By Noah Rothman
Friday, February 05, 2021
Republican voters, the pollster and analyst Kristen
Soltis Anderson observed, respond to strength. Critics of GOP voters confuse
this instinct with a hunger for authoritarianism. And while this disposition
can manifest in unhealthy ways, that is a shallow and mistaken impression. What
Republican voters spoil for, Anderson writes, is “a fight.”
Say what you will about Donald Trump; he brought that
fight. The former president surely lost more than he won, but he picked many
battles and stood on the strength of his convictions when his Republican
opponents, by and large, did not. Trump and the movement around him became so
synonymous with political pugilism that adherents of MAGA theology continue to
operate as though they are an ascendant coalition even as they sift through the
wreckage of two consecutively disappointing election cycles.
At the state and national level, the Republican Party’s
committees have not taken stock of their losses. Indeed, those losses reinforce
a persecution complex that has become an animating feature of the MAGA
movement. That’s understandable. At a certain decibel level, churlishness and a
crippling sense of inferiority can seem like strength. But that is an illusion
that should be challenged. And some Republicans seem inclined to test the
proposition.
Rep. Liz Cheney was the first. Though she was one of ten
House Republican conference members to vote in favor of Donald Trump’s
impeachment, she was singled out by her fellow members because she occupies a
leadership role. Cheney, her more Trumpy critics alleged, could not continue to
serve as the chair of her conference because her impeachment vote shows that
she does not represent most of her fellow members’ views. Cheney wanted that
theory put to the test, welcoming a referendum on her leadership. But in so
doing, she did not throw herself upon the mercy of her colleagues. Quite the
opposite; she practically dared them to strike her down.
“Several members have asked me to apologize for the
vote,” Cheney said in a pre-vote address to her colleagues. “I owe you honesty,
I owe you the truth, I cannot do that.”
“We cannot look away or ignore what happened on January
6,” the GOP conference chair continued. “We cannot sit by and let the
Republican Party be taken over by Q-anon conspiracy theorists, white
supremacists, Holocaust deniers or a cult of personality .… We are the party of
truth. We are the party of law and order, justice, limited government and, most
importantly, the primacy of our Constitution.”
In the end, Cheney’s role in leadership was reaffirmed by
the vote of nearly two-thirds of the House Republican conference. This is no
small thing. It is a rebuke—albeit an anonymous one, as the balloting was
secret—of the party’s pro-Trump wing that includes Donald Trump himself. The
former president actively whipped members to vote against Cheney and avenge
him, and the party’s personality cultists postured as though they had the wind
at their backs. But they did not.
Cheney is not alone. Sen. Ben Sasse joined her last night
in defying the pressure placed on the GOP by Mar-a-Lago in a blistering address to the Nebraska GOP.
Sasse’s party back home had already censured the senator once for failing to
pay proper obeisance to Trump, and it seems set to do it again. In a
recorded message to his fellow Republicans, Sasse dared his party to do it
again.
Here, too, the senator was operating from a position of
strength. He beat back a primary challenge in 2020, won reelection in November.
And he, like so many down-ballot Republicans, outperformed Donald Trump in his
state. Armed with evidence that he better represents the state’s voters than
the party does, Sasse unloaded on the Nebraska central committee.
“[T]he anger’s always been simply about me not bending
the knee to one guy,” he told committee members. “It’s because I still
believe–as you used to–that politics isn’t about the weird worship of one
dude.” Their problem, Sasse alleged, is that a “personality cult” had seduced
them. The committee has been stirred to inchoate anger by the same
environmental forces that animated the mob that ransacked the Capitol: a “lie”
propagated by the president. “Nebraskans aren’t rage addicts,” Sasse insisted.
“We’re going to have to choose—between conservatism and madness, between just
trolling versus actually persuading the rising generation of Americans again.”
It isn’t just the substance of Cheney and Sasse’s message
which threatens the core premise of Trumpism; it is their defiant posture.
These are not martyrs delivering a final sermon before the gallows. They have
not held a moistened finger into the breeze in the desperate effort to save
their political hides. These are combatants spoiling for a fight, brimming with
the confidence that comes with the knowledge that their ranks are fuller than
their opponents think.
That’s precisely the same “fight” that Donald Trump
brought in 2016. It is the heroic myth that still clings to him, even in
defeat. Indeed, the Republican Party has avoided reckoning with its losses only
by embracing the delusional fantasy that Donald Trump did not, in fact, lose.
He cannot lose because, in loss, Trump’s Achillean mythos would be shattered.
Sasse and Cheney will get what they’re asking for. The
proposition they are betting on will be tested, and they may yet lose that bet.
Make no mistake: They are outnumbered. But these politicians act as though
they, not their opponents, control the commanding heights. That is both
intimidating and inspiring.
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