Reflecting on Two Presidents

January 2025 Imperfect Union

Welcome to 2025. I hope the year has started well for you, or if you are in Southern California, that you are safe and sound. The fall was so busy that I didn’t have as much time to write the type of articles I usually share and I felt my posts were a little short. So this month’s newsletter is a bit of a two-in-one. I have an interesting parallel I want to share, as well as a preview from an upcoming book. Let’s get to it…

As you will see from the links below, I did a lot of media over the last several weeks to discuss President Carter’s passing and funeral services. I received a few questions comparing Carter and Biden, which I answered briefly (as tv permits). But I thought it was an interesting thought experiment and I wanted to share a longer exploration. Analyzing the two presidents, I see four areas of similarity and one key difference.

Foreign policy:

Both Biden and Carter will be remembered for their interest in foreign policy. Biden spend decades on the US Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, including two stints as chair. He built relationships with foreign leaders, and regularly traveled abroad. One list has him meeting with over 150 leaders from 60 nations. As a vice presidential candidate, Biden’s foreign policy experience was one of the strengths he brought to the Obama-Biden ticket. Almost every major media source wrote about how he brought important “heft” to the ticket to help Obama pass the commander-in-chief test. As vice president, he carved out an important portfolio on foreign policy, visiting over 50 countries in eight years. As president, arguably some of the highest highs (initial response to the Russian invasion of Ukraine) and lowest lows (withdrawal from Afghanistan) are foreign policy related.

Vice President Biden visiting with Xi Jinping

Carter’s pre-presidential life did not necessarily suggest that his presidency would be so remembered for foreign policy. He had traveled widely with the navy and his work as a nuclear engineer certainly made clear the stakes of the Cold War. But his business background as a peanut farmer, and his political background, as a state legislator and governor of Georgia, were at times painfully domestic. Yet, once Carter assumed the highest office, he took a personal role in Middle East diplomacy, Latin American policy, and human rights across the globe.

Like Biden, some of Carter’s best and worst moments are foreign policy—the Camp David Accords and the Iran hostage crisis are probably the most visceral either way. That’s not always the case. Some presidents are known as great foreign policy presidents and bad domestic policy presidents, and vice versa. I find it fascinating that Biden and Carter defy those typical categories.

Values:

There are easy parallels to spot about Biden and Carter’s proclaimed values. While Biden is Catholic and Carter was Baptist, they were both men of deep and abiding faith. They were probably two of the most religious presidents who genuinely observed and participated in a faith community for their own purposes, not for political reasons.

Former President Carter teaching Sunday School

They were both deeply devoted to their families and their wives, and their families are central to their political stories. They have both expressed personal discomfort or opposition to abortion, but also that the decision should be a personal one and the federal government has no role in making that decision.

Self-image:

I haven’t spoken to Carter or Biden, but I suspect they would both describe themselves as a type of outsider. That manifested in different ways. Carter was suspicious and at times quite scornful of the DC community. He famously turned down several invitations to dinner with Katherine Graham, who was the owner of the Washington Post at the time. His contemporaries described him as aloof and occasionally arrogant, that he knew better than everyone else. He spent very few years in DC and was eager to flee upon losing his reelection.

On the surface, Biden is definitely a swamp creature. He spent decades working in government. It was basically his only real work experience. Yet, he described himself as “Scranton Joe.” He famously rode the Amtrak train home to spend time with family, rather than living full time in DC. He always saw himself as outside the elite Ivy League circles. Franklin Foer’s biography attributes this chip as “a working-class resentment of so-called Ivy League elites who not only tend to populate Washington’s corridors of power, but (in the view of Bidenworld) condescend to those who went to lesser schools or failed to start their DC climbs on the correct rungs of the achievement ladder: federal court clerkships, White House fellowships, Capitol Hill legislative gopherships.” This chip reportedly drove Biden’s decision to run for president in 2020 and his ill-fated campaign in 2024.

Whether or not they were actually outsiders matters less than how they saw themselves. That self-styled image speaks volumes to their mentality and how they tried to craft their legacies.

One-term legacy:

Speaking of legacies, here is a potential parallel that is still in formation. Carter’s legacy has improved dramatically in the last several decades for a couple of reasons. 1) His post-presidential life was so lengthy and extraordinary that it overshadowed many of the less sparkly elements of his presidency. Carter’s rather dour demeanor as president appeared as a humble servant in his post presidency. 2) Over time, many of Carter’s choices and policies as president have proven forward-thinking, prescient, and the right (if not difficult) call. His stance on environmental protections, human rights, civil rights, and women’s rights were ahead of his time. His economic policies were tough, unpopular, and laid the foundations for economic recovery (for which Reagan often gets credit).

Legacies take a long time to write—they cannot be crafted immediately after a president leaves office. We don’t know the full impact of legislation, executive orders, foreign policy, etc. This was certainly true of Carter’s policy toward human rights in the Soviet Union and the Panama Canal.

We don’t know Biden’s legacy yet. We don’t know if his economic/infrastructure legislation will continue to have a positive impact on the economy or if Trump’s policies will undermine the steady growth over the last several years. We don’t know how Trump’s presidency in general will shape our thinking about Biden. But it is possible, that over time, Biden will be more appreciated by citizens and historians alike.

One key difference:

It is also possible that Biden’s doomed 2024 campaign will overshadow any good he managed to accomplish and tarnish his legacy permanently. I don’t know yet. I will tell you, personally, I am angry about it and I’m having trouble assessing his administration with even an ounce of objectivity. For the record, that’s why I don’t write history books about the last couple of presidents because I don’t think I can apply the same analytical lens that I try to apply to the 18th, 19th, and most of the 20th century.

Biden and Carter in 1978

From my perspective, I think Carter offered a more accurate assessment of his presidency than Biden has been able to thus far. No one likes to lose, no one likes to be criticized, no one likes to be pushed out. But frankly, I think Carter handled it better. He was honest about his failures, less defensive, and he just seemed less bitter. Maybe that’s just recency bias for me, but I don’t think so. Biden will not have over four decades to rewrite his legacy after leaving office, which I’m willing to bet will not weigh in his legacy’s favor.

Part II:

It is possible this newsletter will get too long to show in your inbox. If you are reading via email and it gets cut off, please be sure to open in the Substack App or online. On February 4, We Hold These “Truths” will be published. The book is a compilation of essays from scholars, politicians, practitioners, etc. on the myths in our politician system and how to combat them. I wrote the first chapter, titled “The Founders, in Their Infinite Wisdom, . . .” and the book was edited by my friend Casey Burgat. Casey has substack as well, here.

It’s not your usual edited volume. It is punchy, irreverent, and written for people who are bored by usual political books. Here is a preview of my chapter, just so you can see what it is like. I hope you’ll check it out.

“The Founders, in Their Infinite Wisdom, . . .”

Dr. Lindsay M. Chervinsky

On September 17, 1787, 42 men filed into the first-floor chamber of the Pennsylvania State House, known today as Philadelphia’s Independence Hall. The clerks closed the windows and locked the shutters against nosy ears and prying eyes. They lit candles and Argand oil lamps to offset the lack of daylight. The men took their seats, clumped by state around tables arranged in half circles facing the front of the room. George Washington took his place before them in a large wooden chair with a rising sun carved in the back. He called the attendees to order. The final session of the Constitutional Convention had begun.

The delegates had spent the previous four months in this room, debating each clause and carefully crafting language for the young nation’s new charter. They worked six days per week in the stifling chamber. Now, they had one final task before they could finally return home—voting on the draft Constitution.

Before the delegates cast their votes, Benjamin Franklin cleared his throat. At 81, Franklin was the oldest member present and a widely revered statesman, diplomat, scientist, and politician. He had not spoken often over the past four months, but when he offered his ideas, they carried weight. Franklin’s health had faltered recently, his voice shook, and he struggled to stand. He handed his written comments to James Wilson, a fellow Pennsylvania delegate, to read on his behalf.

“I confess that I do not entirely approve of this Constitution at present,” Franklin wrote. “I am not sure I shall never approve it: For having lived long, I have experienced many Instances of being oblig’d, by better Information or fuller Consideration, to change Opinions even on important Subjects, which I once thought right, but found to be otherwise. It is therefore that the older I grow the more apt I am to doubt my own Judgment and to pay more Respect to the Judgment of others.” With this humility, he continued, “I agree to this Constitution, with all its Faults” because “I doubt too whether any other Convention we can obtain, may be able to make a better Constitution.”

The draft Constitution was passable, not perfect.

George Washington, one of Franklin’s most esteemed colleagues and the assumed first president under the new charter, agreed. In a letter to a colleague, Washington confessed his disappointment that the proposed government did not include all the elements he had sought. “I wish the Constitution which is offered had been made more perfect, but I sincerely believe it is the best that could be obtained at this time,” he wrote. Washington expressed hope that future generations would amend the document as needed to address future challenges.

None of the delegates in the room—weary, sweaty, and grouchy as they were—would have called the draft Constitution perfect. In fact, they explicitly admitted it wasn’t. Yet 38 of the 42 delegates present on voting day signed it. In their estimation, a set of compromises, grounded in sound principles and with plenty of opportunity for future revision, was an acceptable starting point—and the only achievable one.

When Americans reference that same document today, however, we often exercise none of that balance. In our modern imagination, the Constitution is not a rubric but an edict, written by oracles with unified ideas and indisputable intentions, etched in stone.

Congressional debates, Supreme Court decisions, and even Broadway musicals abound with appeals to the Founding Fathers. Politicians, justices, and everyday citizens defend their position by claiming it adheres faithfully to the Founders’ intentions—a mic-drop moment that spells the end of whatever discussion is at hand. In the words of one sitting member of Congress, to even suggest the Constitution is lacking in any respect “spits in the face of every single one of our founders.” Over the two and a half centuries since that steamy summer in Philadelphia, we have refashioned the Founders into infallible gods and their intentions into a singular, unshakable vision.

These claims reveal a shocking historical illiteracy. The truth is that the Founders agreed on very little. In fact, one of the only things they did agree on was that for the Constitution to be adopted, it would have to be a hodgepodge of compromise, and they explicitly created it as such. They had to do this to secure the delegates’ approval and win state ratification—in short, for the Constitution to exist at all. They did not expect their version of the nation’s design to be the final word. And they couldn’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

This distinction matters big-time. The Constitution’s mythical perfection is not a matter of mere debate; it shapes actual policy. This skewed view of history corrodes lawmaking, campaigns, court decisions, and public debates. It stops new ideas, healthy discussions, and promising policies before they’ve begun. Perhaps worst of all, the Constitution’s prophetic status inhibits our own thinking as citizens, calcifies our conclusions, and stymies needed innovation and collaboration.

What’s more, many aspects of our modern political life are often thought to have been handed down from on high to the Founding Fathers, when, in reality, they’re not even in the original script. Political parties, the separation of church and state, executive orders, and even the number of Supreme Court justices—none of these appear in the original Constitution. It’s as if the Founders left us an ingenious introduction to a book with lots of blank pages for us to fill in. Yet we tiptoe around these gaps like we’re afraid to offend the ghost of Ben Franklin.

From Jefferson to Madison to Franklin to Washington, the Founders were undeniably men of vision and leadership: the best read and among the most courageous of their time. Their Constitution, while not perfect, remains a cornerstone of democratic ideals, providing a flexible framework that has guided the nation through centuries of change. But despite their obvious and many talents, we ascribe to the Founders infinite wisdom they themselves didn’t even pretend to possess. And too often, we cherry-pick their words, ideas, and intentions to advance and defend our own political ends. In short, considering the Founders immovable and their work unquestionable keeps us stuck where we are.

The Founders themselves would be shocked to find that their creations have been so imperfectly remembered, celebrated, and deployed by future generations. They had a bigger vision for us. In their view, American democracy was meant to be an ongoing project, a never-ending pursuit of a “more perfect union.” They could not possibly anticipate all the problems that would arise once their model was put into practice—or agree on how to solve them—and they knew it. They expected their plan to keep developing long after the ink dried in 1787. And they trusted future generations to be not only the Constitution’s protectors but also its codesigners.

“I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions, but laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind,” wrote Thomas Jefferson. “As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.”

If we see the Constitution as a living, breathing document, we serve our country so much better. The way forward starts with a clear view of the Constitution and its crafters and with the understanding that they intentionally left room for us to grow. And that understanding begins in that steamy room in Philadelphia in the summer of 1787.