Despite its name, the Department of Government Efficiency is not, so far, primarily interested in efficiency. DOGE and its boss, Elon Musk, have instead focused their activity on the eradication of the federal civil service, along with its culture and values, and its replacement with something different. In other words: regime change.

No one should be surprised or insulted by this phrase, because this is exactly what Trump and many who support him have long desired. During his 2024 campaign, Trump spoke of Election Day as “Liberation Day,” a moment when, in his words, “vermin” and “radical left lunatics” would be eliminated from public life. J. D. Vance has said that Trump should “fire every single mid-level bureaucrat, every civil servant in the administrative state, replace them with our people.” Steve Bannon prefers to talk about the “deconstruction of the administrative state,” but that amounts to the same thing.

These ideas are not original to Vance or Bannon: In the 21st century, elected leaders such as Hugo Chávez or Viktor Orbán have also used their democratic mandates for the same purpose.. Chávez fired 19,000 employees of the state oil company; Orbán dismantled labor protections for the civil service. Trump, Musk, and Russell Vought, the newly appointed director of the Office of Management and Budget and architect of the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025—the original regime-change blueprint—are now using IT operations, captured payments systems, secretive engineers, a blizzard of executive orders, and viral propaganda to achieve the same thing.

This appears to be DOGE’s true purpose. Although Trump and Musk insist they are fighting fraud, they have not yet provided evidence for their sweeping claims. Although they demand transparency, Musk conceals his own conflicts of interest. Although they do say they want efficiency, Musk has made no attempt to professionally audit or even understand many of the programs being cut. Although they say they want to cut costs, the programs they are attacking represent a tiny fraction of the U.S. budget. The only thing these policies will certainly do, and are clearly designed to do, is alter the behavior and values of the civil service. Suddenly, and not accidentally, people who work for the American federal government are having the same experience as people who find themselves living under foreign occupation.

[Theodore Roosevelt: An object lesson in civil-service reform]

The destruction of the modern civil-service ethos will take time. It dates from the late 19th century, when Theodore Roosevelt and other civil-service reformers launched a crusade to eliminate the spoils system that dominated government service. At that time, whoever won the presidency always got to fire everyone and appoint his own people, even for menial jobs. Much of the world still relies on such patronage systems, and they are both corrupt and corrupting. Politicians hand out job appointments in exchange for bribes. They appoint unqualified people—somebody’s cousin, somebody’s neighbor, or just a party hack—to jobs that require knowledge and experience. Patronage creates bad government and bad services, because it means government employees serve a patron, not a country or its constitution. When that patron demands, say, a tax break for a businessman favored by the leader or the party, they naturally comply.

Until January 20, American civil servants worked according to a different moral code. Federal workers were under instructions to respect the rule of law, venerate the Constitution, maintain political neutrality, and uphold lawful policy changes whether they come from Republican or Democratic administrations. They were supposed to measure objective reality—evidence of pollution, for example—and respond accordingly. Not all of them were good administrators or moral people, but the damage that any one of them could do was limited by audits, rules about transparency, and again, an ethos built around the rule of law. This system was accepted by everyone—Republican-voting FBI agents, Democratic-voting environmental officers, the nurses at veterans’ hospitals, the air-traffic controllers at LAX.

What precisely replaces the civil-service ethos remains unclear. Christian nationalists want a religious state to replace our secular one. Tech authoritarians want a dictatorship of engineers, led by a monarchical CEO. Musk and Trump might prefer an oligarchy that serves their business interests. Already, DOGE has attacked at least 11 federal agencies that were embroiled in regulatory fights with Musk’s companies or were investigating them for potential violations of laws on workplace safety, workers’ rights, and consumer protection.

The new system, whatever its ideology, will in practice represent a return to patronage, about which more in a minute. But before it can be imposed, the administration will first have to break the morale of the people who believed in the old civil-service ethos. Vought, at a 2023 planning meeting organized in preparation for this moment, promised exactly that. People who had previously viewed themselves as patriots, working for less money than they could make in the private sector, must be forced to understand that they are evil, enemies of the state. His statement has been cited before, but it cannot be quoted enough times: “We want the bureaucrats to be traumatically affected,” he said at the time. “When they wake up in the morning, we want them to not want to go to work because they are increasingly viewed as the villains … We want to put them in trauma.”

[Renée DiResta: My encounter with the fantasy-industrial complex]

The email Musk sent to most employees in the federal government, offering them a “buyout”—several months’ pay, in exchange for a commitment to resign—was intended to inflict this kind of trauma. In effect, Musk was telling federal workers that he was not interested in what they were doing, or whether they were good at it, or how they could become more efficient. Instead, he was sending the message: You are all expendable.

Simultaneously, Musk launched an administrative and rhetorical attack on USAID, adding cruelty to the hostility. Many USAID employees work in difficult places, risking terrorism and violence, to distribute food and medicine to the poorest people on the planet. Overnight, they were told to abandon their projects and come home. In some places, the abrupt end of their programs, for example those providing special meals to malnourished children, will result in deaths, and USAID employees know it.

The administration has not acknowledged the dramatic real-world impact of this cut, which will, if not quashed by the courts, result in relatively minor budgetary savings. On the contrary, Musk and others turned to X to lie about USAID and its alleged waste. USAID did not give millions of dollars in direct grants to Politico, did not fund the visits of celebrities to Ukraine, did not send $50 million worth of condoms to Gaza, and did not pay $84 million to Chelsea Clinton. But these fictions and others have now been blasted to hundreds of millions of people. Information taken from grant databases is also being selectively circulated, in some cases fed to internet trolls who are now hounding grant recipients, in order to smear people and organizations that had legitimate, congressionally approved goals. Musk and others used a similar approach during the so-called Twitter Files scandal to discredit researchers and mischaracterize their work.

But the true significance of USAID’s destruction is the precedent it sets. Every employee of every U.S. department or agency now knows that the same playbook can be applied to them too: abrupt funding cuts and management changes, followed by smear campaigns. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, which safeguards bank customers against unfair, deceptive, or predatory practices, is already suspended. The Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of Education, which mostly manages student loans, may follow. Within other agencies, anyone who was involved in hiring, training, or improving workplaces for minority groups or women is at risk, as is anyone involved in mitigating climate change, in line with Trump’s executive orders.

In addition, Musk has personally taken it upon himself to destroy organizations built over decades to promote democracy and oppose Russian, Iranian, and Chinese influence around the world. For example, he described the journalists of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, who take extraordinary risks to report in Russia, Belarus, and in autocracies across Eurasia, as “radical left crazy people.” Not long after he posted this misleading screed on X, one RFE/RL journalist was released from a Belarusian prison after nearly three years in jail, as a part of the most recent prisoner exchange.

Putting them all together, the actions of Musk and DOGE have created moral dilemmas of a kind no American government employee has faced in recent history. Protest or collaborate? Speak up against lawbreaking or remain silent? A small number of people will choose heroism. In late January, a career civil servant, Nick Gottlieb, refused to obey an order to place several dozen senior USAID employees on administrative leave, on the grounds that the order violated the law. “The materials show no evidence that you engaged in misconduct,” he told them in an email. He also acknowledged that he, too, might soon be removed, as indeed he was. “I wish you all the best—you do not deserve this,” he concluded.

[Robert P. Beschel Jr.: Making government efficient again]

Others will decide to cooperate with the new regime—collaborating, in effect, with an illegal assault, but out of patriotism. Much like the Ukrainian scientists who have kept the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant going under Russian occupation because they fear catastrophe if they leave, some tech experts who work on America’s payment systems and databases have stayed in place even as Musk’s team of very young, very inexperienced engineers have demanded illegitimate access. “Going into these systems without an in-depth understanding of how they work both individually and interconnectedly is a recipe for disaster that will result in death and economic harm to our nation,” one government employee told my Atlantic colleagues Charlie Warzel and Ian Bogost.

Eventually, though, if the assault on the civil service is not blocked, the heroes and the patriots will disappear. They will be fired, or denied access to the tools they need to work, or frightened by the smear campaigns. They will be replaced by people who can pass the purity tests now required to get government jobs. Some will seem silly—are you willing to say “Gulf of America” instead of “Gulf of Mexico”?—and some will be deadly serious. Already, the Post reports, candidates for national-security posts in the new administration are being asked whether they accept Trump’s false claim to have won the 2020 election. At least two candidates for higher positions at the FBI were also asked to state who the “real patriots” were on January 6, 2021. This particular purity test is significant because it measures not just loyalty to Trump, but also whether federal employees are willing to repeat outright falsehoods—whether they are willing, in other words, to break the old civil-service ethos, which required people to make decisions based on objective realities, not myths or fictions.

To show that they are part of the new system, many loyalists will also engage in loud, performative behavior, designed to attract the attention and approval of Trump, Musk, Vought, or their followers. Ed Martin, the Trump-appointed interim U.S. attorney for Washington, D.C., wrote a missive addressed to “Steve and Elon” (referring to Musk and his associate Steve Davis) in which he vowed to track down “individuals and networks who appear to be stealing government property and/or threatening government employees.” If anyone is deemed to have broken the law “or acted simply unethically,” Martin theatrically promised to “chase them to the end of the Earth.” Ostentatious announcements of bans on supposed DEI or climate-change projects will similarly threaten civil servants. Late last month, the Air Force removed videos about the Tuskegee Airmen and the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots, the first Black and female Air Force pilots, from a training course. After an uproar, the videos were put back, but the initial instinct was revealing. Like the people asking FBI candidates to lie about what happened on January 6, someone at the Air Force felt obliged to deny older historical truths as well.

Eventually, demonstrations of loyalty might need to become more direct. The political scientist Francis Fukuyama points out that a future IRS head, for example, might be pressured to audit some of the president’s perceived enemies. If inflation returns, government employees might feel they need to disguise this too. In the new system, they would hold their job solely at the pleasure of the president, not on behalf of the American people, so maybe it won’t be in their interest to give him any bad news.

Many older civil servants will remain in the system, of course, but the new regime will suspect them of disloyalty. Already, the Office of Personnel Management has instructed federal employees to report on colleagues who are trying to “disguise” DEI programs, and threatened “adverse consequences” for anyone who failed to do so. The Defense Health Agency sent out a similar memo. NASA, the Department of Veterans Affairs, and the FBI have also told employees who are aware of “coded or imprecise language” being used to “disguise” DEI to report these violations within 10 days.

Because these memos are themselves coded and imprecise, some federal employees will certainly be tempted to abuse them. Don’t like your old boss? Report him or her for “disguising DEI.” Want to win some brownie points with the new boss? Send in damning evidence about your colleagues’ private conversations. In some government departments, minority employees have set up affinity groups, purely voluntary forums for conversation or social events. A number of government agencies are shutting these down; others are being disbanded by organizers who fear that membership lists will be used to target people. Even private meetings, outside the office, might not be safe from spying or snooping colleagues.

[Annie Lowrey: Civil servants are not America’s enemies]

That might sound implausible or incredible, but at the state level, legislation encouraging Americans to inform on other Americans has proliferated. A Texas law, known as the Heartbeat Act, allows private citizens to sue anyone they believe to have helped “aid or abet” an abortion. The Mississippi legislature recently debated a proposal to pay bounties to people who identify illegal aliens for deportation. These measures are precedents for what’s happening now to federal employees.

And the fate of federal employees will, in turn, serve as a precedent for what will happen to other institutions, starting with universities. Random funding cuts have already shocked some of the biggest research universities across the country, damaging ongoing projects without regard to “efficiency” or any other criteria. Political pressure will follow. Already, zealous new employees at the National Science Foundation are combing through descriptions of existing research projects, looking to see if they violate executive orders banning DEI. Words such as advocacy, disability, trauma, socioeconomic, and yes, women will all trigger reviews.

There are still greater dangers down the road—the possible politicization of the Federal Electoral Commission, for example. Eventually, anyone who interacts with the federal government—private companies, philanthropies, churches, and above all, citizens—might find that the cultural revolution affects them too. If the federal government is no longer run by civil servants fulfilling laws passed by Congress, then its interests might seriously diverge from yours.

None of this is inevitable. Much of it will be unpopular. The old idea that public servants should serve all Americans, and not just a small elite, has been part of American culture for more than a century. Rule of law matters to many of our elected politicians, as well as to their voters, all across the political spectrum. There is still time to block this regime change, to preserve the old values. But first we need to be clear about what is happening, and why.

From inside the room, Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s confirmation hearings felt at times more like an awards show than a job interview. While the health-secretary nominee testified, his fans in the audience hooted and hollered in support. Even a five-minute bathroom break was punctuated by a standing ovation from spectators and cheers of “We love you, Bobby!” There were some detractors as well—one protester was ushered out after screaming “He lies!” and interrupting the proceedings—but they were dramatically outnumbered by people wearing Make America Healthy Again T-shirts and Confirm RFK Jr. hats.

The MAHA faithful have plenty of reason to be excited. If confirmed, RFK Jr. would oversee an agency that manages nearly $2 trillion, with the authority to remake public health in his image. “He just represents the exact opposite of all these establishment agencies,” Brandon Matlack, a 34-year-old who worked on Kennedy’s presidential campaign, told me on Wednesday. We chatted as he waited in a line of more than 150 people that snaked down a flight of stairs—all of whom were hoping to get a seat for the hearing. Many of them were relegated to an overflow room.

Of course, Matlack and other RFK Jr. fans could be in for a letdown. Whether Kennedy will actually be confirmed as health secretary is still up in the air. There was less raucous cheering during the hearing on Thursday, as Kennedy faced tough questions from Republican Senator Bill Cassidy of Louisiana, whose vote could be decisive in determining whether Kennedy gets confirmed. But the realization of RFK Jr.’s vision for health care in America may not hinge on his confirmation. The MAHA movement has turned the issue of chronic disease into such a potent political talking point that people like Matlack are willing to trek from Pennsylvania to Washington, D.C., just to support Kennedy. Politicians across the country are hearing from self-proclaimed “MAHA moms” (and likely some dads too) urging them to enact reforms. They’re starting to listen.

Kennedy is best known as an anti-vaccine activist who spreads conspiracy theories. His more outlandish ideas are shared by some MAHA supporters, but the movement itself is primarily oriented around improving America’s diet and the health problems it causes us. Some of the ways MAHA wants to go about that, such as pressuring food companies to not use seed oils, are not exactly scientific; others do have some research behind them. Consider artificial food dyes, a major MAHA rallying cry. Multiple food dyes have been shown in animal studies to be carcinogenic. And although a candy-corn aficionado likely isn’t going to die from the product’s red dye, the additive is effectively banned in the European Union. (Kennedy claims that food dyes are driving down America’s life expectancy. There’s no evidence directly linking food dyes to declining human life expectancy, though one study did show that they cut short the life of fruit flies.)

Until recently, concerns over food additives, such as artificial dyes, were the domain of Democrats. In 2023, California became the first state in the nation to ban certain food additives: red dye 3, potassium bromate, brominated vegetable oil, and propylparaben. But now food-additive bans are being proposed in Donald Trump country, including West Virginia, Arkansas, and Kentucky. Some of the efforts, such as the Make Arkansas Healthy Again Act, are an explicit attempt to enact Kennedy’s agenda.

In other states, something a bit more Schoolhouse Rock is happening: The purported dangers of food ingredients are riling up Americans, who are then going to their lawmakers seeking change. Eric Brooks, a Republican state legislator in West Virginia, told me that he decided to copy California’s food-additive bill after being prodded by a constituent. “I said, Well, I don’t normally look out West, especially out to California, for policy ideas, to be honest with you,” he told me. “But once I had done the research and I saw the validity of the issue, I said, Okay.” Although his bill, which was first introduced in January 2024, did not move forward in the previous legislative session because, in his words, “there were bigger fish to fry,” Brooks hopes the national interest coming from the MAHA movement will motivate West Virginia legislators to take another look at the proposal.

Other red-state efforts to follow California’s lead have similarly not yet been passed into law, but the fact that the bills have been introduced at all signifies how motivated Republicans are on the topic. The MAHA moms may be enough to propel Kennedy to the job of health secretary. One Republican, Senator Jim Banks of Indiana, told Kennedy on Thursday that he plans to vote to confirm him because doing anything else “would be thumbing my nose at that movement.” Republicans are not only introducing bills to ban food additives; they’re also taking up Kennedy’s other MAHA priorities. Arkansas Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders recently asked the federal government for permission to forbid food-stamp recipients in her state from using their benefits to buy junk food—a policy Kennedy has repeatedly called for.

Over the past two days, senators seemed shocked at just how loyal a following Kennedy has amassed. One pejoratively called him a prophet. MAHA believers I spoke with made clear that they want RFK Jr.—and only RFK Jr.—to lead this movement. Vani Hari, a MAHA influencer who goes by “Food Babe” on Instagram, told me that, if Kennedy fails to be confirmed, there “will be an uprising like you have never seen.”

But at this point, it seems that the movement could live on even without Kennedy. On Wednesday, the Heritage Foundation hosted a press gaggle with MAHA surrogates. Heritage, an intellectual home of the modern conservative movement, is now praising the banning of food dyes. This is the same pro-business think tank that a decade ago warned that should the FDA ban partially hydrogenated oils, trans fats that were contributing to heart attacks, the agency “would be taking away choices,” “disrespecting” Americans’ autonomy, and mounting “an attack on dietary decisions.”

Republicans have generally been a bulwark for the food industry against policies that could hurt its bottom line. Democrats and Republicans in Washington today seem more aligned on food issues than ever before. “When you have members on both sides of the aisle whose constituencies are now extremely interested in understanding fully what’s in their food products, it does shift the game a bit,” Brandon Lipps, a food lobbyist and a former USDA official under Trump, told me. After all, even Bernie Sanders, despite chastising Kennedy multiple times during this week’s confirmation hearings, professed his support for aspects of the MAHA movement. “I agree with you,” Sanders told Kennedy on Thursday, that America needs “a revolution in the nature of food.” During the same hearing, Cassidy said that he is struggling with Kennedy’s candidacy because, despite their deep disagreements on vaccine policy, on “ultra-processed foods, obesity, we are simpatico. We are completely aligned.”

Although MAHA has shown itself to be a unifying message, the real test will come down to the brass tacks of any political movement: passing actual legislation. How willing lawmakers—especially those with pro-business proclivities—will be to buck the status quo remains to be seen. Politicians have proved eager to speak out against ultra-processed foods; in that sense, MAHA is winning. But policy victories may still be a ways off.

Donald Trump threatening to annex Canada? It was an absurd situation. I briefly considered recycling an old joke of mine about merging all of the High Plains states into a single province of South Saskatchewan. But as I toyed with it, the joke soured. The president of the United States was bellowing aggression against fellow democracies. The situation was simultaneously too stupid for serious journalism and too shameful for wisecracks.

In this second Trump presidency, many of us are baffled by how to respond. The former Trump strategist Steve Bannon memorably described Trump’s method as “flood the zone with shit.” Try to screen all the flow, and you will rapidly exhaust yourself and desensitize your audience. Ignore the flood, and soon you’re immersed in the stuff neck-deep.

The first Trump term was very different.

[Read: It’s not amateur hour anymore]

More than a million people demonstrated against him on January 21, 2017, many more than had attended his inauguration the day before. On January 27, Trump issued an executive order purporting to ban Muslims from entering the United States. Thousands of people thronged airports across the nation to protest. About a hundred were arrested. In less formal ways, civic-minded Americans also rallied against the new administration. They read and viewed more news, and paid for it at record levels, too. Trump reviled one news organization more than any other: the “failing New York Times.” In 2017 alone, the company’s revenues from digital subscriptions climbed 46 percent, pushing total company revenues above $1 billion.

Meanwhile, the administration bumbled from fiasco to fiasco. Within the first week, Trump’s choice of national security adviser lied to the FBI about his contacts with the Russian government, setting in motion his early resignation and then criminal indictment. Trump that same week summoned then–FBI Director James Comey to dinner to pressure him to end the bureau’s investigation of Trump-Russia connections. The demand would lead to Comey’s firing, the appointment of a special counsel, and the prosecution and conviction of important Trump allies such as Paul Manafort.

First-term Trump knew what he wanted: unlimited personal power. But he did not know how to achieve it, and an insufficient number of those around him was willing and able to help him. The senior administration officials who supported Trump’s autocratic ambitions lacked bureaucratic competence; the officials who possessed the bureaucratic competence did not support his ambitions. That’s one reason it took Trump more than a year—until March 2018—to impose the first major round of the tariffs that he wanted but his top economic adviser opposed.

First-term Trump also lacked reliable partners in Congress. Then–Speaker of the House Paul Ryan and then–Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell struck devil’s bargains with Trump to achieve their own agendas: tax cuts, judicial appointments, the attempted repeal of Obamacare. But they were not his men. They overlooked his corruption, but also imposed limits on what he could do. In 2019, Trump tried to name two personal loyalists to the Federal Reserve Board. McConnell’s Senate rejected them.

[Read: Donald Trump’s first year as president: a recap]

Second-term Trump is very different. He has moved rapidly to consolidate power. Even before he took office, the Department of Justice preemptively stopped all legal actions against him for his attempted seizure of power on January 6, 2021. As soon as he was inaugurated, Trump pardoned or commuted the sentences of all of those convicted for the violent attack on Congress. He then announced investigations of the lawyers who had acted to enforce the law against him.

Trump has moved rapidly to oust independent civil servants, beginning with 17 nonpartisan inspectors general. He moved fast to install loyalists atop the two most important federal management agencies, the Office of Management and Budget and the Office of Personnel Management. His administration is united in claiming power to refuse to spend funds already appropriated by Congress and to ignore laws that constrain the absolute power of the executive branch. The whole Trump team, not only the president personally, is testing another important tool of power: stopping congressionally approved grants to states, to ensure that he is funding supporters and punishing opponents. The Trump administration retreated from the test after two days of uproar—but how permanently, who can say?

Trump’s administration has launched large-scale immigration raids in Democratic cities and commenced legal action against local officials who stand in the way. The administration has stopped all international humanitarian aid, cutting off Ukraine. Trump is backed, not undercut, by senior national-security officials in his threats of territorial aggression against Greenland, Panama, and Canada. The Republican platform and congressional budget-writers approve Trump’s musings about replacing tax revenues with hoped-for windfalls from tariffs. Even his seemingly juvenile move to rename the Gulf of Mexico was immediately endorsed by his Department of the Interior. The absurd act carries an underlying serious message: The Trump administration stands behind its president’s high-handed rewriting of rules, even the most established and uncontroversial.

Looming ahead are even more crucial acts of consolidation, including the appointment of an FBI director who has proclaimed his willingness to use the federal police force as a tool of presidential personal power.

Trump’s opponents seem dazed, disoriented, and defeated. Despite the GOP’s slender majorities in both chambers of Congress, and despite Trump’s own low approval rating, the new White House for the moment carries all before it. There have been no mass protests. The demand for news and information—so voracious in 2017—has diminished, if not vanished. Audiences have dwindled; once-mighty news organizations are dismissing hundreds of journalists and staff.

[Read: It’s already different]

Compared with eight years ago, Trump is winning more and his opponents are resisting less.

What’s changed?

Four major things.

First, this time Trump is not arriving in power alone. He and the Republican mainstream have merged, a convergence symbolized by the highly detailed Project 2025 plan written for Trump by the Heritage Foundation. Trump disavowed the plan during the campaign. He was lying when he did so. Now its authors are his most effective henchmen, and unlike the situation he faced in 2017, Trump can now combine expertise and loyalty in the same body of staffers.

Second, this time Trump’s opponents feel beaten in a way that they did not after 2016. That year, Hillary Clinton received nearly 3 million more votes than Trump. Clinton’s popular-vote advantage had no legal meaning. The office of the president is won or lost according to the arcane rules of the Electoral College, not by direct vote-counting. Politically, though, the popular vote matters a lot—that’s why Trump confected all those silly lies about his supposedly historic victory in 2016 and his allegedly enormous crowd size at the 2017 Inauguration. Back then, Democrats felt outmaneuvered but not out-voted. By contrast, Kamala Harris’s unqualified loss in 2024 has crushed morale. Democrats are divided, criticizing one another for their loss, not yet uniting to sound the alarm about how Trump is using his victory.

Third, Trump owes many of his early successes to previous Democratic mistakes. On issue after issue—immigration enforcement, crime and public order, race and gender—Democratic governments over the past eight years have drifted away from the mainstream of American public opinion. The drift is best symbolized by that notorious answer Harris gave to a 2019 questionnaire asking whether she favored taxpayer-funded gender-transition operations for undocumented immigrants and federal prisoners. Her related response in an interview with a progressive group was like some kind of smart-aleck word puzzle: How many unpopular hot-button issues can be crammed into a single sentence? Harris believed that punching every one of those buttons was necessary to be a viable progressive in the 2019–20 cycle. She, and America, paid the price in 2024.

A real quandary arises here. The best-organized Democratic interest groups want to fight Trump on the worst possible issues; the Democrats who want to fight on smarter issues tend to be less organized to fight. Until that conundrum is solved, Democrats are disabled and Trump is empowered.

[Read: Why Democrats are losing the culture war]

Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs in the workforce? Not popular.

Hundreds of thousands of asylum seekers entering the United States with little way to expel them if they are ultimately refused (as almost all of them will be)? Even less popular.

Create a rift between the United States and Israel? Very unpopular.

Trans athletes competing in girls’ and women’s sports? Wildly unpopular.

These are bad fights for Democrats to have. For that very reason, they are the fights that Trump Republicans want to start. Dangerously and unfortunately, they are also the fights that some of the most active of Democratic factions seek to have.

The fourth difference between 2017 and 2025 is the difference in the information space in which American politics is conducted. In 2017, politically minded Americans used platforms like Facebook and Twitter to share links to news sources. Some of those sources were deceptive or outright fake, but even fake news at least replicated the form and style of actual news.

Since then, new platforms have risen to dominance, especially among younger Americans and those less connected to politics. These new platforms are far more effective at detecting and manipulating user bias, fear, and anger. They are personality-powered, offering affirmation and bonding as their proofs of truth.

For pro-Trump Republicans, this new information space is marvelously congenial. They love and hate based on personal recommendations, and will flit from issue to issue as their preferred “influencers” command. Such a movement centered on celebrity and charismatic leadership has no problem with the fact that its favorite media spread disinformation and distrust. In fact, it’s useful. Trump has in effect adapted a slogan from Mussolini: “Trump is always right.” Its corollary is: “Only Trump is right.” Nothing important is lost from a Trump point of view if right-wing media encourage their users to despise science, law, and other forms of expertise.

[Read: Trump is speaking like Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini]

The anti-Trump coalition, however, is all about institutions. It depends on media that promote understanding of, and respect for, the work that institutions do. The new-media age is inherently inhospitable to institutionalists, and deeply demoralizing for them. Before they can organize to resist Trump, they must build new ways of communicating that adapt to contemporary technology but do not succumb to that technology’s politically destructive tendencies.

All of the above takes time. But it all can be done and must be done.

The second Trump administration has opened purposeful and strong. Its opponents have opened confused and weak. But today’s brutal reality can be tomorrow’s fading memory.

The second-term Trump synthesis does not even pretend to have an economic agenda for middle-class people. The predictable next round of tax cuts will disfavor them. The ensuing deficits will keep mortgage rates high. The tariffs and immigration crackdowns will raise consumer prices. Trump is offering nothing to help with the cost of health care and college.

Trump using James Brown’s “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World” as his walk-on song, staffing his administration with accused abuser of women upon accused abuser of women, and relying heavily on reactionary anti-woman gender politics as his political message and messengers: All of that will exact a political price in weeks and months ahead.

Trump himself will lead and epitomize an administration of rake-offs and graft. He may succeed in sabotaging laws designed to prevent and punish corruption in high offices. He won’t be able to suppress awareness of his corruption.

The second-term Trump world will bubble with threats to U.S. security. Trump is determined to make each of them worse by fracturing our alliances in both the Euro-Atlantic and the Indo-Pacific regions. The worst threat of all is that Trump will be drawn into military action inside Mexico, without the cooperation of the Mexican authorities. Trump’s project to brand drug cartels as international terrorist organizations has legal implications that Trump supporters refuse to consider. Right now, the cartels have powerful incentives not to commit violence against U.S. citizens or on U.S. territory. Yet Trump is poised on the verge of actions that could change the cartels’ calculus and import Mexico’s criminal violence north of the border on a huge scale.

[Read: What’s guiding Trump’s early moves]

Trump won the election of 2024, but still failed to break 50 percent of the vote. His hold on Congress could slip at any time. His plans to foster voter-ID laws and gerrymandering to disenfranchise Democrats will collide with the new reality of American politics that these measures will harm his prospects more than his opponents’: Trump does best among the most disaffiliated Americans, whereas Democrats are widening their lead among those Americans who follow politics closely and vote most often.

The most immediate task for the anti-Trump coalition in these early months of 2025 is to avoid more mistakes. President Joe Biden ended his presidency by listening to advice to grant clemency to thousands of drug offenders, including heinous murderers. Who offered that advice? Don’t listen to them anymore! Fight Trump where he’s most vulnerable, not where progressive interest groups are most isolated and most dogmatic. Build unity from the center, rather than indulge the factionalism of the ultra-left.

A great many Americans despise Trump for the basic reason that he’s a very nasty person who speaks in demeaning ways and does cruel things. The movement to stop him should look and sound and act nice. If you get reprimanded for “respectability politics,” or caricatured as “cringe,” or scolded for appealing to suburban “wine moms,” that’s when you’ll know you’re doing it right.

The MAGA elite feels and fears the weight of American democracy. It knows that democratic accountability and action will grind down its authoritarian aspirations and corrupt schemes. The MAGA elite’s best plan for success is to persuade the American majority to abandon hope and surrender the fight. Its most useful allies are the extremists who have too often misled the great American center into doomed leftward detours.

November 2024 was bad. January and February 2025 are worse. The story is not over yet—unless you agree to lay down in despair the pen that can write the remainder of the story.

The great federal-grant freeze of 2025 is over, but don’t expect it to be gone for good.

The Office of Management and Budget, which issued a memo freezing grants on Monday, has revoked it, The Washington Post first reported. The whole thing went so fast that many people may have never had a chance to sort out what was happening. Yesterday, amid widespread confusion about what the order did or didn’t do, White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt was unable to answer specific questions about it. State and local officials of both parties were bewildered, and yesterday afternoon, a federal judge blocked the order. Today, OMB folded—at least for now. The White House says that it has withdrawn the grant freeze in the memo, but not the executive orders mentioned in it, some of which assert a freeze on spending. Part of the goal appears to be to short-circuit court proceedings that might produce an unfavorable ruling.

This episode resembles the incompetent fumbling of the first Trump administration, especially its earliest days. But this was no fluke and no ad hoc move. It’s part of a carefully thought-out program of grabbing power for the executive branch, and this week’s drama is better understood as a battle over priorities within the Republican Party than as unmanaged chaos.

The abortive grant freeze is an example of the second Trump administration’s strategy to drastically deploy executive power as part of a bigger, and somewhat paradoxical, gambit to shrink the federal government as a whole. “The great challenge confronting a conservative President is the existential need for aggressive use of the vast powers of the executive branch to return power—including power currently held by the executive branch—to the American people,” the current OMB head, Russell Vought, wrote in Project 2025, the blueprint for a conservative administration convened by the Heritage Foundation, a Trump-aligned right-wing think tank. The strategy is to seize power and dare both Congress and the courts to stop it. This tactic is unpredictable, as this week’s misadventures show, but it’s also relatively low-risk. The ideologues inside the administration want to see what they can get away with, and if it doesn’t work, so be it.

[Read: ‘It’s an illegal executive order. And it’s stealing.’]

But the administration has other staffers who are more responsive to politics. President Donald Trump, for example, has relatively weak ideological commitments. The court injunction yesterday was a nuisance, but what really seems to have done in the freeze was the backlash—not so much from the public, but from state and local officials, including many Republicans, who were outraged about the withdrawal of funds and lack of communication. The political team won this round over the ideologues, but there will be more.

At a mechanical level, the fight over the freeze was a battle over impoundment, the power of the executive branch to not spend money appropriated by Congress. Federal law on this is as settled as any: A law passed in 1974 prevents impoundment, except in cases where the president seeks permission from Congress. But Trump and some of his aides argue that that law is unconstitutional.

In a letter to Congress in the last days of the first Trump administration, Vought (then the head of OMB) wrote that the law “is unworkable in practice and should be significantly reformed or repealed.” In September, the attorney Mark Paoletta co-wrote a report for Vought’s nonprofit, the Center for Renewing America, arguing that the power of impoundment was constitutional; Trump has now appointed Paoletta the general counsel of OMB, a position he also held in Trump’s first administration. And as my colleague Russell Berman reported yesterday, Vought refused to commit to abiding by the Impoundment Control Act during his confirmation hearings. And Vought and his allies had a plan for how to knock it down.

“President Trump will take action to challenge the constitutionality of limits placed on the Impoundment Power,” the Trump presidential campaign said—in other words, he planned to disobey the law, litigate any challenges, and hope to get a favorable ruling from the Supreme Court. It’s worked in the past.

This all goes to show that sometimes the chaos has a strategy behind it. Things just didn’t shake out the way Vought’s crew had hoped this time.

One curiosity is why the administration wouldn’t just try to go through Congress to rescind funding passed during Joe Biden’s presidency. After all, Republicans now control both the House and Senate. The White House might have a few reasons for wanting to do it on its own. First, legislation is slow, and Trump prefers to show results fast. Second, Republican margins are narrow, and although GOP elected officials and voters favor cuts in the abstract, they don’t always favor cuts to particular things that voters like, so the White House might struggle to get even the requisite simple majority to rescind some of the spending it tried to freeze this week. Third, impoundment per se is not the only goal—it’s also a means to the ideological end of seizing power for the executive branch.

In Project 2025, Vought laments that Congress has yielded too much power to the presidency. “The modern conservative President’s task is to limit, control, and direct the executive branch on behalf of the American people. This challenge is created and exacerbated by factors like Congress’s decades-long tendency to delegate its lawmaking power to agency bureaucracies,” he wrote. Paradoxically, his plan for limiting the executive branch is to give it more muscle.

[Jonathan Chait: Trump’s second term might have already peaked]

As if to prove Vought’s point about congressional deference, Speaker Mike Johnson has backed the White House thus far. Just a decade ago, conservatives were furious that then-President Barack Obama was using executive orders to do things that congressional Democrats had failed or declined to do. Now the use of much more radical executive orders is the first recourse of the Republican president.

Because this effort is core to the ideological agenda of Project 2025 principals such as Vought, the revocation of this executive order likely won’t be the last effort we see along these lines. And having to back down for political reasons tends to make the internal battles only fiercer. Trump’s attempts to decimate the civil service and clear out career bureaucrats are well known, but Project 2025’s authors reserved special animus for those whom they expected to be on their side during the first Trump administration.

“I had a front-row seat on many of these issues and importantly [saw] how bad thinking would end up preventing what we were trying to accomplish, from less-than-vigorous political appointees who refused to occupy the moral high ground, particularly in the first two years of the president's administration,” Vought said in a 2023 speech. He has no intention of letting that happen again.

The staff was still setting up dinner on Mar-a-Lago’s outdoor patio on a balmy early-January evening when Donald Trump sat down. He was surrounded by several top advisers who would soon join him in the West Wing and who wanted to get his input before his attention shifted to his wealthy guests and Palm Beach club members.

Susie Wiles, the incoming chief of staff, led the conversation, listing some of the dozens of executive orders that had been teed up for Trump’s signature once he reclaimed the presidency. She wanted to talk about sequencing, according to a Trump adviser present at the meeting, speaking on the condition of anonymity to discuss private conversations. How would he like to stagger the orders over the first few weeks back in office?

“No,” Trump replied, this person told me. “I want to sign as many as possible as soon as we show up.”

“Day one,” he said.

Trump has followed through on the promise of an onslaught, unleashing in his first week more than two dozen executive orders, holding a nearly hour-long news conference and other question-and-answer-filled public appearances, and posting several times a day on social media. Some of this, of course, is in Trump’s nature. He is an inveterate showman whose instincts are to seek attention and dominate the discussion.

[Jonathan Chait: Trump’s second term might have already peaked]

But this time around, Trump’s ubiquity is also a deliberate strategy, several of his aides and allies told me. Part of the point is to send a message to the American people that their self-declared “favorite” president is getting things done. The person at the Palm Beach meeting and another Trump adviser, who also requested anonymity to describe private conversations, told me that the White House’s flood of orders and news is also designed to disorient already despairing Democratic foes, leaving them so battered that they won’t be able to mount a cohesive opposition.

Trump’s actions in his first week have been a mix of signal and noise, of distraction and seriousness. He has taken some defeats. But Trump has succeeded, at least, in creating a stark contrast with the quiet of his predecessor, and in (yet again) shifting the nation’s political discourse back toward him. And compared with 2017, the resistance has been far more muted. The Democrats, without an obvious head of the party and still digging out from November’s election disappointment, have yet to make a focused counterargument to Trump, instead getting largely drowned out in the national discourse.

“This is four years in the making. It’s days of thunder. The scale and the depth of this has blown the Democrats out. It’s blown out the media,” Steve Bannon, a former senior White House aide who still informally advises Trump, told me. “He vowed to start fast and now knows what he’s doing. This is a totally different guy than in 2017.”

When Trump left office in disgrace after the January 6, 2021, insurrection, former administration officials, conservative lawyers, and think-tank researchers began drafting orders and legislation—most famously, the Heritage Foundation initiative known as Project 2025—that could act as the foundation of a Trump revival. And after he won, his inner circle made clear that this time the administration would be staffed with true loyalists.

Wiles, who also co-chaired Trump’s campaign, told a closed-door gathering of Republican donors in Las Vegas in the early days of the transition that the president’s first moves would be to reinstate some executive orders from his first term that President Joe Biden had revoked, according one of the Trump advisers and another person familiar with the meeting. Wiles told the private gathering, for a group called the Rockbridge Network, that Trump would begin by withdrawing from the Paris climate treaty and the World Health Organization. Trump, indeed, signed those orders on his first day back in office, but they were only two of the directives to which he affixed his signature—with a giant Sharpie—in ceremonies held at the Capitol; inside a sports arena in Washington, D.C.; and in the Oval Office during his inauguration festivities and in the days that followed.

His executive orders so far have covered immigration, trade, demographic diversity, civil rights, and the hiring of federal workers. Trump ordered DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) programs in the federal government to be eliminated. He curtailed the Department of Justice’s civil-rights investigations. Federal health agencies were ordered to halt public communications. And he moved to expand presidential power by eliminating protections for federal workers—so he could more easily staff agencies with supporters—and by refusing, without citing any legal authority, to uphold the U.S. ban on TikTok despite a unanimous Supreme Court ruling in the ban’s favor.

“The EOs are so much better-executed now,” Bannon told me. “Back in 2017, we were writing things on the back of envelopes. It was like a playground game, shirts and skins. Now they have good people working, real lawyers.”

Some of Trump’s moves have been symbolic, such as one order to rename the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America and another to insist that, even in national times of mourning, flags be flown at full staff on Inauguration Day. Others ordered government reviews—to examine China’s compliance with trade deals, for example, or the feasibility of creating an External Revenue Service to collect tariffs—but might not have real heft. If it was hard to tell the difference between what was real and what was for show, that was by design, the two advisers told me—to make it difficult for Trump’s opponents to focus their outrage.

His aides debated for weeks about how to enact his campaign pledge to pardon the January 6 rioters, whom the incoming president had declared “hostages.” Days before Trump took office, many advisers, including Vice President J. D. Vance, expected that pardons would be issued for many of the offenders but not, at least immediately, for those convicted of violent crimes, including assaulting police officers. But Trump overruled them, issuing a blanket pardon, and he included commutations for the leaders of the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, each of whom had been sentenced to more than 15 years in prison for seditious conspiracy. The two Trump advisers said that Trump thought leaving anyone out would invalidate the underpinning of the Capitol riot—his insistence that he won the 2020 presidential election. Trump also decided that any blowback would be manageable.

[Read: Trump’s first shot in his war on the ‘deep state’]

Not everything has worked out for Trump in his first week. Even some staunch Trump allies recoiled from the pardons for violent January 6 offenders; Senator Lindsey Graham called them “a mistake” on Meet the Press. Perhaps most notable, Trump’s move to end birthright citizenship generated a wave of legal action and was blocked by a federal judge. On his first day in office, Trump took on the Fourteenth Amendment by issuing a directive to federal agencies to stop issuing citizenship documents to children born on U.S. soil to parents in the country illegally or under temporary visas. The U.S. government has long interpreted the Fourteenth Amendment to mean that those born on American soil are citizens at birth, regardless of their parents’ immigration status. The U.S. district court judge who blocked the order, John Coughenour, called it “blatantly unconstitutional” and told a Trump administration attorney, “I have difficulty understanding how a member of the bar could state unequivocally that this is a constitutional order.”

Trump has also struggled to achieve his goal of fast-tracking Cabinet confirmations in the early days of his administration. His choice for secretary of defense, Pete Hegseth, became the first Pentagon nominee to require the tie-breaking vote of the vice president to be confirmed. And Trump’s team is even more concerned about his pick for director of national intelligence, former Representative Tulsi Gabbard. The president’s aides are not certain that she has the needed support, and Trump himself has expressed some doubt that she’ll be confirmed, the two Trump advisers told me.

Despite these stumbles, the White House has reveled in Trump’s bombastic, over-the-top style, believing that his message is breaking through. Immigration officers have conducted raids in Chicago; Newark, New Jersey; and other cities. A dozen Guatemalan men in shackles were boarded onto a military aircraft in El Paso, Texas, for the deportation flight to their native country, according to the Department of Homeland Security. Trump threatened tariffs on Colombia in a tiff, now seemingly resolved, over deportation flights. His advisers have also aimed to keep the media off-balance. The White House press office has not sent out a daily schedule to reporters, and has given little notice for Trump’s events. White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt has yet to hold a formal briefing (though the first is tentatively slated for later today).

The speed and volume of Trump’s orders so far seem to be scrambling the left. Millions of protesters marched in cities across the nation on January 21, 2017. Democratic civic groups exploded in popularity, liberals organized voter-registration drives, and cable-TV ratings and newspaper subscriptions soared. Late-night comics made Trump their top punch line. Trump’s hastily written travel ban on Muslim-majority countries went into effect seven days into his term in 2017, sending lawyers and even ordinary citizens sprinting to airports to assist those who were suddenly subject to detainment. That moment, in many ways, was the early high-water mark of the resistance and set a template for the Democrats’ defiance going forward.

Yesterday marked the first week of Trump’s second term. No large-scale protests have taken place. House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries argued during last week’s caucus meeting that Democrats cannot chase every outrage, because the Trump administration will “flood the zone” with maddening changes, one person in the room told me. In a Saturday Night Live sketch this past weekend, the show’s Trump character shut down a performance based on Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, which became a liberal totem a decade ago. The mood among Democrats, at least in some quarters, feels more like resignation than resistance.

So far, the action on the left has been centered more in the courtrooms than in the streets. Deirdre Schifeling, the chief political and advocacy officer of the American Civil Liberties Union, told me that the organization has filed lawsuits to contest a variety of Trump’s immigration orders and has worked to train volunteers in dozens of states to help local officials in responding to the administration’s plans.

“We’re in a different moment. People are not as surprised as the first time. But I would not mistake that for a lack of willingness to fight,” Schifeling said. “It seems like this first week is one giant test balloon—seeing what will stick, seeing what they can get away with. It’s incumbent on all of us to stay calm and firmly push back on them. Don’t give them an inch.”

[David A. Graham: It’s already different]

Jennifer Palmieri, a longtime Democratic strategist who served as White House communications director for Barack Obama and worked on Hillary Clinton’s and Kamala Harris’s campaigns, told me that Democrats “can’t stay demoralized” and must recognize that Trump proposed “an agenda that people bought into”—that even gave him a popular-vote victory.

“Now [we need] to stay most focused on those issues—like prices—which he is the most vulnerable on,” Palmieri said. Inflation was a core campaign issue, and Trump himself noted during the transition that he “won on groceries,” telling Meet the Press in December, “We’re going to bring those prices way down.”

“It’s a tangible thing, and he needs to deliver,” Palmieri said.

That hasn’t started happening yet. For all the shock and awe of Trump’s first week, none of his initial actions directly took on inflation. But nor are Democrats making Trump look particularly vulnerable.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that America’s continental shelf couldn’t get any bigger. It is, after all, mostly rock, the submerged landmass linking shore and abyss. But in late 2023, after a long and expensive mapping project, the State Department announced that the continental shelf had grown by 1 million square kilometers—more than two Californias.

The United States had ample motive to decide that the continental shelf extends farther than it had previously realized. A larger shelf means legal access to more of the ocean floor’s riches: animals, hydrocarbons, and, perhaps most important, minerals to power electric-vehicle batteries. America has no immediate plans to excavate its new seabed, which includes chunks of the Arctic Ocean, Bering Sea, and Atlantic, as well as several small pockets of the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific. But, according to the State Department, the combined area could be worth trillions of dollars.

The announcement shows just how shrewdly the U.S. has gamed the international system. Since 1982, a United Nations agreement called the Law of the Sea has served as the cornerstone of the global maritime order. In its expansion project, the U.S. abided by the treaty’s rules dictating how nations can extend their shelves—but, notably, it never ratified the agreement, which means that unlike the 169 nations that did, it doesn’t have to pay royalties on the resources it extracts. Apparently America can have its cake and eat it, too: a brand-new shelf, acquired in seemingly good order, that it can mine for free. This gold rush in the making can be seen as the culmination of a long national bet that even though America helped create the global maritime order, it’s better off not joining.

America’s undersea enlargement would not have been possible without Larry Mayer. An oceanographer at the University of New Hampshire, Mayer began the U.S. government’s largest-ever offshore-mapping effort in 2003. Over the next 20 years, he led a team of scientists that dragged sensors across America’s neighboring oceans, scanning more than 1 million square miles of seabed. “When you do that at nine miles an hour, it takes time,” Mayer told me. The project logged more than three years afloat, “a lot of it in the Arctic, which takes even more time because we’ve got to break ice.”

[From the January/February 2020 issue: History’s largest mining operation is about to begin]

Forty voyages and more than $100 million later, Mayer returned with four terabytes of data, which State Department officials plugged into formulas laid out by the treaty. “Not all countries have the ability to hire Larry Mayer and the scientific wherewithal to go out for 20 years and spend tens of millions” to grow their shelf, says James Kraska, a law professor at the U.S. Naval War College who also teaches a course at Harvard Law School on international maritime code. “Ghana hasn’t done this.”

America first claimed jurisdiction over its continental shelf in 1945, a few weeks after Japan’s surrender in World War II. For several years, the U.S. government had been concerned about Japanese ships catching salmon off Alaska, as well as other nations drilling for oil off American shores. With the war over, President Harry Truman proclaimed that an underwater area of some 750,000 square miles—about 4.5 Californias—now belonged to America.

No internationally agreed-upon definition of continental shelves existed until 1958, when 86 countries gathered at the first UN Convention on the Law of the Sea. The group decided, somewhat unhelpfully, that a shelf could extend as far and as deep as a nation could drill. By the following decade, technology had advanced so quickly that a country could claim virtually an entire ocean. Sure enough, one member of Congress from Florida proposed that the U.S. occupy what amounted to two-thirds of the North Atlantic.

President Lyndon B. Johnson warned against such expansionism. In a 1966 speech, he denounced the “new form of colonial competition” that threatened to emerge among maritime nations. “We must ensure that the deep seas and the ocean bottoms are, and remain, the legacy of all human beings,” he said. The following year, Arvid Pardo, an ambassador from Malta, called on the UN to deem the ocean floor “the common heritage of mankind.” In 1970, the U.S. voted alongside 107 other nations to do precisely that.

The UN reconvened in 1973 to legislate a shared vision of the seas. Over the next nine years, more than 150 nations and as many as 5,000 people gathered for off-and-on negotiating sessions in New York City and Geneva. They discussed a wide range of topics—freedom of navigation, fishing, scientific research, pollution, the seabed—and ultimately produced the Law of the Sea.

The U.S. had helped pave the way. Three years before the convention, the Nixon administration had presented a draft treaty that proposed a forerunner to the International Seabed Authority: an agency established by the Law of the Sea that would collect royalties from underwater resources and distribute them to the developing world. But the nation’s posture changed after Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980. American delegates began showing up to negotiating sessions wearing ties that bore the image of Adam Smith, the father of free markets. It was an early sign of the administration’s reluctance to regulate the maritime economy.

In 1982, the U.S. voted against adopting the Law of the Sea—one of only four countries to do so—and said it would refuse to ratify the finalized treaty. Reagan’s reason: the regulations on mining, which he thought would hamper America’s ability to exploit undersea mineral resources. He seemed particularly worried about the royalty scheme that would govern the international seafloor, a vast virgin deep that lies beyond the jurisdiction of any one state and makes up about half of the world’s ocean floor.

That June, Reagan reportedly told his National Security Council, “We’re policed and patrolled on land and there is so much regulation that I kind of thought that when you go out on the high seas you can do what you want.” The president was concerned about “free oceans closing where we were getting along fine before,” minutes from the meeting show. He dispatched onetime Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld to persuade other nations to reject the treaty, but the mission failed.

Just 16 years earlier, the U.S. under Johnson had set out to prevent nations from making unilateral claims to the high seas. Then America made its own. Months after the Law of the Sea was finalized, Reagan said the U.S. would abide by its rules on “traditional uses of the oceans,” such as navigation, but not by the “unnecessary political and economic restraints” that the treaty imposed on mining. Instead, Reagan claimed jurisdiction over all the natural and mineral resources within 200 nautical miles of the nation’s shores (230 regular miles), an allowance that the Law of the Sea granted only signatories. That is, he cited “international law” for permission, even though he had refused to ratify that law. Reagan showed that the U.S. could take what it wanted from the treaty without submitting to the UN. Judging by the newly extended shelf, it still can.

The State Department’s Extended Continental Shelf Project works out of a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration building in Boulder, Colorado, some 800 miles from the nearest ocean. Its office is down the hall from the Space Weather Prediction Center. When I visited last year, maps of the Arctic adorned the walls, and a whiteboard showed an elementary red drawing of the U.S. and Canada protruding into the Atlantic. Inside sat Brian Van Pay, the director of the project, and Kevin Baumert, its lawyer.

Van Pay and Baumert are picky about words. When I asked whether America had just gotten bigger, Van Pay replied: “It depends on how you define it. If you’re talking about sovereignty”—he emphasized the last syllable—then no. “But if you’re talking about sovereign rights”—maybe. “But it’s not territory.”

[From the April 1969 issue: The deep-sea bed]

According to the Law of the Sea, a continental shelf stretches 200 nautical miles from a nation’s shores. Any country can mine this area without worrying about royalties. But the treaty lays out two formulas for tacking on “extended” shelf; calculating this is what kept Van Pay and Baumert busy. If you mine there, you need to pay royalties to the International Seabed Authority—unless you’re America and haven’t ratified the treaty.

The first formula requires finding the “foot of the continental slope,” where the seabed starts to flatten out. For the next 60 nautical miles beyond that point, you’ve got continental shelf. The second formula involves the sediment on the ocean floor. (This goes by the technical name “ooze.” It’s plankton skeletons, mainly.) Shelves extend as long as the sediment covering them is thick enough that oil and gas could plausibly be stashed underneath. A team of scientists, led by the geologist Debbie Hutchinson, scanned the ocean floor with seismic sensors to find this boundary. Two regulatory limits circumscribed Van Pay and Baumert’s calculations: No shelf can spread more than 350 nautical miles from shore, or more than 100 nautical miles beyond 2,500 meters of depth. The formulas yielded 1,279 coordinate points delineating the new shelf.

The rules are objective, but the results depend on other nations’ recognition. Parts of America’s new shelf overlap with those of the Bahamas, Canada, and Japan, prompting ongoing negotiations. And in March, Russia’s foreign ministry said that it wouldn’t recognize America’s shelf, because the U.S. hadn’t sent its data to the Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf, the agency created by the Law of the Sea to review such submissions.

Russia’s claim relates to a broader concern that the U.S. has essentially ignored unfriendly provisions in the treaty—such as oversight requirements—while exploiting advantageous ones, such as formulas for shelf expansion. Van Pay and Baumert disagree with that characterization. Baumert told me that America’s expansion is not unprecedented; more than three dozen countries have extended their shelves without ratifying the Law of the Sea. (Only four of those still haven’t ratified, though: Syria, the United Arab Emirates, Venezuela, and the United States.)

Furthermore, Van Pay and Baumert told me that they hadn’t sent in their new coordinate points because the Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf had never considered submissions from a nation that wasn’t a party to the Law of the Sea. I asked the commission, If America submitted its shelf boundaries, would you review them? “This question has never been raised,” Aldino Campos, the chair of the commission, told me. He said it wouldn’t discuss whether to consider such a submission unless it actually receives one. But ultimately the commission only makes recommendations; actually asserting the new limits of a continental shelf falls to the United States.

Even though America hasn’t ratified the treaty, Kraska, the law professor, told me it has an obligation to comply with it. He argued that it has taken on the force of “customary international law”—that is, a set of norms and practices that are so widely followed that they become binding to all nations, whether or not they’re signatories. All told, he said, the U.S. has made a “credible, good-faith effort” to extend its continental shelf in accordance with the Law of the Sea.

Most mainstream U.S. government officials want America to ratify the treaty. Five presidents and at least five secretaries of state have urged Congress to join, arguing that it would help bolster the international rule of law. Becoming a party to the Law of the Sea would also allow the U.S. to further legitimize its expanded shelf.

Ever since Reagan, though, Republican lawmakers have staved off ratification, which requires two-thirds of the Senate. Along with conservative groups such as the Heritage Foundation, they worry that the royalty schemes would impose an undue financial burden and that joining the treaty could result in a “dangerous loss of American sovereignty.”

Their calculus may soon change. As early as this year, the International Seabed Authority could finalize regulations that would open up mining on the international seafloor. Because America hasn’t ratified the Law of the Sea, it won’t have the right to participate. (Some conservatives argue, however, that the U.S. can simply do as it pleases on the international seafloor.) Pressure is mounting on lawmakers: In March, more than 300 former political and military leaders called on the Senate to ratify, reflecting concerns that America might not be able to keep up with China if it relies solely on its own shelf.

America may not mine its new seabed for decades anyhow. The role of the State Department, Van Pay and Baumert insist, is to set the fence posts, not referee what happens within them. In the meantime, America’s shelf could keep growing. “We always want to leave open that possibility,” Van Pay told me. More data could be collected, he said. “There are more invisible lines to draw.”

In his inaugural address on Monday, Donald Trump declared himself God’s chosen instrument to rescue America. He recalled the assassination attempt he survived last year: “I was saved by God to make America great again.”

Just a few minutes earlier, a beaming Franklin Graham—minister, Trump acolyte, and sometime Vladimir Putin admirer—had driven home the same point during his prayer. “Father, when Donald Trump’s enemies thought he was down and out, you and you alone saved his life and raised him up with strength and power by your mighty hand.”

[Elizabeth Bruenig: If only people actually believed these Trump-as-Jesus memes]

One of the first acts of God’s newly anointed president was to issue pardons or commute the sentences of the nearly 1,600 people charged in the January 6 attack on the Capitol. Trump issued pardons to most of the defendants and commuted the sentences of 14 members of the Proud Boys and Oath Keepers militias, most of whom had been convicted of seditious conspiracy.

Axios reported that the pardons were “a last-minute, rip-the-bandage-off decision to try to move past the issue quickly.” As Trump’s team wrestled with the issue, “Trump just said: ‘Fuck it! Release ’em all,’” an adviser familiar with the discussions told Axios’s Marc Caputo.

More than 150 police officers were injured during the assault on the Capitol. They were hit with baseball bats, flagpoles, and pipes. Aquilino Gonell, a former Capitol Police sergeant who retired because of the injuries he suffered as a result of the assault, was infuriated by Trump’s pardons and commutations. “It’s a miscarriage of justice, a betrayal, a mockery, and a desecration of the men and women that risked their lives defending our democracy,” Gonell told The New York Times’s Luke Broadwater.  

Officer Brian Sicknick, who was attacked by the pro-Trump mob, suffered a stroke and died of natural causes the following day. “I think about my brother almost every day,” Craig Sicknick told Broadwater. “He spent his life trying to do the right thing. He did it while he was in the military. He did it as a police officer. He did it in his personal life.” Sicknick added that the lack of accountability for those who stormed the Capitol on January 6 had left him heartbroken.

“We almost lost democracy that day,” he said. “Today, I honestly think we did lose democracy.”

THE IRONY IS HARD TO MISS: The movement that for the past half century was loudest in warning about the dangers of cultural decadence is most responsible for electing a president who personifies cultural decadence. (Trump won more than 80 percent of the white evangelical vote in 2024.) Not a single area of Trump’s life is untouched by corruption.  

Although white evangelicals have been firmly in his corner since 2016, the nature of their support has changed. If you talked with many evangelical supporters of Trump then, they expressed a certain queasiness about backing him. They didn’t approve of his immoral conduct, they were quick to say. The reason they rallied behind him was that his policies, particularly on abortion, aligned with their values. It was a transactional relationship; the election against Hillary Clinton was a “binary choice,” they would say time and again. But they assured us that they held no real love or deep loyalty for Trump. If another Republican, without Trump’s baggage, could replace him, so much the better.

It’s different now. Other Republicans, such as Nikki Haley and Ron DeSantis, did step up, and they never stood a chance. Trump has a cultlike hold on great swaths of the evangelical movement. They will stick with him regardless of what he does. Initially, they reconciled themselves to what he said. Then to how he acted. And now they have made their peace with policies and appointments that would have once caused a revolt. To lead Health and Human Services—far and away the most important Cabinet department related to abortion—Trump nominated Robert F. Kennedy Jr., who just last year embraced the legality of on-demand late-term abortions. Kennedy said abortion should be legal “even if it’s full term.”

“My belief is that we should leave it to the woman, we shouldn’t have government involved,” Kennedy said, reflecting views he has held for a lifetime. (Under pressure, he walked back those comments, but only to a point, saying that there should be restrictions on abortions in the final months of pregnancy, when only a tiny fraction of abortions occur.) The Heritage Foundation, which portrays itself as a conservative, ardently pro-life organization, lavished praise on Kennedy when he was appointed.  

A staunch pro-life conservative, who requested anonymity in order to speak bluntly, put it to me this way a few weeks ago: “If the pro-life movement isn’t willing to speak out against a radical pro-choice HHS secretary, then what’s the point of having the movement?” he asked. “Why does it even exist?”

[Read: How Trump neutralized his abortion problem]

Trump himself betrayed the pro-life cause during the campaign, as I wrote last August. Yet those in the pro-life movement have, with very few exceptions, gone silent. They remain devoted to him. No other president, including Ronald Reagan, could get away with such a thing. Evangelicals’ reverence for Trump is unlike anything Americans have ever seen.

Eric Metaxas, a popular figure on the Christian right, struggled to “process the import” of Trump’s victory and inauguration. “The significance of it is so huge,” Metaxas said, “we’d have to go back literally to 1776.”

“You cannot overstate the significance of where we are now,” Metaxas continued. “It is monumental.”

Mike Huckabee, a former Baptist minister who served as governor of Arkansas and has been selected by Trump to be the American ambassador to Israel, said of Trump’s victory, “This wasn’t a comeback. It was a resurrection, and it was a powerful one. He might be called President Lazarus after this.” Fealty has drifted toward idolatry.

WHAT IS PSYCHOLOGICALLY INTRIGUING is how bracing and electrifying a figure Trump is to many evangelicals. It is as if his disinhibitions have become theirs. Parents who disapproved of their children saying “damn” are now enthralled by a man who says “motherfucker.” Those who championed modesty and purity culture celebrate a thrice-married serial adulterer who made hush-money payments to a porn star. Churchgoers who can recite parts of the Sermon on the Mount are inspired by a man who, on the day he announced his candidacy for reelection, promised vengeance against his perceived enemies. Christians who for decades warned about moral relativism are now moral relativists; those who said a decent society has to stand for truth have embraced countless lies and conspiracy theories. People who rage at “woke cancel culture” delight in threats to shut down those with whom they disagree. Men and women who once stood for law and order have given their allegiance to a felon who issues pardons to rioters who have assaulted police officers.

Trump is a kind of permission slip; he has unlocked the libertine side of some pretty tightly coiled people, many of whom tend to be legalistic in their thinking and eager to call out the sins, and especially the sexual sins, of others.  

But things get stranger still. A lot of evangelicals justify their embrace of Trump on biblical grounds. They insist that they are on God’s side, or perhaps that God is on their side. The more they are pulled into the MAGA movement, the more they tell themselves, and others, that they are being faithful disciples of Jesus, now more than ever, and the more furiously they attack those who don’t partake in the charade.

The cognitive dissonance caused by acting in ways that are fundamentally at odds with what they claimed to believe, and probably did believe, for most of their lives would simply be too painful to acknowledge. The mind has ways of minimizing such discomfort: We rationalize our conduct, justify ourselves, and trivialize the inconsistencies. The story that many evangelicals today tell one another is that they are devoted followers of Christ, fighting satanic forces that are determined to destroy everything they know and love, and willing to stand in the breach for the man called by God to make America great again. It isn’t going to end well.

NOT ALL EVANGELICALS ARE TRUMP SUPPORTERS. Not all evangelicals who voted for Donald Trump are MAGA zealots. And even those who are deserve to be treated with dignity. Politics does not define every aspect of their character.

[From the January/February 2024 issue: My father, my faith, and Donald Trump]

This needs to be said too: Many evangelical churches, the pastors who lead them, and the people who comprise them are doing enormously good work. I have witnessed this with my own eyes, and been the recipient of those who are dispensers of grace. Faith, not politics, is their priority, and many of them have tried in good conscience to align their politics with their faith. When it works, as it did with the abolitionist movement, the global AIDS initiative, refugee resettlement, and protecting religious liberty around the world, it has advanced justice and healing.

But something is amiss. Today the evangelical movement is an essential part of a much larger, and largely destructive, political and cultural movement. Evangelicalism has in many instances become more tribal, unforgiving, and cruel. The world is noticing.

“As a general rule,” the Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor has said, “I would say that human beings never behave more badly toward one another than when they believe they are protecting God.”

Hitching the evangelical wagon to Donald Trump has meant unhitching it from the life and teachings of Jesus. It’s a bad trade.

Over the past several years, a medication called mifepristone has been at the center of intense moral and legal fights in the United States. The pill is the only drug approved by the FDA specifically for ending pregnancies; combined with misoprostol, it makes up the country’s most common regimen for medication abortions, which accounted for more than 60 percent of terminations in the U.S. in 2023, according to the Guttmacher Institute, a research group that supports abortion rights. And yet, mifepristone is difficult or impossible to acquire legally in about half of states. Since Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022, multiple federal lawsuits have threatened access to the pill at the national level.

Now a preliminary study suggests that using another drug in place of mifepristone may be just as effective for terminating an early pregnancy. The drug, called ulipristal acetate and sold as a 30-milligram pill under the brand name Ella, was approved by the FDA in 2010 as prescription-only emergency contraception. In a paper published today in the journal NEJM Evidence, researchers from the reproductive-rights nonprofit Gynuity Health Projects, along with partners in Mexico, reported the results of a trial in Mexico City that included more than 100 women with pregnancies up to nine weeks’ gestation. They found that medication abortion using 60 milligrams of ulipristal acetate (the equivalent of two doses of Ella) followed by misoprostol ended 97 percent of patients’ pregnancies without any additional follow-up care. (The FDA-approved regimen of mifepristone followed by misoprostol is about 95 percent effective, but because the new study did not directly compare the ulipristal acetate–misoprostol regimen to any other, researchers can’t yet say whether it’s superior or inferior to the standard regimen of mifepristone and misoprostol or misoprostol alone.)

The new study is small and did not include a control group. But the findings raise the provocative possibility that a drug already marketed as a contraceptive could also serve, at a higher dose, as a medication for abortion—a potential substitute for mifepristone, subject to fewer restrictions, wherever the latter is banned or difficult to get. The American abortion landscape, already fragmented, just got even more complicated.

Ulipristal acetate is a chemical relative of mifepristone and the most effective emergency-contraceptive pill available in the United States. When taken within five days of unprotected sex, it delays ovulation, which in turn prevents fertilization of an egg. Studies show that Ella works better than morning-after pills containing levonorgestrel, such as Plan B One-Step, and is more effective for a longer period of time after sex. Ella may also be more effective than other morning-after pills in people with a BMI above 26, which includes most American women over the age of 20. Although Ella’s 30-milligram dose is enough to prevent pregnancy, previous studies have suggested that the amount is highly unlikely to help end pregnancy as mifepristone does, by blocking a fertilized egg from implanting in the womb or disrupting the uterine lining.

Some experts have long suspected that a higher dose of ulipristal acetate could yield a different result. But the field has been generally reluctant to pursue research on the drug as a possible abortifacient out of concern for its role as an emergency contraceptive. Studies have repeatedly shown that a lower dose of mifepristone can act as an effective emergency contraceptive when taken soon after unprotected sex, with few side effects. It’s sold that way in a handful of countries where abortion is legal and widely available—but in the U.S., it was never approved for emergency contraception, and reproductive-rights advocates have not pushed for it. “Our idea, when we developed ulipristal acetate, was precisely to get away from abortion,” says André Ulmann, the founder and former chair of HRA Pharma, the drug’s original manufacturer. He and his colleagues worried, he told me, that any association with abortion would endanger their ability to market the drug for emergency contraception.

[Read: The other abortion pill]

The new study may very well validate Ulmann’s old fears. If further research confirms its findings, Americans seeking abortions may soon have a safe and effective workaround in places where mifepristone is restricted—and American abortion opponents will have a big new target. In an NEJM Evidence editorial accompanying the Gynuity study, Daniel Grossman, a professor of obstetrics, gynecology, and reproductive sciences at UC San Francisco, argued as much, writing, “There is a risk that the findings of this study could be misapplied and used by politicians to try to restrict ulipristal for emergency contraception.” Beverly Winikoff, the president and founder of Gynuity Health Projects and a co-author of the study, told me that she knew the stakes when she and her colleagues began their research. But part of Gynuity’s mission is to safeguard abortion care. In Winikoff’s view, another potential option for medication abortion in the U.S. was too important to ignore.

In 2022, a coalition of groups that oppose abortion sued the FDA in an effort to pull mifepristone off the market. In June, the Supreme Court unanimously struck down the challenge, ruling that the anti-abortion groups lacked standing. But in October, three states filed an updated version of the same suit in federal court; last week, a federal judge ruled that the case can proceed. Currently, 14 states have a near-total ban on medication abortion, and more than a dozen others limit how the drugs can be distributed, with requirements such as an in-person visit, an ultrasound examination, and a 24-hour waiting period. More restrictions may be on the way: Project 2025, the conservative-policy plan developed by the Heritage Foundation for an incoming GOP administration, calls for the FDA to entirely withdraw the drug’s approval. President Donald Trump, however, has been inconsistent, saying that he doesn’t plan to block access to the abortion pills while simultaneously refusing to rule out the possibility.

In light of the new study, it’s hard to imagine that anti-abortion groups won’t seek similar restrictions on Ella, threatening its availability as an emergency contraceptive. Anti-abortion activists and Republican lawmakers have repeatedly sought to blur the line between abortion and contraception by reasoning that pregnancy begins not, as federal law states, after a fertilized egg has implanted in the uterus, but at the moment when egg and sperm meet. Students for Life of America claims, for example, that all forms of hormonal birth control are abortifacients. “Abortion advocates have long denied Ella’s potential to end an embryo’s life, but this study contradicts that narrative,” Donna Harrison, the director of research for the American Association of Pro-Life Obstetricians and Gynecologists—which was a plaintiff in last year’s Supreme Court case—told me in a statement. “Women deserve to be fully informed about how this drug works, as well as its risks.” (Until now, no evidence had indicated the drug’s abortifacient potential; at the dose approved for emergency contraception, there is still no evidence that Ella can disrupt an established pregnancy.)

[Read: Abortion pills have changed the post-Roe calculus]

The Gynuity study points to a possible role for ulipristal acetate as part of an abortion regimen, Kelly Cleland, the executive director of the American Society for Emergency Contraception, told me. But it doesn’t change what we know about its use for emergency contraception. For now, Ella remains on the market as just that.

When Vladimir Putin daydreams, he imagines himself saluting a phalanx as it goose-steps across central Kyiv. In Donald Trump’s version of the fantasy, he is triumphantly floating through the Panama Canal on a battleship. Both men see themselves recovering lost empires, asserting their place in history by reversing it.

During his first term, Trump set about dismantling the architecture of postwar internationalism by trash-talking and bullying the institutional implements of global cooperation, the likes of NATO and the World Health Organization. This assault on the old order was waged in the name of populism, an attack on elites in foreign capitals who siphoned off taxpayers’ dollars. But what Trump hoped to achieve with these rhetorical fusillades was sometimes unclear, other than pleasing his political base, which adored them.

As Trump enters his second term, those attacks now seem more purposeful. In retrospect, he may have been laying tracks for a more ambitious plan, weakening those institutions so that he could eventually exploit their weakness.

Over the past weeks, he’s declared himself the tribune of a new era of American imperialism, which abandons any pretext of promoting liberal values to the world. In Trump’s newly hatched vision of empire, America stands poised to expand—not just into Panama but into Greenland and outer space—simply because its raw power entitles it to expand. To use the phrase he invoked in his inaugural address, a callback to the 19th-century vision of American imperialism, it is his “manifest destiny.”

This new policy represents a twist in his evolution that makes some of his most ardent supporters look like suckers. MAGA intellectuals and mouthpieces—Tucker Carlson is the paragon—portrayed Trump as a devoted isolationist, a fierce critic of militarism, a leader who would never indulge in foreign adventures. (Writing in Compact, the journalist Christian Parenti exclaimed that Trump “has done more to restrain the US imperium than any politician in 75 years.”) It turns out that Trump isn’t really a member of the peace party after all.

[Helen Lewis: Carlson and Vance—two smart guys who play dumb for power]

At a glance, Panama is an odd centerpiece for this vision. Before Trump started wailing about it, there wasn’t any apparent issue with American access to the canal. But Trump has focused on it because of its historic resonance. Reclaiming the Panama Canal is an old obsession of the American right.

In its nostalgic quest to return to a prelapsarian era of the America past, the right used to incessantly harp on the canal. It was, by any ideological measure, a defining symbol of national prowess. In The Path Between the Seas, David McCullough’s epic history of its construction, the author called it “the first grandiose and assertive show of American power at the dawn of the new century … the resolution of a dream as old as the voyages of Columbus.”

But, as McCullough also documents, that triumph came at an immense human cost. By dredging a notch in the earth, many laborers were digging their own grave; they perished in landslides, of rampant heatstroke and malaria and yellow fever. The death toll stoked enduring hatred of the yanqui.  

Beginning with Lyndon B. Johnson, American presidents of both parties understood the strategic necessity of handing the canal back. Johnson appreciated this lesson only after dispatching troops to quell anti-American riots in 1964. Presidents knew that if the canal remained an American possession, they would have to repeat Johnson’s intervention; the anger over America’s presence would never subside.

Henry Kissinger poured himself into negotiating an agreement relinquishing the waterway. But only Jimmy Carter had the political courage to push a pair of treaties through the U.S. Senate. In classic Carter fashion, his painstaking efforts brought little domestic political benefit. Indeed, by mobilizing moderate Republicans to support the treaties, he helped doom their careers.

[Read: The political logic of Trump’s international threats]

That’s because the insurgent New Right, the faction of the Republican Party that evolved into the modern conservative establishment, appreciated the political upside of demagoguing the issue. As Richard Viguerie, an architect of the right’s emerging infrastructure, put it, “We’re going to ride this hard. It’s a sexy issue. It’s a populist issue.” Running for president in 1976, Ronald Reagan bellowed, “We built it; we paid for it; and we’re going to keep it.” This was a lament for what George Will called America’s “vanished mastery.”

These attacks were highly effective. The New Right bludgeoned the 68 senators who voted to ratify the Panama Canal treaties, which helped unseat 20 of them in 1978 and 1980. Paul Weyrich, one of the founders of the Heritage Foundation, crowed, “The Panama Canal treaties put us on the map.”

For Ronald Reagan, however, the treaties were merely a campaign talking point. As president, he never sought to reverse Carter’s course. He backed away from the raw nostalgia for empire that he had espoused in the campaign and joined a bipartisan foreign-policy consensus, which tended to distance itself from America’s imperial history.

During the Cold War and the era that followed, American presidents justified intervention in foreign conflicts as a means toward the end of defending liberal values, the promotion of democracy, the squelching of communism, and the prevention of genocide. Sometimes this was hypocrisy. Sometimes it was dangerously misguided. But it was also a genuine evolution in values. America no longer used its military might to acquire territories or to blatantly protect its corporations or to acquire precious resources. Interventions were justified in the moral vocabulary of international law.

Donald Trump is abandoning this tradition by describing a Hobbesian world in which the most powerful are given free reign to dominate. If the U.S. wants Greenland’s resources, it has a divine right to them. If it wants to rename the Gulf of Mexico, to suggest the subservience of a neighbor, it can. This type of imperial spirit rarely restricts itself to the rhetorical. Martial threats manifest themselves in martial action. After demolishing the global order, Trump intends to plant his flag on the rubble.

Early this morning, the Department of Justice released the report of Special Counsel Jack Smith on his investigation of Donald Trump’s attempt to overturn the result of the 2020 presidential election—closing the saga of the U.S. criminal-justice system’s effort to hold the coup instigator accountable. No prosecution will now take place. Compared with the present outcome, it would have been better if President Joe Biden had pardoned Trump for the January 6 coup attempt.

A pardon would at least have upheld the theory that violent election overthrows are wrong and illegal. A pardon would have said: The U.S. government can hold violent actors to account. It just chooses not to do so in this case.

Instead, the special counsel’s report delivers a confession of the helplessness of the U.S. government. Smith asserts that the evidence was sufficient to convict Trump of serious crimes—and then declares the constitutional system powerless to act: The criminal is now the president-elect, therefore his crime cannot be punished.

The report suggests that if the law had moved faster, then Trump today would be a convict, not a president. But the law did not move fast. Why not? Whose fault was that? Fingers will point, but the finger-pointing does not matter. What matters is the outcome and the message.

Trump swore to uphold the Constitution in January 2017. He violated that oath in January 2021. Now, in January 2025, he will swear it again. The ritual survives. Its meaning has been lost.

In 2022, a prominent conservative intellectual proclaimed that the United States had entered a “post-constitutional moment”:

Our constitutional institutions, understandings, and practices have all been transformed, over decades, away from the words on the paper into a new arrangement—a new regime if you will—that pays only lip service to the old Constitution.

That conservative was Russell Vought, one of the co-authors of the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025 policy plan, and now President-Elect Trump’s choice to be director of the Office of Management and Budget, which controls and coordinates all actions by the executive branch. The post-constitutional moment that Trump supporters once condemned has now become their opportunity. They have transgressed the most fundamental taboo of a constitutional regime, the prohibition against political violence, and instead of suffering consequences, they have survived, profited, and returned to power.

If anything, the transgression has made them more powerful than they otherwise would have been. Bob Woodward gives an account in his 2018 book, Fear, that Gary Cohn, Trump’s chief White House economic adviser, thwarted his intent to withdraw from NAFTA and the U.S.–South Korea trade agreement by snatching the notification letters off the president’s desk. The story suggests something important about the difficulty Trump had imposing his will during his first term. But for his upcoming second term, Trump has made defending his actions in 2021 a test of loyalty. In December, The New York Times interviewed people involved in recruiting for senior roles in the Trump Defense Department or intelligence agencies; several of them had been quizzed about whether Joe Biden won the 2020 election and whether Trump did anything wrong in his challenge to the election on January 6. The clear implication was that to answer anything but No and No would have been disqualifying. There will be no more Gary Cohns, only J. D. Vances who will deny the last election and defend Trump’s actions to overturn it.

That is what a post-constitutional moment looks like.

Before Trump, American law was quite hazy on the legal immunity of the president. In 1982, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that a president could not be sued for his official acts. In 1997, the Court ruled that a president could be sued for personal acts unrelated to his office. Both of these rulings applied only to civil cases, not to criminal ones.

For nearly 250 years after the adoption of the U.S. Constitution, the question of the president’s rights under criminal law did not arise. Trump’s proclivity for wrongdoing forced the question on the country: Was a president of the United States subject to criminal law or not? Last year, the Supreme Court delivered a complex mess of an answer, whose main holding seemed to be: Here’s a complex, multipart, and highly subjective set of questions to answer first. Please relitigate each and every one of them, while we wait to see whether Trump wins or loses the 2024 election.

Now comes the Smith report with its simpler answer: If a president wins reelection, he has immunity for even the worst possible crimes committed during his first term in office.

The incentives contained in this outcome are clear, if perverse. And they are deeply sinister to the future of democracy in the United States.