imminent lawless action and is likely to incite or produce such action.” Brandenburg v. Ohio, 395 U.S. 444, 447 (1969). But incitement does not centrally involve fear, which seems essential to the harm of doxing.

If it is correct that doxing can count as a type of threat, then its prohibition could be seen as having a kind of derivative constitutionality. Threats constitute a category of unprotected speech, under established Supreme Court doctrine.42Counterman, 143 S. Ct. at 2113 (“True threats of violence, everyone agrees, lie outside the bounds of the First Amendment’s protection.”). If California has criminalized a species of threat, then its doxing statute could survive under that First Amendment doctrine. Importantly, the state would have to require at least a recklessness level of mens rea to avoid chilling protected activity.43Id. But because the doxing statute requires an “intent” and a “purpose,” it could be construed to clear that bar.44Cal. Penal Code § 653.2(a) (West 2024).

A possible doctrinal objection is that the Supreme Court protected an early form of doxing in NAACP v. Claiborne Hardware.45NAACP v. Claiborne Hardware Co., 458 U.S. 886 (1982). That decision is mainly known for its holding that a civil rights boycott of white-owned businesses was constitutionally protected.46Id. at 914. Less well known is the Court’s holding that recording the names of customers who violated the boycott, reading those names at meetings, and publishing the names in a newspaper could not be punished.47Id. at 925–26. If boycott enforcers from the NAACP intended to threaten these customers by causing them to fear that they would be identified to third parties who would harm them, then their activity of recording names looks like doxing. And the Court held that the organizers “admittedly sought to persuade others to join the boycott through social pressure and the ‘threat’ of social ostracism” but that “[s]peech does not lose its protected character . . . simply because it may embarrass others or coerce them into action.”48Id. at 910–11. Violence did occur in the course of the boycott, but still, the Court held that publishing names of boycott violators could not be punished. This could be understood as precedent for protecting doxing.

Yet the Court also reaffirmed that both violence and the threat of violence are unprotected and could be punished.49Id. at 916 (“[T]here is no question that acts of violence occurred. No federal rule of law restricts a State from imposing tort liability for business losses that are caused by violence and by threats of violence.”). What the First Amendment requires is precision, not protection of threatening speech.

When [violence or a threat] occurs in the context of constitutionally protected activity . . . ‘precision of regulation’ is demanded. Specifically, the presence of activity protected by the First Amendment imposes restraints on the grounds that may give rise to damages liability and on the persons who may be held accountable for those damages.50Id. at 916–17 (quoting NAACP v. Button, 371 U.S. 415, 438 (1963)).

In the context of doxing, this may provide good reason to require an elevated level of mens rea.51Cf. id. at 919 (noting that, in the context of those who associate with others who commit violence, “to punish association with such a group, there must be clear proof that a defendant specifically intends to accomplish the aims of the organization by resort to violence”) (alterations and internal quotation marks omitted). The lesson may be that while speech that identifies perceived wrongdoers cannot be punished, particularly when it addresses matters of public concern, speech that identifies individuals for the specific purpose of eliciting violence can be prohibited because criminalization with that elevated level of intent constitutes “precision of regulation.” Whether the “doxing truck” at Columbia could be criminalized under this approach would depend, in part, on whether it was operated with the requisite level of intent.

Another possible objection is that punishing only doxing that is specifically intended to elicit fear of violence, and that qualifies as a type of threat, does not match people’s common understanding of doxing. On this objection, it is undesirable for there to be a mismatch between the social meaning of a term like doxing and the legal prohibition that seeks to address the harm. That is reasonable. If the truck at Columbia were not motivated by the requisite intent, such that it did not constitute doxing as a legal matter, some would view that as a fault of the statute. One response is that not protecting against doxing at all, or doing so only through existing statutes designed for other purposes, also fails to match people’s reasonable expectation that the law should address serious harms. Another response is that many people seemingly do think that doxing involves “malicious intent” in the words of the Oxford definition, if not necessarily intent relative to violence.52See supra text accompanying note 28. So maybe the mismatch is not so egregious.

Another mismatch is that the proposal here only prohibits doxing that creates a fear of violence, not also harassment.53Cremins argues that doxing statutes should only punish in which there is a threat of physical contact or injury. Cremins, supra note 34, at 1827–29, 1832. That is because it is unclear whether a statute that guarded against fear of harassment, without more, would fall within the category of unprotected speech for true threats.54Note that the California threat statute only protects against fear of “death or great bodily injury” or lack of safety of self or family. See supra text accompanying note 39. So here too, there is a potential mismatch between the proposal and colloquial understandings of doxing—an awkwardness that may simply be a cost of fitting this particular protection against disabling fear into the existing constitutional doctrine.

This proposal would bring the regulation of doxing within the unprotected category of threatening speech. Still, it is unfortunate that First Amendment law is being understood to require strict scrutiny of all speech regulations that fall outside a recognized category of unprotected speech, such as threats. As Genevieve Lakier and Evelyne Douek have argued, the Supreme Court has moved away from its traditional practice of evaluating speech regulations with respect to First Amendment values and competing considerations.55Lakier & Douek, supra note 8, at 216 (taking no position on the constitutionality of laws against doxing, inter alia, but arguing that the issue should be confronted “head-on,” and not through the “distorted kaleidoscope” of current doctrine, with its categories of unprotected speech and its assumption that all speech regulation outside them will draw strict scrutiny); see id. at 217 (arguing that “the First Amendment provides more latitude to legislatures to protect individuals from this kind of fear-inducing speech than a superficial reading of the Court’s recent precedents implies”). In this context, as noted, doxing regulation could serve important free speech values, especially by protecting victims against the sort of disabling hesitation that effectively silences them. So it could be said that in at least some cases there are expressive interests on both sides of a statute like California’s. A full consideration of values would take that symmetry into account.

Yet, for now, unless and until there is a meaningful change in the ideology or composition of the Roberts Court, the binary approach to speech doctrine must be taken as a fixed feature of constitutional law. And under that approach, a doxing statute like this one can best survive if it is understood to regulate a subset of threatening speech.

  Conclusion

From the perspective of the First Amendment of fear, government ought to be at least permitted, if not required, to safeguard the conditions under which people have a meaningful and not just formal ability to participate in democratic discourse and otherwise express themselves freely. One obstacle to that freedom is the systematic apprehension of speaking on certain topics. Unfreedom of this kind is worth protecting against. Government has the ability and the responsibility to ensure expressive security—not freedom from fear of criticism or rebuke, but freedom from systematic fear of violence, at the very least. Arguably, this kind of safety is essential to expression. Doxing legislation may be one example of government protection that, despite facing constitutional hurdles, can be crafted so that it does more to promote than to frustrate First Amendment imperatives.

98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1413

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* Jane M.G. Foster Professor of Law, Cornell Law School. Thanks to Evelyn Douek, Eugene Volokh, participants in the Southern California Law Review symposium, and the staff of the law review for comments and suggestions. The author served as an observer for a committee of the Uniform Law Commission on doxing, but the arguments here do not reflect the views of the committee.

(Un)Safe and (In)Effective: Preemption, Deference, the FDA, and the Opioid Crisis

The Food and Drug Administration (“FDA”) is tasked with keeping prescription drugs safe and effective for the American people. The FDA has long enjoyed deference in its decision-making because of the ambiguity in its organic statute, the Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act (“FDCA”). Gaining FDA approval for prescription drugs, however, is not a rubber stamp that frees a drug manufacturer from liability. Prescription drug manufacturers, such as opioid manufacturers, have been unsuccessful in convincing courts to use the concept of federal preemption and deference—specifically FDA approval and therefore judicial deference to that approval—to shield them from liability from state law claims against the distribution of these drugs. With the fall of Chevron deference in June 2024, it is unclear if the FDA will still enjoy the deference it has received, potentially leading to the promulgation of litigation against the FDA for (un)safe and (in)effective drugs. This Note examines the evolution of litigation against prescription drug manufacturers, specifically opioid manufacturers, by analyzing the difficult-to-meet standard of federal preemption under the FDCA. It then examines the history of deference to the FDA under Chevron by using the FDA approval and regulation of opioids as a case study. Lastly, it predicts how the overruling of Chevron by Loper Bright Enterprises v. Raimondo will impact the prescription drug landscape—ranging from circuit splits, to changes in the FDA structure, to even a floodgate of ligation against the FDA itself.

Eighth Amendment Stare Decisis

In 2008, the United States Supreme Court decided Kennedy v. Louisiana, holding that the Eighth Amendment barred death sentences for the crime of child rape because such punishments were cruel and unusual. In 2023, Florida passed a statute that directly contravenes this constitutional rule. Under the Florida statute, committing sexual battery against a child is a capital offense.

In a vacuum, one might expect the Court to strike down Florida’s statute as clearly unconstitutional in violation of the Eighth Amendment based on the principle of stare decisis. Traditionally, the concept of stare decisis has referred to the obligation of the Court to follow prior precedent.

The Court’s description of the scope of stare decisis stems from its abortion cases. The Court initially explained stare decisis in Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pennsylvania v. Casey but arguably loosened its meaning in its decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization. Indeed, the Court’s decision in Dobbs, in which it reversed the fifty-year-old precedent of Roe v. Wade and its successor Casey, suggests that the Kennedy case could face a similar fate.

But the Eighth Amendment contains substantive doctrinal characteristics that suggest it is unique with respect to stare decisis. In particular, the Eighth Amendment’s relationship to stare decisis is unusual because the premise of the underlying doctrine is that the meaning of the Amendment will change over time. Pursuant to “the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society,” the Eighth Amendment expands over time to bar punishments formerly constitutional but now determined to be draconian.

As such, there become two possibilities with respect to applying stare decisis under the Eighth Amendment. First, stare decisis could mean what it means in other contexts—deferring to precedent and refusing to overrule a prior decision unless it rises to the level of the test previously set forth in Casey and now articulated in Dobbs. Alternatively, stare decisis could mean following the evolving standards of decency doctrine. This approach contemplates that the Amendment would change over time, such that stare decisis would require the overruling of precedent, moving the case law in a progressive, less punitive direction.

This Article argues for the latter reading. Specifically, the Article makes the novel claim that the Eighth Amendment has its own unique stare decisis doctrine, the doctrine moves in one direction, and such a reading of the Eighth Amendment is consistent with the Court’s decision in Dobbs.

In Part I, the Article explores the origins of the unique doctrine of Eighth Amendment stare decisis. Part II examines past and future applications of this doctrine. Finally, in Part III, the Article explains why the Court’s decision in Dobbs supports Eighth Amendment Stare Decisis.

All bad precedents have originated from good measures.

—Julius Caesar1 Sallust, The War with Catiline / The War with Jugurtha 114 (John T. Ramsey ed., J.C. Rolfe trans., Harvard Univ. Press 2013) (1470) (recounting a speech by Julius Caesar).

INTRODUCTION

In 2008, the United States Supreme Court decided Kennedy v. Louisiana, holding that the Eighth Amendment barred death sentences for the crime of child rape because such punishments were cruel and unusual.2Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 421 (2008). The Court’s decision adopted a categorical constitutional bar, meaning that any imposition of the death penalty for the crime of child rape exceeded the state’s power to punish under the Constitution. In 2023, Florida passed a statute that directly contravenes this constitutional rule.3Rose Horowitch, DeSantis Expands Death Penalty to Include Child Rape, Setting Up Likely Court Challenge, NBC News (May 2, 2023, 9:01 AM), https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/desantis-expands-death-penalty-include-child-rape-setting-likely-court-rcna82413 [https://perma.cc/37M6-LAWL]. Tennessee followed Florida in May 2024, and Alabama, Arizona, Idaho, Missouri, South Carolina, and South Dakota have also considered passing a similar law. Tennessee Authorizes Death Penalty for Child Sexual Assault in Direct Challenge to Supreme Court Precedent, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., (Sept. 25, 2024), https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/news/tennessee-authorizes-death-penalty-for-child-sexual-assault-in-direct-challenge-to-supreme-court-precedent [https://perma.cc/C9WU-BLLT]; Death Penalty for Child Sexual Abuse that Does Not Result in Death, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/facts-and-research/crimes-punishable-by-death/death-penalty-for-child-sexual-abuse-that-does-not-result-in-death [https://perma.cc/R777-PWUW]. Under the Florida statute, raping4The Florida statute describes the offense as “sexual battery” against a child. Fla. Stat. § 794.011(2)(a) (2024). For purposes of simplicity, this article refers to sexual “assaults” and “batteries” as “rape.” So, all references to “child rape” include sexual assault and battery. a child is a capital offense.5Id. The statute provides that “A person 18 years of age or older who commits sexual battery upon, or in an attempt to commit sexual battery injures the sexual organs of, a person less than 12 years of age commits a capital felony, punishable as provided in ss. 775.082 and 921.1425.”

In a vacuum, one might expect the Court to strike down Florida’s statute as clearly unconstitutional in violation of the Eighth Amendment based on the principle of stare decisis. Traditionally, the concept of stare decisis has referred to the obligation of the Court to follow prior precedent.6See, e.g., Benjamin N. Cardozo, The Nature of the Judicial Process 149 (1921). Stare decisis literally means “let the decision stand.” Stare decisis, Britannica (Dec. 27, 2024), https://www.britannica.com/topic/stare-decisis [https://perma.cc/C9JX-692X]. A concept central to the rule of law, stare decisis presumes the binding nature of a prior decision, except under certain circumstances that allow for the reversing of the precedent to remedy an incorrect decision.7See, e.g., Lewis F. Powell, Jr., Stare Decisis and Judicial Restraint, 1991 J. Sup. Ct. Hist. 13, 16 (1991); Daniel A. Farber, The Rule of Law and the Law of Precedents, 90 Minn. L. Rev. 1173, 1173 (2006).

The Court’s description of the scope of stare decisis stems from its abortion cases. The Court initially explained stare decisis in Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pennsylvania v. Casey,8Planned Parenthood of Se. Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833, 854–55 (1992), overruled by Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228 (2022); see Melissa Murray & Katherine Shaw, Dobbs and Democracy, 137 Harv. L. Rev. 728, 750 (2024) (describing Casey as providing the “canonical formulation of the Court’s approach to stare decisis”). but arguably loosened its meaning in its decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization.9Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. 2228 at 2263–65.

In Casey, the Court explained that while stare decisis is “not an ‘inexorable command,’ ”10Casey, 505 U.S. at 854 (quoting Burnet v. Coronado Oil & Gas Co., 285 U.S. 393, 405 (1932) (Brandeis, J., dissenting)); see also Payne v. Tennessee, 501 U.S. 808, 842 (1991) (Souter, J., concurring); Arizona v. Rumsey, 467 U.S. 203, 212 (1984). its application relates to “a series of prudential and pragmatic considerations designed to test the consistency of overruling a prior decision with the ideal of the rule of law.”11Casey, 505 U.S. at 854. Specifically, the Court examined (1) whether the central rule has become unworkable;12Id.; Swift & Co. v. Wickham, 382 U.S. 111, 116 (1965). (2) whether the Court could remove the rule’s limitation on state power without serious inequity to those who have relied upon it or significant damage to the stability of the society governed by it;13Casey, 505 U.S. at 855; United States v. Title Ins. & Tr. Co., 265 U.S. 472, 486 (1924). (3) whether the law’s growth in the intervening years has left the precedent’s central rule a doctrinal anachronism discounted by society;14Casey, 505 U.S. at 855; Patterson v. McLean Credit Union, 491 U.S. 164, 173–74 (1989). and (4) whether the precedent’s premises of fact have so far changed as to render its central holding somehow irrelevant or unjustifiable in dealing with the issue it addressed.15Casey, 505 U.S. at 855.

But in Dobbs, the Court adjusted the stare decisis test, using a five-factor inquiry in deciding to overrule Roe v. Wade and Casey.16Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2263–65 (2022). The Dobbs test did not focus on Casey; rather it relied on the Court’s decisions in Janus v. Am. Fed’n of State, Cnty., & Mun. Emps., Council 31, 138 S. Ct. 2448, 2478 (2018), and Ramos v. Louisiana, 590 U.S. 83, 121–24 (2020) (Kavanaugh, J., concurring). Specifically, the Court examined (1) the nature of the court’s error, (2) the quality of its prior reasoning, (3) the workability of the current standard, (4) the effect on other areas of law, and (5) the reliance interests in the precedent.17Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2265. One way to read this shift is as a means of freeing the Court to reverse precedents it thinks are normatively incorrect.

Indeed, the Court’s decision in Dobbs,18For a thorough exploration of the Dobbs decision and its consequences, see Murray & Shaw, supra note 8. in which it reversed the fifty-year-old precedents of Roe v. Wade19Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973), overruled by Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2242. and its successor Casey,20Casey, 505 U.S. at 833. suggests that the Kennedy case could face a similar fate if the Court normatively disagrees with the outcome in that case.21Kennedy, after all, was a narrow 5–4 decision. Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407 (2008). And the Court declined to expand the Eighth Amendment in Jones v. Mississippi, 593 U.S. 98, 101 (2021). A more open-ended view of stare decisis, in which the Court places more weight on getting the “right” answer as opposed to following its precedent, could incentivize the Court to focus on policy over precedent.22And with the current Court the “right” answer tends to be the “right” answer, meaning that the conservative policy choice is the correct one, irrespective of precedent. In addition to Roe, landmark cases such as Miranda v. Arizona, Chevron U.S.A. Inc. v. Natural Resources Defense Council, Inc., and New York Times Co. v. Sullivan all face new challenges. Indeed, the Court overruled Chevron in June 2024. Loper Bright Enters. v. Raimondo, 144 S. Ct. 2244, 2273 (2024).

Likewise, a cursory glance at the Supreme Court’s Eighth Amendment cases suggests that the principle of stare decisis may carry less weight in this context.23See, e.g., Meghan J. Ryan, Does Stare Decisis Apply in the Eighth Amendment Death Penalty Context?, 85 N.C. L. Rev. 847, 855–59 (2007). For instance, the Court reversed its decisions in Penry v. Lynaugh24Penry v. Lynaugh, 492 U.S. 302 (1989), abrogated by Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304 (2002). and Stanford v. Kentucky25Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361 (1989), abrogated by Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005). a mere thirteen and sixteen years later in Atkins v. Virginia26Atkins, 536 U.S. at 321. and Roper v. Simmons, 27Roper, 543 U.S. at 578–79. respectively.

But the Eighth Amendment contains substantive doctrinal characteristics that suggest it is unique with respect to stare decisis. In particular, the Eighth Amendment’s relationship to stare decisis is unusual because the premise of the underlying doctrine is that the meaning of the Amendment will change over time.28Weems v. United States, 217 U.S. 349, 373 (1910). The original meaning of the Eighth Amendment also contemplates change over time. See John F. Stinneford, The Original Meaning of “Unusual”: The Eighth Amendment as a Bar to Cruel Innovation, 102 Nw. U. L. Rev. 1739, 1741 (2008). Pursuant to “the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society,” the Eighth Amendment expands over time to bar punishments formerly constitutional but now determined to be draconian.29Trop v. Dulles, 356 U.S. 86, 101 (1958).

As such, two possibilities exist for applying stare decisis to Eighth Amendment decisions. First, stare decisis could mean what it means in other contexts—deferring to precedent and refusing to overrule a prior decision unless it rises to the level of the test previously set forth in Casey and now articulated in Dobbs. Alternatively, stare decisis could mean following the evolving standards of decency doctrine. This approach contemplates that the Amendment would change over time, such that stare decisis would require overruling of precedent, moving the case law in a progressive,30The majoritarian underpinnings of evolving standards doctrine cut against rule of law concerns. As explored infra Part I, the requirement that a plurality of states have abandoned a punishment as a prerequisite to declaring it unconstitutional under the Eighth Amendment means that the change reflects society’s consensus as opposed to advancing the constitutional limit beyond it. less punitive direction.31Weems, 217 U.S. at 373; Trop, 356 U.S. at 101; Roper, 543 U.S. at 560–68 (finding that the evolving standards barred juveniles from execution in contradiction of prior Court decisions). Again, the original meaning also seems to contemplate this one-way ratchet. See Stinneford, supra note 28.

This Article argues for the latter reading. Specifically, the Article advances the novel claim that the Eighth Amendment has its own unique stare decisis doctrine, the doctrine moves in one direction, and such a reading of the Eighth Amendment is consistent with the Court’s decision in Dobbs.

In Part I, the Article explores the origins of the unique doctrine of Eighth Amendment stare decisis. Part II examines past and future applications of this doctrine. Finally, in Part III, the Article explains why the Court’s decision in Dobbs supports this reading of the Eighth Amendment and bars reversal of Kennedy v. Louisiana.

I.  ORIGINS OF EIGHTH AMENDMENT STARE DECISIS

Stare decisis, at its core, reflects a commitment to the rule of law.32See, e.g., Lewis F. Powell, Jr., Stare Decisis and Judicial Restraint, 47 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 281, 288 (1990) (“[E]limination of constitutional stare decisis would represent an explicit endorsement of the idea that the Constitution is nothing more than what five Justices say it is. This would undermine the rule of law.”). Of course, this relationship is not absolute. See, e.g., South Carolina v. Gathers, 490 U.S. 805, 825 (1989) (Scalia, J., dissenting) (“[W]hen convinced of former error, this Court has never felt constrained to follow precedent. In constitutional questions, where correction depends upon amendment and not upon legislative action this Court throughout its history has freely exercised its power to reexamine the basis of its constitutional decisions.” (quoting Smith v. Allwright, 321 U.S. 649, 665 (1944))), overruled by Payne v. Tennessee, 501 U.S. 808 (1991); see also Farber, supra note 7, at 1173–74. A vestige of the common law, the idea relates to honoring past decisions for the sake of predictability and consistency.33See Farber, supra note 7, at 1177–80; see also Richard H. Fallon, Jr., Stare Decisis and the Constitution: An Essay on Constitutional Methodology, 76 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 570, 573 (2001); Earl Maltz, The Nature of Precedent, 66 N.C. L. Rev. 367, 368–69 (1988). Cases with difficult factual situations challenge this paradigm.34See, e.g., Winterbottom v. Wright, (1842) 152 Eng. Rep. 402, 405–06 (“This is one of those unfortunate cases in which . . . it is, no doubt, a hardship upon the plaintiff to be without a remedy, but by that consideration we ought not to be influenced. Hard cases, it has been frequently observed, are apt to introduce bad law.”). When a rule of law generates unfair or inequitable outcomes, courts often elect to change the rule or distinguish the case such that the rule becomes inapplicable.35See, e.g., William O. Douglas, Stare Decisis, 49 Colum. L. Rev. 735, 736 (1949); Pearson v. Callahan, 555 U.S. 223, 233 (2009) (“[S]tare decisis is not an inexorable command.”) (quoting State Oil Co. v. Khan, 522 U.S. 3, 20 (1997)).

A more consequential decision, however, relates to a decision to reject the rule itself and replace the rule with a new one.36See cases cited infra note 45. Courts seem hesitant to engage in such a rejection of stare decisis without a strong normative reason for doing so.37See sources cited supra note 32.

Interpreting constitutional language adds an additional wrinkle to the stare decisis calculation.38See generally, e.g., Fallon, supra note 33 at 573. The Court has noted that stare decisis should carry less weight in the constitutional context.39Agostini v. Felton, 521 U.S. 203, 235 (1997); Martin v. Hunter’s Lessee, 14 U.S. (1 Wheat.) 304, 326 (1816). This is precisely because the Court is responsible for defining the scope and meaning of the Constitution, which often includes open-ended language.40Marbury v. Madison, 5 U.S. (1 Cranch) 137, 177 (1803); Frederick Schauer, An Essay on Constitutional Language, 29 UCLA L. Rev. 797, 798–99 (1981). The inability to easily amend the federal Constitution means that the Court’s interpretation is not subject to review and will change only when the members of the Court change.41See, e.g., Richard Albert, The World’s Most Difficult Constitution to Amend?, 110 Calif. L. Rev. 2005, 2007–11 (2022); Kimble v. Marvel Ent., LLC, 576 U.S. 446, 456 (2015). When such decisions include placing limits on the power of state legislatures or Congress, the countermajoritarian difficulty arises.42The countermajoritarian difficulty questions the wisdom of five Justices on the Court imposing their own views to strike down laws passed by a democratic majority in the legislature. See, e.g., Barry Friedman, The Birth of an Academic Obsession: The History of the Countermajoritarian Difficulty, Part Five, 112 Yale L.J. 153, 210–13 (2002); Barry Friedman, The History of the Countermajoritarian Difficulty, Part II: Reconstruction’s Political Court, 91 Geo. L.J. 1, 1–2 (2002); Barry Friedman, The History of the Countermajoritarian Difficulty, Part Three: The Lesson of Lochner, 76 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1383, 1385–86 (2001); Barry Friedman, The History of the Countermajoritarian Difficulty, Part Four: Law’s Politics, 148 U. Pa. L. Rev. 971, 1011–19 (2000); Barry Friedman, The History of The Countermajoritarian Difficulty, Part One: The Road to Judicial Supremacy, 73 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 333, 336 (1998). See generally Alexander M. Bickel, The Least Dangerous Branch: The Supreme Court at the Bar of Politics (1962) (framing the countermajoritarian difficulty).

And yet, in Marbury v. Madison, the Court made clear that its constitutional role is to engage in such judicial review, deciding who decides the scope and meaning of the Constitution.43Marbury, 5 U.S. (1 Cranch) at 177 (establishing the principle of judicial review and according the Supreme Court the power to decide who decides the meaning of the Constitution). The Court usually decides that it is its role to determine the meaning of the Constitution.44Id.; Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2262 (2022); Martin, 14 U.S. (1 Wheat.) at 326. The Court has further explained that when it has made such determinations incorrectly, it has the responsibility to push aside the mandates of stare decisis and change the applicable constitutional rule.45In Dobbs, the Court cites three examples of when ignoring stare decisis is appropriate to overrule prior decisions: (1) Brown v. Board of Education, 347 U.S. 483 (1954) (overruling the “separate but equal” doctrine of Plessy v. Ferguson, 163 U.S. 537 (1896)); (2) West Coast Hotel Co. v. Parrish, 300 U.S. 379 (1937) (overruling restrictions on the minimum wage law of Adkins v. Children’s Hospital of D.C., 261 U.S. 525 (1923) and by implication, the Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45 (1905) line of cases); and (3) West Virginia Board of Education v. Barnette, 319 U.S. 624 (1943) (overruling the law compelling high school students to salute the flag previously upheld by Minersville School Disrict. v. Gobitis, 310 U.S. 586 (1940)). Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2262–63.

What happens, though, when the precedent itself envisions that the rule will change over time, is different. The Eighth Amendment contemplates that the line between acceptable and unacceptable punishment will shift as society matures.46Weems v. United States, 217 U.S. 349, 373 (1910); Trop v. Dulles, 356 U.S. 86, 101 (1958). As such, the stare decisis tension at the heart of Casey and Dobbs dissipates. Instead, applying stare decisis means changing the rule.

A.  The Evolving Standards Test

The evolving standards test originates from the 1910 case of Weems v. United States.47Weems, 217 U.S. at 349. The original understanding of the concepts of both cruel and unusual was that they would change over time. See Stinneford, supra note 28 at 1741; John F. Stinneford, The Original Meaning of “Cruel”, 105 Geo. L.J. 441, 468–71 (2017). In Weems, the Court considered whether a punishment of cadena temporal—fifteen years of hard labor—for the crime of forgery constituted a cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment.48Weems, 217 U.S. at 380–82. The case occurred in the Philippines, which at the time was a territory of the United States.

In finding that the cadena temporal punishment was unconstitutional, the Court explained its approach to interpreting the Eighth Amendment:

Legislation, both statutory and constitutional, is enacted, it is true, from an experience of evils, but its general language should not, therefore, be necessarily confined to the form that evil had theretofore taken. Time works changes, brings into existence new conditions and purposes. Therefore a principle to be vital must be capable of wider application than the mischief which gave it birth. This is peculiarly true of constitutions.49Id. at 373.

The Court added that constitutional provisions “are not ephemeral enactments, designed to meet passing occasions,” but instead seek to “approach immortality as nearly as human institutions can approach it.”50Id.

Almost fifty years later, the Court further developed the concept that the Eighth Amendment did not contain a static meaning, but one that would change over time. In Trop v. Dulles, the Court considered the constitutionality of the punishment of loss of citizenship for wartime military desertion.51Trop, 356 U.S. at 88. The Court explained that the petitioner had escaped from a stockade in Casablanca while serving as a private in the U.S. Army in French Morocco during World War II. His desertion lasted a day, before he willingly surrendered to an army officer. Trop testified that “we had decided to return to the stockade. The going was tough. We had no money to speak of, and at the time we were on foot and we were getting cold and hungry.” Id. at 87–88. Specifically, the Court considered whether permanently denying Trop a passport constituted a cruel and unusual punishment.52It is worth noting that Trop served three years imprisonment, forfeiture of all pay and allowances, and a dishonorable discharge. Id. at 88. The question for the Court was whether the additional consequence of loss of citizenship violated the Eighth Amendment. Id. at 99.

In finding for Trop, the Court explored the meaning of the Eighth Amendment.53The Court found the punishment to be inappropriate as “total destruction of the individual’s status in organized society” in stripping the “citizen of his status in the national and international political community.” Id. at 101. Citing Weems, the Court echoed the idea that “the words of the [Eighth] Amendment are not precise, and that their scope is not static.”54Id. at 100–01. As a result, “[t]he [Eighth] Amendment must draw its meaning from the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society.”55Id. at 101.

Having cemented the idea that the Eighth Amendment would evolve over time in a progressive way, the Court later established a test to determine whether a particular punishment violated society’s evolving standards of decency. In Coker v. Georgia, the Court developed this test in assessing whether a punishment of death for the crime of rape was constitutional.56Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584 (1977).

As established in Coker, the Court’s inquiry contains two parts—an objective assessment and a subjective component.57Although the Court has not framed it this way, one way of understanding this test is that the objective indicia assesses unusualness—whether the punishment is contrary to historical precedent and current practice, while the subjective indicia assesses cruelty—whether the punishment is excessive in light of the applicable purposes of punishment. The objective determination seeks “guidance in history and from the objective evidence of the country’s present judgment” concerning the punishment in question.58Coker, 433 U.S. at 593. In Coker, the Court looked to the number of jurisdictions that allowed death sentences for the crime of rape, finding that Georgia was the only state allowing that punishment where the victim was an adult woman.59Id. at 595–96. Two other states, Florida and Mississippi, allowed the death penalty for rape of a child, but not an adult. Id. at 595. Its assessment of the objective indicia also included jury verdicts, which revealed that Georgia juries only imposed death sentences in six out of sixty-three cases involving the crime of adult rape.60Id. at 596–97.

After finding that the objective evidence revealed that the punishment of death for rape was inconsistent with the societal standards of decency, the Court “brought to bear” its own independent judgment concerning the constitutionality of the punishment.61Id. at 597. This judgment constituted an assessment of the proportionality of the punishment in light of the crime committed and the characteristics of the perpetrator.62Id. at 598–99 (discussing the proportionality of death as a punishment for rape). As the Court developed this subjective inquiry in later cases, it increasingly relied on the purposes of punishment—retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation—to determine whether a punishment was proportionate.63See, e.g., id. at 597–98; Enmund v. Florida, 458 U.S. 782, 797–801 (1982); Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304, 318–21 (2002); Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 568–72 (2005); Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 434–41. This concept of proportionality applies to both retributive and utilitarian purposes of punishment. See William W. Berry III, Separating Retribution from Proportionality: A Response to Stinneford, 97 Va. L. Rev. In Brief 61, 64–70 (2011) (explaining why proportionality applies to all of the purposes of punishment, not just retribution).

Following the Court’s precedents in applying the Eighth Amendment, then, means applying the evolving standards of decency test to determine whether a punishment is cruel and unusual. It is worth noting that the Court initially cabined the application of this test to capital cases, because “death is different.”64See Furman v. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238, 286 (1972) (Brennan, J., concurring) (“Death is a unique punishment in the United States.”); Carol S. Steiker & Jordan M. Steiker, Sober Second Thoughts: Reflections on Two Decades of Constitutional Regulation of Capital Punishment, 109 Harv. L. Rev. 355, 370 (1995) (crediting Justice Brennan’s concurrence in Furman as the originator of this line of argument); see also, e.g., Ring v. Arizona, 536 U.S. 584, 616–17 (2002) (Breyer, J., concurring) (explaining that because “death is not reversible,” DNA evidence that the convictions of numerous persons on death row are unreliable is especially alarming); Woodson v. North Carolina, 428 U.S. 280, 305 (1976) (noting that death differs from life imprisonment because of its “finality”); Spaziano v. Florida, 468 U.S. 447, 460 n.7 (1984) (stating that “the death sentence is unique in its severity and in its irrevocability”), overruled by Hurst v. Florida, 577 U.S. 92 (2016); Gregg v. Georgia, 428 U.S. 153, 187 (1976) (“There is no question that death as a punishment is unique in its severity and irrevocability.”); Jeffrey Abramson, Death-Is-Different Jurisprudence and the Role of the Capital Jury, 2 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 117, 118 (2004) (discussing the Court’s death-is-different jurisprudence and arguing that it requires additional procedural safeguards “when humans play at God”). It subsequently expanded the test to include juvenile life-without-parole sentences, because “children are different too.”65Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 481 (2012). See generally Cara H. Drinan, The War on Kids: How American Juvenile Justice Lost Its Way (2017) (exploring the Miller trilogy).

Practically, this means that stare decisis—following prior precedent—contemplates changing the rule to reflect the evolving standards of society. So, overruling a prior precedent would actually be following the doctrine when the move is from a harsher punishment to a less harsh punishment. The doctrine also makes clear, however, that this concept operates only in one direction—from more severe punishment to less severe punishment.

B.  Why It Moves in One Direction

The Court’s Eighth Amendment cases demonstrate why the Eighth Amendment only changes in one direction—with increasing limits on the power of state and federal governments to impose draconian punishments. In particular, the Eighth Amendment values of dignity and proportionality underscore this point.66The Court has relied on a number of key values to inform its Eighth Amendment jurisprudence. See, e.g., William W. Berry III & Meghan J. Ryan, Eighth Amendment Values, in The Eighth Amendment and its Future in a New Age of Punishment 61, 61 (Meghan J. Ryan & William W. Berry III eds., 2020). These values include the following: dignity, individualized sentencing, absolute proportionality, comparative proportionality, humanness, non-arbitrariness, and differentness. Id. at 61–73.

In its decision in Trop, the Court emphasized that “[t]he basic concept underlying the Eighth Amendment is nothing less than the dignity of man.”67Trop v. Dulles, 356 U.S. 86, 100 (1958). Indeed, the Court has referenced the concept of dignity under the Eighth Amendment repeatedly. Furman, 408 U.S. at 274 (Brennan, J., concurring); Sellars v. Beto, 409 U.S. 968, 970 (1972) (Douglas, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Gregg, 428 U.S. at 173; Estelle v. Gamble, 429 U.S. 97, 102 (1976); Ingraham v. Wright, 430 U.S. 651, 684 n.1 (1977) (White, J., dissenting); Roberts v. Louisiana, 431 U.S. 633, 642–43 (1977) (Rehnquist, J., dissenting); Hutto v. Finney, 437 U.S. 678, 685 (1978); United States v. Bailey, 444 U.S. 394, 423 (1980) (Blackmun, J., dissenting); Rhodes v. Chapman, 452 U.S. 337, 361 (1981) (Brennan, J., concurring in the judgment); Autry v. McKaskle, 465 U.S. 1090, 1091 (1984) (Brennan, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Spaziano, 468 U.S. at 471 n.5 (Stevens, J., concurring in part and dissenting in part); Glass v. Louisiana, 471 U.S. 1080, 1080 (1985) (Brennan, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); DeGarmo v. Texas, 474 U.S. 973, 973–74 (1985) (Brennan, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Cabana v. Bullock, 474 U.S. 376, 397 (1986) (Blackmun, J., dissenting); Smith v. Murray, 477 U.S. 527, 545–46 (1986) (Stevens, J., dissenting); Ford v. Wainwright, 477 U.S. 399, 406 (1986); McCleskey v. Kemp, 481 U.S. 279, 300 (1987); Thompson v. Oklahoma, 487 U.S. 815, 836 (1988); Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 392 (1989) (Brennan, J., dissenting), abrogated by Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005); Walton v. Arizona, 497 U.S. 639, 675 (1990) (Brennan, J., dissenting), overruled by Ring v. Arizona, 536 U.S. 584 (2002); Wilson v. Seiter, 501 U.S. 294, 307 (1991) (White, J., concurring in the judgment); Hudson v. McMillan, 503 U.S. 1, 11 (1992); Campbell v. Wood, 511 U.S. 1119, 1121 (1994) (Blackmun, J., dissenting from the denial of certiorari); Farmer v. Brennan, 511 U.S. 825, 852–53 (1994) (Blackmun, J., concurring); Atkins, 536 U.S. at 311–12; Hope v. Pelzer, 536 U.S. 730, 738 (2002); Overton v. Bazzetta, 539 U.S. 126, 138 (2003) (Stevens, J., concurring); Roper, 543 U.S. at 560; Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 420; Baze v. Rees, 553 U.S. 35, 57 (2008); Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48, 58–59 (2010); Brown v. Plata, 563 U.S. 493, 510 (2011); Woodward v. Alabama, 571 U.S. 1045, 1052 (2013) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Hall v. Florida, 572 U.S. 701, 708 (2014); Glossip v. Gross, 576 U.S. 863, 977 (2015) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting); Arthur v. Dunn, 580 U.S. 1141, 1154 (2017) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Moore v. Texas, 581 U.S. 1, 12, 20 (2017); Zagorski v. Haslam, 139 S. Ct. 20, 21 (2018) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Bucklew v. Precythe, 587 U.S. 119, 133–35 (2019); Coonce v. United States, 142 S. Ct. 25, 31 (2021) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); see also Meghan J. Ryan, Taking Dignity Seriously: Excavating the Backdrop of the Eighth Amendment, 2016 U. Ill. L. Rev. 2129, 2144–56. In other words, when the Eighth Amendment bars a particular punishment practice, it reflects the conclusion that a particular punishment treats the defendant “as an object”68Rex D. Glensy, The Right to Dignity, 43 Colum. Hum. Rts. L. Rev. 65, 96 (2011); Ryan, supra note 67, at 2143. beyond what society deems as “civilized, decent, and virtuous.”69Michal Buchhandler-Raphael, Drugs, Dignity, and Danger: Human Dignity as a Constitutional Constraint to Limit Overcriminalization, 80 Tenn. L. Rev. 291, 317 (2013); Ryan, supra note 67, at 2143–44.

The Court has made clear that it “look[s] to the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a maturing society” to “enforce” this “duty of the government to respect the dignity of all persons.”70Moore, 581 U.S. at 12 (quoting Hall, 572 U.S. at 708); Roper, 543 U.S. at 560–61 (quoting Trop, 356 U.S. at 100–01). If the society matures to find a formerly acceptable form of punishment to violate a person’s dignity, then the punishment cannot, by definition, become constitutional again at some later date. Indeed, an undignified punishment or a punishment that objectifies an inmate cannot, at a later date, magically become dignified or civilized, decent, and virtuous. If the “Eighth Amendment’s protection of dignity reflects the Nation we have been, the Nation we are, and the Nation we aspire to be,” as the Court has explained, that means that over time, the United States will discard more draconian forms of punishment in favor of more humane ones.71Hall, 572 U.S. at 708.

A change operating in the other way, from less severe punishment to more severe punishment, contravenes the core principle of the evolving standards.72The Court has arguably moved in this direction in three cases—Gregg v. Georgia, 428 U.S. 153 (1976); Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137 (1987); and Harmelin v. Michigan, 501 U.S. 957 (1991). However, a better reading of those cases suggests that those decisions were qualifications of prior decisions, not reversals in the direction of the evolving standards. See discussion infra Section II.C. The evolving standards “mark the progress of a maturing society,” and increasing punishment severity undercuts that very progress.73Trop, 356 U.S. at 101. This is particularly true concerning the punishments at issue—the death penalty and life without parole. Many states74Twenty-three states and the District of Columbia have abolished the death penalty: Alaska, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Dakota, Rhode Island, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin. Facts About the Death Penalty, Death Penalty Info. Ctr. (Feb. 7, 2025) [hereinafter Facts About the Death Penalty], https://dpic-cdn.org/production/documents/pdf/FactSheet.pdf [https://perma.cc/PM5V-DHBB]. Another twelve states have not had an execution in the past decade: California, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Montana, Nevada, North Carolina, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Wyoming. And three more have not had an execution in the past five years: Arkansas, Nebraska and Ohio. States with No Recent Executions, Death Penalty Info. Ctr. (Dec. 18, 2024), https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/executions/executions-overview/states-with-no-recent-executions [https://perma.cc/73SG-SB9T]. and Western nations75All of the European Union and most democratic nations in the world have abandoned the death penalty. See generally Roger Hood & Carolyn Hoyle, The Death Penalty: A Worldwide Perspective (5th ed. 2015) (cataloguing the abolition of the death penalty across the world). have abandoned the death penalty, and the United States remains the only nation that allows juvenile life-without-parole sentences.76See, e.g., Joshua Rovner, Juvenile Life Without Parole: An Overview, The Sent’g Project, (Apr. 7, 2023), https://www.sentencingproject.org/policy-brief/juvenile-life-without-parole-an-overview [https://perma.cc/527P-XY92]. Twenty-seven states and the District of Columbia have banned life-without-parole sentences for people under 18, and in another nine states, no one is serving juvenile life-without-parole sentences. Id. Undoing limits on punishments that most of the rest of the civilized world abolished long ago would reflect a move away from societal maturation and instead embrace societal savagery. Such a move would be the antithesis of promoting human dignity.

A second principle that the Court has linked to the evolving standards of decency—proportionality—similarly demonstrates why the Eighth Amendment only moves in one direction. The Court has explained that the evolving standards test is a tool by which to measure “the requirement of proportionality contained within the Eighth Amendment.”77Enmund v. Florida, 458 U.S. 782, 813 (1982) (O’Connor, J., dissenting). As with dignity, the Court has long emphasized the concept of proportionality as “central to the Eighth Amendment.”78Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48, 59 (2010); see also Weems v. United States, 217 U.S. 349, 365–67 (1910); Gregg v. Georgia, 428 U.S. 153, 172–73 (1976); Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584, 597 (1977); Enmund, 458 U.S. at 812–13 (O’Connor, J., dissenting); Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137, 152 (1987); Harmelin v. Michigan, 501 U.S. 957, 997–98 (1991) (Kennedy, J., concurring in part and concurring in the judgment); Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 378–79 (1989), abrogated by Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005); Penry v. Lynaugh, 492 U.S. 302, 345–46 (1989), abrogated by Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304 (2002); Atkins, 536 U.S. at 311; Roper, 543 U.S. at 574; Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 426 (2008); Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 469 (2012); Berry & Ryan, supra note 66, at 66–69; William W. Berry III, Promulgating Proportionality, 46 Ga. L. Rev. 69, 74 (2011) [hereinafter Berry, Promulgating Proportionality]; William W. Berry III, Practicing Proportionality, 64 Fla. L. Rev. 687, 689 (2012) [hereinafter Berry, Practicing Proportionality]; William W. Berry III, Procedural Proportionality, 22 Geo. Mason L. Rev. 259, 265 (2015). That means that when the Court bars particular punishments under the Eighth Amendment, it is because the punishment is excessive in light of the characteristics of the offense79See, e.g., Coker, 433 U.S. at 592 (barring the death penalty for rape); Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 413 (barring the death penalty for child rape); Enmund, 458 U.S. at 797 (barring the death penalty for some kinds of felony murder). or the characteristics of the offender.80See, e.g., Atkins, 536 U.S. at 321 (barring the death penalty for intellectually disabled defendants); Roper, 543 U.S. at 578 (barring the death penalty for juveniles).

Under the evolving standards test, the proportionality inquiry looks at the objective indicia of national consensus in that the sentence is excessive in light of what other jurisdictions permit and impose.81See, e.g., Graham, 560 U.S. at 58–59; Miller, 567 U.S. at 469. And under the subjective indicia, the Court assesses whether the sentence is disproportionate in light of the purposes of retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation.82See, e.g., Coker, 433 at 597–98; Enmund, 458 U.S. at 797–801; Atkins, 536 U.S. at 318–21; Roper, 543 U.S. at 568–72; Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 434–41; see also Berry, supra note 63, at 61–64 (explaining that proportionality applies to all of the purposes of punishment, not just retribution).

For a barred punishment to again be constitutionally permissible, it would mean that the consensus against the punishment has reversed. Such a scenario is unlikely because it would involve states implementing punishment practices in violation of the Constitution. One or more states, like Florida and Tennessee currently, might engage in a barred punishment practice, but such actions would not be enough to create a consensus to allow that kind of punishment again.83One might argue that this is exactly what happened when over forty states passed new death penalty statutes after the Furman decision barring the death penalty. See Corinna Barrett Lain, Furman Fundamentals, 82 Wash. L. Rev. 1, 46–48 (2007) (describing the response of states to Furman). But the decision in Furman was an as-applied decision, not a categorical ban, meaning that the punishment was only unconstitutional because of the way states administered it. Furman, 408 U.S. at 239–40. As such, the states were not passing laws in contravention of an evolved standard of decency, but rather to remedy the procedural defects in jury sentencing in capital cases. See discussion infra Section II.C.

In addition to a change in national consensus, a reversal would also mean that the concept of proportionality would have a fickle application. When a punishment is excessive, whether in light of retribution or one of the utilitarian purposes of punishment, it cannot magically become proportionate again. The argument would be that the initial determination was incorrect, that the Court defined a proportionate punishment as a disproportionate one.

The cautiousness of the Court’s evolving standards doctrine, though, makes such a claim less persuasive. All of its decisions to find punishments disproportionate under the Eighth Amendment have first found a majoritarian objective consensus84It is worth noting that the dissenters in some of the Court’s Eighth Amendment evolving standards cases have raised issues with the Court’s determination of consensus. See Atkins, 536 U.S. at 337–38 (Scalia, J., dissenting); Roper, 543 U.S. at 607–08 (Scalia, J., dissenting). In particular, the question relates to the proper method of state counting to determine consensus—whether it is the number of states allowing the death penalty that allow the execution of juveniles or intellectually disabled individuals, or the number of states (including abolitionist ones) that allow the practice in question. The question becomes an academic one, however, nearly two decades after the Court’s decision, as a national consensus against the practice in question has existed for two decades as a result of the Court’s decision. against the punishment in question before also finding the punishment disproportionate in its own subjective judgment.85On one level, populating the content of a countermajoritarian constitutional provision like the Eighth Amendment by looking at majoritarian practices seems contradictory, but it has nonetheless been the Court’s practice, perhaps as a way to measure “unusualness.” William W. Berry III, Unusual Deference, 70 Fla. L. Rev. 315, 327–38 (2018); see also Stinneford, supra note 28, at 1816.

A view of the Eighth Amendment as moving only in a more progressive direction is also consistent with its original meaning.86See generally Stinneford, supra note 28 (describing the original meaning of the Eighth Amendment). As John Stinneford has explained, the concept of “unusual” reflects a notion of longstanding usage.87Id. Drawing on the writings of Edward Coke as well as the common law, this original understanding reflected a proscription against cruel innovation—the adoption of newer methods of harsh punishment.88Id. The idea is that moving in a harsher direction undoes the original Eighth Amendment meaning of contrary to long usage, even if the evolving standards evolved in a more punitive direction.89Id. Under either an evolving standards reading or under an originalist reading, then, it is clear that the Eighth Amendment can change in only one direction—expanding to bar harsh punishments.

II.  APPLICATIONS OF EIGHTH AMENDMENT STARE DECISIS

While not describing its application of the Eighth Amendment as a unique form of stare decisis, the Court has nonetheless followed this approach on several occasions. And, as discussed, the national consensus continues to evolve.

A.  Past Applications

Arguably, the first application of the concept of evolving stare decisis was outside of the Eighth Amendment, before the Court articulated the details of its test in Coker. But the discussion begins here because the sentiment is the same—promoting a more progressive, humane form of punishment by placing constitutional limits on a draconian one.

1.  McGautha and Furman

In 1971, the Court considered the constitutionality of the death penalty in two companion cases, McGautha v. California90McGautha v. California, 402 U.S. 183, 186–87 (1971), reh’g granted, vacated, Crampton v. Ohio, 408 U.S. 941 (1972). McGautha and Wilkinson committed armed robbery, with conflicting testimony about which one of them had murdered a man during the robbery. and Crampton v. Ohio.91McGautha, 402 U.S. at 183, 192–94. Crampton had murdered his wife after release from a state mental hospital. These challenges made Fourteenth Amendment claims, specifically that the procedures used to impose the death sentences violated due process.92Id. at 185, 196. Both claimed that the lack of guidance given to the jury determining the sentence allowed the imposition of the death sentence without any governing standards.93Id. at 185. The judge instructed the McGautha jury in the following open-ended way:

[T]he law itself provides no standard for the guidance of the jury in the selection of the penalty, but, rather, commits the whole matter of determining which of the two penalties shall be fixed to the judgment, conscience, and absolute discretion of the jury. In the determination of that matter, if the jury does agree, it must be unanimous as to which of the two penalties is imposed.

Id. at 190. Similarly, the judge in Crampton instructed: “[i]f you find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree, the punishment is death, unless you recommend mercy, in which event the punishment is imprisonment in the penitentiary during life.” Id. at 194. The court did not give the jury an additional guidance on what constituted “mercy” or when “mercy” was appropriate. Id.
Crampton also challenged the unitary trial procedure in which the jury determined guilt and punishment at the same time.94Id. at 208–09. The problem with a unitary trial is that it requires the defendant to choose between arguing for innocence and arguing for a lesser sentence.

In a 6–3 decision, the McGautha court rejected petitioners’ arguments, finding that the Ohio and California sentencing procedures were constitutional.95Id. at 185–86. Examining the history of the death penalty, the Court surmised that sentencing discretion in capital cases constituted a form of mercy, not the application of a generalizable concept or standard.96Id. at 203–04. While recognizing the force of petitioners’ claim on a general level, the Court nonetheless emphasized the indeterminacy of the task of developing an applicable standard for capital juries.97Id. at 203–05. It explained, “[t]o identify before the fact those characteristics of criminal homicides and their perpetrators which call for the death penalty, and to express these characteristics in language which can be fairly understood and applied by the sentencing authority, appear to be tasks which are beyond present human ability.”98Id. at 204. The Court cited a similar conclusion reached by the British Home Office prior to its abolition of the death penalty:

The difficulty of defining by any statutory provision the types of murder which ought or ought not to be punished by death may be illustrated by reference to the many diverse considerations to which the Home Secretary has regard in deciding whether to recommend clemency. No simple formula can take account of the innumerable degrees of culpability, and no formula which fails to do so can claim to be just or satisfy public opinion.

Id. at 204–05. Similarly, the Royal Commission on Capital Punishment concluded, “No formula is possible that would provide a reasonable criterion for the infinite variety of circumstances that may affect the gravity of the crime of murder. Discretionary judgment on the facts of each case is the only way in which they can be equitably distinguished.” Id. at 205.

Even though the criteria given to the juries in McGautha and Crampton did not do more than exercise “minimal control” of the jury’s “exercise of discretion,” the Court found it “quite impossible to say that committing to the untrammeled discretion of the jury the power to pronounce life or death in capital cases is offensive to anything in the Constitution.”99Id. at 207. Also important to the Court here was the idea that the alternative—mandatory sentencing—was not a feasible option because of the risk of jury nullification. Id. at 199–200. This had occurred when “jurors on occasion took the law into their own hands in cases which were ‘willful, deliberate, and premeditated’ in any view of that phrase, but which nevertheless were clearly inappropriate for the death penalty.” Id. at 199. This was because “[t]he infinite variety of cases and facets to each case would make general standards either meaningless ‘boiler-plate’ or a statement of the obvious that no jury would need.”100Id. at 208.

Likewise, the Court found that the unitary trial procedure of forcing a defendant to choose between arguing innocence and arguing for mercy did not violate due process because requiring that difficult choice was not a denial of process.101Id. at 213. Interestingly, only six states, including California, used bifurcated capital trial and sentencing procedures at the time. Id. at 208. For similar reasons, the Court likewise concluded that the unitary trial model did not infringe upon Crampton’s Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination.102Id. at 213–17.

Just a year later, the Court considered the constitutionality of the death penalty under the Eighth Amendment in Furman v. Georgia.103Furman v. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238 (1972). Furman did not offend traditional notions of stare decisis and did not constitute a direct reversal of McGautha largely because the Court decided it on different grounds. The Court in Furman found that the lack of jury guidance violated the Eighth Amendment, not Fourteenth Amendment procedural due process as raised in McGautha. Based on similar arguments to the ones raised in McGautha, the Court held 5–4 that the death penalty was unconstitutional as applied.104Id. at 239–40. Two of the five Justices—Justice Marshall and Justice Brennan—found that the death penalty was per se unconstitutional, that is, unconstitutional in all situations, not just as applied. Id. at 305–06 (Brennan, J., concurring); id. at 358–61 (Marshall, J., concurring).

Unlike the later examples of Eighth Amendment stare decisis, the decision in Furman turned on the procedure in question, not the substance.105The Furman decision itself was a short per curiam decision, with all five of the Justices in the majority criticizing the approach that Georgia implemented. But the idea is the same—moving from a more draconian procedure to a less draconian one. The failure to provide juries guidance on how to differentiate between murderers who should receive the death penalty and those who should not resulted in sentencing outcomes that the Court found to be random and arbitrary.106Id. at 309–10 (Stewart, J., concurring); see id. at 240 (Douglas, J., concurring); id. at 293–95 (Brennan, J., concurring); id. at 310–11 (White, J., concurring); id. at 314–15 (Marshall, J., concurring). Imposing death sentences in an arbitrary and random manner was particularly troubling because “death is different”—the consequence is severe and irrevocable.107See cases cited supra note 64.

So, the decision in Furman followed the underlying principle of the evolving standards of decency—protecting the dignity of criminal defendants by preventing states from subjecting them to arbitrary, random sentencing procedures in capital cases.108See cases cited supra note 106. The Court did not find that the death penalty itself was now cruel and unusual; instead, it was the unprincipled ways that Georgia imposed it that made it unconstitutional.109See cases cited supra note 106. Capital punishment without any jury guidance was the prevailing practice, and the Court found that it no longer constituted a constitutional punishment.110See cases cited supra note 106.

  1. Penry and Atkins

The Court’s cases concerning whether it is constitutional to execute an intellectually disabled111The Court used the term “mentally retarded” in both cases. In common usage, the term “intellectually disabled” has replaced “mentally retarded” as both a more accurate and less pejorative term. See, e.g., Change in Terminology: “Mental Retardation” to “Intellectual Disability,” 78 Fed. Reg. 46499 (Sept. 3, 2013) (to be codified at 20 C.F.R. pts. 404, 416) (changing the Social Security terminology from mental retardation to intellectual disability). offender provide a clear example of the application of Eighth Amendment stare decisis.112Compare Penry v. Lynaugh, 492 U.S. 302 (1989), abrogated by Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304 (2002), with Atkins, 536 U.S. at 304 (showing that Atkins overruled Penry by finding the execution of intellectually disabled inmates to be unconstitutional). In Atkins v. Virginia, the Court reversed its decision in Penry v. Lynaugh as a matter of stare decisis because the standard of decency had changed.113Atkins, 536 U.S. at 321.

In 1989, the Court decided Penry.114Penry, 492 U.S. at 302. Penry brutally raped, beat, and stabbed Pamela Carpenter with a pair of scissors, causing her subsequent death a few hours later.115Id. at 307. The brutal nature of the crime potentially played a role in the Court’s decision to uphold his death sentence. A Texas jury sentenced Penry to death despite his claims of intellectual disability and insanity.116Id. at 310–11. At trial, a clinical psychologist testified that Penry consistently scored between fifty and sixty-three on IQ tests, signifying mild to moderate intellectual disability. Id. at 307–08. Aged twenty-two at the time of the crime, Penry had “the ability to learn and the learning or the knowledge of the average 6½ year old kid,” and had a social maturity on the level of a nine- or ten-year-old. Id. at 308. As part of his habeas appeal, the Court considered whether the Eighth Amendment barred his execution in light of his intellectual disability and resulting diminished culpability.117Penry’s claim, while rejected, did have some historical precedent. The Court noted that it was “well settled at common law that ‘idiots,’ together with ‘lunatics,’ were not subject to punishment for criminal acts committed under those incapacities.” Id. at 331; see also 4 William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England 24–25 (4th ed. 1770) (“The second case of a deficiency in will, which excuses from the guilt of crimes, arises also from a defective or vitiated understanding, viz. in an idiot or a lunatic. . . . [I]diots and lunatics are not chargeable for their own acts, if committed when under these incapacities: no, not even for treason itself. . . . [A] total idiocy, or absolute insanity, excuses from the guilt, and of course from the punishment, of any criminal action committed under such deprivation of the senses . . . .”). The Court found, however, that Penry was not an “idiot” or a “lunatic” because the trial court found him competent and the jury rejected his insanity defense. Penry, 492 U.S. at 333.

The Court found no evidence of a national consensus against the execution of intellectually disabled offenders.118Penry, 492 U.S. at 334–35. Only two states and the federal government barred such death sentences.119Id. at 333–34. One of the two states, Maryland, had passed such a law but it had not yet gone into effect at the time of the Court’s decision. Id. Adding in the fourteen states that barred capital punishment, this meant that sixteen states barred the

execution of intellectually disabled offenders, falling short of establishing a national consensus.120Id. at 334. Similarly, Penry did not offer any evidence concerning jury sentencing outcomes with respect to intellectually disabled offenders. His evidence concerned public opinion polls that showed opposition to the execution of intellectually disabled defendants, but the Court found that insufficient to establish a national consensus. Id. at 334–35.

Similarly, the Court concluded that its own subjective judgment did not bar such sentences.121Id. at 336–39. Applying the purposes of punishment, the Court held that the execution of some intellectually disabled individuals could serve the purpose of retribution—the variance among such individuals did not mean that such individuals could never act with the culpability required to receive the death penalty.122Id. at 337–39.

Just over a decade later, the Court considered the same question in Atkins.123Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304 (2002). It applied its evolving standards of decency test in finding that the Eighth Amendment now prohibited the execution of intellectually disabled offenders.124Id. at 321.

In its analysis of objective indicia, the Court found a national consensus against executing the intellectually disabled.125Id. at 313–17. The Court noted that state legislatures had reacted to its decision in Penry as well as the execution of a different intellectually disabled inmate.126Id. at 314. By 2002, thirty states barred the execution of intellectually disabled offenders, including twelve states that had abolished the death penalty.127See Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 564 (2005) (citing Atkins, 536 U.S. at 313–15). Justice Scalia’s dissent in Atkins took issue with the counting method, instead claiming that eighteen of the thirty-eight death penalty states (forty-seven percent) had banned such executions—not enough to establish a national consensus. Atkins, 536 U.S. at 342 (Scalia, J., dissenting). This number far surpassed the number of states previously barring the punishment in question—a change from sixteen to thirty.128Atkins, 536 U.S. at 314–15. The Court noted that seventeen of the states barring the execution of intellectually disabled offenders had done so in the decade since Penry. Id. The Court also emphasized the direction of the change, a consistent move by state legislatures away from allowing the execution of intellectually disabled offenders.129Id. at 315 (“It is not so much the number of these States that is significant, but the consistency of the direction of change.”). Finally, the Court noted that states had executed only five known offenders with a known IQ under seventy since Penry.130Id. at 316.

With respect to the subjective indicia, the Court concluded that none of the purposes of punishment justified the execution of intellectually disabled offenders.131Id. at 318–20. The reduced culpability of intellectually disabled offenders meant that death sentences for those individuals did not satisfy the purpose of retribution.132Id. at 319. From a just deserts perspective, retribution requires punishment proportional to the offender’s culpability and the harm caused. See, e.g., Andrew von Hirsch & Andrew Ashworth, Proportionate Sentencing: Exploring the Principles 4 (2005). With respect to deterrence, the Court also concluded that the execution of intellectually disabled offenders was unlikely to deter other intellectually disabled individuals from committing homicides.133Atkins, 536 U.S. at 319–20. The Court also focused on the likelihood of error as a reason for abolishing the execution of intellectually disabled offenders. The likelihood of false confessions and the offender’s inability to aid the lawyer in his defense rested at the heart of this concern. Id. at 319–21. Interestingly, the Court in Atkins did not address the broader question of whether the holding applied to mental illness as well as intellectual disability. And it failed to even define intellectual disability, leaving that determination up to individual states. For an exploration of possible applications of Atkins to mentally ill offenders through the intersection of the Eighth and Fourteenth Amendments, see Nita A. Farahany, Cruel and Unequal Punishment, 86 Wash. U. L. Rev. 859, 903–14 (2009).

In overruling its decision in Penry, the Court did not address the concept of stare decisis as a hurdle that it had to overcome.134Compare this silence to the lengthy discussions in Planned Parenthood of Se. Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833 (1992) and Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228 (2022). This is because the Court majority did not view the decision in Atkins as overturning precedent.135Rather, the Court viewed its decision, in part, as a reflection of the deliberations of “the American public, legislators, scholars, and judges” and the “consensus” against executing intellectually disabled offenders. Atkins, 536 U.S. at 307. Instead, the Atkins decision followed precedent—the precedent of the evolving standards of decency doctrine—in reaching a different outcome. The decision in Atkins did not constitute an abrogation of a prior position; it constituted a foreseeable evolution in the application of a constitutional principle.136The Court has revisited the specific application of Atkins twice, providing more guidance on what tests a state may use to determine whether a defendant’s condition rises to the level of intellectual disability. In Hall v. Florida, the Court struck down Florida’s approach, which relied only on the IQ of the offender to make the determination as to intellectual disability. Hall v. Florida, 572 U.S. 701, 724 (2014). And in Moore v. Texas, the Court held that Texas’ use of antiquated science in determining intellectual disability violated the Eighth Amendment. Moore v. Texas, 581 U.S. 1, 20–21 (2017).

3.  Stanford and Roper

The Court’s decision in Roper v. Simmons, three years after Atkins, provides another example of the application of Eighth Amendment stare decisis. Roper held that the execution of juveniles—offenders under the age of eighteen at the time of the homicide—violated the Eighth Amendment,137Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 578–79 (2005). reversing the Court’s decision in Stanford v. Kentucky, which had allowed the execution of seventeen-year-old defendants.138Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 380 (1989), abrogated by Roper, 543 U.S. at 551.

In its first consideration of age and capital sentences, the Court held in Thompson v. Oklahoma that the execution of a fifteen-year-old defendant violated the Eighth Amendment under its evolving standards of decency test.139Thompson v. Oklahoma, 487 U.S. 815 (1988). Under its objective indicia, the Court found that eighteen states set the minimum age for a capital sentence at sixteen years old.140Id. at 829. When combined with the fourteen states that had abolished capital punishment, the Court counted thirty-two jurisdictions that barred the execution of defendants under the age of sixteen.141Id. at 826–27. The Court also pointed to international practices where many countries had abolished the death penalty, and others barred juveniles from receiving the death penalty. Id. at 830–31. The Court also looked to jury verdicts and found less than twenty instances of executions of individuals who committed capital crimes under age sixteen.142Id. at 832. And none of those verdicts had been after 1948, in the forty years prior to the case.143Id.

With respect to the subjective indicia, the Court highlighted the diminished culpability of juvenile offenders as a basis for finding that retribution did not support the execution of a fifteen-year-old offender.144Id. at 836–37. It also found that deterrence did not support executing those under the age of sixteen who committed crimes; offenders over the age of sixteen had committed ninety-eight percent of homicides.145Id. at 837. The Court also noted the unlikelihood of under-sixteen offenders engaging in a cost-benefit analysis as well as the remote possibility of execution as additional reasons why deterrence did not support death sentences for fifteen year olds. Id. at 837–38.

In Stanford v. Kentucky, the Court found that the evolving standard of decency that had reached under-sixteen-year-old offenders had not reached sixteen and seventeen-year-olds.146Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 380 (1989), abrogated by Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005). The Court held that the Eighth Amendment did not bar the execution of Stanford, who was seventeen when he committed murder.147Id.

With respect to the objective indicia, the Court found that most states permitted capital punishment for sixteen-year-olds.148Id. at 371. Fifteen states rejected the death penalty for offenders under seventeen years old and twelve for offenders under eighteen years old.149Id. 371–72. The Court noted that these numbers were more similar to Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137 (1987), which did not expand limits on the death penalty for felony murder, as opposed to Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584 (1977) and Enmund v. Florida, 458 U.S. 782 (1982), which did expand the Eighth Amendment. The Court also rejected the evidence that few juries had sentenced under-eighteen-year-old offenders to death because so few under-eighteen-year-old offenders had committed capital crimes.150Stanford, 492 U.S. at 373–74.

In applying the subjective indicia, the Court found no conclusive evidence supporting a determination with respect to either retribution or deterrence.151Id. at 377–78. And the Court did not really engage with this idea because it had found that a national consensus against executing sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds did not exist.152Id. at 377. Justice Scalia’s view here that the Court should not use the Eighth Amendment to restrict punishments outside of national consensus is an outlier in the Court’s Eighth Amendment cases. See, e.g., Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304, 318–21 (2002); Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 568–72 (2005); Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 434–41 (2008).

Sixteen years later, the Court decided Roper, following the same Eighth Amendment stare decisis approach used in Atkins to find that death sentences for juvenile offenders were cruel and unusual punishments.153Roper, 543 U.S. at 578–79. As in Atkins, the application of the majoritarian objective indicia commenced with counting the state laws, and like Atkins, thirty states prohibited the execution of juvenile offenders (twelve of which banned the death penalty altogether).154Id. at 564–65. Also like Atkins, the Court in Roper was assessing whether the evolving standards of decency provided enough evidence of changed circumstances to reverse its prior decision in Stanford.155Id. Stanford held that the execution of seventeen-year-old offenders did not violate the Eighth Amendment. Stanford, 492 U.S. at 380. The Court also noted the presence of objective evidence moving toward ending juvenile executions, although only five states (as compared to sixteen in Atkins) had abandoned the juvenile death penalty since Stanford.156Roper, 543 U.S. at 565. Even though the change in Roper was less pronounced than in Atkins, the Court still emphasized that it found it “significant.” Also, no state had reinstated the juvenile death penalty since Stanford.157Id. at 565–66. One other important aspect of the decision in Roper bears mentioning. At the end of its analysis, the Court also cited to the relevance of international standards and practices in determining the meaning of the evolving standards. Id. at 575–78; see David Fontana, Refined Comparativism in Constitutional Law, 49 UCLA L. Rev. 539, 546–47 (2001). In particular, the Court emphasized that the United States was the only country in the world that permitted the juvenile death penalty. Roper, 543 U.S. at 575.

With respect to the subjective standards, the Court developed the idea that juveniles were offenders that, by definition, possessed a diminished level of culpability.158Roper, at 569–70. Specifically, the Court cited (1) the lack of maturity and undeveloped sense of responsibility, (2) the susceptibility of juveniles to outside pressures and negative influences, and (3) the unformed nature of juveniles’ character as compared to adults.159Id.

In light of the diminished level of culpability, the purposes of punishment, in the Court’s view, failed to justify the imposition of juvenile death sentences.160Id. at 570–71. Such death sentences failed to achieve the purpose of retribution in light of the diminished culpability.161Id. at 571. Likewise, the Court concluded that execution of juveniles did not achieve a deterrent effect—offenders with diminished capacity will be unlikely to be susceptible to deterrence.162Id. at 571–72. In addition, the Court found no evidence that a juvenile death sentence would add any deterrent value beyond that achieved by a life-without-parole sentence.163Id.

As with Atkins, the decision in Roper is a clear example of the principle of Eighth Amendment stare decisis. The Court followed its precedent—the evolving standards of decency—in finding that the national consensus and its subjective judgment demonstrated that the execution of juveniles constitutes a cruel and unusual punishment. As such, the decision in Roper to overrule Stanford constituted an application of Eighth Amendment stare decisis, reflecting the Court’s interpretation of the Eighth Amendment.

4.  Death Is Different and Juveniles Are Different

A final important example of the Court’s application of Eighth Amendment stare decisis relates to its use in the juvenile life-without-parole context in Graham v. Florida.164Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48 (2010). Here, the Court found that a principle underlying its evolving standards of decency—differentness—had evolved to include another category of cases.165See, e.g., William W. Berry III, Eighth Amendment Differentness, 78 Mo. L. Rev. 1053, 1073–75 (2013) (arguing that the juvenile life-without-parole differentness opens the door to other forms of differentness).

For over thirty years after Furman, the Court had cabined its application of evolving standards to capital cases.166See, e.g., Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304, 318–21 (2002); Roper, 543 U.S. at 568–72; Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 434–41 (2008). The Court’s reasoning for this bright line focused on the idea that “death is different.”167See cases cited supra note 64. The Court has often echoed this principle. See, e.g., Gregg v. Georgia, 428 U.S. 153, 187 (1976) (“There is no question that death as a punishment is unique in its severity and irrevocability.”); Woodson v. North Carolina, 428 U.S. 280, 305 (1976) (explaining that death differs from life imprisonment because of its “finality”); Spaziano v. Florida, 468 U.S. 447, 460 n.7 (1984) (“[T]he death sentence is unique in its severity and in its irrevocability . . . .”), overruled by Hurst v. Florida, 577 U.S. 92 (2016); Ring v. Arizona, 536 U.S. 584, 616–17 (2002) (Breyer, J., concurring in the judgment) (noting that because “death is not reversible,” DNA evidence showing that the convictions of numerous persons on death row are unreliable is especially alarming); see also Rachel E. Barkow, The Court of Life and Death: The Two Tracks of Constitutional Sentencing Law and the Case for Uniformity, 107 Mich. L. Rev. 1145, 1145 (2009) (acknowledging the Court’s different treatment of capital cases). As a punishment, death was unique both in terms of its severity—the most severe punishment available—and its irrevocability—one cannot undo a death sentence after an execution.168See, e.g., Gregg, 428 U.S. at 187; Spaziano, 468 U.S. at 460 n.7.

In Graham v. Florida, the Court considered whether the Eighth Amendment forbid life-without-parole sentences for juvenile offenders in non-homicide cases.169Graham, 560 U.S. at 52–53. Building upon its decision in Roper, the Court applied the evolving standards of decency to cases of juvenile life without parole in barring such sentences in non-homicide cases.170Id. at 61–62; id. at 102 (Thomas, J., dissenting) (“For the first time in its history, the Court declares an entire class of offenders immune from a noncapital sentence using the categorical approach it previously reserved for death penalty cases alone.”).

The Court further clarified its expansion of the differentness principle to include juvenile life-without-parole cases in Miller v. Alabama, in which it struck down mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences under the Eighth Amendment.171Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 465 (2012) (barring mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences). The Court in Miller explained that while death is different, “children are different too.”172Id. at 481.

As with its other applications of Eighth Amendment stare decisis, the Court in the juvenile life-without-parole cases relied on both objective and subjective understandings of the nature of juvenile offenders. The Court in Graham emphasized that only eleven states allowed life-without-parole sentences for juveniles in non-homicide cases.173Graham, 560 U.S. at 64. At the time the United States was one of eleven countries in the world that authorized juvenile life-without-parole sentences and one of two that used them. Id. at 80–81. Currently, the U.S. is the only country in the world that allows such sentences. See Rovner, supra note 76. Both cases also expanded on the conversation from Roper concerning the reduced culpability of juveniles.174Graham, 560 U.S. at 68; Miller, 567 U.S. at 471–74. Juvenile life-without-parole sentences not only make retribution and deterrence less justifiable, but also implicate incapacitation and rehabilitation, with the age of juveniles making change more possible than with older offenders.175Graham, 560 U.S. at 71–74; Miller, 567 U.S. at 471–74.

The important point here relates to the idea that part of the evolving standards expansion includes punishments other than the death penalty. It is certainly possible that, as society evolves, other kinds of punishment, including life without parole and solitary confinement, might also violate the Eighth Amendment.176See Berry, supra note 165, at 1081–86.

B.  Distinguishable Deviations

The Court’s application of the Eighth Amendment has arguably moved in a more punitive way in a few situations, but careful examination of these cases in context shows that they are distinguishable from the concept of Eighth Amendment stare decisis and do not undermine that concept.

1.  Furman and Gregg

The first example where one might argue that the Court moved in a direction favoring harsher punishment occurred when it reinstated the death penalty in Gregg v. Georgia,177Gregg v. Georgia, 428 U.S. 153, 207 (1976) (joint opinion of Stewart, Powell, & Stevens, JJ.) (upholding Georgia’s death penalty statute). The Court decided four other cases on the day that it decided Gregg. See Proffitt v. Florida, 428 U.S. 242, 259–60 (1976) (joint opinion of Stewart, Powell, & Stevens, JJ.) (upholding Florida’s death penalty statute); Jurek v. Texas, 428 U.S. 262, 276 (1976) (joint opinion of Stewart, Powell, & Stevens, JJ.) (upholding Texas’s death penalty statute); Woodson v. North Carolina, 428 U.S. 280, 301 (1976) (joint opinion of Stewart, Powell, & Stevens, JJ.) (striking down North Carolina’s death penalty statute); Roberts v. Louisiana, 428 U.S. 325, 336 (1976) (joint opinion of Stewart, Powell, & Stevens, JJ.) (striking down Louisiana’s death penalty statute). four years after it had declared it unconstitutional in Furman.178Furman v. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238, 239–40 (1972).

The Court in Furman, however, with its per curiam opinion and five concurrences, did not rule out the future use of the death penalty.179Id. Rather, the Court’s as-applied decision meant that the states had to remedy the flaw in the death penalty—the random and arbitrary use of it—before using it again.180Id.

Importantly, a majority of the Court did not find a consensus against the death penalty,181See supra note 104 and accompanying text. and the response of the states—an overwhelming number immediately passing new statutes—supports the idea that, at least at that time, the evolving standard did not bar death sentences.182See supra note 104 and accompanying text; Lain, supra note 83 at 46-48.

Even so, a modern examination of the Court’s decision in Gregg suggests that it is incorrect. This is because the safeguards it believed remedied the problems identified in Furman actually were insufficient to do so.183See Glossip v. Gross, 576 U.S. 863, 908–09 (2015) (Breyer, J., dissenting); Callins v. Collins 510 U.S. 1141, 1144 (1994) (Blackmun, J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); William W. Berry III, Repudiating Death, 101 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 441, 442–44 (2011) (explaining how Justices Blackmun, Powell, and Stevens all eventually favored death penalty abolition). The number and diversity of aggravating factors that most states used in their statutes did little to narrow the class of murderers; with felony murder, almost all homicides could still be death-eligible if the prosecutor was so inclined.184Berry, Promulgating Proportionality, supra note 78, at 104; Jeffrey L. Kirchmeier, Aggravating and Mitigating Factors: The Paradox of Today’s Arbitrary and Mandatory Capital Punishment Scheme, 6 Wm. & Mary Bill Rgts. J. 345, 363 (1998). This is particularly true with respect to the “especially heinous” aggravating factor. See Godfrey v. Georgia, 446 U.S. 420, 433 (1980); Zant v. Stephens, 462 U.S. 862, 874 (1983); Lowenfeld v. Phelps, 484 U.S. 231, 241–46 (1988); Walton v. Arizona, 497 U.S. 639, 652–57 (1990), overruled by Ring v. Arizona, 536 U.S. 584 (2002); Richard A. Rosen, The “Especially Heinous” Aggravating Circumstance in Capital Cases—The Standardless Standard, 64 N.C. L. Rev. 941, 988–89 (1986). Equally as important, the comparative proportionality review never occurred as promised, but instead as a diminished form of review that never included cases with life sentences.185Walker v. Georgia, 555 U.S. 979, 982–84 (2008) (Stevens J., dissenting from denial of certiorari); Berry, Practicing Proportionality, supra note 78, at 699–701. As a result, the arbitrariness and randomness in jury outcomes persists and is perhaps even worse that it was in 1972.186Glossip, 576 U.S. at 908–09 (Breyer, J., dissenting).

2.  Enmund and Tison

Another set of cases that might appear to demonstrate a move from less harsh to more harsh punishment are the Court’s decisions in Enmund v. Florida187Enmund v. Florida, 458 U.S. 782 (1982). and Tison v. Arizona.188Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137, 152–58 (1987). These cases, nonetheless, are similarly distinguishable.

In Enmund, the Court considered whether a death sentence for a felony murder involving a person who did not kill, attempt to kill, or intend to kill violated the Eighth Amendment.189Enmund, 458 U.S. at 783–85. Enmund involved Sampson and Jeanette Armstrong robbing an elderly couple, Thomas and Eunice Kersey, one morning at the Kersey residence. While Sampson Armstrong was holding Thomas Kersey at gunpoint, Eunice Kersey emerged from the house and shot Jeanette Armstrong. Sampson Armstrong, and possibly Jeanette Armstrong, subsequently shot and killed both Thomas and Eunice Kersey. Earl Enmund played a role as a getaway driver. Id. As the Florida Supreme Court explained, “[T]he only evidence of the degree of his participation is the jury’s likely inference that he was the person in the car by the side of the road near the scene of the crimes.” Id. at 786. Of the thirty-six jurisdictions that permitted the death penalty at the time, the Court noted that only eight jurisdictions authorized the death penalty for accomplices in felony murder robbery cases like Enmund without proof of additional aggravating circumstances.190Id. at 789. In addition, another nine states allowed death sentences for felony murder accomplices where other aggravating factors were present.191Id. at 791. The Court found that the legislative practice weighed “on the side of rejecting capital punishment for the crime at issue.”192Id. at 793 (footnote omitted). The Court also considered jury sentences, although those are a difficult proposition given the variety in felony murder cases and state felony murder laws. Id. at 794–96.

In the second part of the evolving standards test, the Enmund Court brought its own judgment to bear, finding that the death sentence was inappropriate for Enmund.193Id. at 797. Specifically, the Court held that his criminal culpability did not rise to the level required by just deserts retribution to warrant a death sentence.194Id. at 800–01. The Court similarly dismissed deterrence as a supporting rationale for a death sentence in Enmund’s case.195Id. at 797–801. To be fair, retribution appears to be the only purpose that could justify the death penalty, and it might not even accomplish that. See infra Section III.A.

Finally, it is notable that Enmund appeared to focus only on the relevant facts of Enmund’s case.196Enmund, 458 U.S. at 801. The Court did not explicitly create a categorical rule with respect to death sentences for felony murder convictions.197See id. Notice that the Enmund rule excluded cases where there was both no act and no mens rea related to the homicide in question. It did not extend to situations where one element was present but not the other.

Tison involved the prosecution of two of Gary Tison’s sons after their father and an associate brutally murdered a family after stealing their car.198Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137, 139–41 (1987). For a chilling account of Gary Tison’s escape from prison and subsequent crime spree, see generally James W. Clarke, Last Rampage: The Escape of Gary Tison (1988). The sons participated both in helping Tison break out of prison and in the carjacking.199Tison, 481 U.S. at 139–40. They were not directly present, however, at the moment when their father killed the family200Id. at 139–41. The facts are harrowing. Gary Tison, Randy Greenawalt, and the two Tison sons were plotting how to escape from the authorities. They needed a new car to drive to avoid detection by the police. They feigned car trouble on the side of the road. A couple, along with their baby and niece, decided to stop and help. The escapees pulled a gun on the family and forced them into the Tison car, which they drove away from the road. Gary Tison then shot the tires so the family would not be able to drive away. The man in the family asked for water, as they were being left in the desert. Gary Tison sent his two teenaged sons back to the other car to get water. He then brutally shot the parents and the children. A manhunt ensued, and the police captured the sons and Greenawalt. Gary Tison died of exposure in the desert hiding from the police. Id. and were unaware that he intended to do so.201Id. Tison’s death may have increased the public desire (or at least that of the prosecutor) to seek death sentences for his sons. See Clarke, supra note 198, at 263–66.

In assessing the jury’s imposition of death sentences on the sons, the Tison Court considered whether their punishments violated the Eighth Amendment.202Tison, 481 U.S. at 152–58. The Tison Court adopted a new rule—that a capital felony murder is constitutional when the individuals in question are (1) major participants in the felony and (2) exhibit a reckless indifference to human life.203See id. 151–58.

Using the evolving standards of decency doctrine, the Court applied the same counting of state statutes as in Enmund but combined the jurisdictions that allowed felony murder for any accomplice with those that only allowed felony murder with additional aggravating circumstances.204Id. at 152–55. The Court reasoned that, unlike Enmund, the Tison sons played an active role in the crime (particularly the prison escape), and as a result both categories of jurisdictions should count, leading to a finding that only eleven jurisdictions did not allow death sentences in felony murder cases like Tison.205Id. at 151–55. The Court focused on the recklessness demonstrated by the sons in busting Tison out of prison, particularly considering their knowledge of his dangerous character and criminal past.

The Court’s subjective judgment likewise found that the death sentences imposed on the Tison sons were not disproportionate.206Id. at 155–58. Specifically, the Court cited that the Tison sons’ “reckless indifference to human life” provided the intent to justify a death sentence, even though the sons did not participate in the killing itself.207Id. at 157–58. The distinction, then, between the outcomes in Enmund and Tison was the intent of the felony murder accomplices.208Id. For an argument that a recklessness mens rea should be a prerequisite for imposing capital punishment for felony murder, see Guyora Binder, Brenner Fissell & Robert Weisberg, Capital Punishment of Unintentional Felony Murder, 92 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1141, 1142 (2017). For an argument pertaining to the act requirement, see Guyora Binder, Brenner Fissell & Robert Weisberg, Unusual: The Death Penalty for Inadvertent Killing, 93 Ind. L.J. 549, 553 (2018). See also William W. Berry III, Capital Felony Merger, 111 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 605, 612 (2021) (making a novel argument for implementing a new form of the merger doctrine in capital felony murder cases). Unlike in Enmund, the Tison Court made clear that the majority view did not provide a consensus view in favor of eliminating the application of the punishment at issue.209Tison, 481 U.S. at 157–58.

So, the Court’s decisions here were not a move toward narrowing the Eighth Amendment. Rather, the Court in Tison simply qualified the scope of Enmund, which did not even impose a categorical rule in the first place. Tison did not overrule Enmund but instead reframed the inquiry. Note that the shift with respect to the act requirement moves the inquiry to the relationship of the act of the defendant to the felony, not the homicide.210While problematic, this is consistent with how states use felony murder. See sources cited supra note 208. In addition, the Tison rule keeps the mens rea connected to the homicide and captures all reckless actors.211On its face, Tison may simply be a case in which hard facts make bad law. See supra note 34 and accompanying text. Given the brutality of the murder and the inability to hold Gary Tison responsible, the death sentences the jury imposed are unsurprising.

Even so, one response would have been to create an exception to the Enmund rule instead of rewriting it. See William W. Berry III, Rethinking Capital Felony Murder, Jotwell (Feb. 12, 2018) (reviewing Binder et al., supra note 208), https://crim.jotwell.com/rethinking-capital-felony-murder [https://perma.cc/Y9DQ-6SFW].

The rule could be that the death penalty is unavailable in cases in which there is no act, attempt, or mens rea, unless the defendants otherwise bear some culpability. To the extent that the Tison sons should face the death penalty, it is because they bear serious culpability in helping their father escape prison and providing him with weapons, particularly in light of his violent criminal past.

Indeed, the better reading of these cases is to treat Enmund as the rule and Tison as an exception. Courts have done the opposite, treating Tison as a modification of Enmund. The effect has been that the Eighth Amendment does not provide any meaningful limitation in capital felony murder cases.

3.  Thompson and Stanford

One might perceive that the decisions in Thompson and Stanford, discussed above, constitute a move away from the evolving standards, but like Enmund and Tison, the decisions reached parallel, but not overlapping, conclusions. Thompson barred the execution of fifteen-year-olds and younger; Stanford allowed the execution of sixteen and seventeen-year-olds.212Thompson v. Oklahoma, 487 U.S. 815, 838 (1988); Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 380 (1989), abrogated by Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005). In much of the same way that Tison clarified the scope of Enmund, Stanford clarified the scope of Thompson.213Stanford, 492 U.S. at 370–73.

4.  Solem and Harmelin

The final example of the Court arguably narrowing the Eighth Amendment occurs in the cases of Solem v. Helm214Solem v. Helm, 463 U.S. 277 (1983). and Harmelin v. Michigan.215Harmelin v. Michigan, 501 U.S. 957 (1991). Both of these cases concern the Eighth Amendment doctrine that the Court applies in non-capital, non-juvenile cases—the gross disproportionality doctrine.216In the Court’s usage, gross disproportionality thus means that the sentence imposed is grossly excessive in light of the criminal actions of the defendant and the applicable purposes of punishments, including utilitarian purposes. Claims for relief under this doctrine almost always fail. See Lockyer v. Andrade, 538 U.S. 63, 66–68, 77 (2003) (upholding on habeas review two consecutive sentences of twenty-five years to life for stealing approximately $150 worth of videotapes, where the defendant had three prior felony convictions); Ewing v. California, 538 U.S. 11, 18–20, 30–31 (2003) (plurality opinion) (upholding sentence of twenty-five years to life for stealing approximately $1,200 worth of golf clubs, where the defendant had four prior felony convictions); Harmelin, 501 U.S. at 961, 996 (upholding a mandatory life-without-parole sentence for possessing 672 grams of cocaine); Hutto v. Davis, 454 U.S. 370, 370–71, 374–75 (1982) (per curiam) (upholding two consecutive sentences of twenty years for possession with intent to distribute and distribution of nine ounces of marijuana); Rummel v. Estelle, 445 U.S. 263, 266, 285 (1980) (upholding life-with-parole sentence for felony theft of $120.75 by false pretenses, where defendant had two prior felony convictions). But see Solem, 463 U.S. at 279–82, 303 (finding unconstitutional, by a 5–4 vote, a life-without-parole sentence for presenting a no-account check for $100, where the defendant had six prior felony convictions). The results are not any more promising at the state level under the Eighth Amendment or its state constitutional analogues. See William W. Berry III, Cruel and Unusual Non-Capital Punishments, 58 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 1627, 1642–52 (2021) (summarizing state cases in which non-capital, non-juvenile life-without-parole defendants have prevailed under state constitutional Eighth Amendment analogues). These decisions parallel the opinions in Enmund and Tison, with the Court granting relief under the Eighth Amendment in the first case but using the second case to make sure that the outcome in the first case only had a narrow application.

In Solem v. Helm, the Court found that the life-without-parole sentence imposed for a bad check in the amount of $100 was grossly disproportionate in violation of the Eighth Amendment.217Solem, 463 U.S. at 279–82, 303. Specifically, the Court explained that the Eighth Amendment required consideration of (1) the gravity of the offense and the harshness of the penalty; (2) the sentences imposed on other criminals in the same jurisdiction; and (3) the sentences imposed for commission of the same crime in other jurisdictions.218Id. at 292. Applying these concepts, the Court held that Helm’s sentence violated the Eighth Amendment because it was a far less severe crime than others for which the life-without-parole punishment—the most serious other than death—had been applied.219Id. at 296–300. A life-without-parole sentence means that the offender is to die in prison with no possibility of release. See Marc Mauer, Ryan S. King & Malcolm C. Young, The Meaning of “Life”: Long Prison Sentences in Context 4 (2004), http://www.sentencingproject.org/doc/publications/inc-meaningoflife.pdf [http://perma.cc/7633-4SZB]; Dirk van Zyl Smit, Taking Life Imprisonment Seriously in National and International Law 1 (2002). Life-without-parole sentences are sometimes called “flat life,” “natural life,” or “whole life” sentences. “Death-in-prison” or “a civil death” is perhaps a more accurate way of characterizing life-without-parole sentences. See Michael M. O’Hear, The Beginning of the End for Life Without Parole?, 23 Fed. Sent’g Rep. 1, 5 (2010). Even with the recidivist premium, the Court found that the punishment of life without parole for passing a bad check was grossly disproportionate.220Solem, 463 U.S. at 296–303.

Less than a decade later, however, the Court clarified its test from Solem. In Harmelin, the Court upheld a mandatory life-without-parole sentence for a first-time offense of possession of 672 grams of cocaine.221Harmelin, 501 U.S. at 961, 996. In a 5-4 decision, the Justices in the majority splintered on the reasoning for the decision.222Id. at 960–61. In a clear attempt to narrow Solem, Justice Scalia, joined by then-Chief Justice Rehnquist, held that the Eighth Amendment did not contain a proportionality guarantee, and therefore Harmelin’s sentence could not be unconstitutionally disproportionate.223Id. at 962–94 (opinion of Scalia, J.). The controlling plurality, however, found that the Eighth Amendment had a proportionality guarantee,224Id. at 996–98 (Kennedy, J., concurring in part and concurring in the judgment). but that Harmelin’s sentence was nonetheless proportionate in light of the deference accorded to states in non-capital sentencing.225Id. at 999, 1003, 1008–09. For an argument of why the Court should not accord states such deference, see Berry supra note 85, at 318. Justice Kennedy determined that the Solem three-part analysis remained useful,226Harmelin, 501 U.S. at 1004–05. but a reviewing court should consider the second and third factors—that is, the intra- and inter-jurisdictional analyses—only if “a threshold comparison of the crime committed and the sentence imposed leads to an inference of gross disproportionality.”227Id. at 1005. The plurality described the tools for the Solem analysis as including the following ideas:

First, the fixing of prison terms for specific crimes involves a substantial penological judgment that, as a general matter, is properly within the province of the legislature, and reviewing courts should grant substantial deference to legislative determinations. Second, there are a variety of legitimate penological schemes based on theories of retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation, and the Eighth Amendment does not mandate adoption of any one such scheme. Third, marked divergences both in sentencing theories and the length of prescribed prison terms are the inevitable, often beneficial, result of the federal structure, and differing attitudes and perceptions of local conditions may yield different, yet rational, conclusions regarding the appropriate length of terms for particular crimes. Fourth, proportionality review by federal courts should be informed by objective factors to the maximum extent possible, and the relative lack of objective standards concerning length, as opposed to type, of sentence has resulted in few successful proportionality challenges outside the capital punishment context. Finally, the Eighth Amendment does not require strict proportionality between crime and sentence, but rather forbids only extreme sentences that are grossly disproportionate to the crime.

Id. at 959. For an argument that the Court decided Harmelin incorrectly, see Berry, supra note 85, at 329–32.

Harmelin, then, did not overrule Solem. It simply qualified the gross disproportionality test, specifying that failing to pass the first part, which most cases do not, ends the inquiry.228Harmelin, 501 U.S. at 1004–05.

C.  Future Applications

A cursory examination of recent trends in state punishment practices suggests that the evolving standards have already evolved to reach other kinds of punishments.229Given the Court’s recent decision in Jones v. Mississippi, 593 U.S. 98 (2021), in which it declined to expand the Eighth Amendment, one might expect the Court not to find that the evolving standards have moved. But under the concept of Eighth Amendment stare decisis, the Court has an obligation to expand the doctrine when new cases demonstrate that the standards of decency have evolved in light of national consensus and the purposes of punishment. The most obvious category of punishments is the categorical areas barred in capital cases, but not juvenile life-without-parole cases.230For an exploration of these categories, see William W. Berry III, Unconstitutional Punishment Categories, 84 Ohio St. L.J. 1, 14–24 (2023).

The Court has identified six categories of capital punishment that the Eighth Amendment proscribes: (1) mandatory death sentences;231Woodson v. North Carolina, 428 U.S. 280, 305 (1976) (striking down North Carolina’s mandatory capital statute); Roberts v. Louisiana, 428 U.S. 325, 336 (1976) (striking down Louisiana’s mandatory capital statute); see also Lockett v. Ohio, 438 U.S. 586, 605 (1978) (finding that the proscription against mandatory sentences also required individual sentencing discretion in capital cases); William W. Berry III, Individualized Sentencing, 76 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 13, 22 (2019) (arguing for a broader application of the Woodson-Lockett principle). (2) executions of juveniles;232Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 578 (2005) (barring executions of juvenile defendants). Roper reversed Stanford v. Kentucky, 492 U.S. 361, 370–73 (1989), which had allowed the execution of a seventeen-year-old, and expanded Thompson v. Oklahoma, 487 U.S. 815, 838 (1988), which barred executions of defendants fifteen years old and younger. Roper, 543 U.S. at 574–75. (3) executions of intellectually disabled defendants;233Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304, 321 (2002) (finding death sentences for intellectually disabled offenders unconstitutional); Roper, 543 U.S. at 578 (finding death sentences for juvenile offenders unconstitutional); Hall v. Florida, 572 U.S. 701, 704 (2014) (requiring that the intellectual disability determination be more than just IQ); Moore v. Texas, 581 U.S. 1, 5–6 (2017) (requiring that the intellectual disability determination apply modern definitional approaches); see also Ford v. Wainwright, 477 U.S. 399, 401 (1986) (finding death sentences for insane individuals unconstitutional). (4) executions for certain felony murder crimes;234Enmund v. Florida, 458 U.S. 782, 797 (1982) (finding death sentences for some felony murders unconstitutional); Tison v. Arizona, 481 U.S. 137, 157–58 (1987) (clarifying the holding from Enmund). (5) executions for the crime of adult rape;235Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584, 592 (1977) (finding death sentences for rape unconstitutional). and (6) executions for the crime of child rape.236Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 413 (2008) (finding the death sentences for child rape unconstitutional). The Court has extended some of the categorical punishment bars to juvenile life without parole, covering three of the unconstitutional capital punishment categories—mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences,237Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 465 (2012) (barring mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences); Montgomery v. Louisiana, 577 U.S. 190, 206–13 (2016) (applying the Court’s decision in Miller retroactively). juvenile life-without-parole sentences for adult rape,238Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48, 82 (2010) (barring juvenile life-without-parole as a punishment for non-homicide crimes). See generally Cara H. Drinan, Graham on the Ground, 87 Wash. L. Rev. 51 (2012) (exploring the practical consequences of the Graham decision). and juvenile life-without-parole sentences for child rape.239Graham, 560 U.S. at 82 (barring juvenile life-without-parole as a punishment for non-homicide crimes).

The other categories the Court should extend the death penalty evolving standards doctrine to are (1) categorical limits on juvenile life-without parole sentences in felony murder cases like in Enmund and Tison; (2) categorical limits on juvenile life-without-parole sentences for intellectually disabled defendants like in Atkins; and (3) a categorical limit on juvenile life-without-parole altogether, mirroring the Court’s decision in Roper imposing a categorical ban on the death penalty for juveniles.

Beyond these categorical exceptions, three broad categories of punishment seem like future candidates for constitutional bars under Eighth Amendment stare decisis: the death penalty, juvenile life-without-parole sentences, and emerging adult life-without-parole sentences.240The Court has not applied the evolving standards of decency to its method of execution cases. See, e.g., Glossip v. Gross, 576 U.S. 863, 977 (2015) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting). For an argument that the Court should apply this test to such cases, see William W. Berry III & Meghan J. Ryan, Cruel Techniques, Unusual Secrets, 78 Ohio St. L.J. 403, 405–08 (2017).

1.  Death Penalty

The recent move toward death penalty abolition among the states suggests that it may soon reach the evolving standards threshold of national consensus against it, if it has not already.241This move has been coming in recent years. See William W. Berry III, Evolved Standards, Evolving Justices? The Case for a Broader Application of the Eighth Amendment, 96 Wash. U. L. Rev. 105, 144–50 (2018). At the time of Gregg, thirty-nine states had capital statutes.242State by State, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/states-landing [https://perma.cc/U7M4-PUU8]; Facts About the Death Penalty, supra note 74. Currently, twenty-seven states allow capital punishment, but six have gubernatorial holds on executions.243See sources cited supra note 242. Of those twenty-seven states, fifteen have not had an execution in the past five years and thirteen have not had an execution in the past decade.244See sources cited supra note 74. Indeed, only Alabama, Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, Missouri, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Utah, Tennessee, and Texas—eleven states—have executed anyone in the past five years.245Executions by State and Year, Death Penalty Info. Ctr. (Oct. 17, 2024) https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/executions/executions-overview/executions-by-state-and-year [https://perma.cc/RWZ6-XLQY]. Of those, Alabama, Missouri, Oklahoma, and Texas are the only states using it on a regular basis. Id.

And those states are not conducting many executions.246See sources cited supra note 242. For the past five years, fewer than twenty-five executions have occurred each year, with a total of ninety-two in the period from 2019–2023.247See Death Penalty Info. Ctr., supra note 245. The direction of change is also clear. Since 2007, ten states have abolished the death penalty.248These states include New Jersey (2007), New Mexico (2009), Illinois (2011), Connecticut (2012), Maryland (2013), Delaware (2016), Washington (2018), New Hampshire (2019), Colorado (2020), and Virginia (2021). See sources cited supra note 242. Finally, the number of new death sentences has dropped drastically2492023 Death Sentences by Name, Race, and County, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/facts-and-research/sentencing-data/death-sentences-by-year/2023-death-sentences-by-name-race-and-county [https://perma.cc/L7SM-A2VW] (showing twenty-one new death sentences in 2023 and decreasing trend lines of new death sentences over the past two decades). with the adoption of life without parole in almost every jurisdiction.250See, e.g., Death Sentencing Graphs by State, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/facts-and-research/sentencing-data/state-death-sentences-by-year [https://perma.cc/EY25-MK57]; Note, A Matter of Life and Death: The Effect of Life-Without-Parole Statutes on Capital Punishment, 119 Harv. L. Rev. 1838, 1838 (2006).

With respect to the objective indicia of national consensus, then, the evidence is close if not already there. While there are twenty-seven capital statutes in place, only twenty-one states allow executions currently, and only twelve states have recently executed an offender.251States with No Recent Executions, Death Penalty Info. Ctr. (Dec. 18 2024), https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/executions/executions-overview/states-with-no-recent-executions [https://perma.cc/L5ME-NK5T]. The pattern of abolition, including five states in the past decade,252See statistics cited supra note 248. and the decline in death sentences also supports this conclusion.253See source cited supra note 249. International consensus supports a similar conclusion, with the European Union and most Western nations having abolished the death penalty long ago.254See Hood & Hoyle, supra note 75, passim.

With respect to the subjective indicia, it would not be a stretch for the Court to conclude that the death penalty does not serve any of the purposes of punishment.255See, e.g., Furman v. Georgia, 408 U.S. 238, 358–61 (1972) (Marshall, J., concurring). Several of the Justices have concluded that abolition is the best solution. See Glossip v. Gross, 576 U.S. 863, 908 (Breyer, J., dissenting); Berry, supra note 183, at 442–44 (explaining how Justices Blackmun, Powell, and Stevens all eventually concluded that states should abolish the death penalty). It is certainly possible to conclude that the death penalty is an excessive punishment for the purpose of retribution.256Dan Markel, State, Be Not Proud: A Retributivist Defense of the Commutation of Death Row and the Abolition of the Death Penalty, 40 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 407, 458 (2005). And there is strong evidence that the death penalty does not deter.257John J. Donohue & Justin Wolfers, The Death Penalty: No Evidence for Deterrence, Economists’ View, Apr. 2006, at 5, https://dpic-cdn.org/production/legacy/DonohueDeter.pdf [https://perma.cc/2B8H-LU34]; Carol S. Steiker, No, Capital Punishment Is Not Morally Required: Deterrence, Deontology, and the Death Penalty, 58 Stan. L. Rev. 751, 754–56 (2005). The purpose of incapacitation also does not justify the death penalty. See William W. Berry III, Ending Death by Dangerousness: A Path to the De Facto Abolition of the Death Penalty, 52 Ariz. L. Rev. 889, 894 (2010). And rehabilitation seems beside the point. But see Meghan J. Ryan, Death and Rehabilitation, 46 U.C. Davis L. Rev. 1231, 1234–36 (2013).

2.  Juvenile Life Without Parole

If there is evidence that the death penalty has contravened the evolving standards of decency under the Eighth Amendment, there is perhaps even more evidence that juvenile life-without-parole sentences also cross the constitutional line.258See Berry, supra note 241, at 143–44. After the Court’s 2012 decision in Miller v. Alabama, states have moved consistently in the direction of abolishing juvenile life without parole.259Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 465 (2012); Rovner supra note 76.

As of 2023, thirty-three states and the District of Columbia have no one serving juvenile life-without-parole sentences, with twenty-eight of those states banning juvenile life without parole.260States that Ban Life Without Parole for Children, The Campaign for the Fair Sent’g of Youth, https://cfsy.org/media-resources/states-that-ban-juvenile-life-without-parole [https://perma.cc/E4TN-KKQR]. The states that have banned juvenile life without parole are the following: Alaska, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Nevada, New Jersey, New Mexico, North Dakota, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, and Wyoming. Id. Maine, Missouri, Montana, New York, and Rhode Island allow juvenile life without parole, but have no one serving that sentence. Id. In addition, the number of juvenile life-without-parole sentences has drastically declined over the past decade in light of the Court’s decisions in Graham,261Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48, 82 (2010) (barring juvenile life without parole for non-homicide crimes). Miller,262Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 465 (2012) (barring mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences). and Montgomery v. Louisiana.263Montgomery v. Louisiana, 577 U.S. 190, 206–13 (2016) (applying the Court’s decision in Miller retroactively). A survey of the Sentencing Project found 1,465 people serving juvenile life-without-parole sentences in January 2020, a 38% decline from 2016 and a 44% decline from 2012.264Rovner, supra note 76. With respect to international consensus, the United States remains the only country in the world that permits juvenile life-without-parole sentences.265Id.

In addition to the evidence of national consensus against juvenile life without parole, it is clear that the purposes of punishment do not support these sentences. The diminished culpability of juveniles, as discussed in Roper, Graham, Miller, and Montgomery, makes it unlikely that a juvenile would deserve a life-without-parole sentence.266Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551, 569–70 (2005); Graham, 560 U.S. at 71–74; Miller, 567 U.S. at 479–80; Montgomery, 577 U.S. at 206–09. The Court has explained this point at length in the context of the juvenile death penalty, juvenile life-without-parole sentences for non-homicide crimes, and mandatory juvenile life-without-parole sentences.267Miller, 567 U.S. at 471–72 (“Because ‘[t]he heart of the retribution rationale’ relates to an offender’s blameworthiness, ‘the case for retribution is not as strong with a minor as with an adult.’ ” (quoting Graham, 560 U.S. at 71)); Graham, 560 U.S. at 68 (“[J]uvenile offenders cannot with reliability be classified among the worst offenders.” (quoting Roper, 543 U.S. at 569)); Roper, 543 U.S. at 569–70 (explaining that as compared to adults, juveniles have “[a] lack of maturity and an underdeveloped sense of responsibility”; they “are more vulnerable or susceptible to negative influences and outside pressures, including peer pressure”; and their characters are “not as well formed”); Thompson v. Oklahoma, 487 U.S. 815, 835 (1988) (plurality opinion) (“The reasons why juveniles are not trusted with the privileges and responsibilities of an adult also explain why their irresponsible conduct is not as morally reprehensible as that of an adult.”).

It likewise seems impossible to determine that a juvenile’s “crime reflects irreparable corruption” at the time of sentencing, meaning that the utilitarian purposes of deterrence, incapacitation, or rehabilitation would not support such a sentence.268Roper, 543 U.S. at 573; Graham, 560 U.S. at 68; Miller, 567 U.S. at 479–80; Montgomery, 577 U.S. at 195, 208–09. In particular, the Court has emphasized the pronounced potential that juveniles have for rehabilitation.269Miller, 567 U.S. at 471 (“[A] child’s character is not as ‘well formed’ as an adult’s; his traits are ‘less fixed’ and his actions less likely to be ‘evidence of irretrievabl[e] deprav[ity].’ ” (quoting Roper, 543 U.S. at 570)); Graham, 560 U.S. at 68 (“Juveniles are more capable of change than are adults, and their actions are less likely to be evidence of ‘irretrievably depraved character’ than are the actions of adults.” (quoting Roper, 543 U.S. at 570)); Roper, 543 U.S. at 570 (“From a moral standpoint it would be misguided to equate the failings of a minor with those of an adult, for a greater possibility exists that a minor’s character deficiencies will be reformed.”).

3.  Emerging Adult Life Without Parole

A similar, but broader category of young offenders has also garnered judicial interest in the context of state constitutions. The Court in its juvenile life-without-parole cases recognized the diminished capacity and culpability of under-eighteen offenders.270See Rovner, supra note 76. But the science supporting this understanding does not draw a bright line at age eighteen.271See, e.g., Elizabeth Cauffman & Laurence Steinberg, Emerging Findings from Research on Adolescent Development and Juvenile Justice, 7 Victims & Offenders 428, 432–34 (2012); Nico U. F. Dosenbach, Binyam Nardos, Alexander L. Cohen, Damien A. Fair, Jonathan D. Power, Jessica A. Church, Steven M. Nelson, Gagan S. Wig, Alecia C. Vogel, Christina N. Lessov-Schlaggar, Kelly Anne Barnes, Joseph W. Dubis, Eric Feczko, Rebecca S. Coalson, John R. Pruett Jr., Deanna M. Barch, Steven E. Petersen & Bradley L. Schlaggar, Prediction of Individual Brain Maturity Using fMRI, 329 Sci. 1358, 1359–60 (2010); Catherine Lebel & Christian Beaulieu, Longitudinal Development of Human Brain Wiring Continues from Childhood into Adulthood, 31 J. Neuroscience 10937, 10943–46 (2011); Adolf Pfefferbaum, Torsten Rohlfing, Margaret J. Rosenbloom, Weiwei Chu, Ian M. Colrain & Edith V. Sullivan, Variation in Longitudinal Trajectories of Regional Brain Volumes of Healthy Men and Women (Ages 10 to 85 Years) Measured with Atlas-Based Parcellation of MRI, 65 NeuroImage 176, 186–91 (2013); Laurence Steinberg & Elizabeth S. Scott, Less Guilty by Reason of Adolescence: Developmental Immaturity, Diminished Responsibility, and the Juvenile Death Penalty, 58 Am. Psych. 1009, 1014–17 (2003). For an exploration of the complications of constitutional line drawing in this context, see generally William W. Berry III, Eighth Amendment Presumptive Penumbras (and Juvenile Offenders), 106 Iowa L. Rev. 1 (2020). If anything, it suggests that brain development is not complete until one reaches their late twenties.272See, e.g., Dosenbach et al., supra note 271, at 1358–59; Lebel & Beaulieu, supra note 271, at 10943–46; Pfefferbaum et al., supra note 271, at 186–91.

As a result, courts have begun to consider emerging adults—offenders aged eighteen to twenty—as similar to juveniles and worthy of the same constitutional protections.273These include restricting mandatory life-without-parole sentences, per Miller, and life-without-parole sentences in non-homicide cases, per Graham. But courts have not yet extended this concept to capital cases, perhaps because many of the jurisdictions considering these limitations have already abolished the death penalty. See infra notes 274–76. A recent case, Commonwealth v. Mattis, demonstrates this trend.274Commonwealth v. Mattis, 224 N.E.3d 410 (Mass. 2024). Massachusetts is not alone in recognizing that emerging adult offenders require different treatment from older adult offenders. For example, the District of Columbia provides a chance at sentence reduction for people who were under twenty-five years old when they committed a crime. D.C. Code § 24-403.03 (2024). In 2019, Illinois enacted a law allowing parole review at ten or twenty years into a sentence for most crimes, exclusive of sentences to life without parole, if the individual was under twenty-one years old at the time of the offense. 730 Ill. Comp. Stat. 5/5-4.5-115 (2024). Effective January 1, 2024, Illinois also ended life without parole for most individuals under twenty-one years old, allowing review after they serve forty years. Ill. Pub. L. No. 102-1128, § 5 (2022). California has extended youth offender parole eligibility to individuals who committed offenses before twenty-five years of age. Cal. Penal Code § 3051 (West 2024). Similarly, in 2021, Colorado expanded specialized program eligibility, usually reserved for juveniles, to adults who were under twenty-one when they committed a felony. H.B. No. 21-1209, Gen. Assemb., Reg. Sess. (Colo. 2021) (enacted). In Wyoming, “youthful offender” programs now offer reduced and alternative sentencing for those under thirty years old. Wyo. Stat. Ann. §§ 7-13-1002, -1003 (2024). In Mattis, the Massachusetts Supreme Court struck down all life-without-parole sentences for emerging adults, individuals aged eighteen to twenty, under the state constitution.275Other state courts have found similar constitutional restrictions. See In re Pers. Restraint of Monschke, 482 P.3d 276, 288 (Wash. 2021) (prohibiting the imposition of mandatory life-without-parole sentences on emerging adults from age eighteen to twenty under the Washington constitution); People v. Parks, 987 N.W.2d 161, 183 (Mich. 2022) (finding mandatory death sentences for eighteen year olds unconstitutional under the Michigan constitution).

In applying the language of its state constitution,276The Massachusetts Constitution provides that “[n]o magistrate or court of law, shall . . . inflict cruel or unusual punishments.” Mass. Const. pt. 1, art. XXVI. Interestingly, the court used the federal evolving standards of decency instead of a separate state standard, despite the disjunctive language of the state constitution. See William W. Berry III, Cruel State Punishments, 98 N.C. L. Rev. 1201, 1227–32 (2020) (exploring the language of the state punishment clauses and the possible consequences of different linguistic approaches). the Mattis court relied heavily on the Court’s Eighth Amendment juvenile cases—Roper, Graham, and Miller—in recognizing the “mitigating qualities of youth.”277Mattis, 224 N.E.3d at 418–20 (quoting Miller v. Alabama, 567 U.S. 460, 476 (2012)). In assessing the contemporary standards of decency, the court looked to science, trends in the state, and trends in other jurisdictions.278Id. After explaining why the science overwhelmingly supports treating twenty-year-old offenders like seventeen-year-old offenders,279Specifically, the district court made four key factual findings as to emerging adults that warranted treating them like juveniles: (1) diminished impulse control, (2) likelihood of engaging in risk taking in pursuit of a reward, (3) heightened peer influence, and (4) increased capacity for change. Id. at 421–24. The court agreed with these findings. Id. the court looked to examples of how Massachusetts treated emerging adults more like juveniles than adults.280Id. at 424–25. These included the allowing of custody until age twenty-one by the Department of Youth Services, the imposition of dual sentences for youthful offenders, and the establishment of young adult correctional units in state prisons. It then surveyed other jurisdictions in finding that Massachusetts was only one of ten states that currently requires eighteen- to twenty-year-old offenders convicted of murder to receive life-without-parole sentences.281Id. at 427.

With Michigan and Washington reaching similar conclusions under their state constitutions, it seems possible that the Court could arrive at a similar place.282See cases cited supra note 275. The first step would be a conclusion that emerging adults were like juveniles in that they would also be “different” for purposes of the Eighth Amendment. Then, the question would be whether a consensus existed. As the Mattis court found, most states bar mandatory life-without-parole sentences, suggesting a national consensus with respect to mandatory life-without-parole sentences for emerging adults.283Mattis, 224 N.E.3d at 427. A broader application could exist if other states follow the lead of Massachusetts, Michigan, and Washington in barring the imposition of life-without-parole sentences on emerging adults.284State courts are increasingly finding limits on punishment under their state constitutions. See In re Pers. Restraint of Monschke, 482 P.3d 276, 288 (Wash. 2021) (barring mandatory life without parole sentences for emerging adults—eighteen- to twenty-year-olds—under the state constitution); State v. Bassett, 428 P.3d 343, 355 (Wash. 2018) (barring juvenile life-without-parole sentences under the state constitution); People v. LaValle, 817 N.E.2d 341, 367 (N.Y. 2004) (finding that the state death penalty statute violated the New York constitution); Rauf v. State, 145 A.3d 430, 433–34 (Del. 2016) (finding that the Delaware death penalty statute violated the Delaware constitution); State v. Lyle, 854 N.W.2d 378, 380–81 (Iowa 2014) (finding that all mandatory minimum sentences for juveniles violate the state constitution); State v. Kelliher, 873 S.E.2d 366, 370 (N.C. 2022) (holding that any sentence that requires a juvenile offender to serve forty years violates the state constitution); People v. Parks, 987 N.W.2d 161, 164–65 (Mich. 2022) (barring mandatory life-without-parole sentences for eighteen-year-olds); Mattis, 224 N.E.3d at 415 (barring life-without-parole sentences for eighteen- to twenty-year-olds and under pursuant to the state constitution); see also Berry, supra note 276, at 1206.

The subjective proportionality analysis would be less difficult. The scientific evidence of the similarity between juveniles and emerging adults means that the same arguments from Roper, Graham, and Miller would apply.285See cases cited supra note 266. That means that retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation might not support the imposition of life-without-parole sentences on emerging adults.286A further step would be to expand the Eighth Amendment to bar all life-without-parole sentences, but the societal consensus seems further away. For an argument for the abolition of life-without-parole sentences, see William W. Berry III, Life-with-Hope Sentencing, 76 Ohio St. L.J. 1051, 1068–81 (2015).

D.  The Limit of Evolving Standards

Having mapped out the concept of Eighth Amendment stare decisis and some potential future applications, the next question is whether the doctrine limits the Court, particularly in considering laws that violate the current doctrine, such as the Florida law highlighted at the beginning of the Article. In particular, the issue is whether Eighth Amendment stare decisis would bar the Court from reversing the limits imposed in Kennedy v. Louisiana287Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407 (2008). and Graham v. Florida.288Graham, 560 U.S. at 48.

1.  Kennedy

As discussed, the Court in Kennedy barred the imposition of death sentences for the crime of child rape.289Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 413. Applying the evolving standards demonstrates why the Florida law is unconstitutional. First, the evolving standards only evolve in one direction—from more severe to less severe. If the Eighth Amendment currently limits the harshest punishment for child rapes, the only direction this punishment could move is to less severe—to barring life-without-parole for child rape.

In addition, there is a clear national consensus against the death penalty for child rape as, prior to the Florida and Tennessee laws, no state has sentenced anyone to death for child rape since at least before the Court barred it in 2008.290Florida sought the death penalty in a child rape case after the passage of its new statute, but the defendant pled guilty and received a life-without-parole sentence. Death Penalty for Child Sexual Abuse that Does Not Result in Death, Death Penalty Info. Ctr., https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/facts-and-research/crimes-punishable-by-death/death-penalty-for-child-sexual-abuse-that-does-not-result-in-death [https://perma.cc/LBM8-UE6W]. Further, as the Court explained in Kennedy, the death penalty for adult rape was rare even before Coker, much less for child rape.291Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 428–29.

The subjective indicia also counsel against the death penalty as a punishment for rape. The Court has made clear in Coker and Kennedy that death is an excessive punishment in most cases for non-homicide crimes, particularly sex crimes.292Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584, 592, 597–600 (1977); Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 435–38. The Court views death as a punishment for a non-death crime as extending beyond just deserts retribution, as well as being insufficient to accomplish the purpose of deterrence.293Coker, 433 U.S. at 592, 597–600; Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 435–38, 441–45.

2.  Graham

The analysis for a challenge to the rule in Graham would be almost identical. In Graham, the Court barred the imposition of life-without-parole sentences in non-homicide cases.294Graham v. Florida, 560 U.S. 48, 82 (2010).

To reverse this decision under the Eighth Amendment stare decisis rule would be impossible, as it would require the Court to move from a less harsh punishment to a harsher one in allowing juvenile life without parole for a non-homicide crime when it was previously unconstitutional.

Likewise, there is a national consensus against imposing life-without-parole sentences for non-homicide crimes committed by juveniles.295As with Kennedy, the result of Graham was to bar a particular kind of sentence, meaning that no state has imposed such a sentence since 2010. If anything the evidence is even stronger than in Graham, with a majority of states having either banned juvenile life without parole or having no person serving such a sentence.296Rovner, supra note 76.

And the analysis of the subjective indicia would be the same. The diminished culpability of juveniles would mean that juvenile life without parole would be a disproportionate sentence in light of the goals of retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation.

Under the evolving standards, then, the Court would apply Eighth Amendment stare decisis to strike down any statute, like Florida’s, that contravened Kennedy or any state statute that contravened Graham. The one possible loophole in this analysis would relate to the Court’s decision in Dobbs, which articulated the current stare decisis standard. Section III.B eliminates that possibility by demonstrating that Eighth Amendment stare decisis is consistent with the rule in Dobbs.

III.  WHY DOBBS SUPPORTS EIGHTH AMENDMENT STARE DECISIS

In considering whether the Court has latitude to overrule Kennedy, the question involves the application of Dobbs to Eighth Amendment stare decisis. As demonstrated below, the Dobbs approach to stare decisis affirms both the concept of Eighth Amendment stare decisis and the individual decision in Kennedy. The Dobbs case articulated five factors the Court should consider when weighing whether to follow its prior precedents: (1) the nature of the Court’s error, (2) the quality of its prior reasoning, (3) the workability of the current standard, (4) the effect on other areas of law, and (5) reliance interests in the precedent.297Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 215, 2261–65 (2022). I am not the only scholar to consider the application of the Dobbs test to Kennedy. For a less rosy assessment, see Alexandra L. Klein, Kennedy v. Louisiana and the Future of the Eighth Amendment, 52 Pepperdine L. Rev. (forthcoming 2025) (exploring the potential for overruling Kennedy through the Dobbs concept of democratic deliberation via a “devolving” standards of decency approach or a more restricted historical approach).

A.  The Dobbs Test

It is worth noting that the framework of the evolving standards of decency rests in part on an assessment of majoritarian consensus, despite its purpose of articulating a countermajoritarian right.298See discussion supra Part I. This means that Court decisions in this area are much less likely to be products of judicial activism as they base their decisions on what they perceive to be the majority practice.299Of course, the dissents in the Court’s Eighth Amendment cases often argue that these decisions are activist, largely related to disputes concerning state-counting. See supra notes 84, 127, 152 and accompanying text.

1.  The Nature of the Court’s Error

While the Court has often had disagreements concerning the application of the evolving standards of decency test, the test itself has never been a point of contention.300See discussion supra Part I. From the beginning of its Eighth Amendment cases, the Court has been virtually unanimous in its determination that the Eighth Amendment evolves over time, and only moves in one direction—toward less harsh punishments.301See discussion supra Section I.B. A decision ignoring or overruling Eighth Amendment stare decisis as a general principle would constitute a complete disregard of the rule of law.302See discussion supra Section I.B.

If there is an error in the evolving standards of decency test, it would relate either to the objective determination of the Court concerning the national consensus for a particular punishment or to the subjective determination of the Court with respect to the purposes of punishment.303See discussion supra Section I.A.

With respect to Kennedy, finding an error with respect to the objective indicia would be almost impossible. At the time of Kennedy, only five states allowed the execution of child rapists.304Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 423–24 (2008). And currently, only two states allow the death penalty for child rape.305See sources cited supra note 3.

To reverse this perception, a national revolution with more than half of the states adopting statutes similar to Florida’s statute would be a prerequisite for even raising the objective indicia question.306Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 423–34. Even then, some additional evidence of state juries sentencing individuals to death for child rape would also be necessary. And as the Court in Kennedy indicated, such prosecutions have been rare.307Id.

This is exactly the point. Where almost every jurisdiction is unwilling to sanction a particular punishment for a particular crime and juries are unwilling to impose such sentences, the rare jurisdiction with the outlier jury that imposes a death sentence for child rape defies the evolving standards of decency that mark the progress of a mature society.308Trop v. Dulles, 356 U.S. 86, 101 (1958); see discussion supra Part I.

Moving to the subjective standards, the Court likewise would be unlikely to find that the punishment of the death penalty was a proportionate punishment for child rape. First, the Court has always reached the same conclusion under the subjective standards as it has under the objective standards when it applies the evolving standards of decency test.

Second, the Court has made clear, both in Coker and Kennedy, that it finds imposing death for a non-homicide sexual crime to be disproportionate.309Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584, 592, 597–600 (1977); Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 435–38. It has consistently found that despite the brutal and scarring nature of sex crimes, such crimes do not result in physical death.310Id. A punishment of death, then, would be excessive in light of the crime committed.311Id. While the anger that many feel toward child sex offenders likely makes that bright line unsatisfying, it is nonetheless the bright line that the Court has chosen twice.312Id.

The purposes of punishment support such a determination. If retribution concerns just deserts, and not revenge, then it requires courts to impose a sentence no more than and no less than what the offender deserves based on the culpability of the offender and the harm caused.313See von Hirsch & Ashworth, supra note 132, passim. If the harm caused did not involve death, then it follows that the punishment should not involve death either.314Coker, 433 U.S. at 592, 597–600; Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 435–38. Similarly, deterrence does not support death as a punishment for child rape.315Coker, 433 U.S. at 592, 597–600; Kennedy, 554 U.S. at 435–38, 441–45. The marginal deterrence between a death sentence as opposed to a life-without-parole sentence is likely insignificant, particularly in light of the two-decade time gap between sentencing and execution.316NEW RESOURCE: Bureau of Justice Statistics Reports 2021 Showed 21st Consecutive Year of Death Row Population Decline, Death Penalty Info. Ctr. (Sept. 25, 2024), https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/news/new-resource-bureau-of-justice-statistics-reports-2021-showed-21st-consecutive-year-of-death-row-population-decline [https://perma.cc/36T3-M24P] (“[O]n average, death row prisoners incarcerated as of December 31, 2021, had spent 20.2 years behind bars.”).

Finally, as discussed, the deeper problem here would be that remedying that “error” would violate the core principle of Eighth Amendment stare decisis—that the evolving standards only evolve in one direction.317See discussion supra Section I.B. It would involve enabling states to engage in a harsher punishment than before for a particular crime or offender.318This would allow, for instance, the execution of juveniles or intellectually disabled offenders—practices previously deemed in violation of the evolving standards of decency.

2.  The Quality of Its Prior Reasoning

The question of the strength of the prior reasoning with respect to Eighth Amendment stare decisis and the evolving standards approach mirrors the question of error. If there is a flaw in the overall structure of the evolving standards paradigm, it is that it relies on majoritarian indicia to inform a countermajoritarian standard.319See sources cited supra note 85 and accompanying text. In the Court’s cases, this has served as a mechanism to reduce judicial activism and the aggressive substitute of the Court’s normative views for those of state legislatures and juries.320This is because the Court’s subjective judgment always matches the societal consensus. If anything, it has caused the Court to be entirely too hesitant in permitting states to use the draconian sentencing practices that have contributed to mass incarceration.321See Berry, supra note 85, at 321–22.

A likely argument against the reasoning of the evolving standards doctrine would be that the standards should evolve in both directions, allowing punishments to become harsher. The Court cannot achieve such a result without repudiating the entire doctrine. As discussed, the evolving standards doctrine serves to protect human dignity and promote proportionality.322See discussion supra Section I.B. Moving toward harsher punishments would undermine both.

To allow movement toward harsher punishments would invert the entire Eighth Amendment and its basic meaning. Instead of being a constitutional protection for individuals against cruel and unusual punishment, the Eighth Amendment would protect the ability of outlier states to engage in extreme punishments disallowed by most other jurisdictions. In other words, reading the Eighth Amendment to allow harsher punishments to reemerge would mean that the Eighth Amendment would authorize cruel and unusual punishments—the very thing it proscribes.

As applied to Kennedy, these objections would be even more robust. Attacking the underlying reasoning of the evolving standards would mean ignoring both the dignity of the offender and the concept of proportionality. And undoing the outcome in Kennedy would sanction the imposition of a cruel and unusual punishment.

The imposition of the death penalty for a child rapist in Florida would be cruel as it is disproportionate in two senses. First, as discussed above, it is an excessive punishment for the crime committed.323Coker v. Georgia, 433 U.S. 584, 592, 597–600; Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407, 435–38 (2008). Second, it is comparatively disproportionate—almost no other child rapist would receive the same punishment.324See sources cited supra note 185.

For the same reason, it would be an unusual punishment in several ways. Not only would it be rare, as almost no other child rapists would receive a death sentence, but it would also be contrary to longstanding practice.325See Stinneford, supra note 28, passim and accompanying text. Even when the Eighth Amendment allowed the death penalty for child rape, almost no states had such a law, and within those states almost no one received a death sentence.326Coker, 433 U.S. at 595–96; Kennedy, 554 at 433–34.

3.  The Workability of the Current Standard

The concept of the evolving standards of decency remains very workable. It is a simple two-part test that requires the Court to assess readily available information and then make its own determination, applying criminal law theory to criminal sentences.

In reviewing Kennedy, for instance, it will not be difficult to determine how many states authorize the death penalty for child rape. It will similarly be easily ascertainable how many individuals have received death sentences for the crime of child rape.

With respect to the Court’s subjective analysis, it will similarly not have difficulty engaging in the analysis of whether a death sentence satisfies the purposes of retribution and deterrence for the crime of child rape.

4.  The Effect on Other Areas of Law

The Court’s Eighth Amendment stare decisis approach will not have a significant effect on other areas of law. While the Eighth Amendment is not unique in its reliance on jurisdiction counting, it also does not bear particularly on other kinds of constitutional interpretation.327See generally Corinna Barrett Lain, The Unexceptionalism of “Evolving Standards”, 57 UCLA L. Rev. 365 (2009) (explaining that other constitutional provisions also engage in state counting). While having some similar characteristics to the due process doctrine, the Eighth Amendment does not invoke that doctrine, and that doctrine does not invoke it.328Id.

As such, this part of the Dobbs test would not have much of an impact on its application to Eighth Amendment stare decisis or the evolving standards doctrine. Upholding Kennedy would not create a significant change in other areas; striking it down would not either. The analysis here would pertain simply to the future of the doctrine itself and its application.

Even so, one could imagine tangential effects from overturning the evolving standards doctrine. There are certain parallels with Sixth Amendment jurisprudence in which the doctrines of the Sixth Amendment and Eighth Amendment could inform each other.329In both contexts, statutory schemes emerged from a concern related to arbitrary and inconsistent sentencing outcomes. These statutory approaches sought to remedy the sentencing problem by imposing mandatory sentencing requirements. The Court subsequently found the mandatory approaches to be unconstitutional. See William W. Berry III, The Sixth and Eighth Amendment Nexus and the Future of Mandatory Sentences, 99 N.C. L. Rev. 1311, 1312–14 (2021). These relate to the similar constitutional restrictions both amendments have placed on mandatory sentencing schemes.330Id.

Another possible ripple from abandoning the evolving standards of decency doctrine could relate to juvenile offenders. The concept that juveniles are different from adults extends beyond the Eighth Amendment. In other areas of law, courts and legislatures have chosen to treat juveniles differently from adults. Changing the approach to juveniles under the Eighth Amendment could influence other areas that have adopted similar approaches.

5.  The Reliance Interests in the Precedent

Finally, the question becomes whether there are significant reliance interests in the Eighth Amendment stare decisis approach and the evolving standards of decency doctrine. Criminal defendants clearly have an interest in preventing states from subjecting them to draconian punishments. While the Court’s limits on states have been few—far fewer than perhaps the national consensus reflects—rolling back those limits could exacerbate expansive uses of the death penalty by outlier jurisdictions and promote unequal punishment. It could also invite small groups of citizens to engage in human rights abuses with no judicial review.

B.  The Dobbs Reasoning

Implicit in the Court’s holding in Dobbs is both a disdain for abortion and the Court’s prior holdings in Roe and Casey. For the majority, the decision clearly reflects a view that the Court “got it wrong” in its earlier cases in a fundamental way. On some level, the Court’s reasoning was beside the point.331Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2265 (2022); Murray & Shaw, supra note 8, at 734.

Unlike the culture war terrain of the abortion issue, criminal justice has historically enjoyed a bipartisan consensus of sorts.332See generally David Garland, The Culture of Control: Crime and Social Order in Contemporary Society (2001); 13th (Netflix 2016); Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (2010); Marc Mauer, Race to Incarcerate (2006) (sources that highlight the move toward mass incarceration as a bipartisan issue rather than the product of a single party platform). Liberals and conservatives, for different reasons, both rode the “tough on crime” wave of the 1980s and 1990s to unprecedented levels of mass incarceration.333See sources cited supra note 332. And since the turn of the century, both groups have worked to slowly and incrementally undo some of this trend.334See sources cited supra note 332. The bipartisan First Step Act provides one example of this consensus.335First Step Act of 2018, Pub. L. No. 115-391, 132 Stat. 5194; An Overview of the First Step Act, Fed. Bureau of Prisons, https://www.bop.gov/inmates/fsa/overview.jsp [https://perma.cc/4HF3-N4X6].

Outside of Furman, the Court’s Eighth Amendment decisions have not generated widespread public response or objection.336See Lain, supra note 83 at 46-48. This is in part because the evolving standards doctrine has served to restrict outliers, not advance broad normative change.

Undoing the decision in Kennedy would encourage states to engage in draconian punishment practices to test the boundaries of the Eighth Amendment. Florida’s statute is unconstitutional on its face. Upholding it would not only undermine the rule of law, but would also encourage state legislatures to disregard the Court’s decisions and the evolving standards. This would be different than ignoring stare decisis. It would constitute a repudiation of over one hundred years of jurisprudence.

Further, a significant part of the Court’s reasoning in Dobbs dealt with its concern with the “disruption of democratic deliberation.”337Murray & Shaw, supra note 8, at 753; Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2265 (2022). The concern related to the use of the constitution to interfere with legislative authority, particularly on issues of “profound importance to the electorate.”338Murray & Shaw, supra note 8, at 753–54; Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2265. As shown by the response to the Court’s decision in Furman, abolition of the death penalty might constitute a similar kind of issue.339See Lain, supra note 83 at 46-48. But it does not appear that the evolving standards of decency generally or the execution of child rapists specifically would fall into this category.

The difference again relates to the majoritarian anchor of the evolving standards of decency. Overruling an Eighth Amendment limit would not restore the power to the people as a general matter. It would give power to a particular state to violate a national, and in some cases international, consensus against a particular punishment practice. Put differently, it would provide a license to certain jurisdictions to violate the individual rights of defendants when an overwhelming majority of jurisdictions accord defendants those very rights.

CONCLUSION

Florida’s decision to pass a new statute that clearly violates the Eighth Amendment and the Court’s decision in Kennedy does not change the analysis in the case or under the Constitution. The Court’s decision in Dobbs does not open the door to such defiance, and it does not support rejection of the Court’s precedents.

This Article has demonstrated why, even if the Court thinks the normative outcome in Kennedy is wrong, the Court still must strike down the Florida statute if given the opportunity. Specifically, this Article has made the case for a novel reading of the doctrine of stare decisis under the Eighth Amendment. Drawn from the Court’s evolving standards of decency doctrine, this Eighth Amendment stare decisis requires the Court to change the rule in cases in which the national consensus has evolved and the Court finds the sentence to be disproportionate.

The Article first developed this concept by explaining the origins of this doctrine and defending the core principle that the evolving standards only evolve from more severe to less severe punishment. The Article then explored past applications of the doctrine, distinguished deviations from the doctrine, highlighted some future applications of the doctrine, and delineated the limits of the doctrine on state legislatures. Finally, the Article concluded by demonstrating how this reading of the Eighth Amendment is consistent with the Dobbs decision, both as a doctrinal and theoretical matter.

98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 255

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* Associate Dean for Research and Montague Professor of Law, University of Mississippi. The author would like to thank Corinna Barrett Lain, Meghan Ryan, Cara Drinan, Kathryn Miller, Eric Berger, Alex Klein, Katie Kronick, Rachel Lopez, and Daniel Harawa for helpful comments on an early draft during the Eighth Amendment Roundtable at Cardozo Law School in April 2023.

Evidence that the President Is an “Officer of the United States” for Purposes of Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment

AUTHORS’ NOTE

This Article was written during the weeks before certiorari was sought in Trump v. Anderson in the aftermath of the Colorado Supreme Court’s decision to remove former President Donald Trump from the 2024 Republican primary ballot. An initial draft was uploaded to SSRN on Jan. 1, 2024, and a revised draft incorporating constructive feedback we received from other scholars was uploaded on Jan. 8, 2024. Because those versions of the Article featured prominently in the Respondents’ merits briefing1See generally Brief on the Merits for Anderson Respondents, Trump v. Anderson, 144 S. Ct. 662 (2024) (No. 23-719) 2024 WL 371148; Brief of Constitutional Accountability Center as Amicus Curiae in Support of Respondents, Trump v. Anderson, 144 S. Ct. 662 (2024) (No. 23-719) 2024 WL 457074; Brief of Michael T. Worley as Amicus Curiae Support of Respondents, Trump v. Anderson, 144 S. Ct. 662 (2024) (No. 23-719) 2024 WL 460311; Brief of Amici Curiae J. Michael Luttig et al. in Support of the Anderson Respondents, Trump v. Anderson, 144 S. Ct. 662 (2024) (No. 23-719) 2024 WL 382473; Brief for Professor Orville Vernon Burton et al. as Amici Curiae in Support of Respondents, Trump v. Anderson, 144 S. Ct. 662 (2024) (No. 23-719) 2024 WL 382467. and were discussed at length by popular media sources2See, e.g., George T. Conway, Trump’s Supreme Court Blunderbuss, The Atlantic (Jan. 7, 2024), https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2024/01/trump-supreme-court-ballot-colorado-fourteenth-amendment/677049 [https://perma.cc/H37B-TVMY]; James Heilpern & Michael Worley, The Most Ridiculous Argument for Keeping Trump on the Ballot, Slate (Jan. 24, 2014, 10:00 AM), https://slate.com/news-and-politics/2024/01/supreme-court-keeping-trump-on-ballot.html [https://perma.cc/U7R9-A7US]; Matt Naham, Legal Experts Dust Off Postal Act of 1792 Signed into Law by George Washington as Historical Proof Trump Is ‘Wrong’ that ‘Not One Authority’ Shows President Is ‘Officer of the United States,’ Law & Crime (Jan. 5, 2024, 10:43 AM), https://lawandcrime.com/high-profile/legal-experts-dust-off-postal-act-of-1792-signed-into-law-by-george-washington-as-historical-proof-trump-is-wrong-that-not-one-authority-shows-president-is-officer-of-the-united-states [https://perma.cc/5UW7-7VNH]; Areeba Shah, Expert: “Treasure Trove” of Documents Debunks Trump Claim that President Isn’t an “Officer” of US, Salon (Jan. 4, 2024, 3:11 PM), https://www.salon.com/2024/01/04/expert-treasure-trove-of-documents-debunks-claim-that-isnt-an-officer-of-us [https://perma.cc/W9YR-XZJR]; Roger Parloff, James Heilpern & Jane Patja, The Lawfare Podcast: James A. Heilpern on Why Section 3 Reaches Presidents, Lawfare (Feb. 1, 2024, 8:00 AM), https://www.lawfaremedia.org/article/the-lawfare-podcast-james-a.-heilpern-on-why-section-3-reaches-presidents [https://perma.cc/W5X8-BYVU]; Roger Parloff, What Justice Scalia Thought About Whether Presidents Are “Officers of the United States,” Lawfare (Jan. 24, 2024, 9:01 AM), https://www.lawfaremedia.org/article/what-justice-scalia-thought-about-whether-presidents-are-officers-of-the-united-states [https://perma.cc/PHX4-2KXQ]. and scholarly circles,3See, e.g., Michael Stern, Election Versus Appointment: The Case of Congressional Officers, Point of Order (Jan. 29, 2024), https://www.pointoforder.com/2024/01/29/election-versus-appointment-the-case-of-congressional-officers [https://perma.cc/AX6Z-HAWG]; Michael Stern, The Significance of the Election and Appointment Issue (and Professor Tillman’s Request to Participate in Oral Argument), Point of Order (Jan. 31, 2024), https://www.pointoforder.com/2024/01/31 [https://perma.cc/89P8-PFCM]; Josh Blackman, Professor Akhil Reed Amar and Professor Vikram Amar Retreat from Their “Global” Rule for the “Offices” and “Officers” of the Constitution, Reason: The Volokh Conspiracy (Jan. 27, 2024, 10:54 PM), https://reason.com/volokh/2024/01/27/professor-akhil-reed-amar-and-professor-vikram-amar-retreat-from-their-global-rule-for-the-offices-and-officers-of-the-constitution [https://perma.cc/KQ43-KXW8]; John Mikhail, A Reality Check on “Officers of the United States” at the Founding, Balkinization (Feb. 19, 2024), https://balkin.blogspot.com/2024/02/a-reality-check-on-officer-of-united.html [https://perma.cc/6B3M-5CWD]; Seth Barrett Tillman, A Response to a Journalist’s Question, New Reform Club (Jan. 18, 2024, 5:17 AM), https://reformclub.blogspot.com/2024/01/a-response-to-journalists-question.html [https://perma.cc/5UDY-B43Q]; Michael Ramsey, James Heilpern & Michael Worley: Evidence that the President Is an “Officer of the United States” for Purposes of Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment (with a Response) [Updated], The Originalism Blog (Jan. 5, 2024), https://originalismblog.typepad.com/the-originalism-blog/2024/01/heilpern-worley-president-officer.html [https://web.archive.org/web/20240207063731/https://originalismblog.typepad.com/the-originalism-blog/2024/01/heilpern-worley-president-officer.html]. we have decided to make no substantive changes to the text of the Article, treating it instead as an artifact of a specific and important historical period. We have made grammatical and syntactic revisions, and updated some of the footnotes in order to reference final versions of articles which, at the time, were only available in draft form on SSRN.

INTRODUCTION

In 1868, three years after the conclusion of the Civil War and the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified and became part of the United States Constitution. The Amendment officially overturned the notorious Dred Scott decision and was designed to grant citizenship and ensure equal protection under the law for recently freed slaves. But Section 3 of the Amendment also contained a provision that limited the ability of a small class of former Confederates—those who had previously taken oaths to support the U.S. Constitution—from holding public office in the future:

No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.4U.S. Const. amend. XIV, § 3.

Six months prior to the writing of this Article, William Baude and Michael Stokes Paulsen made headlines by publishing an article on SSRN, The Sweep and Force of Section Three, in which they argued that Donald Trump’s actions on January 6, 2021 qualified as an insurrection and that Section 3 therefore disqualified him from being elected President again.5William Baude & Michael Stokes Paulsen, The Sweep and Force of Section Three, 172 U. Pa. L. Rev. 605, 605 (2024). Our primary focus for this Article is answering whether the President is an “officer of the United States.” We do not purport to cite every piece addressing the meaning of Section 3, nor do we purport to address every topic relating to Section 3. Specifically, it appears to us that enforcement of Section 3 was lax, and we do not view this fact as probative of the original meaning of the text. For additional reading on these topics related to Section 3, the reader is directed to Baude and Paulsen’s article. For an alternative view, see Kurt T. Lash, The Meaning and Ambiguity of Section Three of the Fourteenth Amendment, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y 310 (2024); but see id. at 311 n.3 (declining to discuss whether the President is an “officer of the United States” under Section 3). At the time, Trump was the front-runner for the Republican nomination for President in 2024. Baude and Paulsen’s paper inspired lawsuits in twenty-one states, seeking to remove President Trump from the upcoming primary ballots.

Most of the media attention has focused on whether Trump actually “engaged in insurrection.” This paper focuses on a far less titillating question. In order for Section 3 to apply to Donald Trump, he must have been an “officer of the United States” prior to committing the alleged insurrection. Baude and Paulsen argue that, as President of the United States, Trump was an officer of the United States.6Baude & Paulsen, supra note 5, at 605–06; U.S. Const. amend. XIV, § 3. In making that argument, Baude and Paulsen disagreed with an earlier piece by Josh Blackman and Seth Tillman, Is the President an “Officer of the United States” for Purposes of Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment?7Josh Blackman & Seth Barrett Tillman, Is the President an “Officer of the United States” for Purposes of Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment?, 15 N.Y.U. J.L. & Liberty 1 (2021). Blackman and Tillman examined the original 1788 Constitution and concluded that the founding generation understood that the President was not an “officer of the United States.”8Id. at 21–24. Their analysis focused on the text of the constitution and subsequent sources. Based on this conclusion, Blackman and Tillman “contend that the phrase ‘officer of the United States’ has the same meaning in Section 3 as it does in the Constitution of 1788.”9Id. at 24. This implies that “the elected President is not an ‘officer of the United States.’ ”10Id.

On December 19, 2023, the Colorado Supreme Court concluded that Donald Trump is ineligible to be on the Colorado Republican primary ballot for President because he is disqualified under Section 3.11Anderson v. Griswold, 543 P.3d 283, 342 (Colo. 2023) (holding that “because President Trump is disqualified from holding the office of President under Section Three, it would be a wrongful act under the Election Code for the Secretary to list President Trump as a candidate on the presidential primary ballot”). The opinion reversed a trial court judge who had found Trump did commit insurrection but that Section 3 did not apply because Presidents are not officers of the United States.12Anderson v. Griswold, No. 23CV32577, 2023 Colo. Dist. LEXIS 362, ¶¶ 241, 298, 313 (Nov. 17, 2023) (“The Court finds that Petitioners have established that Trump engaged in an insurrection on January 6, 2021 . . . [Here] the Court is persuaded that ‘officers of the United States’ did not include the President of the United States . . . As a result, [Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment] does not apply to Trump.”). None of the dissenting justices at the Colorado Supreme Court addressed this issue, leaving the majority’s conclusion that the President is an officer of the United States unchallenged. See Anderson, 543 P.3d at 323. Rejecting Trump’s contention that “officer of the United States” was a term of art, the state supreme court concluded that “[i]f members of the Thirty-Ninth Congress and their contemporaries all used the term ‘officer’ according to its ordinary meaning to refer to the President, we presume this is the same meaning the drafters intended it to have in Section Three.”13Anderson, 543 P.3d at 323–24. The court cited examples of the contemporaries of the Fourteenth Amendment referring to the President as an officer,14Id. at 324 (using one quote from the first session of the 39th Congress and one Supreme Court decision). but only cited limited evidence about the use of the full term “officer of the United States.”15See generally id. Baude and Paulsen similarly cite limited historical evidence, spending under ten pages on this issue, which they spend discussing logical reasoning more than historical evidence.16Baude & Paulsen, supra note 5, at 721–30.

This Article attempts to fill the gap in historical evidence and provide a more detailed theoretical foundation. Part I reviews Blackman and Tillman’s article and other arguments made in the Colorado litigation, including the argument that the President is not an officer because he is “elected” not “appointed,” and the argument that he is not an officer because he does not take an oath to “support” the Constitution as required by Article VI, but instead takes the Article II oath to “preserve, protect, and defend” the Constitution.17See infra Part I. In Part II, we respond to these arguments as a textual matter, ultimately concluding that the President was an “officer of the United States” at the time of the Founding. Here, we (1) provide corpus linguistic evidence that the full phrase “officer of the United States” was not a term of art in contradiction to the explicit arguments made by President Trump at the Colorado Supreme Court; (2) demonstrate that at the time the Constitution was ratified, the words “appoint” and “elect” were largely used interchangeably; (3) provide founding era cites, including to a 1799 Act regarding the post office, that either explicitly identify the President as an “officer of the United States” or otherwise indicate that he is such an officer; and (4) present evidence that many state officers prior to the Civil War took an oath similar to the President’s and were still unambiguously covered by Section 3 despite not taking an oath that follows the precise language of Article VI of the Constitution. In Part III, we briefly discuss the phenomenon of “linguistic drift.” In Part IV and V, we then turn to the meaning of the phrase at the time of the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. In Part IV, we discuss and confirm that historical records including the text, legislative history, and ratification debates of the Fourteenth Amendment, the legislative history of the Fifteenth Amendment, and popular sources such as contemporary newspapers demonstrate that elected officials were often referred to as officers, including “officers of the United States.”18See infra Part IV. Part V then discusses specific evidence that the President is not just an officer, but is an “officer of the United States” as contemporaries of the Fourteenth Amendment would have understood that term. The most probative evidence is perhaps proclamations from President Andrew Johnson—the President at the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified—explicitly referring to himself as either the “chief executive officer of the United States” or “chief civil executive officer of the United States.” Other evidence comes from numerous texts, including legislative history, Johnson’s impeachment trial, and newspapers.19See infra Part V. Part VI reexamines case law that Blackman and Tillman rely on. We then conclude.

In his brief to the Colorado Supreme Court, President Trump argued that “not one authority holds that the President is an officer of the United States[:] no case, no statute, no record of Congressional debate, no common usage, no attorney general opinion. Nothing.”20Opening-Answer Brief at 11, Anderson v. Griswold, 543 P.3d 283 (Colo. 2023) (No. 2023SA300). President Trump made the same argument in his brief to the Maine Attorney General. See President Donald Trump’s Closing Argument at 21, Trump v. Bellows, No. AP-24-01, 2024 WL 989060 (Me. Super. Ct. 2024), https://www.maine.gov/sos/news/2023/23.12.19%20Closing%20Arguments%20Brief%20FINAL.pdf. We have done our best to collect and catalog extensive evidence to the contrary.

Our conclusion is simple: the President was an officer of the United States as originally understood both at the Founding and the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. Numerous sources confirm that “officer of the United States” was not a term of art, which by itself settles the matter. Regardless, founding-era sources also refer to the President as an officer of the United States. This includes the Postal Act of 1799, which lists the President with officers of the United States. Additionally, there is strong probative evidence that in 1868 the President was considered an officer of the United States.

I.  SUMMARY OF PAST SCHOLARSHIP AND ITS USE IN THE COLORADO PROCEEDINGS

This Section attempts to fairly familiarize the reader with Blackman and Tillman’s points and walk through how their article informed the proceedings in the Colorado case regarding President Trump’s eligibility to appear on the 2024 Colorado Republican Primary ballot.

A.  Summary of the Blackman-Tillman Interpretation

Blackman and Tillman argue that Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment cannot bar President Trump from holding future office because the only office he has held is that of President, and the President is not an officer of the United States. They compare the text of the Fourteenth Amendment to the text of the original Constitution and infer that (1) “Section 3’s ‘officer of the United States’-language was imported from the Oath or Affirmation Clause,”21Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 23. and (2) “[i]n 1788, the President was not an ‘officer of the United States.’ ”22Id. at 24. They also tentatively state a third conclusion: “[W]e do not think linguistic drift occurred with respect to the phrase ‘officer of the United States’ ” between the founding in 1788 and the enactment of the Fourteenth Amendment in 1868.23Id. at 25.

Blackman and Tillman first look at the Constitution’s text, specifically the use of the term “officers of the United States” in the Appointments Clause, the Commission Clause, the Impeachment Clause, and the Oath or Affirmation Clause. They claim that none of these clauses suggest the existence of officers who are elected, only officers who are appointed.

First, Blackman and Tillman emphasize that the Appointments Clause states that the President shall appoint “Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the [S]upreme Court, and all other Officers of the United States.”24Id. at 22 (citing U.S. Const. art. II, § 2, cl. 2). They fail to quote the entire relevant language. See infra Section II.D.1. Because the President does not appoint himself, they reason that he cannot be an officer of the United States.25Id.

Next, they rely on the Impeachment Clause’s reference to “[t]he President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the United States.”26Id. at 22 (citing U.S. Const art. II, § 4) (emphasis added). From this language, they conclude that

the president and vice president’s [express] enumeration in the Impeachment Clause in addition to ‘all civil Officers of the United States’ shows that the president and vice president are not deemed ‘officers of the United States’ themselves. Otherwise, the Framers would have stated that ‘all other civil officers’ were subject to impeachment.27Id.

Third, they cite the Oath or Affirmation Clause, which requires the “Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States” to take an oath to “support the Constitution.”28U.S. Const. art. VI, cl. 3. But because the President takes a different oath specified at the end of Article II, they conclude he must not be an officer of the United States.29Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 22.

Finally, they note that Article II, Section 3, states that the President “shall Commission all the Officers of the United States.”30U.S. Const. art. II, § 3. Here, they argue, “All means all.” This structure explains why appointed executive-branch and judicial-branch officers receive commissions, but there is no record of any elected official, whether a president, vice president or a member of Congress, ever receiving a [presidential] commission.”31Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 229.

Based on their analysis, Blackman and Tillman claim that “Section 3’s ‘officer of the United States’-language was imported from the Oath or Affirmation Clause.”32Id. at 23. They make this claim because both clauses “reference the same four categories of office holders who swore an oath to support the Constitution: [1] Senators and Representatives, [2] members of the state legislatures, [3] executive and judicial officers of the United States, and [4] executive and judicial officers of the states.”33Id. at 11. Based on the parallel structure of these clauses, they conclude that because the President is not mentioned in the Oath or Affirmation Clause, the parallel language of Section 3 excludes him.34Id. at 16.

Blackman and Tillman next argue that “[i]n 1788, the President was not an ‘officer of the United States.’ ”35Id. at 24. To support this conclusion, they first state that “[e]lected officials like the president are not ‘Officers of the United States.’ ”36Id. at 23. Second, they rely on the drafting process surrounding the original Constitution:

For example, in the Succession Clause, the phrase “officer of the United States” was changed to “officer.” In the Impeachment Clause, the phrase “[President, Vice President,] and other Civil officers of the U.S.” was changed to “President, Vice President, and Civil Officers of the U.S.” And in its final form, the Impeachment Clause became: “President, Vice President, and all civil Officers of the United States.” The Framers changed the word that preceded “Civil Officers of the United States” from “other” to “all.”37Id. at 9 (emphasis omitted).

From these changes, they conclude:

This and other similar alterations to the draft constitution’s “office”- and “officer”-language were significant. First, these revisions show that this language was not modified indiscriminately. The Framers paid careful attention to the words they chose. Second, the use of “other” in the draft constitution shows that at a preliminary stage, the Framers used language affirmatively stating that the President and Vice President were “Officers of the United States.” But the draft constitution’s use of “other” was, in fact, rejected in favor of “all.” The better inference, arising in connection with the actual Constitution of 1788, is that the President and Vice President are not “Officers of the United States.”38Id. at 9–10(citing 2 Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States § 791, at 260 (1833)).

Finally, Blackman and Tillman tentatively conclude: “[W]e do not think linguistic drift occurred with respect to the phrase ‘officer of the United States’ ” between the founding in 1788 and the enactment of the Fourteenth Amendment in 1868.39Id. at 25. They cabin this conclusion carefully, noting repeatedly that this conclusion was based on the lack of “direct, clear, or compelling evidence.”40Id. at 24. They cite two cases—United States v. Mouat (1888) and United States v. Hartwell (1867)—as evidence.41Id. at 26 (citing United States v. Mouat, 124 U.S. 303 (1888); United States v. Hartwell, 73 U.S. 385 (1867)). They also cite to statements from two individuals who viewed the President as not an officer of the United States:

In 1876, the House of Representatives impeached Secretary of War William Belknap. During the trial, Senator Newton Booth from California observed, “the President is not an officer of the United States.” Instead, Booth stated, the President is “part of the Government.”

Two years later, David McKnight wrote an influential treatise on the American electoral system. He reached a similar conclusion. McKnight wrote that “[i]t is obvious that . . . the President is not regarded as ‘an officer of, or under, the United States,’ but as one branch of ‘the Government.’ ”42Id. at 30–31 (citing Cong. Rec. Containing the Proceedings of the Senate Sitting for the Trial of William W. Belknap, Late Secretary of War, on the Articles of Impeachment Exhibited by the House of Representatives 145 (1876); David A. McKnight, The Electoral System of the United States: A Critical and Historical Exposition of Its Fundamental Principles in the Constitution, and of the Acts and Proceedings of Congress Enforcing It 346 (1878)).

However, Blackman and Tillman admit that they “do not suggest that there is no counter-authority” but ask for evidence “as probative as” their own before they accept the proposition of linguistic drift.43Id. at 31. We do not suggest that, if Blackman and Tillman were right about these core points, they would be wrong in the conclusion they draw: that a President who had not otherwise served as an officer of the United States would not be subject to the Fourteenth Amendment.44We, however, note that Blackman and Tillman concede that, had President Trump served as a member of Congress or been a governor prior to being elected president, he would be subject to Section 3. Id. at 47. Indeed, they note President Trump is “the only President in American history to have never held prior state or federal, civilian or military, public office.” Id. at 3.

But this precedent has a bite. Accept that every President prior to Trump indeed had previously served “as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State” until President Trump. Id. at 24. Did the drafters of the Fourteenth Amendment really both anticipate that some future President would not have held such a position, and specifically intend to exclude him—but not the other Presidents—from the disability anticipated by Section 3?
Instead, we believe they are wrong on these points.45See infra Parts II–IV.

Blackman and Tillman have written a more recent article, Sweeping and Forcing the President into Section 3, where they respond directly to Baude and Paulsen’s criticism at length.46Josh Blackman & Seth Barrett Tillman, Sweeping and Forcing the President into Section 3, 28 Tex. Rev. L. & Pol. 350 (2024). Much of their substantive discussion is indistinguishable from their earlier discussion as they focus their attention on their existing scholarship on the term “officer of the United States.” As they did in their original article, they cite Senator Booth and David McKnight.47Id. at 546 n.820, 547 n.821. They discuss the other Clauses their first paper discussed and spend time critiquing Baude and Paulsen’s discussion of this issue.48Id. at 547–48.

But they continue to convey a commendable level of humility about their position: “Maybe Booth and McKnight were right, or maybe they were wrong. No doubt, there are other competing authorities.”49Id. at 548. “We do not say this question has an obvious answer. Rather, we say it does not have an obvious one. If so, ambiguity leans against extending disqualifications.”50Id. at 555. In discussing if there was linguistic drift regarding “Office . . . under the United States,” they say, “[w]e would prefer to add to the body of scholarship and be correct, rather than overreach and be wrong.”51Id. at 564 (emphasis omitted).

In their response to Baude and Paulsen, Blackman and Tillman point to the Oath or Affirmation Clause as the source of the meaning of terms in Section 3, suggesting that “[i]f we are correct, it illustrates that constitutional draftspersons, in 1787–1788 and 1866–1868, closely adhered to parliamentary drafting conventions,” and critique the legal academy for not understanding those conventions.52Id. at 553. They also repeat an argument made in the Colorado litigation: that because the presidential oath says “preserve, protect and defend” and the Article VI oath says “support,” Section 3 includes the latter and excludes the former.53Id. at 554. Blackman and Tillman also cite contemporary opinions by attorneys general and others that link Article VI and Section 3.54Id. at 555–57.

B.  Reliance by Lower Colorado Court

In late 2022, Donald Trump announced he would run for President again.55Federal Election Commission, FEC Form 2; Statement of Candidacy, FEC-1661552 (2023), https://docquery.fec.gov/cgi-bin/forms/C00828541/1661552 [https://perma.cc/UY99-UQ2V]. In September 2023, five Colorado residents sued Colorado’s Secretary of State, arguing that Trump was ineligible to be on the ballot in Colorado because he had violated Section 3.56Anderson v. Griswold, No. 2023CV32577, 2023 Colo. Dist. LEXIS 362, ¶¶ 1, 222 (Nov. 17, 2023). Obviously, Trump intervened.57Id. ¶ 10. Trump cited Blackman and Tillman in support of the proposition that the President was not an officer of the United States.58Intervenors’ Proposed Findings and Conclusions of Law at 43, 57, Anderson v. Griswold, No. 2023CV32577, 2023 Colo. Dist. LEXIS 362 (Nov. 17, 2023). Trump quoted the examples Blackman and Tillman gave: Senator Booth and treatise writer David McKnight stating that the President was not an officer of the United States.59Id. at 43. He also cited recent Supreme Court precedent, including the statement by Chief Justice Roberts that “[t]he people do not vote for the ‘Officers of the United States.’ ”60Id. (citing Free Enter. Fund v. Pub. Co. Acct. Oversight Bd., 561 U.S. 477, 497–98 (2010)). Finally, Trump cited the Appointments Clause, the Impeachment Clause, the Commission Clause, and the Oath or Affirmation Clause, closely tracking Blackman and Tillman in some detail as to why each Clause supports the idea that the President is not an officer of the United States.61Id. at 44–46.

The trial court ultimately ruled against Trump on every dispositive issue except whether the office of the President was an officer of the United States.62Anderson v. Griswold, No. 2023CV32577, 2023 Colo. Dist. LEXIS 362, ¶¶ 299–315 (Nov. 17, 2023). While the court did not cite Blackman and Tillman, it did cite to the same four clauses that Blackman and Tillman and Trump’s briefing rely on—the Appointments Clause, the Commission Clause, the Impeachment Clause, and the Oath or Affirmation Clause.63Anderson v. Griswold, No. 23CV32577, 2023 Colo. Dist. LEXIS 362, ¶ 311 (Nov. 17, 2023). The trial court also noted that the President takes a different oath than Article VI officers, suggesting that his oath was not covered by Section 3.64Id. ¶¶ 311, 313 n.19.

However, part of the reason for the trial court’s decision was the implications of an alternative conclusion. The court stated:

To be clear, part of the Court’s decision is its reluctance to embrace an interpretation which would disqualify a presidential candidate without a clear, unmistakable indication that such is the intent of Section Three. As Attorney General Stanbery again noted when construing the Reconstruction Acts, “those who are expressly brought within its operation cannot be saved from its operation. Where, from the generality of terms of description, or for any other reason, a reasonable doubt arises, that doubt is to be resolved against the operation of the law and in favor of the voter.” The Reconstruction Acts, 12 U.S. Op. Att’y Gen. 141, 160 (1867) (emphasis added). Here, the record demonstrates an appreciable amount of tension between the competing interpretations, and a lack of definitive guidance in the text or historical sources.65Id. ¶ 314.

C.  Rejection by Colorado Supreme Court

Trump’s core argument at the Colorado Supreme Court was that the catch-all phrase “officer of the United States” excludes the President as “no case, no statute, no record of Congressional debate, no common usage, no attorney general opinion” supports the conclusion that the President is an officer and “by contrast, three Constitutional provisions—the Appointments Clause, Impeachment Clause, and Commissions Clause in Article II—all distinguish the President from ‘officers of the United States.’ And ‘officers of the United States’ in Article VI take an oath different from the Presidential oath in Article II.”66Opening-Answer Brief at 11, Anderson v. Griswold, 543 P.3d 283 (Colo. 2023) (No. 2023SA300). Trump also argued that the presidential oath does not qualify as an oath under Section 3’s requirements for disqualification.67Id. at 12.

The Colorado Supreme Court disagreed. The court concluded: (1) “[T]he normal and ordinary usage of the term ‘officer of the United States’ includes the President”;68Anderson v. Griswold, 543 P.3d 283, 323 (Colo. 2023). and (2) “Section Three’s drafters and their contemporaries understood the President as an officer of the United States.”69Id.

Trump was incorrect to argue that “ ‘officer of the United States’ . . . is a constitutional term of art” because the court “perceive[d] no persuasive contemporary evidence demonstrating some other, technical term-of-art meaning.”70Id. at 323–24. In other words, if “officer of the United States” was a term of art, someone would have said so.

Attorney General Stanbery’s opinions on the subject suggest that the term “officer of the United States” was to be broadly understood.71Id. at 324.

However, the Colorado Supreme Court did not cite much historical evidence referring to the President by the term “officer of the United States.” Many of the examples referred to the President simply as an “officer.”

While three Justices dissented from the holding of the majority, none of them argued that the President was not an officer of the United States.72Id. at 342, 346 n.1 (using the term “officer of the United States” to reincorporate the language from Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment and from the holding of the majority). In his dissent, Justice Samour recognized the “vital need for definitional counsel” on questions such as who is an “officer of the United States.” Id. at 357 (Samour, J., dissenting). Yet Justice Samour declined to consider this issue. Id.

D.  The Colorado GOP’s Petition for Certiorari

The Colorado Republican Party filed for certiorari, represented by Jay Sekulow, a long-time ally of Trump who has argued fourteen or more cases at the Supreme Court. The leading question presented concerns whether the President is an officer of the United States.73Petition for Writ of Certiorari at i, Colo. Republican State Cent. Comm. v. Griswold, 144 S. Ct. 1085 (2024) (No. 23-696). Their brief for certiorari reads like a merits brief.

In arguing that the President is not an officer of the United States, the brief makes the following core points: First, the President is not an officer because officers are commissioned by the President under the Commissions Clause, not elected.74Id. at 11–12. Second, “officers of the United States” is a term of art that is only used in three places in the Constitution: Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment, the Commissions Clause, and the Appointments Clause.75Id. at 12. The Colorado Republican Party argues, “The Constitution uses a distinct, specific term, ‘officer of the United States.’ Generic references to the term officer do not overcome the more specific meaning evidenced by the constitutional language.”76Id. at 13. Third, they rely on the same sources of Senator Booth and David McKnight that were previously explained.77Id. Fourth, they make a distinction between the presidential oath and the Article VI oath, relying on Attorney General Stanbery’s discussion of the Article VI oath.78Id. at 13–14. Finally, they posit that this exclusion of the President from Section 3 makes sense as a policy matter:

Every Senator or Representative represents a geographic area where sympathy for insurrection was (at the time of the post-Civil War era) a real and legitimate concern. Lower federal officers, meanwhile, are not elected and thus do not face national electoral scrutiny. Only the President (and Vice-President) face nationwide electoral accountability. And if an electoral majority of the voters determine that they want a certain individual as Chief Executive, regardless of alleged or even actual past transgressions, that is their national choice under the Constitution.79Id. at 15.

(This last argument appears poorly reasoned; if a President had previously served as a senator, governor, or general, as many Presidents have, it would not matter that “an electoral majority of the voters determine that they want [that former President] as Chief Executive” if that President committed insurrection; they would be ineligible to run for a second term. This argument does not explain why the Fourteenth Amendment’s drafters would have wanted to exclude only Presidents who had never held offices such as Senator, Governor, or General.)

II.  THE PHRASE “OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES” INCLUDED THE PRESIDENT AT THE TIME OF THE FOUNDING

Despite Blackman and Tillman’s articles being impressive examples of careful scholarship, there are at least four reasons we disagree with the conclusion that the original public meaning of “officers of the United States” did not include the President or Vice President: (1) corpus linguistics evidence—including our own past research—demonstrates that at the time of the Founding, “officer of the United States” was not a term of art but instead referred to any federal official; (2) the assumption that there was a rigid distinction between “elections” and “appointments” is at odds with the historical record, which shows that the words were instead used interchangeably; (3) the text of the Constitution specifically identifies the Presidency as an “office”; and (4) additional contextual considerations complicate Blackman and Tillman’s otherwise straightforward textual analysis. While this topic merits an article of its own, we will address each reason briefly below.

A.  Corpus Linguistics Evidence Supports that the President Is an Officer of the United States

First, many who argue that the President is not an officer of the United States—including President Trump and Steven Calabresi—do so based on the assumption that the phrase “officer of the United States” is a term of art80See id. at 12; see also Steve Calabresi, Donald Trump Should be on the Ballot and Should Lose, Reason: The Volokh Conspiracy (Sept. 16, 2023, 2:08 AM), https://reason.com/volokh/2023/09/16/steve-calabresi-donald-trump-should-be-on-the-ballot-and-should-lose [https://perma.cc/M33Q-44VG] (“Thirty-three years of academic research and writing on the presidency has persuaded me that the words ‘officer of the United States’ are a legal term of art, which does not apply to the President.”). It should be noted that Blackman and Tillman agree that the phrase “was not a fixed term of art.” Seth Barrett Tillman & Josh Blackman, Offices and Officers of the Constitution, Part III: The Appointments, Impeachment, Commissions, and Oath or Affirmation Clauses, 62 S. Tex. L. Rev. 349, 444 (2023).—an assumption that past research refutes. In 2018, we wrote an amicus brief on behalf of fifteen scholars of corpus linguistics which was submitted to the U.S. Supreme Court in the case Lucia v. SEC.81Brief for Scholars of Corpus Linguistics as Amici Curiae, Lucia v. SEC, 585 U.S. 237 (2018) (No. 17-130). As part of that brief, a corpus linguistic analysis of the phrase was performed, from which we drew the following conclusions:

The phrase “Officer(s) of the United States” appears in [BYU’s Corpus of Founding Era American English (“COFEA”)] just 109 times between 1789 and 1799, with just over a third of those being direct quotations of the Constitution. This is a tiny minority of the 5,353 times the word “officer” appears in the database overall during this same period―even though 59.8% of the time the word “officer” appears in COFEA it is clearly referencing a federal [official].

While the relative obscurity of the longer phrase does not prove that it was not a legal term of art at the time of the Founding, we perceive no specialized meaning attached to its use [to suggest that it was]. Instead, the appellation was often used simply to clarify that the agent was in the employ of the federal government, as opposed to a private actor or employee of a state or territory.

For example, in a letter to George Washington, General Arthur St. Clair expressed concern that the Attorney General of the new Ohio territory “would be an Officer of the Territory only, whereas he should be an Officer of the United States.” Likewise, Alexander Hamilton wrote to New York merchant William Seton, requesting he purchase public debt on behalf of the federal government since the government had yet to “employ some officer of the United States” for the task.82Id. at 18–19.

We did not see then—and do not see now—any evidence to suggest that the term excluded the President or was limited to some special subclass of federal officials. To the contrary, it applied broadly to all government officials—“civil and military”—exercising any non-trivial federal authority. For instance, in his Eighth Annual Address to Congress at the end of 1796, George Washington called for “legislative revision” of “[t]he compensation to the officers of the United States,” particularly “in respect to the most important stations.”83George Washington, President of the United States, Eighth Annual Address to Congress (Dec. 7, 1796). Congress responded a little over one year later, raising the salaries of sundry government officials, starting with “the President and Vice President of the United States.”84Act of March 19, 1798, ch. 18, § 1, 5 Stat. 542, 542. The fact that Congress did not use the phrase “officers of the United States” in this appropriations bill, but instead referred generally to “officers,” “offices,” and “persons employed,” even when referring to positions such as the Secretary of State, Attorney General, Secretary of the Treasury, Secretary of War, Chief Justice, and Consuls—positions that neither Blackman and Tillman nor President Trump would dispute are “officers of the United States”—further demonstrates that the larger phrase was not considered a term of art.

In fact, a corpus search of BYU’s Corpus of Early Statutes at Large85Corpus of Early Statutes at Large (CESAL), BYU Law: Law & Corpus Linguistics, https://lawcorpus.byu.edu/cesal/concordances.—which the authors of the Lucia brief created and which contains all of the Statutes at Large from the first five Congresses—reveals that Congress almost never used the phrase “officer(s) of the United States” during this time period, despite being an era when Congress was constantly exercising its power to “establish[] by [l]aw”86U.S. Const. art. II, § 2. such positions within the new government. In its first decade, Congress used the phrase just thirteen times, while using the word officer or officers 1,481 times and office or offices 630 times. This would be baffling if “officer of the United States” was a legal term of art but makes perfect sense if the phrase merely designated a federal official—after all it was the Congress of the United States creating the positions, what other type of office would we expect? One for Virginia? Japan? In the absence of clear textual clues to the contrary—such as perhaps territorial officers—the default assumption should be that all of such positions created by Congress are officers of the United States.

In addition, of the thirteen times the full phrase appears, one—a postal bill specifying which “officers of the United States” should be granted a franking privilege—specifically listed both the President and Vice President as officers of the United States.87Act of March 2, 1799, ch. 43, § 17, 5 Stat. 733, 737–38. The Postal Act of 1799 stated:

Sec. 17. And be it further enacted, That letters and packets to and from the following officers of the United States, shall be received and conveyed by post, free of postage. Each postmaster . . . ; each member of the Senate and House of Representatives of the Congress of the of the United States; the Secretary of the Senate and Clerk of the House of Representatives . . . ; the President of the United States; Vice President; the Secretary of the Treasury; Comptroller; Auditor; Register; Treasurer; Commissioner of the Revenue . . . .88Id.

The conclusion that the phrase “officer of the United States” was not a term of art at the time of the Founding is further buttressed by the research of Jennifer Mascott, who used aspects of corpus linguistics to demonstrate that the phrase was in use prior to the creation of the Constitution.89Jennifer L. Mascott, Who Are “Officers of the United States”?, 70 Stan. L. Rev. 443 (2018). Using a corpus of 340,000 issues of early American newspapers, she found twenty uses of the phrase “prior to the signing of the Constitution on September 17, 1789.”90Id. at 478. The first reference was in 1780, describing Benedict Arnold as a “general officer of the United States.”91Id. It appeared again in 1783 referring simply to continental officers. Other uses included “Judicial Officers of the United States” and “commissaries and other officers of the United States” who gave out certifications of debt under the Constitution.92Id. at 479.

Mascott also performed a corpus analysis of the Journals of the Continental Congress, “a highly relevant source for identifying the well-understood meaning of legally relevant terms and phrases in the time period just prior to the drafting and ratification of the Constitution.”93Id. at 477. The Journals contain forty-one references to “officer(s) of the United States.”94Id. at 477 n.173. Often the phrase was “just another way to describe continental military officers or identify national- as opposed to state-level, officers.”95Id. at 477–78. For example, one letter distinguished between the time a military officer served as an “officer of the United States” and the time he served as a captain for his State.96Id. at 478 n.175.

From both a legal and linguistic perspective, we think the importance of the full phrase “officer of the United States” not being a term of art at the time of the Founding cannot be overstated. It narrows the scope of the linguistic inquiry: the meaning of the word “officer” standing alone becomes the relevant question, with “of the United States” simply being a prepositional phrase functioning as an adjective. A comment by Alexander Hamilton in Federalist 67 supports this conclusion:

The second clause of the second section of the second article empowers the President of the United States “to nominate, and by and with the advice and consent of the Senate, to appoint ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, judges of the Supreme Court, and all other OFFICERS of United States whose appointments are NOT in the Constitution OTHERWISE PROVIDED FOR, and WHICH SHALL BE ESTABLISHED BY LAW.”97The Federalist No. 67 (Alexander Hamilton) (Ernest Rhys ed., 1911).

While we will return to the substance of Hamilton’s statement later, what is important for present purposes is his interesting use of capitalization for emphasis. If he had understood the term “officers of the United States” to be a term of art, he would have written “OFFICERS OF THE UNITED STATES.” But he did not. He focused on just the word “OFFICERS.”

The addition of a modifier—whether it is “tall,” “red,” or “of the United States”—can rarely change the meaning of the underlying noun it is modifying. As we observed in another corpus linguistics-based amicus brief we wrote in a different Supreme Court case:

An adjective is a word that modifies nouns and pronouns, primarily by describing a particular quality of the word that it is modifying. . . . In syntactic representations the adjective is a subordinate category, a dependent of the noun . . . that it modifies. In layman’s terms, this means that in the relationship between adjectives and their nouns, the noun is king—an adjective’s meaning and scope is always relative to the noun it is modifying . . . . Put another way, an adjective can hardly ever decontextualize a noun.98Brief Submitted by Scholars of Corpus Linguistics as Amici Curiae at 20–21, Rimini Street v. Oracle, 586 U.S. 334 (2019) (No. 17-1625) [hereinafter Corpus Linguistics Amici] (cleaned up, and internal quotation marks and citations omitted).

We think that this is important for evidentiary purposes: it dramatically expands the universe of helpful examples relevant in determining the original public meaning of the phrase in at least three ways. First, we can assume that references to “federal officers,” “national officers,” “officers of the federal government,” “United States officers” and similar phraseology are also references to “officers of the United States”—unless, of course, there is evidence that one of those phrases is a term of art.

Next, we also think that it makes historical details about state and local officers more relevant. While the fact that a state constitution might allow for a governor or other state officer to be elected does not tell us anything about whether the U.S. Constitution allows for a federal officer to be elected, it does provide evidence that there was nothing inherently wrong about officers generally being elected.

Finally, in his brief to the Colorado Supreme Court, President Trump argued, that “despite the many words and citations that treat the President as an officer[,] not one authority holds that the President is an officer of the United States[:] no case, no statute, no record of Congressional debate, no common usage, no attorney general opinion. Nothing.”99Opening-Answer Brief, supra note 20, at 11. While our discovery of the Postal Act of 1799 has already proven that the former President’s assertion is not true, even if it were, it would not matter. Those many “words and citations that treat the President as an officer” are absolutely relevant unless it can be shown that the full phrase “officer of the United States” means more than the sum of its parts. Which it does not.

B.  At the Time of the Founding, “Appoint” and “Elect” Were Used Interchangeably

Second, the argument that the President is not an officer of the United States is built on the assumption that there is a rigid distinction between appointments and elections. Blackman and Tillman have repeatedly stated this:

“In order to reach this . . . conclusion [that the President could be an ‘Officer of the United States’], the interpreter must reject the distinction we drew between elected and appointed federal positions.”100Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 443.

“The Constitution hardwired this distinction between appointment and election.”101Id. at 391.

“The President is in ‘the service of the government,’ but is not appointed by a President, a court of law, or a department head; indeed, he is not appointed at all . . . the Constitution expressly states that the President ‘shall . . . be elected.’ Under the rule in Mouat, the President is not ‘strictly speaking’ an officer of the United States.’ ”102Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 27.

“Presidents are not appointed; they are elected.”103Brief Submitted by Professor Seth Barrett Tillman as Amicus Curiae in Support of Defendant-Appellee Secretary of State Jocelyn Benson and in Support of Affirmance of the Court of Claims’ Order Denying Plaintiffs’ Prayer for Relief at 16, Davis v. Wayne Cnty. Election Comm’n, Nos. 368615, 368628, 2023 Mich. App. LEXIS 9150 (2023) [hereinafter Tillman Amicus for Davis].

“Presidents are not ‘appointed’ by the ‘government.’ Rather, Article II describes the President as an ‘elected’ position in several clauses.”104Brief Submitted by Professor Seth Barrett Tillman as Amicus Curiae in Support of Intervenor-Appellant/Cross-Appellee Donald J. Trump at 23, Anderson v. Griswold, 543 P.3d 283 (Colo. 2023) (No. 2023SA300) [hereinafter Tillman Amicus for Anderson].

And they are not alone: Steven Calabresi105Calabresi, supra note 80. and Michael Mukasey106Michael B. Mukasey, Was Trump ‘an Officer of the United States’?, Wall St. J. (Sept. 7, 2023, 12:59 PM), https://www.wsj.com/articles/was-trump-an-officer-of-the-united-states-constitution-14th-amendment-50b7d26 [https://web.archive.org/web/20240209014211/https://www.wsj.com/articles/was-trump-an-officer-of-the-united-states-constitution-14th-amendment-50b7d26]. have all made similar arguments. But there is one really good reason to “reject the distinction [they all draw] between elected and appointed federal positions”107Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 443.: it did not exist at the time of the Founding. It is a linguistic anachronism. The words appear to have been used interchangeably, at least to the extent that an election was considered a mode of appointment. For example, in a speech given during the Constitutional Convention, James Madison discussed different options for selecting the President: “The option before us then lay between an appointment by Electors chosen by the people —and an immediate appointment by the people.”108James Madison, Method of Appointing the Executive, [25 July] 1787, in 10 The Papers of James Madison: 27 May 1787–3 March 1788, at 115–17 (Robert A. Rutland et al. eds., 1977), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Madison/01-10-02-0072 [https://perma.cc/UJY5-MJ3D]. Likewise, during the impeachment trial of Senator William Blount, Congressman Robert Harper of South Carolina—one of the House Impeachment Managers—stated, “[T]he President himself is liable to be impeached, as well as the officers whom he appoints. So also is the Vice President. And yet these two great officers are appointed by the people themselves, in a manner far more direct and immediate than Senators, and removable at shorter periods.”1098 Annals of Cong. 2315 (1799).

And these comments were not one-offs. As we will show below, the historical record—including the text of the Constitution itself, the Articles of Confederation, early state constitutions, and repeated statements to and by George Washington—overwhelmingly shows that the founding generation used the word “elect” and “appoint” largely as synonyms.

1.  Text of the Constitution

To begin with, the text of the Constitution itself demonstrates that the founding generation did not use the words “appoint” and “elect” in the same binary fashion we do today. This is evident in the original Constitution’s discussion of the Electoral College. It is often easy to forget that while the President is “elected” (as it states in the Constitution), he is not elected by the people. He is elected by the Electoral College—a non-standing, multimember body of sorts whose members choose the President and Vice President by vote. But how are these Electors chosen? There is no Constitutionally required method. Article II, Section 1 simply states: “Each state shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof may direct, a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and Representatives to which the State may be entitled in the Congress.”110U.S. Const. art II, § 1, cl. 2.

Ten states participated in the first Presidential Election of 1788–89.111Presidential Election of 1789, Mount Vernon, https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/presidential-election-of-1789 [https://perma.cc/P4TA-M57Q]. North Carolina and Rhode Island had not yet ratified the Constitution. New York failed to appoint electors by the deadline set by Congress. Id. While the methods for appointing electors varied, none followed the pattern we are accustomed to today with a single individual or council (with or without the approval of a legislative body) unilaterally making the decision. Instead, four states “appointed” these electors through popular elections. Unlike today where the voters generally cast ballots for Presidential candidates (with slates of electors who support the winner of the popular vote in the state being appointed behind the scenes in accordance with state law), in several states in 1789, the citizenry voted for individual electors. For example, “Virginia chose presidential electors by popular vote. The state was divided into electoral districts. The voters in each district selected one presidential elector, who was then certified to the governor by the sheriffs of the counties comprising that district.”112Mary Dessypris & Virginia S. Dunn, Presidential and Congressional Election Returns at the Library of Virginia, Libr. of Va., https://www.lva.virginia.gov/public/guides/rn21_election.pdf [https://perma.cc/BC2X-3L5X]. Delaware followed a similar procedure.113The Electoral Count for the Presidential Election of 1789, Washington Papers, https://washingtonpapers.org/resources/articles/the-electoral-count-for-the-presidential-election-of-1789 [https://perma.cc/8VCD-MFC8]. And Pennsylvania and Maryland chose their electors through state-wide elections, with the highest vote getters at-large being “appointed.”114Id.

Massachusetts and New Hampshire followed hybrid models. In Massachusetts, a popular election was held in each of eight districts, but then the legislature appointed one of the two highest vote getters.115Id. In New Hampshire, a state-wide election was held, and then the legislature selected five of the top ten vote getters.116Id. In three states—Connecticut, Georgia, and South Carolina—the state legislatures appointed their respective electors entirely themselves.117Id. But how does a multimember legislative body “appoint” someone? As one newspaper article about the legislative component of the Massachusetts process explained, “the Members of the two Houses [of the Legislature], assembled together in one room for the choice of Electors of President and Vice President of the United States, and proceeded to the choice by joint ballot.”118Sketch of Business in the General Court, Hartford Courant, Jan. 12, 1789, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/1105496221. In other words, they voted.

Thus, in nine of the ten states, the electors were chosen through some sort of election—either by the people, the legislature, or both. But these elections did not mean that the electors were not appointed. Instead, it demonstrates that at the time of the Founding, appointments and elections were not thought to be mutually exclusive.

2.  Early State Constitutions

Next, we find evidence that the founding generation used the words “appointed” and “elected” interchangeably in the first constitutions of the thirteen original states. We collect the relevant text of these Constitutions in Appendices A and B. At the time, popular elections for chief executives and judges were almost unheard of.119But see Mass. Const. of 1780, pt. II, ch. II, § I, art. III . Instead, executive and judicial officers were typically chosen by a state’s general assembly. But while some of the states used the word elect to describe this process,120See N.J. Const. of 1776, art. VII (“That the Council and Assembly jointly in their first Meeting after each annual Election, shall by a Majority of Votes, elect some fit Person with the Colony to be a Governor for one Year.”). others used the word appoint.121Del. Const. of 1776, art. 12 (“The president and general assembly shall by joint ballot appoint three justices of the supreme court for the State, one of whom shall be chief justice, and a judge of admiralty, and also four justices of the courts of common pleas and orphans’ courts for each county, one of whom in each court shall be styled ‘chief justice,’ (and in case of division on the Ballot the president shall have an additional casting voice) . . . .”); Va. Const. of 1776, art. XIV (“The two Houses of Assembly shall, by joint ballot, appoint Judges of the Supreme Court of Appeals, and General Court, Judges in Chancery, Judges of Admiralty, and the Attorney General . . . .”). Often the same Constitution would use both words to describe the same process, often in the same sentence. For example, under the Georgia Constitution of 1776, the Governor was “cho[sen] . . . by ballot”122Ga. Const. of 1776, art. II. by the legislature—that the drafters of the constitution considered this process to be both an election and an appointment is demonstrated by the governor’s constitutionally-mandated oath of office: “ ‘I, A B, elected governor of the State of Georgia, by the representatives thereof, do solemnly promise and swear that I will, during the term of my appointment, to the best of my skill and judgment, execute the said office faithfully and conscientiously’ according to law . . . .”123Id. at art. XXIV. Likewise, the Maryland constitution states that “a person of wisdom, experience, and virtue, shall be chosen as Governor . . . by the joint ballot of both houses.”124Md. Const. of 1776, art. XXVI. The ballots were to be counted by “a joint committee of both Houses” and the results then reported to the rest of the Assembly so “that the appointment may be entered.”125Id. However, the Constitution then specified that if after two rounds of voting, two or more candidates received the same number of votes, “then the election of the Governor shall be determined by lot.”126Id.

3.  Articles of Confederation

Similarly, there is ample evidence that the Continental Congress under the Articles of Confederation used the two words interchangeably as well. The Articles of Confederation were adopted by the Continental Congress on November 15, 1777, as the new nation’s first constitution. It used the word “appoint” (or one of its variations) eighteen times, but for present purposes we will focus on just one. Article IX—the predecessor to the Constitution’s Appointments Clause—gave the “united states in congress assembled . . . [the] authority . . . to appoint . . . civil officers as may be necessary for managing the general affairs of the united states under their direction.”127Articles of Confederation of 1781, art. IX, para. 5. But despite this verbiage, the Journals of the Continental Congress often used the word “elect” for such actions. We have reproduced just a handful of the many examples below:128We found these and many more examples using the Corpus of Founding Era American English. Corpus of Founding Era American English (COFEA), BYU Law: Law & Corpus Linguistics, https://lawcorpus.byu.edu/cofea/concordances. Our search can be replicated by searching for the word “secretary” within six words on either side of “elect*” during the time frame 1777–1788.

Pursuant to the resolution of the 7th of March last, Congress proceeded to the election of a minister plenipotentiary, to succeed Mr. J. Adams at the court of the United Netherlands, and, the ballots being taken, William Livingston, esq. was elected having been previously nominated by Mr. Stewart.129Journals of Congress, 1785, in 4 Journals of the American Congress: From 1774 to 1788, at 541 (1823).

Congress proceeded to the election of a secretary and paymaster to the navy board in the middle district, and the ballots being taken, Mr. Joseph Pennel was elected.130Journals of Congress, March, 1779, in 13 Journals of the Continental Congress: 1774–1789, at 345 (Worthington Chauncey Ford ed., 1909).

According to the order of the day, Congress proceeded to the election of a secretary for foreign affairs, but not agreeing in the choice, Resolved, That the order for electing a secretary for foreign affairs, be postponed till Monday next.131Journals of Congress, 1784, in 4 Journals of the American Congress, supra note 129, at 340.

Ordered, That the election of a secretary for foreign affairs be postponed till Friday next.132Journals of Congress, June, 1781, in 20 Journals of the Continental Congress: 1774–1789, at 637 (Gaillard Hunt ed., 1912).

While some of these “elections” were undoubtedly uncontested—reminiscent of Senate confirmations today—others clearly featured multiple candidates, as demonstrated by a letter from James Mitchell Varnum, a delegate to the Continental Congress from Rhode Island, to General George Washington: “We have attempted to elect a Secretary at War—Genls Greene, Lincoln & Knox are in Nomination; all the Votes for one or other of those Gentlemen. We effected nothing.”133Letter from James Mitchell Varnum, Delegate to the Continental Congress, to George Washington (Oct. 2, 1781), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-07078 [https://perma.cc/8R8K-JP4J].

We also found evidence that in their private correspondence, many delegates (and former delegates) to the Continental Congress used the words “appoint” and “elect” as synonyms, even when talking about the same position. For example, in 1781, George Washington wrote a letter to Phillip Schuyler—the father-in-law of his young protegee Alexander Hamilton—informing Schuyler of his “prospect of . . . election” as “Minister of War” and urged him not to refuse the post “if the choice should fall on [him].”134Letter from George Washington to Philip Schuyler (Feb. 20, 1781), in 30 The Papers of George Washington, Revolutionary War Series: 1 January–6 March 1781, at 553–54 (Benjamin L. Huggins ed., 2022), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-30-02-0487 [https://perma.cc/VT8L-7BVS]. But four years later, Washington wrote to Henry Knox after the latter was appointed to the same position, saying “It gave me great pleasure to hear of your appointment as Secretary at War – without a complimt [sic], I think a better choice could not have been made.”135Letter from George Washington to Henry Knox (June 18, 1785), in 3 The Papers of George Washington, Confederation Series: 19 May 1785–31 March 1786, at 61–64 (W.W. Abbott ed., 2022), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/04-03-02-0057 [https://perma.cc/SR32-75RQ]. Likewise, in 1779, John Adams wrote to Samuel Huntington, the President of the Continental Congress, stating: “I had Yesterday the Honour of receiving your Letter of the twentyeth of October inclosed with two Commissions, appointing me Minister Plenipotentiary, from the United States, to negotiate Peace and Commerce with Great Britain.”136John Adams, [September and October 1779], in 4 The Adams Papers, Diary and Autobiography of John Adams: Autobiography, Parts Two and Three, 1777–1780, at 173–91 (L.H. Butterfield ed., 1961) (emphasis added), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/01-04-02-0002-0001 [https://perma.cc/P9QM-59GC]. Yet he told the Comte de Vergennes, “The Congress of the United States of America did me the honour to elect me their Minister Plenipotentiary, to negotiate a Peace with Great Britain.”137John Adams, [4 February–21 March 1780], in 4 The Adams Papers, Diary and Autobiography of John Adams, supra note 136, at 240–54 (emphasis added), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/01-04-02-0002-0053 [https://perma.cc/V39N-83T3].

As in state constitutions, sometimes the terms were used interchangeably even in the same document. Consider the following letter from Samuel Huntington, President of the Continental Congress, to Thomas Jefferson, informing the latter of his appointment as a peace commissioner:

Before this comes to Hand your Excellency will have received my Letter of the 2d Instant with it’s [sic] Enclosures, by which you will be informed that a Negotiation for Peace between the Belligerent Powers may probably take Place through the Mediation of the Empress of Russia and Emperor of Germany.

In Consequence of which Congress have thought proper to add four other Plenipotentiaries to the Honorable John Adams Esquire to assist in the expected Negotiation, of which you are elected one . . . Your Appointment is ordered to be kept secret that the Enemy may not get Intelligence of your Embarkation.

With very great Respect I have the Honor to be Your Excellency’s Most obedient & most humble Servant,

Sam. Huntington President

ENCLOSURE

By the United States in Congress assembled                      June 14. 1781

Resolved That four persons be joined to Mr. Adams in negotiating a peace between these United States and Great Britain.

The following were elected

The honble. Benjamin Franklin

The honble John Jay

The honble. Henry Laurens

The honble. Thomas Jefferson138Letter from Samuel Huntington, President of the Continental Congress, to Thomas Jefferson (June 15, 1781), in 6 The Papers of Thomas Jefferson: May 1781 to March 1784, at 94–95 (Julian P. Boyd et al. eds., 1952) (emphasis added).

Given this clear linguistic pattern in both early state Constitutions and the Articles of Confederation, it seems odd to suggest that a rigid distinction between the two words would suddenly appear in 1787 in the U.S. Constitution.

4.  Addresses to and from George Washington

We have shown that the founding generation frequently used the word “elect” to describe the process of appointment, but is the inverse true as well? Were the “elected” positions in the Constitution ever referred to as “appointments”? The answer is a resounding yes.

When George Washington was elected president in 1789, he was universally “sated with adulation.”139Ron Chernow, Washington: A Life 563 (2010). His trip from Mount Vernon to New York for his inauguration took longer than he expected because he was constantly delayed by public feasts. As one biographer described his procession through Pennsylvania, “[a]s Washington entered Philadelphia, he found himself, willy-nilly, at the head of a full-scale parade. Twenty thousand people lined the streets, their eyes fixed on him in wonder.”140Id. at 561. Newspapers around the country reprinted a host of “addresses” from prominent citizens and government figures given that day congratulating the President on his electoral victory. These messages often spoke of Washington as having been appointed President. The “President and Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania” stood “to congratulate you upon the establishment of the federal constitution, and felicitate ourselves, and our country, upon your unanimous appointment to the Presidency of the United States.”141Thomas Mifflin, An Address to the President of the United States, from the President and Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania, Pa. Gazette, Apr. 22, 1789, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/41023966. The “Mayor, Recorder, Alderman and Common Council of the city of Philadelphia . . . assembled[] to present you our sincerest congratulations on your appointment to the station of President of the United States.”142Id. The “standing committee of the Pennsylvania State Society of the Cincinnati” congratulated Washington on his “appointment, by the people, to the office of first Magistrate of this great empire.143Id. “The Synod of the Reformed Church in North-America” met for the first time since Washington’s “appointment” in order to congratulate him and “join in that great and general joy testified by all descriptions of citizens on your acceptance of the highest office in the nation.”144To the President of the United States, Pa. Packet, & Daily Advertiser, Nov. 26, 1789, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/1034008954. Not to be outdone, the leadership of the German Lutheran Church “announce[d] the joy we entertain” in Washington’s “appointment to the station of President in Chief.”145The Address of the Ministers, Church Wardens and Vestrymen of the German Lutheran Congregation, in and near the City of Philadelphia, to His Excellency George Washington, President of the United States, Gazette U.S., May 20, 1789, at 44, https://www.newspapers.com/image/605364960. To be sure, other speeches spoke of his election or ascension to the Presidency, but references to his “appointment” were commonplace.

The newspapers also reprinted the President-elect’s response to each elegy, where we see Washington himself employing appointment language to describe his election. He thanked the leadership of Pennsylvania for their “affectionate congratulations . . . on my appointment to the Presidency of the United States.”146George Washington, To the President and Supreme Executive Council of Pennsylvania, Pa. Gazette, April 22, 1789, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/41023966. To the leaders of Philadelphia, he said he felt “particularly obliged . . . for your congratulatory address on my appointment to the station of President of the United States.”147Id. In response to praise from the Governor of New Hampshire, Washington promised, that “[i]n discharging the duties of my civil appointment . . . the love of my country will be the ruling influence of my conduct.”148George Washington, To the Honourable the Executive of the State of New-Hampshire, Pa. Packet, & Daily Advertiser, Nov. 26, 1789, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/1034008954. He also accepted “with peculiar pleasure, the address of the University of the state of Pennsylvania, upon my appointment to the first office in the Union,” but conceded that he suspected that his “fellow-citizens anticipate[d] too many and too great advantages from the appointment.”149Washington, supra note 146, at 2.

Nor was this appointment language limited to the celebrations in Philadelphia. Two months later, Vice President John Adams gave a speech on behalf of the Senate, thanking the President for his address to Congress:

We the Senate of the United States return you our sincere thanks for your excellent speech, delivered to both houses of Congress; congratulate you on the complete organization of the federal government, and facilitate ourselves, and our fellow-citizens, on your elevation to the office of President—an office, highly important by the powers constitutionally annexed to it, and extremely honorably from the manner in which the appointment is made. The unanimous suffrage of the elective body in your favor, is peculiarly expressive of the gratitude, confidence and affection of the citizens of America.”150John Adams, The Address of the Senate to the President of the United States, in Answer to His Speech to Both Houses of Congress, Freeman’s J., May 27, 1789, at 2 (emphasis added), https://www.newspapers.com/image/39958391.

In light of these examples, we feel comfortable concluding that the terms appointment and election were truly interchangeable, at least to the extent that an election was one form of appointment.

* * *

To summarize, we have shown extensive evidence—including the text of the Constitution itself, early state constitutions, the Articles of Confederation and Journals of the Continental Congress, and statements to and from George Washington, John Adams, and James Madison—to demonstrate a consistent linguistic pattern of using the words “appoint” and “elect” interchangeably. In light of this, we feel confident in rejecting “the distinction [Blackman, Tillman, and others] dr[a]w between elected and appointed federal positions.”151Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 443.

C.  The Text of the Constitution Identifies the Presidency as an Office

Third, the original Constitution of 1789 repeatedly refers to the Presidency as an “Office”—a fact that is undisputed. For example, in Article I, it states “The Senate shall chuse . . . a President pro tempore, in the Absence of the Vice President, or when he shall exercise the office of President of the United States.”152U.S. Const. of 1789, art I, § 3 (emphasis added). Likewise, in Article II, it states that the President “shall hold his Office during a Term of four Years” and limits eligibility “to the Office of President” to “natural born citizens” who have “attained the age of thirty-five years.”153Id. at art II, § 1.

In an amicus brief submitted to the Colorado Supreme Court, Tillman acknowledges this. But he claims that “although the President holds an ‘office,’ he is not an ‘Officer of the United States.’ ”154Tillman Amicus for Anderson, supra note 104.

We find this distinction difficult to square with early case law. In United States v. Maurice—an important Appointments Clause case Chief Justice John Marshall heard while riding the Circuit—Chief Justice Marshall concluded that “an office is defined to be ‘a public charge or employment,’ and he who performs the duties of the office, is an officer. If employed on the part of the United States, he is an officer of the United States.”155United States v. Maurice, 26 F. Cas. 1211, 1214 (C.C.D. Va. 1823) (No. 15,747) (emphasis added). While not binding precedent, Maurice was frequently cited by lower courts both before and after the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment and has been cited approvingly by the U.S. Supreme Court seventeen times, including in the majority opinion of Metcalf & Eddy v. Mitchell,156Metcalf & Eddy v. Mitchell, 269 U.S. 514, 520 (1926) (“The term ‘officer’ is one inseparably connected with an office.”). and more recently in Justice Thomas’ concurring opinion in Lucia v. SEC.157Lucia v. SEC, 585 U.S. 237, 254 (2018) (Thomas, J., concurring). Blackman and Tillman have repeatedly quoted Justice Felix Frankfurter’s quip that when language is “obviously transplanted from another legal source”—as the phrase “Officers of the United States” in Section 3 clearly is—“it brings the old soil with it.”158Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 23 (citing United States v. Castleman, 572 U.S. 157, 176–77 (2014) (Scalia, J., concurring) (quoting Felix Frankfurter, Some Reflections on the Reading of Statutes, 47 Colum. L. Rev. 527, 537 (1947))). We see no reason why that soil should not include Chief Justice Marshall’s early definition of an officer of the United States explicitly linking offices with officers.159Critiquing a previous draft of this paper, Blackman and Tillman argued that “Marshall limited the construction of the phrase ‘officer of the United States’ to ‘an individual [who] is appointed by government.’ ” Josh Blackman & Seth Barrett Tillman, A New, Rushed, Flawed Article in the Section 3 Debate, Reason: The Volokh Conspiracy (Jan. 4, 2024, 3:50 PM), https://reason.com/volokh/2024/01/04/a-new-rushed-flawed-article-in-the-section-3-debate [https://perma.cc/BU6F-7KWP]. We do not disagree. Presidents are appointed by the Electoral College, which is just as much an organ of the government as Congress or the Secretary of State is. Blackman and Tillman’s argument is based on the assumption that there is a rigid distinction between appointments and elections, which we have already shown to be a linguistic anachronism in Section II.B.

D.  Additional Context About the Original Meaning of “Officer of the United States” in the 1789 Constitution.

Fourth, we find Blackman and Tillman’s textual analysis of the original meaning of the phrase “officers of the United States” to be incomplete because it overlooks important contextual details. The phrase appears in the original Constitution of 1789 four times: in the Appointments Clause, the Impeachment Clause, the Oath or Affirmation Clause, and the Commission Clause. Context leads us to disagree with Blackman and Tillman’s readings of three out of four of these clauses. Along the way we critique the argument recently presented that suggests the President is not an Officer of the United States because he does not take an oath that has the words “support the Constitution” drawn from Article VI of the Constitution.

1.  Appointments Clause

With respect to the Appointments Clause, it is not true that the Constitution empowers the president to appoint “Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other Officers of the United States,” as has been asserted by President Trump. He only has the authority to appoint “Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other Officers of the United States, whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for.”160U.S. Const. art. II, § 2, cl. 2 (emphasis added). We think the most natural reading of this proviso is that at least some of the other positions specifically enumerated elsewhere in the Constitution are (1) officers of the United States and (2) are potentially appointed through alternative channels other than those spelled out in the Appointments Clause.

We are not alone in that view. One of the original students of the Constitution, Alexander Hamilton, paraphrased the Appointments Clause for Federalist 67 as follows:

The second clause of the second section of the second article empowers the President of the United States “to nominate, and by and with the advice and consent of the Senate, to appoint ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, judges of the Supreme Court, and all other OFFICERS of United States whose appointments are NOT in the Constitution OTHERWISE PROVIDED FOR, and WHICH SHALL BE ESTABLISHED BY LAW.”161The Federalist No. 67, supra note 97.

The capitalization—which was in the original—shows that Hamilton viewed the phrase “whose appointments are not herein otherwise provided for” as a modifier of “officers,” and that the phrase is making reference to officers mentioned elsewhere in the Constitution outside of the Appointments Clause.

Justice Antonin Scalia also reached this conclusion. Writing a concurrence in NLRB v. Noel Canning, Justice Scalia explained: “Except where the Constitution or a valid federal law provides otherwise, all ‘Officers of the United States’ must be appointed by the President ‘by and with the Advice and Consent of the Senate.’ ”162NLRB v. Noel Canning, 573 U.S. 513, 569 (2014) (Scalia, J., concurring). Thus, Justice Scalia stated that there are Officers of the United States listed in the Constitution but not appointed by the President. Tillman actually wrote the Justice to ask what he meant by this statement. Justice Scalia surprised him by responding and left no doubt as to his position:

I meant exactly what I wrote. The manner by which the President and Vice President hold their offices is “provide[d] otherwise” by the Constitution. As is the manner by which the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tempore of the Senate hold theirs.163Letter from Hon. Antonin Scalia, U.S. Sup. Ct. J., to Seth Barrett Tillman, Lecturer at Nat’l University of Ireland Maynooth (emphasis added), https://perma.cc/JX3Z-DDYB.

The same view was taken by Thomas Merrill in a 2004 article, although he did not specifically mention the President and Vice President like Justice Scalia did.164Thomas W. Merrill, Rethinking Article I, Section 1: From Nondelegation to Exclusive Delegation, 104 Colum. L. Rev. 2097, 2136 n.157 (2004) (“This Appointments Clause provides that the President shall appoint ambassadors, judges, ‘and all other Officers of the United States, whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for . . . ’ The most likely referent of ‘herein otherwise provided for’ would be the Members of Congress, whose method of appointment is detailed in Article I.”).

Blackman and Tillman disagree, arguing for an alternative reading of “whose appointments are not herein otherwise provided for” in their third article in their ten-part series on Office and Officers:

The phrase . . . is, admittedly, a mouthful. We think this phrase tells the reader that the appointment of “Officers of the United States” is limited to the processes announced in Article II, Section 2. This sub-clause directs the reader not to scour the remainder of the Constitution for other provisions that provide authority to fill other federal “Officers of the United States” positions—by election or appointment. In other words, the Appointments Clause’s “not herein otherwise provided for”-language is not an invitation to search for other constitutional provisions providing authority to create or fill federal offices; rather this language puts the reader on notice that no such constitutional provisions exist beyond the textual bounds of Article II, Section 2.165Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 383–84.

In their view, anyone advocating for an “alternative reading that leads readers to look for other constitutional mechanisms to fill ‘Officers of the United States’ positions is mistaken.”166Id. at 384. They critique the statements of both Hamilton and Scalia mentioned above, calling the former unclear167Id. at 444 (“We do not know for certain why Hamilton made this modification to the text of the Appointments Clause. Nor can we be sure that Hamilton intended this revision to advance any substantive arguments.”). and the latter wrong.168Id. at 448 (“We have some trepidation with stating that Justice Scalia, whose correspondence is sorely missed, was mistaken. But on balance, Scalia’s short statement does not hold up. Even Homer sometimes nods.”).

But why? Because if Hamilton, Scalia, and Merrill are correct, the other officers “whose appointments are . . . provided for” elsewhere in the Constitution almost certainly includes at least some positions who are elected, either by the people or a multimember body such as the Electoral College or legislature, as shown in Table 1 below.

Table 1.
PositionAppointment Mechanism
Members of the House of Representatives“[C]hosen every second Year by the People of the Several states”a
Electors [of Members of the House]“Shall have the Qualifications requisite for Electors of the most numerous Branch of the State Legislature”b
Speaker and other Officers of the HouseChosen by Housec
Senators“[C]hosen by the Legislature [of each state]”d
President Pro Tempore and “other Officers” of the SenateChosen by the Senatee
President of the United StatesElectoral Collegef
Vice PresidentElectoral Collegeg
Electors for President and Vice President“[I]n such Manner as the Legislature thereof may direct”h
Sources: a U.S. Const. art. I, § 2. b Id. Id. d U.S. Const. art. 1, § 3. e Id. f U.S. Const. art. II, § 1. g Id.Id.

As Blackman and Tillman explain, in their view “[o]nly appointed positions can be ‘Officers of the United States,’ i.e., positions ‘whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided.’ Therefore, it would be a mistake to scour the Constitution for positions that are filled by election.”169Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 384. Chad Squitieri reached a similar conclusion for similar reasons:

Article II, Section 2, Clause 2’s reference to “Appointments . . . not herein otherwise provided for” should not be understood as a reference to [other positions such as] Members of Congress. Instead, the use of ‘herein’ in Article II, Section 2, Clause 2 is best understood as a reference to Article II, Section 2, Clause 2 itself. Specifically, when Article II, Section 2, Clause 2 states “herein,” it references the types of appointed officers mentioned within the very same clause – i.e., “Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court.”170Chad Squitieri, Towards Nondelegation Doctrines, 86 Mo. L. Rev. 1239, 1262–63 (2021).

For this reason Squitieri did not feel that “Members of Congress” could be officers of the United States: “Article I does not speak to the ‘appointment’ of Members of Congress—it speaks to their election.”171Id. at 1262.

But we have already shown that the “the distinction [these scholars draw] between elected and appointed federal positions is a linguistic anachronism that did not exist at the time of the Founding. The Articles of Confederation, Journals of the Continental Congress, state constitutions, various founding fathers including George Washington, John Adams, and James Madison—not to mention the text of the Constitution itself—all used the terms “appoint” and “elect” interchangeably, at least to the extent that an election was a valid form of appointment. Once one understands this linguistic convention, we think the meaning of “whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for” is clear and see no reason that it would not include the President.

But what about Chief Justice Roberts’ statement in Free Enterprise that Blackman and Tillman frequently invoke to support their conclusion that officers of the United States cannot be elected: “The people do not vote for the ‘Officers of the United States’ ”?172Free Enter. Fund v. Pub. Co. Acct. Oversight Bd., 561 U.S. 477, 497–98 (2010). Even if Chief Justice Roberts was wrong in his conclusion that “officers of the United States” cannot be voted upon, this would not undermine his conclusion that the Constitution forbids the granting of executive power without the Executive’s oversight. We do not think that our reading of the Appointments Clause is at odds with Chief Justice Roberts’s statement. The people do not vote for the President, the Electoral College does.173In a critique of a previous version of this article, Blackman and Tillman cite a number of quotes by Chief Justice Roberts (one from Justice Thomas’s dissent in Trump v. Vance is incorrectly attributed to Roberts) including elsewhere in Free Enterprise, 561 U.S. at 499 (“But where, in all this, is the role for oversight by an elected President?”), Seila Law LLC v. CFPB, 591 U.S. 197, 200 (2020) (“. . . but that authority remains subject to the ongoing supervision and control of the elected President”), and Trump v. Vance, 591 U.S. 786, 819 (2020) (Thomas, J., dissenting) (“[The President] is elected from the mass of the people, and, on the expiration of the time for which he is elected, returns to the mass of the people again.”), to show that the Chief Justice would “disagree” with our position. Blackman & Tillman, supra note 159. But all of these quotations are irrelevant. We have never suggested that the President is not elected, only that he is (1) elected by the Electoral College and that (2) elections by multimember bodies is a mode of appointment well attested to in the Founding Era. The only position in Table 1 that Chief Justice Roberts’ statement in Free Enterprise would eliminate are Members of the House of Representatives, which is an issue we take no position on. As our discussion in Section II.B and Appendix A and B demonstrates, there was a long history of multimember bodies “appointing” chief executives (and other officers) by ballot. That is exactly the process followed by the Electoral College. If the 152-member Virginia Legislature could “appoint” a judge,174See infra Appendix B. surely the Electoral College—which in 1789 had only sixty-nine members1751979 Electoral College Results, Nat’l Archives, https://www.archives.gov/electoral-college/1789 [https://perma.cc/WNP6-62ZX].—could “appoint” a President and Vice President as well.

There is a second reason we disagree with Blackman and Tillman’s reading of the Appointments Clause: it would limit the scope of the word herein to just that specific clause. And while that may not sound totally absurd when looking at the Appointments Clause alone, it makes no sense in the two other places the word appears in the Constitution. Take for example, the Direct Tax Clause in Article I, Section 9: “No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or enumeration herein before directed to be taken.”176U.S. Const. art I, § 9, cl. 4. There are only two other references to an enumeration or census in the 1789 Constitution, neither of which is in Article I, Section 9. They are earlier, side-by-side in Article I, Section 2. The third and final use of the word herein is in the first sentence in the Constitution following the Preamble: “All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States.”177U.S. Const. art. I, § 1. Such a narrow construction of “herein” there would completely destroy the Separation of Powers. Surely, Blackman and Tillman are not suggesting that there might be some legislative powers reserved for the President in Article II, so we are not sure why they insist on such a narrow construction of the inverse phrase in the Appointments Clause.

2.  Impeachment Clause

We likewise are unpersuaded by Blackman and Tillman’s reading of the Impeachment Clause. They conclude that the “the president and vice president’s [express] enumeration in the Impeachment Clause in addition to ‘all civil Officers of the United States’ shows that the president and vice president are not deemed ‘officers of the United States’ themselves.”178Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 22. We concede that this is a plausible reading of the clause, but we do not think it is the best reading. In English, this grammatical construction is often used to highlight the most important or most famous member of a broader group. Consider the following actual line from a 1963 speech given by Congressman Hale Boggs of Louisiana on the floor of the House of Representatives: “He leads the orchestra when his records are playing. He’s Dave Seville and Alvin and all the Chipmunks. He dances the twist like his life depended on it.”179109 Cong. Rec. A7410 (1963) (emphasis added). Was Representative Boggs really suggesting that Alvin was not a chipmunk? Or consider this line from an article from USA Today: “[Vice President] Pence told Hannity Monday that all of his discussions with Zelensky, and all of the administration’s contacts, ‘were based upon proper considerations of how we support Ukraine.”180Maureen Groppe, Pence Defends Trump’s—and His Own—Interactions with Ukraine as Scrutiny Intensifies, USA Today (Sept. 25, 2019, 2:57 PM), https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2019/09/24/pence-defends-his-and-trumps-talks-ukraine-scrutiny-continues/2428201001 [https://perma.cc/RZ98-BHSA]. Surely, the article wasn’t suggesting that President Zelensky was not one of the Trump administration’s contacts.181It should be noted that the “Alvin and the Chipmunks” convention was employed at the time of the Fourteenth Amendment, as well. For example, in a dispatch, Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton stated, “The duties of the President, his Secretary, and every officer of the Government and especially in the War Department and military service, are at this moment urgent and solemn duties.” Edwin M. Stanton, Arrest of a Newspaper Spy, Bos. Evening Transcript, Feb. 11, 1862, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/734917608. If not for the Chipmunk convention, one might be forced to conclude that the Secretary of War was not an officer of the government! Likewise, Senator Timothy O. Howe of Wisconsin quoted and summarized a letter from W.L. Sharkey to Secretary of State William H. Seward “in which he tells him that the Governor and all the officers elected by the people had been duly installed, qualified, and taken possession of their offices.” Cong. Globe, 36th Cong., 1st Sess. 221–22 (1866). Context makes clear that the Governor was an officer “elected by the people” in the same way that the President is an “officer of the United States.”

Nor is this construction a modern development. It appears frequently in documents from the Founding Era. Consider the closing line from a letter sent from General Charles Lee to his Commander-in-Chief: “My love to Mrs Washington and all the Ladies–adieu.”182Letter from Major General Charles Lee to George Washington (Feb. 19, 1776), in 3 The Papers of George Washington, Revolutionary War Series: 1 January 1776–31 March 1776, at 339–41 (Philander D. Chase ed., 1988), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-03-02-0242 [https://perma.cc/3RTV-NE57]. General Lee and General Washington may have had their differences, but Lee was clearly not suggesting that his commanding officer’s wife was not a “lady.” Likewise, one set of General Orders signed by Washington in 1777 stated, “The Commander in Chief thanks the Majors General Sullivan and Greene, and all the officers, and soldiers, engaged this day, to pursue the enemy, for their alacrity and zeal manifested in that service.”183George Washington, General Orders (June 22. 1777), in 10 The Papers of George Washington, Revolutionary War Series: 11 June 1777–18 August 1777, at 103–04 (Frank E. Grizzard, Jr. ed., 2000), https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/03-10-02-0104 [https://perma.cc/69N8-72VP]. Per Blackman and Tillman’s logic, we would have to conclude that Washington was suggesting that neither Sullivan—one of the heroes of the Battle of Trenton—nor Greene—the Continental Army’s Quartermaster-General—were “officers.” We think not.

The fact that Justice Joseph Story also felt that the language of the Impeachment Clause “would rather lead to the conclusion that they were enumerated, as contradistinguished from, rather than included in the description of civil officers of the United States”1842 Joseph Story, Commentaries on the Constitution: With a Preliminary Review of the Constitutional History of the Colonies and States Before the Adoption of the Constitution § 791, at 259–60 (1833). does not dissuade us. Others have suggested that this express enumeration might be because the President as Commander-in-Chief, and the Vice President with his potential to serve as Acting President, are not strictly speaking civil officers of the United States, but rather both military and civil officers. We think this interpretation is compelling, but also not necessary. While we are loath to disagree with Justice Story, we do not think he was infallible.

Context matters here. And we think that context points to the best reading of the Impeachment Clause being that the President and Vice President being the two most important members of the broader category “officers of the United States”—the Alvin among the proverbial Chipmunks.

3.  The Presidential Oath and the Article VI Oath

In their latest article, Blackman and Tillman reference an argument from the litigation.185Blackman & Tillman, supra note 46, at 547. That argument begins with the premise that the President takes an oath to “preserve, protect, and defend” the Constitution, found in Article II, and does not take the oath to “support” the Constitution, found in Article VI. Because Section 3 refers to officers who have “previously taken an oath . . . to support the Constitution of the United States,”186U.S. Const. amend. XIV, § 3. the President, the argument goes, has not taken such an oath and is not in the scope of Section 3.

This argument does not persuade us. In the first place, we are confident that one cannot take an oath to “preserve, protect, and defend” the Constitution without implicitly swearing to “support” the Constitution. By swearing to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution, one swears to support it more.

Evidence from the time of the Fourteenth Amendment confirms our view. Recall that Section 3 extended to any “person . . . who, having previously taken an oath, . . . as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States” and subsequently engaged in insurrection.187Id. Thus, no one doubts that executive officers in the Southern states—for example, South Carolina—who had taken an oath prior to the rebellion, were covered by Section 3.

But when you look at the oath South Carolina officers were required by the South Carolina Constitution to take, the language mirrors the presidential oath, not the Article VI oath:

Every person who shall be chosen or appointed to any office of profit or trust; before entering on the execution thereof, shall take the following oath: “I do solemnly swear, (or affirm), that I will be faithful, and true allegiance bear to the State of South Carolina, so long as I may continue a citizen thereof; and that I am duly qualified, according to the constitution of this State, to exercise the office to which I have been appointed; and that I will, to the best of my abilities, discharge the duties thereof, and preserve, protect, and defend the constitution of this State, and of the United States: So help me God.188S.C. Const. of 1790 art. IV (amended 1834) (emphasis added), https://www.carolana.com/SC/Documents/sc_constitution_1790.html [https://perma.cc/QTX2-B629]. This article was written in 1790 and was modified in 1834. Both versions of the oath have “preserve, protect, and defend”—and not “support.”

A newspaper transcript confirms this is the one and only oath that Governor William Henry Gist took in 1858.1891858 Inauguration of SC Governor, Charleston Daily Courier, Dec. 15, 1858, https://www.newspapers.com/embed/138077880. Governor Gist went on to sign South Carolina’s Ordinance of Secession.190The Ordinance of Secession for the State of South Carolina (Dec. 20, 1860), https://www.gilderlehrman.org/sites/default/files/GLC/documents/2022-11/00395-OS_0.pdf [https://perma.cc/VR7S-3HE7] (signed as Wm. H. Gist).

Given no one doubts Section 3 was to apply to Governor Gist and other South Carolina rebels, it is clear that the drafters of the Fourteenth Amendment viewed an oath to “preserve, protect, and defend” the United States Constitution as inherently an oath to “support” the United States Constitution. Any other reading of Section 3 appears absurd to us.

And South Carolina is not the only state. As documented in Appendix C, it appears Florida also had an oath that mirrored the presidential oath, not the Article VI oath. Georgia’s oath for its governor likewise mirrored the presidential oath, while other officers received an oath that mirrored the language of Article VI.191We note here Georgia appears lax in enforcing Section 3. Georgia Governor Joseph E. Brown took an oath as governor prior to the war, participated in the rebellion, rapidly regained favor with the Union, and then served as Georgia Supreme Court Chief Justice before and after the enactment of the Fourteenth Amendment. See F.N. Boney, Joseph E. Brown, New Ga. Encyc. (Sept. 5, 2002), https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/government-politics/joseph-e-brown-1821-1894 [https://perma.cc/LT8K-FEBJ]. Given the totality of the evidence, we believe this was likely a result of political favoritism toward him or a resistance to the amendment in the deep south, rather than revealing anything about the meaning of Section 3. (The resistance in Georgia to the Union was obvious: Georgia elected Alexander H. Stephens, former member of the US House of Representatives and then Vice President of the Confederacy, to the Senate in 1866. The Senate refused to seat him even before the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. He later served as Governor of Georgia after the passage of the Amnesty Act of 1872. See Chad Morgan, Alexander Stephens, New Ga. Encyc. (Sept. 27, 2004), https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/government-politics/alexander-stephens-1812-1883 [https://perma.cc/67E3-B9MR]).

We also note that, in Florida, the constitution was drafted as a prerequisite to admission into the union.192See Stephanie D. Moussalli, Florida’s Frontier Constitution: The Statehood, Banking & Slavery Controversies, 74 Fla. Hist. Q. 423, 423 (1996). Thus, Congress viewed Florida’s antebellum Constitution, complete with its “preserve, protect and defend” language, as acceptable language to satisfy Article VI’s “support” requirement. The presidential oath, just like the oaths in Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina, qualifies as an oath under Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment

For the sake of completeness, we cite the Texas Constitution’s oath, again approved by Congress prior to Texas’ admission. Ignoring a section about dueling, the oath reads in full: “I, (A. B.) do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform, all the duties incumbent on me as ———, according to the best of my skill and ability, agreeably to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this State.”193Tex. Const. of 1869, art. XII.

If we were writing on a blank slate, we would doubt that an oath to “discharge and perform all the duties . . . agreeably to the Constitution” has the same vigor as an oath to either “support” or “preserve, protect, and defend” the Constitution. But this is not a blank slate: several Texans took an oath under their state Constitution to “discharge and perform all the duties . . . agreeably to the Constitution” and then forced Governor Sam Houston (who was loyal to the union) out of office as a part of joining the Confederacy.194See, e.g., Kate Galbraith, Sam Houston, Texas Secession — and Robert E. Lee, Tex. Tribune (Feb. 1, 2011), https://www.texastribune.org/2011/02/01/sam-houston-texas-secession–and-robert-e-lee [https://perma.cc/K9LY-HGAT]. They were obviously covered by Section 3. There is no basis for arguing the President is not covered by Section 3 because his oath is, if anything, more rigorous than the requirement to “support” in Article VI: “preserve, protect, and defend.”

But the problems with the argument that the President does not take an Article VI oath did not die with the confederacy. Today, South Carolina,195See Handling the Oaths of Office Correctly, Mun. Ass’n of S.C., https://www.masc.sc/uptown/10-2022/handling-oaths-office-correctly [https://perma.cc/B9NY-4QUS]; News 19 WLTX, LIVE: South Carolina Gov. Henry McMaster Swearing-in Ceremony, YouTube, at 1:17:00, 1:19:30, 1:30:00 (Jan. 11, 2023), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiRYckpw-FA (administering oaths). Georgia,196FOX 5 Atlanta, Inaugurations of Georgia Gov. Brian Kemp, Lt. Gov. Burt Jones, YouTube, at 52:00, 53:50, 1:08:30 (Jan. 12, 2023), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WC-cdZGYxk (administering oaths). and Texas,197KSAT 12, WATCH LIVE: Greg Abbott Sworn into 3rd Term as Governor of Texas, YouTube, at 21:00, 49:30 (Jan. 17, 2023), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHk1nHCD6s0 (administering oaths). all administer a “Preserve, Protect, and Defend” oath to at least some of their officers—oaths that do not include the word support. Near as we can tell from videos of the inaugurations, these officials, like Governor Gist in 1858, only take one oath. Were this enough to avoid taking an Article VI and Section 3 oath, numerous state officials today would be exempt from Section 3 even if they someday participate in an insurrection.198Critiquing an earlier draft of this article, Blackman and Tillman suggest the possibility that “state officials took both the oath specified by the federal Oaths Act of 1789 and the oath specified by Article IV of the S.C. Constitution.” See Blackman & Tillman, supra note 159. As the reader observes, we have added additional sources to this Section that foreclose their hypothesis, both in antebellum South Carolina and in modern practice.

Blackman and Tillman rely on parallels between the structure of the Oath or Affirmation Clause of Article VI and Section 3 to suggest that the drafters used the Oath or Affirmation Clause as a model for Section 3. We have no quarrel with that. But because the presidential oath, like oaths of some state officers, is an oath to support the constitution through the language “preserve, protect, and defend,” we make two suggestions. First, it is entirely possible that the President is mentioned as an officer in Article VI, as the President is “bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution.”199U.S. Const. art. VI. He simply takes the more specific presidential oath to do so. Second, because we’ve already shown that oaths to “support” include oaths to “preserve, protect, and defend” and oaths to act “agreeably” we should be slow to read terms in Section 3 narrowly because they were (supposedly) used narrowly in the Oath or Affirmation Clause.

4.  Commission Clause

Blackman and Tillman’s best evidence comes from the Commission Clause. It is true that Section 3 of Article II of the Constitution states that the President “shall Commission all the Officers of the United States.”200U.S. Const. art. II, § 3 (emphasis added). If viewed alone, this might be a silver bullet. But as mentioned above, the Appointments Clause indicates that there are other Officers of the United States whose appointment mechanisms are provided for elsewhere in the Constitution.201See supra Section II.D.1. But none of the officials listed in Table 1, supra, receive presidential commissions. This produces a bit of a conundrum. If Blackman and Tillman are right that officials that do not receive commissions cannot be “officers of the United States,” then the Appointments Clause contains a meaningless surplusage. By contrast, if the phrase “whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for202U.S. Const. art. II, § 2, cl. 2 (emphasis added). is not surplusage, then either “all” does not mean “all” or the Commission Clause has not been liquidated appropriately and other officials—including the President and Vice President—should receive a Commission.

One way out of this Mexican standoff is to not read the Commission Clause literally. As Lawrence Solum has noted, originalism is not literalism:

[A] grave misunderstanding of contemporary formalism is the idea that formalists are seeking the literal meaning of legal texts, and nothing could be further from the truth. And that’s because once we become acquainted with the philosophy of language, we realize that verbal communication, oral communication, written communication does not rely on words and punctuation marks alone to convey meaning, it also relies on context.

We almost never say, explicitly, everything we wish to convey. Instead, we rely on a mutual recognition of reader or listener and author or speaker of the context of communication to fill in the gaps.

So a famous example from the philosophy literature, Jack and Jill are married. And most of the time, we fill in that utterance with to each other. Because usually, when you say Jack and Jill are married, you mean to each other, although there are contexts where you might say those words in order to convey that Jack and Jill are actually married to other people. [i.e. “I saw Jack and Jill coming out of the hotel room together, but Jack and Jill are married!”]

In the law, it is the same. Context does much of the work of legal communication.203Lawrence Solum, William L. Matheson and Robert M. Morgenthau Distinguished Professor of L. & Douglas D. Drysdale Rsch. Professor of L. at Univ. of Va. Sch. of L., Chair Lecture at University of Virginia School of Law (Nov. 5, 2021) (transcript available at https://www.law.virginia.edu/sites/default/files/transcripts/Solum%20Chair%20Lecture.pdf [https://perma.cc/HSP9-F5GL]).

We think that the context suggests that the Commission clause should be understood to read the President “shall commission all the officers of the United States” other than himself or perhaps “shall commission all of the officers of the United States” that he appoints.204U.S. Const. art. II, § 3. While critics will argue that this is circular reasoning, we think it is superior to the alternative reading promoted by Blackman and Tillman and President Trump, which views a whole clause of the Constitution as a mere “ink blot.”205Nomination of Robert H. Bork to be Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States: Hearings Before the S. Comm. on the Judiciary, 100th Cong. 249 (1989) (statement of Robert H. Bork) (discussing the Ninth Amendment).

* * *

In sum, we believe context matters, and the added context we’ve supplied here calls into question the conclusion that the 1789 Constitution implies that the President was not an Officer of the United States.

III.  A PRIMER ON LINGUISTIC DRIFT

While our own review of the evidence from the Founding Era leads us to firmly conclude that the original public meaning of the term “officer of the United States” included the President and Vice President, we agree with Blackman and Tillman that “it is the sort of question on which dispassionate, reasonable minds can disagree after having reviewed competing streams of authority, argument, and evidence.”206Blackman & Tillman, supra note 46, at 550. As we noted above, at a minimum the Appointments Clause and Commission Clause are in tension with each other, and some sort of saving construction is necessary to harmonize the two.207Supra Section II.D.4.

We likewise appreciate Blackman and Tillman’s open-mindedness about the possibility that the phrase “officer of the United States” could have undergone “some linguistic drift or slippage between the 1788 ratification of the Constitution and the 1868 ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment.” As they explain in their 2021 article:

Let’s assume that the President is not an “officer[] of the United States” for purposes of the 1788 Constitution. Under that assumption, it is still possible that the President might be an “officer of the United States” for purposes of Section 3. Thus, a reader might take the limited position that the President is an “officer of the United States” for the purposes of Section 3’s jurisdictional element.

This position is conceivable. Indeed, more than a decade ago, Tillman suggested that linguistic drift may have occurred with respect to this phrase between 1788 and 1868. He wrote that “[t]he stretch of time between the two events [1788 and 1868] was more than half a century . . . . It is hardly surprising that in the post-bellum epoch new meanings might have accrued to older language. Such linguistic slippage is common.” . . . Absent contrary evidence, [however] the default presumption should be one of linguistic continuity, rather than a presumption of linguistic drift. In other words, the proponents of the view that Section 3’s jurisdictional element applies to the presidency have the burden to prove two propositions. First, proponents must show that the particular linguistic drift involving the Constitution’s “officer of the United States”-language had actually occurred. And second, proponents must show that Section 3’s “officer of the United States”-language, in fact, drifted to include the presidency. In other words, even if the meaning shifted over time, it is not self-evident that the shift would embrace the presidency. Both propositions must be proven.208Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 25–26.

Although we continue to respectfully disagree with Blackman and Tillman about the original meaning of the phrase “officer of the United States” in the original Constitution—and therefore believe that “linguistic continuity” favors holding that the President is an “officer of the United States”—we will devote the remainder of our Article to marshaling evidence to demonstrate that even if they are correct about the meaning of the phrase in 1788, by 1865 the phrase had morphed to include elected officials, including the President of the United States.

But first, it is important to understand what we mean by “linguistic drift.” The phrase was coined by Edward Sapir—an American anthropologist and linguist—back in 1921 when he observed:

The drift of a language is constituted by the unconscious selection on the part of its speakers of those individual variations that are cumulative in some special direction. This direction may be inferred, in the main, from the past history of the language. In the long run any new feature of the drift becomes part and parcel of the common, accepted speech, but for a long time it may exist as a mere tendency in the speech of a few, perhaps of a despised few.209Edward Sapir, Language: An Introduction to the Study of Speech 165–66 (1921).

It is difficult to be able to discern exactly when a word reaches its “tipping point,” the moment in which the meaning that was favored initially by just “a despised few” becomes the prevailing norm. There is an analogy here to the difficulty courts face in determining when a registered trademark has gone generic. Even though many people use the word “coke” to refer to any soda, it is still largely a reference to the principal product of the Coca-Cola Company. But the same is true after the tipping point has been reached. Even after the word “trampoline” and “escalator” reached a point of genericide, there were likely still those who used those words in their branded sense for some time.210James A. Heilpern, William G. Eggington, Earl Brown & Zachary D. Smith, Going Generic: A Linguistics Approach to Genericide in Trademark Law, 50 B.Y.U. L. Rev. 81, 112–13 (2024).

Thus, we are not surprised that Blackman and Tillman have identified a few sources from around the time that the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified that use the phrase “officer of the United States” in a way that excludes the President. Whether these are vestiges of an earlier understanding of the phrase—as Blackman and Tillman suggest—or early-adopters of a linguistic innovation does not matter. As the subsequent sections will show, we think that at the time the 39th Congress convened to draft the Fourteenth Amendment, the public meaning of the phrase included the President of the United States.

IV.  EVIDENCE THAT OFFICERS (INCLUDING OFFICERS OF THE UNITED STATES) MAY BE ELECTED

Blackman and Tillman assert that one of the principal reasons that the President cannot be an officer of the United States is because officers are appointed, not elected.211Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 26, 29, 32; Blackman & Tillman, supra note 46, at 456; Tillman, supra note 159; Tillman & Blackman, supra note 80, at 391, 443. They are not alone in this view. Steven Calabresi—a long-time Trump critic—has advanced similar arguments.212Calabresi, supra note 80. However, as shown in Sections II.B above, this position is based on a linguistic anachronism. At the time of the Founding, the strict dichotomy between “appointments” and “elections” that we employ today did not exist. Rather, an election—either by the people or a multimember body such as a legislature or the electoral college—was viewed as one potential mode of appointment.

That officers could be elected at the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified was even more clear. In the following Section, we will detail evidence gleaned from the text of the Amendment itself, legislative history of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, the ratification debates in the states, and other sources that show that people regularly talked of officers being “elected.” We note that in each of the subsequent sections, we have not limited ourselves to explicit references to “officers of the United States.” While we acknowledge that this is the best evidence, because we do not find the term “officers of the United States” to be a term of art, we believe that clear references to federal officers, officers generally, or analogous state officers are still relevant for understanding the original meaning of “OFFICERS of the United States” as used in Fourteenth Amendment, as we discussed in greater detail in Section II.A.

A.  Evidence from the Text of the Fourteenth Amendment

The best evidence that at the time of the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment the word “officers” was understood to encompass elected officials is the text of Section 3 itself:

No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.213U.S. Const. amend. XIV, § 3 (emphasis added).

Most of the scholarship about the scope of Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment has focused exclusively on federal officers, without considering the analogous state positions.214See supra Part I and Section II.A. But having shown that “officers of the United States” was not a legal term of art at the time of the Founding,215Supra Section II.A. the selection mechanism for the parallel state officials mentioned in Section 3 is equally valid evidence for whether “officers” can be elected as a general matter. This is especially true if Blackman and Tillman are right that “Section 3 was modeled after the structure and language of the Oath or Affirmation Clause.”216Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 6. The parallel structure and language of the Oath or Affirmation Clause presents “Officers of the United States” and “Officers of the several states” as closely analogous positions: “The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution.”217U.S. Const. art. VI (emphasis added).

As noted above and shown in detail in Appendix A, at the time the original Constitution was ratified, few states had a Governor elected directly by the people. The rest had their governors selected by the state’s General Assembly, usually through a ballot process that resembled (and perhaps inspired) the Electoral College. However, by the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified, these facts had changed considerably. By 1865 the vast majority of states had governors elected directly by the people.

A similar evolution took place with respect to judicial officers. As shown in Appendix B, at the time of the Founding, judicial elections—at least as we conceptualize them today—were unheard of. Instead, judges were typically selected by the General Assembly, appointed by Governors, or were themselves legislators wearing a separate hat. But as Harvard Law Professor Jed Handelsman Shugerman has noted, beginning in the 1840s, America experienced something of a Constitution-writing renaissance, with many states adopting amendments or rewriting their constitutions entirely, introducing judicial elections in the process as part of a broader set of anti-legislative reforms:

The constitutional revolutionaries of the time believed elected judges were more likely to enforce limits against legislative excesses. From 1846 to 1851, twelve states adopted judicial elections for their entire court systems, and five states adopted partially elective systems. By 1860, out of thirty-one states in the Union, eighteen states elected all of their judges, and five more elected some of their judges. There were also proposals to subject federal judges to election, but the federal constitution was far more difficult to change.218Jed Handelsman Shugerman, The People’s Courts 105 (2012).

In fact, the language of Section 2 of the Fourteenth Amendment acknowledges this evolution explicitly. Section 2 abolished the Three-Fifths Compromise of the original Constitution, replacing it with a fairer calculation for representation: “Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each State, excluding Indians not taxed.”219U.S. Const. amend. XIV, § 2. In an effort to prevent Southern states from disenfranchising African Americans, the Amendment then ties future representation to the number of eligible voters.

But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and Vice-President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the Executive and Judicial officers of a State, or the members of the Legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such State, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such State.220Id. (emphasis added).

“The right to vote at any election for the choice of . . . the Executive and Judicial officers of a State”—it is difficult to be more explicit that officers can be elected than that.

Thus, even if Blackman and Tillman were right about officers not being elected at the time of the Founding, we think these seismic changes of state constitutional law between 1789 and the outbreak of the Civil War would have necessitated an evolution of the meaning of “officers” generally to include elected officials.

B.  Evidence from the Legislative History of the Fourteenth Amendment

Another rich source of evidence that the officers mentioned in the Fourteenth Amendment included elected officials is the legislative history produced by Congress while debating the merits of the Amendment. In citing this evidence, we are well aware—and agree with—much of the criticism about over-reliance on legislative history.221For a summary of criticisms of legislative history, see Brett Hashimoto & James Heilpern, Solving the Cherry-Picking in Legislative History Use, 12 Int’l J. Language & L. 48, 51–54 (2023). But in this and subsequent Sections, we are not invoking legislative history in an attempt to divine Congressional intent. Instead, we are looking for clues about the way Congress used certain words and phrases. As Judge Frank Easterbook, one of the great critics of the use and abuse of legislative history once stated, “Clarity depends on context, which legislative history may illuminate. The process is objective; the search is not for the contents of the authors’ heads but for the rules of language they used.”222In re Sinclair, 870 F.2d 1340, 1342 (7th Cir. 1989).

In total, we found statements from at least ten Senators and six Congressmen that suggest that according to “the rules of language they used” the word “officer” included elected officials. One of these statements included explicit references to “Officers of the United States.” Senator Thomas A. Hendricks of Indiana proposed a change to the language of Section 3 that would have limited those barred from holding office in the future to those who entered the rebellion while they were still officers of the United States or one of the states. The reason was because he felt that an individual’s oath of office expired at the end of each term:

Everybody, by virtue of his allegiance, is bound to obey the Constitution of the United States, to stand by the Union. But this oath of itself is an oath of office binding upon him as an officer, else why is it that if a Senator taking this oath, serves six years and is reelected, he is sworn again? For the simple reason that he is entering upon another term of service, and for that term of service he must take this official oath to obey the Constitution of the United States. I presume this oath means as if it read, “Senators and Representatives and all other officers in the United States and in the States shall be bound by an oath or affirmation to support the Constitution of the United States in their offices.” I know of no other purpose that there can be to require a special oath from an officer.223Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. 2898 (1866) (emphasis added).

By sweeping Senators and Representatives into the category of “officers of the United States,” he made clear that he believed the category to be broad enough to include positions elected by multimember bodies (such as Senators) or directly by the people (as with Congressmen).224Some may object to this example because Senator Hendricks uses the phrase “officers in the United States” rather than “officers of the United States.” The difference only makes a difference if the Constitutional phrase is a term of art, which we feel the evidence clearly demonstrates it is not. As such, minor variations in the phrase are exactly what one would expect. To dismiss such examples runs the risk of circular reasoning.

Other statements made clear that the speakers thought that federal officers could be elected, even if they did not use the full phrase “officers of the United States.” Since we have debunked the notion that “officers of the United States” was a legal term of art at the time of the Founding, these synonyms are equally valuable clues as to the intended meaning of the full phrase. Senator Luke Poland of Vermont stated that he felt the Amendment as written was more merciful than the rebels deserved because it preserved their right to vote: “we leave the great mass [of Southerners] utterly untouched, and the leaders with their lives, their property, the full enjoyment of all their civil rights and privileges, with the right of voting for all officers, both State and national, with the single restriction they shall not hold office.”225Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. 2964 (1866) (emphasis added).

A number of these statements came during the debate in the House over an ultimately rejected section which would have stripped former Confederates of the right to vote until 1870.226The original language of Section 3 in the House read as follows: “Until the 4th day of July, in the year 1870, all persons who voluntarily adhered to the late insurrection, giving it aid and comfort, shall be excluded from the right to vote for Representatives in Congress and for electors for President and Vice President of the United States.” Id. at 2463. For example, future president James A. Garfield—then a Congressman from Ohio—stated:

If the proposition had been that those who had been in rebellion should be ineligible to any office under the Government of the United States, and should be ineligible to appointment as electors of the President and Vice President of the United States, or if all who had voluntarily borne arms against the United States had been declared forever incapable of voting for a United States officer, it would, in my judgment, be far more defensible.227Id. (emphasis added).

Congressman Robert C. Schenck, also from Ohio, used similar language while supporting the ultimately rejected proposal, claiming that it

does not disfranchise, but refuses to enfranchise. If you say that the people of these States, because of their having been engaged in the rebellion, shall not vote for Federal officers, there is nothing taken from them, because they have already divested themselves of that privilege, voluntarily abandoned, given it up, flung it away by breaking loose from the rest of the Union, as far as by their act, disposition, and power they could do so.228Id. at 2470 (emphasis added).

Likewise, Congressman Henry J. Raymond of New York, stated that the rejected section “proposes to exclude the great body of the people of those States from the exercise of the right of suffrage in regard to Federal officers.”229Id. at 2502 (emphasis added). Representative Rufus P. Spalding of Ohio supported this proposal to “disqualif[y] active and known rebels from participating in the election of Federal officers.”230Id. at 2509 (emphasis added).

There were also a number of other statements that discussed electing officers in general.231In highlighting these, we recognize that Blackman and Tillman (and President Trump) do not dispute that some officers can be elected, they just do not believe that officers of the United States specifically can be. But because we do not believe that the full phrase is a term of art, we believe that the contours of the word “officer” standing alone informs the ordinary meaning of the word in the phrase “officers of the United States.” See also Corpus Linguistics Amici, supra note 98, at 20 (“In layman’s terms, this means that in the relationship between adjectives and their nouns, the noun is king―[a modifier’s] meaning and scope is always relative to the noun it is modifying.”). For instance, while arguing that Section 3 would not impose a punishment on former Confederates, but merely withhold a privilege, Senator Edgar Cowan of Pennsylvania stated that “[a]n elector is one who is chosen by the people to perform that function, just the same as an officer is one chosen by the people to exercise the franchises of an office.”232Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. 2890 (1866) (emphasis added). Later in the debates he returned to this distinction, asking “is not the elector just as much the choice of the community as an officer is the choice of it, except that the electors are chosen by a class and described by a general designation, whereas the officer is chosen by name to perform certain functions?”233Id. at 2987 (emphasis added).

The widespread understanding that officers could be elected was repeatedly highlighted in the back and forth between Senator John B. Henderson of Missouri and Senator William Pitt Fessenden of Maine, as the pair debated an amendment to Section 2 proposed by Henderson. At the time, the language of Section 2 stated that “whenever the elective franchise shall be denied or abridged in any State on account of race or color, all persons of such race or color shall be excluded from the basis of representation.”234Id. at 3010 (emphasis added). Henderson wanted to make the section more explicit, changing the language to read “[b]ut whenever the right to vote at any election held under the Constitution and laws of the United States, or of any State, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such State, &c.”235Id. (emphasis added). He stated that “the inference [of this amendment] will be that it applies only to those general elections at which political officers are elected, members of the Legislature, Governor, judges, &c.”236Id. (emphasis added). While Fressenden disputed whether the amendment was really necessary, he clearly agreed that officers could be elected, stating that he believed that the original language was “intended to cover the election of officers generally.”237Id. (emphasis added). Some time later, Senator George Williams of Oregon proposed his own amendment to Section 2 along the same lines, adding words which were ultimately ratified—“But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the executive and judicial officers of a State, or members of the Legislature thereof”238Id. at 3029.in order to (in his words) “specify[] particularly the officers for which these people must be allowed to vote in order to be counted.”239Id. (emphasis added).

Finally, we found a number of statements that support the proposition that state officers could be elected. While this proposition is hardly controversial—as shown in the last Section, the language of the Fourteenth Amendment itself acknowledges it as fact—these statements are still relevant evidence for showing that officers as a class—be they federal or state—can be elected. Senator Henderson, after acknowledging that any effort to strip ex-Confederates of the right to vote would be unworkable, stated that under the Amendment, “Lee, Johnston, Wade Hampton, Moseby, and even Jeff Davis, are left as qualified electors, competent to vote for State officers and members of Congress.”240Id. at 3036 (emphasis added). Congressman John A. Bingham—the father of the Fourteenth Amendment—made a similar statement in the House,

This amendment does not disqualify any rebel or aider of the rebellion from voting at all the State elections for all State officers, nor does it disqualify them from being appointed presidential electors. It amounts, therefore, to this: though it be adopted, and made part of the Constitution, yet all persons “who voluntarily adhered to the late insurrection, giving it aid and comfort,” may vote at all the State elections for State officers, and, being largely in the majority in every insurrectionary State, may elect the State Legislature, which may appoint electors for President and Vice President of the United States, and from aught in the amendment may appoint rebels as such electors.241Id. at 2543 (emphasis added).

Another example came during a debate over whether Confederate officials who had taken advantage of President Johnson’s general pardon should be barred from holding future office under Section 3. Senator James Doolittle of Wisconsin believed that they should not. To demonstrate that the Amendment would still punish those most culpable, he noted that a number of “prominent rebel officials” remained unpardoned—535 of them—including thirty-seven “cabinet officers and governors of States.”242Id. at 2917 (emphasis added). Senator Hendricks likewise spoke of “[j]udicial officers” being “elected.”243Id. at 2899. Senator Henderson spoke of the people “elect[ing] . . . members of the Legislature, Governor, judges, &c”244Id. at 3010. as “political officers.”245Id. And Senator Timothy O. Howe of Wisconsin quoted and summarized a letter from W.L. Sharkey to Secretary of State William H. Seward “in which he tells him that the Governor and all the officers elected by the people had been duly installed, qualified, and taken possession of their offices.”246Id. at 221–22 (emphasis added). Senator Henderson, Senator Fessenden, and Senator Daniel Clark of New Hampshire even briefly discussed the election of “municipal officers” and “township officers” such as mayors and recorders.247Id. at 3010.

Taken together, these statements reveal a consistent speech pattern among the Framers of the Fourteenth Amendment of referring to elected officials at all levels of government—federal, state, and local— as “officers.” It is also worth noting that while there may be examples suggesting the contrary—examples that could be revealed by a future corpus linguistics analysis of the Congressional Globe—we did not find any.

C.  Evidence from the Ratification Debates of the Fourteenth Amendment in the States

Next, we turn to the ratification debates of the Fourteenth Amendment in the States. While not as well documented as the debates in Congress, they can still be a valuable source of evidence about how particular words or phrases were understood by the broader public at the time. Research into these debates has been greatly aided by a collection published by Kurt Lash in 2021.2482 The Reconstruction Amendments: Essential Documents (Kurt T. Lash ed., 2021). It includes transcripts of state legislative history as well as contemporary newspaper articles reporting on these debates. Here, too, we see a consistent pattern—mined from the debates in Alabama, Louisiana, and North Carolina—of the word “officer” being broad enough to include elected officers.

Alabama: On the day Alabama ratified the Fourteenth Amendment (reversing its earlier rejection), the Alabama Senate Journal recorded the following two statements. First, “The Senate met at 12 m. and elected officers. The 14th amendment was ratified and the Senate adjourned until to-morrow.”249Alabama, Ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment (Reversing Earlier Rejection), New Orleans Times, July 14, 1868, at 1, reprinted in 2 The Reconstruction Amendments, supra note 248, at 420 (emphasis added). And second, “In the House, officers were elected and the 14th amendment ratified.”250Id. (emphasis added). Although these are legislative officers—as opposed to general state officers—the statements still show that officers can be elected as a general principle, not to mention elected by a multimember body.

Louisiana: An article reporting on the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment by Louisiana, which was published by the Boston Daily News, contained the following order from General Buchanan, the Commanding General of Union forces in the state: “All civil officers acting under military appointment will transfer their offices and everything pertaining thereto to their successors, who have been duly elected, and who are qualified under the laws of the State.”251“Civil Law Restored in Louisiana; Ratification of the 14th Article of Amendment,” Boston Daily J., July 15, 1868, at 2, reprinted in 2 The Reconstruction Amendments, supra note 248, at 420 (emphasis added).

North Carolina: A Joint Committee Report Rejecting the Fourteenth Amendment contained the following statement:

A leading feature of this second section is, that, virtually, it makes the basis of representation to consist of the voters only, which is manifestly inconsistent with the theory of our political system. The voters are merely the appointing power, whose function is to select the representative; but his true constituency is the whole population. It is a great fallacy to maintain that an officer represents only those who vote for him.”2521866–67 Journal of the Senate of the General Assembly of the State of North Carolina 98, reprinted in 2 The Reconstruction Amendments, supra note 248, at 311.

Not only does this show that officers are elected, but also demonstrates that Founding Era understanding of election being a type of appointment continued into the 1860s.

The Lash collection also contains a proposed “compromise” amendment—reported in the New York Times—which was proposed by Southern Governors to President Johnson after a number of Southern legislatures initially refused to ratify the Fourteenth Amendment. The language of the Compromise Amendment’s Section 4—which relates to apportionment of representatives—is particularly relevant for our purposes:

Sec. 4. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each State, excluding Indians not taxed. But when any State shall, on account of race or color, or previous condition of servitude, deny the exercise of the elective franchise at any election for the choice of Electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, Members of the Legislature and other officers elected by the people, to any of the male inhabitants of such State, being 21 years of age and citizens of the United States, then the entire class of persons so excluded from the exercise of the elective franchise shall not be counted in the basis of representation.”253Proposed “Compromise” Amendment, N.Y. Times, Feb. 5, 1867, at 5, reprinted in 2 The Reconstruction Amendments, supra note 248, at 363 (emphasis added).

This statement not only shows that officers can be elected, but the phrase “officers elected by the people” also suggests that officers can be elected in other ways, such as by multimember bodies like legislatures or the Electoral College.

D.  Evidence from the Legislative History of the Fifteenth Amendment

We also looked at the legislative history of the Fifteenth Amendment, which was passed by the 40th Congress. Although one Congress removed from the cohort that passed the Fourteenth Amendment, it is still a valuable source of evidence of the linguistic conventions used in the Fourteenth Amendment, especially since so many of the members of the 40th Congress were also members of the 39th Congress. As with the legislative history and ratification debates of the Fourteenth Amendment, we found a consistent linguistic pattern of referring to elected officials—including federal ones—as both “officers” and “officers of the United States.”

Senator Frederick Theodore Frelinghuysen of New Jersey:

The consequences, therefore, of adopting any separate system of qualifications for the right of voting under the Constitution of the United States would have been that in some of the States there would be persons capable of voting for the highest State officers, and yet not permitted to vote for any officer of the United States; and that in the other States persons not admitted to the exercise of the right under the State constitution might have enjoyed it in national elections.254Cong. Globe, 40th Cong., 3d Sess. 979 (1869) (emphasis added).

Representative Samuel Shellaburger of Ohio:

I understood the first proposition of the gentleman’s argument to be substantially this: that if the Constitution had reposed in the States the unlimited power to regulate the matter of voting for Federal officers it would involve this mischief, to wit: that thereby the power would be placed in the States to withhold from the Government the election of Federal officers at all, and that that mischief might be fatal to the Government itself. Am I right in that statement?255Id. at 560 (emphasis added).

Representative Charles A. Eldridge of Wisconsin:

If the power exists in the Federal Government to pass this bill, whether under any one or all the provisions referred to, then I admit that Congress has the right to control the whole question of suffrage and the qualification of electors for all officers, State and national. There can be no reason for its entering the State and determining the qualification of those who are to elect the officers named in the bill that will not apply to every officer of the State so far as the question of power is concerned. The electors of President and Vice President are not named in section four of the first article. The power claimed, therefore, under the word “manner” in this section can no more apply to them than to the Governor of the State or any other State officer. So that if it covers electors it may as well cover, and does as necessarily cover, all that is contemplated by the amendment proposed by the joint resolution.256Id. at 644 (emphasis added).

Representative James Burnie Beck of Kentucky:

It is contended by the gentleman from Massachusetts that this is only a political punishment to be imposed on such States as refuse to obey the mandates of the first section till such time as Congress can enforce its provisions, which he asserts provides that the right to vote for certain officers cannot be denied or abridged.257Id. at 692 (emphasis added).

E.  Evidence from Popular Sources that Officers Are Elected

Finally, we looked at popular sources such as newspapers and found numerous references to “officers of the United States,” “federal officers,” “national officers,” and “officers of the general government” being elected. Searching the Newspapers.com database for the years 1850–1870, we found examples from almost every state and several territories. While our search was by no means exhaustive—we hope to perform a more comprehensive corpus linguistic analysis of the subject at some point in the future—it demonstrates the ubiquitousness of referring to “officers of the United States” in a way that includes elected officials.

Alabama:

The South, for the humble privilege of being allowed to have a hand in the election of federal officers, has permitted her rights to be assailed and our leading politicians have compromised their principles for the sake of currying favor with their Northern allies.258Trouble in the Camp, Spirit South, Dec. 16, 1851, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/355807694.

Arkansas:

To every marshal or duly elected officer of the United States.—You, and each of you are hereby commanded to bring up the body of J.W. Brown, said to be held in unlawful confinement on board the steamer Commodore.259The Best Joke of the Season, Wash. Telegraph, July 12, 1854, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/262231039.

Connecticut:

Mr. Blaine asked Mr. Stevens if the third section would not be considered objectionable, as it excluded from the right to vote for national officers all who have voluntarily aided rebellion, and asked if the amnesty would exempt such.260XXXIXth Congress-First Session, Hartford Courant, May 9, 1866, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/369024936.

Delaware:

A universal suffrage bill has been prepared for presentation at the next session of Congress. It does not extend the suffrage beyond the election of Federal officers.261Congressional, Smyrna Times, Jan. 15, 1868, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/882231918.

Georgia:

However desirable it may be, in the minds of many, to abrogate the unjust discrimination on account of color which prevails in the qualification for voters in most of the States, and to establish a uniform rule in that respect, particularly in the election of Federal officers, the loyal people of the land have recently made too great a struggle for the maintenance of the Constitution, to seek to accomplish the object by Congressional enactment, at a sacrifice of the obvious meaning and spirit of that instrument.262The Age of Reason Returning, Ga. Wkly. Tel., Sept. 13, 1867, at 5 (emphasis added), https://www.newspapers.com/image/823549232.

Idaho:

It will be remembered a bill was some time ago prepared and introduced in Congress, in anticipation of this so-called ratification of the establishment of a despotism upon the ruins of the Republic, taking the management and control of elections of all Federal officers entirely away from the States, and subjecting the whole to the dictation and control of Congress.263Worth Thinking Seriously About, Idaho World, Mar. 31, 1870, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/321347959.

Indiana:

While conservative and law-abiding citizens, who are deprived of the privilege of voting, may obey the law, others, with no characters to sustain and no reputation to lose—lawless in person and purse—such as are found in all our large cities, will vote for national officers in defiance of the law.264Reconstruction, Evansville Daily J., May 14, 1866, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/320961426.

Iowa:

They know that the present Rebellion is the unprovoked work of bad, ambitious Demagogues, who have made a legal election of National officers an assumed justification for the worst of crimes.265The Responses, Dubuque Wkly. Times, Mar. 14, 1861, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/38317748.

Kansas:

It was then resolved that all who participated in the rebellion should be disfranchised from voting for Federal officers, and that the rebel debt should be repudiated.266Reconstruction, Atchison Daily Champion, May 2, 1866, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/103839777.

Kentucky:

That a faithful execution of the fugitive slave law—a non-interference with slavery where it exists in the States, by citizens of the non-slaveholding States—a non-interference with the slave owner in the Territories while Territories, and the condemnation and rejection for office of politicians of all parties who shall hereafter attempt to agitate the subject of slavery, or make it a question in elections for officers of the United States, would restore peace and harmony to the States and people thereof.267Orders of the Day, Louisville Daily Courier, Jan. 22, 1858, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/119192022.

Louisiana:

A radical member of Congress, now here, has prepared a bill, which will be presented at the opening of Congress, providing for national suffrage. It differs very materially from similar bills presented by Mr. Sumner last session, and confines the suffrage to elections for national officers.268The National Suffrage Scheme, Times-Picayune, Nov. 7, 1867, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/27277008.

Maine:

In the coming campaign for the election of the officers of the national government, let the watchwords be the rights of the people, the rights of humanity.269Democratic Principles, Portland Press Herald, Dec. 15, 1851, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/846304167.

Massachusetts:

If they are not citizens of the United States, then they have no right to vote for officers of the United States.270The Dred Scott Decision, Liberator, July 31, 1857, at 122, https://www.newspapers.com/image/34576548.

Maryland:

[T]he right of the loyal States to decide for themselves the suffrage question does not in our opinion, give them power to prevent citizens of the United States from voting for officers of the United States.271The Negro Suffrage Plank in the Chicago Platform, Aegis (June 26, 1868), at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/466309396.

Minnesota:

He said that one singular thing in the report was comparing Minnesota to Wisconsin in regard to the election of her federal officers. Wisconsin elects her officers and pays them out of the State Treasury; and it would be inconsistent for Minnesota to elect her federal officers and then have them paid out of the U.S. Treasury.272Legislative Assembly, Saint Paul Wkly. Minnesotan, Jan. 26, 1856, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/900582498. We admit that we are not entirely sure what the author of this one is saying, although we note that at the time this article was written, Minnesota was still a territory, which blurs the lines between state and federal officers.

Missouri:

Mr. Raymond, of New York, while not willing to accept it as a condition precedent to Southern representation was willing that all of the amendment, but the third section, depriving those who voluntarily aided in the rebellion, from voting for Federal officers.273Another Day on Reconstruction—Another Day “Heading” Andy Johnson—Legislation in the District—Radical Dodge of the Negro Suffrage Issue, Daily Mo. Republican, May 10, 1866, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/666847937.

Nevada:

We do not believe that it is one of the rights of any State to deny any citizen of the United States a voice in the election of officers of the general government.274The National or Federal Idea, Carson Daily Appeal, June 18, 1867, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/595356508.

New Jersey:

This act gives United States officers power to make arrests at the polls, and to inspect all records of elections for Federal officers.275Our Washington Letter, Monmouth Democrat, Aug. 4, 1870, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/496933014.

New York:

Charles C. Burleigh supported the resolutions against allegiance to the Constitution, and opposed voting for officers of the United States.276New England Anti-Slavery Convention, N.Y. Daily Times, May 26, 1853, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/20304979.

North Carolina:

Mr. Lincoln distinctly contends for the right of any State to confer upon negroes citizenship, and the right to vote for Federal officers.277Mr. Lincoln and the “Peace Congress,” Daily J., Feb. 18, 1861, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/90833412.

Ohio:

[S]upposing that no one should vote for a United States’ officer, only for State officers, the General Government would cease to be, in four years.278Till P., The Sacredness of an Oath, Anti-Slavery Bugle, Apr. 23, 1859, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/80558667.

Oregon:

There was an informal meeting of a good many Republican Senators and Representatives to-day, to see if some action could not be had in the Senate to strike out the third section of the Constitutional Amendment, which disfranchises rebels from voting for Federal officers.279General News, Albany Democrat, May 19, 1866, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/336156947.

Pennsylvania:

The unprecedented position of the legally elected officers of the United States should have at least gained for them the generosity of their former political foes.280The Vindication of the Administration, Adams Sentinel & Gen. Advertiser, Nov. 10, 1863, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/9361051.

South Carolina:

To make out the inconsistency, he leaves out all the State elections ‘so often recurring,’ and Mr. Calhoun’s influence, and represents me as having attributed our unanimity solely to the election of Federal officers.281General Ayer, Gen. Ayer’s Reply to Col. Owens, Charleston Daily Courier, Oct. 20, 1859, at 4 (emphasis added), https://www.newspapers.com/image/604526204.

Tennessee:

Hence all the arrangements for the election of Federal officers by the people were necessarily based upon the rule that the persons entitled by law of the States to vote for members of the popular branch of the State Legislature should be the persons who would have the right to vote for representatives to Congress and for the presidential electors.282The Fifteenth Amendment, Nashville Union & Am., July 15, 1869, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/80675525.

Texas:

The evils that follow from the concentration of the attention of the people to national offices are extravagance in expenditures, an intense excitement pending the election of national officers, and a neglect of the people and their representatives to look to their own home as calculated to benefit them in all the relations of life, and to make them a happy and prosperous community.283Patriotic States Rights Sentiments, Tex. Republican, Feb. 26, 1853, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/320387260.

Vermont:

[T]he people of the States of California will sustain and uphold the constitutionally elected officers of the United States government, in all constitutional efforts to preserve the integrity of the Union.284Vt. Christian Monitor, Apr. 13, 1861, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/490867429.

Virginia:

Mr. Boutwell reported a bill declaring who may vote for Federal officers, which he gave notice he would call up for action in ten days.285Congressional, Rich. Dispatch, Jan. 12, 1869, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/349529939.

Wisconsin:

He has not only sought no office, but has been so scrupulous that, feeling it might be inconsistent and dishonorable to take any part in a government which he considered in league with injustice and wrong, he has for years abstained from voting for federal officers.286Mob Violence in Cincinnati–Wendell Phillips, Wis. State J., Mar. 25, 1862, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/396452933.

When viewed collectively, we think it is beyond dispute that at the time of the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, the ordinary meaning of the word “officer” in general and “officers of the United States” in particular included elected officials.

V.  EVIDENCE THAT THE PRESIDENT IS AN OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES FOR PURPOSES OF THE FOURTEENTH AMENDMENT

Having shown the text, drafters of the Fourteenth Amendment, ratifiers of the Fourteenth Amendment, and others understood the word officers—including “officers of the United States”—to encompass elected officials, we now turn to the precise question of whether the President of the United States is an officer of the United States. In some respects, this is overkill. Having shown that the full phrase “officer of the United States” was not a legal term of art, President Trump’s concession that the President is an “officer” is lethal to his case. However, in the following Sections we will amass additional evidence to show that at the time of the drafting of the Fourteenth Amendment, it was a common linguistic convention to refer to the President as an officer of the United States.

A.  Evidence from the Legislative History of the Fourteenth Amendment

As noted above, we looked to the legislative history of the Fourteenth Amendment not to determine the intended meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment, but to look for evidence of how the legislators used the phrase “officer of the United States” and its synonyms in the course of their duties.287See supra Introduction to Part III. Unfortunately, we did not find any explicit references to the President (or Vice President) as an “officer of the United States.” We suspect that Blackman and Tillman would argue that this proves their point. As Tillman explained in his amicus brief to the Colorado Supreme Court, “These references to the President may have been made in a more colloquial sense, but they did not state the President was an ‘Officer of the United States.’ ”288Tillman Amicus for Anderson, supra note 104, at 21–22. But that is exactly our point. The phrase “Officer of the United States” is not a term of art, and therefore its original public meaning is the “colloquial sense.”

As noted in Section II.A, even during the first few years of the Republic, when Congress was busy creating positions within the new government, Congress almost never used the full phrase “officer of the United States.” The same is true of the debates over the Fourteenth Amendment. We found only twelve explicit uses of the phrase “officer of the United States” and one use of “officers of the United States.” Of these, ten were quotations of the exact language of the proposed amendment and two were close paraphrases. But they did refer to the President as an “officer of the government,” “executive officer,” and “officer.” This is exactly what one would expect if the full phrase was not a term of art, and as such is still probative of the proposition that the Framers of the Fourteenth Amendment viewed the President as an officer of the United States.

For example, in discussing who had the power to declare the insurrection over, Senator Garrett Davis of Kentucky referred to the President as an “officer of the Government”:

[T]here was a necessity for some power, some officer of the Government to declare when the insurrection was suppressed. There is such a power and such an officer to execute it; and who is he? The Constitution had been attacked by an armed resistance to the execution of the laws, and an attempt to set up an independent power and government within the United States. It is made the duty of the President, by the Constitution, to the best of his ability to preserve, protect, and defend that Constitution, and to take care that the laws be faithfully executed throughout the United States.289Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. app. at 234 (1866) (emphasis added).

Senator James Doolittle of Wisconsin used the same phrase to discuss the relationship between the President and other officers within the Executive Department. He had been accused by Senator Trumbull of Illinois of suggesting that inferior officers were “officers of the President.” Senator Doolittle disagreed:

I stated that executive officers were responsible to the President as the chief executive officer of the Government. My friend from Illinois seems to think that because I made this statement that they are responsible to the President, because he under the Constitution has placed upon him the responsibility of seeing that the laws are faithfully executed, I intended to say that these men were subject merely to the will of the Executive and not to the laws of the land. Not at all, sir.290Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. 2914 (1866) (emphasis added).

In addition, Senator Timothy Howe of Wisconsin once referred to the President as an “executive officer” and Senator Davis twice referred to him as the “chief executive officer.”

Senator Timothy Howe of Wisconsin:

It was argued, I recollect, by the Senator from Pennsylvania [Mr. Cowan] some time since that the President had a peculiar gift, or a peculiar right, for doing these things because he was an executive officer.291Cong. Globe, 39th Cong., 1st Sess. app. at 222 (1866) (emphasis added).

Senator Garrett Davis of Kentucky:

We now see, though, that this majority, lately the friends of the President, are engaged in a war upon him, and that war manifests itself in various aspects and modes. They denounce him; they denounce his measures, his policy. He is a coordinate branch of the Government; or at least the executive department is, and he is the chief executive officer.292Id. at 231 (emphasis added).

Senator Garrett Davis of Kentucky:

The powers of a Government are unavoidably augmented and energized during war, and then there is generally an accord between the legislative and executive branches, produced by the active presence of a common danger and a mutual effort to avert it, that makes the chief executive officer the instrument to give effect to their common policy and purposes.293Cong. Globe 39th Cong., 1st Sess. 2285 (1866) (emphasis added).

We found this language particularly probative given the connection identified by Blackman and Tillman between the Oaths and Affirmation Clause and Section 3.294See supra Section II.D.3.

We also found a fourth reference by Senator Davis to the President as simply an “officer.” He referenced a debate back at the start of the Civil War about whether to seat the Senators elected from the loyal portions of Virginia—i.e., what would become West Virginia—after the rest of the state had voted to secede. The question was whether “notwithstanding the State of Virginia had passed an ordinance of secession and was in the condition of armed and active insurrection against the United States, still she was one of the United States and in the Union.” Senator Davis said that the Senate decided that the question was a “political question” and “[t]hat the President is the proper officer and power to decide” it.295Cong. Globe 39th Cong., 1st Sess. app. at 236 (1866) (emphasis added).

B.  Evidence from the Impeachment Trial of Andrew Johnson

We were unsatisfied with the relatively few references we found in the legislative history of the Fourteenth Amendment, especially since four of the six references we found came from a single Senator. After all, individuals can be linguistic rebels, part of the “despised few” Sapir discussed.296Sapir, supra note 209, at 165–66. We therefore looked at the transcript of the impeachment trial of President Andrew Johnson for more examples of legislative speech.2973 Trial of Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, Before the Senate of the United States, on Impeachment by the House of Representatives for High Crimes and Misdemeanors, (Government Printing Office 1868) [hereinafter Trial of Andrew Johnson], https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ed/Trial_of_Andrew_Johnson_-_president_of_the_United_States%2C_before_the_Senate_of_the_United_States%2C_on_impeachment_by_the_House_of_Representatives_for_high_crimes_and_misdemeanors_%28IA_trialofandrewjohn03john%29.pdf [https://perma.cc/8GM2-8CFX].

Following the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, his Vice President, Andrew Johnson, became President. Johnson, a loyal southern Democrat, had replaced a Republican, Hannibal Hamlin, as Lincoln’s running mate in 1864. Given the Republican majorities in the House and Senate, conflict with Johnson soon occurred. Relevant to our discussion, Congress passed a law over President Johnson’s veto that restricted his ability to fire officers appointed with the advice and consent of the Senate.298Tenure of Office Act of 1867, ch. 153, 39 Stat. 430. When Johnson ignored that law and removed Edwin Stanton as Secretary of War, he was impeached.

We selected the transcript of the trial as a document to examine because it involves frequent use of the word “officer” by the Congress after the Congress that passed the Fourteenth Amendment. We view this transcript as a resource to answer multiple questions about the term “officer of the United States.”

A search for the term “officer of the United States” reveals a limited number of hits during the debates over the Fourteenth Amendment, but several actually use that term to refer to the President. For example, during a lengthy speech explaining his views on the impeachment, Senator George Edmunds of Vermont said that “[t]o this tribunal, sworn to impartiality and conscientious adherence to the Constitution and the laws, they [the founding fathers] committed the high powers indispensable to such a frame of government, of sitting in judgment upon the crimes and misdemeanors of the President, as well as all other officers of the United States.”299Trial of Andrew Johnson, supra note 297, at 95 (emphasis added) (Senator Edmunds referred to the drafters of the Constitution as simply “the fathers”; bracketed text added for clarity).

A statement of Senator Joseph Fowler of Tennessee is likewise evidence that the term “officer of the United States” includes the President. In explaining the Impeachment Clause of the Constitution, he stated:

The framers of the Constitution . . . defined in their great charter the offences for which a President or other officer could be impeached and divested of his office. The Constitution says that “the President, Vice-President, and all civil officers of the United States shall be removed from office on impeachment for and conviction of treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.”300Id. at 193–94 (emphasis added).

Here, the parallel structure of these sentences plainly indicates (1) that Senator Fowler viewed the President as an officer under the Impeachment Clause, and (2) that he did not see a distinction between “officer” and “civil officer of the United States.”301See supra Section II.D.2 for a discussion of why the text of the Impeachment Clause does not suggest the President is not an officer of the United States.

In addition, the trial transcript twice quotes an article by John C. Hamilton, the son of Alexander Hamilton, which specifically identifies the Vice President as an officer of the United States, while discussing how the Constitutional Convention decided to have the Senate try impeachments.302We have unfortunately been unable to find the original article. In this discussion, Hamilton recounts that on

the 8th of September, Roger Sherman raised the objection that the Supreme Court was “improper to try the President because the judges would be appointed by him.” This objection prevailed, and the trial was [e]ntrusted to the Senate by the vote of all the States with one exception; and thus, on the same day, immediately after, the subjects of impeachment were extended from treason and bribery to “other high crimes and misdemeanors,” and thus [e]ntrusted and thus enlarged, it was on the same day made to embrace “the Vice-President and other civil officers of the United States.”303Trial of Andrew Johnson, supra note 297, at 356 (emphasis added). John C. Hamilton’s article is apparently read at page 254 as well.

Obviously, the inclusion of the word “other” in the phrase “the Vice-President and other civil officers of the United States” implies that the Vice President is a civil officer of the United States. Thus, the trial reveals that John Hamilton viewed the Vice President as a civil officer of the United States. Since all of Blackman and Tillman’s arguments apply with equal force to the Vice President as to the President, we think that evidence that the Vice President is an officer of the United States is equally probative for the President, and vice versa. (We also note that if “officer of the United States” was understood at the time of the founding or subsequently to be a term of art that excluded certain officials including the President and Vice-President, one would imagine John Hamilton, as a son of one of the writers of the Federalist Papers, would have understood that.)304Cf. New Prime v. Oliveira, 586 U.S. 532, 539 (2019) (“Of course, statutes may sometimes refer to an external source of law and fairly warn readers that they must abide that external source of law . . . . But nothing like that exists here.”) (emphasis added)).

While these are the only direct references to the President as an officer of the United States, several Senators referred to the President as an officer. We reproduce them below:

Senator Garrett Davis of Kentucky:

The Constitution has no provision declaring a violation of any of its provisions to be a crime; that is a function of the legislative power, and it has passed no law to make violations of the Constitution, or of official oaths, by the President or any other officers, crimes.305Trial of Andrew Johnson, supra note 297, at 161 (emphasis added).

Senator Reverdy Johnson of Maryland:

[B]ut the Constitution for wise purposes says that in the contingency of an impeachment of a President of the United States or any other officer falling within the clause authorizing an impeachment they are to become, as I understand, a court. So have all our predecessors ruled in every case; and who were they?306Id. at 370 (emphasis added).

Senator Charles Beckalew of Pennsylvania:

The Constitution provides that when there is no President or Vice-President to discharge the duties of the presidential office, such duties shall be discharged by some other officer to be designated by law, until a new President shall be chosen.307Id. at 221 (emphasis added).

Senator John Sherman of Ohio:

The power of removal is expressly conferred by the Constitution only in cases of impeachment, and then upon the Senate, and not upon the President. The electors may elect a President and Vice-President, but the Senate only can remove them. The President and the Senate can appoint judges, but the Senate only can remove them. These are the constitutional officers, and their tenure and mode of removal are fixed by the Constitution.308Id. at 5 (emphasis added).

Senator Thomas Tipton of Nebraska:

It appears that while General Emory was acting under a commission requiring him to observe and follow such orders and directions as he should receive from the President and other officers set over him by law, an order reached him embodying a section of law, which law had been previously approved by the President himself, but, as it provided that orders from the President and Secretary of War should be issued through the General of the army, or next in rank, and the President being engaged to remove the Secretary of War and thwart the action of the Senate, in a discussion with General Emory, as to his duty as an officer, said, “This (meaning the order) is not in conformity with the Constitution of the United States, which makes me Commander-in-chief, or with the terms of your commission.”309Id. at 192 (emphasis added). We note that the reference to “other officers set over him by law” is reminiscent of the Appointments Clause, further proof that an “officer” is an “officer of the United States.”

We also examined the House proceedings on the impeachment of President Johnson, as well as material from surrounding weeks.310To be precise, we conducted a search of the Congressional Globe volume available at this link: https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Congressional_Globe/_uyX9YNzDZ8C?hl=en&gbpv=0. We only include examples from the House in the remainder of this Section. Here there are also references to the President as an Officer of the United States. Representative Aaron F. Stevens, for example, stated “the executive officers of the United States, from the President down, are creatures of the people, and not creatures of the President.”311Cong. Globe, 40th Cong., 2d Sess. 1553 (1868). Later in the same speech, Representative Stevens quoted the Appointments Clause in full, suggesting he did not view that Clause as precluding the idea that the President is an officer. Id.; cf. supra Section II.D.1 (discussing the Appointments Clause). To be fair, Representative Stevens at one point also discussed the “unrestrained authority for the President of the United States to appoint and remove at will every executive officer.” Cong. Globe, 40th Cong., 2d Sess. 1553 (1868) (emphasis added). Representative John Bingham312While we cite this quote for linguistic understanding, we note that Representative Bingham was a key drafter of the Fourteenth Amendment. from the House floor in the final days before President Johnson was impeached similarly referred to the President:

Did the gentleman from New York [Mr. Brooks] not know . . . that it is written in the Constitution of this country that the President, the Vice President, and every other civil officer of the United States shall be removed from office on impeachment for, and conviction of high crimes and misdemeanors.313Cong. Globe 40th Cong., 2d Sess. 1341 (1868).

Other representatives referred to the President as an executive officer. Referencing President Johnson, Representative Shelby M. Cullom said, “We are to-day [sic] considering the report of the committee appointed by the House to prepare and report articles of impeachment against that high officer of the Government.”314Id. at 1604. Representative Robert T. Van Horn referred to the President as “the executive officer of the nation.”315Id. at 1389. Representative William H. Kelsey stated, “In England, the chief executive officer of the Government cannot be impeached. Here he can be.”316Id. at 1365. Representative Kelsey also believed President Johnson was only “Vice President, acting as president” following Lincoln’s death, id., a theory that was subsequently foreclosed. See U.S. Const. amend. XXV, § 1. Representative Ebon C. Ingersoll stated, “The President is merely an executive officer and cannot rightfully exercise any of the functions belonging to a judicial officer.”317Id. at 1359–60.

We also found references to the President as an officer. Representative Rufus P. Spalding called the President “this high officer of our Government.”318Id. at 1339. In a discussion on appropriations, Representative William E. Nilback stated, “The President is the commander in chief of the Army and Navy, and as such is as much entitled as any other officer of the Army or Navy to have detailed for his assistance any subordinate officer.”319Id. at 1111.

Taken together, we believe that the legislative history of the Fourteenth Amendment and the Impeachment debates and Trial of President Andrew Johnson demonstrates a consistent linguistic practice of identifying the President as an officer generally, and “Officer of the United States,” specifically.

C.  Evidence from President Andrew Johnson’s Appointment Proclamations

We also found that Andrew Johnson—the President at the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified—referred to himself as an “officer of the United States” in numerous official proclamations appointing individuals to important posts in the former Confederate states. For example, consider this May 29, 1865, Proclamation appointing William W. Holden Provisional Governor of North Carolina:

Whereas, The President of the United States is by the Constitution made Commander-in-Chief of the army and navy as well as chief Executive officer of the United States and is bound by solemn oath, faithfully to execute the office of President of the United States, and to take care that the laws be faithfully executed . . . . I, Andrew Johnson, President of the United States and commander-in-chief of the army and navy of the United States, do hereby appoint Wm. W. Holden provisional governor of the State of North Carolina.320Andrew Johnson, A Proclamation, Burlington Times, June 3, 1865, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/364918399.

We found similar proclamations by Johnson appointing governors over Alabama,321Andrew Johnson, Appointment of Lewis E. Parsons Provisional Governor of Alabama, Ala. Beacon, July 7, 1865, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/355809443. Georgia,322Andrew Johnson, Official, Evening Star, June 19, 1865, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/146141406. Mississippi,323Id. (Johnson refers to himself here as chief civil executive officer of the United States). Texas,324Andrew Johnson, A Proclamation, Am. Presidency Project (June 17, 1865), https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/proclamation-139-reorganizing-constitutional-government-texas [https://perma.cc/R3DP-H6S8] (Johnson refers to himself here as the chief civil executive officer of the United States). and South Carolina.325Andrew Johnson, Official—Department of State—By the President of the United States of America—A Proclamation, Camden J., July 28, 1865, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/863520190 (Johnson refers to himself here as the chief civil executive officer of the United States). In each of them, he referred to himself as an “officer of the United States.” While these proclamations were largely formulaic, using almost word-for-word language, there were some interesting variations. In the Alabama, Mississippi, and North Carolina proclamations, he refers to himself as the “chief executive officer of the United States,” but in the ones for Georgia, Texas, and South Carolina he adds a word, identifying himself as the “chief civil executive officer.” This tiny difference persuades us that the terms that “chief,” “civil,” and “executive” were all just adjectives modifying “officers of the United States”—lest anyone try to argue that that a “chief executive officer of the United States” or “executive officer of the United States” is somehow different from an “officer of the United States” for purposes of Section 3.

D.  Evidence from the Amnesty Proclamations of Presidents Lincoln and Johnson

A fourth strain of evidence that, at the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified, the phrase “officers of the United States” included the President is the amnesty proclamations issued by Presidents Abraham Lincoln and Andrew Johnson pardoning confederates. On December 8, 1863, President Lincoln issued “a full pardon” which “restor[ed] [] all rights of property” to “all persons who have, directly or by implication, participated in the existing rebellion,” provided that they willingly took an oath to “support, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, and the union of States thereunder” and respect all laws and proclamations issued by Congress and the President respecting slavery during the Civil War.326Abraham Lincoln, A Proclamation, 13 Stat. 737, 737–38 (1863), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1863p1/message1 [https://perma.cc/W5N6-8LWS]. Then in May 1865, President Andrew Johnson issued his own amnesty proclamation “grant[ing] to all persons who have directly or indirectly participated in the existing rebellion . . . amnesty and pardon, with restoration of all rights of property, except as to slaves.”327Andrew Johnson, A Proclamation, 13 Stat. 758, 758 (May 29, 1865), https://www.loc.gov/resource/rbpe.23502500/?st=text [https://perma.cc/9SCP-Z5US]. Both of these proclamations contained a long list of exemptions—individuals participating in the rebellion that were not covered by the general pardon—chief among them “all who are, or shall have been, civil or diplomatic officers or agents of the so-called Confederate government” as Lincoln put it,328Lincoln, supra note 326, at 738. or in the words of Johnson, “All who are, or shall have been, pretended civil or diplomatic officers, or otherwise, domestic or foreign agents, of the pretended Confederate Government.”329Johnson, supra note 327, at 759. While we have placed this argument in Section IV, the Amnesty Proclamations are equally good evidence for establishing that officers may be elected as a general matter. Jefferson Davis was elected President of the Confederacy in 1862.

Subsequent history demonstrates that Confederate President Jefferson Davis and Vice President Alexander H. Stephens were not covered by either of these amnesty proclamations. Davis was dogged with prosecutions for years.330See generally Robert Eugene Icenhauer-Ramirez, “No Traitor has been Hung”: The United States of America v. Jefferson Davis 1865-1869 (May 2014) (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Texas at Austin), https://repositories.lib.utexas.edu/server/api/core/bitstreams/ccce9482-a259-470b-8427-30c4f4618a11/content. As for Stephens, he was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1866 but prohibited from taking his seat due to restrictions on former Confederates.331Gerard N. Magliocca, Amnesty and Section Three of the Fourteenth Amendment, 36 Const. Comment. 87, 91 (2021) (citing Edward McPherson, The Political History of the United States of America During the Period of Reconstruction 107–09 (1875)). While he would go on to serve as a Congressman from the State and Georgia’s fiftieth governor, he held both of these positions only after Congress passed the Amnesty Act of 1872.332Id.

But why were they excluded from Lincoln and Johnson’s amnesty proclamation? Obviously because they were “civil officers . . . of the pretended Confederate Government.” It is the only exemption that could possibly apply. And yet, the Confederate Constitution was modeled after the U.S. Constitution, and the four clauses that Blackman and Tillman cite to support their thesis—that the President and Vice President are not officers of the United States—are copied word-for-word as shown below, with the exception that “Confederate States” is substituted in place of “United States,” and some tweaks to capitalization.333While the Confederate States Constitution is not legal authority, it can serve as evidence of linguistic conventions of the day. The capitalization in the Confederate Constitution looks closer to modern conventions than that of the U.S. Constitution. The fact that the Confederate Constitution never capitalizes the word officers in the full phrase “officers of the Confederate States” is at least weak evidence that at the time of the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, the full phrase was not considered to be a term of art. It is also worth noting that the word is not capitalized in the Fourteenth Amendment. We do not feel that the fact the word “Officer” is capitalized throughout the Constitution of 1789 suggests the contrary, any more than the fact that they capitalized the “C” but not the “s” in “supreme Court” tells us something about the original public meaning of Supreme Court.

Table 2.
United States ConstitutionConfederate States Constitution
Art. II, § 2: “[The President] shall nominate, and by and with the Advice and Consent of the Senate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other Officers of the United States, whose appointments are not herein otherwise provided for . . .”Art. II, § 2: “[The President] shall nominate, and by and with the advice and consent of the Senate shall appoint, ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, judges of the Supreme Court, and all other officers of the Confederate States whose appointments are not herein otherwise provided for . . .”
Art. II, § 3: “[The President] shall . . . Commission all the Officers of the United States.”Art. II, § 3: “The President shall . . . commission all the officers of the Confederate States.”
Art. II, § 4: “The President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.”Art. II, § 4: “The President, Vice President, and all civil officers of the Confederate States, shall be removed from office on impeachment for and conviction of treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.”
Art. VI: “The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution.”Art. VI: “The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and in the members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial officers, both of the Confederate States and of the several States, shall be bound by oath or affirmation to support this Constitution.”

Yet, surely no one in the North would have allowed Alabama to elect Jefferson Davis to the Senate on grounds that he was just the President, not an officer, of the Confederate States.

Critics might quibble that neither Amnesty Proposal used the phrase “officers of the Confederate States” or at least “officers of the so-called Confederate States,” and that the broader term “officers of the so-called Confederate government” was more all-encompassing. But does anyone really believe that it would have made a difference if it did? We have already shown that the phrase “officers of the United States” was not a term of art, so why would its counterpart be? An “officer of the so-called Confederate government” was the same thing as an “officer of the so-called Confederate States.”

Others might argue that this line of reasoning is irrelevant because the Confederate Constitution was never recognized by the United States as valid law due to the Confederate States never being recognized as a legitimate country. But it is still evidence of the linguistic norms of the day for at least twelve states—twelve states that ultimately ratified the Fourteenth Amendment. Davis and Stephens were therefore officers only in “the colloquial sense.”334Tillman Amicus for Anderson, supra note 104, at 22. But that is exactly the point. The colloquial understanding—or to put it in legal terms, original public meaning—of the officers of a country, pretended or otherwise, included the President and Vice President.

E.  Evidence from Other Contemporary Sources

Having shown that the President was frequently referred to as an officer of the United States, federal officer, and officer in various legal sources, we turn now to other more popular sources as evidence of the original public meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment.

First, we found dozens of newspaper articles written between 1850 and 1870 that refer to the President explicitly as an officer of the United States. These articles—which we found by searching the Newspapers.com database—came from more than two-thirds of the states that were part of the Union when the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified. They included newspapers from the Deep South, the far West, the mid-Atlantic, the Midwest, and New England; papers in large cities like New York and Philadelphia and small towns like Rock Island, Illinois; papers that were pro-Union and pro-Confederacy. Some of the articles were actually reprintings of official government documents or Congressional speeches, while others were written as letters to the editor or mere gossip; some were written by local authors, while other articles we saw reprinted in papers in multiple states. Through it all, we noticed a consistent linguistic pattern of using the phrase “officer of the United States” in a way that included the Presidency.335To be sure, this was not a formal corpus linguistics analysis. Neither time, nor the Newspapers.com interface, allowed us to be quite so precise. There may be some newspaper articles that cut the other way, but the understanding that the President was an “officer of the United States” appears to be widely shared. A fraction of the quotations are listed below:

Alabama:

On the 20th of June, the day of his letter, there were a President of the United States, a Cabinet, Judges of the Supreme Court, and thousands of other civil officers of the United States.336Fred H. Wilson, General Orders, No. 38, Montgomery Daily Mail, Sept. 26, 1865, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/356167286.

Arkansas:

This creature [i.e., Brigham Young] and his deluded followers are in the constant habit of denouncing the President and all the other officers of the United States in the most indecent terms.337The Mormons, Wkly. Ark. Gazette, Nov. 28, 1851, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/131228187.

California:

Great power is contided [sic] to the President, Vice President, and othhr [sic] civil officers of the United States.338What Is the Union?, Mountain Democrat, Nov. 21, 1863, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/903559410.

Connecticut:

[T]he President of the United States is by the Constitution made Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, as well as chief executive officer of the United States, and is bound by solemn oath faithfully to execute the office of President of the United States.339Oliver Morton, Senator Morton’s Speech, Litchfield Enquirer, Feb. 6, 1868, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/884042728.

District of Columbia:

Mr. Fillmore . . . has been a faithful and honest President. . . . No chief executive officer of the United States ever displayed more wisdom, moderation, and conciliation.340Mr. Fillmore, Daily Republic, Aug. 27, 1851, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/320883966.

Georgia:

[W]hereas, the President of the United States is, by the Constitution, made commander-in-chief of the army and navy, as well as chief civil executive officer of the United States . . . I, Andrew Johnson, President of the United States . . . do hereby appoint James Johnson, of Georgia, Provisional Governor of the State of Georgia whose duty it shall be . . . to prescribe such rules and regulations as may be necessary.341Andrew Johnson, Appointment of James Johnson as Provisional Governor of Georgia, and Andrew J. Hamilton as Provisional Governor of Texas—Proclamation by the President, Macon Tele., June 29, 1865, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/825327519.

Idaho:

The president and other officers of the United States receives a very small salary compared to the crowned heads of Europe.342Small Salary, Idaho Statesman, May 12, 1868, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/722063429.

Illinois:

Their contest has been one of principle alone—a principle which, if Mr. Lincoln is the chief executive officer of these United States for the next four years, he will be compelled to carry out.343The Vote of Rock Island, Rock Island Argus, Nov. 9, 1860, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/354646662.

Indiana:

Now, the President is an officer of the United States.344The Powers of the Government over Rebellious States, Evansville Daily J., Jan. 21, 1864, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/article/the-evansville-daily-journal-m77-fn-29/154681000.

Iowa:

This vain old man was made to believe that he was in communication with the Secretary of State, the President, and other important officers of the United States.345Santa Anna, Daily Democrat, July 10, 1867, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/299444046.

Kansas:

Jefferson Davis . . . personally advised and assisted in maturing the plan for the cowardly murder of the President and other officers of the United States government.346Jefferson D. and His Friends–What Shall We Do With Them?, Atchison Daily Free Press, May 20, 1865, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/388975730.

Kentucky:

The ‘august master’ of Russia, in his letter to President Lincoln, has given the Chief Executive officer of the United States some wholesome advice.347Russia’s Advice to President Lincoln, Louisville Daily Courier, Sept. 16, 1861, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/119242492.

Louisiana:

No provision of this nature has ever been made for the widows or families of any one of the Presidents or other civil officers of the United States.348Abraham Lincoln’s Widow, Det. Free Press, May 13, 1870, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/1048532780.

Maine:

Whereas the President of the United States is by the Constitution made commander-in-chief of the army and navy, as well as chief Executive officer of the United States . . . I, Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, and commander-in-chief of the army and navy of the United States, do hereby appoint William W. Holden, Provisional Governor of the State of North Carolina.349Andrew Johnson, A Proclamation, Bangor Daily Whig & Courier, May 30, 1865, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/662980693.

Michigan:

No provision of this nature has ever been made for the widows or families of any one of the Presidents or other civil officers of the United States.350Mrs. Lincoln’s Pension—Adverse Report of the Senate Committee, Times-Picayune, May 11, 1870, at 10, https://www.newspapers.com/image/26667828.

Minnesota:

The Evening Post argues editorially that the plot for the murder of Lincoln, Johnson, Seward, Stanton and Grant, was known and approved by Jeff. Davis and other rebel leaders. It says at the very time when the assassins in Washington were preparing to do their work, Davis opened negotiations with Sherman, in which he dealt with that General as if Sherman were in fact chief officer of the United States Government, the others [including Lincoln] being supposed to be killed.351Mustering Out, Wkly. Pioneer & Democrat, May 12, 1865, at 3 (emphasis added), https://www.newspapers.com/image/890060980.

Mississippi:

At the instance of President Johnson, and to facilitate his patriotic work of reconstruction, the people of the South elected members [to] Congress. Without this invitation from the Chief Executive officer of the United States, they would not have afforded the radical majority in Congress an opportunity for perpetrating an outrage which virtually defeats the end for which so much blood and treasure were expended during the past four years.352Our Condition–Our Future, Vicksburg Herald, Jan. 20, 1866, at 2 (emphasis added), https://www.newspapers.com/image/263939696.

Missouri:

Then the clause after being so amended so as to include besides the President, the Vice President, and other civil officers of the United States . . . was agreed to as now found in article 2, section 4 of the Constitution.353Impeachment, Daily Mo. Democrat, Mar. 3, 1868, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/666810642.

New York:

[T]he result was that neither the President, Vice President, nor other civil officer of the United States could lawfully do an act . . . contrary to the good morals . . . of the office he holds.354Impeachment, Brooklyn Daily Union, Dec. 7, 1867, at 4, https://www.newspapers.com/image/541731718.

North Carolina:

Here the President declares, not merely as Commander-in-chief, but as “Chief Executive officer of the United States,” that under the Constitution of the United States it is his duty to enforce the laws.355Chief Justice Ruffin Against the New Constitution–He Denounces President Johnson as a Despot and Usurper!, Wkly. Standard, Aug. 1, 1866, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/171815761.

Ohio:

The design of the provision undoubtedly was to prevent the juncture of executive and legislative authority in the same individual; and unless its force is destroyed by some other provision, it is evident that neither the President nor any other officer of the United States . . . can legally be a member of either House.356Who Shall Succeed Mr. Johnson—Mr. Wade Not Entitled, Cin. Daily Enquirer, Apr. 13, 1868, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/32013662.

Pennsylvania:

The official papers of Davis captured under the guns of our victorious army in the Rebel capitol identified beyond question or shadow of doubt, and placed upon your record, together with the declarations and acts of his conspirators and agents, proclaim to all the world that he was capable of attempting to accomplish his treasonable procuration of the murder of the late President, and other chief officers of the United States.357The Great Trial, Phila. Inquirer, June 29, 1865, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/167939434.

South Carolina:

[T]he Provisional Governor is hereby authorized and empowered to appoint a competent Agent . . . and also as Agent of the Provisional Governor of this State in all matters which he may desire to bring through such Agent before the President or other officers of the United States Government.358W.M. Henry Trescott, Report of Mr. Trescot, Charleston Daily News, Nov. 4, 1865, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/72079070.

Tennessee:

[T]he President is an officer of the United States.359Who Shall Vote for President, Tennessean, July 28, 1868, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/119375559.

Vermont:

no less so in respect to Senators or Representatives than in respect to the President or any other officer of the United States360Speech of Mr. Foot of Vermont, Rutland Wkly. Herald, Nov. 14, 1856, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/532844739.

Virginia:

All persons who shall have knowledge of such plot, and shall not disclose the same to the President of the United States or some other officer of the United States, shall be guilty of misprision of treason . . . .361Senate, Monday, January 16, Alexandria Gazette & Va. Advertiser, Jan. 17, 1860, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/347264241.

Wisconsin:

bill declaring the effect of impeachment by the House of Representatives, on the President and other officers o[f] the United States362Impeachment of Andrew Johnson, Tele.-Courier, Nov. 28, 1867, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/884889910.

It is worth noting that at least a few of these articles were reprintings of the official proclamations mentioned above, where President Johnson explicitly identified himself as the “Chief Executive Officer of the United States” or “chief civil executive officer of the United States.”

Other newspaper accounts clearly referred to the President as a federal officer without explicitly using the phrase “officer of the United States.” A few are shown below:

Connecticut:

Mr. Covode on Monday also moved a resolution inquiring into the outlay of money for the purpose of electioneering, &c.,—and also inquiring whether the President or any other officer of government has with the use of money, patronage, or any other improper means, sought to influence Congress.363News of the Week, Litchfield Enquirer, Mar. 8, 1860, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/884038800.

Delaware:

This left me [James Buchanan] no alternative, as the chief executive officer under the Constitution of the United States, but to collect the public revenue and protect the public property, so far as might be practicable under the existing laws.364James Buchanan, The Message of the President, Wkly. Del. State J. & Statesman, Jan. 11, 1861, at 3, https://www.newspapers.com/image/657520878.

Maine:

While at Washington, subsequent to his escape from Richmond, the loyalty of Mr. Starrett was abundantly substantiated to the satisfaction of the President and other officers of the Government.365Arrest of Loyal Refugee, Bangor Daily Whig & Courier, Aug. 12, 1864, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/663007096.

Maryland:

Hon. John Cochrane accompanied the officers of the Seventh Regiment to the President’s House this morning, and introduced them to the President and other officers of the Government.366The Seventh Regiment of New York, Daily Exch., Feb. 24, 1860, at 1, https://www.newspapers.com/image/325605189.

Massachusetts:

It declares the title of all abandoned lands to be in the United States, and forbids the President or any other officer of the Government from surrendering it or doing any act to impair or affect the title of the United States.367Congress, Recorder, Jan. 20, 1868, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/840119913.

New Jersey:

The Embassy first landed at Washington and will be received by the President and other officers of the Government with great ceremony.368The Japanese Embassy, West-Jersey Pioneer, May 19, 1860, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/844423132.

Pennsylvania:

He was the President, the chief officer of the government . . . .369The President’s Re-Construction Policy as Illustrated by the Washington Chronicle, Bradford Rep., Aug. 3, 1865, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/339018585.

West Virginia:

[T]hey not only often call it requisition, but find it to answer the end desired, which is proven by their nomination for President, and other officers of the government.370For the Mirror, Am. Union, Apr. 24, 1852, at 2, https://www.newspapers.com/image/173959871.

We also found evidence in legal treatises of the day. In Commentaries on American Law, the great American jurist James Kent stated, “The President is the great responsible officer for the faithful execution of the law, and the power of removal was incidental to that duty, and might often be requisite to fulfil it.”3711 James Kent, Commentaries on American Law 310 (1826), quoted in Andrew Johnson, Veto Message, Am. Presidency Project (Mar. 2, 1867), https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/veto-message-425 [https://perma.cc/J482-ZMVW]; Trial of Andrew Johnson, supra note 297, at 330. And Calvin Townsend in his educational reader, An Analysis of Civil Government, was even more explicit: “The Vice-President is an Officer of the United States.”372Calvin Townsend, Analysis of Civil Government 139 (1869). Because all of Blackman and Tillman’s arguments apply equally to the Vice President as it does to the President, we find this to be relevant as well.

Finally, in the Republican Party Platform of 1868, we found the following statement that explicitly identifies the President as an officer:

We profoundly deplore the untimely and tragic death of Abraham Lincoln, and regret the accession of Andrew Johnson to the Presidency, who has acted treacherously to the people who elected him and the cause he was pledged to support; has usurped high legislative and judicial functions; has refused to execute the laws; has used his high office to induce other officers to ignore and violate the laws.373Republican Party Platform of 1868, Am. Presidency Project (May 20, 1868) (emphasis added), https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/republican-party-platform-1868 [https://perma.cc/2SZQ-PRFC].

* * *

In summation, we have compiled a significant body of evidence—including numerous proclamations by President Andrew Johnson, statements by Senators and Representatives during the debates over the Fourteenth Amendment and the impeachment trial of Andrew Johnson, Amnesty Proclamations by President Lincoln and Johnson, as well as dozens of contemporary newspaper articles which suggest that at the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified, the term “officer of the United States” was broad enough to include the President.

V.  HARTWELL AND MOUAT REVISITED

Having marshaled significant evidence that the original public meaning of the phrase “officer of the United States”—both at the time of the Founding and the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment—was broad enough to include elected officials generally and the President, in particular, we now look with fresh eyes at the two cases Blackman and Tillman cite in support of their conclusion to the contrary: United States v. Hartwell and United States v. Mouat.

A.  United States v. Hartwell Supports Our Conclusion that the President Is an Officer of the United States

United States v. Hartwell was a criminal case brought under the Act of August 6th, 1846, which criminalized embezzlement of public funds.374United States v. Hartwell, 73 U.S. 385, 386 (1867). The Defendant was a clerk in the office of the assistant treasurer stationed at Boston.375Id. at 390–91. The case focused on whether as a clerk, Hartwell was an “officer” within the meaning of the statute.376Id. The Supreme Court said that he was.377Id. at 396–97. Blackman and Tillman summarized the Court’s holding as follows:

Justice Noah Swayne wrote the majority opinion. He offered a two-part definition of an office. First, “[a]n office is a public station, or employment, conferred by the appointment of government.” Second, “[t]he term [office] embraces the ideas of tenure, duration, emolument, and duties.”

In Hartwell, the clerk “was appointed by the head of a department within the meaning of the constitutional provision upon the subject of the appointing power.” The court did not expressly connect the term “officer” in the embezzlement statute with the phrase “officer of the United States” in the Appointments Clause. However, the court’s discussion of the appointment being made by the head of the department suggests the two concepts were closely related—rightly so, in our view.378Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 28–29.

They then conclude that because “Presidents are not appointed by the government” but are instead “elected by the people,” they cannot be Officers of the United States.379Id. at 29–30.

As an initial matter, it bears repeating that Presidents are not “elected by the people.” They are elected by the Electoral College, which is as much an organ of the government as Congress or the Supreme Court is. Furthermore, as we showed in Section II.B, at the time of the Founding, the words “elect” and “appoint” were used interchangeably. Remember James Madison’s comment at the Constitutional Convention about the Electoral College we quoted above? “The option before us then lay between an appointment by Electors chosen by the people — and an immediate appointment by the people.”380Madison, supra note 108. The Constitutional Convention chose the prior. The Joint Committee Report from North Carolina, which we quoted in Section IV.C, shows that this understanding of the word “appoint” continued at the time Justice Swayne was writing: “The voters are merely the appointing power, whose function is to select the representative.”381See 2 The Reconstruction Amendments, supra note 248, at 311. In light of this linguistic insight, we think Presidents easily satisfy the Hartwell test.

We think the opinion supports our conclusion in at least two additional ways. First, as Blackman and Tillman note, the opinion does not use the full phrase “officer of the United States,” instead using the words “officer” and “public officer.” Yet it is clear that the Court is analyzing Hartwell’s position under the Appointments Clause. If there was an understood legal or colloquial distinction between “officers” and “officers of the United States,” we think Justice Swayne would have felt it necessary to use the latter phrase. Instead, we think the Hartwell opinion strengthens our view that all references to the President as an “officer” is evidence that he is an “officer of the United States.”

Second, we think the opinion supports our reading of the Impeachment Clause. This actually comes from Justice Miller’s dissenting opinion which argued that the Defendant fell outside the contours of the embezzlement statute because he had not been explicitly entrusted with the money by an act of Congress. But in reaching that conclusion, we couldn’t help but notice one of the sections that he quoted:

That the Treasurer of the United States, the treasurer of the mint of the United States, the treasurers and those acting as such of the various branch mints, all collectors of customs, all surveyors of customs acting also as collectors, all assistant treasurers, all receivers of public moneys at the several land offices, all postmasters, and all public officers of whatever character, be, and they are hereby, required to keep safely . . . all the public moneys collected by them.382Hartwell, 73 U.S. at 400 (Miller, J., dissenting) (emphasis added).

Surely, Congress was not suggesting that the Treasurer of the United States, the treasurer of the mint of the United States, and other enumerated positions were not public officers. This is yet another example of the Alvin and the Chipmunks rule.

B.  United States v. Mouat’s Test Misconstrues the Appointments Clause by Ignoring the Modifying Clause

United States v. Mouat considered whether a paymaster’s clerk—appointed by a paymaster in the navy with the approval of the Secretary of the Navy—was entitled to mileage reimbursement under the Act of June 30, 1876.383United States v. Mouat, 124 U.S. 303, 303 (1888). The Act limited reimbursement to “actual travelling expenses” and prohibited “disbursing officers of the United States” from collecting “for mileages and transportation in excess of the amount actually paid.”384Id. at 305–06. Writing for the majority, Justice Samuel Miller stated:

What is necessary to constitute a person an officer of the United States in any of the various branches of its service has been very fully considered by this Court in United States v. Germaine, 99 U. S. 508. In that case, it was distinctly pointed out that under the Constitution of the United States, all its officers were appointed by the President, by and with the consent of the Senate, or by a court of law or the head of a Department, and the heads of the departments were defined in that opinion to be what are now called the members of the Cabinet. Unless a person in the service of the Government, therefore, holds his place by virtue of an appointment by the President, or of one of the courts of justice or heads of departments authorized by law to make such an appointment, he is not, strictly speaking, an officer of the United States.385Id. at 307 (emphasis added).

But, as pointed out in Section II.D.1 above, that is not actually what the Constitution says. The President, courts of law, and department heads do not appoint all of the officers of the United States. There is another category: those officers “whose Appointments are . . . otherwise provided for” elsewhere in the Constitution. Words, we note, that the Germaine Court failed to quote.

As such, we find Justice Miller’s statement that

Unless a person in the service of the government, therefore, holds his place by virtue of an appointment by the President or of one of the courts of justice or heads of departments authorized by law to make such an appointment, he is not, strictly speaking, an officer of the United States,386Id.

to be simply wrong. It flies in the face of the express language of Article II. And we feel that both its rigid test—based as it was on an incomplete version of the Appointments Clause—and its suggestion that “Congress may have used the word ‘officer’ in some other connections in a more popular sense” should be disregarded as dicta.

As such, we actually think Blackman and Tillman are interpreting the historical record exactly backwards. Mouat is not a linguistic continuity of the original meaning of the phrase “officer of the United States” but rather a departure from it. As we have shown, the phrase was not a term of art at the time of the Founding. Instead, it referred broadly to almost all federal officials whose positions were established by law—be that the Constitution or a federal statute. And it was broad enough to encompass both elected officials generally and the President of the United States specifically.

That understanding—shared by Chief Justice Marshall in his opinion in Maurice and by Congress in the Postal Act—continued at the time of the drafting and ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment. As we have shown, the explicit text, legislative history, and ratification debates of the Fourteenth Amendment and legislative history of the Fifteenth Amendment—not to mention newspapermen across the country—consistently spoke of electing officers, including officers of the United States. And Congress, Presidential proclamations, newspapers, and academic works published around the time the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified routinely referred to the President and Vice-President as an “officer of the United States.” Blackman and Tillman stated that the burden was on “proponents of the view that Section 3’s ‘officer of the United States’-language includes the presidency” to “put forward evidence as probative as Mouat and Hartwell.”387Blackman & Tillman, supra note 7, at 31. We think we have more than met that challenge.

CONCLUSION

There is plenty, frankly, that we do not know. We do not know the meaning of the word “insurrection” in the Fourteenth Amendment, or how that meaning would apply to the events of January 6, 2021. We have not done historical research on if the Amendment is “self-executing.” We do not know many things about Section 3 of the Fourteenth Amendment. And we emphatically take no position on pending litigation other than the issue this paper addresses. We understand this piece is entering a complex national debate accompanying a presidential election. We would bury this paper with disclaimers if needed to get this point across that we cannot and will not answer many important questions surrounding these big topics. As is, we’ve settled for the first paragraph of our conclusion.

But this we know: The term “officer of the United States” in the 1788 Constitution is not a term of art. It thus applies to all “OFFICERS of the United States,” as a standard textualist interpretation of the phrase implies. There is no doubt that the person who holds the office of President of the United States becomes an officer of the United States when the person takes the presidential oath. Donald Trump was an officer of the United States.

Even assuming that was not the end of the matter, we also know this from a wide range of sources: At the time of the Fourteenth Amendment, the term “officer of the United States” included elected officials. Many references in that era refer to the President himself, as well as the Vice President, as an “officer of the United States.” The historical record in 1868 confirms what has been true since 1789: the President of the United States is an officer of the United States.

APPENDIX A.  SELECTION MECHANISM FOR GOVERNORS IN THE EARLY STATES

State ConstitutionSelection MechanismReferred to as Appointment, Election, or Both?Relevant Passages
Connecticut (1818)General ElectionElectionArt. IV, § 1: The supreme executive power of the State shall be vested in a Governor, who shall be chosen by the electors of the State, and shall hold his office for one year from the first Wednesday of May next succeeding his election, and until his successor be duly qualified. No person who is not an elector of this State, and who has not arrived at the age of thirty years, shall be eligible.
Delaware (1776)Joint ballot of both housesAppointmentArt. 7: A president or chief magistrate shall be chosen by joint ballot of both houses’ to be taken in the house of assembly . . . and the appointment of the person who has the majority of votes shall be entered at large on the minutes and journals of each house.

Georgia

(1777)

Chosen by ballot by the General AssemblyBoth

Art. II: On the first day of the meeting of the representatives so chosen, they shall proceed to the choice of a governor, . . . and of an executive council, by ballot out of their own body.

Art. XXIV: “I, A B, elected governor of the State of Georgia, by the representatives thereof, do solemnly promise and swear that I will, during the term of my appointment, to the best of my skill and judgment, execute the said office faithfully and conscientiously’ according to law, without favor, affection, or partiality; that I will, to the utmost of my power, support, maintain, and defend the State of Georgia, and the constitution of the same.”

Maryland (1776)Joint ballot of both housesBothXXV: That a person of wisdom, experience, and virtue, shall be chosen Governor . . . on the second Monday in every year forever thereafter, by the joint ballot of both Houses (to be taken in each House respectively) deposited in a conference room; the boxes to be examined by a joint committee of both Houses, and the numbers severally reported, that the appointment may be entered . . . . [I]f the ballots should again be equal between two or more persons, then the election of the Governor shall be determined by lot.
Massachusetts (1780)General ElectionChosen/Election

Ch. II, Art. II: The Governor shall be chosen annually: And no person shall be eligible to this office, unless at the time of his election . . . .

Ch. II, Art. III: Those persons who shall be qualified to vote for Senators and Representatives within the several towns of this Commonwealth, shall, at a meeting, to be called for that purpose, on the first Monday of April annually, give in their votes for a Governor.

New Hampshire (1776)Appointed by CouncilAppointmentAccordingly pursuant to the trust reposed in us, WE DO Resolve, that this Congress assume the name, power and authority of a house of Representatives or Assembly for the Colony of New-Hampshire And that said House then proceed to choose twelve persons, being reputable freeholders and inhabitants within this colony, in the following manner, viz. five in the county of Rockingham, two in the county of Stratford, two in the county of Hillsborough, two in the county of Cheshire, and one in the county of Grafton, to be a distinct and separate branch of the Legislature by the name of a COUNCIL for this colony, to continue as such until the third Wednesday in December next; any seven of whom to be a quorum to do business. That such Council appoint their President.
New Hampshire (1784)General ElectionChosen/ElectionPart II: The President shall be chosen annually; and no person shall be eligible to this office, unless at the time of his election, he shall have been an inhabitant of this state for seven years next preceding, and unless he shall be of the age of thirty years; and unless he shall, at the same time, have an estate of the value of five hundred pounds, one half of which shall consist of a freehold, in his own right, within the state; and unless he shall be of the Protestant religion.
New Jersey (1776)Election by the Council & AssemblyElectionArt. VII: [T]he Council & Assembly jointly at their first Meeting, . . . shall, by a Majority of Votes, elect some fit Person within the Colony to be a Governor for one Year, the Governor.
New York (1777)Election by freeholders of the StateElectionXVII: [T]he supreme executive power and authority of this State shall be vested in a governor; and that statedly, once in every three years . . . shall be, by ballot, elected governor . . . which elections shall be always held at the times and places.
North Carolina (1776)Joint ballot of both housesElectionArt. XV: [T]he Senate and House of Commons, jointly at their first meeting after each annual election, shall by ballot elect a Governor for one year.
Pennsylvania (1776)Joint ballot of the General Assembly & CouncilChosen§ 19: All vacancies in the council that may happen by death, resignation, or otherwise, shall be filled at the next general election for representatives in general assembly, unless a particular election for that purpose shall be sooner appointed by the president and council. The president and vice-president shall be chosen annually by the joint ballot of the general assembly and council.
Rhode Island (1842)Election at the town, city, or ward meetingsElection

Art. VII, § 1: The chief executive power of this State shall be vested in a governor, who, together with a lieutenant governor, shall be annually elected by the people.

Art. VII, § 11: The compensation of the governor . . . shall not be diminished during the term for which they are elected.

Art. VIII, § 1: The governor . . . shall be elected at the town, city, or ward meetings, to be holden on the first Wednesday of April, annually.

South Carolina (1776)Joint ballot of both housesChosen/Appointment

§ III: That the general assembly and the said legislative council shall jointly choose by ballot from among themselves, or from the people at large, a president and commander-in-chief and a vice-president of the colony.

§ XIV: That in case of the death of the president and commander-in-chief, or his absence from the colony, the vice-president of the colony shall succeed to his office, and the privy council shall choose out of their own body a vice-president of the colony, and in case of the death of the vice-president of the colony, or his absence from the colony, one of the privy council (to be chosen by themselves) shall succeed to his office, until a nomination to those offices, respectively, by the general assembly and legislative council for the remainder of the time for which the officer so dying or being absent was appointed.

Virginia (1776)Joint ballot of both housesChosen/AppointmentA Governor, or chief magistrate, shall be chosen annually by joint ballot of both Houses (to be taken in each House respectively) . . . who shall not continue in that office longer than three years successively.
 

APPENDIX B.  SELECTION MECHANISM FOR JUDGES IN THE EARLY STATES

State ConstitutionsSelection MechanismReferred to as Appointment, Election, or Both?Relevant Passages
Connecticut (1818)Nomination by the Governor and appointment by the General Assembly for Supreme Court and lower courtAppointment

Art. V, § 1: The judges of the supreme court and of the superior court shall, upon nomination by the governor, be appointed by the general assembly in such manner as shall by law be prescribed.

Art. V, § 3: Judges of the lower courts shall, upon nomination by the governor, be appointed by the general assembly in such manner as shall by law be prescribed, for terms of four years.

Delaware (1776)Joint ballot of the President and General AssemblyAppointmentArt. 12. The president and general assembly shall by joint ballot appoint three justices of the supreme court for the State, one of whom shall be chief justice, and a judge of admiralty, and also four justices of the courts of common pleas and orphans’ courts for each county.

Georgia

(1798)

General ElectionElectionArt. III, § 1: The judicial powers of this state shall be vested in a superior courts . . . . The judges of the superior court shall be elected for the term of three years, removable by the governor.
Maryland (1776)Appointment by Governor with advice and consent of the CouncilAppointmentXLVIII: That the Governor, for the time being, with the advice and consent of the Council, may appoint the Chancellor, and all Judges and Justices.
Massachusetts (1780)Appointment by Governor with advice and consent of the CouncilAppointmentCh. 2, Art. 9: All judicial officers . . . shall be nominated and appointed by the Governor, by and with the advice and consent of the Council.
New Hampshire (1784)Appointment by President & CouncilAppointmentPart II: All judicial officers . . . shall be nominated and appointed by the president and council . . . no appointment shall take place, unless three the council agree thereto.
New JerseyN/AN/AN/A
New York (1777)Appointment by Commission of Senators & the GovernorAppointmentXXIII: That all officers [including Chancellor, and Justices of the Supreme Court], shall be appointed in the manner following, to wit: The assembly shall, once in every year, openly nominate and appoint one of the senators from each great district, which senators shall form a council for the appointment of the said officers, of which the governor . . . shall be president and have a casting voice, but no other vote; and with the advice and consent of the said council, shall appoint all the said officers.
North Carolina (1776)Appointment of the General Assembly by joint ballot of both housesAppointmentXIII: That the General Assembly shall, by joint ballot of both houses, appoint Judges of the Supreme Courts of Law and Equity, Judges of Admiralty . . . who shall be commissioned by the Governor.
Pennsylvania (1776)Appointment by the President with the CouncilAppointment§ 20: The president, and in his absence the vice-president, with the council, five of whom shall be a quorum, shall have power to appoint and commissionate [sic] judges.
Rhode Island (1842)Election by the two Houses in grand committeeElectionArt. X, § 4: The Judges of the Supreme Court shall be elected by the two Houses in grand committee.
South Carolina (1776)Chosen by ballot jointly by the General Assembly and Legislative Council and commissioned by the President and Commander-in-ChiefN/AXX: That all other judicial officers shall be chosen by ballot, jointly by the general assembly and legislative council, and except the judges of the court of chancery, commissioned by the president and commander-in-chief.
Virginia (1776)Appointed by joint ballot of the two HousesAppointmentThe two Houses of Assembly shall, by joint ballot, appoint Judges of the Supreme Court of Appeals, and General Court, Judges in Chancery, Judges of Admiralty, Secretary, and the Attorney-General, In case of death . . . the Governor . . . shall appoint persons to succeed in office. House of Assembly or the Privy Council.
 

APPENDIX C.  OATHS THAT STATE EXECUTIVE OFFICERS TOOK IN SOUTHERN/FUTURE REBEL STATES IN THE ANTEBELLUM ERA

State ConstitutionsOath
Alabama (1819)Art. VI, § 1: The members of the General Assembly, and all officers, executive and judicial, before they enter on the execution of their respective offices, shall take the following oath or affirmation, to wit: “I solemnly swear (or affirm, as the case may be) that I will support the Constitution of the United States, and Constitution of the State of Alabama, so long as I continue a citizen thereof, and that I will faithfully discharge, to the best of my abilities, the duties of ——— according to law: so help me God.”
Arkansas (1836)§ 28: The appointment of all officers not otherwise directed by this constitution shall be made in such manner as may be prescribed by law; and all officers both civil and military acting under the authority of this State shall before entry on the duties of their respective offices take an oath or affirmation to support the Constitution of the United States and of this state and to demean themselves faithfully in office.
Florida (1838)§ 11: Members of the General Assembly, and all officers, Civil or Military, before they enter upon the execution of their respective offices, shall take the following oath or affirmation: I do swear (or affirm,) that I am duly qualified, according to the Constitution of this State, to exercise the office to which I have been elected, (or appointed) and will, to the best of my abilities, discharge the duties thereof, and preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of this State, and of the United States.
Georgia (1798)

Art. I, § 19: Every member of the senate or house of representatives shall, before he takes his Seat, take the following oath or affirmation. to wit: “I, A B, do solemnly swear (or affirm, as the case may be) that I have not obtained my election by bribery, treats, canvassing, or other undue or unlawful means, used by myself, or others by my desire or approbation, for that purpose; that I consider myself constitutionally qualified as a senator, (or representative,) and that, on all questions and measures which may come before me, I will give my Vote and so conduct myself as may, in my judgment, appear most conductive to the interest and prosperity of this State; and that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and to the utmost of my power and ability observe, conform to, support, and defend the constitution thereof.”

Art. II, § 5: The governor shall, before he enters on the duties of his office, take the following Oath or affirmation: “I do solemnly swear (or affirm, as the case may be) that I will faithfully execute the office of governor of the State of Georgia; and will, to the best of my abilities, preserve, protect, and defend the said State, and cause justice to be executed in mercy therein, according to the constitution and laws thereof.”

Louisiana (1845)

Title VI, Art. 90: Members of the General Assembly, and all officers, before they enter upon the duties of their office, shall take the following oath or affirmation:

“I (A B), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support the Constitution of the United States and of this State, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent on me as, according to the best of my abilities and understanding, agreeably to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this State; and I do further solemnly swear (or affirm) that since the adoption of the present Constitution, I, being a citizen of this State, have not fought a duel with deadly weapons within this State, nor out of it, with a citizen of this State, nor have I sent or accepted a challenge to fight a duel with deadly weapons with a citizen of this State, nor have I acted as second in carrying a challenge or aided, advised or assisted any person thus offending, so help me God.”

Mississippi (1832)

Art. VII, § 1: Members of the legislature, and all officers, executive and judicial, before they enter upon the duties of their respective offices, shall take the following oath or affirmation, to wit: “I solemnly swear (or affirm, as the case may be) that I will support the constitution of the United States, and the constitution of the state of Mississippi, so long as I continue a citizen thereof, and that I will faithfully discharge, to the best of my abilities, the duties of the office of __________________ according to law. So help me God.”

Art. VII, § 6: The legislature shall pass such laws to prevent the evil practice of duelling as they may deem necessary, and may require all officers before they enter on the duties of their respective offices, to take the following oath or affirmation: “I do solemnly swear (or affirm, as they case may be) that I have not been engaged in a duel, by sending or accepting a challenge to fight a duel, or by fighting a duel since the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-three, nor will I be so engaged during my continuance in office. So help me God.”

North CarolinaProvision not found in Constitution.
South Carolina (1790, as amended in 1834)Art. IV, § 5: Every person who shall be chosen or appointed to any office of profit or trust; before entering on the execution thereof, shall take the following oath: “I do solemnly swear, (or affirm), that I will be faithful, and true allegiance bear to the State of South Carolina, so long as I may continue a citizen thereof; and that I am duly qualified, according to the constitution of this State, to exercise the office to which I have been appointed; and that I will, to the best of my abilities, discharge the duties thereof, and preserve, protect, and defend the constitution of this State, and of the United States: So help me God.”
Tennessee (1835)Art. X, § I: Every person who shall be chosen or appointed to any office of trust or profit, under this Constitution, or any law made in pursuance thereof, shall, before entering on the duties thereof, take an oath to support the Constitution of this State, and of the United States, and an oath of office.

Texas

(1845)

Art. VII, § 1: “I, (A. B.) do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform, all the duties incumbent on me as ———, according to the best of my skill and ability, agreeably to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this State: And I do further solemnly swear (or affirm) that since the adoption of this Constitution by the Congress of the United States, I being a citizen of this State, have not fought a duel with deadly weapons, within this State, nor out of it, nor have I sent or accepted a challenge to fight a duel with deadly weapons, nor have I acted as second in carrying a challenge, or aided, advised or assisted, any person thus offending – so help me God.”
VirginiaProvision not found in Constitution.
98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 65

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* Research Fellow at the Georgetown Center for the Constitution. The authors would like to thank Daniel Ortner, Sarah Jenkins Dewey, Christian Sanchez Leon, Alex Worley, and Samuel Clemence for their editorial help, as well as Kindra Heilpern and Robert Forsberg for facilitating access to important research materials. The authors would also like to thank Josh Blackman, Seth Tillman, Will Baude, and H. Jefferson Powell for comments on previous drafts of this article.

† Attorney, Provo, UT. The work of this paper should not be attributed for good or ill to my employer or any other entity. These entities had nothing to do with this paper, which was written off the clock.

The Lost History of “History and Tradition”

The Supreme Court has decided one blockbuster after another by appealing to “history and tradition,” deploying this trope to remake key features of the constitutional landscape: from overturning Roe to abolishing affirmative action; from narrowing the scope of public accommodations to widening the margin for church/state entanglements. The Court says that its history-and-tradition test emerged fully formed in 1997 from an assisted-suicide case that was designed to rein in the drift toward living constitutionalism under the Warren and Burger Courts. This origin story is compelling. The problem is that it is not true—not where the test came from or even what it is. The Court’s narrative erases decades of social-movement conflict that this Article is the first to excavate. This Article marshals original archives to reveal that the history-and-tradition test was fashioned from the crucible of earlier struggles: over the value of deep and more recent history, over which communities and what kind of evidence define tradition, and, ultimately, over the role of America’s past in our constitutional present.

The contours of this debate were sharpened across doctrines and eras, inside the courts and beyond them. Recovering this history uncovers a rival vision of the history-and-tradition test—not entrenched but evolving. Taking seriously this dynamic alternative makes three contributions. First, it casts doubt on major decisions about race, abortion, guns, and God, while challenging the fixed-in-time conception of traditionalism these rulings stand on. Second, the more adaptive version of history and tradition sheds light on puzzles, including the levels-of-generality problem, the constitutional-progressive response to charges of judicial activism, and how a modern conservative legal coalition was forged out of fierce divisions over originalist methods and outcomes. Finally, this lost method bears surprising implications for claims that span the ideological spectrum: from fetal rights and gay marriage to gender-affirming care and conversion therapy. For instance, entrenched history and tradition probably would not operate to protect widely accepted rights such as interracial marriage and medical refusal. And evolving traditionalism could protect yet-unrecognized rights that it would not protect right now, such as aid-in-dying or assisted reproduction.

[G]uided by the history and tradition . . . , we must ask what the Fourteenth Amendment means by the term “liberty.” . . . [The answer is that it] does not protect the right to an abortion.1Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2248 (2022) (emphasis omitted).

—Justice Alito

[T]his Court has instructed that the Establishment Clause [for government involvement with religion] must be interpreted by “reference to historical practices and understandings.”2Kennedy v. Bremerton Sch. Dist., 142 S. Ct. 2407, 2428 (2022) (quoting Town of Greece v. Galloway, 572 U.S. 565, 576 (2014)).

—Justice Gorsuch

Only if a firearm regulation is consistent with this Nation’s historical tradition . . . [does] the individual’s conduct fall[] outside the Second Amendment’s “unqualified command.”3N.Y. State Rifle & Pistol Ass’n v. Bruen, 142 S. Ct. 2111, 2126 (2022) (quoting Konigsberg v. State Bar of Cal., 366 U.S. 36, 50, n.10 (1961)).

—Justice Thomas

INTRODUCTION

How should courts determine when individual freedoms enjoy constitutional standing? This is the central question that the U.S. Supreme Court answered in a recent trilogy of rulings about abortion, guns, and God.4See Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2235; Bruen, 142 S. Ct. at 2126; Kennedy, 142 S. Ct. at 2428.

All three ascertained the status and scope of constitutional rights by invoking “history and tradition.”5Definitions are in order. The Court has long referred to both history and tradition in diverse doctrinal contexts. But it rarely defines either term conceptually, together or apart, let alone the difference between them. “Traditions” include shared practices and beliefs. These enduring customs are widespread and rooted deep, but still preserve the potential to change. Cf. Catherine R. Ligioso, Interpreting Substantive Due Process: What Does “History and Tradition” Really Mean?, 57 Cal. W. L. Rev. 153, 166 (2021) (“[T]raditions are constantly open to change, development, interpretation, and occasional manipulation by those who follow or create them.” (citation omitted)). They therefore vary in age, with no set minimum duration. “History” differs in two respects. First, beyond common understandings, it encompasses clashing laws, decisions, and practices. It is also anchored squarely in our nation’s past and does not extend to the present or future that can mark a tradition. Id. at 168 (“While a tradition can be modified and adjusted based on one’s subjective values, history cannot be modified according to one’s personal preference.”) History and tradition play distinct roles in what we later describe as the “entrenched” and “evolving” conceptions of a history-and-tradition test. Entrenched traditionalists see tradition and history as analytically indistinguishable, arguing that tradition does not gain constitutional weight unless it is both old and unchanging. An evolving approach focuses primarily on tradition—focusing on not only whether a customary practice or belief was long protected in the past, but also whether a new such custom has since become well-established.

In Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Court enlisted a history-and-tradition test to overturn Roe v. Wade6Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2242. on the ground that a right to abortion is not “deeply rooted in this Nation’s history and tradition.”7Id. (citing Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702, 721 (1997)). New York State Rifle & Pistol Association v. Bruen revolutionized the Court’s Second Amendment doctrine by striking down gun control measures that do not “comport[] with history and tradition.”8Bruen, 142 S. Ct. at 2128. And in Kennedy v. Bremerton School District, the Court set aside its fifty-year-old Lemon test—which assesses church/state violations according to a law’s purposes, effects, and entanglement with religion9Lemon v. Kurtzman, 403 U.S. 602, 612–13 (1971).and replaced it with an approach that’s anchored in the “traditions undergirding” the Establishment Clause, “consistent with a historically sensitive understanding” of its provisions.10Kennedy, 142 S. Ct. at 2430 n.6; see also id. at 2434 (Sotomayor, J., dissenting) (“[T]he Court rejects longstanding concerns surrounding government endorsement of religion and replaces the standard for reviewing such questions with a new ‘history and tradition’ test.”).

The role assigned to history and tradition varies across these contexts, as does the relationship between the two.11For example, Dobbs enlists history and tradition to interpret the meaning of a constitutional provision like the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment, while Bruen uses that test to implement an established meaning like what counts as “arms” under the Second Amendment, or “keeping” and “bearing” them. See Joseph Blocher & Eric Ruben, Originalism-by-Analogy and Second Amendment Adjudication, 133 Yale L.J. 99, 133 (2023). The constant in each is how rights claims are interpreted based on history and tradition: not what the text originally meant to people who were alive when it was ratified or the normative understandings that are most desirable to us today, but the social practices that resonate with our shared history and tradition. Reliance on history and tradition has made waves in a range of other constitutional domains too: from free speech, affirmative action, and voting rights, to tribal authority, immigration, and sentencing.12See, e.g., Haaland v. Brackeen, 143 S. Ct. 1069 (2023) (Indian Child Welfare Act); Moore v. Harper, 142 S. Ct. 2065 (2023) (Federal Elections Clause); United States v. Texas, 143 S. Ct. 1964 (2023) (immigration enforcement); see also City of Austin v. Reagan Nat’l Advert. of Austin, LLC, 142 S. Ct. 1464, 1476 (2022) (“The unbroken tradition of on-/off-premises distinctions counsels against the adoption of [defendant’s] novel rule.”); Concepcion v. United States, 142 S. Ct. 2389, 2398 (2022) (“There is a ‘long’ and ‘durable’ tradition that sentencing judges ‘enjo[y] discretion in the sort of information they may consider’ at an initial sentencing proceeding. This history dates back to before the founding . . . .”) (quoting Dean v. United States, 581 U.S. 62, 66 (2017)).

Take the case about the Colorado web designer who would not develop sites for gay weddings. 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis, 143 S. Ct. 2298, 2310 (2023). Unmoved by America’s more recent history of nondiscrimination in public accommodations, the majority affirmed a centuries-old First-Amendment tradition of protecting the “ ‘freedom to think as you will and to speak as you think.’ ” Id. (quoting Boy Scouts of Am. v. Dale, 530 U.S. 640, 660–61 (2000)).

Another example is affirmative action: in cases against Harvard College and the University of North Carolina, the Court struck down race-conscious admissions programs for violating the Equal Protection Clause of the 1868 Fourteenth Amendment. Students for Fair Admissions, Inc. v. President & Fellows of Harvard Coll., 143 S. Ct. 2141, 2155–60 (2023). The Court privileged Civil War-era traditions under the separate-but-equal regime in lieu of modern developments, from the spread of affirmative action policies to the 1964 Civil Rights Act’s authorizing the Department of Education to create equitable opportunities for higher education. Civil Rights Act of 1964, Pub. L. No. 88-352, §§ 401, 403–04, 406, 78 Stat. 241, 246–48 (codified as amended at 42 U.S.C. §§ 2000c, 2000c-2, 2000c-3, 2000c-5).
All told, the Court’s appeal to history and tradition has upended decades of settled law across the constitutional landscape, with a raft of new occasions on the horizon.13Arguments based on history and tradition again figured centrally in the 2023–2024 Term. In United States v. Rahimi, in which a majority held that firearm regulations must “comport with the principles underlying the Second Amendment” but need not have a precise historic analogue, No. 22-915, slip op. at 7–8 (U.S. June 21, 2024), the justices debated the role that history should play in future cases involving the Second Amendment, see, e.g., id. at 10–15 (Kavanaugh, J., concurring) (stressing the importance of post-ratification history to second-amendment inquiry); id. at 2 (Barrett, J., concurring) (questioning the value of post-ratification history and concluding that “ ‘tradition’ unmoored from original meaning is not binding law”). In Department of State v. Muñoz, the Court held that there was no unenumerated right deeply rooted in the nation’s history and tradition for a non-citizen wife to reside in the United States with her citizen husband. Department of State v. Muñoz, No. 23-334, slip op. at 10–18 (U.S. June 21, 2024). And in Vidal v. Elster, the Justices clashed about whether history and tradition should guide interpretation of the First Amendment’s application to the names clause of the Lanham Act. See Vidal v. Elster, No. 22-704, slip. op. at 7–13 (U.S. June 13, 2024) (offering a history of trademark regulation); id. at 9–15 (Barrett, J., concurring in part) (questioning the historical analysis of the majority opinion and asserting that it was a mistake to treat “tradition as dispositive of the First Amendment issue”); id. at 4 (Sotomayor, J., concurring in the judgment) (explaining that history and tradition tests worked similarly to “entering a crowded cocktail party and looking over everyone’s heads to find your friends”).

A rich literature has emerged to unpack this turn to history and tradition. Sherif Girgis identifies the distinguishing mark of that test as gleaning constitutional meaning from “practices” that are widely accepted or deeply embedded within American life.14See Sherif Girgis, Living Traditionalism, 98 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1477, 1487–88 (2023). Miranda McGowan expounds that these meaning-making practices may be undertaken by elected officials, social movements, or other ordinary citizens working together.15See Miranda McGowan, The Democratic Deficit of Dobbs, 55 Loy. U. Chi. L.J. 91, 102–21 (2023). Larry Solum and Randy Barnett explain that the relevant social practices enjoy density, breadth, and staying power in relation to a constitutional amendment or provision at issue.16See, e.g., Randy E. Barnett & Lawrence B. Solum, Originalism After Dobbs, Bruen, and Kennedy: The Role of History and Tradition, 118 Nw. U. L. Rev. 433, 442–43 (2023).

Marc DeGirolami distinguishes those practices from other sources of interpretation.17See, e.g., Marc O. DeGirolami, Traditionalism Rising, 24 J. Contemp. Legal Issues 9, 14–16, 25–34, 41 (2023) (distinguishing traditionalism and originalism and reasoning that traditionalism “rejects abstract principles or values as the primary determinants of meaning” and “does not depend upon constitutional caselaw”); Marc O. DeGirolami, First Amendment Traditionalism, 97 Wash. U. L. Rev. 1653, 1658, 1680 (2020) (distinguishing traditionalism from other methods of interpretation in that it “emphasizes the age and endurance of practices”). They’re not moral principles like the “evolving standards of decency” that shape which punishments the Eighth Amendment bars as cruel or unusual, consistent with “the progress of a maturing society.”18Trop v. Dulles, 356 U.S. 86, 101 (1958). For discussion, see William W. Berry III, Eighth Amendment Stare Decisis, 98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 18 (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 8) (on file with the Southern California Law Review). Nor do judicial precedents count as practices19See, e.g., Randy J. Kozel, Settled Versus Right: A Theory of Precedent 69 (2017); William Baude & Stephen E. Sachs, The Law of Interpretation, 130 Harv. L. Rev. 1079, 1120 (2017).—that is, unless it is state court judges applying state constitutional texts. Curtis Bradley and Neil Siegel clarify that the social practices which make up history and tradition constitute more than “historical gloss” on constitutional powers or limits.20See, e.g., Curtis A. Bradley, Doing Gloss, 84 U. Chi. L. Rev. 59, 77 (2017); Curtis A. Bradley & Neil S. Siegel, Historical Gloss, Constitutional Conventions, and the Judicial Separation of Powers, 105 Geo. L.J. 255, 257–60 (2017) (detailing the historical gloss argument that “practice informs the content of constitutional law”). They’re a standalone criterion for adjudicating disputes about when and why the Constitution recognizes individual rights.

Scholars have also criticized the use of history and tradition in Dobbs. Reva Siegel reveals that the majority’s method of discerning social practices by counting state laws was deployed by segregationists before it was rejected in Brown v. Board of Education.21See Reva B. Siegel, The History of History and Tradition: The Roots of Dobbs’s Method (and Originalism) in the Defense of Segregation, 133 Yale L.J.F. 99, 107 (2023) [hereinafter Siegel, The History]; see also Reva B. Siegel, Memory Games: Dobbs’s Originalism as Anti-Democratic Living Constitutionalism—and Some Pathways for Resistance, 101 Tex. L. Rev. 1127, 1148–61 (2023) [hereinafter Siegel, Memory Games] (examining originalism’s role in overruling Roe). Aaron Tang argues that almost half the states that Dobbs credits wholesale abortion bans to, in fact, allowed the ending of pregnancies until quickening.22See Aaron Tang, After Dobbs: History, Tradition, and the Uncertain Future of a Nationwide Abortion Ban, 75 Stan. L. Rev. 1091, 1128–50 (2023) [hereinafter Tang, After Dobbs]; see also Aaron Tang, Lessons from Lawrence: How “History” Gave Us Dobbs—And How History Can Help Overrule It, 133 Yale L.J.F. 65, 67–68 (2023) [hereinafter Tang, Lessons from Lawrence] (analyzing a broader appeal to history in the Court’s Due Process cases). For sustained skepticism about Tang’s findings, see generally John Finnis & Robert P. George, Indictability of Early Abortion c. 1868 (Oct. 11, 2021) (unpublished manuscript), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3940378 [https://perma.cc/43S7-AWSP]. Melissa Murray and Katherine Shaw show how democratic deficits like gerrymandering cast doubt on Dobbs’s rhetorically potent claim that abolishing the national right to abortion would facilitate deliberation in the states.23See Melissa Murray & Katherine Shaw, Dobbs and Democracy, 137 Harv. L. Rev. 728, 763 (2024).

Yet the most salient feature of this history-and-tradition test has received just passing reference. Namely, it asks whether the putative right in question fits within a pattern of practice relative to the Bill of Rights or Civil War Amendments.24For contrasting perspectives, compare Lawrence B. Solum, The Fixation Thesis: The Role of Historical Fact in Original Meaning, 91 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1, 23 (2015) (adopting linguistic rules of grammar that rely on patterns of usage) with Frederick Mark Gedicks, The “Fixation Thesis” and Other Falsehoods, 72 Fla. L. Rev. 219, 287 (2020) (advocating an “ordinary meaning” approach). That inquiry is rooted in the era of ratification. The Supreme Court has presented this temporal limit as natural and neutral, detached from preferences or politics.25See, e.g., Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2305 (2022) (Kavanaugh, J., concurring) (arguing that the majority “properly returns the Court to a position of neutrality and restores the people’s authority to address the issue of abortion”). For discussion, see Mary Ziegler, The History of Neutrality: Dobbs and the Social-Movement Politics of History and Tradition, 133 Yale L.J.F. 161, 161–66 (2023). On the Court’s telling, the test emerged in response to the freewheeling, unenumerated-rights decisions of the Warren and Burger Courts. The Rehnquist and Roberts Courts turned to the history and tradition of a long-ago past in order to rein in that earlier impulse for Justices to make policy.26See Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2247 (referencing past substantive due process decisions that “led the Court to usurp authority that the Constitution entrusts to the people’s elected representatives”).

This fixed-in-time approach promises to anchor constitutional rights and even to resolve interpretive disputes about them by appeal to shared customs. Yet it distorts the origins and implications of the history-and-tradition test, obscuring fierce debates over its meaning and significance in 2024 cases about guns,27See United States v. Rahimi, No. 22-915, slip op. at 7 (U.S. June 21, 2024). immigration,28Dep’t of State v. Muñoz, No. 23-334, slip op. at 3 (U.S. June 21, 2024) (applying a history-and-tradition approach to hold that the Due Process Clause did not protect the right to have a non-citizen spouse admitted to the United States and reasoning that “[t]his Nation’s history and tradition recognizes the Government’s sovereign authority to set the terms governing the admission and exclusion of noncitizens, and Muñoz points to no subsidiary tradition that curbs this authority in the case of noncitizen spouses”); id. at 22 (Sotomayor, J., dissenting) (criticizing the majority’s application of history and tradition for failing to “live up to [a] centuries-old promise”). presidential immunity,29Trump v. United States, No. 23-939, slip op. at 8 (U.S. July 1, 2024) (Sotomayor, J., dissenting) (criticizing the majority’s ruling on presidential immunity and holding that “[i]t seems history matters to this Court only when it is convenient”). and free speech.30Vidal v. Elster, No. 22-704, slip op. at 13–14 (U.S. June 13, 2024) (applying teachings of “common law tradition” to questions about the constitutionality of the names clause of the Lanham Act); id. at 1 (Barrett, J., concurring in part) (questioning the strength of the majority’s evidence and questioning “why hunting for historical forebears on a restriction-by-restriction basis is the right way to analyze the constitutional question”). The history-and-tradition approach has fractured Justices on matters including the space it makes for post-ratification evidence,31Rahimi, slip op. at 15 (Kavanaugh, J., concurring) (contending that “courts should look to post-ratification history as well as pre-ratification history to interpret vague constitutional text”); id. at 2–3 (Barrett, J., concurring) (problematizing the use of post-ratification history and explaining that “scattered cases or regulations pulled from history may have little bearing on the meaning of the text”). Jason Mazzone has also asked whether the Court’s approach to history and tradition pays particular attention to the past practices of states or whether other forms of evidence of tradition and history deserve equal attention. Jason Mazzone, History, Tradition, and Federalism, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 3–12) (on file with authors). Vikram Amar has also offered an important analysis of Mazzone and Campbell’s, see infra note 49, forthcoming contributions. Vikram David Amar, Commentary: Some Thoughts and Questions about Federalism, and General Law, as Regards History and Tradition in Constitutional Analysis, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 4–14) (on file with authors). what other kinds of evidence help to establish a tradition,32See, e.g., Rahimi, slip op. at 6 (Jackson, J., concurring) (asking questions including to “what conduct does the Second Amendment’s plain text apply? To what historical era (or eras) should courts look to divine a historical tradition of gun regulation? How many analogues add up to a tradition? Must there be evidence that those analogues were enforced or subject to judicial scrutiny? How much support can nonstatutory sources lend?”). what level of generality a tradition should be articulated at,33Id. at 2–5 (Barrett, J., concurring) (flagging level-of-generality concerns about the application of the history-and-tradition test). whether history and tradition can constrain Justices,34See, e.g., Vidal, slip op. at 4 (Sotomayor, concurring) (arguing that the Court’s use of history and tradition had become at times the “equivalent of entering a crowded cocktail party and looking over everyone’s heads to find your friends”); see also Reva B. Siegel, The Levels-of-Generality Game: “History and Tradition” in the Roberts Court, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 14–21) (on file with authors) [hereinafter, Siegel, Levels-of-Generality Game] (critiquing the workability of a history-and-tradition test and its failure to constrain). and its relationship to originalism.35Rahimi, slip op. at 2 (Barrett, J., concurring) (“[E]vidence of ‘tradition’ unmoored from original meaning is not binding law.”); id. at 14–15 (Kavanaugh, J., concurring) (“A ‘venerable and accepted tradition is not to be laid on the examining table and scrutinized for its conformity to some abstract principle’ of ‘adjudication devised by this Court. To the contrary, such traditions are themselves the stuff out of which the Court’s principles are to be formed.’ ”). These conflicts cannot be fully understood without a sense of the historical struggles over history and tradition that shape today’s debate. This Article excavates the origins of these debates to uncover a rival version of the history-and-tradition test missing from contemporary cases and commentary. Our analysis chronicles the deep roots that this hidden conception has in the Court’s own jurisprudence and the social-movement struggle that has unfolded alongside it. And it spells out distinctive attractions of this alternative for constitutional theory and practice.

Part I and II mine original archives to unearth a more dynamic understanding of this test that sees the potential for consequential practices to change over time when newer customs dislodge older ones. On this account, traditions aren’t entrenched but evolving. Those of more recent vintage must still have a longstanding pedigree and be deeply embedded into the fabric of the American life, even if they’re contested in a diverse and polarized country. This evolving form of traditionalism runs through half a century of conservative and liberal opinions, amicus briefs, and social movements. “[T]radition is a living thing” is how Justice John Marshall Harlan II described this ideal in 1961.36Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497, 542 (1961) (Harlan, J., dissenting).

Part II reveals that entrenched traditionalism did not emerge until the 1980s. That is when Christian conservatives and the right-wing legal movement sought to bridge growing divides among them by harmonizing originalist interpretive methods with natural-law principles that were seen as predating the Constitution and informing it. The Federalist Society embraced interpretive methods based on original public meaning.37See infra Sections II.A–II.B. But antiabortion lawyers and other social conservatives sometimes found originalism too limiting and worried that it would not deliver their preferred outcomes that states be made to promote Christian values, and that laws permitting abortion be struck down as unconstitutional.38See infra Section II.A. An entrenched approach to history and tradition forged a powerful coalition on the political right, allowing for evidence of what social conservatives deemed Christian teachings and Western values.

Part III spells out three payoffs of recovering the evolving vision of that test. First, it makes progress on doctrinal puzzles like the levels-of-generality problem;39See, e.g., Adam M. Samaha, Levels of Generality, Constitutional Comedy, and Legal Design, 2013 U. Ill. L. Rev. 1733, 1751–61 (2013). the enduring charges that reliance on tradition is both too manipulable (covering for judicial activism) and too intransigent (rooting injustices);40See, e.g., Ernest A. Young, Our Prescriptive Judicial Power: Constitutive and Entrenchment Effects of Historical Practice in Federal Courts Law, 58 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 535, 601–06 (2016). and the blurry lines between traditionalism and methods that resemble it, like historical gloss (to clarify ambiguous terms) and liquidation (to lock in their meaning).41See, e.g., Ronald Turner, On Substantive Due Process and Discretionary Traditionalism, 66 SMU L. Rev. 841, 863–65, 878–79 (2013). Second, resurrecting that evolving history-and-tradition test offers a shared vocabulary with the mediating potential to broker ideological compromise (between the prevailing interpretive extremes of conservative and progressive constitutional theory) by splitting the difference between originalism and living constitutionalism.42See Lawrence Solum, Originalism Versus Living Constitutionalism: The Conceptual Structure of the Great Debate, 113 N.w. U. L. Rev. 1243, 1282–87 (2019). Finally, we apply both traditionalisms—entrenched and evolving—to show how each would resolve controversies from fetal rights and gay marriage to gender-affirming care and conversion therapy. The implications are surprising. For example, the entrenched history-and-tradition test likely would not protect widely accepted rights such as interracial marriage and medical refusal. Meanwhile, evolving traditionalism might protect yet-unrecognized rights like aid-in-dying and assisted reproduction in a future that made these practices routine, but it probably would not protect any of them right now.

I.  SOCIAL MOVEMENT POLITICS

Today’s Supreme Court majority advances a distinctive origin story for the history-and-tradition test. Dobbs directs our attention to struggles over substantive due process in the 1960s and 1970s.43Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2242 (2022). But there are other plausible places to begin telling the history of the history-and-tradition test. The uses of history in jurisprudence could be documented from the Court’s early cases at the outset of the nineteenth century. A more recent point of departure emerges in the second half of the twentieth century, when social movements first contested the meaning of history and tradition. Or one could start with the uses of history and tradition that have become so salient over the Court’s last couple Terms. A sensible middle ground for launching the history of history and tradition is when the Court got into the business of recognizing unenumerated rights in the early twentieth century.

It is true that Supreme Court decisions of the nineteenth century mentioned rights that animate the “fundamental principle[s] of a republican government”44Terrett v. Taylor, 13 U.S. (9 Cranch) 43, 50–51 (1815). or that applied to “all civilized nations.”45Bank of Augusta v. Earle, 38 U.S. (13 Pet.) 519, 536 (1839). For example, in the 1823 case of Corfield v. Coryell, George Washington’s nephew, Justice Bushrod Washington, described “privileges and immunities which are, in their nature, fundamental; which belong, of right, to the citizens of all free governments; and which have, at all times, been enjoyed by the citizens of the several states which compose this Union.”46Corfield v. Coryell, 6 F. Cas. 546, 551 (C.C.E.D. Pa. 1823) (No. 3,230). History and tradition also appears to have figured centrally in early jurisprudence on the Seventh Amendment.47See Darrell A.H. Miller, Text, History, and Tradition: What the Seventh Amendment Can Teach Us About the Second, 122 Yale L.J. 852, 856–57, 893–929 (2013) (describing the history and evolution of a “historical test” under the Seventh Amendment that puts “great, but not exclusive, reliance on analogical reasoning from text, common law history, or tradition to determine the constitutionality of any given practice or regulation”). These earlier discussions matter for various purposes adjacent to ours.48Originalist scholars, for example, point to these earlier decisions in elucidating what they see as the original public meaning of the Privileges or Immunities Clause. See, e.g., Randy E. Barnett, Three Keys to the Original Meaning of the Privileges or Immunities Clause, 43 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y 1, 4 (2020) (arguing that the Privileges or Immunities Clause protects “the same set of fundamental rights to which the Privileges and Immunities Clause of Article IV refers,” namely “the natural right to ‘the enjoyment of life and liberty, with the [natural] right to acquire and possess property of every kind, and to pursue and obtain happiness and safety’ ” (citation omitted)); Lawrence B. Solum, Incorporation and Originalist Theory, 18 J. Contemp. Legal Issues 409, 428–42 (2009) (seeking to establish the original public meaning of the Privileges or Immunities Clause in and beyond the issue of incorporation); Kurt T. Lash, The Origins of the Privileges or Immunities Clause, Part I: “Privileges and Immunities” as an Antebellum Term of Art, 98 Geo. L.J. 1241, 1243–45 (2010) (presenting evidence that the original public meaning of the Privileges or Immunities Clause encompassed a more limited set of rights, primarily including those in the Bill of Rights).

We focus our historical analysis on the twentieth and twenty-first centuries because that reflects the most faithful understanding of the history-and-tradition test applied by the Court today.

The question at the center of our inquiry—whether tradition and history are entrenched or evolving—became far more central to social-movement and judicial debate in the past several centuries than it was before. Consider the account of “general law” developed by William Baude, Jud Campbell, and Stephen Sachs—they argue that the Fourteenth Amendment “secured but did not confer” rights already recognized in general law, which was “derived from general principles and customs and operating across jurisdictions.”49William Baude, Jud Campbell & Stephen E. Sachs, General Law and the Fourteenth Amendment, 76 Stan. L. Rev. 1185, 1191, 1194 (2024). In a subsequent piece, Campbell addresses the relationship between originalism and tradition, which he views as dynamic and fluid. Jud Campbell, Tradition, Originalism, and General Fundamental Law, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 1–5) (on file with authors) (arguing that the framers intended such provisions to reflect general-law principles, which were in turn understood to be dynamic). These scholars acknowledge that the scope of the general law was characterized by “imprecision and woolliness”—not least when it came to the question of whether general-law principles were fluid, “capable of developing over time, through a course of long-standing legal practice”50Baude et al., supra note 49, at 1193, 1249; see also Danielle D’Onfro & Daniel Epps, The Fourth Amendment and General Law, 132 Yale L.J. 910, 931 (2023) (explaining that general law often requires “an inquiry into custom, tradition, and social facts”); Bernadette Meyler, Towards a Common Law Originalism, 59 Stan. L. Rev. 551, 593–600 (2006) (sketching a common law originalist account of the Seventh Amendment that is grounded in the relevant history).—and whether the “rights of Englishmen,”51Stephen E. Sachs, Dobbs and the Originalists, 47 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 11) (on file with authors). as Sachs writes, were a “closed set.”52Baude et al., supra note 49, at 1249. Baude, Campbell, and Sachs recognize that nineteenth-century Justices were comfortable with the imprecision of general law and did not always openly grapple with questions about the scope of common-law custom and tradition in ways we might expect today.53Id. at 1193 (“[T]he Fourteenth Amendment was made by people in the past during the heyday of general law—and their comfort with imprecision, woolliness, and customary background principles are among the most notable features of the historical debates.”). In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, by contrast, the fixed-versus-fluid question became a flashpoint for constitutional conflicts for a range of actors.54See infra Sections I.B–C. By studying their debates, we can gain crucial perspective on the workings and origins of both an evolving and fixed approach to history and tradition today.

Earlier discussions of common-law tradition bear an ambiguous relationship to present-day case law. With the decisions of Slaughter-House Cases55Slaughter-House Cases, 83 U.S. (16 Wall.) 36 (1872). and later, Erie Railroad Co. v. Tompkins,56Erie R.R. Co. v. Tompkins, 304 U.S. 64 (1938). the Court rejected the readings of the Privileges or Immunities Clause favored by some originalist scholars. Accordingly, Baude, Campbell, and Sachs acknowledge that their approach to general law might be—and remain—“legally dead.”57Baude et al., supra note 49, at 1251. But see Caleb Nelson, The Persistence of General Law, 106 Colum. L. Rev. 503, 505–18 (2006) (arguing that general law supplies critical background principles in areas from maritime law to international law); Sachs, supra note 51, at 5–13 (applying a general-law approach to argue that Dobbs was consistent with originalist principles). Earlier understandings of tradition—perhaps rooted in general law or in the Privileges or Immunities Clause—may not tell us much about how the Court will apply a history-and-tradition test in the future. While Sachs reads Dobbs as consistent with originalist arguments about the Privileges or Immunities Clause or general law,58Sachs, supra note 51, at 2 (describing Dobbs as an “originalism-compliant opinion, the kind a faithful originalist should write, reaching the right originalist result for what were essentially the right originalist reasons”). profound tensions separate the approaches rejected in Slaughter-House and Erie from present-day traditionalism, which is better understood as a new phenomenon that’s distinct from originalism and worth taking seriously in its own right.59If anything, the Supreme Court’s most recent Terms have exposed deep divides in the Court about how and when to consult history and tradition—and which traditions count. See supra notes 27–35 and accompanying text. For others who see things this way, see, e.g., Barnett & Solum, supra note 16, at 456 (arguing that “Justice Alito’s use of history and tradition [in Dobbs] seems decidedly nonoriginalist,” particularly because it makes “no claim at all about the original meaning of the text of the Fourteenth Amendment”); Girgis, supra note 14, at 1479 (locating Dobbs in the Court’s turn toward a method of “living traditionalism,” which is “ ‘traditionalist’ because it looks to political traditions, and ‘living’ because the traditions postdate ratification”).

To be sure, by the twentieth century, the Court had long referred to tradition when the Justices decided the 1905 working-hours case of Lochner v. New York. There, the Supreme Court recognized a “liberty of person or of free contract” provided for in the Federal Constitution with little mention of where that liberty came from or how to identify it.60Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45, 53–54 (1905). But in dissent, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes advanced a role for history and tradition, suggesting that the meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment might be gauged by evaluating whether “a rational and fair man necessarily would admit that the statute proposed would infringe fundamental principles as they have been understood by the traditions of our people and our law.”61Id. at 76 (Holmes, J., dissenting).

Holmes did not explain how one should go about identifying such a tradition beyond suggesting that many a “reasonable man” would find nothing wrong with the disputed New York law.62Id. It would be another decade until a majority hinted at a role for tradition and history.63It could also be that the reason that the Supreme Court justices of this era did not openly theorize about the relationship between “constitutional rights” and “history and tradition” is that they really did not need to, if the rights that they were interpreting and applying were common-law rights, and history and tradition had a well-established (if still sometimes ambiguous and contested) role in understanding the common law. See Jud Campbell, The Emergence of Neutrality, 131 Yale L.J. 861, 883–88 (2022) (arguing that fundamental rights were common law insofar as fundamental-rights jurisprudence in the U.S. up until the early 1900s should be understood as falling into two categories, with recognition for certain rights that were generally regulable in promotion of the public good (e.g., a right to liberty or a right to property), and then other rights that operated as more determinate legal rules, the latter category delineated by customary law—i.e., aspects of the common law that were understood to be fundamental). In the parental liberty case of Meyer v. Nebraska, the Court held that the Due Process Clause protected “those privileges long recognized at common law as essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness by free men”—without explaining how they counted, or how much.64Meyer v. Nebraska, 262 U.S. 390, 399 (1927). We focus on the period after Meyer because judges, litigators, and eventually, grassroots movements began a more robust debate about how tradition mattered in law. Which traditions should count—and was tradition necessarily backward looking? What kinds of evidence could establish a tradition? These questions began to more centrally influence debates on the pages of the United States Reports and beyond in the first decades of the twentieth century.

A.  The Pre-History (and Tradition)

Arguments about history and tradition played a more dominant role in incorporation debates surrounding the Fourteenth Amendment.65On struggles over the nature of incorporation within the Court, see, e.g., William J. Brennan, Jr., The Bill of Rights and the States, 36 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 761, 776 (1961). See also Louis Henkin, “Selective Incorporation” in the Fourteenth Amendment, 73 Yale L.J. 74, 74–76 (1963) (contrasting selective and total theories of incorporation). In the years following the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, the Supreme Court has eviscerated its Privileges or Immunities Clause, leaving litigants to rely on the Due Process Clause when challenging the constitutionality of state policies.66See David E. Bernstein, The Conservative Origins of Strict Scrutiny, 19 Geo. Mason L. Rev. 861, 864–65, 864 n.19 (2012) (explaining that Slaughter-House established that the Privileges or Immunities Clause “protects only an extremely narrow and largely inconsequential category of federal rights”); see also Steven G. Calabresi, Substantive Due Process After Gonzales v. Carhart, 106 Mich. L. Rev. 1517, 1532 (2008) (explaining that the Privileges or Immunities Clause “was gutted by the Supreme Court in the Slaughterhouse Cases”). Competing ideas about the effect of the Fourteenth Amendment on the Bill of Rights emerged after the Court began incorporating parts of the Bill of Rights against the states in Gitlow v. New York in 1925.67Gitlow v. New York, 268 U.S. 652, 666 (1925) (explaining that “freedom of speech and of the press—which are protected by the First Amendment from abridgment by Congress—are among the fundamental personal rights and ‘liberties’ protected by the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment from impairment by the States”). While Justice Hugo Black maintained that the Fourteenth Amendment had only incorporated the Bill of Rights,68See Hugo Lafayette Black, A Constitutional Faith 34–42 (1968). other Justices believed that the Due Process Clause was itself a source of fundamental rights.69See Felix Frankfurter, Memorandum on “Incorporation” of the Bill of Rights into the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment, 78 Harv. L. Rev. 746, 747–50 (1965).

1.  Holmes and Moody

Justice Holmes’ reflections on history and tradition came into clearer view in one early case, Twining v. State of New Jersey, where he joined a majority opinion suggesting that the meaning of tradition shifted over time.70Twining v. New Jersey, 211 U.S. 78, 79 (1908). Twining, a bank manager facing misdemeanor charges, had declined to testify on his own behalf, and a prosecutor suggested that his reasons for doing so were less than pure.71Id. at 91–96 (discussing the defendants’ arguments about self-incrimination and incorporation). Twining protested, arguing either that the Fourteenth Amendment incorporated a right against self-incrimination or that such liberty wasn’t enumerated under the Fourteenth Amendment.72Id. Rejecting Twining’s claim, Justice William Henry Moody laid out three principles governing unenumerated rights. He wrote that such a right could be “ascertained by an examination of . . . the common and statute law of England before the emigration of our ancestors.”73Id. at 100.

But this historical inquiry was not the end of the matter.74Id. at 101. Moody suggested that the meaning of history and tradition was subject to change, but only in rare circumstances when government action offended “fundamental principles of liberty and justice which lie at the base of all our civil and political institutions.”75Id. at 102 (quoting In re Kemmler, 136 U.S. 436, 448 (1890)). Twining ultimately lost—because the Court did not think that the right against self-incrimination had adequate historical pedigree, to be sure, but also because the Court found no evidence that the relevant tradition had changed.76Id. at 111–13.

This vision of tradition echoed the conservatism of Edmund Burke, the Anglo-Irish theorist who loomed large in early conservative constitutional theory.77See Edmund Burke, Speech on Conciliation with America (Mar. 22, 1775), in 3 The Writings and Speeches of Edmund Burke 145–52 (Warren M. Elofson et al. eds., 1996). Burke celebrated the wisdom reflected in time-tested social practices more than whatever meaning could be derived from abstract theories or principles.78Id. at 145–47. Yet, he squarely rejected the notion that tradition could not change. Tradition, as Burke saw it, did not change in response to “floating fancies or fashions.”79Letter from Edmund Burke on the Revolution in France (1790), in 8 The Writings and Speeches of Edmund Burke 145 (L.G. Mitchell & William B. Todd eds., 1989). But its slow pace of reform is not the only reason that tradition worked as a welcome check on haste or revolution. Precisely because tradition was flexible is what invited a manageable and incremental kind of change that discouraged more radical ruptures with the past.80Id. In Twining, Justice Moody implicitly embraces this Burkean conception of tradition.

2.  Ozie Powell and Frank Palka (not Palko)

An evolving-tradition test circulated in the Court’s jurisprudence throughout the 1930s, though its contours remained fuzzy. In Powell v. Alabama, for example, Ozie Powell and four other Black teenagers had hitched a ride on a freight train crossing Alabama when they got into a fight with several white boys.81Powell v. Alabama, 287 U.S. 45, 50–51 (1932). Two white girls then accused Powell and his co-defendants of sexually assaulting them.82Id. at 51. The State tried Powell and his co-defendants without appointing defense counsel and sentenced all five to death.83Id. at 49–50. Powell’s counsel responded that Alabama had denied the defendants due process of law by failing to appoint them counsel.84Brief for Petitioners at 5, Powell v. Alabama, 287 U.S. 45 (1932) (Nos. 98–100) (summarizing evidence that “establishes as an element of due process an effective right to counsel”). The Court recognized that, in the past, it had applied a primarily backward-looking history-and-tradition test, asking about “the settled usages and modes of proceeding under the common and statute law of England before the Declaration of Independence,” assuming they had not proven “unsuited to the civil and political conditions of our ancestors by having been followed in this country after it became a nation.”85Powell, 287 U.S. at 65. Based on the evidence before it, the Powell Court concluded that the right to counsel failed this backward-looking test.86Id. Nevertheless, the Court found that such a right was central to due process by focusing on “later cases,” including Twining itself.87Id. at 67–68 (explaining that “consideration of the nature of the right and a review of the expressions of this and other courts, makes it clear that the right to the aid of counsel is of this fundamental character”).

By contrast, in Snyder v. Massachusetts, a man faced charges for murder and armed robbery, and prosecutors filed a motion requesting that jurors be brought to the gas station where the murder took place.88Snyder v. Massachusetts, 291 U.S. 97, 103 (1934). Snyder argued that defendants had an unenumerated right to tour crime scenes alongside jurors—a right deeply rooted in the nation’s tradition and history.89Brief for the Petitioner at 6–8, Snyder v. Massachusetts, 291 U.S. 97 (1934) (No. 241). In rejecting Snyder’s claim, the Supreme Court likewise scoured decisions dating back to 1747 and said little about current practice.90Snyder, 291 U.S. at 111–20.

But elsewhere, the Court reiterated that tradition was a living thing. In an incorporation case, Frank Palka (whose name would be forever misspelled as “Palko”) broke into a store, stole a phonograph, and murdered a police officer while making a getaway.91See Brief for the Appellant at 3–4, Palko v. Connecticut, 302 U.S. 319 (1937) (No. 135). A Connecticut jury convicted Palka, but the State appealed, invoking a Connecticut law permitting new trials when there had been an error “to the prejudice of the state.”92Palko v. Connecticut, 302 U.S. 319, 321 (1937). Palka’s appointed lawyer, David Goldstein, argued that a second trial would violate Palka’s right to avoid double jeopardy.93Brief for the Appellant, supra note 91, at 7–9. In Palko v. Connecticut, the Court held that double jeopardy protections did not qualify as a “principle of justice so rooted in the traditions and conscience of our people as to be ranked as fundamental.”94Palko, 302 U.S. at 325 (quoting Snyder v. Massachusetts, 291 U.S. 97, 105 (1934)). In reaching the conclusion, the Court said almost nothing about the constitutional past.95Palko, 302 U.S. at 320–28. “Reflection and analysis” were all that was required—whether the Court could imagine an equitable justice system without such a right.96Id. at 325–26.

B.  Post-War Family Planning

A more full-throated vision of an evolving history-and-tradition test emerged from conflicts about birth control—many of them unfolding outside the Supreme Court. Following World War II, Planned Parenthood combined arguments about the need to curb population growth with existing claims about the rights of married couples to plan their families.97See Linda Gordon, The Moral Property of Women: A History of Birth Control Politics in America 240–91, 243 (2002) (detailing the transformation of family planning advocacy in the 1940s and explaining that Planned Parenthood “offered birth control wrapped in an ideological package that challenged neither the sexual inequities within the family nor the sexual or class inequities of the medical system”); see also Marc Stein, Sexual Injustice: Supreme Court Decisions from Griswold to Roe 98 (2010) (“Beginning in the 1940s, the movement identified ‘planned parenthood’ as its goal and married couples as the ideal planners.”); Andrea Tone, Devices and Desires: A History of Contraceptives in America 208 (2001) (“Population control rhetoric made contraceptive research inseparable from the fate of international relations.”). But in the 1950s, it was segregationists rather than birth controllers who insisted that the past should guide constitutional interpretation—and that constitutional meanings were entrenched rather than evolving.98Siegel, The History, supra note 21, at 109–20. As Reva Siegel has shown, the famed Supreme Court litigator John Davis, who represented South Carolina in the Brown litigation, argued that the meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment was fixed at the time of ratification.99Id. at 114. To determine the amendment’s original expected application, Davis pointed out that “23 [states] either then had, or immediately installed, separate schools for white and coloured children.”100Id. at 114 (quoting Transcript of Oral Argument at 333, Briggs v. Elliott, 342 U.S. 350 (1952) (No. 101)). Davis’s argument ultimately failed to convince the Brown Court. But other segregationists persisted in using state counting as a key method to establish constitutional meaning.101Id. at 114–20.

1.  “Tradition is a living thing.”

A different vision of the role for history and tradition appeared in conflicts about contraception at the Supreme Court. In the 1950s, Planned Parenthood lawyers hoped to challenge Connecticut’s anti-contraception law, the last in the nation to bar birth control by married couples.102On the background of the challenge to Connecticut’s law, see Reva B. Siegel, How Conflict Entrenched the Right to Privacy, 124 Yale L.J.F. 316, 316–20 (2015). By 1961, when the Supreme Court was poised to hand down a decision on the law, the environment seemed ripe for a favorable decision. The FDA approved the birth control pill in May 1959, and within two years, one million people had used it.103See Naomi Cahn & June Carbone, Red Families v. Blue Families: Legal Polarization and the Creation of Culture 81 (2010).

The case that would become Poe v. Ullman had been winding its way through the Connecticut courts, and the plaintiffs in Poe told various horror stories about their lack of contraceptive access: one woman suffered three consecutive stillbirths, while a second nearly lost her life as a result of a foreseeably dangerous pregnancy.104Brief for Appellants at 6–9, Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497 (1961) (Nos. 60, 61), 1960 WL 98679 at *5–8. A second line of cases addressing history and tradition focuses on questions about incorporation like those that informed earlier cases such as Powell. See, e.g., McDonald v. City of Chicago, 561 U.S. 742, 766–80 (2010) (considering the application of a history-and-tradition test to the incorporation of the Second Amendment right to bear arms); Timbs v. Indiana, 585 U.S. 146, 150–54 (2019) (asking the same question of the Eighth Amendment’s excessive fines clause). We focus primarily on unenumerated rights because this question surfaced more clearly in judicial decisions and broader movement debates about which rights qualified as fundamental, which time period could be consulted to establish such a right, and whether such rights could be evolving as opposed to entrenched. Their attorney, Fowler Harper, made little mention of an unenumerated right to privacy. His argument instead mirrored an amicus brief from the Planned Parenthood Federation of America: the Connecticut law lacked a rational basis, forcing couples to use contraceptive methods that were “the most unreliable and least desirable.”105Brief for Appellants, supra note 104, at 11. Nor did Connecticut mention history and tradition in defending the law, instead chastising Planned Parenthood for making an argument that was “sociological and physiological rather than legal.”106Brief for Appellee at 13, Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497 (1961) (Nos. 60, 61), 1960 WL 98680 at *13.

It was Justice John Marshall Harlan who raised the importance of history and tradition in his Poe dissent. The majority ruled that the plaintiffs had not suffered a redressable injury because they faced neither prosecution under the Connecticut law nor a realistic threat of one (after all, as the majority remarked, birth control was “commonly and notoriously sold in Connecticut drug stores”).107Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497, 502 (1961). Justice Harlan disagreed. He said that the Court should identify unenumerated rights by consulting “what history teaches are the traditions from which it developed as well as the traditions from which it broke.”108Id. at 542 (Harlan, J., dissenting). The meaning of neither history nor tradition was fixed, in his view. “That tradition is a living thing.”109Id. at 544. Harlan’s test pointed to a traditionalism that evolves. This change doesn’t come easy or rely on “merely personal and private notions.”110Id. (quoting Rochin v. California, 342 U.S. 165, 170 (1952)). For more discussion of Justice Harlan’s formulation and its significance, see Kenji Yoshino, A New Birth of Freedom?: Obergefell v. Hodges, 129 Harv. L. Rev. 147, 149 (2015) (describing Poe as applying a more “open-ended common law approach” to the recognition of rights); Laurence H. Tribe & Michael C. Dorf, Levels of Generality in the Definition of Rights, 57 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1057, 1068 (1990) (explaining that “Harlan was engaged in a process of interpolation and extrapolation”). But when a tradition did evolve, and when a new way of being fell into place, it was this more recent constitutional understanding that carried the day—in the tradition that married couples were using contraception to plan their families.111These ideas did not originate with Justice Harlan. Justice Felix Frankfurter previewed them a decade earlier, embracing a traditionalist approach to recognizing rights, while rejecting a fixed conception of due process. See Rochin v. California, 342 U.S. 165, 169 (1952) (in turn relying on and citing to Justice Benjamin Cardozo’s opinions in Snyder v. Massachusetts, 291 U.S. 97, 105 (1934), and Palko v. Connecticut, 302 U.S. 319, 325 (1937)).

2.  Constitutional Updating

Harlan’s opinion failed to carry the day in Poe, and his dissent did not command the change that he sought in social practices around privacy and birth control. But his proposed inquiry into evolving traditions raised a hard question about majority decisions that might influence such reform in the future. What if a judicial intervention itself nudges a tradition to change, or undermines a shift otherwise and already underway? Curtis Bradley and Neil Siegel observe that updating the Constitution in response to society’s changing needs “implicates an inherent tension between the benefits of customary evolution and centralized judicial review. Given the authority that federal courts possess in our constitutional system today, practice is likely to coordinate around judicial decisions.”112Curtis A. Bradley & Neil S. Siegel, After Recess: Historical Practice, Textual Ambiguity, and Constitutional Adverse Possession, 2014 Sup. Ct. Rev. 1, 63 (2014). Won’t the recognition of salient rights like contraception and interracial marriage leave a mark on those practices? How can the Supreme Court identify an organically evolving tradition within American society if its own decision reworks the very content of that tradition or what it ultimately comes to be?113See Girgis, supra note 14, at 1521 (discussing the “ratchet” problem).

Legal historians harbor well-founded skepticism about the degree to which the Supreme Court changes public attitudes or popular understandings of the Constitution, never mind the social traditions that might follow from those ideals. Scholars like Jeffrey Rosen, Reva Siegel, and Robert Post have documented the extent to which the Court tends to mirror or codify constitutional understandings, rather than transform them.114See Jeffrey Rosen, The Most Democratic Branch: How the Courts Serve America 4–8, 83 (2006); Robert Post & Reva Siegel, Roe Rage: Democratic Constitutionalism and Backlash, 42 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 373, 379 (2007). They present robust evidence to reject a strong version of the transformation claim that the Court alone can dictate a new tradition. What of a weaker version? The first important thing to say is there is good reason to think the Court’s decisions have little meaningful effect on behavior at all—whether because most of its rulings don’t break through into the public conscience, or because, even if they do, most Americans may find the reasoning or result unconvincing.115See Frederick Schauer, Foreword: The Court’s Agenda—and the Nation’s, 120 Harv. L. Rev. 4, 44–46 (2006).

But two other possibilities emerge. First, the Court might sometimes reinforce or advance a shift that is already underway. Michael Klarman shows that seems to have happened with Brown, further legitimizing a new consensus in favor of integration.116See Michael J. Klarman, From Jim Crow to Civil Rights: The Supreme Court and the Struggle for Racial Equality 6, 464–68 (2004). Also Obergefell, which might have done the same for same-sex marriage.117See German Lopez, Public Opinion Had Swung Strongly in Favor of Same-Sex Marriage, Vox (Mar. 31, 2016, 5:06 PM), https://www.vox.com/2015/6/26/17937616/same-sex-gay-marriage-public-opinion-supreme-court [https://perma.cc/UJF6-UR2M]. On other occasions, backlash to a decision may push a tradition in the opposite direction. For example, the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court’s same-sex marriage decision in Goodridge v. Department of Health appeared to have triggered resistance to same-sex marriage, at least in the short term.118See Michael J. Klarman, From the Closet to the Altar: Courts, Backlash, and the Struggle for Same-Sex Marriage 91–116 (2013). Dobbs looks to have sparked a similar backlash.119See Lydia Saad, Broader Support for Abortion Rights Continues Post-Dobbs, Gallup (June 14, 2023), https://news.gallup.com/poll/506759/broader-support-abortion-rights-continues-post-dobbs.aspx [https://perma.cc/KQ6Q-2RX3]. By the most reliable accounts, the incidence of abortions hasn’t gone down overall since trigger bans went into effect, with many Americans in ban states accessing pills by mail or crossing state lines for care.120See Claire Cain Miller & Margot Sanger-Katz, Despite State Bans, Legal Abortions Didn’t Fall Nationwide in Year After Dobbs, N.Y. Times (Oct. 24, 2023), https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/24/upshot/abortion-numbers-dobbs.html [https://perma.cc/2JSM-959Q].

In evaluating an evolving tradition, it makes little sense to disentangle the influence of an intervening decision that makes, at most, a modest contribution within a larger constitutional conversation. A decision might nudge changes in social practice in one direction or another. But that influence depends on the persuasiveness of its reasoning and the extent to which a court’s conclusion tracks what people already think. The evolving test needn’t stop its search for relevant practices when the Court hands down a decision that recognizes a new right or takes an old one away. Instead, it looks to the most current among longstanding traditions, which in turn incorporates how much, if at all, the Court ended up impacting that tradition and how.

3.  Privacy and Penumbras

Harlan’s evolving-tradition test reflected this dialogic dynamism. It embodied the idea that social practices around contraception had changed, especially among married people, including Catholics.121See Elaine Tyler May, America and the Pill: A History of Promise, Peril, and Liberation 121 (2010) (“The Catholic Church banned the use of contraceptives, and yet many Catholics used them anyway”); Leslie Woodcock Tentler, Catholics and Contraception: An American History 205–10, 236 (R. Scott Appleby ed., 2004) (detailing the debate about contraception within the Catholic Church and explaining that a “distinct minority” of Catholic priests had begun to use birth control themselves); Jeremy Kessler, The Legal Origins of Catholic Conscientious Objection, 31 Wm. & Mary Bill Rights J. 361, 390–91 (2022). In the early 1960s, many believed that the Vatican would soften its opposition to birth control,122Patrick Allitt, Catholic Intellectuals and Conservative Politics in America, 1950–1985, at 167–68 (1993). and some Catholic leaders suggested that the church’s living traditions compelled them to do so.123See George Barrett, Catholics and Birth Control: Role of Research, N.Y. Times, Aug. 6, 1963, at 1. By the mid-1960s, there were signs that lay Catholics made claims on tradition as well—over half of them in a 1966 poll favored federal funding for contraceptive programs.124John W. Finney, Poll Finds Catholics Back Birth Curb Aid, N.Y. Times, Feb. 17, 1966, at 1. While this dialogue took place mostly within Catholicism, its effects reverberated more broadly, for it had been Catholics who had most vigorously opposed the legalization of contraception since at least the 1930s.125See Daniel K. Williams, Defenders of the Unborn: The Pro-Life Movement Before Roe v. Wade 33–80 (2016) (detailing the role of Catholics in opposition to the legalization of contraception and abortion).

This idea of an evolving tradition around contraception struck proponents of birth control as promising, and Harlan’s idea of a living tradition appeared to be a perfect vehicle for it. When Griswold came before the Court, Thomas Emerson and Katie Roraback, the attorneys for the Planned Parenthood League of Connecticut, argued that there was an unenumerated right to privacy that encompassed married couples’ use of birth control.126Brief for Appellants, Griswold v. Connecticut, 381 U.S. 479 (1965) (No. 496), 1965 WL 92619, at *87–90 (stressing that according to “tradition and current practice, . . . the sanctity of the home and the wholly personal nature of marital relations – have been recognized as forming the inner core of the right of privacy”). But how would a court define its limits? Citing Harlan’s dissent in Poe, Roraback and Emerson offered three guideposts for an evolving tradition test: “reason, tradition and current practice.”127Id. at *87. Only proof of a new way of being, one that mirrored “current practice,” would carry the day because it would show that the relevant constitutional tradition had changed.

The Court’s decision in Griswold hardly settled questions about the utility of an evolving history-and-tradition test. Justice William O. Douglas’s majority opinion famously concluded that this right could be found in the Constitution’s penumbras.128Griswold v. Connecticut, 381 U.S. 479, 484 (1965). The constitutional past seemed to matter in this analysis: Douglas stressed that marital use of contraception touched on a right to privacy older than the Bill of Rights, but the precise role for history or tradition was hardly clear.129Id. at 486. Justice Goldberg’s concurring opinion centered on the Ninth Amendment and looked to history and tradition for guidance in fleshing out which liberties that amendment guaranteed.130Id. at 487–92 (Goldberg, J., concurring). By far the longest discussion of an evolving tradition test, however, came in Justice Hugo Black’s dissent.131See id. at 511–20 (Black, J., dissenting). He argued that any evolving-tradition test required judicial activism.132Id. at 511–13. How could the Justices determine that a tradition had changed? Black quipped: “Our Court certainly has no machinery to take a Gallup poll.”133Id. at 519.

C.  Sex, Abortion, and Cohabitation

After Griswold, the fate of an evolving-tradition test would intersect with a growing movement to reform criminal abortion laws.134On the nineteenth-century movement to criminalize abortion, see Leslie J. Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime: Women, Medicine, and Law in the United States, 1867–1973, at 8–21 (1997). This campaign also dovetailed with a fight to transform obscenity law to include drugs, devices, and information related to the prevention of conception or the procuring of abortion, led by Anthony Comstock and his colleagues. For discussion of this movement and the rich literature on it, see Reva B. Siegel & Mary Ziegler, Comstockery: How Government Censorship Gave Birth to the Law of Sexual and Reproductive Freedom, and May Again Threaten It, 134 Yale L.J. (forthcoming 2025) (on file with authors). In 1962, the American Law Institute (“ALI”) released changes to the Model Penal Code that included proposed reforms to criminal abortion laws, including exceptions for rape, incest, and certain fetal abnormalities and health threats.135Model Penal Code § 230.3(2) (Am. L. Inst., Proposed Official Draft 1962). By the mid-1960s, some state legislators had begun considering ALI bills, and antiabortion scholars, lawyers, and activists started to mobilize.136On the early abortion reform movement and the response to it, see Linda Greenhouse & Reva B. Siegel, Before (and After) Roe v. Wade: New Questions About Backlash, 120 Yale L.J. 2028, 2028–74 (2011) (describing the influence of the Catholic Church and Republican Party leaders on early antiabortion mobilization); Mary Ziegler, Personhood: The New Civil War over Reproduction (forthcoming 2025) (manuscript at 22–34, 39–40) (on file with authors) (describing the influence of scholars and lawyers on the formation of single-issue antiabortion organizations).

Leading antiabortion commentators insisted that respect for fetal life (and the criminalization of abortion at any stage in pregnancy) were deeply rooted in the nation’s history and tradition—and that this conviction had nothing to do with Catholicism, the faith practiced by most in the early antiabortion movement. At first, these arguments, too, echoed the idea of an evolving tradition. Antiabortion scholars did not limit their claims to the idea that Christian teachings, Western civilization, and the common law had always protected fetal life, even if some, like antiabortion scholar Eugene Quay, argued that “[p]rotecting the life of the unborn child has been a major concern of the earliest laws known to us.”137Eugene Quay, Justifiable Abortion—Medical and Legal Foundations, 49 Geo. L.J. 395, 395 (1961); see also John McLaughlin, Abortion, the Law, and Society, Tampa Times, Apr. 6, 1968, at 6A (citing for support to fetal rights evidence as far back as “history of the Anglo-Saxon common law” and as recent as contemporary practice); Russel Shaw, Critics Find Flaws in Abortion Reform, Catholic Commentator, Feb. 2, 1968, at 8 (quoting one antiabortion attorney as saying, “[w]ith the exception of the abortion movement, . . . the universal trend in the law is toward full recognition of the humanity of the unborn child”).

1.  Catholics, Protestants, and Jews

Abortion-rights supporters questioned whether the nation’s history and tradition were as clear as abortion opponents claimed—in either the past or the present. In 1967, the Protestant Council of the City of New York and three Jewish organizations released a statement insisting the contemporary opposition to abortion did not reflect Judeo-Christian values or even national customs.138Edward B. Fiske, Catholics Scored on ‘Harsh’ Stand on Abortion Laws, N.Y. Times, Feb. 25, 1967, at 1. Harriet Pilpel of Planned Parenthood similarly explained in 1970 that “[t]hose of us who did not grow up in rigid religious tradition which decries all abortion . . . as murder, look at abortion . . . in terms of freedom of choice as to when and whether to have a child.”139Harriet F. Pilpel, The Public and Private Aspects of the Problem: Abortion, N.Y. Times, June 14, 1970, at 6. The history and tradition of abortion remained contested as the conflict moved into the courts.140On the transition of conflict into the courts, see David J. Garrow, Liberty and Sexuality: The Right to Privacy and the Making of Roe v. Wade 230–339 (Open Road Integrated Media, Inc., 2015) (1994). See also Memorandum from Women vs. Connecticut, Some Thoughts on Strategy (1970), in Before Roe v. Wade: Voices that Shaped the Abortion Debate Before the Supreme Court’s Ruling 163–67 (Linda Greenhouse & Reva Siegel eds., 2010) (detailing the litigation of Abele v. Markle and Roe v. Wade in its historical context).

Significantly, both proponents and opponents of legal abortion at times framed tradition as evolving. In 1971, for example, Robert Byrn, an antiabortion law professor, sought to be named the guardian ad litem for all fetuses scheduled for abortion in New York City’s municipal hospitals.141See Stacie Taranto, Kitchen Table Politics: Conservative Women and Family Values in New York 74–75 (2017); see also Mary Ziegler, Dollars for Life: The Anti-Abortion Movement and the Fall of the Republican Establishment 13 (2022) (detailing Byrn’s guardianship campaign). While claiming that rights for the fetus had been recognized since “time immemorial,” Byrn stressed that this claim constituted a living tradition, with emerging awareness of the rights and humanity of the unborn child in modern tort law, human rights law, and welfare law.142Brief of Plaintiff-Appellant at 32, Byrn v. N.Y. City Health & Hosps. Corp., 286 N.E.2d 887 (N.Y. 1972) (on file with the Southern California Law Review) (“The social welfare policy of this state is to treat the unborn child as a ‘child or minor,’ indistinguishable from his past-natal sibling . . . .”). Byrn thus conceded that constitutionally relevant traditions change over time.143Robert M. Byrn, Abortion-on-Demand: Whose Morality, 46 Notre Dame Law. 5, 27 (1970) (“From its original intent to safeguard Negroes against discrimination by Whites, the fourteenth amendment has evolved into a broad guarantee of equality both to artificial persons and to all natural persons irrespective of citizenship, sex or race.”); see also Here Are Questions and Answers on Abortion Bills, The Voice, Apr. 17, 1970, at 5 (explaining that legalizing abortion “undermines the legal tradition of respect for human life,” a tradition that had evolved of late to address recent changes and the “most recent studies of fetology”). In rejecting his fetal-rights argument on the merits, the New York Appellate Division defined history and tradition in a similar way, looking both to understandings at the time of the founding and the shifting meanings established in the present day.144Byrn v. N.Y. City Health & Hosps. Corp., 38 A.D.2d 316, 318–21 (N.Y. App. Div. 1972).

2.  From Poe to Roe

When the Supreme Court agreed to hear Roe v. Wade, those on both sides contested how a history-and-tradition test would apply to the constitutional status of abortion bans. Some antiabortion attorneys like Joseph Witherspoon, a member of the board of directors of the National Right to Life Committee, focused not on Poe’s evolving traditionalism, but on what he described as the original meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment.145See Brief Amicus Curiae on Behalf of Association of Texas Diocesan Attorneys, in Support of Appellee at 8, 13–21, Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973) (No. 70-18), 1971 WL 134282, at *8, *13–21 (“The concept of the person utilized in the Constitution of the United States and in its first ten Amendments had a well-defined meaning for those who framed and adopted their provisions that clearly included the unborn child . . . .”). In an amicus brief for the National Right to Life Committee, Juan Ryan, the long-standing president of the organization, likewise suggested that abortion could not be an unenumerated right unless there was an unbroken tradition supporting it.146See Motion for Leave to File Brief Amicus Curiae and Brief Amicus Curiae at 51–52, Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973) (Nos. 70-18, 70-40). Ryan argued that abortion “was always condemned at common law.”147Id. at 52.

In Roe, abortion-rights groups made their own claims about history and tradition. Planned Parenthood’s amicus brief in Roe sought to discredit the historical ancestry of fetal personhood, claiming that there was “only one instance other than the very recent abortion cases in which the contention has been made that a fetus is a person under the Fourteenth Amendment.”148Supplemental Brief for Amici Curiae Planned Parenthood Federation of America, Inc. and American Association of Planned Parenthood Physicians at 23, Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973) (Nos. 70-18, 70-40). An amicus brief submitted by a coalition of feminist organizations insisted that an evolving tradition test favored the recognition of abortion rights.149Motion for Leave to File Brief Amici Curiae on Behalf of Women’s Organizations and Named Women in Support of Appellants in Each Case, and Brief Amici Curiae at 17–18, Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113 (1973) (Nos. 70-18, 70-40). The Fourteenth Amendment, the feminist brief reasoned, required an analysis of “its full development and its present place in American life throughout the Nation.”150Id. at 18.

When the Court handed down a decision in Roe, the meaning of history and tradition lurked in the background of the debate between the majority and dissent. The majority acknowledged that medical customs around abortion had once been very different, culminating in abortion’s criminalization in most states during the nineteenth century.151Roe v. Wade, 410 U.S. 113, 138–42 (1973), overruled by Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228 (2022). Critical to the majority’s telling was how the relevant tradition had changed: physicians had called for the reform of criminal laws, and abortion itself had become safer.152Id. at 143. Roe credited these changing practices and values in defining the scope of constitutional privacy.153See id. at 144–47. By contrast, Justice William Rehnquist, writing in dissent, emphasized that the framers of the Fourteenth Amendment would not have recognized a right to choose abortion, but that’s not all.154Id. at 174 (Rehnquist, J., dissenting). He also suggested that the abortion right would fail an evolving history-and-tradition test. “Even today,” he said, “when society’s views on abortion are changing, the very existence of the debate [about abortion] is evidence that the ‘right’ to an abortion is not so universally accepted as the appellant would have us believe.”155Id.

3.  City of East Cleveland

Harlan’s evolving history-and-tradition test reemerged in the Supreme Court in Moore v. City of East Cleveland.156Moore v. City of East Cleveland, 431 U.S. 494 (1977). Ordinances like the one in Moore, which zoned certain neighborhoods for nuclear families, formed part of an intensifying conflict about what the American Civil Liberties Union (“ACLU”) called sexual privacy.157See Leigh Ann Wheeler, How Sex Became a Civil Liberty 113–18 (2013). A backlash to the sexual revolution in the 1960s and 1970s took aim at nonmarital cohabitors.158See Elizabeth H. Pleck, Not Just Roommates: Cohabitation After the Sexual Revolution 3–23, 56–98 (2012). In 1972, twenty-eight states and several local communities criminalized cohabitation outside of marriage.159Id. at 95. A more subtle strategy used family zoning ordinances like the one in Moore to exclude couples who did not wish to marry or were prevented from doing so by law.160Id. at 194–203.

This backlash belied fundamental changes in how Americans lived. Attitudes toward premarital sex were becoming more permissive, and premarital sex was becoming more common.161Kathryn M. Neckerman, Social Inequality 6 (2004). By the 1970s, the advent of no-fault divorce meant that marriages were often temporary—the rate of no-fault divorces doubled162James T. Patterson, Restless Giant: The United States from Watergate to Bush v. Gore 50 (2005).—and the women’s liberation movement challenged a sexual double standard governing marriage while insisting that marriage should be unnecessary for women’s security or thriving.163For a sample of the rich histories on the second wave feminism, see generally Katherine Turk, The Women of NOW: How Feminists Built an Organization that Transformed America (2023) (detailing the influence of the National Organization for Women, a preeminent liberal feminist organization); Serena Mayeri, Reasoning from Race: Feminism, Law, and the Civil Rights Revolution (2011) (describing the litigation strategies of the early women’s movement, especially those that posited that sex was “like race”). The practice of living with non-nuclear family was increasingly common, even if states and cities sought to rein it in.

In Moore, Inez Moore was raising her grandsons, and her attorneys argued that the nation’s evolving history and tradition meant that East Cleveland could not use its zoning laws to exclude a family like hers.164Brief for the Appellant at 8, Moore v. City of East Cleveland, 431 U.S. 494 (1977) (No. 75-6289) (arguing that the “East Cleveland ordinance at issue in this case is at war with traditional concepts of the family”). Moore’s brief stressed that the extended family was an “institution that predates, and very likely will antedate, other legal and social institutions, such as the municipality.”165Id. at 9. But contemporary recognition of the importance of the extended family was important too. “This practice of expanding the home to assist relatives,” the brief explained, “has continued to be an accepted tenet of our society.”166Id. at 11. The ACLU’s brief in Moore asked the Court to go further, recognizing a substantive due process right to “determine basic family relationships and living arrangements,” as well as “broad rights to free association and privacy within the home.”167Brief of the American Civil Liberties Union and the ACLU of Greater Cleveland, Amici Curiae at 16, Moore v. City of East Cleveland, 431 U.S. 494 (1977) (No. 75-6289), 1976 WL 178724, at *16.

The Court voted to invalidate East Cleveland’s ordinance, and Justice Lewis Powell wrote a plurality opinion joined by three of the Court’s more liberal Justices.168Moore v. City of East Cleveland, 431 U.S. 494, 499–503 (1977). Powell agreed with the ACLU that Moore’s decision to live with and raise her grandsons fell into the category of family rights protected under the Fourteenth Amendment.169Id. at 495, 506. Powell acknowledged that “[t]here are risks when the judicial branch gives enhanced protection to certain substantive liberties without the guidance of the more specific provisions of the Bill of Rights.”170Id. at 502. At the same time, he made clear that traditions must change, and often did, but that the process took time and required the forging of new norms and consensus.171Cf. Russell Kirk, The Conservative Mind: From Burke to Eliot 47 (7th rev. ed. 2001) (“Conservatism never is more admirable than when it accepts changes that it disapproves, with good grace, for the sake of a general conciliation . . . .”). The risks of judicial overreach were no reason for leaving unenumerated rights unenforced or artificially limited. Instead, the Court would look to an evolving tradition test, one that would show “respect for the teachings of history [and] solid recognition of the basic values that underlie our society,” while recognizing and honoring meaningful changes in tradition over time.172Moore, 431 U.S. at 502 (quoting Griswold v. Connecticut, 381 U.S. 479, 501 (1965)).

II.  FORGING A CONSERVATIVE LEGAL MOVEMENT

A very different conception of history and tradition helped to bridge divides in an emerging conservative coalition. By the early 1980s the Federalist Society had formed and was rapidly expanding, with Ronald Reagan tapping the organization’s members to join his administration or nominating them to the federal judiciary. Originalism emerged as a foundational principle that guided the conservative legal movement’s approach to the Constitution and led the Reagan Administration to promise voters revolutionary changes in the law under the cover of neutrality. But originalism itself was not a perfect vehicle for the demands of the emerging conservative Christian bar or its counterparts in the antiabortion movement.

Conservative Christian lawyers, for their part, believed that the nation’s founding itself was explicitly Christian and wove religious teachings into the founding document—a claim that the Federalist Society was not prepared to make. A kind of Burkean history-and-tradition test did not suit conservative Christian lawyers either. Judges who adopted it had recognized the very rights that conservative Christians believed to be at odds with the nation’s founding character. For abortion opponents, arguments from original intent or original public meaning for fetal personhood were complicated because the framers of the Fourteenth Amendment said nothing about abortion, and because the antiabortion movement of the nineteenth century said nothing about the Constitution.173On the lack of evidence for personhood, see Tang, After Dobbs, supra note 22, at 1150–56 (“When some states considered the abortion issue and chose to ban the procedure and others chose to permit it in early pregnancy, they provided evidence that allowing abortion also remained a legitimate object of the democratic process.”); Ziegler, supra note 136, at 6–10 (stressing that antiabortion leaders in the nineteenth century did not make constitutional fetal personhood arguments, even while opponents of slavery did make constitutional personhood arguments).

A looser focus on history and tradition—as opposed to original intent, original public meaning, or original expected application—had a unique appeal for social conservatives. For abortion opponents, looking more broadly at history and tradition could account for a range of other evidence beyond 1868 that included stigma surrounding abortion, criminal abortion laws that remained in place for nearly a century, and the like. For conservative Christians, a history-and-tradition approach could allow attorneys to weave in beliefs about a faith-based founding without explicitly tying interpretation to natural law or religious doctrine—and without imputing a desire to enforce Christian beliefs to framers who themselves had varied views of religion. This new history-and-tradition approach wasn’t evolving but entrenched. It assumed that the meanings of constitutional provisions were more or less fixed around the time of their ratification—and that later developments and constitutional understandings were entirely irrelevant.

A.  Coalition and Constitution-Making

1.  The Federalist Society

In 1968 and 1972, Richard Nixon had campaigned on criticism of the Supreme Court, which he painted as soft on crime.174On Nixon’s focus on the Supreme Court on the campaign trail, see Katherine Beckett, Making Crime Pay: Law and Order in Contemporary American Politics 31 (1997) (explaining Nixon’s attacks on the Supreme Court and his claims that the Court’s decisions had led to “the deterioration of respect for the rule of law”). For more on Nixon’s policy on crime and the police state, see Elizabeth Hinton, From the War on Poverty to the War on Crime: The Making of Mass Incarceration in the United States 134–78 (2016). Nixon’s comments galvanized conservatives who were critical of what they saw as unprincipled decisions of the Warren and Burger Courts. But in the 1970s, Nixon nominees hardly proved to be rock-ribbed conservatives. After all, it was a Nixon nominee, Harry Blackmun, who wrote the majority in Roe.175For more on Blackmun’s role in crafting Roe, see Linda Greenhouse, Becoming Justice Blackmun: Harry Blackmun’s Supreme Court Journey 72–102 (2005).

Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980 represented an unprecedented opportunity for the Federalist Society, which organized in 1983.176On the early years of the Federalist Society, see Michael Kruse, The Weekend at Yale That Changed American Politics, Politico (Aug. 27, 2018), https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2018/08/27/federalist-society-yale-history-conservative-law-court-219608 [https://perma.cc/GKC6-JH9S]. The founders and early members of the Federalist Society had any number of objections to the legal status quo. Some, aligned with business interests and libertarianism, sought to create a legal bulwark against the threat posed to business by progressive public interest groups like the Environmental Defense Fund.177See Steven M. Teles, The Rise of the Conservative Legal Movement: The Battle for Control of the Law 61 (2008); see also Amanda Hollis-Brusky, Ideas with Consequences: The Federalist Society and the Conservative Counterrevolution 22 (2015) (describing the goal of the Federalist Society to challenge what it saw as “the liberal orthodoxy permeating the legal profession and institutions of government”). Others had concerns about what they saw as race-based preferences or religious liberty.178See Teles, supra note 177, at 2, 53–64, 221–30 (detailing the influence of a conservative coalition of business conservatives, Southern critics of race-based protections, religious conservatives, and Western farmers and leaders of extractive industries who were “drawn together by a shared opposition to liberal judges, law professors, and public interest lawyers”). The Federalist Society itself served as an umbrella for conservative lawyers that would “break what [members] see[] as the liberal control of many of the institutions of modern America.”179Id. at 179.

For Reagan, the Federalist Society offered a ready supply of smart and reliably conservative lawyers, both for positions in the administration and judicial nominations. Attacks on the Court delivered a potent political payoff.180See Siegel, Memory Games, supra note 21, at 1151–52. On the campaign trail, Reagan channeled backlash to the decisions of the Warren and Burger Courts and vowed to stop the Court from “threatening to change traditional ways of life.”181Id. at 1151. Reagan ran on a platform that included a commitment to nominate “judges at all levels of the judiciary who respect traditional family values and the sanctity of innocent human life.”182Republican Party Platform of 1980, Am. Presidency Project, https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/documents/republican-party-platform-1980 [https://perma.cc/M47Q-B3J5].

But before and after his election, the American Bar Association hammered Reagan for elevating ideology over qualifications, and the administration looked for an interpretive method—or set of traits—that would appear neutral and legitimate while ensuring the kinds of results that Reagan demanded.183See Siegel, Memory Games, supra note 21, at 1151–57. As Reva Siegel has shown, aligning with the Federalist Society offered an alternative source of legitimacy for the judges the administration put forward. Originalism, in turn, commended itself to the Reagan Administration and the conservative legal movement as a way to frame the administration’s vision of the law and identify sympathetic judges, without calling for substantive and specific outcomes.184Id.

After Reagan’s re-election, the Federalist Society established itself as a pipeline to power: Edwin Meese, the attorney general, launched an attack on judicial activism at the organization’s national gathering in 1985; Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia was another prominent speaker.185Glen Elsasser, Federalist Society Grows into Conservative Big Shot, Chi. Trib., Jan. 11, 1987, at C1. Where conservatives had been disorganized and demoralized, the Federalist Society united them by appealing to originalism and judicial restraint—and by rallying against the influence of left-leaning legal scholars like the movement for Critical Legal Studies.186On conservative anxieties about Critical Legal Studies, see Chris Goodrich, Back to the Future, Cal. Law., July 1987, at 32, 37 (on file with authors); In Critical Legal Studies, The West Is the Adversary, Wall St. J., Feb. 23, 1989, at A18. The Federalist Society claimed that the legal left had distorted the judiciary’s proper role insofar as “the independence of the Supreme Court [was] at risk of being subverted by political gamesmanship.”187Letter from Lee Sarah Liberman, Frederick D. Nelson & E. Spencer Abraham to Friend (Aug. 31, 1987) (on file with the Southern California Law Review).

The Federalist Society was an insurgent force challenging a legal orthodoxy that had been accepted by a broad spectrum of legal professionals for decades—and was epitomized by the putative legalism of the Warren Court.188See Teles, supra note 177, at 275 (explaining the influence on the conservative legal movement of the claim that “the activist judiciary of the Warren Court was inconsistent with democratic rule”). Reframing that legal consensus as political allowed Federalist Society leaders to claim that they were not revolutionaries but stewards of the rule of law.189See id. at 169 ( Eugene Meyer of the Federalist Society explaining that the organization claimed to prioritize “the separation of powers, rule of law, [and] individual freedom”).

2.  The Rutherford Institute

But antiabortion lawyers and conservative Christian litigators did not see originalism as ideal, at least not how Meese and his colleagues defined it. Antiabortion lawyers hoped eventually for a court that would recognize fetal personhood.190On the centrality of personhood and fetal rights claims to antiabortion lawyers, see Ziegler, supra note 141, at 11. In recent decades, the movement promoted a wide range of arguments that reflected existing Supreme Court jurisprudence—the recognition of a new suspect class or a substantive due process right—more than it did textualism or originalism.191Mary Ziegler, Originalism Talk: A Legal History, 2014 BYU L. Rev. 869, 869–83 (2014); Ziegler, supra note 136, at 23–31. Attorneys for conservative Christian groups, like the Rutherford Institute, believed that courts should adhere to the Christian principles they claimed animated the nation’s founding.192See John W. Whitehead, The Separation Illusion: A Lawyer Examines the First Amendment 94 (1977) (“The Constitution was written to reflect the Christian conscience of America.”); see also Ken I. Kersch, Conservatives and the Constitution: Imagining Constitutional Restoration in the Heyday of American Liberalism 282–308 (2019) (describing the view of conservative Catholic and Protestant advocates that the United States was a nation “with Christian foundations”). An entrenched history-and-tradition test could reconcile these ambitions with the Federalist Society’s calls for judicial modesty.

A trial of this entrenched approach to history and tradition came in the form of a struggle over the fate of criminal sodomy laws. As Bowers v. Hardwick was making its way to the Supreme Court, an emerging conservative Christian public-interest bar changed the claims made on a history-and-tradition test.193On the early Christian interest law firms, see R. Jonathan Moore, Suing for America’s Soul: John Whitehead, The Rutherford Institute, and Conservative Christians in the Courts 12–32 (2007) (chronicling the work of the Rutherford Institute); Amanda Hollis-Brusky & Joshua C. Wilson, Separate but Faithful: The Christian Right’s Radical Struggle to Transform Law & Legal Culture 49–81 (2020) (describing the early public interest litigation and legal education initiatives of conservative Christian lawyers). The Rutherford Institute, which opened its doors in 1982, played a particularly important role in the creation of a fully entrenched version of the test.194See Kersch, supra note 192, at 282–90 (describing the evolution of Whitehead and Rutherford’s claims on the Constitution). There were other conservative Christian litigation firms when John Whitehead launched Rutherford, but Whitehead himself was renowned because of his success in Christian publishing.195Whitehead laid out many of his key ideas in 1977. See Whitehead, supra note 192, at 24 (“The Constitution was designed to perpetuate a Christian order.”). His 1982 volume, The Second American Revolution, sold more than 100,000 copies and was made into a film. See Kersch, supra note 192, at 162. Like other prominent conservative Protestants, Whitehead maintained that the Constitution was a Christian document.196Among the most prominent was the theologian Francis Schaeffer, who posited that America had been founded as a Christian nation. For Schaeffer’s discussion of the Constitution, see Francis A. Schaeffer, How Should We Then Live? The Rise and Decline of Western Thought and Culture 109–10, 220–22 (1976). For Whitehead’s perspective, see supra notes 192, 195 and accompanying text. The Fundamental Law, “clearly expressed in God’s revelation as ultimately found in the Bible,” had shaped the nation’s founding as well as the Constitution, which “presuppose[d] the Declaration [of Independence] and the higher, fundamental law to which the Declaration [bears] witness[].”197Kersch, supra note 192, at 291.

When Rutherford filed as amicus in Bowers, an evolving-tradition test might have served Rutherford’s aims: less than a third of Americans polled in 1986 opposed sodomy bans.198LGBTQ+ Rights, In Depth: Topics A to Z, Gallup, https://news.gallup.com/poll/1651/gay-lesbian-rights.aspx [https://perma.cc/72DX-KC3H]. But Rutherford attorneys framed the nation’s traditions as both Biblical and unchangeable, and they wove this conviction into a vision for the history-and-tradition test.199Brief of the Rutherford Institute et al., Amici Curiae, in Support of the Petitioner, 4–6, 13–20, Bowers v. Hardwick, 478 U.S. 186 (1986) (No. 85-140) [hereinafter Brief of the Rutherford Institute]. Antiabortion lawyers had made a similar argument in struggles over end-of-life decision-making, insisting that legitimate substantive due process rights had to reflect the broader history of “Western Civilization.”200Thomas J. Marzen, Mary K. O’Dowd, Daniel Crone & Thomas J. Balch, Suicide: A Constitutional Right?, 24 Duquesne L. Rev. 1, 15–17 (1985). Rutherford’s amicus brief argued that criminal prohibitions of sodomy had roots in “the Judeo-Christian Scriptures.”201Brief of the Rutherford Institute, supra note 199, at 13. Rutherford would later supplement these claims about religion and tradition by arguing that expanding protection for gays and lesbians threatened the rights of conservative Christians. Alliance Defending Freedom (“ADF”) Fundraising Letter from John W. Whitehead, The Rutherford Inst., to Friend (on file with the Southern California Law Review) (“[O]ur historical religious freedoms, as guaranteed by the Constitution, must be protected in the face of increasing attacks from radical homosexual ‘special rights’ groups . . . .”); ADF Fundraising Letter from John W. Whitehead to Fellow American Citizens (on file with the Southern California Law Review) (arguing that civil rights protections for gays and lesbians “could prohibit churches from having a Bible, since a Bible contains passages against homosexuality”). Remarkably, Rutherford also acknowledged that attitudes toward same-sex intimacy had changed—in recent years, tolerance for same-sex intimacy had grown—if not impressively.202Brief of the Rutherford Institute, supra note 199, at 17. But this contemporary history did not matter, Rutherford insisted, for a deeply rooted tradition could not evolve.203See id. at 13–16.

Originalism might have delivered the same result in Bowers as this kind of entrenched history-and-tradition test. The framers of the Fourteenth Amendment had drafted its text at a time when criminal sodomy laws were venerable and unquestioned. It would not be long before state lawmakers began expanding sodomy laws to cover oral sex, while applying them more selectively to same-sex intimacy.204William N. Eskridge Jr., Dishonorable Passions: Sodomy Laws in America 1861–2003, at 75 (2008) (explaining how sodomy laws were extended to cover oral sex and how between 1935 and 1961, the meaning of sodomy “crystallized” and became “a thoroughly homosexualized term”). Looking at an entrenched history and tradition—which could include scriptural condemnations of sodomy—would likely have yielded the same result. But for Rutherford, the point was to advance an alternative that could take into account other Christian and “Western” values across the broader run of cases—and to advance a test that both the conservative legal movement and Christian legal movement could sometimes embrace.

The Bowers Court did not fully adopt an entrenched history-and-tradition test, even as the Court upheld Georgia’s sodomy ban.205Bowers v. Hardwick, 478 U.S. 186, 190–96 (1986). The majority noted that “[p]roscriptions against [sodomy] have ancient roots,” and that more than a dozen states criminalized sodomy, both at the time that the Bill of Rights was written and at the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment.206Id. at 192–93. But the majority also emphasized that there was no new, tolerant tradition regarding sodomy: “24 States and the District of Columbia continue to provide criminal penalties for sodomy.”207Id. at 193–94. Justice Burger, who contended that condemnation of sodomy was “firmly rooted in Judeao-Christian moral and ethical standards,” picked up on even more of Rutherford’s claim.208Id. at 196 (Burger, C.J., concurring).

B.  From Michael H. to Casey

Movement organizations were not very involved in the 1989 case of Michael H. v. Gerald D., but the history-and-tradition test was front and center.209Michael H. v. Gerald D., 491 U.S. 110, 125 (1989) (finding “nothing in the older sources, nor in the older cases, addressing specifically the power of the natural father to assert parental rights over a child born into a woman’s existing marriage with another man”). Conflict over that test continued to be central in constitutional struggles over abortion too. The Supreme Court whittled away at Roe in a series of decisions, including another from 1989, Webster v. Reproductive Health Services, which articulated the view that Roe’s trimester framework was hopelessly unworkable.210Webster v. Reprod. Health Servs., 492 U.S. 490, 518 (1989) (quoting Garcia v. San Antonio Metro. Transit Auth., 469 U.S. 528, 546 (1985)). When the Justices agreed to hear a challenge to a Pennsylvania multi-restriction law, in Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pennsylvania v. Casey,211Planned Parenthood of Se. Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833 (1992) (plurality decision). reproductive rights attorneys Kitty Kolbert and Linda Wharton argued that the history-and-tradition test required exploration of “evolving standards” for both liberty and equality.212Reply Brief for Petitioners and Cross-Respondents, Planned Parenthood of Se. Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833 (1992) (Nos. 91-744, 91-902), 1992 WL 551420, at *7–8 (quoting Hudson v. McMillian, 503 U.S. 1, 8 (1992)).

1.  Integrating the New Christian Right

Antiabortion lawyers, for their part, invoked Bowers as the prime example of an entrenched history-and-tradition test213Brief of Certain American State Legislators as Amici Curiae in Support of Respondents, Planned Parenthood of Se. Pa. v. Casey, 505 U.S. 833 (1992) (Nos. 91-744, 91-902), 1992 WL 12006410, at *4 (explaining that Bowers “forcefully reiterated” the Court’s commitment to an approach grounded in history and tradition).: they argued that abortion failed that test because it had been “a crime at common law.”214Id. at *28. The plurality decision in Casey invoked Justice Harlan’s dissent in Poe and reinforced that tradition was a “living thing”—one defined not by a single moment in the past (or any one interpretation of that moment).215Casey, 505 U.S. at 850 (quoting Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497, 542 (1961) (Harlan, J., dissenting)). Casey described the Court’s own substantive due process decisions as helping to define past tradition, but said little else.216Id. at 847–48.

Casey, together with growing conflicts over same-sex marriage and end-of-life decision-making, increased interest in a history-and-tradition test as a mobilizing tool on the right. Before the second half of the 1990s, mostly single-issue antiabortion groups had fought for influence in the conservative legal movement, with key figures bridging the divide between the two. These included such figures as James Bopp Jr., the influential general counsel for the National Right to Life Committee tapped to head a new election law and campaign finance committee within the Federalist Society, and Leonard Leo, the Federalist Society attorney with deep ties to antiabortion activism and conservative Catholic voters who had been tasked with steering Clarence Thomas’s Supreme Court confirmation through Congress.217On Leonard Leo’s trajectory, see Timothy Bella, Who Is Conservative Activist Leonard Leo? A Friend of Clarence Thomas., Wash. Post (May 5, 2023), https://www.washingtonpost.com/nation/2023/05/05/leonard-leo-clarence-thomas-ginni [https://perma.cc/MPL9-J74C]; Jeffrey Toobin, The Conservative Pipeline to the Supreme Court, New Yorker (Apr. 10, 2017), https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/04/17/the-conservative-pipeline-to-the-supreme-court [https://perma.cc/59M6-64E9].

2.  Alliance Defending Freedom

In 1994, Larry Burkett, a tycoon in the world of Christian financial consulting, teamed up with Bill Bright, the founder of the massively successful Campus Crusade, to develop a conservative Christian alternative to the ACLU that they would call the Alliance Defense Fund (“ADF”) (later the Alliance Defending Freedom).218On the founding and early work of ADF, see Katherine Stewart, The Good News Club: The Christian Right’s Stealth Assault on America’s Children 82–83 (2012); Hollis-Brusky & Wilson, supra note 193, at 34–48 (tracing ADF’s transition from being a “clearinghouse to capturing the lion’s share of [conservative Christian legal] funding to drive their own litigation efforts”). On the role of Burkett and Bright, see What Is Alliance Defending Freedom? Alliance Defending Freedom (Oct. 11, 2024), https://adflegal.org/article/what-alliance-defending-freedom [https://perma.cc/Y88W-PXVK]. Bright and Burkett convinced a group of leading televangelists in 1993 that conservative Christian litigators were massively underfunded—a conclusion that led to the founding of ADF, which would fund cases involving “religious freedom, the sanctity of human life, and family values.”219The ACLU Finally Meets Its Match (ADF, Scottsdale, Ariz.), at 1 (on file with the Southern California Law Review); see also ADF Fundraising Letter from Alan E. Sears, President, ADF, to Friend, Nov. 1996, at 1–2 (on file with the Southern California Law Review) (explaining that because of ADF, “Christians need not turn tail and run when the ACLU rolls out its big guns,” and that ADF would establish that “America’s founders were Christians who established our nation on Christian principles”); Alan E. Sears, So Much for Democracy!, 2 ADF Briefing, July 1996, at 4 (on file with the Southern California Law Review) (“If the Body of Christ doesn’t get more serious about the legal battles we are in, we won’t recognize this nation in another generation.”). Central to this vision was a particular approach to history and tradition, one that fixed on a point in the nation’s supposed past while assigning Christian Scripture a foundational role in determining the Constitution’s meaning. “America’s founders were Christians who established our nation on Christian principles, deeply rooted in the Bible,” ADF leader Alan Sears explained in a 1996 fundraising letter.220ADF Fundraising Letter, supra note 219, at 1.

ADF quickly built up a formidable budget, desperately needed by even the best-funded antiabortion groups, and ADF’s claims about the persecution of Christians resonated with antiabortion activists angry about the prosecutions and fines of those seeking to block entrances to reproductive health facilities.221On the growth of the ADF and its influence, see Joshua C. Wilson, The New States of Abortion Politics 41 (2016). But most antiabortion groups remained loathe to stray from a single-issue framework, and members of the Federalist Society did not openly embrace ADF’s vision of a Christian Constitution. Rallying around a history-and-tradition test could overcome these differences.

C.  Evolving and Entrenched Traditionalism

In the mid-1990s, a handful of states began passing aid-in-dying laws. Antiabortion attorneys argued that those laws violated the Constitution.222See Lee v. Oregon, 107 F.3d 1382, 1386 (9th Cir. 1997); Associated Press, Suicide Law Withstands a Challenge, N.Y. Times (Feb. 28, 1997), https://www.nytimes.com/1997/02/28/us/suicide-law-withstands-a-challenge.html [https://perma.cc/6KDK-D8NX]. When the Supreme Court agreed to hear Glucksberg, antiabortion groups privileged arguments about history and tradition.223See Brief Amicus Curiae of the National Right to Life Committee, Inc. in Support of Defendants-Appellees at 23, Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702 (1997) (No. 96-110). “It is clear that a right to assisted suicide is neither implicit in the concept of ordered liberty nor deeply rooted in American history and tradition,” the National Right to Life Committee argued.224Id.; see also Brief Amicus Curiae on Behalf of Members of the New York and Washington State Legislatures in Support of Petitioners at 6, Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702 (1997) (No. 96-110) (“[T]here has never been a period in English or American history when suicide (or suicide assistance) was regarded as a ‘fundamental right’ . . . .”).

1.  The Battle in Glucksberg

The right-to-die advocates litigating Glucksberg stressed that Casey had not “removed history and tradition from the due process equation.”225Brief for Respondents, Vacco v. Quill at 27, 521 U.S. 793 (1997) (No. 95-1858), 1996 WL 708912, at *27. Instead,

Casey recognized that constitutional significance inheres . . . not in the historic legality or illegality of a specific act, but in the treatment, in our history and tradition, of interests like those in bodily integrity and autonomy, in avoiding pain and suffering, and in making profoundly intimate and personal life-shaping decisions.226Id.

The ACLU’s amicus echoed this interpretation, stressing that the right of “a mentally competent, terminally ill person to choose an end to [physical] suffering” was “deeply rooted in [the] Nation’s history and tradition.”227Brief Amici Curiae Supporting Respondents of the American Civil Liberties Union et al. at 4, Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702 (1997) (No. 96-110) (alteration in original).

Glucksberg rejected constitutional claims against assisted suicide but did not clearly embrace an entrenched history-and-tradition test. Justice Rehnquist’s majority opinion juxtaposed living constitutionalism with an alternative focused on “fundamental rights found to be deeply rooted in our legal tradition.”228Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702, 721–22 (1997). And Rehnquist stressed themes of judicial restraint that conservatives had tried to associate with an entrenched traditionalism, suggesting that a focus on history and tradition could “rein in the subjective elements that are necessarily present in due process judicial review.”229Id. at 722.

But Glucksberg hardly focused on just a few points in the distant constitutional past.230Id. at 726. The Court also stressed more recent support for bans on aid-in-dying, which had “been reexamined and, generally, reaffirmed.”231Id. And Glucksberg reaffirmed that Casey had applied a history-and-tradition test.232Id. at 727. “[T]he Court’s opinion in Casey,” Glucksberg reasoned, “described, in a general way and in light of our prior cases, those personal activities and decisions that this Court has identified as so deeply rooted in our history and traditions, . . . that they are protected by the Fourteenth Amendment.”233Id. This was a far cry from the evolving history-and-tradition test that Justice Harlan had set forth in Poe.234See James E. Fleming, Constructing Basic Liberties: A Defense of Substantive Due Process 38–39 (2022).

2.  From Lawrence to Obergefell

ADF used history and tradition to describe what its leaders understood to be divisive positions—for example, opposing heightened scrutiny for sex classifications—and to bridge possible divides with members of the Federalist Society and the conservative legal movement. Rather than denouncing sex equality or even feminism, ADF suggested that strict scrutiny for sex classifications would overturn deeply rooted laws recognizing “reasonable, time-honored differences between the sexes.”235Supreme Court Rejection of Strict Scrutiny Test in VMI Case: Victory for America . . . , ADF Briefing, Jul. 1996, at 3 (on file with the Southern California Law Review); see also ADF Fundraising Letter from Alan E. Sears, President, ADF, to Friend, supra note 219, at 2 (arguing that the recognition of strict scrutiny for sex classifications would “turn[] our society upside down”). When it came to efforts to decriminalize same-sex intimacy, expand sex-education curricula, or bolster laws prohibiting same-sex marriage, ADF long framed its work as a fight to stop “homosexuals” from changing the law and using a “battering ram . . . to smash the biblical values on which our country was built.”236ADF Fundraising Letter from Alan E. Sears, President, ADF, to Friend, Apr. 1997, at 2 (on file with the Southern California Law Review).

By the end of the 1990s, these claims became politically toxic—and quite different from the kind of textualist and originalist arguments advanced by the Federalist Society. Polls showed growing tolerance for legalizing same-sex intimacy, and in the 1996 case Romer v. Evans, the Court struck down a Colorado state constitutional amendment for lacking a rational basis and codifying anti-gay animus.237Romer v. Evans, 517 U.S. 620, 631–35 (1996). An entrenched traditionalism had operated to allow conservative movements to update what had become politically out-of-bounds claims. It also enabled them to frame the demands of the Christian legal movement and antiabortion forces in terms that the Federalist Society could accept.

Conservative Christians again sought to use arguments from history and tradition to create common ground in Lawrence v. Texas, a case involving a challenge to Texas’s sodomy ban.238Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003). The State of Texas, for example, stressed that the nation had a tradition of “historically prohibiting a wide variety of extramarital sexual conduct.”239Respondent’s Brief at 4, Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003) (No. 02-102); see also Brief Amicus Curiae of the Family Research Council, Inc. and Focus on the Family in Support of the Respondent at 29–30, Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003) (No. 02-102). Lawrence proved a devastating setback for proponents of an entrenched history-and-tradition test. Justice Kennedy’s majority began by casting doubt on the narrative of consistent hostility to homosexuality offered up by Bowers—as leading historians had documented, a focus on same-sex intimacy was relatively recent, as was an understanding of homosexuality as a stable identity.240Lawrence, 539 U.S. at 571–72. But the Lawrence Court suggested that it was the “laws and traditions in the past half century” that were of the “most relevance.”241Id.

Lawrence did nothing to decrease social-movement interest in arguments about history and tradition, especially as the fight for same-sex marriage continued. Groups like the National Organization for Marriage (“NOM”), founded in 2007 to preserve a California ban on same-sex marriage, presented their cause as a defense of “traditional marriage.”242Erik Eckholm & Katharine Q. Seelye, New York’s Approval of Same-Sex Marriage Spurs Opponents for New Fights, N.Y. Times (July 2, 2011), https://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/03/us/politics/03gay.html [https://perma.cc/RLU7-LVZL]; see also Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Ready to Fight Marriage at the Court Door, N.Y. Times (Mar. 22, 2013), https://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/23/us/politics/brian-brown-fights-same-sex-marriage-with-zeal-and-strategy.html [https://perma.cc/7WS6-NJ6H]; Ray Rivera & Christine Stuart, Using Biology, Not Religion, to Argue Against Same-Sex Marriage, N.Y. Times (Oct. 11, 2008), https://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/12/nyregion/12marriage.html [https://perma.cc/HL2K-FRED]. In 2008, when the California Supreme Court held that the state constitution required access to marriage for same-sex couples, Maggie Gallagher, one of NOM’s co-founders, complained that the decision “brushed aside the entire history and meaning of marriage in our tradition.”243Adam Liptak, California Supreme Court Overturns Gay Marriage Ban, N.Y. Times (May 16, 2008), https://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/16/us/16marriage.html [https://perma.cc/VP68-SMXK]. In 2009, NOM moved its headquarters to Washington, D.C. and repackaged the group’s cause, as the Washington Post explained that year, to argue that “opposing gay marriage does not make them bigots, that the argument should have nothing to do with hate or fear, and everything to do with history and tradition.”244Monica Hesse, Opposing Gay Unions with Sanity & a Smile, Wash. Post (Aug. 28, 2009), https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/08/27/AR2009082704139_pf.html [https://perma.cc/CC9N-8HXD].

Arguments about history and tradition also figured centrally in efforts to fortify the alliance between conservative Catholics, evangelical Protestants, and Orthodox Christians, spearheaded by Robert George, the Princeton professor who served as the chairman of NOM.245David D. Kirkpatrick, The Conservative-Christian Big Thinker, N.Y. Times (Dec. 16, 2009), https://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/20/magazine/20george-t.html [https://perma.cc/SUX2-REY5]. George helped to draft and publicize the 2009 Manhattan Declaration, which identified traditional marriage, opposition to abortion, and support for a particular idea of religious liberty as the unifying demands of conservative Christians.246See Manhattan Declaration: A Call of Christian Conscience, Manhattan Declaration (Nov. 20, 2009), https://www.manhattandeclaration.org [https://perma.cc/U6DR-LB8B] (prioritizing “the sanctity of human life, the dignity of marriage as a union of husband and wife, and the freedom of conscience and religion”). The declaration, in turn, framed opposite-sex marriage as honored or even required by “Christian tradition, and . . . Western law.”247Id.

History-and-tradition arguments also defined conservative movements’ strategies when a challenge to bans on same-sex marriage reached the Supreme Court in Obergefell v. Hodges.248Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644 (2015). Some amicus briefs stressed that there was a history and tradition of allowing states to define marriage as they saw fit.249See, e.g., Brief of Amicus Curiae Judicial Watch, Inc. in Support of Respondents at 2–3, Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644 (2015) (Nos. 14-556, 14-562, 14-571, 14-574). Others suggested that only marriage between persons of the opposite sex was deeply rooted in the nation’s history and tradition.250See, e.g., Brief of Amicus Curiae Michigan Catholic Conference in Support of Respondents at 27, DeBoer v. Snyder, 576 U.S. 644 (2015) (No. 14-571). Obergefell embraced a kind of evolving traditionalism. Justice Kennedy’s majority underscored that “[h]istory and tradition guide and discipline” analysis of the Fourteenth Amendment, “but do not set its outer boundaries.”251Obergefell, 576 U.S. at 664. What made this longer-term perspective so important, Kennedy said, is that “[t]he nature of injustice is that we may not always see it in our own times.”252Id. But Obergefell would not usher back in the evolving traditionalism of yore.

An entrenched history-and-tradition test remained a priority for antiabortion lawyers, especially following the confirmations of Justices Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Barrett.253See Ziegler, supra note 25, at 164. And then, Dobbs elevated this entrenched species of traditionalism, alongside other key cases from the 2021–2022 and 2022–2023 Terms.254Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2246–47 (2022). But the meaning of a history-and-tradition test had, in fact, been a site of contestation for decades before the newly constituted conservative majority declared that “history and tradition” teaches that “what the Fourteenth Amendment means by the term ‘liberty’ . . . does not protect the right to an abortion.”255Id. at 2248.

III.  REMAKING TRADITIONALISM

Recovering this lost approach to history and tradition is significant for three reasons. First, it sheds new light on old puzzles that have beset constitutional interpretation. These include charges of judicial activism and deep-rooted injustice, generality problems, and difficulties in differentiating between the traditionalist method and either “gloss” or “liquidation.” Second, a shared focus on longstanding and widespread practices promises to take the edge off interpretive divisions between the prevailing extremes of originalism and living constitutionalism, especially if looking to the way in which they have evolved over time. Third, distinguishing entrenched from evolving traditionalism provides a constructive way to clarify which rights merit constitutional recognition. The final Section details how these distinct approaches to traditionalism would go about analyzing a number of fundamental rights claims that the Supreme Court has already recognized (e.g., birth control, interracial marriage, medical refusal) as well as others that it hasn’t (e.g., assisted reproduction, aid-in-dying, gender-affirming care).

A.  Doctrinal Puzzles

Traditionalism is criticized for being either too manipulable or too stuck in the past. These objections come from opposite directions. One casts this method of interpretation as so unmoored that it invites judicial activism. The other says it is so rigid that it entrenches injustice. The evolving approach to history and tradition proves less vulnerable to both criticisms than the entrenched version of that test. And there are a couple other doctrinal puzzles that evolving traditionalism makes meaningful progress on too. One relates to the levels-of-generality problem in determining the scope of constitutional rights and holdings. The other is about the complexities of distinguishing traditionalism from “gloss” or “liquidation.” The evolving kind of history and tradition isn’t immune to these challenges. But it fares better.

1.  Activism and Calcification

The evolving test attracts charges of judicial activism because it doesn’t confine the inquiry to a preset timeframe in the distant past. And if a judge has more time periods to pick from, she has more discretion to pick and choose her favorite practices. But that analysis is still anchored in extra-judicial practices whose roots run deep. There’s no picking and choosing among isolated customs or fleeting fads—let alone freestanding normative principles or cost-benefit analyses. And this methodological point is critical: evolving history and tradition advises looking to the most recent among sufficiently longstanding practices. Accordingly, it offers the judge no wider variation than entrenched traditionalism.

Besides, fixing a traditionalist analysis on some earlier era isn’t determinate. It leaves ample space to exercise judicial discretion. For one, as Justice Amy Coney Barrett asked in the Bruen gun rights case, “How long after ratification may subsequent practice illuminate original public meaning?”256N.Y. State Rifle & Pistol Ass’n v. Bruen, 142 S. Ct. 2111, 2163 (2022) (Barrett, J., concurring). The absence of any clear answer invites arbitrary line-drawing on either side. Adam Winkler catalogs the ways in which the Bruen “Court says that it is doing history and tradition analysis, but conveniently ignores any history it doesn’t like,” dismissing “all of the historical precedents for heavy restrictions on concealed-carry laws as outliers,” “early English common law as too old,” and “laws that were adopted after the mid-eighteen-hundreds as too young.”257Isaac Chotiner, The Historical Cherry-Picking at the Heart of the Supreme Court’s Gun-Rights Expansion, New Yorker (June 23, 2022) (quoting Adam Winkler), https://www.newyorker.com/news/q-and-a/the-historical-cherry-picking-at-the-heart-of-the-supreme-courts-gun-rights-expansion [https://perma.cc/GAL6-WTVB]. Joseph Blocher and Reva Siegel give the name “asymmetric updating” to the danger that Second Amendment rights expand to include new kinds of weapons, while the government’s regulatory authority stays frozen in 1791 or 1868.258See Joseph Blocher & Reva B. Siegel, Guided by History: Protecting the Public Sphere from Weapons Threats Under Bruen, 98 N.YU. L. Rev. 1795, 1800 (2023). Entrenched traditionalism is vulnerable to cherry-picked traditions and badly done history too, while the evolving test can find expression in tangible practices grounded in objective, empirical evidence.

When it comes to the problem of intransigence, entrenched traditionalism is susceptible to injustices that reach further back in our past. All that matters is that a practice was accepted at the relevant ratification era—its animating rationale or subsequent rejection escapes scrutiny.259See, e.g., Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2249–54 (declining to address the rationales for common law and statutory developments around abortion); Kennedy v. Bremerton Sch. Distr., 142 S. Ct. 2407, 2428–29 (2022) (historicizing teacher prayer while neglecting the reasons for it in schools); Bruen, 142 S. Ct. at 2134–56 (describing traditions of firearm ownership and regulation without justificatory context for either). So does the way in which tradition is deployed: to uphold a law that’s consistent with longstanding practices, to strike one down because it is at odds with them, or to interpret a provision that was enacted precisely to abolish a persisting evil like slavery. Consider the 2021 case Brnovich v. Democratic National Committee,260Brnovich v. Democratic Nat’l Comm., 141 S. Ct. 2321 (2021). which read into the Voting Rights Act a presumption that any practice is valid that was “standard” when the Act was enacted in 1965, even if it operated to deny black voters the opportunities afforded to others.261Id. at 2338 . Justice Elena Kagan dissented on the ground that the purpose of the statute was “to eradicate then-current discriminatory practices, not to set them in amber.”262Id. at 2363–64 (Kagan, J., dissenting).

Obergefell, the 2015 case affirming a right to same-sex marriage, underscores the injustices in an entrenched appeal to traditionalism: “If rights were defined by who exercised them in the past, then received practices could serve as their own continued justification and new groups could not invoke rights once denied.”263Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644, 671 (2015). Evolving traditionalism combats the reflexive appeal to “what we have always done,” when our past embodies grave wrongs. Longitudinal analysis about historical practices leaves space to recognize the ways in which traditions tend to grow progressively fairer over time. There is no guarantee that “what we have done more recently” ever and always bends toward decency and fairness. It is possible that more recent traditions are not especially more likely to be just. Later generations can certainly make moral mistakes too. What an evolving test enables us to do is avoid reifying the transgressions that we can see clearly when looking back in the rearview mirror, so that at least those we won’t perpetuate indefinitely into the future.

That’s what persuaded the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court (the state’s highest) in a 2022 case to grant due process protections to medical aid-in-dying under the state constitution. The Court identified two methods of traditionalism that it referred to as narrow and comprehensive: “a fundamental right may be determined either through a narrow view of this nation’s history and traditions or through a more comprehensive approach, which uses ‘reasoned judgment’ to determine whether a right is fundamental.”264Kligler v. Att’y Gen., 198 N.E.3d 1229, 1249 (Mass. 2022) (citation omitted).

The Massachusetts high court adopted the “comprehensive” approach whose consideration of “modern precedent alongside history” enabled the majority “to cleanse our substantive due process analysis of the bigotry that too often haunts our history.”265Id. at 1252. Social practices occupy a relatively weak place in this “comprehensive” conception of history and tradition. It holds that practices are neither a necessary nor sufficient condition of interpretative meaning. Evolving traditionalism reserves a stronger role for social practices. They give a judge a source of legal authority to cite when she agrees with it but also constrain her when she does not.

2.  Levels of Generality

Generality problems pervade constitutional, statutory, and common law.266See Dov Fox, Interest Creep, 82 Geo. Wash. L. Rev. 273, 275–76 (2014); Mark V. Tushnet, Following the Rules Laid Down: A Critique of Interpretivism and Neutral Principles, 96 Harv. L. Rev. 781, 790–91 (1983). They boil down to the description of a law, provision, or case at a lower level of generality or a higher one—in other words, in terms that are either more particular, and so would accordingly apply to a narrower set of future facts or questions, or stated as an abstract matter, which has relevance to a wider range of legal issues.267See Adam M. Samaha, Levels of Generality, Constitutional Comedy, and Legal Design, 2013 U. Ill. L. Rev. 1733, 1735 (2013); Laurence H. Tribe, Comment, in A Matter of Interpretation: Federal Courts and the Law: An Essay by Antonin Scalia 65, 69 (Amy Gutmann ed., 1997). This framing can have a profound impact on a legal conclusion. In 1937, legal theorist Jerome Hall put the problem like this: “Upon the level of generality selected for the criteria of likeness or dissimilarity depends the outcome.”268Jerome Hall, Nulla Poena Sine Lege, 47 Yale L.J. 165, 173 (1937).

The generality problem we focus on is the level at which a rights claim is articulated before the court, or in the understanding of its holding. It is a debate that Laurence Tribe and Michael Dorf launched in 1990,269See Laurence H. Tribe & Michael C. Dorf, Levels of Generality in the Definition of Rights, 57 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1057, 1087, 1098 (1990). the year after Justice Antonin Scalia suggested that courts select “the most specific level at which a relevant tradition protecting, or denying protection to, the asserted right can be identified.”270Michael H. v. Gerald D., 491 U.S. 110, 128 n.6 (1989). The question is how specifically or generally to identify a “relevant tradition”—for example, as allowing adulterous fathers to interfere with families, or letting genetic parents visit the children they learned of their biological connection to only at some point after their birth.271See id. at 127 n.6. Marc DeGirolami argues that empirical appeal to the fact of social practices itself might help to rein in the choice of level by limiting the range of plausible answers to those that find expression in practices that are especially pervasive and longstanding.272See supra note 17 and accompanying text.

Evolving traditionalism can help to gain traction on the levels-of-generality problem. Take Obergefell. America has long respected the general framing of a liberty interest in two people getting married in cases like Loving v. Virginia, which recognized rights of marriage rather than “interracial” marriage.273Loving v. Virginia, 388 U.S. 1, 12 (1967). But the same interest might also be characterized in terms of a more specific framing about same-sex couples specifically. The question is whether two decades of same-sex marriage recognition in a growing minority of states is enough to root a tradition deeply. The answer depends on which practices endure most when the lens of tradition is refracted from the ratification era into more recently longstanding practices. The Obergefell majority reasoned about history not as a limit but as a guide that’s “entrusted to future generations” to protect individual freedom in a manner that evolves “as we learn its meaning.”274Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644, 664 (2015).

By contrast, the reconstituted Supreme Court majority in Dobbs adopted a low level of generality to define a specific right to abortion, as that practice had been entrenched under nineteenth-century state restrictions.275Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2247–48 (2022). An evolving traditionalism that accounted for battles over birth control and medical refusal would have advised a more general right of reproductive freedom or healthcare. Distinguishing entrenched from evolving traditionalism also guards against selectively favoring whichever level of generality suits a preferred outcome: for example, describing the types of “arms” covered by the Second Amendment right at a high level of generality to include weapons unknown to the founding era, while casting gun control regulations at a low level of generality that requires laws which closely resemble past practice.276See Siegel, Levels-of-Generality Game, supra note 34, at 19–20.

3.  Gloss and Liquidation

Distinguishing the evolving from entrenched tests for history and tradition also sharpens the differences between traditionalism and similar-but-distinct interpretive methods: gloss and liquidation. Historical gloss traces back to the separation-of-powers landmark Steel Seizure Case,277Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer (Steel Seizure Case), 343 U.S. 579 (1952). specifically to Justice Felix Frankfurter’s concurrence, detailing that permissible sources of presidential power include “the gloss which life has written upon them” through “a systematic, unbroken . . . practice.”278Id. at 610 (Frankfurter, J., concurring). Gloss is just one data point among others, so relevant practices feature less prominently than they do in traditionalist interpretation, where social practices take center stage.279See Bradley, Doing Gloss, supra note 20, at 78.

Historical gloss more closely resembles evolving history and tradition in its analysis of relevant actions and inactions over time.280See Curtis A. Bradley & Trevor W. Morrison, Historical Gloss and the Separation of Powers, 126 Harv. L. Rev. 411, 426 (2012). The biggest difference is that gloss considers only government practices.281See Bradley, Doing Gloss, supra note 20, at 69. The history-and-tradition test widens the focus to salient and “systematic” practices by non-state communities too. Beyond legal advocacy, this could include widely shared primary conduct by unorganized groups of individuals, such as the growing use of contraceptives even among Catholics, or cohabitation of the sort cited in Moore.282See Moore v. City of East Cleveland, 431 U.S. 494, 504 (1977) (“The tradition of uncles, aunts, cousins, and especially grandparents sharing a household along with parents and children has roots equally venerable and equally deserving of constitutional recognition.”); id. at 505 n.14 (citing “[r]ecent census reports” as evidence of the most recent practice). By contrast to gloss, evolving traditionalism qualifies a social practice as relevant to recognizing a constitutional right, or declining to recognize it, when lots of people have undertaken or abstained from that practice for a long time.

Liquidation also goes beyond constitutional text to set the scope of indeterminate provisions in light of how political branches, states, or the people apply them after they’re enacted.283See William Baude, Constitutional Liquidation, 71 Stan. L. Rev. 1, 4 (2019). Federalist No. 37 says liquidation is necessary when and because a newly ratified rule is “more or less obscure and equivocal.”284Id. at 14 (citing The Federalist No. 37, at 236 (James Madison) (Jacob E. Cooke ed., 1961). This method features elements of both the evolving and entrenched versions of traditionalism. Liquidation is evolving in its openness to amplification by post-ratification practices that boast longevity and adherence. But then it fixes the meaning of that gap in the text through a period of acquiescence to a particular view in a process known as settlement.285Id. at 53–54.

William Baude argues that liquidation tends to be achieved by people of great stature, working at the nerve centers of political power.286Id. at 22–28. By contrast, traditionalism finds the development of tradition in sometimes small places. And an evolving brand of that test looks for uniformity in the practices that cash out constitutional meaning across space and time. Liquidation also closes off interpretation to the possibility of future revision, without especially worthy justification. Whereas evolving traditionalism counts any change in longstanding social practices as meaningful to rights recognition.

B.  Common Ground

The prevailing constitutional theories tend to talk past each other. Originalism and living constitutionalism appeal not only to different eras, but also to disparate values and core commitments.287See Solum, supra note 42, at 1270. It is not that there haven’t been rigorous scholarly efforts to engage the other side.288For example, Lawrence Solum’s brand of constitutional originalism talks directly with non-originalists. See id. at 228–29, 326–27. Jack Balkin adopts a living-constitutionalist view with originalist underpinnings. See Jack M. Balkin, Living Originalism 291 (2011). William Baude and Stephen Sachs advance an originalism that is, in part, about what contemporary judges do as a matter of fact today. See Baude & Sachs, supra note 19, at 1130–31. And yet these camps now find themselves more polarized than ever. They’re at odds about the Constitution’s meaning in most of the hard cases, that is, whenever the document is vague, silent, or cannot be substantiated with reliable historical context.289Caleb Nelson, Originalism and Interpretive Conventions, 70 U. Chi. L. Rev. 519, 519–25 (2003). That’s when they part ways for good, for example, about the role of original meaning (or original intent or law or methods). An evolving form of traditionalism holds out hope for bridging this gap, offering interpretive opponents a more conciliatory set of first principles and shared vocabulary.290See Jack M. Balkin, Framework Originalism and the Living Constitution, 103 N.w. U. L. Rev. 549, 611 (2009).

Most originalists think the meaning of each constitutional provision was pretty much fixed at the time that provision was adopted. So, it might seem reasonable to think that most would be reluctant to embrace social practices that were entrenched long ago in lieu of ones whose durability and pervasiveness evolved more recently. But there are other originalist commitments too. One is that constitutional practice constrains judicial decision-making. And this would seem to counsel openness to the external restraint that longstanding history and tradition places on this method of interpretation. The promise is more modest than any easy compromise. It is just the chance to bring constitutional antagonists to the same table to engage in meaningful conversation.

The evolving approach to history and tradition can be understood as a particular variant of living constitutionalism, defined as the idea that the Constitution’s authoritative meaning can and should be responsive to changing values absent any formal change to Article V.291See Solum, supra note 42, at 1261. Evolving traditionalism anchors itself in the most recent among those lasting social practices that go back at least decades, whereas most forms of living constitutionalism impose no such check on their interpretations that are grounded in changing circumstances and values.

The difference between entrenched traditionalism and originalism is subtler. Solum and Barnett diagnose their resemblance when they ask why Dobbs and Bruen fix the focus of traditionalism on historical evidence about the prevalence of state legislation around the time of constitutional ratification in 1791 or 1868. Their answer invokes originalism: firearms and pregnancy restrictions lend insight into what the public would have understood the Second and Fourteenth Amendments to mean when it comes to gun and abortion rights.292See Barnett & Solum, supra note 16, at 455. Solum and Barnett are right to observe that entrenched traditionalism and original public meaning can rely on similar evidence, even often. What distinguishes them, however, is the self-conscious attention each pays either to concrete social practices (traditionalism) or to abstract textual construction (originalism).

As for the entrenched and evolving variations of the history-and-tradition test, each focuses on different eras, either around the time of constitutional ratification or else extending for wider windows before and after that era. But both share minimal agreement on the interpretive importance of especially meaningful social practices.293See Marc O. DeGirolami, The Traditions of American Constitutional Law, 95 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1123, 1132 (2020). Those pervasive and entrenched practices are their North Star and point of departure. This first principle is what Justice Harlan described in his Poe dissent as the “regard to what history teaches are the traditions from which [this country] developed as well as the traditions from which it broke.”294Poe v. Ullman, 367 U.S. 497, 542 (1961) (Harlan, J., dissenting). Compared with the entrenched approach to history and tradition, evolving traditionalism boasts the advantage of not forever preserving status inequalities and other past injustices, even if it might still risk ratifying contemporary evils.295See Reva B. Siegel & Mary Ziegler, Abortion’s New Criminalization—A History-and-Tradition Right to Healthcare Access After Dobbs and the 2023 Term, Va. L. Rev. (forthcoming 2025) (on file with authors) (manuscript at 21–35) (exploring how even under Dobbs, a history-and-tradition approach could require access to abortion in cases of threats to life or health).

1.  Shared Vocabulary

Traditionalism supplies a shared vocabulary that replaces abstract moral principles or contested balancing tests with tangible practices as the basis of constitutional meaning. These conversations about social practices can be mediated most effectively when tradition is treated as “a living thing,” in Harlan’s words.296Poe, 367 U.S. at 542. Practices that stand the test of time can form a shared way of talking about these questions. Analyzing the entire historical spectrum of tradition from ratification to present day moves litigants and courts into a common arena by eliminating temporal bounds and inviting inquiry into why practices came into being and stuck around, thereby shoring up their staying power. Even the most enduring practices may be subject to disagreement about their social meaning or moral value.297See Felipe Jiménez, Legal Principles, Law, and Tradition, 33 Yale J.L. & Human. 59, 61 (2022). And yet, as Harlan put it, “a decision which builds on what has survived is likely to be sound.”298Poe, 367 U.S. at 542.

Entrenched history-and-tradition tests lack clear answers to the question about just how far back to go or even reach ahead up to the present. This temporal uncertainty emerges in the trilogy itself. In Dobbs, the majority’s historical analysis extends from thirteenth-century British common law until Roe was decided on January 22, 1973.299Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2249–54 (2022). Whereas in Bruen, the Court focuses on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century practices,300N.Y. State Rifle & Pistol Ass’n v. Bruen, 142 S. Ct. 2111, 2131 (2022). in Kennedy, the Court looks instead from the Constitution’s ratification through that of the Fourteenth Amendment.301Kennedy v. Bremerton Sch. Dist., 142 S. Ct. 2407, 2428 (2022). It is not just the trilogy, either. In McDonald v. City of Chicago and Timbs v. Indiana—two cases that Dobbs cited as examples of the history-and-tradition analysis302Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2246 (first citing Timbs v. Indiana, 139 S. Ct. 682, 686 (2019); and then McDonald v. City of Chicago, 561 U.S. 742, 767–77 (2010)).—the time periods for analysis also differed: McDonald covered ratification-era common law until the early nineteenth century,303McDonald, 561 U.S. at 767–77. while the examination of relevant social practices in Timbs started with British common law and went not only up to the ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment but all way through to the present.304Timbs, 139 S. Ct. at 687–89 (relying on evidence of practices that endure “today” in all fifty states).

2.  Constitutional Trimming

An evolving history-and-tradition test starts from the first principle of enduring social practices, from before ratification until the present. Its shared vocabulary of tangible actions and inactions seeks to split the difference between the polarized margins of original meaning and living constitutionalism.

Evolving traditionalism satisfies some (albeit not all) of the considerations that move originalists to be originalists, and that attracts living constitutionalists to living constitutionalism. For originalists, traditionalism curbs judicial discretion by appealing to the longstanding social practices of politically accountable actors or the people they represent. It satisfies the popular sovereignty motivations of originalism through finding expression of the people’s will in diffuse practices over time. Meanwhile, living constitutionalists will find much to like in how evolving history-and-tradition isn’t rigidly fixed to meanings from long-ago eras very different from our own—and how it accedes to social practices that have embedded more recently based on the ethical understandings those practices reflect.

Cass Sunstein casts traditionalist interpretation as forging a constitutional compromise that demands concessions from both originalists and living constitutionalists, an example of what he calls “trimming.”305Cass R. Sunstein, Trimming, 122 Harv. L. Rev. 1049, 1054–55 (2009).

Confronted with a disagreement between themselves and their critics, trimmers might conclude not that the original understanding is determinative, but that it is entitled to consideration, and that when precedents do not cut the other way, originalism should be followed. For this reason, some trimmers might be inclined to accept a form of “soft originalism,” giving weight to the original understanding without being bound by it.306Id. at 1062.

Shedding the least compatible of this ideological baggage can facilitate more discursive engagement on a meaningful common ground. Steering this middle course can be seen as a Goldilocks kind of exercise. Nobody wants to be entirely rigid or entirely fluid. Being too rigid makes you stiff, intransigent, and uncompromising, whereas being too fluid leaves you unmoored, floating, and aimless. DeGirolami argues that traditionalist methodology habituates judges to strike the right balance by thinking “in preservationist and custodial terms, asking them to extend and renew long-lived practices in an ongoing argument about the political virtues they serve.”307Marc O. DeGirolami, Establishment as Tradition, 133 Yale L.J.F. 372, 389 (2023). History and tradition shares these Burkean features with David Strauss’s incrementalist common-law constitutionalism. See David A. Strauss, Common Law Constitutional Interpretation, 63 U. Chi. L. Rev. 877, 892–93 (1996). An evolving kind of history and tradition holds particular promise to mediate between the extremes of originalism and living constitutionalism.

C.  Remaking Rights

Beyond theoretical debates over constitutional jurisprudence, distinguishing evolving from entrenched traditionalism impacts the practical recognition of fundamental rights in profound and sometimes surprising ways. Fidelity to entrenched traditionalism would call into question rights that are clearly established and rarely contested—medical refusal, interracial marriage, and birth control. On the other hand, evolving traditionalism would not necessarily recognize new rights like medical aid-in-dying, assisted reproduction, and gender-affirming care.

That more dynamic approach also invites the possibility of an evolving right to treatments that the medical profession recognizes as standard-of-care, such as abortion, birth control, in vitro fertilization (“IVF”), and honoring advance directives, including for people who are pregnant when they fall into an irreversible coma.308See, e.g., Lewis A. Grossman, Criminalizing Transgender Care, 110 Iowa L. Rev. 281, 336–37 (2024).

An important caveat is in order: the ultimate outcomes of an evolving history-and-tradition test will of course remain complicated and contested. And limited space here doesn’t permit working out definitive answers, especially in contexts as hard as these. The conclusions in this final Section are accordingly preliminary and tentative. The goal is simply to spell out the plausible operation of evolving traditionalism to give a sense of how this interpretive method would apply in practice. We start with the trilogy of Dobbs, Bruen, and Kennedy.

1.  Abortion, Guns, and God

Dobbs concludes that “a right to abortion is not deeply rooted in the Nation’s history and traditions,” noting that, by the late-nineteenth century, thirty states “prohibited abortion at all stages except to save the life of the mother.”309Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2253 (2022). But most historians agree that abortion was in fact legal and common for most of American history, at least in the early stages of pregnancy, while half of the states that Dobbs appealed to did not make abortion a crime at all, let alone one that was prosecuted.310See Tang, After Dobbs, supra note 22, at 1128–50. Selective history aside, Dobbs doesn’t reckon with the salient circumstance that, during the civil war era, women were deprived of now-uncontroversial freedoms that range from voting to property ownership.311See Lindsay Moore, Women and Property Litigation in Seventeenth-Century England and North America, in Married Women and the Law: Coverture in England and the Common Law World 113 (Tim Stretton & Krista J. Kesselring eds., 2013). A plurality had put it plainly in the Frontiero pregnancy discrimination case that was decided the same year as Roe: “There can be no doubt that our Nation has had a long and unfortunate history of sex discrimination.”312Frontiero v. Richardson, 411 U.S. 677, 684 (1973) (plurality opinion).

An evolving traditionalism that extends beyond the age of coverture and disenfranchisement could find ample evidence of acquiescence in abortion. The Dobbs majority summarily dismisses the notion that even expanding the lens by another century to when Roe was decided in 1973 would provide social-practice support for a right to abortion. But the liberalization of abortion laws over that period makes it confusing to see how that pre-1973 state of affairs would not support a right to abortion. Nor does the majority even mention the fact of abortion practices that took place after 1973. One reason that Dobbs may have discounted post-1973 practices is that the Court’s intervention in Roe scrambled the signal, making it hard to read them off the public’s will. But the majority in Dobbs doesn’t say, or try to justify this move, beyond appealing to the incomplete history of traditionalism it misleadingly ascribes to Glucksberg.

On Bruen’s Second Amendment traditionalism too, the “definition of ‘arms’ is fixed according to its historical understanding,” yet “covers modern instruments that facilitate armed self-defense.”313N.Y. State Rifle & Pistol Ass’n v. Bruen, 142 S. Ct. 2111, 2132 (2022). Bruen looks into the nineteenth century, too, but dates the relevant firearm history back to the right of self-defense in the 1689 English Bill of Rights.314See id. at 44. Beyond the right’s historic ties to state militias is the longstanding prevalence of trap-gun bans that reserved self-defense to one’s person—state legislation did not protect the use of firearms to defend one’s home or property.315See Act of Apr. 22, 1875, Pub. L. No. 97, § 1, 1875 Mich. Pub. Acts 136, 136; Act of Nov. 25, 1884, Pub. L. No. 76, § 1,1884 Vt. Acts & Resolves 74, 74–75. The fixed-in-time account of traditionalism makes much of the gunpowder laws from the late-eighteenth century.316See David B. Kopel, How the British Gun Control Program Precipitated the American Revolution, 6 Charleston L. Rev. 283, 291 (2012).

Only the evolving version of history and tradition can account for more recent kinds of gun control regulations. Consider the safe-storage laws enacted in the 1980s, designed to head off pervasive accidental gun deaths, and mass shootings or suicides by minors.317See Andrew J. McClurg, Child Access Prevention Laws: A Common Sense Approach to Gun Control, 18 St. Louis U. Pub. L. Rev. 47, 50, 57 (1999). Yet, these are precisely the kinds of social practices that the entrenched traditionalism of Bruen closes its eyes to. There is a long history and tradition supporting Second Amendment rights. But lots of gun control measures that weren’t around in the nineteenth century have become extremely common for much of the twentieth, and not seriously contested until very recently.

In Kennedy, the Establishment Clause case, the Supreme Court again teaches that rights “must be interpreted by reference to historical practices . . . [that] faithfully reflec[t] the understanding of the Founding Fathers.”318Kennedy v. Bremerton Sch. Dist., 142 S. Ct. 2407, 2428 (2022) (internal quotation marks omitted) (citing Town of Greece v. Galloway, 572 U.S. 565, 576–77 (2014)). Legislative prayers, school prayers, and Sunday observance laws are instructive.319See Stephanie H. Barclay, The Religion Clauses After Kennedy v. Bremerton School District, 108 Iowa L. Rev. 2097, 2103 (2023). Entrenched traditionalism finds considerable state intervention with religion in all three.320See Sarah Barringer Gordon, The First Disestablishment: Limits on Church Power and Property Before the Civil War, 162 U. Pa. L. Rev. 307, 321 (2014). There’s the revolutionary-era tradition of opening legislative sessions with prayers, dating back to the First Congress that hired a pastor to deliver them.321The Supreme Court noted as much in Marsh v. Chambers, 463 U.S. 783, 787 n.5 (1983) and, more recently, in Town of Greece v. Galloway, 572 U.S. 565, 574–77 (2014). Then there are nineteenth-century norms of daily prayers and religious readings in public schools, accepted as a symbol of patriotic values and moral guidance to preserve a unified and peaceful society.322Bruce J. Dierenfield, The Battle over School Prayer: How Engel v. Vitale Changed America 13 (2007); Susan E. Waters, Prayer in Public Schools: Forming a More Perfect Union?, in The Role of Religion in 21st-Century Public Schools 103, 112 (Steven P. Jones & Eric C. Sheffield eds., 2009). Also, Sunday closing laws were incorporated from the English common law during America’s founding for the purpose of observing Christian faith and facilitating church attendance.323See Alan Raucher, Sunday Business and the Decline of Sunday Closing Laws: A Historical Overview, 36 J. Church & State 13, 14 (1994).

An evolving traditionalism might look very different. Deferring legislative prayers to outside clergy invites less risk of proselytizing or subtle coercion than the newer practice that has divided courts involving prayers led by lawmakers or other officials themselves.324Compare Lund v. Rowan County, 863 F.3d 268, 275 (4th Cir. 2017) (en banc) (holding that legislative prayer violates the Establishment Clause), with Bormuth v. County of Jackson, 870 F.3d 494, 498 (6th Cir. 2017) (en banc) (holding that it doesn’t). Public school prayer itself was held to violate the First Amendment in the 1962 landmark case of Engel v. Vitale.325Engel v. Vitale, 370 U.S. 421, 430–31 (1962). For discussion, see Mary Ellen Quinn Johnson, Comment, School Prayer and the Constitution: Silence is Golden, 48 Md. L. Rev. 1018, 1037 (1989). And Sunday closing laws have evolved to replace a religious purpose with a secular one to provide workers with a collective day of rest.326See Daniel Otto Flanagan, Sunday Blue Laws: A New Hypocrisy, 54 Notre Dame Law. 716, 717 (1979). Under an entrenched approach to history and tradition, ratification-era social practices deeply root all kinds of government involvement with religion. Only evolving traditionalism provides a determinate basis for rejecting such church/state entanglements.

2.  Medical Refusal and Aid-in-Dying

The entrenched history-and-tradition test likely risks ruling out the uncontroversial right to medical refusal, while an evolving approach might not warrant recognition of aid-in-dying. In the 1989 Cruzan case, the Supreme Court recognized the right of competent persons to refuse unwanted medical interventions that extends to the denial of life-sustaining treatment.327Cruzan v. Dir., Mo. Dep’t of Health, 497 U.S. 261, 278 (1990). Cruzan itself appeals to the longstanding embrace of medical refusal in extrajudicial practices that include the common law tort principles governing informed consent and battery, state court landmarks, and state statutory law about vaccines, prisoners, children, and people with mental illness.328Id. at 269–70, 274–77.

Despite its rich lineage, the right to refuse life-sustaining treatment would fare poorly under the entrenched history-and-tradition test. When the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868, there were no ventilators or feeding tubes. The legal doctrine of informed consent itself wasn’t even invented until the twentieth century.329See Schloendorff v. Soc’y of N.Y. Hosp., 105 N.E. 92, 93 (N.Y. 1914). Only a general freedom from nonconsensual touch was alive in the common law tort of battery. Neither would a right to assisted suicide be possible under an entrenched history-and-tradition test. It might not be under an evolving test either, at least not yet. The Model Penal Code barred assisted suicide well into the twentieth century.330Washington v. Glucksberg, 521 U.S. 702, 715 (1997). But the landscape has shifted in recent decades. Ten states have some form of legalized assisted suicide, whether legislatively or by voter initiative.331See Alexander Morgan Capron, Looking Back at Withdrawal of Life-Support Law and Policy to See What Lies Ahead for Medical Aid-in-Dying, 92 Yale J. Biology & Med. 781, 786 (2019).

The scope of these practices remains partial and contested for now, even under the evolving test for history and tradition. But the pendulum is swinging. Evolving traditionalism would not have protected a right to assisted suicide in 1997, consistent with Glucksberg’s decision not to recognize that right. But if more and more states continue to codify a right to aid-in-dying under limited circumstances, that more adaptable history-and-tradition test could well protect that right some decades hence. That makes clear a significant implication of evolving traditionalism: depending on how prevailing social practices take shape, a future court applying this kind of history-and-tradition test could protect certain rights that a court today (or in the past) would and should say lack protection right now.

3.  Birth Control, Sexual Intimacy, and Marriage

Justice Clarence Thomas, concurring in Dobbs, advocated “reconsider[ing] all of this Court’s substantive due process precedents, including Griswold, Lawrence, and Obergefell.”332Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2302 (2022) (Thomas, J., concurring). This Section considers the entrenched-versus-evolving implications of each in turn, starting with the Court’s 1965 decision in Griswold to affirm a privacy right to birth control.333Griswold v. Connecticut, 381 U.S. 479, 486 (1965). That right would readily be vindicated under the evolving history-and-tradition test. By the 1930s, the contraceptive movement was large and visible, with birth control clinics opened across the country in a rebranding of what had once been deemed an immoral device now labeled as standard medicine.334Gordon, supra note 97, at 155. Contraceptives were widely recognized as essential healthcare and a social norm, even before Griswold and Eisenstadt v. Baird legalized birth control nationwide.335Griswold, 381 U.S. at 486; Eisenstadt v. Baird, 405 U.S. 438, 454–55 (1972) (extending contraceptive rights to unmarried people). But the birth control right may be unlikely to find solicitude under the entrenched approach to history and tradition. As the Dobbs dissent noted, “the American legal landscape in the decades after the Civil War was littered with bans on contraceptive devices.”336Dobbs, 142 S. Ct. at 2333 (Breyer, Sotomayor & Kagan, JJ., dissenting). For discussion, see Andrea Tone, Black Market Birth Control: Contraceptive Entrepreneurship and Criminality in the Gilded Age, 87 J. Am. Hist. 435, 441 (2000).

A right to same-sex intimacy finds ample support under an evolving account of history and tradition, before such rights received recognition in Lawrence.337See Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558, 579 (2003); Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644, 659–60 (2015). In the era after World War II, dozens of activist groups formed to support sexual minorities.338See, e.g., Before Stonewall: The Homophile Movement, Libr. of Cong.: Rsch. Guides, https://guides.loc.gov/lgbtq-studies/before-stonewall [https://perma.cc/EHZ9-ZULW]; Lillian Faderman & Stuart Timmons, Gay L.A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, and Lipstick Lesbians 155–57 (2006). By 1955, the American Law Institute’s Model Penal Code advocated repeal of the sodomy laws.339Model Penal Code § 207.5 (Am. L. Inst., Tentative Draft No. 4, 1955). And in 1969, the Stonewall uprising inspired the formation of more than a thousand gay rights organizations nationwide, including the Human Rights Campaign, the Gay Liberation Front, and the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation.340Jess McHugh, What Was It Like to Be an LGBTQ Activist Before Stonewall?, Time (June 25, 2019), https://time.com/longform/mattachine-society [https://perma.cc/L66X-GCJG]; Activism After Stonewall, Libr. of Cong.: Rsch. Guides, https://guides.loc.gov/lgbtq-studies/after-stonewall [https://perma.cc/VH6L-U3QA]. See generally 2 Homophile Action League Newsletter (Homophile Action League, Philadelphia, PA), Jan.–Feb. 1970. The gay rights movement grew stronger still after Bowers.341See Statement on Same-Gender Marriage, 1047 Pub. Papers 1635 (Sept. 20, 1996). In the 1990s and 2000s, state courts struck down several anti-sodomy laws under the equal protection clauses of state constitutions,342See generally Commonwealth v. Wasson, 842 S.W.2d 487 (Ky. 1992); Campbell v. Sundquist, 926 S.W.2d 250 (Tenn. Ct. App. 1996), Gryczan v. State, 942 P.2d 112 (Mont. 1997); Powell v. State, 510 S.E.2d 18 (Ga. 1998); Doe v. Ventura, No. MC 01-489, 2001 WL 543734 (Minn. Dist. Ct. May 15, 2001); Jegley v. Picado, 80 S.W.3d 332 (Ark. 2002). and the handful of remaining bans were rarely enforced.343See Jack M. Balkin, Obergefell v. Hodges: A Critical Introduction, in What Obergefell v. Hodges Should Have Said 23 (Jack M. Balkin ed., 2020); Amanda Holpuch, The Supreme Court Struck Down Sodomy Laws 20 Years Ago. Some Still Remain., N.Y. Times (July 21, 2023), https://www.nytimes.com/2023/07/21/us/politics/state-anti-sodomy-laws.html [https://perma.cc/MXE3-7GVQ].

Entrenched traditionalism may look less kindly on the same-sex marriage right that Obergefell recognized under the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.344Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644, 657 (2015). In the era around the Civil War, sexual orientation was not a suspect class, and marriage was understood as being less about love and companionship than about raising the kids you had, something reserved to a man and woman.345See generally Brief Amicus Curiae of United States Conference of Catholic Bishops in Support of Respondents and Supporting Affirmance, Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. 644 (2015) (No. 14-556). An evolving history and tradition, by contrast, would account for recognition of same-sex marriage in states like Vermont and Massachusetts by the early 2000s,346See generally Baker v. State, 744 A.2d 864 (Vt. 1999); Goodridge v. Dep’t of Pub. Health, 798 N.E.2d 941 (Mass. 2003). and at least the benefits of civil unions and domestic partnerships in thirty other states in the following decade.347Kenji Yoshino, Speak Now: Marriage Equality on Trial 47 (2015).

Slavery and racial subordination are among America’s longest-standing “histories and traditions.” The constitutional reset that was the Reconstruction Amendments left pervasive redlining and institutional segregation, which extended to laws forbidding people of different races from getting married.348Michael Boucai, Before Loving: The Lost Origins of the Right to Marry, 2020 Utah L. Rev. 69, 133. The Supreme Court held that anti-miscegenation laws violated equal protection under the law in the 1967 case of Loving v. Virginia.349Loving v. Virginia, 388 U.S. 1, 2 (1967).

An entrenched account of history and tradition might turn up conflicting evidence.350See, e.g., Alfred Avins, Anti-Miscegenation Laws and the Fourteenth Amendment: The Original Intent, 52 Va. L. Rev. 1224, 1253 (1966) (finding that no representatives in the 39th Congress who drafted the Fourteenth Amendment thought that its enactment would affect state laws, including miscegenation bans). For discussion, see Steven G. Calabresi & Andrea Matthews, Originalism and Loving v. Virginia, 2012 BYU L. Rev. 1393, 1398 (2012). On the one hand, anti-miscegenation statutes were on the books at some point in thirty-eight states by the end of the nineteenth century, and in twenty-nine still by 1951.351See Harvey M. Applebaum, Miscegenation Statutes: A Constitutional and Social Problem, 53 Geo. L.J. 49, 50 (1964). On the other hand, some states had begun to repeal their interracial marriage bans even before the Fourteenth Amendment, while others rejected proposals to write miscegenation bans into their state constitutions.352See, e.g., Charles Vincent, Black Legislators in Louisiana During Reconstruction 102–03 (2011). Only an evolving approach could account for the fourteen states that had repealed their prohibitions on interracial marriage in the decade or so before Loving—and the fact that sixteen bans remained up until that judgment, including Alabama’s until 2000.353See Peggy Pascoe, What Comes Naturally: Miscegenation Law and the Making of Race in America 21 (2009).

4.  Fetal Rights and Assisted Reproduction

For the pro-life movement, the next major campaign after the demise of Roe will be a fight for fetal personhood—recognition that a fetal person has rights to due process and equal protection—and quite likely, a conclusion that liberal abortion laws are unconstitutional.354See Dov Fox, Medical Disobedience, 136 Harv. L. Rev. 1030, 1054 (2023); Dov Fox & Jill Wieber Lens, Valuing Reproductive Loss, 112 Geo. L.J. 61, 103 (2023); Mary Ziegler, The Next Step in the Anti-Abortion Playbook Is Becoming Clear, N.Y. Times (Aug. 31, 2022), https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/31/opinion/abortion-fetal-personhood.html [https://perma.cc/2ULC-YVNY]. Scholars from John Finnis to Josh Craddock argue that, as a matter of original public meaning, the word “person” in the Fourteenth Amendment applies from the moment of fertilization.355For a sample of these arguments, see John Finnis, Abortion Is Unconstitutional, First Things (Apr. 2021), https://www.firstthings.com/article/2021/04/abortion-is-unconstitutional [https://perma.cc/HNM9-5L2S]; Josh J. Craddock, Protecting Prenatal Persons: Does the Fourteenth Amendment Prohibit Abortion?, 40 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y 539, 548–55 (2017). Michael Stokes Paulsen, for his part, suggests that there is a plausible case for personhood under a “full range” of interpretive methods. Michael Stokes Paulsen, The Plausibility of Personhood, 74 Ohio State L.J. 14, 15–36 (2013). Personhood claims have also captured headlines in contexts beyond abortion. An Alabama case in early 2024 involved several couples who sued over the wrongful destruction of embryos they had created during fertility treatment in the hopes of using them to have children.356LePage v. Ctr. Reprod. Med., SC-2022-0515, SC-2022-0579, 2024 Ala. LEXIS 60, at *1–2 (Ala. Feb. 16, 2024). In LePage v. Center for Reproductive Medicine, the couples pursued a number of legal theories, including a negligence claim against the fertility clinic. The Alabama Supreme Court vindicated their action for wrongful death on the ground that the state’s Wrongful Death of a Minor Act applied to “all unborn children, regardless of their location.”357Id. at *1–2.

LePage had the effect of pausing IVF in the state, as providers and intermediaries involved in the practice feared that even inadvertently destroying an embryo could lead to serious legal liability.358The state legislature subsequently passed a law creating a broad immunity for IVF providers and others in their care network without undoing the legal conclusion that embryos qualified as persons under the state Wrongful Death of a Minor Act. Emily Cochrane, Alabama Passes Law to Protect I.V.F. Treatments, N.Y. Times (Mar. 6, 2024), https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/06/us/politics/alabama-ivf-law.html [https://perma.cc/Q97V-KE8S]. The decision did not resolve the constitutional status of fetal personhood, even for the purpose of state law. But Chief Justice Tom Clark gestured toward a possible broader ruling in a concurring opinion, writing that “all human beings bear the image of God, and their lives cannot be destroyed without effacing his glory.”359LePage, 2024 Ala. LEXIS at *30 (Parker, C.J., concurring); see also id. at *12 (“[T]he Alabama Constitution would require courts to resolve [any] ambiguity in favor of protecting unborn life.”). LePage made clear that recognizing personhood rights for the unborn would have implicated not just abortion but IVF as well. Conservative and progressive scholars have doubted originalist arguments for unborn personhood under the Fourteenth Amendment.360See, e.g., Edward Whelan, Doubts About Constitutional Personhood, First Things (Apr. 8, 2021), https://firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2021/04/doubts-about-constitutional-personhood [https://perma.cc/B8UW-AZ3F]; see also Clarke D. Forsythe, The 14th Amendment’s Personhood Mistake, Nat’l Rev. Plus (Dec. 21, 2023), https://www.nationalreview.com/magazine/2024/02/the-14th-amendments-personhood-myth [https://perma.cc/RC5D-XVES] (arguing that “in Dobbs, constitutional personhood has reached a dead end”). At any rate, history and tradition may offer a more straightforward path to fetal personhood. Still, personhood proponents would struggle under an entrenched history-and-tradition test. For centuries, colonies, territories, and states allowed abortion before quickening, and British legal authorities dating back to Blackstone conferred the status of “natural persons” only after “an infant is able to stir in the mother’s womb.”361William Blackstone, The Commentaries on the Laws of England of Sir William Blackstone, Knt. 95, 101 (Robert Malcom Kerr ed., 1876). Even in the nineteenth century, when antiabortion doctors mobilized widely to criminalize abortion, no similar movement developed on behalf of fetal rights, whether at common law or under the Constitution.362See Ziegler, supra note 136, at 33.

Surprisingly, an evolving history-and-tradition test would look kindlier on claims to fetal personhood. The 1960s is when a robust fetal rights movement began to take shape and forge a powerful political partnership with the Republican Party.363Mary Ziegler, After Roe: The Lost History of the Abortion Debate 28–30 (2015). A commitment to fetal rights, once dismissed as Catholic dogma, now holds sway among conservative evangelicals, Mormons, and some orthodox Jews.364Jennifer L. Holland, Tiny You: A Western History of the Anti-Abortion Movement 3–56 (2020). Support for fetal personhood has room to grow on the political right. Fetal rights still find too little support in social practices today, when polls show that the smallest fraction of the population approves of abortion bans early in pregnancy.365Geoff Mulvihill & Linley Sanders, Few US Adults Support Full Abortion Bans, Even in States that Have Them, An AP-NORC Poll Finds, AP (July 11, 2023), https://apnews.com/article/abortion-poll-roe-dobbs-ban-opinion-fcfdfc5a799ac3be617d99999e92eabe [https://perma.cc/F8FJ-BMPB]. So an evolving history-and-tradition test would not yet give champions of unborn personhood what they want. But history and tradition is their best bet in future constitutional struggles.

What of a right to assisted reproduction? IVF combines egg and sperm in a laboratory before testing the resulting embryo by implanting it into someone who can carry it to term. It is the most effective way to have biologically related kids for many single people, cancer patients, and infertile or same-sex couples.366See Dov Fox, Reproductive Negligence, 117 Colum. L. Rev. 149, 159 (2017). Many fear that this social practice will be forbidden if the law recognizes fetal personhood. In the nineteenth century, the notion of conceiving a child apart from sexual intercourse was far-fetched, let alone in some way that would make it possible to pick and choose certain aspects of offspring makeup before birth.367See Dov Fox, Birth Rights and Wrongs 16 (2019). IVF wasn’t invented until the late 1970s, and a right to access it fails under entrenched traditionalism.368See, e.g., Gerber v. Hickman, 291 F.3d 617, 619 (9th Cir. 2002). As early as 1897, the Catholic Church took a stand against any form of “artificial insemination.”369Glanville Williams, The Sanctity of Life and the Criminal Law 129 (1966). Most physicians remained hostile to the idea of assisted reproduction during that time, while courts and commentators compared any use of donor sperm to adultery.370See Kara W. Swanson, Adultery by Doctor: Artificial Insemination, 1890–1945, 87 Chi.-Kent L. Rev. 591, 601–12 (2012). A right to these and other forms of assisted reproduction would accordingly find next to no support under an entrenched form of traditionalism.

A right to assisted reproduction stands a better but still outside chance under the evolving test. Donor insemination has been relatively common since the 1930s and 1940s.371Id. at 610–23. By 2018, a third of Americans either know someone who has used assisted reproductive technologies or have used it themselves.372See Gretchen Livingston, A Third of U.S. Adults Say They Have Used Fertility Treatments or Know Someone Who Has, Pew Rsch. Ctr. (July 17, 2018), https://www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2018/07/17/a-third-of-u-s-adults-say-they-have-used-fertility-treatments-or-know-someone-who-has [https://perma.cc/3346-MRHS]. Twenty-one states now require insurance coverage for infertility treatment, including fifteen that address IVF specifically.373See Insurance Coverage by State, Resolve (Sept. 30, 2024), https://resolve.org/learn/financial-resources-for-family-building/insurance-coverage/insurance-coverage-by-state [https://perma.cc/QTN6-SP9Q]. Over fifty percent of large employers (those with more than 20,000 employees) covered IVF in 2022, compared with only thirty-six percent in 2015.374See Tom Murphy & The Associated Press, Most of the Biggest U.S. Employers Now Cover Fertility Treatments, but Many Americans Still Can’t Afford It, Fortune (May 16, 2023), https://fortune.com/2023/05/16/most-biggest-us-employers-cover-fertility-treatments-many-americans-still-cant-afford [https://perma.cc/SJ4Z-F7RZ]. Still, a tradition favoring IVF access remains contested: federal legislation to enhance IVF access has stalled,375See Oriana González, Republicans Block Dem Request to Pass Bill to Protect IVF Access, Axios (Dec. 20, 2022), https://www.axios.com/2022/12/20/republicans-block-ivf-fertility-bill-roe [https://perma.cc/XBS9-TL53]. and many patients live in states without IVF coverage or depend on state or federal Medicaid, which does not cover assisted reproductive technologies.376See Murphy & The Associated Press, supra note 374. Some antiabortion groups and their lawmakers in state legislatures frame IVF as lawless and immoral and have ambitions to restrict or ban it—an ambition that has become even clearer after LePage.377See Megan Messerly & Alice Miranda Ollstein, Republicans Are Rushing to Defend IVF. The Anti-Abortion Movement Hopes to Change Their Minds., Politico (Apr. 1, 2024), https://www.politico.com/news/2024/04/01/anti-abortion-movement-ivf-war-00149766 [https://perma.cc/S89E-2XUA] (describing how “the Heritage Foundation and other conservative groups have been strategizing how to convince not just GOP officials but evangelicals broadly that they should have serious moral concerns about fertility treatments like IVF and that access to them should be curtailed”); Kavitha Surana, “We Need to Defend this Law”: Inside an Anti-Abortion Meeting with Tennessee’s GOP Lawmakers, ProPublica (Nov. 15, 2022), https://www.propublica.org/article/inside-anti-abortion-meeting-with-tennessee-republican-lawmakers [https://perma.cc/6MFF-H3VX] (proposing that Republicans delay the campaign to restrict or ban IVF). A half-century of evidence doesn’t yet support a right to access IVF under the evolving-tradition test. But that may be changing.

5.  Gender-Affirming Care and Conversion Therapy

The two history-and-tradition tests also have surprising implications for other due process claims. Two claims making headlines in the wake of state bans are conversion therapy and gender-affirming care. Parents have asserted due process rights to each form of medical treatment on behalf of their minor children—designed either to convert those youths’ sexual orientation from gay to straight, or to temporarily block puberty-related changes to breasts, muscle, and voice to buy time for adolescents who consistently identify as transgender to consider more permanent changes later in adulthood.378See L.W. v. Skrmetti, 73 F.4th 408, 418 (6th Cir. 2023) (gender-affirming care); Welch v. Brown, 907 F. Supp. 2d 1102, 1118 (E.D. Cal. 2012), rev’d, Pickup v. Brown, 728 F.3d 1042, 1061–62 (9th Cir. 2013) (conversion therapy). The Supreme Court has held that the “interest of parents in the care, custody, and control of their children is perhaps the oldest of the fundamental liberty interests.”379Troxel v. Granville, 530 U.S. 57, 65 (2000). But the Court has also made clear that clinical decisions on their kids’ behalf must be weighed against the State’s own concern for the health and wellbeing of its vulnerable citizens.380Parham v. J.R., 442 U.S. 584, 602–04 (1979). That leaves uncertain any rights claims by parents to access treatments for their children that the government has forbidden.381See, e.g., Branch-Noto v. Sisolak, 576 F. Supp. 3d 790, 798 (D. Nev. 2021); Doe v. Christie, 33 F. Supp. 3d 518, 530 (D. N.J. 2014); Jehovah’s Witnesses v. King Cnty. Hosp., 278 F. Supp. 488, 505 (W.D. Wash. 1967); Kanuszewksi v. Michigan Dep’t Health & Hum. Servs., 927 F.3d. 396, 418–20 (6th Cir. 2019); Nat’l Ass’n for Advancement of Psychoanalysis v. Cal. Bd. of Psych., 228 F.3d 1043, 1050 (9th Cir. 2000); Wallis v. Spencer, 202 F.3d 1126, 1142 (9th Cir. 2000).

Entrenched traditionalism might look more favorably on parental rights to conversion therapy, notwithstanding overwhelming evidence that it harms the very children it purports to help. Conversion therapy traces to the Civil War era, when the medical profession widely regarded homosexuality as “either a criminal act or a medical problem, or both,”382See Am. Psych. Ass’n, Report of the American Psychological Association Task Force on Appropriate Therapeutic Responses to Sexual Orientation 21 (2009). and authorized parental attempts to “cure” it through invasive measures like lobotomy and castration that have since given way to hypnosis and talk therapy.383See Tiffany C. Graham, Conversion Therapy: A Brief Reflection on the History of the Practice and Contemporary Regulatory Efforts, 52 Creighton L. Rev. 419, 421–22 (2019). Parental claims to gender-affirming treatments stand little chance under the entrenched history-and-tradition test. For one, hormones like estrogen and testosterone weren’t discovered until the 1920s and 1930s.384See Jamshed R. Tata, One Hundred Years of Hormones, 6 EMBO Reps. 490, 491 (2005). That puberty blockers and cross-hormone therapy weren’t around when the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified is all the Sixth and Eleventh Circuit needed to conclude that “the use of these medications in general—let alone for children—almost certainly is not ‘deeply rooted’ in our nation’s history and tradition.”385Eknes-Tucker v. Governor of Ala., 80 F.4th 1205, 1220 (11th Cir. 2023); see L.W. v. Skrmetti, 73 F.4th 408, 417 (6th Cir. 2023) (“The challengers have not shown that a right to new medical treatments is ‘deeply rooted in our history and traditions.’ ”).

Under an evolving test, parental claims to gender-affirming care could stand an outside chance, while conversion therapy does not. Conversion therapy peaked in popularity in the 1960s when electroconvulsive therapy became increasingly common and the American Psychiatric Association briefly defined homosexuality as a mental disorder from 1968 to 1973.386See Am. Psych. Ass’n, supra note 382, at 23. But healthcare organizations have roundly rejected conversion therapy over the ensuing decades as clinical evidence made clear that it is more likely to harm than benefit those distressed by a conflict between their sexual desires and their faith or family—especially if it reflects a disparaging view of same-sex attraction that inspires self-hatred.387See Linda F. Campbell, The Application of Ethical Principles, Standards, and Practices to Sexual Orientation Change Efforts and Gender Identity Change Efforts, in The Case Against Conversion “Therapy” 169, 185 (Douglas C. Haldeman ed., 2022). About half of the fifty states now ban the practice.388Conversion “Therapy” Laws, Movement Advancement Project, https://www.lgbtmap.org/equality-maps/conversion_therapy [https://perma.cc/6Y8V-7ZVU].

The evolution of hormone therapy to affirm gender in minors has taken a different path.389Widespread knowledge about sex reassignment surgery for adults goes back to the early 1950s, when American actress Christine Jorgensen’s transition garnered extensive media coverage, with headlines such as “Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty.” Ketil Slagstad, The Political Nature of Sex—Transgender in the History of Medicine, 384 New Eng. J. Med. 1070, 1072 (2021). Puberty-blocking injections and implants emerged with programs in the Netherlands in the early 2000s.390See Jeremi M. Carswell, Ximena Lopez & Stephen M. Rosenthal, The Evolution of Adolescent Gender-Affirming Care: An Historical Perspective, 95 Hormone Rsch. Pediatrics 649, 652 (2022). In 2009, the Endocrine Society published guidelines recommending the use of puberty blockers for adolescents whose distress, experienced from persistently identifying with a gender that doesn’t match their bodies’ sex-based traits, is not alleviated through psychosocial counseling and behavioral support.391Id. at 653. By 2014, thirty-two clinics in the United States offered this treatment alongside parental support, with that number rising to about sixty by 2022.392Id. Until 2023, gender affirming care was routinely provided to qualifying minors in forty-six states.393See Katherine L. Kraschel, Alexander Chen, Jack L. Turban & I. Glenn Cohen, Legislation Restricting Gender-Affirming Care for Transgender Youth: Politics Eclipse Healthcare, 3 Cell Reps. Med. 1, 2–3 (2022) (highlighting proposed state legislation to limit access to gender-affirming medical care). But the months since have now presented a serious challenge for any rights claims under the evolving history-and-tradition test: the flurry of recent bans have left gender-affirming care legal in only thirty-one states.394See Annette Choi & Will Mullery, 19 States Have Laws Restricting Gender-Affirming Care, Some with the Possibility of a Felony Charge, CNN: Politics (June 6, 2023), https://www.cnn.com/2023/06/06/politics/states-banned-medical-transitioning-for-transgender-youth-dg [https://perma.cc/7J39-ZCBA].

CONCLUSION

In declaring that the Supreme Court has “long asked whether the right is ‘deeply rooted in [our] history and tradition,” Justice Alito wrote that a history-and-tradition test emerged to constrain a more freewheeling living constitutionalism.395Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Org., 142 S. Ct. 2228, 2247–48 (2022). His story takes off the stage entirely the heady days of substantive due process in the 1960s and 1970s that helped to forge the Roe decision. A history-and-tradition test, in turn, emerged in the 1980s and 1990s as the Justices retreated from the excesses of earlier decades. As Alito tells it, Glucksberg required the Justices to “exercise the utmost care whenever . . . asked to break new ground in this field, lest the liberty protected by the Due Process Clause be subtly transformed into the policy preferences of the Members of this Court.”396Id. at 2247–52, 2254–60. In other areas of doctrine, the Court’s approach to history and tradition is different, but the common denominator is the same: to count, a tradition must be rooted in the ratification era. From there, it is timeless and unchanging.

This origin story is compelling. The problem is that it is not true: neither where the test came from nor what it is. For decades before Glucksberg, social movement contestation over the role of history and tradition had wrestled with the very meaning of that test. Progressive movements, at times, contended that the nation’s traditions evolved to include those once left out of old status hierarchies, and that any legitimate understanding of constitutional tradition included the present and recent past as much as it did Blackstone. Some of the Justices, in turn, came to define an evolving history-and-tradition test as a middle ground between a true living constitutionalism and a hidebound constitutionalism anchored only to one point in an imagined past.

Conservative movements, in turn, forged their own ideas of a history-and-tradition test, insisting that such an approach had always properly honored only traditions that reached back to the time of the nation’s founding—or before. Members of the conservative legal movement found this history-and-tradition test an effective way to bridge divides within an emerging coalition on the right; a way to reiterate shared commitments to judicial restraint while codifying deeply held beliefs and values on subjects from religious freedom to abortion.

Understanding the Court’s contemporary uses of history and tradition as the byproduct of social movement conflict reveals the other normative commitments that reliance on history and tradition disguises. Seeing it in historical context also calls into question the precedential pedigree the Dobbs Court claims for both its decision and its vision of traditionalism that overlooks a very different version of that test. And that one we have forgotten has profound implications for remaking the controversies of our time.

98 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1

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* Herzog Research Professor of Law, University of San Diego School of Law.

† Martin Luther King Jr. Professor of Law, University of California, Davis School of Law. Thanks for insights to Vic Amar, Niko Bowie, Joseph Blocher, Jud Campbell, Marc DeGirolami, Murray Dry, Sherif Girgis, Felipe Jiménez, Sally Gordon, Laura Kalman, Ken Kersch, Mike Ramsey, Eric Rueben, Stephen Sachs, Neil Siegel, Reva Siegel, and Aaron Tang. We are grateful to Sasha Nuñez and Liz Parker for editing support. Caroline Bulger, Jenna Gatto, Alyssa Guthrie, Emmanuela Kubari, Bailey Neal, Emily Serleth, and Joseph Wilhardt provided wonderful research assistance. We are grateful for expert edits and cite-checking to Charles Murphy, Jacob Karlin, and the staff of the Southern California Law Review.

Major Questions, Common Sense?

The Major Questions Doctrine (“MQD”) is the newest textualist interpretive canon, and it has driven consequential Supreme Court decisions concerning issues from vaccine mandates to environmental regulation. Yet, the new MQD is a canon in search of legitimization. Critics allege that the MQD displaces the Court’s conventional textual analysis with judicial policymaking. Textualists have now responded that the MQD is a linguistic canon, consistent with textualism. Justice Barrett recently argued in Biden v. Nebraska that the MQD is grounded in ordinary people’s understanding of language and law, and scholarship contends that the MQD reflects ordinary people’s understanding of textual clarity in “high-stakes” situations. Both linguistic arguments rely centrally on “common-sense” examples from everyday situations.

This Article tests whether these examples really are common sense to ordinary Americans. We present empirical studies of the examples offered by advocates of the MQD, and the results challenge the arguments that the MQD is a linguistic canon. Moreover, the interpretive arguments offered to legitimize the MQD as a linguistic canon threaten both textualism and the Supreme Court’s growing anti-administrative project.

INTRODUCTION

The Supreme Court’s most consequential interpretive canon is a new one: the major questions doctrine (“MQD”). The basic idea is as follows: when an agency undertakes a “major” policy action, the statutory authorization must be clear and specific (rather than unclear or general).1See infra Section I.A. In several high-profile cases, the Court has used the MQD to strike down agency actions involving vaccine mandates,2Nat’l Fed’n of Indep. Bus. v. Dep’t of Lab., Occupational Safety & Health Admin., 142 S. Ct. 661, 665–66 (2022). environmental regulation,3West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2609–16 (2022). and student loan relief.4Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2375 n.9 (2023). The majority opinion states that the issue is resolved by “statutory text alone,” and its appeal to the Major Questions Doctrine (“MQD”) “simply reflects [the] Court’s familiar practice of providing multiple grounds to support its conclusions.” Id. Given this track record, no wonder critics have argued that the MQD poses an existential threat to the administrative state, since few statutes are likely to provide the requisite clear language, and what constitutes “majorness” is subjective and potentially applicable to a wide range of agency actions.5See, e.g., Lisa Heinzerling, The Power Canons, 58 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 1933, 1938 (2017). But see Kristin E. Hickman, The Roberts Court’s Structural Incrementalism, 136 Harv. L. Rev. F. 75, 76–77 (2022) (arguing that the development of the MQD is more incrementalist than critics have suggested and that it will likely not threaten the administrative state).

Despite its undeniable influence, the MQD is undertheorized, and it remains a canon in search of a justification.6See Mila Sohoni, The Major Questions Quartet, 136 Harv. L. Rev. 262, 285–87 (2022) (recounting but disagreeing with these efforts). Scholars and judges have splintered in their understanding of how the doctrine operates on statutory language.7See, e.g., Louis J. Capozzi III, The Past and Future of the Major Questions Doctrine, 84 Ohio St. L.J. 191, 219, 222–23 (2023). Compare West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2587, with West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2616 (Gorsuch, J., concurring), and Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). For instance, one advocate of the canon describes it as a requirement for a “clear and specific statement from Congress if Congress intends to delegate questions of major political or economic significance to agencies.”8Ilan Wurman, Importance and Interpretive Questions, 110 Va. L. Rev. 909, 909 (2024). As we discuss in Section I.B, Wurman’s characterization of the MQD as a clear statement rule notwithstanding, he views the MQD as justifiable as a linguistic canon. Two critics of the MQD have described it similarly as a rule requiring courts “not to discern the plain meaning of a statute using the normal tools of statutory interpretation, but to require explicit and specific congressional authorization for certain [major] agency policies.”9Daniel T. Deacon & Leah M. Litman, The New Major Questions Doctrine, 109 Va. L. Rev. 1009, 1009 (2023). In response, Justice Barrett in Biden v. Nebraska has denied that the MQD requires courts “to depart from the best interpretation of the text,” and claims that the canon is not a clear statement rule and does not require explicit congressional authorization of the “precise agency action under review.”10Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2378 (Barrett, J., concurring). These kinds of disagreements, while perhaps technical, influence how the doctrine is defended and employed, and even implicate its future as an interpretive canon.

So far, efforts to legitimize the doctrine have been unpersuasive. The canon is used primarily by self-identified textualists,11See, e.g., West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2616 (Gorsuch, J., concurring); Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2372–75; id. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). but critics (textualist and non-textualist alike) have alleged that the MQD is inconsistent with textualism, or even is anti-textualist, because it displaces the ordinary meaning of statutory text in the name of normative values.12See, e.g., Sohoni, supra note 6, at 282–90; Daniel E. Walters, The Major Questions Doctrine at the Boundaries of Interpretive Law, 109 Iowa L. Rev. 465, 523–37 (2024); Chad Squitieri, Who Determines Majorness?, 44 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y 463, 480 (2021); Benjamin Eidelson & Matthew C. Stephenson, The Incompatibility of Substantive Canons and Textualism, 137 Harv. L. Rev. 515, 522–33 (2023); Mike Rappaport, Against the Major Questions Doctrine, The Originalism Blog (Aug. 15, 2022, 8:00 AM), https://originalismblog.typepad.com/the-originalism-blog/2022/08/against-the-major-questions-doctrinemike-rappaport.html [https://web.archive.org/web/20240728034527/https://originalismblog.typepad.com/the-originalism-blog/2022/08/against-the-major-questions-doctrinemike-rappaport.html]; Chad Squitieri, Major Problems with Major Questions, L. & Liberty (Sept. 6, 2022), https://lawliberty.org/major-problems-with-major-questions [https://perma.cc/2D3Y-AA4K]. In fact, the MQD’s rise coincides with a surge of skepticism among textualists and commentators about the validity of substantive canons generally.13See, e.g., Eidelson & Stephenson, supra note 12, at 517–21. Of course, textualist skepticism about substantive canons is not new. See, e.g., Amy Coney Barrett, Substantive Canons and Faithful Agency, 90 B.U. L. Rev. 109, 110 (2010). The Court’s use of the MQD even prompted Justice Kagan to retract her quip that “we’re all textualists now.”14Harvard Law School, The 2015 Scalia Lecture Series: A Dialogue with Justice Elena Kagan on the Reading of Statutes, YouTube (Nov. 25, 2015), https://youtu.be/dpEtszFT0Tg [https://perma.cc/L65V-9AET]. She now notes: “It seems I was wrong. The current Court is textualist only when being so suits it.”15West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2587, 2641 (Kagan, J., dissenting). See generally Kevin Tobia, We’re Not All Textualists Now, 78 N.Y.U. Ann. Surv. Am. L. 243 (2023) (providing an overview of the influence and evolution of “all textualist” statements). These critiques allege that the MQD inappropriately licenses textualists to depart from the best reading of statutory text in the name of values or norms. An ideal response for a textualist favoring the MQD would be some account of how the MQD determines the linguistic meaning of a statute.

Increasingly, textualists are making precisely this “linguistic” move. Some textualists now propose that the MQD is a linguistic interpretive canon, consistent with textualism.16See, e.g., Wurman, supra note 8, at 916–17; Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). On this account, textualists remain committed to the ordinary reader’s understanding of language, with the MQD simply reflecting how ordinary people, exercising basic “common sense,” generally understand the meaning of statutes delegating authority to agencies.17See, e.g., Amy Coney Barrett, Congressional Insiders and Outsiders, 84 U. Chi. L. Rev. 2193, 2208–11 (2017) (arguing for statutory interpretation to focus on the understanding of ordinary people rather than Congress). On this “linguistic” picture, normative or substantive values are not relevant to the canon or its application, and they certainly do not lead textualists to depart from the best reading of the text. Instead, the MQD is just like any other linguistic canon—it reflects only a generalization about how ordinary people use and understand language in context.18On the modern textualist Court’s emphasis on ordinary readers and the relationship between ordinary understanding and linguistic canons, see Kevin Tobia, Brian G. Slocum & Victoria Nourse, Statutory Interpretation from the Outside, 122 Colum. L. Rev. 213, 213 (2022) [hereinafter Tobia et al., From the Outside]. This rebranding of the MQD as a linguistic canon has rapidly moved from the pages of law reviews19See Wurman, supra note 8, at 909. to the Supreme Court.20Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). There, Justice Barrett recently denied that the MQD is normatively driven and instead argued that it merely reflects ordinary people’s “common-sense” understanding of instructions, including those given by Congress.21Id. at 2384; see also Beau J. Baumann, Let’s Talk About That Barrett Concurrence (on the “Contextual Major Questions Doctrine”), Yale J. on Reg.: Notice & Comment Blog (June 30, 2023), https://www.yalejreg.com/nc/lets-talk-about-that-barrett-concurrence-on-the-contextual-major-questions-doctrine-by-beau-j-baumann [https://perma.cc/8PKB-458K] (discussing Barrett’s arguments).

In this Article, we evaluate the MQD’s “linguistic turn” and subject its premises to empirical study. We study two key issues: (1) Does the MQD follow from ordinary people’s understanding of language and, more specifically, delegating instructions?; and (2) Do ordinary people interpret more cautiously or narrowly in “high-stakes” situations? The empirical results support answering “no” to both questions. Contrary to the MQD proponents’ contentions, the results indicate that ordinary people do not adjust their judgments of textual clarity according to the stakes of interpretation, and they interpret broad delegations broadly, even in situations in which Justice Barrett claims that “common sense” would dictate narrower interpretations of the scope of authorization.22See infra Part III.

Part I introduces the MQD and the two linguistic arguments that have been offered in defense of the canon. After briefly addressing the defense of the MQD as a substantive canon in Section I.A, we turn in Section I.B to the proposal that ordinary interpretation shifts in “high-stakes” contexts, and that this behavior justifies the MQD as a linguistic canon.23See Wurman, supra note 8, at 917. The high-stakes argument appeals to an example from analytic philosophy24See, e.g., Keith DeRose, Contextualism and Knowledge Attributions, 54 Phil. & Phenomenological Rsch. 913, 913–18 (1992). and prior legal scholarship25See Ryan D. Doerfler, High-Stakes Interpretation, 116 Mich. L. Rev. 523, 523 (2018). that suggests that high-stakes contexts diminish ordinary knowledge. Thus, as a famous hypothetical illustrates, you might know that the town bank is open on the weekend when planning to deposit a small check with low stakes. In contrast, in a higher-stakes context (for example, if the check is for ten thousand dollars and must be deposited before Monday to avoid an overdraft), you may decide instead that you do not really know that the bank is open. Legal scholarship proposes that this is how ordinary people understand knowledge: ordinary knowledge is stakes sensitive.26See, e.g., Wurman, supra note 8, at 957–59. More importantly for the MQD, an emerging argument builds on this premise to suggest that ordinary understanding of textual clarity is also stakes driven: in high-stakes contexts, a text is less clear.27See id. As such, in those high-stakes (or “major”) cases, courts should require highly specific language to authorize agency action.

Section I.C introduces Justice Barrett’s separate proposal that ordinary language is context sensitive and anti-literal, and therefore a textualist faithful to the ordinary reader should adopt the MQD as a means to determine the best reading of statutory language.28Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2376 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring); see also Barrett, supra note 17, at 2200 (on textualists’ commitment to the ordinary reader, not the ordinary legislator). Justice Barrett’s argument also appeals to an intuitive example: instructing a babysitter to “have fun with the kids” while handing him a credit card might literally permit the babysitter to take them on an overnight trip to an out-of-town amusement park (after all, doing so would be “fun”). But in context, ordinary people employ “common sense” and understand the literal meaning of the instruction to only permit the most reasonable set of applications of the instruction.29Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). Ordinary people are therefore non-literalists, understanding general delegations to be more limited in meaning than their terms alone might suggest. As such, the argument goes, the MQD is “consistent with how we communicate conversationally,” making it a valid linguistic canon that reflects an interpretive commitment to ordinary people.30Id. at 2379.

Justice Barrett’s argument is important and places her as a leader among the Court’s textualists; she is the only textualist advocate of the MQD who has offered a proposal to square the MQD with textualism. At the same time, the linguistic argument in her brief concurring opinion is not entirely clear. As such, we attempt to charitably reconstruct Justice Barrett’s defense as a workable argument—that is, one that derives the MQD conclusion from the babysitter hypothetical premise.

Part I contributes to the literature by explaining these two new arguments for the linguistic MQD in sufficient detail. Unpacking the arguments clarifies each argument’s theoretical challenges and empirical claims. Both arguments employ hypotheticals about how ordinary people interpret language but, significantly, support these hypotheticals with references to academic philosophy or judicial intuition; neither uses empirical evidence.

Parts II and III investigate these empirical claims, both by engaging with the existing empirical literature on high-stakes knowledge (much of it uncited by proponents of the linguistic MQD) and by conducting original survey experiments of both high-stakes interpretation and how ordinary people interpret instructions. Part II considers the claim that ordinary knowledge is stakes sensitive. This claim has been influential in philosophy,31See, e.g., Keith DeRose, Contextualism, Contrastivism, and X-Phi Surveys, 156 Phil. Stud. 81, 81 (2011). legal scholarship,32Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523. and now the major questions debate.33Wurman, supra note 8, at 917. Although philosophers claim knowledge is stakes sensitive, many existing studies report that stakes have little or even no effect on ordinary attributions of knowledge.34See generally Jonathan Schaffer & Joshua Knobe, Contrastive Knowledge Surveyed, 46 Noûs 675 (2012) (surveying studies). Other studies report only a small effect. See, e.g., David Rose, Edouard Machery, Stephen Stich, Mario Alai, Adriano Angelucci, Renatas Berniūnas, Emaa E. Buchtel, Amita Chatterjee, Hyundeuk Cheon, In-Rae Cho, Daniel Cohnitz, Florian Cova, Vilius Dranseika, Ángeles Eraña Lagos, Laleg Ghadakpour, Maurice Grinberg, Ivar Hannikainen, Takaaki Hashimoto, Amir Horowitz, Evgeniya Hristova, Yasmina Jraissati, Veselina Kadreva, Kaori Karasawa, Hackjin Kim, Yeonjeong Kim, Minwoo Lee, Carlos Mauro, Masaharu Mizumoto, Sebastiano Moruzzi, Christopher Y. Olivola, Jorge Ornelas, Barbara Osimani, Carlos Romero, Alejandro Rosas Lopez, Massimo Sangoi, Andrea Sereni, Sarah Songhorian, Paulo Sousa, Vera Tripodi, Naoki Usui, Alejandro Vásquez del Mercado, Giorgio Volpe, Hrag Abraham Vosgerichian, Xueyi Zhang & Jing Zhu, Nothing at Stake in Knowledge, 53 Noûs 224, 232–37 (2019) (reporting no effect of stakes on knowledge in fifteen countries, a small effect in three, and a marginal and small effect in the U.S.). For example, in the U.S., over 80% of participants agreed in both the high- and low-stakes cases that there was knowledge; in Japan, a country with the largest difference between high and low stakes, over 70% of participants attributed knowledge in both. Id. And, to our knowledge, no empirical study bears on the question of whether higher stakes reduce textual clarity (a related but different issue). The critical link in one version of the linguistic MQD argument is therefore entirely untested.

Part III presents studies designed to test the empirical claims of the linguistic MQD arguments. Our studies use the exact two cases offered by proponents of the linguistic MQD—the “bank case” and the “babysitter hypothetical”—to conduct original survey experiments. Overwhelmingly, ordinary people in our studies did not interpret these scenarios consistently with the empirical premises of the linguistic MQD arguments.

Part IV develops three sets of implications that follow from our empirical evidence and the textualist efforts to legitimize the MQD as a linguistic canon. These implications concern the empirical evidence for the linguistic MQD (IV.A), challenges that the linguistic MQD poses for textualism (IV.B), and the relationship between empirical evidence of how ordinary people view delegations and administrative law, including intriguing evidence that people are more concerned about underenforcement of instructions compared with overenforcement (IV.C).

In brief, the extant and new empirical findings do not support the linguistic MQD. Specifically, the findings count against the predictions of the two leading linguistic MQD arguments, using the exact cases offered in defense of the linguistic MQD. Of course, we are open to the possibility that study of further examples could weigh against our conclusions. But for interpreters deciding today whether to employ a “linguistic MQD,” there is insufficient empirical support and theoretical clarity to cast the MQD as a valid linguistic canon. Moreover, the results provide stronger support for a new counter-MQD: ordinary people understand general authorizing language as consistent with a broad range of reasonable actions that fall under the text’s meaning. Textualists committed to the “ordinary reader” and “interpretation from the outside” claim to follow those commitments to where they lead—and the current evidence favors an interpretive rule far from the current MQD.35Barrett, supra note 17, at 2208–11 (arguing that courts should interpret from the “outside,” from the perspective of ordinary people, rather than from the “inside,” which would reflect Congress’s perspective).

I.  THE MAJOR QUESTIONS DOCTRINE AND THEORIES OF ITS LEGITIMACY

The MQD has sparked a great deal of scholarly effort to specify exactly what the doctrine is and how it fits into traditional categories of interpretive doctrine. In this Part, we survey these efforts, many of which conclude that the MQD is a substantive, or normative, canon.36See infra Section I.A. These classifications matter because substantive canons are increasingly questioned as being inconsistent with textualism.37See Eidelson & Stephenson, supra note 12, at 517–21; Barrett, supra note 13, at 110. But see Brian G. Slocum & Kevin Tobia, The Linguistic and Substantive Canons, 137 Harv. L. Rev. F. 70, 70–73 (2023) (arguing that an interpretive canon can have both a linguistic and substantive basis). Classifying the MQD as substantive (rather than linguistic) is tantamount to saying it is illegitimate or tenuous, at least on textualist grounds.38But see Walters, supra note 12, at 469–73 (assuming that substantive canons are often acceptable but arguing that the MQD has features that differentiate it from the rest of the canons in troubling ways). Perhaps not surprisingly, some textualist defenders of the MQD have not fully endorsed the idea that the MQD is a substantive canon.39Wurman, supra note 8, at 912. The exception here is Justice Gorsuch, who offered a full-throated endorsement of the MQD as a nondelegation canon in his concurrence in West Virginia v. EPA. See West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2617 (2022) (Gorsuch, J., concurring). In fact, as we discuss below, perhaps the most serious attempt to ground the MQD in interpretive law asserts that the doctrine is instead a linguistic, or semantic, canon.40See infra Sections I.B & I.C. In theory, at least, this move would legitimize the canon for textualists and everyone else because the doctrine would simply be folded into the relatively uncontroversial search for the ordinary meaning of delegating statutes.41Wurman, supra note 8, at 916. For a discussion of “ordinary meaning,” see Brian G. Slocum, Ordinary Meaning: A Theory of the Most Fundamental Principle of Legal Interpretation 1–5 (2015).

This pivot to a linguistic defense raises many questions, very few of which have been answered. After describing how the linguistic defense works, we then highlight theoretical limitations, open questions, and the broader implications of defending the MQD as a linguistic canon.

A.  The Canonization of the Major Questions Doctrine

1.  Historical Threads of the Major Questions Doctrine

The MQD is not entirely new; it is in the process of “metamorphosis.”42Walters, supra note 12, at 480–81. It is also, of course, the talk of the town because of fears/hopes that it will be deployed in such a way as to “kneecap” administrative agencies and promote an economic, libertarian conception of American governance. See Matt Ford, The Supreme Court Conservatives’ Favorite New Weapon for Kneecapping the Administrative State, New Republic (Mar. 13, 2023), https://newrepublic.com/article/171093/supreme-court-major-questions-doctrine-administrative-state [https://perma.cc/R3FJ-GVN8]; John Yoo & Robert Delahunty, The Major-Questions Doctrine and the Administrative State, Nat’l Affairs (Fall 2022), https://www.nationalaffairs.com/publications/detail/the-major-questions-doctrine-and-the-administrative-state [https://perma.cc/7NYU-M8FJ]. Arguably, the first appearance of something like the MQD was in the plurality opinion in a 1980 case known as the Benzene Case.43Indus. Union Dep’t v. Am. Petrol. Inst., 448 U.S. 607, 614–15 (1980) [hereinafter Benzene Case]. In that case, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (“OSHA”) was charged with promulgating standards that “most adequately assure[], to the extent feasible, on the basis of the best available evidence, that no employee will suffer material impairment of health or functional capacity even if such employee has regular exposure to the hazard dealt with by such standard for the period of his working life.”4429 U.S.C. § 655(b)(5). Rather than follow OSHA’s argument that the statute, fairly read, seemed to require it to “impose standards that either guarantee workplaces that are free from any risk of material health impairment, however small, or that come as close as possible to doing so without ruining entire industries,” the plurality opinion held that OSHA had only been delegated authority to regulate “significant” risks.45Benzene Case, 448 U.S. at 641, 651.

As Cass Sunstein notes, although the Court invoked the nondelegation doctrine and constitutional avoidance to arrive at this statutory interpretation, it is impossible to square what the Court did with the “(standard) nondelegation doctrine.”46Cass R. Sunstein, There Are Two “Major Questions” Doctrines, 73 Admin. L. Rev. 475, 484 (2021) (calling the MQD a “linear descendant” of the Benzene Case). This relatively recent vintage has been contested by Louis Capozzi, who argues that the Supreme Court deployed the MQD in a series of rate cases in the late 19th Century. Capozzi, supra note 7, at 196–97. However, this analogy has itself been contested. See Capozzi on the Future of the Major Questions Doctrine, Admin Wannabe (Oct. 19, 2022), https://adminwannabe.com/?p=114 [https://perma.cc/FK6S-MGZW]. The interpretation offered by OSHA, in addition to doing little violence to the text of the statute, would “sharply cabin” the agency’s discretion.47Sunstein, supra note 46, at 486. Sunstein suggests that the plurality opinion in the Benzene Case instead endorsed the novel idea that “without a clear statement from Congress, the Court will not authorize the agency to exercise that degree of (draconian) authority over the private sector.”48Id.

It was hardly clear at the time, however, that the Court was creating something called the “major questions doctrine”; in fact, that would not become clear until very recently. Instead, for several decades, the Court intermittently invoked similar, but often distinct, reasoning from the Benzene Case in regulatory cases involving “extraordinary” circumstances, all while leaving the precise theory behind the reasoning unstated. Paradigmatic of these invocations is FDA v. Brown & Williamson Tobacco.49FDA v. Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corp., 529 U.S. 120, 120 (2000). In that case, the Food and Drug Administration (“FDA”) promulgated a rule regulating tobacco products as “drugs” under the Food, Drug, and Cosmetics Act. The Court applied the familiar Chevron two-step analysis and concluded, on the basis of an examination of legislative history, that Congress had unambiguously declined to give the FDA this power.50Id. at 160–61. The Court added another reason for its conclusion, though, stating that “[i]n extraordinary cases . . . there may be reason to hesitate before concluding that Congress has intended . . . an implicit delegation.”51Id. at 159.

As the “implicit delegation” phrase reveals, the Court explicitly couched its consideration of the “majorness” or “extraordinariness” of the power asserted by the FDA as part of the Chevron analysis. Thus, the MQD acted as a “carve-out” or “exception” to the ordinary rule that statutory ambiguities constitute implicit delegations that an agency is given primacy over courts to resolve, so long as it does so reasonably.52Sunstein, supra note 46, at 482. Instead, when “extraordinary” questions are presented by the agency’s claim of delegated authority, the Court itself resolves the ambiguity at Chevron step one.53Id.

The Brown & Williamson opinion’s use of proto-MQD logic departed from the apparent logic of the Benzene Case in an important way. The Benzene Case left little room for an agency interpretation to survive once the doctrine was triggered. The only way to prevail was to point to clear statutory authorization that could not be limited by the Court to avoid the major implications of the agency’s interpretation. Sunstein calls this the “strong version” of the MQD.54Id. at 486. By contrast, in Brown & Williamson, Sunstein sees a “weak version” that theoretically allowed an agency’s major action so long as the statutory interpretation could be endorsed by a Court engaged in independent (de novo) review without according the agency any deference.55Id. at 484.

As a practical matter, the weak version of the MQD seemed to win out for a while after Brown & Williamson, and on at least one occasion, an agency did win in a major questions case. In King v. Burwell, the Internal Revenue Service (“IRS”) interpreted the Affordable Care Act to make tax credits available even if an individual purchased health insurance on a federal insurance exchange, despite statutory language that limited tax credits to plans purchased through “an Exchange established by the State.”56King v. Burwell, 576 U.S. 473, 483 (2015) (citing 77 Fed. Reg. 30378 (2012) and 26 U.S.C. §§ 36B(b)–(c)). Like in Brown & Williamson, the Court noted that there “may be reason to hesitate before concluding that Congress has intended such an implicit delegation.”57Id. at 485 (quoting FDA v. Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corp., 529 U.S. 120, 159 (2000)). Unlike in Brown & Williamson, however, the Court concluded that the agency had the power to issue the rule, even on a de novo interpretation of the statute. Although the Court’s interpretation of the statutory language at issue has been criticized,58Richard M. Re, The New Holy Trinity, 18 Green Bag 407, 408–09 (2015); Ryan D. Doerfler, The Scrivener’s Error, 110 Nw. U. L. Rev. 811, 811 (2015). the important point is that the “weak version” of the MQD—that is, an “exception,” or “carve-out” from Chevron deference—seemed to rule the day. The only open questions were about where, precisely, to locate the major questions exception: at Chevron step zero,59See Thomas W. Merrill & Kristin E. Hickman, Chevron’s Domain, 89 Geo. L.J. 833, 873 (2000); Cass R. Sunstein, Chevron Step Zero, 92 Va. L. Rev. 187, 207–11 (2006) (elucidating a “step zero” that asks whether Chevron deference even potentially applies or whether some other standard of review, such as Skidmore or de novo review, should prevail). Most observers viewed King v. Burwell as deploying the major questions exception at step zero. step one,60Most observers viewed Brown & Williamson as deploying the major questions exception at step one. or step two.61The only case to have apparently located the major questions exception at step two was Utility Air Regulatory Group v. EPA, 573 U.S. 302, 331–33 (2014).

2.  The Modern Major Questions Doctrine and Its Justification

Enter what Mila Sohoni calls the “major questions quartet.”62Sohoni, supra note 6, at 262. If it was unclear exactly which version of the MQD existed before the quartet, the waters have become only murkier afterward. One thing is unmistakably clear though: The Court did not treat the MQD as a mere exception or carve-out from Chevron deference. Instead, it “unhitched the major questions exception from Chevron.”63Id. at 263. In fact, the majority opinion in West Virginia v. EPA,64West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2587–616 (2022). the leading case in the quartet, did not even mention Chevron in its elaboration or application of the MQD.65Part of the reason why Chevron was not mentioned may be because the Court is now generally hostile to the doctrine. See Lisa Schultz Bressman & Kevin M. Stack, Chevron Is a Phoenix, 74 Vand. L. Rev. 465, 466 (2021) (describing the debate about Chevron and arguing that judicial deference to agency interpretations is a foundational aspect of administrative law). As this Article went to press, the Court overruled Chevron. See Loper Bright Enters. v. Raimondo, 144 S. Ct. 2244, 2254 (2024). Instead, the Court offered an almost entirely new gloss on the doctrine:

“[I]n certain extraordinary cases, both separation of powers principles and a practical understanding of legislative intent make us ‘reluctant to read into ambiguous statutory text’ the delegation claimed to be lurking there. To convince us otherwise, something more than a merely plausible textual basis for the agency action is necessary. The agency instead must point to ‘clear congressional authorization’ for the power it claims.”66West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2609 (citation omitted).

For the vast majority of commentators, these words have been taken to suggest that the current Court, post-quartet, thinks of the MQD as a particularly powerful form of substantive canon: a clear statement rule.67Deacon & Litman, supra note 9, at 1012; Sohoni, supra note 6, at 264; Walters, supra note 12, at 480–89. On this reading—which seems similar to the implicit use of the doctrine in the Benzene Case—Congress must have spoken with unmistakable clarity in order for agencies to have the “major” power they are claiming to have been delegated. If there is any ambiguity, and even if the agency has a “plausible” basis for concluding that it has the authority under applicable statutes, the agency cannot exercise that power. Some are not convinced the MQD is a clear statement rule and view it as a weaker substantive canon that resolves ambiguity.68See, e.g., Natasha Brunstein & Donald L.R. Goodson, Unheralded and Transformative: The Test for Major Questions After West Virginia, 47 Wm. & Mary Env’t L. & Pol’y Rev. 47 (2022) (noting that the Court in West Virginia v. EPA does not refer to the MQD as a clear statement rule). Accordingly, when the MQD is applicable, any statutory ambiguities should be resolved against the agency’s assertion of power so as to vindicate “separation of powers principles.”69West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2609. In any event, a common understanding is that the MQD is driven by a normative commitment to a limited role for administrative agencies in the legal system, and perhaps by a “delegation doctrine” that insists that agencies have no power unless it is affirmatively shown that Congress has granted it to them.70See generally Jonathan H. Adler, The Delegation Doctrine, Harv. J. Pub. Pol’y: Per Curiam, Summer 2024, at 1.

The MQD is inherently controversial as a substantive canon regardless of whether it is a clear statement rule or a tiebreaker canon. Simply by virtue of being a substantive canon, the “new MQD” is in tension with textualism. As Justice Kagan, a self-avowed textualist, puts it, there is some momentum for “toss[ing] [substantive canons] all out.”71Transcript of Oral Argument at 60, Ysleta del sur Pueblo v. Texas, 142 S. Ct. 1929 (2022) (No. 20-493). As she noted in her West Virginia dissent, channeling Karl Llewelyn, “special canons like the ‘major questions doctrine’” function as “get-out-of-text-free cards.”72West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. at 2641 (Kagan, J., dissenting). Karl Llewellyn famously purported to show that every canon can be countered by an equal and opposite canon, which he argued deprives canons of any probative force in the interpretive process. See Karl N. Llewellyn, Remarks on the Theory of Appellate Decision and the Rules or Canons About How Statutes Are to Be Construed, 3 Vand. L. Rev. 395, 401–06 (1950). Llewellyn’s famous critique, however, overstated the conflict among canons. See William N. Eskridge, Jr., Norms, Empiricism, and Canons in Statutory Interpretation, 66 U. Chi. L. Rev. 671, 679 (1999) (“The large majority of Llewellyn’s competing canonical couplets are presumptions about language and extrinsic sources, followed by qualifications to the presumptions.”). Recently, Benjamin Eidelson and Matthew Stephenson have exhaustively assessed “leading efforts to square modern textualist theory with substantive canons” and ultimately concluded that “substantive canons are generally just as incompatible with textualists’ jurisprudential commitments as they first appear.”73Eidelson & Stephenson, supra note 12, at 520–21; see also Barrett, supra note 13, at 110. This challenge would apply to a range of canons employed by the textualist Supreme Court. The Roberts Court, though textualist, often employs substantive canons. See Nina A. Mendelson, Change, Creation, and Unpredictability in Statutory Interpretation: Interpretive Canon Use in the Roberts Court’s First Decade, 117 Mich. L. Rev. 71, 141 tbl.2 (2018); Anita S. Krishnakumar, Reconsidering Substantive Canons, 84 U. Chi. L. Rev. 825, 825–26 (2017). The MQD, insofar as it is a substantive canon, would not be spared.74Eidelson & Stephenson, supra note 12, at 520–21.

Beyond these generalized concerns with substantive canons, some commentators have questioned whether the MQD satisfies basic expectations about the Court’s recognition and use of substantive canons, even assuming that they can sometimes be legitimate aids to interpretation. Simply put, the Court has not been at all clear about the source of the normative foundation of the MQD.75Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2376 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring) (noting that “there is an ongoing debate” about the MQD’s “source and status”). For Sohoni, formulating the MQD as a kind of constitutional avoidance rule fails because of the “Court’s failure to say anything about nondelegation”—a failure that “creates genuine conceptual uncertainty about what exactly it was doing in these cases.”76Sohoni, supra note 6, at 297. The currently prevailing nondelegation test asks merely whether Congress has provided a “reasonably intelligible policy” to guide an agency’s exercise of discretion.77A.L.A. Schechter Poultry Corp. v. United States, 295 U.S. 495, 500 (1935). That test would not have provided anywhere close to a “significant risk” of constitutional invalidity in any of the statutes examined in the major questions quartet.78Significant risk is required under the modern form of the constitutional avoidance doctrine. Although Justice Gorsuch in his concurrence in West Virginia v. EPA suggested that the MQD is inspired by the nondelegation doctrine (and probably his preferred version of the nondelegation doctrine, which is not the law currently), the majority pointed more generally to “separation of powers principles.”79West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2609 (2022). Some have inferred that the Supreme Court might be interested in developing constitutional principles demanding affirmative proof of delegation in certain circumstances—and that the MQD reflects this implicit constitutional project80Sohoni, supra note 6, at 312–13; Adler, supra note 70, at 6.––but if so the Court has not been explicit. This uncertainty about the connection between constitutional principles and the MQD also seems to doom the MQD under Justice Barrett’s own test for the legitimacy of substantive canons within textualism, under which there must be a reasonably specific constitutional principle to which a constitutionally inspired substantive canon attaches.81Barrett, supra note 13, at 178. In other words, if the MQD is a substantive canon, its substance, or normative content, is not clear. Most substantive canons either reflect a broad societal consensus or are tied closely to constitutional law. The MQD at first glance has neither of these attributes.

3.  The Modern Major Questions Doctrine’s Linguistic Turn

Perhaps not surprisingly, given the strong pushback that the MQD has received when it is formulated as a substantive canon, defenders of the MQD are increasingly suggesting that the MQD is not a substantive canon at all. Instead, proponents suggest it is a linguistic canon.

This rebranding is not as far-fetched as it might seem at first. “ ‘[L]inguistic’ validity and ‘substantive’ value are properties of canons.”82Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 73. The standard dichotomy between “linguistic” and “substantive” canons suggests that a canon has at most one property; but, it is conceptually possible for a canon to have both.83Id. There is evidence that some canons that have long been treated as “substantive canons”—such as anti-retroactivity and anti-extraterritoriality—are also consistent with how ordinary people understand rules. For example, when a rule (especially a punitive rule) does not explicitly state whether it applies retroactively, prospectively, or both, people tend to understand it to apply only prospectively.84Id. at 82–83. Insofar as textualism is guided by ordinary understanding of language,85See, e.g., Barrett, supra note 17, at 2194. textualists have good reason to consider such “substantive” canons as simultaneously linguistic ones. Even some tough critics of substantive canons like Eidelson and Stephenson show some openness to these arguments: “[T]he textualist’s reasonable reader . . . opens the door to recasting some seemingly substantive canons as simply default inferences that a reasonable reader would draw . . . . The presumption against extraterritoriality is a possible example.”86Eidelson & Stephenson, supra note 12, at 539.

Could a similar linguistic argument support the MQD? Acknowledging that criticisms of the MQD as a substantive canon “are, to some if not a large extent, warranted,”87Wurman, supra note 8, at 912. Professor Ilan Wurman recently rebranded the MQD as a linguistic canon.88Wurman, supra note 8, at 916 (“On this conceptualization, the importance of a purported grant of authority would operate as a kind of linguistic canon: ordinarily, lawmakers and private parties tend to speak clearly, and interpreters tend to expect clarity, when those lawmakers or parties authorize others to make important decisions on their behalf.”). Wurman argues that the MQD could be understood as motivated by a theory of linguistic usage about how interpretive uncertainty should be resolved rather than as importation of substantive or normative values into the interpretive enterprise. He appeals to prior work in philosophy and legal philosophy, which argues that “high-stakes” contexts lead to less knowledge or legal clarity.89See infra Section I.B.

Even more recently, Justice Barrett has proposed her own, separate linguistic argument for the MQD’s legitimacy. The Supreme Court has made the major questions quartet a quintet with its decision in Biden v. Nebraska. That case concerned President Biden’s 2022 proposal to forgive $10,000 to $20,000 in student loans for low to middle-income borrowers. Biden’s Department of Education traced the authority for their emergency loan relief to the HEROES Act, a 2001 law that grants the U.S. Secretary of Education the ability to “waive or modify” provisions related to federal student loans “in connection with a war or other military operation or national emergency.”9020 U.S.C. § 1098bb(a)(1). After Biden announced his administration’s loan forgiveness program as a response to the COVID-19 national emergency, several states challenged the program. That case reached the Supreme Court and divided the Justices 6–3 along conservative-liberal lines. Justice Roberts’s majority opinion proceeded with traditional textual interpretation, concluding that the government’s student loan relief is not within the statutory meaning of “waive or modify” any provision. But the opinion also referenced the major questions doctrine, as an alternative ground for the holding.

Justice Barrett wrote separately to argue that the MQD is not a substantive canon but rather “a tool for discerning—not departing from—the text’s most natural interpretation.”91Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2376 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring). Candidly, and consistently with her prior writings on substantive canons,92See Barrett, supra note 13, at 110. Justice Barrett conceded that the substantive canon version of the MQD might be “inconsistent with textualism” and therefore “should give a textualist pause.”93Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2376 (Barrett, J., concurring). By grounding the MQD in how ordinary readers apply common sense in reading statutory text, Justice Barrett aims to put the MQD on more solid footing, particularly for textualists.

After the opinion, some suggested that Justice Barrett’s argument “mirrors” Wurman’s.94See, e.g., Baumann, supra note 21. We disagree: the two arguments both present the MQD as a linguistic canon, but the arguments are distinct. Wurman appeals to high-stakes context and the resolution of interpretive uncertainty, while Barrett appeals to anti-literalism and contextual restriction concerning major actions (with nothing about high stakes). Thus, Wurman’s argument centers on “ambiguity” caused by high stakes, whereas Justice Barrett’s theory is about how ordinary people generally use “common sense” to interpret non-literally (with no mention of “ambiguity”). The next two Sections separately reconstruct Wurman’s (I.B) and Justice Barrett’s (I.C) linguistic arguments in detail and present some theoretical challenges for each.

B.  The Major Questions Doctrine as a High-Stakes Linguistic Canon

One important line of work defending the “linguistic” MQD appeals to the philosophical and legal-philosophical literature on stakes and knowledge.95Wurman, supra note 8, at 957–61 (appealing to Doerfler, supra note 25). That theoretical literature proposes that knowledge is sensitive to high stakes: it could be true that one knows a proposition in a low-stakes context (for example, the bank is open) but does not know that proposition, given the same evidence, in a high-stakes context.

The legal literature about stakes and interpretation, including the linguistic MQD defense, takes this claim about knowledge to be important. But the relationship between knowledge and legal interpretation is not entirely clear. Roughly, the argument goes as follows: we are less likely to know a proposition when the practical stakes of its truth are raised, and similarly, we are less likely to assess that a text is clear when the practical stakes of its meaning are raised.96E.g., Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523.

The linguistic defense of the MQD is clearly based in part on this philosophical literature about stakes and knowledge. Before interrogating the full argument, however, we must spell it out. Here we attempt to reconstruct the defense.

1.  Reconstruction of the “High Stakes” Linguistic Defense of the Major Questions Doctrine

(1)  [Empirical Premise 1: Stakes-Sensitive Knowledge]: The ordinary reader’s knowledge is sensitive to high stakes.97Wurman, supra note 8, at 957 (“[O]rdinary speakers attribute ‘knowledge’—and, in turn, ‘clarity’—more freely or less freely depending upon the practical stakes.” (quoting Doerfler, supra note 25, at 527)).

(2)  [Empirical Premise 2: Stakes-Sensitive Clarity]: The ordinary reader’s understanding of textual clarity is sensitive to high stakes.98Id. at 959 (“[O]rdinary readers and speakers are more likely to find the statute ambiguous in that [high-stakes] context than in a relatively lower-stakes context.”); see also id. at 917 (appealing to “how ordinary persons interpret instructions in high-stakes contexts”).

(3)  [Definition: MQD Case]: In a MQD case, the agency’s statutory powers are defined in linguistic terms that are semantically clear but highly general. The agency is exercising “vast powers” of great economic/political significance and pointing to the statutory language as authorization.99See id. at 911 (summarizing the MQD as the idea that “[c]ourts should have ‘skepticism’ when statutes appear to delegate to agencies questions of major political and economic significance, which skepticism the government can only overcome ‘under the major questions doctrine’ by ‘point[ing] to “clear congressional authorization” to regulate in that manner’ ” (citation omitted)).

(4)  [Premise]: MQD cases involve a high-stakes context.100Although Wurman, supra note 8, never explicitly describes the MQD cases as “high stakes,” we assume this premise is uncontroversial as part of a reconstruction of the argument. If they did not involve a high-stakes context, none of the arguments would be relevant.

(5)  [Textualist Premise]: Judges should interpret statutory language from the perspective of the ordinary reader.

(6)  [Minor Conclusion, from 1, 2, 3, 4, 5]: In a MQD case, the text is unclear.

(7)  [Premise]: If a text is unclear with respect to authorizing an agency’s action, it does not authorize that action.

(8)  [Major Conclusion, from 6, 7]: In a MQD case, the agency’s action is not authorized.

Attempting to construct the argument fully and precisely reveals several interesting features and questions. First, consider the two “Empirical Premises” (1 and 2). It is unclear exactly what function the first Empirical Premise (about knowledge) serves. It is included in the argument above because it features repeatedly and centrally in Wurman’s (and Doerfler’s) scholarship on high stakes, but even if that Premise were false, Premise 2 alone could support the argument.

Why, then, does the “high-stakes” literature emphasize knowledge in addition to textual clarity? Perhaps because there is little data bearing on the truth of Premise 2, but there is rich, decades-old philosophical literature that seemingly supports Premise 1.101E.g., Stewart Cohen, Contextualism, Skepticism, and the Structure of Reasons, 13 Phil. Persps. 57, 57 (1999); DeRose, supra note 24, at 913–18. As such, we understand the legal literature to be using Premise 1 as support for Premise 2: philosophers have concluded that knowledge is stakes sensitive, and this conclusion supports also concluding that textual clarity is stakes sensitive.

In Part III, we investigate the stakes-knowledge-clarity relationship empirically, but here we note some initial skepticism about the inference from knowledge to clarity. Law includes technical language,102Frederick Schauer, Is Law a Technical Language?, 52 San Diego L. Rev. 501, 501 (2015). and as such, many ordinary people do not have direct knowledge of a law’s meaning. Nevertheless, this does not imply that a particular law is unclear, in the sense of being unclear to a legal expert or inherently indeterminate. Recent empirical work supports this point: ordinary readers understand law to include technical legal meanings, and they defer to legal experts to elaborate those meanings.103Kevin Tobia, Brian G. Slocum & Victoria Nourse, Ordinary Meaning and Ordinary People, 171 U. Pa. L. Rev. 365, 365 (2023) [hereinafter Tobia et al., Ordinary People]. The mere fact that laypeople do not know the meaning of a law without further inquiry or assistance strikes us as an implausible basis for judges to treat the law as ambiguous or unclear.

Moreover, the “Minor Conclusion” (6) only follows with a very strong interpretation of the meaning of “sensitive to high stakes” (1) and (2). To conclude that “general” statutory language is unclear because of ordinary sensitivity to a high-stakes context, one must interpret (2) to mean that a high-stakes context eliminates clarity.

Wurman describes the MQD as limited to “resolving statutory ambiguities.”104Wurman, supra note 8, at 940–41. This is a common way to describe a “tiebreaker” canon. We ultimately find this confusing insofar as Wurman also presents the MQD as a linguistic canon, a rule of thumb that is evidence of linguistic meaning. If “ambiguity” refers to linguistic ambiguity, an applicable “linguistic” canon would render the statute non-ambiguous. For example, in Lockhart the Court faced a linguistic ambiguity.105Lockhart v. United States, 577 U.S. 347, 361 (2016). Lockhart was convicted under 18 U.S.C. § 2252(a) and faced a mandatory minimum due to an earlier conviction. The penalty increased if the defendant had a prior conviction “under the laws of any State relating to aggravated sexual abuse, sexual abuse, or abusive sexual conduct involving a minor or ward.”10618 U.S.C. § 2252(b)(1). That final modifier (involving a minor or ward) could modify all three noun phrases (aggravated sexual abuse, sexual abuse, and abusive sexual conduct) or just the last (abusive sexual conduct). The series qualifier canon instructs us to apply the modifier to all three noun phrases. The determination that the series qualifier canon applies qua linguistic canon is a decision that the linguistic meaning of the provision is determinate and has a specific meaning, not that it is ambiguous. If ambiguity persists—for example, if there is a competing linguistic canon that counsels in favor of the opposite interpretation—the Court might resolve ambiguity with some non-linguistic consideration, such as the rule of lenity.

Alternatively, perhaps the argument is that the MQD is “linguistic” in the sense that it represents how ordinary people believe that ambiguity should be resolved, and thus how ordinary people would choose to resolve disputes in MQD cases. But that would be an unusual sense of “linguistic.” Existing linguistic canons help determine the linguistic meaning of a provision; they do not enter the interpretive process after that meaning has been concluded to be indeterminate.

This might all seem pedantic, but it highlights a problem with this linguistic defense of the MQD. We have done our best to explain the argument in a clear form, but we are unsure that there is even a workable argument for the “high stakes” linguistic MQD that arrives at the Major Conclusion (8).

Beyond this general issue (that the logic of the argument itself is unclear), several of the premises are open to debate. For example, perhaps some of the Court’s major questions cases do not involve high stakes or sufficiently high stakes (Premise 4).107See Deacon & Litman, supra note 9, at 1009–10 (discussing and critiquing the Court’s criteria of majorness); Natasha Brunstein & Richard L. Revesz, Mangling the Major Questions Doctrine, 74 Admin. L. Rev. 217, 219 (2022) (discussing how the Trump Administration distorted the majorness determination by invoking the doctrine “enormously expansively and inconsistently”). Premise 7 is also controversial: just because a text’s meaning is unclear does not necessarily imply that it should be interpreted against an agency delegation (perhaps instead, it should be interpreted with a presumption of judicial nonintervention).108Wurman acknowledges that this is a contestable claim. See Wurman, supra note 8, at 958 (noting that Doerfler views the question as whether judges should “demand more epistemic confidence” before overturning an expert agency’s interpretation). But Wurman suggests that “the legal system already contingently addresses this question” by presumptively disallowing agency action unless agencies “demonstrate authority for their actions” and thus satisfy their “burden of proof.” Id. at 960. Note the connection here to the theory of exclusive delegation, which is a nascent substantive grounding for the canon, not a linguistic one. See supra note 80 and accompanying text.

Nevertheless, most of our attention in this Article is on the two Empirical Premises, 1 and 2. Whatever the argument is, it is clear that these two premises are central: the “high-stakes” argument repeatedly appeals to these claims.109See Wurman supra note 8, at 954–55. If these premises—and especially the second premise—are empirically invalid, the entire argument is a nonstarter. Part II of this Article presents evidence bearing on Premise 1, and Part III presents original empirical studies bearing on both Premise 1 and Premise 2. To preview the findings, (1) although academic philosophers have long assumed that higher stakes reduce knowledge, many studies find that stakes have no effect on ordinary people’s knowledge attributions;110See infra Part II. (2) we find a very small effect of stakes on knowledge (far from sufficient to conclude that “the ordinary reader” is stakes-sensitive about knowledge), and no effect of stakes on linguistic clarity.111See infra Section III.A.

C.  The Major Questions Doctrine as an Anti-Literal Linguistic Canon

A second argument for the “linguistic” MQD surfaced in summer 2023. Justice Barrett’s concurrence in Biden v. Nebraska proposes that the MQD has a linguistic basis in ordinary people’s anti-literalism and sensitivity to context.

The crux of the argument is an appeal to the predicted reaction of ordinary people to everyday situations, such as Justice Barrett’s “babysitter” hypothetical:

Consider a parent who hires a babysitter to watch her young children over the weekend. As she walks out the door, the parent hands the babysitter her credit card and says: “Make sure the kids have fun.” Emboldened, the babysitter takes the kids on a road trip to an amusement park, where they spend two days on rollercoasters and one night in a hotel. Was the babysitter’s trip consistent with the parent’s instruction? Maybe in a literal sense, because the instruction was open-ended. But was the trip consistent with a reasonable understanding of the parent’s instruction? Highly doubtful. In the normal course, permission to spend money on fun authorizes a babysitter to take children to the local ice cream parlor or movie theater, not on a multiday excursion to an out-of-town amusement park. If a parent were willing to greenlight a trip that big, we would expect much more clarity than a general instruction to “make sure the kids have fun.”112Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2379–80 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring) (emphasis omitted).

Justice Barrett explains that additional context could make a difference, including (1) “maybe the parent left tickets to the amusement park on the counter,” (2) “[p]erhaps the parent showed the babysitter where the suitcases are, in the event that she took the children somewhere overnight,” (3) “maybe the parent mentioned that she had budgeted $2,000 for weekend entertainment,” (4) the “babysitter had taken the children on such trips before,” or (5) “if the babysitter were a grandparent.”113Id. at 2380. Notably, not all of these are additions to the text of the statement. We are sympathetic to this view of non-text-based context, but it is arguably a significant departure from traditional text-focused textualism.114See infra Section IV.B.

Moreover, Justice Barrett argues that the babysitter hypothetical illustrates how “we communicate conversationally” and that the MQD merely represents “common sense” in a different context:

In my view, the major questions doctrine grows out of these same commonsense principles of communication. Just as we would expect a parent to give more than a general instruction if she intended to authorize a babysitter-led getaway, we also “expect Congress to speak clearly if it wishes to assign to an agency decisions of vast ‘economic and political significance.’ ” That clarity may come from specific words in the statute, but context can also do the trick. Surrounding circumstances, whether contained within the statutory scheme or external to it, can narrow or broaden the scope of a delegation to an agency.115Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2380 (Barrett, J., concurring) (citation omitted).

This justification coheres with Justice Barrett’s “ordinary speaker” approach to interpretation. In Congressional Insiders and Outsiders, Justice Barrett argues that judges should approach language “from the perspective of an ordinary English speaker—a congressional outsider.”116Barrett, supra note 17, at 2194. This generally requires avoiding insider knowledge about Congress: “What matters to the textualist is how the ordinary English speaker—one unacquainted with the peculiarities of the legislative process—would understand the words of a statute.”117Id.

While Justice Barrett’s babysitter example is intriguing, it is not immediately clear how it supports the MQD. A skeptic might read the babysitter-to-MQD argument as committing a “motte” and “bailey” fallacy, conflating one position that is very easy to defend (the motte) with one much harder to defend (the bailey). It is undeniable that context influences interpretation and it would not be surprising that ordinary people are more confident in delegation of power with additional supporting contextual evidence. If the babysitter had previously taken the children on trips ((4) from above) or the agency had a longstanding practice of developing new programs, that context would often make readers equally or more confident that a text delegating authority to that agent encompasses similar action.

But this observation (that context can lend further support to particular actions taken pursuant to a delegation) does not justify the MQD. Justice Barrett’s key claim about ordinary language is much stronger, something like: ordinary people understand general delegations to X to be limited to only the most reasonable ways to X, absent further textual or contextual support for X. Recall Justice Barrett’s argument about the babysitter’s trip: “But was the trip consistent with a reasonable understanding of the parent’s instruction? Highly doubtful.”118Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2379–80 (Barrett, J., concurring). The central claim in the strong form of Justice Barrett’s argument is not merely that context matters but that absent supporting context, ordinary delegations are limited to the set of most reasonable applications of the instruction.

To appeal to the “motte” claim in support of the “bailey” claim is to trade an obvious fact about context to support a highly controversial claim about intuitive understanding of delegations. We do not, however, read Justice Barrett to make such a slippery move. There is a more charitable way to read her concurrence (that is, relying on the stronger key claim). This reading relies on an interesting and empirically testable question: When a text delegates an agent the power to X with general language, do people intuitively understand the delegation to be limited to only the set of the most reasonable/natural ways to X, or do they understand the delegation more broadly (even if not entirely literally)? For example, when a parent instructs a babysitter to “use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend,” does that authorize only the most reasonable actions (for example, ordering pizza, ordering a movie), or does it also authorize some actions that would be understood as less reasonable (for example, taking the kids to an amusement park)? Similarly, when Congress delegates to an agency, is the agency limited to only the set of most reasonable understandings (absent supporting context), or do people understand delegations to communicate a broader (if not quite literal) authorization?

Justice Barrett’s “linguistic defense” of the MQD leaves some questions open—the quotations above capture the bulk of the defense. Our formal reconstruction of the arguments follows.

1.  Reconstruction of the “Anti-Literalism” Defense of the Major Questions Doctrine

(1)  [Definition: Ordinary Majorness]: For a given rule, an action is “major” if the ordinary reader understands it, absent additional context, as not among the set of most reasonable ways to follow the rule.119A “major” action may be consistent with the rule’s literal meaning. The appeal to “reasonableness” generates an interesting feature of this definition: an action could be “major” in the sense of exceeding the reasonable set of actions or subceeding it. For example, imagine the babysitter responds by choosing to simply play board games with the kids, without using the credit card. It is possible that this is not among the most reasonable ways to follow the rule.

(2)  [Definition: MQD Case]: In a MQD case, the agency’s statutory powers are defined in linguistic terms that are semantically clear but highly general. The agency is exercising “vast powers” of great economic/political significance and pointing to the statutory language as authorization.

(3)  [Empirical Premise: MQD Cases Involve Ordinary Majorness] The ordinary reader takes MQD cases to involve a “major” action (for example, in the MQD cases, the ordinary reader takes the contested action, absent additional context, as not among the most reasonable ways to follow the rule).

(4)  [Textualist Premise]: Judges should interpret statutory language from the perspective of the ordinary reader.120Some textualists might adopt a weaker premise: “In interpreting statutes, judges should employ some principles that guide the ordinary reader, some principles that guide an idealized or informed reader (for example, ‘reasonable reader’), and some principles that guide the expert reader (for example, ‘ordinary lawyer’).” Insofar as Justice Barrett’s linguistic MQD argument adopts something like this weaker premise, the argument only goes through if the weaker premise is supplemented with a further premise: “In MQD cases, textualists should employ the principles that guide an ordinary reader’s understanding of delegations of authority to agents.” Justice Barrett’s MQD argument relies heavily on her ordinary babysitter example, suggesting that—at least for the purpose of major questions cases—judges’ approach to language should include the ordinary reader’s understanding of delegations (including how the literal meaning of a delegation is restricted by context). For simplicity, our main argument uses the simpler but stronger premise, but it could also use the weaker (but more complicated) pair of premises.

This weaker premise also reveals hard questions for textualists, which are beyond the scope of this Article: When, exactly, should a textualist adopt one or other of these perspectives and principles? We are skeptical about textualists that freely shift among these perspectives, with no guiding principles. Justice Barrett herself has not clearly answered this question, sometimes treating the ordinary reader as the lodestar for interpretation and other times pointing to legally trained readers. See Barrett, supra note 17, at 2202. A defense of the MQD on the grounds that it reflects lawyerly training is arguably more substantive than linguistic, and more circular than logical, but we do not purport to address this defense of the MQD in this Article. See also Tobia et al., Ordinary People, supra note 103, at 432–34 (arguing that standards like “appropriately informed interpreter” are more normative than descriptive).

(5)  [Empirical Premise]: Absent additional context, the ordinary reader understands rules that delegate power to an agent to have significant contextual limitations against all “major” actions; such a rule’s communicative content is limited to authorizing only the set of most reasonable actions.

(6)  [Conclusion]: In MQD cases, absent additional context, judges interpreting delegations should interpret delegations to exclude all major actions.

II.  PHILOSOPHICAL AND EMPIRICAL BACKGROUND

The previous Part introduced the two linguistic MQD arguments, one concerning high stakes and one concerning anti-literalism. This Part provides background from philosophy and empirical studies related to these arguments.

Some of the questions at the heart of the “high-stakes” MQD defense have been long debated by epistemologists (philosophers who specialize in the study of knowledge). More recently, the same questions have been studied empirically by psychologists and experimental philosophers.121See generally A Companion to Experimental Philosophy (Justin Sytsma & Wesley Buckwalter eds., 2016) (for an overview of experimental philosophy). Much of this work challenges a premise in the high-stakes MQD argument: although philosophers have claimed high stakes impact knowledge, high stakes have (at most) a small effect on ordinary judgments of knowledge. Section II.A reviews this research.

Section II.B provides background related to Justice Barrett’s claims about context and anti-literalism. Context matters in interpretation, and recent research has found that ordinary people understand law in line with anti-literalism, as Justice Barrett notes. However, there is no extant research that supports the stronger empirical premise in the anti-literalism argument.

A.  Stakes and Knowledge

1.  Philosophical Epistemology of Stakes and Knowledge

For decades, philosophers have evaluated stakes’ impact on knowledge with hypothetical “thought experiments.”122See, e.g., Cohen, supra note 101, at 58–60. Consider a pair of cases as an example.123Rose et al., supra note 34, at 237–39 (for a discussion of this version of the case); see also DeRose, supra note 24, at 913–16. The only differences between cases are highlighted in italics.

(1)  Low-Stakes Bank Deposit:

Bob and Jane are considering whether to stop at the bank to deposit a check on a Friday. Nothing turns on whether they deposit the check in the next week. The line is long, and they consider coming back on Saturday. Bob says that he remembers that the bank was open last Saturday, and Jane replies that banks sometimes change their hours. Bob says, “I know the bank will be open tomorrow.”

In this case, many philosophers claim that Bob knows that the bank will be open tomorrow.124Keith DeRose, The Ordinary Language Basis for Contextualism, and the New Invariantism, 55 Phil. Q. 172, 176 (explaining that “almost any speaker in my situation would claim to know the bank is open on Saturdays” in this low stakes case). Now consider a slight variation on this case.

(2)  High-Stakes Bank Deposit:

Bob and Jane are considering whether to stop at the bank to deposit a check on a Friday. It is critical that the check is deposited on one of the next two days. On Sunday, there will be a large debit to Bob’s account, which does not currently have enough funds, and the check is Bob’s only means to cover that expense. The line is long, and they consider coming back on Saturday. Bob says that he remembers that the bank was open last Saturday, and Jane replies that banks sometimes change their hours. Bob says, “I know the bank will be open tomorrow.”

In this case, philosophers say that Bob’s statement is false.125Id. at 177 (“Almost everyone will accept [‘I don’t know if the bank is open’] as a reasonable admission, and it will seem true to almost everyone.”). He does not know the bank will be open tomorrow.

The epistemology literature has taken philosophers’ shared reactions to these cases as intuitive data. And philosophers have offered different theories to make sense of that data. These are rich and complicated philosophical debates, which this Article does not have the space to rehearse or explore deeply.126For example, “contextualism” holds that “to know” is context sensitive, such that the truth conditions for knowledge attributions vary across contexts. Cohen, supra note 101, at 57; DeRose, supra note 24, at 914; see also Keith DeRose, Solving the Skeptical Problem, 104 Phil. Rev. 1, 4–5 (1995). “Interest-relative invariantism” (“IRI”) rejects the claim that knowledge is context sensitive; instead, IRI holds that practical factors impact whether knowledge obtains. Jason Stanley, Knowledge and Practical Interests 85–89 (2005). Our principal interest is in how this work has informed recent debates in legal philosophy.

Legal-philosophical scholarship has drawn on this work in epistemology in support of the claim that high-stakes legal interpretation differs from lower-stakes interpretation. Ryan Doerfler suggests that high-stakes contexts influence textual clarity,127Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523; see also William Baude & Ryan D. Doerfler, The (Not So) Plain Meaning Rule, 84 U. Chi. L. Rev. 539, 546–47 (2017). and Wurman piggybacks on this premise to argue that stakes sensitivity supports the MQD.128Wurman, supra note 8, at 957–61. Importantly, these legal applications appeal to “ordinary speakers129Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523, 542. and “ordinary epistemic justification,” especially reactions to the bank cases described above.130Id. at 575. A starting premise is that, for ordinary speakers of ordinary language, stakes impact knowledge; this is typically illustrated by the low- and high-stakes bank example.

2.  Do Stakes Impact Knowledge? Empirical Perspectives

Despite the pedigree of the stakes-knowledge literature, there is one big problem: many empirical studies report that stakes have no effect on ordinary attributions of knowledge. As Joshua Knobe & Jonathan Schaffer explain, “[l]ooking at this recent evidence, it is easy to come away with the feeling that the whole contextualism debate was founded on a myth. The various sides offered conflicting explanations for a certain pattern of [stakes-sensitive] intuitions, but the empirical evidence suggests that this pattern of intuitions does not exist.”131Schaffer & Knobe, supra note 34, at 675–76.

Much of this evidence comes from “experimental philosophy.” Rather than relying on the intuitions of philosophers (some of whom might have a lot at stake in intuitions about contextualism), experimental philosophers examine the understandings of ordinary people. Moreover, they often conduct experiments, which present different participants with different versions of the same scenarios, varying in only one respect (for example, higher stakes). This allows experimenters to draw inferences about whether certain factors (for example, stakes) affect people’s judgments in these cases. Some readers may be familiar with experimental philosophy’s testing of the well-known “trolley dilemma.”132See, e.g., Joshua D. Greene, R. Brian Sommerville, Leigh E. Nystrom, John M. Darley & Jonathan D. Cohen, An fMRI Investigation of Emotional Engagement in Moral Judgment, 293 Sci. 2105, 2105 (2001). Many have also poured substantial effort into testing the influence of stakes on knowledge, especially in the “bank cases.”

Do stakes affect lay attributions of knowledge? Many studies report no.133Adam Feltz & Chris Zarpentine, Do You Know More When It Matters Less?, 23 Phil. Psych. 683, 697 (2010); Wesley Buckwalter, Knowledge Isn’t Closed on Saturday: A Study in Ordinary Language, 1 Rev. Phil. & Psych. 395, 403 (2010); Wesley Buckwalter & Jonathan Schaffer, Knowledge, Stakes, and Mistakes, 49 Noûs 201, 228 (2015); Rose et al., supra note 34, at 245; Kathryn B. Francis, Philip Beaman & Nat Hansen, Stakes, Scales, and Skepticism, 6 Ergo 427, 450–52 (2019); Joshua May, Walter Sinnott-Armstrong, Jay G. Hull & Aaron Zimmerman, Practical Interests, Relevant Alternatives, and Knowledge Attributions: An Empirical Study, 1 Rev. Phil. & Psych 265, 272–73 (2010). As one important example, consider the study conducted by David Rose and other contributing authors. They gave participants versions of the bank case described at the start of this Section. They collected data from over 3,500 participants across 16 countries. The vast majority of countries show no significant effect, and for the few that show an effect, the size is very small (about a 10% difference in low- versus high-stakes cases). The researchers conclude that, overall, there is “virtually no evidence that stakes affect knowledge attribution.”134Rose et al., supra note 34, at 233.

Other papers report a complicated pattern for other epistemic notions besides knowledge. For example, Mark Phelan finds no effect of stakes on judgments about how (epistemically) confident someone should be in a between-subjects study, but he finds an effect in a within-subjects study (when the same participant considered matched cases).135Mark Phelan, Evidence that Stakes Don’t Matter for Evidence, 27 Phil. Psych. 488, 505 (2014); see also May et al., supra note 133, at 272 (reporting an effect of stakes on confidence but not knowledge).

Other studies report stakes effects for more complicated (and perhaps controversial) measures of knowledge. As an example, consider Alexander Dinges and Julia Zakkou’s study.136Alexander Dinges & Julia Zakkou, Much at Stake in Knowledge, 36 Mind & Language 729, 746 (2021). For another recent example, see generally Brian Porter, Kelli Barr, Abdellatif Bencherifa, Wesley Buckwalter, Yasuo Deguchi, Emanuele Fabiano, Takaaki Hashimoto, Julia Halamova, Joshua Homan, Kaori Karasawa, Martin Kanovsky, Hackjin Kim, Jordan Kiper, Minha Lee, Xiaofei Liu, Veli Mitova, Rukmini Bhaya, Ljiljana Pantovic, Pablo Quintanilla, Josien Reijer, Pedro Romero, Purmina Singh, Salma Tber, Daniel Wilkenfeld, Stephen Stich, Clark Barrett & Edouard Machery, A Puzzle About Knowledge Ascriptions, Noûs: Early View, July 4, 2024, at 1, available at https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/nous.12515?af=R (finding no effect for questions like “[name] knows/only thinks he knows that [. . .],” but an effect for questions like “how many times do you think [name] has to check the logs before he knows [. . .]”). The weight of current evidence suggests that there is a small or no effect of stakes on knowledge attribution, but there is an effect of stakes on these other measures, such as questions about whether you “stand by” your claim or whether you should “check” your evidence more times. This study instructed participants to consider a scenario in one of three versions. All scenarios began with the following:

Picture yourself in the following scenario:

You and Hannah have been writing a joint paper for an English class. You have agreed to proofread the paper. You’ve carefully proofread the paper 3 times and used a dictionary if necessary. You spotted and corrected a few typos, but you didn’t find any typos in the last round anymore.

You meet up with Hannah to finally submit the paper. Hannah asks whether you think there are no typos in the paper anymore. You respond:

“I know there are no typos anymore.”

At this point, . . .

Then, the scenarios proceeded in either a “neutral,” “stakes,” or “evidence” version. The “stakes” manipulation sought to change the practical significance of the knowledge claim, while the “evidence” manipulation sought to change the evidence base on which the knowledge claim rests.

Neutral: . . . Hannah reveals to you for the first time that she’s always been a big fan of the Backstreet Boys. You’ve never liked the Backstreet Boys, but since you like Hannah, you promise to listen to a few songs she particularly recommends. You doubt that it will change your mind but agree that it doesn’t hurt to give it a try. As you’re about to submit the paper, Hannah asks whether you stand by your previous claim that you know there are no typos in the paper. You respond:

Stakes: . . . Hannah reveals to you for the first time that it is extremely important for her to get an A in the English class. Her scholarship depends on it, and she’ll have to leave college if she loses the scholarship. If there is a typo left in the paper, she’s very unlikely to get an A, so it is extremely important to her that there are no typos in the paper. As you’re about to submit the paper, Hannah asks whether you stand by your previous claim that you know there are no typos in the paper. You respond:

Evidence: . . . Hannah reveals to you for the first time that she’s secretly read your previous term papers and always spotted lots of typos in them even when you said you had carefully proofread them. She apologizes for not telling you earlier. You are slightly disappointed but forgive her. Hannah is a good friend, and you appreciate that she was honest with you in the end. As you’re about to submit the paper, Hannah asks whether you stand by your previous claim that you know there are no typos in the paper. You respond:

All scenarios ended with: “I do” or “I don’t,” asking participants to pick the response they would be more likely to give.

Using this “stand by” question, the researchers found a difference. In the “Neutral” version, 94% of participants stood by their knowledge claim (“I do”); in the “Stakes” version, 76% of participants stood by; and in the “Evidence” version, 42% stood by. The researchers found similar results in a bank case. The Neutral-Stakes difference suggests that stakes can impact knowledge attributions. The Stakes-Evidence difference indicates that other factors (for example, an attributor’s evidence base) also matter and can have a larger effect than stakes. This difference (76% versus 42%) is one of the larger differences reported in the literature.137Dinges & Zakkou, supra note 136, at 735.

It is not clear if agreement with “standing by” a claim is equivalent to agreement with knowledge of a claim. To “stand by” a claim calls to mind the action associated with the claim (that is, going to the bank today or not). From a cost-benefit perspective, stakes are relevant to action. The rising expected cost of failing to act in light of a possible bank closure or paper typo is relevant to a rational actor’s decision-making. Arguably, some of the observed small impacts of stakes on lay attributions of knowledge could be reflecting lay participants’ actionability judgments: in the high-stakes context, Bob’s knowledge has not changed, but whether he should go to the bank has changed.

Overall, the evidence is mixed concerning whether stakes impact ordinary knowledge attributions. Historically, many philosophers had stakes-sensitive knowledge intuitions, predicted that others would, and developed complex theories about those effects.138See, e.g., DeRose, supra note 24, at 913–18. Yet, a large number of empirical studies of thousands of ordinary participants, across many languages and cultures, have found no impact of stakes, or only a very small effect, on knowledge.139See Schaffer & Knobe, supra note 34, at 703. Very recently, one new study has reignited the debate, finding some support for the impact of stakes on epistemological judgments.140See Dinges & Zakkou, supra note 136, at 729. Another forthcoming paper also adopts a nuanced position that normative facts influence knowledge. See N. Ángel Pinillos, Bank Cases, Stakes and Normative Facts, in 5 Oxford Studies in Experimental Philosophy 375 (Joshua Knobe & Shaun Nichols eds., 2024). Yet, another recent study reports that stakes do not affect judgments about knowledge141Su Wu, Are Folks Purists or Pragmatic Encroachers? New Discoveries of Relation Between Knowledge and Action from Experimental Philosophy, Episteme 1, 11 (2023) (studying Chinese participants). but do affect judgment about action.142Id. at 12. In total, there is evidence pointing in both directions. Resolving the debate will require further empirical research as well as systematic theorizing of the seemingly conflicting empirical results.

Consequently, it remains far from settled that high stakes reduce knowledge for “the ordinary person.” Most studies have found that stakes do not impact knowledge in this way. And even for the studies that do report an effect, it is small. If 95% of participants evaluate that there is knowledge in a low-stakes case, and 80% evaluate that there is knowledge in a comparable high-stakes case, does this imply that the “ordinary person” has stakes-sensitive knowledge intuitions? Advocates of ordinary stakes sensitivity need to spell out why stakes-sensitivity manifesting in 10–15% of ordinary participants implies that the ordinary reader has stakes-sensitive knowledge.

The claim that high stakes impact knowledge figures prominently in the argument for a high-stakes linguistic MQD.143See supra Section II.A. Extant legal literature has drawn heavily on this claim in supporting that “high-stakes” interpretation differs from lower-stakes interpretation. In doing so, it has drawn primarily from hypotheticals in academic philosophy (the “bank cases”) and intuitions about those hypotheticals offered by academic philosophers. Insofar as the legal literature concerns stakes’ impact on ordinary people’s knowledge attributions,144See, e.g., Wurman, supra note 8, at 956–61. those legal debates would benefit from greater engagement with the large body of recent empirical work summarized in the previous Section.

3.  From Philosophy to Legal Philosophy

The previous two Subsections have introduced the debate about stakes and knowledge in epistemology. But it is important to recall that the connection of this debate to legal philosophy requires another step. For example, Doerfler proposes a connection between “clarity” or “plain meaning” of a statute and knowledge about the statute’s meaning: “[T]o say that the meaning of a statute is ‘clear’ or ‘plain’ is, in effect, to say that one knows what that statute means.”145Doerfler, supra note 25, at 527 (emphasis omitted); see also Baude & Doerfler, supra note 127, at 545. The logic appears to be that clarity attributions are a subset of knowledge claims, such that a property demonstrated to affect knowledge claims should transitively affect clarity claims.

Ultimately, this relationship between knowledge and clarity is outside the scope of our Article (the relevant question for the linguistic MQD is stakes’ impact on clarity). However, there are some philosophical questions to raise about the proposed relationship between clarity and knowledge. One, which we described earlier, concerns technical meaning. A layperson might not know what a statute means because it is technical, yet the statute may not be “unclear” to that person in the relevant sense of clarity (that is, ambiguous). As another difference, consider factivity. Philosophers often propose that knowledge is factive: I know p only if p. But it is not obvious that clarity is factive. The meaning of a statute might appear clear (that is, not ambiguous) to an agent while the agent is wrong about the statute’s meaning, and thus the agent lacks knowledge of the statute’s meaning. Such a case would be a counterexample to the claim that an agent knows what a statute means if and only if the meaning of the statute is clear.

Most importantly, the empirical evidence about ordinary attributions of knowledge reviewed here—to the extent that it even does support stakes sensitivity—does not necessarily extend to ordinary determinations of whether statutory text is clear. The studies to date mostly used the bank case, but the bank case presents no rule to which clarity judgments might attach. It might be possible that the clarity of rules is reduced for ordinary people in higher-stakes contexts. Indeed, it is theoretically possible that clarity judgments about textual rules are more sensitive to stakes than knowledge more generally. But it is just as possible that there is a breakage: that is, that clarity claims are not simply a subset of knowledge claims but a special and different kind of knowledge claim. However, as far as we are aware, these are entirely untested empirical hypotheses. Without any empirical evidence specific to clarity claims, it would not be possible to bootstrap ordinary stakes-sensitive clarity from ordinary stakes-sensitive knowledge (moreover, as we have argued, ordinary stakes-sensitive knowledge is also empirically dubious). Part III therefore tests this clarity claim.

B.  Context and Anti-Literalism

Justice Barrett’s concurring opinion in Biden v. Nebraska offers a different argument for the MQD as a linguistic canon. For Justice Barrett, the MQD simply reflects “common sense” inferences about how broader context restricts language’s (literal) meaning.146Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2379 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring) (“Context also includes common sense, which is another thing that ‘goes without saying.’ Case reporters and casebooks brim with illustrations of why literalism—the antithesis of context-driven interpretation—falls short.”). Justice Barrett illustrates this with the babysitter example, claiming that ordinary people understand a delegation to a babysitter to have implicit limits (although a babysitter’s attempt to transgress those normal limits might be allowed by a supplemental clear authorization). This, Justice Barrett suggests, is precisely how an ordinary reader would read a statute delegating authority to an agency, and therefore a canon requiring a clear statement from Congress is justified.147See supra Section I.C.

1.  Anti-Literalism and Context in Ordinary Language

Anti-literalism is an important feature of ordinary language. Consider François Recanati’s discussion of the “You are not going to die” example from Kent Bach:

[Imagine] a child crying because of a minor cut and her mother uttering . . . [“you are not going to die”] in response. What is meant is: “You’re not going to die from that cut.” But literally the utterance expresses the propositions that the kid will not die tout court—as if he or she were immortal. The extra element contextually provided (the implicit reference to the cut) does not correspond to anything in the sentence itself; nor is it an unarticulated constituent whose contextual provision is necessary to make the utterance fully propositional.148François Recanati, Literal Meaning 8–9 (2004).

This example helpfully illustrates that we often understand propositions anti-literally, in light of context, and that the relevant context need not come from the statement itself. The very same words “you’re not going to die,” convey a different meaning when uttered after a child gets a cut than they would in some other context where the literal meaning would be the correct meaning.

The powerful influence of context is not limited to anti-literalism. Extratextual context can also disambiguate. As an example, consider the statement “Do not take drugs and alcohol.” Does this mean “Do not take either one?” Or does it mean “Do not take the two together?” The answer varies across contexts.

If this rule were presented in the context of a substance abuse counseling session, our extratextual knowledge about that session leads us to understand this text [to prohibit each individually]: Don’t take drugs; don’t take alcohol. However, if this rule were presented in the context of a patient’s annual physical, in which the doctor prescribed cholesterol-reducing medications, our extra-textual knowledge about that session encourages [understanding the rule to prohibit the combination].149Kevin Tobia, Jesse Egbert & Thomas R. Lee, Triangulating Ordinary Meaning, 112 Geo. L.J. 23, 51 (2023).

2.  Anti-Literalism in Ordinary Understanding of Legal Rules

Justice Barrett’s argument is attractive in its appeal to context and anti-literalism. And Justice Barrett is not the only modern textualist to appeal heavily to anti-literalism; Justices Gorsuch and especially Kavanaugh have also called attention to the perils of overliteral interpretation.150The Justices use “literal” in various ways, but Justice Gorsuch and Kavanaugh have recently called attention to avoiding inappropriate literalism. See, e.g., Bostock v. Clayton County, 140 S. Ct. 1731, 1750 (2020) (Gorsuch, J.); id. at 1825 (Kavanaugh, J., dissenting) (“[C]ourts must follow ordinary meaning, not literal meaning.”).

For modern textualism, this is a welcome development. Analysis of the (linguistic) meaning of legal rules should attend to context and exceed pure literalism. As one example, consider the linguistic canons. Many linguistic canons reflect intuitive contextual restrictions from literal meaning. “No cars, trucks, or other vehicles may enter the park” might literally prohibit bicycles from the park, as most ordinary people take a bicycle to be a vehicle.151Kevin P. Tobia, Testing Ordinary Meaning, 134 Harv. L. Rev. 726, 757 (2020) (reporting that most laypeople, law students, and judges agree that a bicycle is a “vehicle”). However, the principle of ejusdem generis instructs interpreters to construe the broad, catchall term “vehicle” in light of the listed items (“cars,” “trucks”).152See McBoyle v. United States, 283 U.S. 25, 26–27 (1931). Even if laypeople are not familiar with the name “ejusdem generis,” they intuitively apply this kind of reasoning when analyzing both legal and ordinary rules.153Tobia et al., From the Outside, supra note 18, at 259–60.

People also apply other types of contextual restrictions from literal meaning. This includes some contextual rules that are not currently recognized by courts as linguistic canons. For example, people understand that universal quantifiers like “any” often do not mean literally any.154Id. (reporting studies demonstrating that laypeople intuitively apply a ejusdem generis principle); see also Tobia, supra note 151, at Appendix (reporting that most laypeople do not take “no vehicles in the park” to prohibit a bicycle from the park, even though most laypeople agree that a bicycle is a “vehicle”). If this tendency were at least as systematic in ordinary understanding as those underlying conventional linguistic canons (for example, the tendency to restrict catchall terms as ejusdem generis reflects), a textualist committed to the ordinary reader should employ those new canons (for example, the “quantifier domain restriction canon”).

Recent legal scholarship has also asked whether thinking about context and anti-literalism might reveal that some “substantive” canons are also linguistic canons.155Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 73. Some clear statement rules—such as anti-retroactivity and anti-extraterritoriality—could be seen as linguistic canons, based on our understanding of context. Taken literally, many statutes would seem to apply at all times, in all places.156E.g., 18 U.S.C. § 2119 (“Whoever, with the intent to cause death or serious bodily harm takes a motor vehicle that has been transported, shipped, or received in interstate or foreign commerce from the person or presence of another by force and violence or by intimidation, or attempts to do so, shall . . . be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than 15 years, or both.”). But people understand statutes to communicate temporal and geographical restrictions: while there is some division among laypeople, overall, people tend to understand rules to apply only prospectively, and only territorially.157Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 81–96.

Textualists may rhetorically privilege the “ordinary reader” and express support for anti-literalism, but they have not yet adopted many of these suggestions. For instance, no textualist has adopted an anti-literal “quantifier domain restriction canon” or theorized anti-retroactivity as a linguistic canon (although it is a long-standing clear statement rule). These context-sensitive rules are relatively robust and systematic and are supported by empirical evidence. We have reservations about a textualism that ignores such systematic patterns of anti-literalism while also freely adopting “ad hoc” anti-literal arguments related only to particular cases. On this score, Justice Barrett’s concurrence in Biden v. Nebraska is commendable in hypothesizing about a broader contextual principle that generally guides ordinary understandings of delegations (that is, a principle applying across cases, not an ad hoc appeal to context and anti-literalism related only to the authorization of emergency student loan relief). Whether Barrett’s contextual principle is systematic and empirically supported is a separate question.

Anti-literalism and contextual restriction are powerful ideas that accurately reflect language usage, but if textualists have no theory about when one can appeal to them, there is a danger that textualists can freely frame different readings as “literal” and “anti-literal,” choose liberally among them, or simply ignore non-literal meanings when doing so is convenient.158See id. at 106–08; see also William N. Eskridge, Jr., Brian G. Slocum & Kevin Tobia, Textualism’s Defining Moment, 123 Colum. L. Rev. 1611, 1612–27 (2023) (documenting twelve theoretical choices facing modern textualists and arguing that textualists’ failure to explain their answers to these choices facilitates cherry-picking and undermines rule of law values like predictability). The claim that “in context,” a text does not “literally” mean what it says is also a powerful way for motivated interpreters to escape a text’s clear meaning.

Context matters. But if textualists have no theory about what counts as context and when they must appeal to it, ad hoc appeals to context are like “looking out over a crowd and picking out your friends.”159See Confirmation Hearing on the Nomination of John G. Roberts, Jr. to Be Chief Justice of the United States Before the S. Comm. on the Judiciary, 109th Cong. 200–01 (2005) (on looking to foreign law in U.S. constitutional interpretation). Except here, the “friends” are not even limited to preexisting sources; they also include entirely novel hypothetical examples generated by the judge.

3.  Contextual Restriction of Delegations?

As Section II.B argued, the “anti-literalism” argument of the linguistic MQD needs a stronger premise than simply “people sometimes understand language non-literally.” The mere fact that “you are not going to die” has a nonliteral meaning does not justify the MQD.

The premise necessary to the argument involves a new claim about ordinary understanding of delegations. Justice Barrett proposes that there is some MQD-like principle that is part of ordinary people’s common sense, concerning the limited authorization from a general delegating instruction. It is for this reason that she relies on the babysitter hypothetical, an anti-literalism intuition-pump about an ordinary instruction that delegates power to an agent. General delegation language, Justice Barrett posits, has an anti-literal limitation. Unless there is further specific authorization, that general language is understood to be limited to only the most reasonable actions.

This is an interesting and empirically testable proposition: ordinary people understand general delegations to be limited to only the most reasonable actions falling under the language of the delegation. As far as we know, there is no empirical study that has examined this question. We present a new study to do so in Section III.B.

III.  NEW EMPIRICAL EVIDENCE

This Part tests key empirical claims at the core of the linguistic arguments for the MQD. In both tests, we seek to reduce our researcher degrees of freedom (that is, eliminate cherry-picking scenarios) by relying on the exact cases that advocates of the linguistic defense offer: the high-stakes “bank case” and the “babysitter hypothetical.”

Section III.A presents a study that tests whether ordinary people’s judgments about knowledge are lowered in high-stakes contexts (using the bank case). It also examines, for the first time, whether people’s understanding of a rule is impacted: Are rules perceived as less clear in high-stakes contexts?

Section III.B presents a study to examine the babysitter case: a parent instructs the babysitter to use a credit card to “make sure the kids have fun.” Do ordinary people understand this instruction to license taking the children on a road trip to an amusement park, or do they understand it to be limited to only more reasonable actions?

Section III.C responds to the primary two objections to the studies that have appeared in print since we first publicized this Article’s empirical findings.

A.  Do High Stakes Reduce Knowledge and/or Clarity? The Bank Case

1.  General Overview

The first study examined whether (high) stakes reduce ordinary attributions of (1) knowledge and (2) clarity of rules. We randomly assigned participants to either a low-stakes160Rose et al., supra note 34, at 231. Low:

Bob and his wife are driving home on a Friday afternoon. They both received some money earlier in the day, and so they plan to stop at the bank on the way home to deposit it. But as they drive past the bank, they notice that the lines inside are very long, as they often are on Friday afternoons. Although they generally like to deposit any money they receive at the bank as soon as possible, it is not especially important in this case that it be deposited right away, and so Bob suggests that they drive straight home and deposit their money on Saturday morning. His wife says, “Maybe the bank won’t be open tomorrow. Lots of banks are closed on Saturdays.” Bob replies, “No, I know the bank will be open. I was just there two weeks ago on Saturday. It was open until noon.” As a matter of fact, the bank will be open on Saturday morning.

Id.
or high-stakes161Id. High:

Bob and his wife are driving home on a Friday afternoon. They both received some money earlier in the day and so they plan to stop at the bank on the way home to deposit it. But as they drive past the bank, they notice that the lines inside are very long, as they often are on Friday afternoons. They have recently written a very large and very important check. If the money is not deposited into their bank account before Monday morning, the important check they wrote will not be accepted by the bank, leaving them in a very bad situation. Bob suggests that they drive straight home and deposit their money on Saturday morning. His wife says, “Maybe the bank won’t be open tomorrow. Lots of banks are closed on Saturdays.” Bob replies, “No, I know it’ll be open. I was just there two weeks ago on Saturday. It was open until noon.” As a matter of fact, the bank will be open on Saturday morning.

Id.
condition of the bank case. In each condition, participants read a version of the famous bank case, in which Bob and his wife discuss whether a bank is open on Saturday. Participants answered two types of knowledge questions, drawn from the previous literature.162See id. at 229–32. The basic knowledge question asks:

In your personal opinion, when Bob says “I know the bank will be open” is his statement true?

Yes, Bob’s statement is true.

No, Bob’s statement is not true.

Defenders of context sensitivity have argued that this question more accurately tracks debate about contextualism than questions that simply ask participants to rate “knowledge.”163See DeRose, supra note 31, at 82. The “strict” knowledge question asks:

In your personal opinion, which of the following sentences better describes Bob’s situation?

Bob knows that the bank will be open on Saturday.

Bob thinks he knows that the bank will be open on Saturday, but he doesn’t actually know it will be open.

Next, we randomly assigned participants to one type of rule: Clear, Ambiguous 1, Ambiguous 2, Unclear. The study presented a vignette explaining that Bob’s wife now used her phone to find the bank’s policy on its website. We randomly presented participants with one of four types of rules:

  • [Clear] The bank is open on Saturdays.
  • [Ambiguous 1] The bank is closed on Sundays.
  • [Ambiguous 2] The bank is closed only on Sundays and federal holidays.
  • [Unclear] The bank is open during regular business hours.

Participants rated whether the rule is clear or unclear concerning whether the bank is open on Saturday:

Now imagine that Bob’s wife uses her phone to search for the bank’s policy. She finds a website for the local bank branch. The website’s text states: “[RULE]” In your personal opinion, is this rule’s meaning clear or unclear concerning whether the bank is open on Saturday?

Clear: The bank is open on Saturday.

Clear: The bank is closed on Saturday.

Unclear.

In sum, we experimentally varied two factors: Stakes (low, high) and Rule Type (Clear, Ambiguous 1, Ambiguous 2, Unclear). This study examines whether Stakes affect lay judgment of knowledge (basic and strict). The study also examines whether Stakes affect lay judgment of a rule’s clarity across hypothesized clear, ambiguous, and unclear rules.

2.  Methodological Details

All study materials, hypotheses, exclusion criteria, and primary analyses were preregistered at Open Science.164Kevin Tobia, Stakes and Legal Interpretation, Center for Open Science (July 12, 2023, 09:21 AM), https://osf.io/adw2n [https://perma.cc/9MVV-BR2J]. The study data is also available at the same site. A total of 501 participants were recruited from Prolific.co and compensated $1.00 ($12.00/hr) for a 5-minute task. To be eligible, participants must have completed at least 10 tasks on Prolific, with a 100% approval rating, and they must currently reside in the United States.

Within the study, there were several check questions. First was a simple attention check question, which asked participants to select the answer “purple” in a long list of colors. There was also a manipulation check, clearly labeled as an “attention check”: “Attention check question: According to the story, which of the following statements is correct?” The options were “it is very important that Bob and his wife deposit their money” [correct answer in high-stakes condition] and “it is not very important that Bob and his wife deposit their money” [correct answer in low-stakes condition]. Later in the study, there was a third multiple choice attention check: “Alex is taller than Sam, and Sam is taller than John. Who is the shortest?” [correct answer = “John”; incorrect answers = “Alex,” “Sam,” “They are all the same height”]. Finally, all participants were asked to complete a CAPTCHA. Participants who answered any one of these questions incorrectly were excluded from the analyses. Thirty-two (out of 501; i.e., 6%) participants were excluded from these criteria.

3.  Results

A total of 469 participants were included in the data analysis (mean age = 39.58; 50% men, 48% women, 1% non-binary).

A binomial logistic regression revealed an effect of Stakes on knowledge. Participants attributed knowledge less in high-stakes cases (prob. = 0.86, 95% CI = [0.81, 0.90]) than in low-stakes cases (prob = 0.95, 95% CI = [0.91, 0.97]), odds ratio = 0.35, 95% CI = [0.18, 0.70], z = -2.99, p = 0.003.165See infra Figure 1.

Figure 1.

Figure 1. Percentage attributing knowledge (top panel) and strict knowledge (bottom panel), in low- and high-stakes bank cases. In the high-stakes case, knowledge attributions were slightly (about 10%) lower. Overall, the majority of participants attributed knowledge in low- and high-stakes cases.

A binomial logistic regression revealed an effect of Stakes on strict knowledge. Participants attributed strict knowledge less in high-stakes cases (prob. = 0.66, 95% CI = [0.60, 0.71]) than in low-stakes cases (prob = 0.78, 95% CI = [0.72, 0.83]), odds ratio = 0.55, 95% CI = [0.37, 0.83], z = -2.85, p = 0.004.166See supra Figure 1.

A multinomial logistic regression examined the effect of Stakes (low, high) and Rule Type (Clear, Ambiguous 1, Ambiguous 2, Unclear) on judgment of the bank rule’s clarity (clearly open, clearly closed, unclear). First, consider the effect of Stakes. Comparing clearly open and clearly closed responses, there was no effect of Stakes, z = 0.06, p = 0.956. Comparing clearly closed and unclear responses, there was no effect of Stakes, z = 0.38, p = 0.705. Next, consider the effect of Rule Type. Comparing clearly open and clearly closed responses, there was a significant effect of the clear versus unclear rule, z = -3.07, p = .002. There was no significant effect among the other rule types, |zs| < 0.21, ps > 0.8. Comparing clearly closed and unclear responses, there were no significant rule type effects, |zs| < 0.2, ps > 0.85. Finally, there were no significant Stakes * Rule Type interactions, |zs| < 0.41, ps > 0.68.167See infra Figure 2.

Figure 2.

Figure 2. Percentage attributing a clear meaning (open or closed) or unclarity for four different rules in low- and high-stakes cases. There were large and significant differences among the rules’ perceived meaning: the “Obviously Clear” and “Ambiguous 2” rules were generally understood to mean clearly open; the “Ambiguous 1” rule was understood to be unclear or mean clearly open; and the “Obviously Unclear” rule was unclear. However, there was no impact of high stakes on clarity judgments for any type of rule, whether the rule was clear (for example, Obviously Clear), ambiguous (for example, Ambiguous 1), or unclear (for example, Obviously Unclear).

4.  Discussion

The results regarding stakes and knowledge are consistent with the prior literature. Some previous studies have found a small effect of stakes on knowledge in the United States.168E.g., Rose et al., supra note 34, at 235 (finding a small pattern in the U.S., but not in most other countries). Here, we find a similar small effect: In the low-stakes bank case, 95% attribute knowledge, but in the high-stakes bank case, this number drops to 86%. The “strict knowledge” measure reflects a similarly sized difference (78% versus 66%).

i.  Is Knowledge “Sensitive” to Stakes?

The empirical results clarify the importance of refining this philosophical question: What is it for ordinary knowledge to be “sensitive to stakes”? One (weak) interpretation is that in some circumstances, for some people, stakes affect knowledge attributions. A stronger interpretation is that for most or all people, there are some cases in which knowledge is lost in high-stakes contexts. The strongest interpretation is that in many or most circumstances, high stakes defeat knowledge (for many or most people).

Once we have greater philosophical clarity about what it means to say knowledge is sensitive to stakes, we can analyze those theses in light of the empirical results. The results here straightforwardly provide support for the weak interpretation: the high-stakes manipulation affects (some participants’) attributions of knowledge. But the results do not support the “stronger” or “strongest” interpretations. The vast majority of participants attributed knowledge in low- and high-stakes cases. And even for the “strict knowledge” question, most participants still judged that there was (strict) knowledge in the high-stakes scenario. In other words, for the vast majority of participants, stakes did not impact knowledge.

ii.  Do High Stakes Reduce Clarity?

The results provide a more straightforward answer to this question. The high- versus low-stakes manipulation had no impact on whether people understood rules to be clear or unclear. Importantly, we used four types of rules, which varied in their basic level of clarity. With respect to whether the bank is open Saturday, “the bank is open on Saturday” is obviously clear; “the bank is closed on Sunday” is ambiguous; “the bank is closed only on Sundays and federal holidays” is ambiguous;169Note, we hypothesized that this rule has some ambiguity, given that the scenario does not specify whether the following Saturday is a federal holiday. Participants generally overlooked this possibility or assumed that the next day was not a holiday. Thus, the “Ambiguous 2” stimulus could be treated as another example of “obviously clear” text. The “Ambiguous 1” rule was much more often understood as unclear. and “the bank is open during regular business hours” is unclear. For all of these rules, high stakes did not increase the base level of unclarity.170See supra Figure 2.

B.  Ordinary Understanding of Delegations: The Babysitter Case

The second study examines how ordinary Americans understand delegations in an ordinary context. This Study takes inspiration from Justice Barrett’s recent concurrence in Biden v. Nebraska, which offered a new linguistic defense of the MQD.

1.  General Overview

The second study examined Premise 5 from Justice Barrett’s argument, the second empirical premise: When assessing whether an agent has followed or disobeyed a rule granting authority to perform some actions, do ordinary people restrict the rule’s literal meaning to only the set of most reasonable actions (absent additional context)?171See supra Section I.C. Study 2 examines this question by presenting participants with an ordinary rule granting authority, followed by one of five possible actions. These five actions varied in their anticipated reasonableness, and we examined whether participants evaluated each as following or violating the rule.

As in Study 1, we sought to minimize our researcher degrees of freedom by relying on existing and important test cases that have been offered by advocates of the linguistic MQD. For Study 2, we chose Justice Barrett’s “babysitter” hypothetical, as well as Justice Barrett’s proposed “major” action: a babysitter taking children to an amusement park in response to the instruction “Use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend.”

We randomly varied the conventional gender of the parent’s name (Patrick or Patricia) and babysitter’s name (Blake or Bridget). This did not affect rule violation judgment. Below is the text of the scenarios with the names Patricia and Blake:

Imagine that Patricia is a parent, who hires Blake as a babysitter to watch Patricia’s young children for two days and one night over the weekend, from Saturday morning to Sunday night. Patricia walks out the door, hands Blake a credit card, and says: “Use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend.”

Next, the scenario continued in one of five ways:

[MISUSE] Blake only uses the credit card to rent a movie that only he watches; Blake does not use the card to buy anything for the children.

[MINOR] Blake does not use the credit card at all. Blake plays card games with the kids.

[REASONABLE] Blake uses the credit card to buy the children pizza and ice cream and to rent a movie to watch together.

[MAJOR] Blake uses the credit card to buy the children admission to an amusement park and a hotel; Blake takes the children to the park, where they spend two days on rollercoasters and one night in a hotel.

[EXTREME] Blake uses the credit card to hire a professional animal entertainer, who brings a live alligator to the house to entertain the children.

All scenarios concluded with:

The kids have fun over the weekend.

We anticipated that the five scenarios would be seen as varying in their “reasonableness” as a response to the rule “Use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend,” with the REASONABLE scenario as maximal and the others as less reasonable. As we describe below, this prediction was borne out.

In all of the questions, we randomly varied whether the scenario described the parent’s directive as an “instruction” or “rule.” This also had no effect on rule violation judgment. Below we present the questions using the term “instruction.” After reading the scenario, participants first answered a comprehension question:

Attention check question: According to the story, which of the following statements is correct?

[CORRECT] Patricia’s instruction was “Use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend.”

Patricia’s instruction was “Do not use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend.”

Patricia’s instruction was “Use this credit card for anything this weekend.”

Patricia’s instruction was “Do not use this credit card for anything this weekend.”

Next, participants answered the rule violation question:

[Rule Violation] In your personal opinion, which better describes this situation?

Blake followed the instruction.

Blake violated the instruction.

We also measured participants’ judgment of the rule’s literal meaning and purpose.172[Literal Meaning] “Think about what the instruction ‘Use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend’ means literally. In your personal opinion, did Blake’s actions comply with or violate the literal meaning of the instruction? Blake complied with the rule’s literal meaning; Blake violated the rule’s literal meaning” and [Purpose] “Think about the underlying purposes of Patricia’s instruction. In your personal opinion, did Blake’s actions support or oppose the instruction’s underlying purposes? Blake’s actions supported the instruction’s underlying purpose; Blake’s actions opposed the instruction’s underlying purposes.” Finally, we measured participants’ evaluation of whether the babysitter’s action was a reasonable response to the instruction:

[Reasonableness] Think about how Blake responded to Patricia’s instruction. In your personal opinion, is this an unreasonable or reasonable way to respond to that instruction?

(completely unreasonable) 1  2  3  4  5  6  7 (completely reasonable)

2.  Methodological Details

As for Study 1, all Study 2 materials, hypotheses, exclusion criteria, and primary analyses were preregistered at Open Science.173See Tobia, supra note 164. The study data is also available at the same site. A total of 500 participants were recruited from Prolific.co and compensated $1.00 ($12.00/hr) for a 5-minute task. To be eligible, participants must have completed at least 10 tasks on Prolific, with a 100% approval rating, they must currently reside in the United States, and they must not have taken Study 1. Within the study, there were the same two check questions used as exclusion criteria in Study 1 (attention check and transitivity) and the new comprehension check described in the previous Section. Twenty-four (out of 499; i.e., 4.8%) participants were excluded with this criteria.

3.  Results

A total of 475 participants were included in the data analysis (mean age = 37.74; 48% men, 50% women, 2% non-binary).

First, we examined whether the five acts differed in their perceived reasonableness with respect to the rule. A linear regression revealed significant effects of the Action (misuse, minor, reasonable, major, extreme). Compared to ratings for the “reasonable” act (buying pizza and a movie for the kids), ratings for the misuse act (buying a movie for only the babysitter) were significantly lower, β = -1.67, 95% CI = [-1.89, -1.46], p < .001; ratings for the minor act (playing cards rather than purchasing anything) were significantly lower, β = -0.48, 95% CI = [-0.69, -0.27], p < .001; ratings for the major act (purchasing the amusement park trip) were significantly lower, β = -1.03, 95% CI = [-1.24, -0.82], p < .001; and ratings for the extreme act (purchasing the alligator entertainer) were significantly lower, β = -1.77, 95% CI = [-1.98, -1.56], p < .001.174See infra Figure 3.

Figure 3.

Figure 3: Reasonableness Ratings. Ordinary judgments of an action’s reasonableness in the babysitter hypothetical. Higher scores indicate greater reasonableness (1–7 scale).

Next, we examined which of the five acts participants understood as instances of following or disobeying the instruction. A binomial logistic regression revealed effects of Act type on rule violation. For the misuse case, rule following prob. = 0.15, 95% CI = [0.09, 0.24]; for the minor case, rule following prob. = 0.51, 95% CI = [0.41, 0.61];175This differed significantly from the misuse case, odds ratio = 5.88, 95% CI = [2.94, 11.79], z = 5.00, p < 0.001. for the reasonable case, rule following prob. = 1.00, 95% CI = [0.00, 1.00];176All participants in the reasonableness condition answered, “rule followed.” for the major case, rule following prob. = 0.92, 95% CI = [0.84, 0.96];177This differed significantly from the misuse case, odds ratio = 62.07, 95% CI = [24.73, 155.79], z = 8.79, p < 0.001. and for the extreme case, rule following prob. = 0.90, 95% CI = [0.82, 0.94].178This differed significantly from the misuse case, odds ratio = 49.66, 95% CI = [20.88, 118.11], z = 8.83, p < 0.001.

Table 1.
CaseWas the rule violated?Was the action reasonable (7) or unreasonable (1)?
Reasonable0%6.84 (Most reasonable)
Minor49%5.83 (Highly reasonable)
Major8%4.68 (Reasonable)
Misuse89%3.32 (Unreasonable)
Extreme10%3.12 (Unreasonable)
Note: Table 1 represents the proportion of participants judging that the action violated the rule and the estimated marginal mean ratings of the action’s reasonableness. Some actions that were not the most reasonable (for example, major, extreme) were seen as largely consistent with the rule; others that were seen as fairly reasonable (for example, minor) were also seen as inconsistent with the rule
4.  Discussion

This Study aimed to test the empirical claims underlying the “babysitter hypothetical,” an example that has been used to support claims in a linguistic defense of the MQD.

i.  Do People Understand Different Actions to Vary in Their Reasonableness as a Response to the Rule “Use This Credit Card to Make Sure the Kids Have Fun This Weekend”?

Yes. People evaluated some actions as highly reasonable, such as buying pizza and a movie for the kids. Other actions appeared less reasonable, like taking the kids to an amusement park or simply playing cards (and not buying anything). Others were even less reasonable, such as hiring an alligator entertainer or using the card to only purchase something for the babysitter. These results are unsurprising, but this variation is essential to test the key claim that the babysitter hypothetical has been offered to demonstrate.

ii.  Do People Understand Authorizing Rules to Be Limited to Only the Set of Most Reasonable Actions?

No. Although people evaluate Justice Barrett’s “major” action (taking the kids to an amusement park) as less reasonable than at least one alternative, they nevertheless understand it as consistent with the rule. Moreover, people evaluated the even more extreme example of bringing a live alligator to the house as consistent with the rule.

To be sure, people did rule out some actions as impermissible. In particular, the respondents overwhelmingly said that misuse of the credit card for the babysitter’s benefit rather than that of the children violated the rule. They also divided roughly evenly over the babysitter’s decision to forgo using the credit card at all. We will have more to say about these interesting patterns in Part IV,179See infra Part IV. but for now, the most important thing to note is that two of the less reasonable actions that tested the boundaries of the instruction were nevertheless deemed to be within the parent’s rule.

iii.  Why Do People’s Judgments About an Act’s Reasonableness and Rule Violation Differ?

Our survey also included questions about the rule’s literal meaning and the rule’s purposes. First consider reasonableness judgments by considering the results for purpose and literal meaning. Figure 4 presents the results for the purpose question. On inspection, this pattern of purpose attributions across actions is similar to the pattern of reasonableness ratings (Figure 3): actions seen as more reasonable were also the ones seen as most supportive of the rule’s purposes. The ratings for purpose and reasonableness, r = 0.63, 95% CI = [0.57, .0.68], p < .001, were more highly correlated than the ratings for purpose and literal meaning, r = 0.39, 95% CI = [0.31, .0.47], p < .001.

Next consider judgments about rule violation. Both literal meaning and purpose were correlated with rule violation judgment, but rule violation was more strongly correlated with literal meaning, r = 0.67, 95% CI = [0.62, .0.72], p < .001, than purpose, r = 0.49, 95% CI = [0.42, .0.56], p < .001.

Figure 4.

Figure 4: Purpose Ratings. Ordinary judgments of whether an action supports (rather than opposes) the rule’s purposes in the babysitter hypothetical.

These analyses are exploratory and further work is required to more fully understand the differences in participants’ judgments about whether an action is reasonable and whether it violates a rule, but the Study here clearly shows a difference in these judgments.180See supra Table 1. The question of whether the rule was violated and the question of whether the action was a reasonable response to the rule are understood differently by ordinary people: These questions are not synonymous. The comparisons to the purpose measure suggest a stronger relationship between reasonableness and purpose than rule violation and purpose.

Textualists concerned with the ordinary meaning of rules would presumably favor the rule violation question over the reasonableness question. Textualists who place significant weight on whether an action was “reasonable” with respect to a rule may be incorporating purposive reasoning, which is not as clearly relevant to ordinary people’s straightforward understanding about whether an act violates a rule.

The results reported here about laypeople’s rule violation judgments are consistent with prior work. Previous studies have found that both text (operationalized as literal meaning) and purpose influence rule violation judgment, but the former has a stronger influence.181Ivar R. Hannikainen, Kevin P. Tobia, Guilherme da F. C. F. de Almeida, Noel Struchiner, Markus Kneer, Piotr Bystranowski, Vilius Dranseika, Niek Strohmaier, Samantha Bensinger, Kristina Dolinina, Bartosz Janik, Eglė Lauraitytė, Michael Laakasuo, Alice Liefgreen, Ivars Neiders, Maciej Próchnicki, Alejandro Rosas, Jukka Sundvall & Tomasz Żuradzki, Coordination and Expertise Foster Legal Textualism, 119 Proc. Nat’l Acad. Scis., no. 44, 2022, at 1, 6; Kevin Tobia, Experimental Jurisprudence, 89 U. Chi. L. Rev. 735, 783–91 (2022) (summarizing research on lay judgment about legal interpretation). See generally Guilherme da Franca Couto Fernandes de Almeida, Noel Struchiner & Ivar Hannikainen, Rules, in Cambridge Handbook of Experimental Jurisprudence (Kevin Tobia ed., forthcoming 2024) (reviewing recent empirical studies about the effect of text and purpose on laypeople’s rule violation judgments). In sum, ordinary people lean towards textualism, but not the “common sense” limitations claim at the heart of the linguistic MQD.

C.  Objections

This Section considers the two primary objections that have been raised in print about the results since we first circulated a draft of this Article.

1.  Objection 1: Subjects Must Be Sensitive to Stakes

One objection concerns stakes sensitivity. Wurman writes, “In conversation, Ryan Doerfler has pointed out that it does not appear that the participants [in this Article’s Study 1] were asked whether the rule was clear to Bob, as opposed to themselves, and Bob is the one sensitive to stakes in the example.”182Wurman, supra note 8, at 961 n.271.

It is not clear why this observation constitutes an objection. One version of this objection is that only the judgments of those directly impacted by the stakes are relevant to legal theory, and because our study’s participants are not themselves impacted by the bank’s closure, their judgments about knowledge and clarity are not useful. This objection proves too much. The legal literature theorizing the effects of stakes-on-knowledge and stakes-on-clarity draws heavily on philosophical thought experiments (especially the bank case about Bob). None of these examples involve high stakes for the thought experimenter. The stakes are always for the subject described in the scenario, like Bob. The assumption is that those considering the scenarios can evaluate the significance of stakes (for some other person). If this objection undercuts our experiments, it also undercuts the merit of the original philosophical thought experiments offered to support Wurman’s argument.

A different way to elaborate this observation into an objection is to propose that (1) there is a more subjective relationship between stakes and clarity and (2) that (subjective sense) of clarity is relevant to legal interpretation. For a particular judge, that judge’s determination of clarity depends on the practical stakes to that particular judge. We do not have the space to fully engage with the merits of this theory, but some of its consequences are unusual. Because the subjective practical stakes of a decision may vary between judges, on this subjective view of stakes and clarity, such differences in subjective stakes would appropriately correspond to differing evaluations of clarity. A judge experiencing high practical stakes could deem a text unclear, while a judge experiencing lower practical stakes could deem the same text clear. However, many would think that whether a legal text is clear or unclear (in the sense relevant to legal interpretation) should not vary among judges in this way.183See Richard M. Re, A Law Unto Oneself: Personal Positivism and Our Fragmented Judiciary, 110 Va. L. Rev. (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 5), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4687303 [https://perma.cc/E6DW-U4P2] (acknowledging that the dominant approach in jurisprudence is to “identify a ‘general’ theory of law that assertedly applies to most or all legal systems” but also arguing for the possibility and desirability of some degree of “personal” law implemented by judges). On this highly subjective view, to predict whether a law is correctly identified as “clear” (in the eyes of a particular judge), one must know what practical stakes the (particular) judge faces.

Although we find this an unusual view about what clarity means in current legal interpretation, this objection’s underlying claim is an empirically testable one. As such, we investigate this empirical question as a robustness check: Do stakes affect people’s judgment about whether the rule is clear to Bob?

2.  Objection 2: Only Parents’ Views About the Babysitter Hypothetical Count

A recurring objection to our study about the babysitter hypothetical concerns the population surveyed. Both Josh Blackman and Ilan Wurman have suggested that the appropriate audience for Justice Barrett’s hypothetical is parents.184See Josh Blackman, Major Questions or Lax Parents?, Reason (July 27, 2023, 10:28 PM), https://reason.com/volokh/2023/07/27/major-questions-or-lax-parents [https://perma.cc/J74R-XGX7] (“Justice Barrett . . . may be referring to people who are familiar with the process of hiring babysitters. . . . Diversity of views is very important. One facet of diversity is having children.”); Wurman, supra note 8, at 961 n.271 (“It would be worth testing how many participants would agree that the instruction was followed if they were the parents.”). Because Justice Barrett’s hypothetical involves a parent, the objection goes, we should look to (only) the views of parents in understanding the meaning of the parent’s instruction.

Our original study did not collect data about participant’s parental status because we see it as irrelevant to the legal theory debate about the ordinary meaning of the parent’s instruction to the babysitter—more on that below. However even if we had that data in the first study, it is extremely unlikely that filtering by parental status would result in a different bottom line result given that the overall results lean so strongly in one direction.185Consider a back-of-the-envelope calculation. Only 8% of participants responded that the babysitter who took the children to an amusement park violated the rule. Assume, favorably to the objectors, that these 8% of responders all had children. The majority of all parents’ responses would favor the babysitter hypothetical intuition if at least 92% (85/92) of the other participants did not have children. This would imply that, at most, 16% of all participants had children. Given that we recruited a sample of Americans, it is likely that much more than 16% had children. Only 8% of participants shared the intuition that the babysitter violated the parent’s instruction, and of the other 92% of participants, it is unlikely that that the vast majority (say 90%) did not have children. In the next Section, we present a new study that collects this additional demographic data. The results do not vary depending on parental or babysitter-hiring status.

Our more fundamental responses to this objection are theoretical and appeal to longstanding principles of interpretation. First, consider the question of audience: Should the babysitter hypothetical be limited to parents? That is, should textualist interpretation’s “ordinary reader” be limited to only a small subset of ordinary readers?

First, the objection assumes the wrong interpretive perspective. In Justice Barrett’s hypothetical, the parent is the lawgiver and the babysitter is the audience. But the correct textualist focus, according to Justice Barrett, is on interpretation from the “outside[],” not from the “inside[].”186See Barrett, supra note 17, at 2194. Textualists typically view interpretation from the perspective of a “hypothetical reasonable person,” not from the perspective of the lawgiver. Fidelity to the text of the statute, as understood by an ordinary reader, is the best way to remain a faithful agent of Congress (or, as Justice Barrett would have it, as a faithful agent of the people). Thus, even if one specific focus in the babysitter hypothetical were deemed more appropriate, for modern textualists that focus would more likely be that of a babysitter (the instruction’s reader), not a parent (the instruction’s author).187See Tara Leigh Grove, Testing Textualism’s “Ordinary Meaning”, 90 Geo. Wash. L. Rev. 1053, 1057 (2022).

Second, textualists do not subdivide the general class of ordinary people that determines ordinary meaning. Instead, the “Supreme Court tends to employ a one-size-fits-all approach to interpretation.”188David Louk, The Audiences of Statutes, 105 Cornell L. Rev. 137, 193 (2019). We recognize the importance of interpretive communities and the observation that statutes have audiences.189See generally id. (arguing that the varied audiences of statutes may have differing expectations about statutory meaning). However, the concept of audience is most often used in textualist theory and otherwise to support the use of technical meanings (instead of ordinary meanings) for certain specialized statutes. Otherwise, the same statute might mean different things to the different groups subject to it, a position that Justice Scalia (writing for the Court) condemned.190Clark v. Martinez, 543 U.S. 371, 380 (2005) (rejecting the argument that the same statutory provision can have a different meaning depending on the group subject to it). The proposal to find ordinary meaning only in the views of the people most directly implicated by the law is thus a radical departure from modern textualism.

This suggestion (the legal interpretive equivalent of “ask only parents”) also strikes us as unworkable. If an interpreter aimed to limit “ordinary meaning” to the meaning a statute has to the people most directly impacted by it, how do we identify the people in this community? Even in Justice Barrett’s more straightforward babysitter hypothetical (and again setting aside that the babysitter is the audience, not the parent), we could ask: Are the relevant readers all parents, parents who go away for weekends, parents who can also afford babysitters, parents who would be willing to hand a credit card to a babysitter, or parents who would be willing to hand a credit card to a babysitter with limited instructions?

Even if the relevant subcommunity could be identified, it is not clear a judge would be well positioned to identify this narrow subcommunity’s understanding. If the textualist interpretive inquiry shifted from one about ordinary meaning to one about “ordinary meaning for only the audience most directly impacted by this statute,” might judicial intuition be especially unreliable if judges were not part of this latter subcommunity?

This suggestion becomes more bizarre as we shift from the babysitter hypothetical to real legal examples. In Biden v. Nebraska, who is the relevant interpretive community of people: the Department of Education, people with student loans, or some other group? If we take this objection and analogy seriously, it seems we should ask who is the “parent” in Biden v. Nebraska? Presumably, it is Congress. Do Blackman and Wurman suggest that Congress’s views are most relevant in interpretation? If so, this objection offered by Justice Barrett’s defenders, emphasizing a narrow subgroup of people who give or implement this instruction, is inconsistent with Justice Barrett’s broader approach to interpretation, which emphasizes judges as faithful agents of the “people,” not Congress.191See supra notes 186–87 and accompanying text.

In sum, the objection to “ask parents” about the babysitter hypothetical is not persuasive. Theoretically, the legal-interpretive analogue to “ask parents” is unmotivated, unworkable, and inconsistent with modern textualism. Nevertheless, we address this objection in the next part of this Section, in a replication study that asks for the participants’ parental status. Empirically, the results are no different for participants who are parents or who have hired a babysitter.

3.  An Additional Empirical Study

We are not persuaded by the theory underlying these two objections, but we are grateful to those who have raised them. And, setting the theoretical issues aside, it is possible to test these objections empirically. To do so, we conducted one final study.

Five hundred participants were recruited from Prolific to complete Study 1 and Study 2, with a few minor modifications aimed at addressing the objections described previously. A total of 445 participants passed the same attention checks described in Study 1 and Study 2 above and were included in the analysis (mean age = 37.9, 47% men, 51% women, 2% nonbinary). The final demographics section also asked about whether the participants had children (38% yes, 59% no, 2% prefer not to respond), had hired a babysitter (21% yes, 77% no, 2% prefer not to respond), and had worked as a babysitter (48% yes, 51% no, 1% prefer not to respond).

i.  Testing Clarity to Bob (the Agent Sensitive to Stakes)

Participants first read the Study 1 materials concerning Bob and the bank. They were again randomly assigned to high or low stakes and one of the four rule types (Obviously Clear, Ambiguous 1, Ambiguous 2, Obviously Unclear). Participants answered the same questions about knowledge and strict knowledge, as well as a new question that Wurman recommends about clarity to Bob:

[Clarity to Bob] Now imagine that Bob’s wife uses her phone to search for the bank’s policy. She finds a website for the local bank branch. The website’s text states [rule text varying by scenario].

Consider Bob’s perspective on this scenario.

Is this rule’s meaning clear or unclear to Bob concerning whether the bank is open?

Clear: The bank is open on Saturday.

Clear: The bank is not open on Saturday.

Unclear

A multinomial logistic regression examined the effect of Stakes (low, high) and Rule Type (Clear, Ambiguous 1, Ambiguous 2, Unclear) on judgment of the bank rule’s clarity to Bob (clearly open, clearly closed, unclear). First, consider the effect of Stakes. Comparing clearly open and clearly closed responses, there was no effect of Stakes, z = 0.95, p = 0.341. Comparing clearly closed and unclear responses, there was no effect of Stakes, z = 1.26, p = 0.209. There was no significant effect of Rule Type and no significant Stakes * Rule Type interactions.

The results for these questions about whether the rule is clear to Bob also show no effect of stakes. For the Obviously Clear rule, stakes did not affect judgments of clarity to Bob (2% of participants selected unclear in high stakes; 2% in low stakes); for the Ambiguous 1 rule, stakes did not affect judgments of clarity to Bob (29% of participants selected unclear in high stakes; 38% in low stakes); for the Ambiguous 2 rule, stakes did not affect judgments of clarity to Bob (4% of participants selected unclear in high stakes; 12% in low stakes); and for the Obviously Unclear rule, stakes did not affect judgments of clarity to Bob (61% of participants selected unclear in high stakes; 59% in low stakes).

The results for knowledge and strict knowledge were similar to the results found in Study 1. A binomial logistic regression revealed an effect of Stakes on knowledge. Participants attributed knowledge less in high-stakes cases (prob. = 0.85, 95% CI = [0.80, 0.89]) than in low-stakes cases (prob = 0.94, 95% CI = [0.89, 0.96]), odds ratio = 0.38, 95% CI = [0.19, 0.73], z = -2.89, p = 0.004. A binomial logistic regression revealed an effect of Stakes on strict knowledge. Participants attributed strict knowledge less in high-stakes cases (prob. = 0.64, 95% CI = [0.58, 0.70]) than in low-stakes cases (prob = 0.81, 95% CI = [0.75, 0.86]), odds ratio = 0.42, 95% CI = [0.27, 0.65], z = -3.91, p < 0.001.

In sum, one objection to our original Study 1 is that it fails to ask the right question about clarity: it should ask whether the text is clear to Bob, not clear in general. This follow-up study tested that question about clarity to Bob, finding identical results: participants’ judgments about clarity to Bob were not sensitive to high stakes.

ii.  Parents Only

The second objection is that we should consider only the views of parents. Consider the results of the same study, replicated, broken out by whether participants are parents, and have hired a babysitter.192See infra Table 2.

Table 2.
CaseViolation: All ParticipantsViolation: Parents OnlyViolation: Hired Babysitter OnlyWas the act reasonable (7) or unreasonable (1) (All Participants)
Reasonable0%0%0%6.87
Minor30%26%33%6.23
Major8%7%10%4.41
Misuse81%79%84%3.21
Extreme21%18%25%3.00
Note: Table 2 represents the proportion of participants judging that the action violated the rule and the estimated marginal mean ratings of the action’s reasonableness.

Comparing across all participants, parent participants, and those who have hired babysitters, the results are essentially identical. Participants generally disagreed that the babysitter violated the rule/instruction by taking the children to an amusement park overnight, and this did not depend on whether those participants were themselves parents or had hired a babysitter.

4.  Additional Objections

We have responded to the two major objections leveled against the studies since we made a draft of this Article public. However, there are two other objections that strike us as worth pursuing, but which we do not have the space to fully explore here.

The first is that in our babysitter experiment, we should have asked a different question. As a reminder, we asked “which better describes this situation?”—that the babysitter “followed” the instruction/rule or “disobeyed” the instruction/rule? This strikes us as a straightforward way to capture textualists’ concern: What does the rule mean to the ordinary reader? Wurman suggests that we should have asked other questions, like whether participants agree that the instruction “include[s] authorization” to undertake this action, or whether participants think “ordinary, reasonable interpreters of this parent’s instruction would have interpreted it to include this scenario.”193Wurman, supra note 8, at 961 n. 271. (“The question’s framing effectively required the participants to answer whether the babysitter literally violated the instruction. And the answer is of course not. But if the question had been asked another way—‘does the best reading of the parent’s instruction include authorization to undertake this action?’ or ‘do you think the parent’s instruction was intended to include this scenario?’ or ‘do you think ordinary, reasonable interpreters of the parent’s instruction would have interpreted it to include this scenario?’—the answer almost certainly would have been different.”). Wurman does not motivate these suggestions with much theory, and it is not obvious why these phrasings would identify participants’ understanding of the meaning of the rule. For example, recall that there are many theories of interpretation: textualism, purposivism, and consequentialism. It is not obvious that most people think the “reasonable interpreter” is a textualist. Perhaps people think that the “ordinary reasonable interpreter” is not a pragmatist. If so, asking people about their views of “the reasonable interpreter” would reliably generate non-textualist judgments.

Nevertheless, in our third study, we also asked these two additional questions: (1) “In your personal opinion, which better describes this situation?”—(a) The parent’s instruction/rule “authorized” the babysitter “to undertake this action”; or (b) The parent’s instruction/rule “did not authorize” the babysitter “to undertake this action”; and (2) “In your personal opinion, which better describes this situation?”—(a) “An ordinary person interpreting” the parent’s instruction/rule “would understand it to allow what” the babysitter did; or (b) “An ordinary person interpreting” the parent’s instruction/rule “would not understand it to allow what” the babysitter did. The results did not differ in the dramatic way that Wurman predicts. For the first authorization question, 85% of participants agreed that the “major” action was authorized. For the second “reasonable interpreter” question, a majority (57%) agreed that this reasonable interpreter would give the textualist response to the major action case: the reader would understand the instruction/rule to allow what the babysitter did.

A final objection states that the parent-babysitter analogy is a poor analogy for the Congress-agency relationship. This objection is sometimes offered as a critique of the MQD, not a defense, and as a reason why we should not indulge a faulty analogy. Less frequently, it is raised as a defense to the MQD—suggesting that the context of a real-world delegation would surely include consideration of constitutional structure.194See generally Chad Squitieri, Placing Legal Context in Context (Oct. 23, 2023) (unpublished manuscript), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4610078 [https://perma.cc/G7CL-UZBV]. We find the basic point that context matters persuasive, but the muscular vision of ordinary understanding of legal context that Squitieri offers raises serious problems. It cannot be the case that the MQD is supported because an “ordinary” reader who studied the question of congressional delegation closely enough might become skeptical of the delegation of major power to agencies. First, questions of delegation are highly contested on many grounds—even trained lawyers and judges disagree vehemently about the legality and propriety of delegation. See Julian Davis Mortenson & Nicholas Bagley, Delegation at the Founding: A Response to the Critics, 122 Colum. L. Rev. 2323, 2323 (2022) (providing an overview of contemporary debates about the original public meaning of the Constitution’s vesting of legislative power in Congress). Second, on Squitieri’s approach, there must be some limit on the amount of legal context that can be assumed to be known by the “ordinary” reader. Otherwise, there would be nothing constraining judges in the elucidation of matters of ordinary meaning through their own trained, but highly subjective, minds. Ultimately, if the concept of the ordinary reader is to do any work within a textualist theory that constrains judges, it must provide some limits on the amount of legal context that can be assumed by the judge. We are exploring the idea that the babysitter hypothetical misses important relevant context to the evaluation of delegations in a future piece, but for now we set it aside. This Article takes the babysitter hypothetical from Biden v. Nebraska on its own terms. For readers that are skeptical that such an analogy provides insight into the meaning of statutory language, our study offers a second line of critique: the analogy does not offer insight into statutory meaning, and even if it did, its assumption about ordinary readers is faulty.

IV.  IMPLICATIONS

The recent pivot to a linguistic defense of the MQD is a watershed moment for two fields of law that often intersect: statutory interpretation and administrative law. Through the narrowest lens, the reframing of the MQD as “linguistic” attempts to insulate the nascent MQD from scrutiny as hypocritical anti-textualism, allowing conservative judges to use the doctrine to curb the power of the administrative state without turning in their textualist cards.195See supra Section I.A. But the move also resonates much more deeply. If accepted, the connection being drawn between ordinary people and the MQD would move textualism further towards an “outsider” orientation, with implications well beyond the narrow purview of the MQD.196See Barrett, supra note 17, at 2199; Tobia et al., Ordinary People, supra note 103, at 383. Likewise, if accepted, the linguistic defense of the MQD would tend to reinforce trends toward an explicitly “libertarian administrative law,”197Cass R. Sunstein & Adrian Vermeule, Libertarian Administrative Law, 82 U. Chi. L. Rev. 393, 393 (2015). backing it with the force of supposedly ordinary people’s commonsense understanding of how government should work.

The theoretical critiques and original empirical evidence presented thus far in this Article support skepticism about the arguments to adopt the MQD as linguistic. In this Part, we explain why, and we also reflect on what our evidence says more generally about the fields of statutory interpretation and administrative law.

We start in Section IV.A by discussing how our investigation and findings challenge the conclusion that the MQD is a valid linguistic canon. In light of existing empirical work, our new empirical studies, and our new theoretical analysis and objections, we conclude that the two “linguistic defenses” of the MQD do not have adequate empirical support or theoretical clarity to succeed. Of course, defenders of the MQD might propose new arguments or different evidence, but for now, it is difficult to see on what basis one could employ the MQD as a valid linguistic canon.

Section IV.B explains that Justice Barrett and Wurman’s attempts to establish the MQD as a linguistic canon raise serious challenges to textualism. Justice Barrett’s arguments about “common sense” and “context” are so general that they threaten to undermine textualism’s commitment to enforcing the rule of law by privileging semantic content, even when unexpected applications are at issue. In turn, Wurman’s defense of the MQD necessarily involves a broad conception of “ambiguity.” This broad framing of ambiguity has been criticized by Justices Scalia and Kavanaugh and, like Justice Barrett’s arguments, would result in courts using “ambiguity” as a pretext to avoid the semantic meanings of statutes.

Finally, Section IV.C addresses broader implications for administrative law and regulation. We have reservations about any strategy to ground judicial interpretation in “ordinary people’s” understanding of ordinary examples, especially for a topic as technical as administrative law. Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, we consider where such an “ordinary” approach should take textualist interpreters. Empirical evidence about ordinary understanding of law and language suggests a dramatically different approach than what Justice Barrett suggests for the MQD. Ordinary people understand broad delegations to include a wide range of reasonable actions consistent with the delegation. Moreover, our findings reveal something we did not expect: ordinary people are fairly skeptical that underimplementation of delegated authority is consistent with facially broad delegations. These facts do not support the MQD, but they might support other linguistic canons—many of which have more in common with Chevron than the MQD—and they may counsel some rethinking of administrative law’s indifference to agency inaction.

A.  The Major Questions Doctrine Is Not a Valid Linguistic Canon

The most immediate question motivating our studies is whether there is a valid basis for considering the MQD as a linguistic canon of statutory interpretation. As discussed above, canons are traditionally distinguished according to whether they are justified by normative or legal principles (in which case they are substantive) or whether they help determine the linguistic meaning of statutory language (in which case they are linguistic).198The conventional understanding of canons takes these options to be mutually exclusive: the MQD is either a linguistic canon, a substantive canon, or neither—but it cannot be both. See, e.g., Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2376 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring) (proposing that the MQD is a linguistic canon and noting skepticism about (all) substantive canons). Although a canon can be both substantive and linguistic,199Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 70 (arguing that a canon could have both a valid linguistic and substantive basis). the MQD’s defenders have emphasized the MQD’s supposed linguistic properties because of growing concerns among textualists about both substantive canons generally and the MQD in particular. The existing empirical evidence reviewed in Part II and original empirical studies in Part III suggest this is a false start: the linguistic properties identified by the MQD’s defenders do not find support in the intuitions (or “common sense”) of ordinary people. Consequently, at least in the absence of further empirical studies, the MQD cannot, and should not, be defended as a valid linguistic canon capturing how ordinary readers understand delegating statutes.

1.  The Evidence Does Not Support a “High-Stakes” Linguistic Major Questions Doctrine
i.  High Stakes and Knowledge

Start with the theory that the MQD is justified on the grounds that, for ordinary people, the stakes of an interpretive dispute impact the text’s clarity.200Wurman, supra note 8, at 957. This argument begins by appealing to analytic philosophy and legal theory that posits a relationship between stakes and knowledge claims.201See, e.g., DeRose, supra note 24, at 914–15; Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523. The central example is the bank case: when little depends on the bank being open on Saturday, we know that it is open; but, when the stakes of the Saturday deposit are higher, we do not know that it is open.

However, a large empirical literature reports this claim to be false,202See supra Part II. and the entire philosophical literature to be “founded on a myth” about people’s reactions to these cases.203Schaffer & Knobe, supra note 34, at 675. Many studies find that high stakes have no effect at all on knowledge. Moreover, most of these studies use the exact case (the bank case) to which defenders of the linguistic MQD appeal.

The comparatively fewer studies that find an effect on knowledge report a small effect. In those studies, high stakes reduce knowledge for around 10% of participants, but not for the vast majority.204See, e.g., Rose et al., supra note 34, at 233. This Article’s new large empirical study (N = 500) finds a similarly small effect on knowledge, only a 9% difference between the low- and high-stakes cases.205See supra Section III.A.

Textualists are not always clear about how to construct their “ordinary reader,” but it is difficult to see how even this small difference (95% of people in low stakes agree there is knowledge, and 86% of people in high stakes agree there is knowledge) is sufficient to conclude that “the ordinary reader” has less knowledge in high-stakes contexts. For the vast majority of ordinary participants, high stakes have no impact on knowledge; the foundational premise in the “high-stakes” MQD seems to reflect an unordinary epistemology.

ii.  High Stakes and Clarity

The “high-stakes” argument for the linguistic MQD uses this (false) premise about knowledge as a theoretical foundation to support a technically distinct, and to date untested, claim that ordinary people follow the same epistemological pattern when making judgements about the clarity of statutory language. Assuming that people do this, the argument concludes that a high-stakes situation can render otherwise clear statutory language unclear.

The recent “high-stakes” legal interpretation literature seems to assume that statutory interpretation essentially involves a kind of knowledge claim, such that high stakes’ impact on knowledge necessarily carries over into the interpretive context.206See Wurman, supra note 8, at 957; Doerfler, supra note 25, at 523. Conceptually, we disagree with this literature’s equation of knowledge about a text’s meaning and textual clarity: language can be clear (in the relevant sense) even if laypeople do not have knowledge of its meaning. Consider books that report statements like: “The Art Nouveau movement preceded the Art Deco movement,” or “The Sarbanes-Oxley Act established the Public Company Accounting Oversight Board.” Even if a layperson does not have full knowledge about what these statements mean (that is, cannot accurately assess the statements’ truth or falsity, or explain what they mean to someone in reasonable detail), this does not imply that the statements are in any way unclear (in the sense of appearing ambiguous or indeterminate) to that layperson. Our data (the only we are aware of on this point) is not consistent with this transitive logic.207See supra Section III.B. We found that high stakes have a small effect on knowledge, but no effect at all on textual clarity. This finding supports the conclusion that ordinary judgments of knowledge do not rise and fall consistently with ordinary judgments of textual clarity.

More importantly, we find that high stakes have no effect on clarity for texts of varied levels of baseline ambiguity. High stakes did not reduce ordinary people’s sense of clarity for a fairly clear text or even for texts that were initially more ambiguous.208See supra Section III.B. This finding challenges the more critical premise in the “high-stakes” MQD defense (concerning clarity, not knowledge).

Together, these two problems count against the “high-stakes” linguistic defense of the MQD. High stakes have (at best) a small impact on knowledge and no impact on clarity. We have also noted various other theoretical issues with the “high-stakes” linguistic argument. For example, even if high stakes had the hypothesized effects, it is not clear why reduced knowledge or textual clarity puts more weight on judges’ readings of the statutes or implies anti-agency interpretation rather than putting more weight on agency interpretations of the statutes.209See Wurman, supra note 8, at 954–55 and accompanying text.

2.  The Evidence Does Not Support an “Anti-Literalist” Linguistic Major Questions Doctrine
i.  The Data Do Not Support the Stronger Claim Necessary to the “Anti-Literal” Linguistic Major Questions Doctrine

The previously discussed considerations about anti-literalism210See supra Section II.B. are insufficient to support a strong conclusion about the MQD. Just because people sometimes interpret non-literally and display context sensitivity does not imply that courts should interpret general delegating language to authorize only a small subset of agency actions that fall under the text’s meaning. One could easily agree that (1) delegations should not always be interpreted literally, while also holding that (2) anti-literalism does not lead to the MQD.

In Section III.B, we reconstructed Justice Barrett’s argument in sufficient detail to deliver the MQD conclusion. We understood her key empirical claim to be the following: absent additional context, ordinary people understand rules that grant authority to an agent to have significant contextual limitations against all “major” actions; such a rule’s communicative content is limited to authorizing only the set of most reasonable actions. Here, an action is “major” if readers understand it, absent additional context, as not among the set of most reasonable ways to follow the rule. While this is a much stronger premise than mere anti-literalism, an even stronger premise is necessary to conclude that in MQD cases, absent additional context, judges should interpret delegations to exclude all major actions.

Our empirical study tested this claim about ordinary understanding of grants of authority.211See supra Section III.B. Here, we again sought to minimize researcher degrees of freedom and chose cases that have been offered by advocates of the linguistic MQD. In Study 2, we examined Justice Barrett’s “babysitter case.” We found that most ordinary people do not take the babysitter’s actions, that is, taking children on a multi-day trip to an amusement park, to be unauthorized by the parent’s instruction to use the parent’s credit card to ensure that the kids have fun over the weekend. To the contrary, 92% of respondents took the babysitter’s actions to be consistent with the rule/instruction. When we looked at a more extreme hypothetical—bringing a zookeeper to the house to entertain the kids with a live alligator—respondents judged the babysitter’s actions less reasonable but virtually just as authorized by the parent’s instruction to “make sure the kids have fun.”

However, our respondents did not simply think anything followed the rule. Fully 85% of them thought that the babysitter’s decision to use the credit card for something other than the children’s entertainment violated the instruction, and 49% believed that it was a violation of the instruction to entertain the children too little.

Importantly, these different actions varied in their perceived reasonableness. Participants agreed that it is more reasonable to respond to the parent’s instruction by buying the kids pizza, and less reasonable to take the kids to an amusement park or hire an animal entertainer. Nevertheless, participants judged that these latter actions—while not part of the most reasonable set of responses—are fully consistent with the rule.

Ultimately, these findings suggest that even if Justice Barrett is right that context matters for interpreting grants of authority to administrative agencies, that fact alone does not justify the strong MQD. To point to “common sense” and “context” may be entirely reasonable for a judge—we will have more to say about this in the next Section—but referring to them does not rule out “major” or less reasonable agency actions, at least in the minds of ordinary readers.

3.  Limits of the Evidence, and the Bottom Line

Our two studies test the central examples that have been offered by proponents of the MQD as a linguistic canon. Both of those arguments appeal centrally to claims about how ordinary readers understand language; neither of those claims is supported by the studies conducted here. Of course, this Article’s focus is on the linguistic arguments, not the many other defenses of the MQD.212See, e.g., Randolph J. May & Andrew Magloughlin, NFIB v. OSHA: A Unified Separation of Powers Doctrine and Chevron’s No Show, 74 S.C. L. Rev. 265, 289–91 (2022) (discussing the MQD as a separation of powers principle); Nathan Richardson, Keeping Big Cases from Making Bad Law: The Resurgent “Major Questions” Doctrine, 49 Conn. L. Rev. 355, 359 (2016) (discussing the MQD as a safety valve for Chevron deference). And concerning the linguistic case, we are open to future arguments and empirical studies: some future revision of a linguistic defense of the MQD could possibly succeed. In this Section, we briefly highlight some of the limits of our studies and the doors they leave open for proponents of the MQD. We also summarize our “bottom line” about the MQD.

i.  Substantive Arguments for the Major Questions Doctrine

First, and perhaps most obviously, our studies do not foreclose a substantive basis for the MQD. That is, rather than grounding the doctrine in how text is understood, proponents of the MQD might point to constitutional or normative values that should lead judges to depart from the best reading of statutory language when agencies take major actions. The fact that none of the other Supreme Court justices joined Justice Barrett’s concurrence might suggest that at least five justices are comfortable with the idea that the MQD is solely substantive rather than partly or entirely linguistic.

So far, the Court has not clearly articulated the substantive basis of this canon: for Justice Gorsuch, the source of normative substance appears to be the nondelegation doctrine; for Chief Justice Roberts, the source is general separation of powers principles. But this lack of clarity about from where the justices are drawing the MQD’s substantive content does not mean that the MQD might eventually come, through an incremental process, to coalesce around some common narrative that would suffice to justify the MQD as a substantive canon alongside the many other substantive canons that our legal system recognizes. Given the growing textualist skepticism of substantive canons, as well as the contestable premises of the nondelegation doctrine and separation of powers, we doubt that such a defense would be uncontroversial,213See Walters, supra note 12, at 521 (discussing the limits of the argument in favor of the MQD as simply another substantive canon). but this is a topic that falls outside the scope of this Article.

ii.  Linguistic but Non-Ordinary Arguments for the Major Questions Doctrine

Second, our studies focus on linguistic defenses that tie themselves explicitly to appeals to the construct of the “ordinary reader.” While we think this focus is defensible, given the larger textualist commitment to the ordinary reader as the anchor for interpretation,214See Barrett, supra note 17, at 2194. it is also possible to defend a linguistic MQD on the grounds that it represents some kind of generalization about how Congress likely intends delegating statutes to be interpreted. The move here is to ground the MQD in what Beau Baumann calls the “descriptive case”: that is, an empirical assertion about the ordinary context of delegating statutes and the way Congress operates when it passes delegating statutes.215Beau J. Baumann, The Major Questions Doctrine Fiction 11–12 (Mar. 14, 2023) (unpublished manuscript) (on file with authors).

Indeed, the Court in West Virginia v. EPA said as much when it cited a “practical understanding of legislative intent” as a basis for the MQD;216West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2609 (2022). both Wurman and Justice Barrett nod to this possibility as well.217As Wurman, supra note 8, at 955–56 puts it:

Deliberate ambiguity benefits both parties when it comes to issues that are not sufficiently important as a general matter to scuttle an entire piece of legislation. But whether to tackle climate change through CO2 regulation, or to regulate cigarettes, or to allow a public health agency to prohibit evictions, are probably not the kinds of things legislators leave to strategic ambiguity; they are the kinds of things that one side wins and the other loses.
On Wurman’s account, it makes sense as a linguistic matter to bake this contextual evidence of how Congress treats important questions into our reading of delegating statutes—that is, to interpret ambiguous statutes as not intended to delegate important matters. Justice Barrett’s concurrence in Biden v. Nebraska makes a similar move. After noting that all interpreters seek to “situate[] text in context,” Justice Barrett posits that “[b]ackground legal conventions . . . are part of the statute’s context.”218Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2378 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring). In a principal-agent relationship, “ ‘the context in which the principal and agent interact,’ including their ‘prior dealings,’ industry ‘customs and usages,’ and the ‘nature of the principal’s business or the principal’s personal situation’ ” help form the background legal conventions that govern delegation.219Id. at 2379. From there, Justice Barrett argues that we know from the context of how Congress usually delegates to agencies that Congress is “more likely to have focused upon, and answered, major questions, while leaving interstitial matters [for agencies] to answer themselves in the course of a statute’s daily administration.”220Id. at 2380.

These kinds of arguments based on the “descriptive case” run into persistent empirical problems—namely, there is ample evidence that Congress often does intend to delegate major questions to agencies through vague language, and only weak and contested evidence that Congress does not so intend.221See, e.g., Blake Emerson, “Policy” in the Administrative Procedure Act: Implications for Delegation, Deference, and Democracy, 97 Chi.-Kent L. Rev. 113, 113 (2022); Alison Gocke, Chevron’s Next Chapter: A Fig Leaf for the Nondelegation Doctrine, 55 U.C. Davis L. Rev. 955, 970–71 (2021); Heinzerling, supra note 5, at 1933–34. Both Wurman and Barrett make much of a study of congressional staffers conducted by Abbe Gluck and Lisa Schultz Bressman that found that over 60% of staffers thought that drafters typically intend for Congress, not agencies, to decide important policy questions. See Wurman, supra note 8, at 951, 954–56 (citing Abbe R. Gluck & Lisa Schultz Bressman, Statutory Interpretation from the Inside—An Empirical Study of Congressional Drafting, Delegation, and the Canons: Part I, 65 Stan. L. Rev. 901, 1003–06 (2013)); Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. at 2380 (same). However, the Gluck and Bressman study is at best weak support for the proposition that Congress intends to reserve major questions for itself. See Walters, supra note 12, at 533–34; Ronald M. Levin, The Major Questions Doctrine: Unfounded, Unbounded, and Confounded, 112 Calif. L. Rev. (forthcoming 2024) (manuscript at 145–47), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4304404 [https://perma.cc/W3X3-5GXM]. These kinds of arguments are also in significant tension with textualism, which generally eschews evidence of legislative intent except insofar as it is “objectified” in statutory language. However, given the evidence presented in this Article, these arguments may still be more promising for proponents of the MQD than a linguistic defense premised on ordinary meaning.

On the whole, then, it does not seem like the doors that are left open by our study are ones that would be attractive to the textualist justices who have given us the MQD. But we cannot deny another possibility: that textualism itself may evolve (or dissolve?) in ways that accommodate the MQD on these other grounds. We turn to that topic in the next Section, but before doing that, we would reiterate that the ordinary-meaning defense of the MQD is, by all appearances, a total dead end. Textualists would be hard-pressed to continue to defend the MQD on this theory of the case and this record of decision.

iii.  The Bottom Line

This Section has briefly noted some limitations of the Article. We make no claims about other (non-linguistic) defenses of the MQD. And we are, of course, open to the possibility that some future argument or evidence could rehabilitate the linguistic defense of the MQD.

However, it is important to emphasize that we endorse a firm conclusion about the current state of affairs for the linguistic MQD and textualists’ use of the canon. The two extant linguistic defenses of the MQD depend on empirical claims about specific hypotheticals (for example, the bank case) that are not supported by empirical studies of ordinary Americans. Proponents of the linguistic MQD may offer new, more workable arguments, with different thought experiments, or different empirical support. But until then, there is no basis to employ it as a linguistic canon, and there is now significant evidence counting against core claims of the two publicly stated linguistic arguments.

Second, even for textualist judges with no interest in the linguistic defense, the empirical data about ordinary readers counts against the MQD’s consistency with ordinary language. Given ordinary readers’ understanding of language, there is more evidence in favor of treating the MQD as an anti-linguistic canon than a linguistic canon.222For example, it appears false that people intuitively understand delegations to be limited to the most reasonable set of actions consistent with the language’s literal meaning. With further empirical study, one could imagine refining a canon that captures ordinary judgment about delegation. Most plausible candidates are at odds with the MQD. We discuss this idea further in Section IV.C, infra. And as Justice Kagan remarked, judges who appeal to such non-principles over linguistic interpretation are not really textualists.223West Virginia v. EPA, 142 S. Ct. 2587, 2641 (2022) (Kagan, J., dissenting).

B.  Broader Implications for Modern Textualism

Justice Barrett and Wurman’s arguments have implications for textualism beyond the narrow (but hugely important) issue of whether the MQD is a linguistic canon. Textualism’s claim to distinctiveness centers on a commitment to interpretation according to a text’s linguistic meaning, thereby promoting rule of law values.224See William N. Eskridge, Jr., Brian G. Slocum & Kevin Tobia, Textualism’s Defining Moment, 123 Colum. L. Rev. 1611, 1613 (2023) (explaining how textualism claims to promote the rule of law). Textualism thus abjures judicial discretion to depart from that linguistic meaning.225Tara Leigh Grove, Comment, Which Textualism?, 134 Harv. L. Rev. 265, 269 (2020) (advocating for formalistic textualism). As Justice Scalia emphasized, judges should not exercise an unbounded “personal discretion to do justice.”226See Antonin Scalia, The Rule of Law as a Law of Rules, 56 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1175, 1176 (1989). Instead, judges should be restrained even when some results may have been unanticipated by the legislature.227See John F. Manning, The Absurdity Doctrine, 116 Harv. L. Rev. 2387, 2392–95 (2003).

Justice Barrett’s expansive view of “context,” “common sense,” and non-literal interpretation expands, but also challenges, these foundations of textualism. Justice Barrett admirably argues for a sophisticated version of textualism that rejects literalism and recognizes implied terms.228See supra Section I.C; see also Kevin Tobia, Brian G. Slocum & Victoria Nourse, Progressive Textualism, 110 Geo. L.J. 1437, 1475 (2022) (arguing that textualism should more willingly acknowledge that linguistic meaning can often include implied terms). Even so, existing interpretive canons that recognize implied terms are narrow, and thus do not undermine textualism’s commitment to linguistic meaning.229See supra Section I.C. In contrast, Justice Barrett’s “common sense” interpretive canon is unbounded, granting judges considerable discretion to claim that a wide range of actions fall outside of the text’s meaning (or “reasonable meaning”).

Wurman’s arguments also have implications that threaten to expand, if not unravel, textualism. Recall that Wurman, unlike Justice Barrett, frames the MQD as a tiebreaker canon that resolves statutory ambiguity.230See supra Section I.B. Wurman is correct that the Court has referenced “ambiguity” in MQD cases. This framing of the MQD, however, requires a broad view of ambiguity that would make its determination even more discretionary, and likely more pretextual.

1.  Justice Barrett’s Theory of Non-Literal Interpretation

Justice Barrett’s general appeals to context and non-literal interpretation are consistent with modern textualist scholarship and thinking. Justice Kavanaugh has also repeatedly emphasized the distinction between literal and ordinary meaning and has insisted that courts should avoid overly literalist meanings.231See Bostock v. Clayton County, 140 S. Ct. 1731, 1825 (2020) (Kavanaugh, J., dissenting) (“[C]ourts must follow ordinary meaning, not literal meaning. And courts must adhere to the ordinary meaning of phrases, not just the meaning of the words in a phrase.”). Similarly, John Manning argues that “the literal or dictionary definitions of words will often fail to account for settled nuances or background conventions that qualify the literal meaning of language and, in particular, of legal language.”232Manning, supra note 227, at 2393.

Textualism, though, purports to privilege semantic meaning, thereby giving a relatively limited role to non-literal meanings informed by context and pragmatics. Thus, while Manning endorses some non-literal interpretation, his “background conventions” are narrow ones relevant to the “relevant linguistic community” subject to the law, such as common law criminal defenses.233Id. at 2466–67. Besides these limited examples, according to Manning, judges “have a duty to enforce clearly worded statutes as written, even if there is reason to believe that the text may not perfectly capture the background aims or purposes that inspired their enactment.”234See John F. Manning, Second-Generation Textualism, 98 Calif. L. Rev. 1287, 1290 (2010). Doing so ensures “Congress’s ability to use semantic meaning to express and record its agreed-upon outcomes.”235Id.

A coherent textualism would thus recognize a narrow role for implied terms. Crucially, an implied term must be one that would be obvious to the discourse participants, rather than one imposed by the interpreter for other reasons. An implied term must therefore reflect a presupposition about meaning that is warranted in the circumstances.236See Emiel Krahmer, Presupposition and Anaphora 3 (1998); Alan Cruse, A Glossary of Semantics and Pragmatics 139 (2006) (explaining that presuppositions are a ubiquitous aspect of language).

Statutes are often drafted at a high level of generality, and Justice Barrett is correct that readers of those rules understand that sometimes the rules expressed are not meant to be taken literally in all respects. Crucially though, the relevant existing interpretive canons are implicated in narrow circumstances and provide relatively specific rules for limiting literal meaning.237See Tobia et al., From the Outside, supra note 18, at 281–87 (providing examples of textual canons that narrow literal meaning); Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 75 (providing examples of substantive canons that are also linguistic and which serve to narrow literal meaning). Furthermore, empirical evidence supports these narrow rules as linguistic and thus consistent with how ordinary people interpret legal texts.238See Slocum & Tobia, supra note 37, at 75.

Justice Barrett’s view of implied terms as governed by “common sense” and “context” is similar to Richard Fallon’s approach. Fallon argues that “[o]rdinary principles of conversational interpretation call for us to ascribe a reasonable meaning to prescriptions and other utterances unless something about the context indicates otherwise.”239Richard H. Fallon, Jr., The Meaning of Legal “Meaning” and Its Implications for Theories of Legal Interpretation, 82 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1235, 1260–61 (2015). Fallon reasons that “[i]n ordinary conversation, we do not waste time and breath offering elaborations and qualifications of our utterances that ought to be obvious to any reasonable person.”240Id. at 1261. Instead, a “reasonable person” understands that “[t]he moral reasonableness of a particular ascribed meaning possesses a distinctive importance.”241Id. at 1261–62. Both Fallon and Justice Barrett draw on principles of conversational communication and context, and while Fallon references “reasonable meaning” and Justice Barrett “common sense,” the two are essentially the same idea. In fact, Justice Barrett uses the word “reasonable” in relation to interpretation eleven times in her Biden v. Nebraska opinion (e.g., “reasonable understanding,” “reasonable view,” “reasonable interpreter”).242Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2376–84 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring). Furthermore, her appeal to “common sense” and “reasonable” interpretations has, like Fallon’s view, room for moral and normative beliefs to motivate non-literal interpretations.

The similarities between the interpretive approaches of Justice Barrett and Fallon should be surprising and troubling to textualists. Fallon’s interpretive principle is in furtherance of his decidedly anti-textualist view of interpretation.243See generally Richard H. Fallon, Jr., The Statutory Interpretation Muddle, 114 Nw. U. L. Rev. 269 (2019) (arguing against the idea that statutes have determinate linguistic meanings). Justice Barrett’s principle of “common sense,” guided by “context,” is supposedly in furtherance of textualism, but it raises questions that do not have easy textualist answers. Can the principle always defeat the literal meaning of a statute? How can “common sense” even be defined? Even if “common sense” could be defined, do judges share the same “common sense” as ordinary people, or do judges speak with what Eskridge and Nourse refer to as an “upper-class accent?”244See William N. Eskridge, Jr. & Victoria F. Nourse, Textual Gerrymandering: The Eclipse of Republican Government in an Era of Statutory Populism, 96 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1718, 1811 (2021). The ability for judges to appeal, with little restraint, to “common sense” and “context,” calls to mind Scalia’s fears about non-textualist judging: “personal discretion to do justice” as the judges saw fit.245Scalia, supra note 226, at 1176.

2.  The Anti-Textualist Broad View of Ambiguity

An additional threat to textualism is posed by a broad view of “ambiguity.” Recall that Wurman argues that the MQD is a linguistic canon that resolves statutory ambiguity.246See supra Section I.B. In support of this claim, Wurman quotes from MQD decisions where the Court argues that the relevant statutes are “ambiguous.”247See Wurman, supra note 8, at 915. This defense of the MQD is unsurprising. Textualism is much more permissive about available arguments and interpretive sources when a provision has been deemed “ambiguous.”

There are two key drawbacks in viewing the MQD as serving a tiebreaking role in resolving ambiguity. First, doing so understates the MQD’s role in the Court’s precedents. The MQD has not merely resolved “ties” between meanings; it has caused the Court to choose meanings it would not otherwise have selected. Second, Wurman’s view requires a definition of ambiguity that should be especially troubling to textualists, and the significance of the issue extends beyond the MQD.

Wurman’s argument raises an essential question: On what basis can a provision be deemed “ambiguous”? Wurman suggests that a provision can be “ambiguous” even when a court can determine the provision’s “best reading.”248Id. Thus, crucially, the question of ambiguity does not require that a provision be indeterminate. In other words, the semantic meaning of the provision’s terms could be clear (even if broad) but still “ambiguous,” based on non-textual considerations like the novelty and importance of an agency’s actions.

Use of the “ambiguity” label often obscures rather than clarifies linguistic issues. Specifically, it glosses over the distinctive linguistic features of the prototypical statute involved in MQD cases, which is a statute with broad but semantically clear terms. These features—broad but semantically clear—should represent for textualists a prima facie case against the MQD. After all, textualists assert that courts should focus on the semantic meaning of statutes.

Outside of MQD cases, some textualists have recognized the potential dangers associated with a judicial focus on “ambiguity.” Most significantly, Justice Kavanaugh has criticized “ambiguity” as an interpretive doctrine because its identification is standardless and subjective.249See Brett M. Kavanaugh, Fixing Statutory Interpretation, 129 Harv. L. Rev. 2118, 2121 (2016) (reviewing Robert A. Katzmann, Judging Statutes (2014)). Its discretionary identification and legitimizing power, however, make “ambiguity” an especially attractive interpretive tool for judges. “Ambiguity” is extremely useful because it gives a court cover to interpret a statute narrowly or broadly on the basis of normative concerns. For instance, an explicit announcement of ambiguity allowed the Court in King v. Burwell to “avoid the type of calamitous result that Congress plainly meant to avoid” and gave it justification for “interpret[ing] the Act in a way that” improves health insurance markets and does not destroy them.250King v. Burwell, 576 U.S. 473, 498 (2015).

“Ambiguity’s” legitimizing power explains why the Court in MQD (and other) cases is motivated to label a provision as “ambiguous” without much consideration about whether it is applying a coherent definition of ambiguity. It may be activist to interpret a clear statute narrowly because doing so would be in tension with the provision’s linguistic meaning. In contrast, resolving statutory “ambiguity” is necessary to decide the interpretive dispute, and choosing the narrower interpretation does not conflict with the provision’s linguistic meaning. Thus, if a provision is problematically broad, labeling it as “ambiguous” does not require the Court to explicitly reject its literal meaning.

If a provision can be “ambiguous” even when a court can nevertheless determine its “best reading,” “ambiguity” would mean something like “any uncertainty about the meaning of a provision.” But this sort of definition would make ambiguity ubiquitous and is inconsistent with how it is used in Chevron and other tiebreaker canons like the rule of lenity.251See Eskridge, Slocum & Tobia, supra note 224, at 1656 (discussing how the Court’s textualists determine ambiguity). If instead “ambiguity” means that a provision must actually be indeterminate, there is no “best reading” of a provision, but merely possible competing meanings.

The question of ambiguity thus hinges on whether “ambiguity” is synonymous with “indeterminacy.” Even if the terms are synonymous, framing the MQD in terms of “ambiguity” should be unappealing to textualists. The MQD would still be a matter of judgment that depends on how one weighs semantic and pragmatic evidence. In other words, a combination of meaning and context makes a provision clear or, conversely, ambiguous. Univocal semantics and univocal pragmatics may uncontroversially result in a clear provision, and multivocal semantics and multivocal pragmatics in an ambiguous provision, but other combinations are contestable and subject to normative resolution via highly discretionary judgments.

The choice is thus between a narrow definition of “ambiguity” that would require the semantic meaning of the statutory text be indeterminate in some way, and a broad definition that would allow even semantically clear language to be deemed “ambiguous” based on non-language concerns like statutory purpose. Justice Scalia argued that the broad view of ambiguity is “judge-empowering” and mocked the idea that “[w]hatever has improbably broad, deeply serious, and apparently unnecessary consequences . . . is ambiguous!”252Bond v. United States, 572 U.S. 844, 870 (2014) (Scalia, J., concurring in the judgement). A broad definition of ambiguity would allow the label to be used at any time by emphasizing any number of pragmatic considerations, such as the problematically broad semantic meaning of terms or the “novelty” of an agency’s interpretation. If instead, as Justice Scalia argues, pragmatic evidence can only clarify semantically indeterminate text, ambiguity would therefore require indeterminate semantic meaning and be a narrower, less discretionary doctrine.253See id.

Textualists in MQD cases should be honest about their use of “ambiguity.” If they use the term broadly, they should explain why Justice Scalia’s critique of the broad definition is mistaken. If they instead agree with Justice Scalia, the MQD cases involving clear (but broad) semantic meaning should thus be viewed by textualists as similar to situations not involving ambiguity. In such cases, if the Court wishes to narrow the literal meaning of the language, it should state so explicitly, giving reasons for why such narrowing is consistent with the judicial function.

C.  Broader Implications for Administrative Law

This Article has taken textualists’ defenses of the MQD at face value. But some harbor a more realist or critical take on the MQD. Perhaps the MQD is animated by neither constitutional values nor language, but rather by the aim of limiting the administrative state’s power. And perhaps leaving questions about the MQD’s legitimacy unresolved allows strategic ambiguity, which is better for this purpose.254See Sohoni, supra note 6, at 266; see also Patrick J. Sobkowski, Of Major Questions and Nondelegation, Yale J. on Reg.: Notice & Comment (July 3, 2023), https://www.yalejreg.com/nc/of-major-questions-and-nondelegation-by-patrick-j-sobkowski [https://perma.cc/23GL-D2G6] (noting that the MQD is currently marked by “strategic ambiguity” that “allows the Justices to strike down or uphold policies without being criticized by other actors for judicial activism and aggrandizement”). Some go even further to argue that the justices are engaged in a form of constitutional hardball, seeking to aggrandize themselves vis-à-vis the other branches of government.255See, e.g., Josh Chafetz, The New Judicial Power Grab, 67 St. Louis U. L.J. 635, 635 (2023); Allen C. Sumrall & Beau J. Baumann, Clarifying Judicial Aggrandizement, 172 U. Pa. L. Rev. Online 24, 24 (2023); Mark A. Lemley, The Imperial Supreme Court, 136 Harv. L. Rev. F. 97, 97 (2022). It is certainly difficult to overlook the hostility that many of the justices express toward modern administrative government and the legislative acts that authorized it.256See generally Beau J. Baumann, Americana Administrative Law, 111 Geo. L.J. 465 (2023) (discussing examples including National Federation of Independent Businesses v. Department of Labor, Occupational Safety and Health Administration, 142 S. Ct. 661, 669 (Gorsuch, J., concurring); Gundy v. United States, 139 S. Ct. 2116, 2134–35 (2019) (Gorsuch, J., dissenting); and City of Arlington v. FCC, 569 U.S. 290, 327 (2013) (Roberts, C.J., dissenting)).

Yet, turning our attention away from the Supreme Court and toward the broader legal community, our findings about how ordinary people understand delegations of authority have significant implications for administrative law well beyond the MQD. While we acknowledge that there are good reasons to be skeptical about outsourcing questions of administrative law to laypeople, insofar as textualist principles animate the statutory interpretation questions at the heart of administrative law, it is worth asking where ordinary people’s intuitions lead.257Indeed, an emerging literature does just this, often using survey experiments to investigate questions important to administrative law and the administrative state. See generally Brian D. Feinstein, Legitimizing Agencies, 91 U. Chi. L. Rev. 919 (2024); Edward Stiglitz, The Reasoning State (2022). Below, we highlight a couple takeaways from this exercise. An irony of textualist’s turn to “ordinary people” to support the MQD may be that it actually supports a significantly cabined judicial role in controlling delegation of authority to the administrative state. Far from endorsing a kind of “libertarian administrative law” that treats delegations of authority to administrative agencies with suspicion and seeks almost perfunctorily to narrow them,258See Sunstein & Vermeule, supra note 197, at 410. ordinary people appear to take general ordinary delegations to license a range of reasonable actions.

To be sure, we considered ordinary judgments of an ordinary, private delegation (that is, the babysitter), but critics of the administrative state have made that ordinary context relevant by insisting that general principles of private agency and/or ordinary delegations law should inform public law delegation.259Biden v. Nebraska, 143 S. Ct. 2355, 2379–80 (2023) (Barrett, J., concurring); Phillip Hamburger, Is Administrative Law Unlawful? 386 (2014); Gary Lawson & Guy Seidman, “A Great Power of Attorney”: Understanding the Fiduciary Constitution 104 (2017). We are also skeptical that there is an easy way to study the “ordinary person’s” view of specific cases. As prior research has shown, interpreters’ values affect their interpretation.260Ward Farnsworth, Dustin F. Guzior & Anup Malani, Ambiguity About Ambiguity: An Empirical Inquiry into Legal Interpretation, 2 J. Legal Analysis 257, 259 (2010). Asking ordinary people whether the EPA has authority to issue broad climate change regulations under the Clean Air Act is likely to tell us more about people’s values and politics than their understanding of language. Thus, the implications we spell out depend on the validity of this ordinary analogy—the one made by the linguistic MQD’s defenders (recall the “high stakes” appeal to the ordinary bank case and the “common sense” appeal to the ordinary babysitter case).

To start, our study of the babysitter hypothetical revealed a surprising result about what ordinary people would think of the amusement park hypothetical. Taking the children to the amusement park might not be the most reasonable response to the instruction to “use this credit card to make sure the kids have fun this weekend,” but it certainly does not violate it (after all, an amusement park is “fun”). The study also revealed that the vast majority of ordinary people believe that the parent’s instruction extends to the even more unusual action of bringing a live alligator to the house. This surprising finding suggests that people do not limit delegations to only the most reasonable actions or the ones most consistent with the rule’s purpose.

Ordinary readers approached the limits of broad delegations through a textual and purposive lens. Compared with the amusement park, alligator, and movie scenarios, respondents were far more likely to say that the babysitter violated the instruction when the babysitter failed to achieve the purpose of the instruction (as in the case of not using the credit card and potentially shortchanging the children’s fun) and when the babysitter actively undermined it (by using the credit card for the babysitter’s own enjoyment). This finding is difficult to understand unless ordinary readers understand delegations in large part as remedial—that is, as seeking to empower the agent to solve a problem or achieve some goal—rather than exclusively delimiting—that is, as setting out the scope of the agent’s power.261This explanation is largely consistent with Brian Feinstein’s discovery that ordinary people are prompted to increase their trust in government when they believe it is being undertaken by an agent with expertise to fulfill social functions. See Feinstein, supra note 257, at 919. In both Feinstein’s studies and ours, delegations are understood by ordinary people to be about problem solving.

The modern textualist commitment to ordinary people’s understanding as a basis for interpretation262See, e.g., Barrett, supra note 17, at 2194. and linguistic canons263See, e.g., Wurman, supra note 8, at 909. opens the door to uncovering a linguistic basis for other canons, including new canons.264See Tobia et al., From the Outside, supra note 18, at 288–90. As a hypothetical, imagine if a textualist were to carefully consider evidence about ordinary people’s understanding of delegating language (e.g., in the babysitter case) and attempt to “canonize” those intuitions into administrative law doctrine. The result would probably be a fundamental recalibration of the field—but not in the way the MQD imagines. Were one to follow the evidence, it seems to instead support canonizing a sort of “counter-MQD” that presumes that general delegations should be interpreted broadly (or at least not as restrictively as Justice Barrett’s argument claims), significantly curtailing judicial power to limit Congress’s attempts to empower administrative agencies.

In addition, and relatedly, our findings are in some tension with administrative law’s traditional approach to questions of underimplementation of statutory delegations. A variety of administrative law doctrines insulate agency discretion to decline to enforce the law: for instance, Heckler v. Chaney provides that agency nonenforcement decisions are almost never reviewable by courts,265Heckler v. Chaney, 470 U.S. 821, 821 (1985). and Norton v. Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance makes it impossible for challengers to force agency action unless they can point to a discrete duty (rather than a more general failure to pursue broad policy goals of a statute).266Norton v. S. Utah Wilderness All., 542 U.S. 55, 55 (2004). These doctrines insulate agency underuse of delegated regulatory authority from judicial scrutiny. Yet our findings suggest that ordinary readers may be more troubled by delegated authority’s underuse than uses that fit with the language but exceed an observer’s sense of reasonableness.267Both using the credit card for only the babysitter’s needs (“misuse”) and bringing an alligator to the house for entertainment (“extreme”) were judged as “unreasonable,” while failing to use the card and entertaining the children with card games (“minor”) was judged as “reasonable.” But rule violation judgments did not rise and fall with these evaluations of reasonableness. The extreme action was more consistent with the rule than the minor action, and both were more consistent than the misuse action. On the flip side, when agencies do take action pursuant to their delegations, judges often artificially narrow those delegations.268Cass R. Sunstein, Nondelegation Canons, 67 U. Chi. L. Rev. 315, 315–16 (2000). Canons that might theoretically push in the opposite direction—toward liberally construing “remedial” statutes, for instance—have fallen into disrepute.269Dir., Off. of Workers’ Comp. Programs, Dep’t of Lab. v. Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Co., 514 U.S. 122, 135 (1995) (noting that the remedial canon is the “last redoubt of losing causes”). This basic asymmetry in the treatment of delegations to agencies—deep skepticism of exercises of delegated authority coupled with indifference toward failures to exercise delegated authority at all270See Daniel E. Walters, Symmetry’s Mandate: Constraining the Politicization of American Administrative Law, 119 Mich. L. Rev. 455, 455–56 (2020).—may be exactly backwards if ordinary people’s intuitions are to be the guide.

Again, we do not endorse any particular changes to administrative law here. There are many good reasons, such as the institutional constraints under which agencies operate, to disfavor outsourcing administrative law into ordinary people’s linguistic or legal intuitions (whatever those may be).271Eric Biber, The Importance of Resource Allocation in Administrative Law, 60 Admin. L. Rev. 1, 1–2 (2008). There are also many countervailing concerns, such as fair notice and due process, that may justify curtailing expansive ordinary readings of delegating statutes.272See, e.g., Jennifer Lee Koh, Crimmigration and the Void for Vagueness Doctrine, 2016 Wis. L. Rev. 1127, 1153–59 (2016). But we also believe that for those inclined to remake administrative law through the eyes of the ordinary reader, it is worth grappling with facts rather than judicial hypotheticals about those ordinary readers. People are far more comfortable with broader interpretation of general-language delegations than many textualists have assumed, and they appear to be disproportionately uncomfortable with violations through underuse of delegated authority.

CONCLUSION

The MQD is the most influential interpretive development at the modern Supreme Court.273See supra notes 2–4 and accompanying text. Yet it lacks a compelling theoretical basis and a satisfactory explanation of its consistency with textualism, the interpretive theory held by the MQD’s advocates. The new “linguistic MQD” purports to solve both problems: because the MQD reflects ordinary understanding of language, it is a valid linguistic canon and thus consistent with textualism.

This Article has taken this linguistic defense on its own terms and studied the two central ordinary examples offered by its advocates. We find that ordinary people do not understand language as textualists have assumed. High stakes do not undermine knowledge or impact textual clarity, and people do not understand general delegations to be limited to only the most reasonable set of actions. These results challenge the essential empirical claims at the heart of the arguments for the linguistic MQD. While scholarly debate should continue, judges must take stock of the evidence and decide whether to employ the canon—and whether to do so in the name of linguistics and ordinary people. In our view, there is insufficient empirical support and theoretical clarity to cast the MQD as a valid linguistic canon. Arguably, the linguistic defense is the only viable theory for textualists to consistently employ the MQD. Thus, unless they offer a successful alternative, the results here support the broader conclusion that consistent textualists should not employ the MQD.

97 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1153

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* Associate Professor of Law, Georgetown University Law Center.

† Associate Professor of Law, Texas A&M University School of Law.

‡ Stearns Weaver Miller Professor, Florida State University College of Law. For helpful comments and/or discussion, we thank Cary Coglianese, Anuj Desai, Ryan Doerfler, Rebecca Kysar, Edouard Machery, Ángel Pinillos, Larry Solum, Ilya Somin, Ilan Wurman, and audiences at the American Association of Law Schools Annual Conference, and at Cornell, Georgetown, NYU, and USC law schools. Thanks to the Southern California Law Review for excellent editorial assistance. We also thank Kirsten Worden and Michael Cooper for their research assistance.