Why the Constitution Is Better Than the Declaration of Independence

By Andy Smarick

Tuesday, June 30, 2026

 

The most important divide today in American public life is not between Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and progressives, or liberals and postliberals. It’s between those who see governing as a spectator sport and those in the arena.

 

The first group—the commentariat—is made up of academics, cable news figures, talk radio hosts, columnists, pundits, political YouTubers, and the like. These are the talkers and writers with clever ideas and punchy words who bear no public responsibility for those ideas or words. The second group—public servants—runs our governing institutions and are accountable for the decisions they make.

 

Today, the difference is stark. At any given moment, you can find a spicy, rhetorically striking take on the dispute du jour from a confident commentator holding forth on a podcast, Substack, or X. At the same time, those actually governing are quietly trying to solve a local problem, balance a city budget, or manage an agency’s dozens of programs.

 

But as we prepare to celebrate the nation’s 250^th birthday, we should recognize the same divide between the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. The former deals in abstractions and employs grand language. Indeed, those who signed it had had little opportunity to run governments; for instance, domestic assemblies were generally subordinate to the British crown, Parliament, and royal governors. The Constitution, on the other hand, was fashioned by those who’d been responsible for leading states and the nation during and after the Revolution. When it came to the toughest issues, they couldn’t rely on vague concepts and flowery language. They had to sweat the details and craft workable solutions.

 

The Constitution is unquestionably the superior document. The Declaration would look entirely different had the Constitution not saved America from the shambles of the Articles of Confederation and had it not devised the ingenious medley of democracy, republicanism, liberty, federalism, separation of powers, and governmental constraints. Without the Constitution, our Declaration of Independence would be seen like the French Revolution’s Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen: a lofty statement followed by failed governing.

 

This doesn’t mean that we should ignore the Declaration. We should simply appreciate it for what it is: theory and sentiment, not a serious guide to governing. In fact, if we want to understand today’s political dysfunction, namely Uncle Sam’s ineptitude and our dilapidated public square, we should recognize the profound difference between the commentariat-style approach of the Declaration and the public-servant-style approach of the Constitution. Four instances demonstrate the difference.

 

The Constitution vs. the Declaration.

 

First, the Declaration’s flourishes and abstractions start in its opening sentence, designed to justify our creation of an independent nation. Rather than citing the wisdom of democratic rule or the English tradition of representative government, the Declaration points to the vague “Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God.” That phrase might be rousing, but neither the Bible nor natural law provides a blueprint for governing; both remain at the level of nebulous principles—principles that have been contested for millennia. In fact, both can be used to justify a host of governing systems, including benevolent monarchies. And neither advises on how to establish a new government, much less a democratic one. Sparkling prose and generalities take precedence over sturdy specifics.

 

The opening of the Constitution is entirely different. The framers weren’t interested in rhapsodizing. They had a concrete task: Create a workable government fitting the American character. They were explicit and precise, though less melodic, about where the right to form a nation and the right to craft law come from: “We the people.” American citizens were establishing the governing charter, and then they and future generations would rule democratically. Indeed, the remainder of the Constitution spells out America’s system of self-government: the sovereignty of the people, the roles of the branches, the republican nature of state governments, and so on. The Constitution is the work of practitioners, not poets.

 

Second, for commentators a good turn of phrase is more important than precision: The goal is to be taken seriously, not literally. This sad fact is typified by the Declaration’s most famous phrase: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration’s primary author, did not actually believe that. He owned slaves and thought those of African descent were inferior. He did not believe in the political equality of women or Native Americans. Many signers agreed with him and believed only property owners should have the vote. The term “self-evident” is certainly charming, but human equality was obviously not self-evident to Jefferson. He would not have written those famous words about equality had he believed that the Declaration was a true legal, governing document subject to exacting interpretation.

 

The framers of the Constitution couldn’t hide behind such majestic-sounding feints. They knew they were writing a binding legal document. Though they came up far short on matters like race and sex, their specifics advanced the cause of equality beyond what other nations had done: The people—not the elite—were in charge, religious tests and titles of nobility were banned, states couldn’t discriminate against citizens of other states, states were guaranteed a republican form of government. Moreover, with the adoption of the Bill of Rights during the first Congress, Americans were equally protected from government abuse. With the ratification of the 13^th, 14^th, 15^th, and 19^th amendments, the rights of black Americans and women were expanded. The Constitution meant what it said and did far more for equality than Jefferson’s glowing but hollow sentiment.

 

Third, the frustrating vagueness continues in the Declaration’s next phrase, that the people are “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” The words are lyrical but accomplish little in practice. What does a right to life actually guarantee? Which liberties, exactly? What does “pursuit of happiness” mean? Had the Declaration rooted our rights in the common law, we’d at least have a list found in history and tradition: The American people could point to long-recognized protections like due process, warrants, and trial by jury. Or had the Declaration said that our rights are those codified by the people, Americans would know that they could create liberties through law. Instead, in the Declaration, our rights are unspecified, and the ostensible source—the Creator—never provided an inventory. The insecurity of our rights is then compounded by the Declaration’s following phrase, which says that the state’s just powers come from the “consent of the governed.” But there is a philosophical tradition arguing that the people can consent to governments that recognize few to no rights. The Declaration’s approach to rights is lip service, not legwork.

 

The Constitution, on the other hand, is crystal clear about our liberties. Even prior to the Bill of Rights, the Constitution explicitly protected habeas corpus and prohibited bills of attainder and ex post facto laws. With the first 10 amendments, Americans secured rights related to speech, religion, the press, firearms, government search and seizure, speedy trials, self-incrimination, excessive punishments, and more. In short, our rights are protected because they are named and embedded in an actionable legal document. The Constitution did that.

 

Fourth, the Declaration claims that governments are created to protect rights (“to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men”). Though that idea was popular among some Enlightenment-era philosophers, history (not to mention common sense) tells us something quite different. Ancient city-states and republics demonstrated that people form governing communities for reasons far beyond liberty. Needless to say, Sparta’s government did not begin each day with an ode to individual rights. Indeed, the millennia-old concept of the “common good” is more about personal duty and community authority than about liberty. Today, people expect governments to operate public schools, collect trash, police the streets, and maintain highways, not just protect rights.

 

The Constitution corrects this error. Rather than speaking philosophically about the hypothesized purpose of all governments, the Constitution’s preamble speaks directly to why this government is being created. And in doing so, it looks beyond rights. It names affirmative governing aims related to justice, defense, peace, and the general welfare. Then, in Article I, it lists a host of government powers that, again, extend far beyond the protection of rights, including borrowing money, regulating commerce, coining money, and declaring war. The necessary and proper clause authorizes even more. Because the Constitution was written by those experienced in governing, who understood that they were writing a charter for a real government, its language concretely addresses the purposes and activities of governing. It is not satisfied by high-minded rhetoric about liberty.

 

In all four of these ways, the Declaration prioritized fanciful ideas and language. The Constitution had to be the grown-up in the room. The Constitution properly elevated popular sovereignty over natural law, it did the heavy lifting on equality, it provided specifics and muscle on rights, and it fixed the Declaration’s mistake on the purpose of government. In fairness, the Declaration did ably list our grievances with the British crown and clearly state our separation. Those are its lasting contributions. But on the most important aspects of governing, it was thankfully overruled by the Constitution.

 

The reason the Declaration made so many mistakes is the same reason American public life is in disrepair today. In the Declaration, statecraft is a matter of bold, elegant pronouncements. But when crafty rhetoric is the goal, you become prone to overstatement, instigation, imprecision, insincerity, and impracticality. People who are serious about governing learn  quickly that they don’t have that luxury. They must accurately assess problems and opportunities, develop feasible proposals, build majority coalitions, offer concessions, craft compromises, and execute uneasy agreements.

 

Our public square is now overflowing with commentators, those who want to offer the clever analysis, issue the withering critique, and then go to lunch. Everywhere you turn is a figure with big ideas and brash words but no meaningful experience in governing and no intention of getting it. Today’s America struggles to seriously discuss statecraft, much less practice it, because public leaders now prioritize rhetoric instead of results, statements instead of solutions.

 

We’re filled to the brim with Jeffersons when we desperately need Madisons.

 

The right way to celebrate the 250^th.

 

I love America, and I’m excited to celebrate our 250^th anniversary. It is not my aim to rain on our semiquincentennial parade.

 

But there is a danger in learning the wrong lesson from this year’s commemoration of the Declaration. Yes, absolutely, celebrate the founding of America, the greatest nation the planet has known. No, do not think that saying bold things is as valuable as, much less the same as, governing well.

 

We face a legitimate crisis today: Everyone wants to talk about governing, but few want to govern. So many talented, ambitious young professionals today want to be pundits, not public servants. This fits today’s talk-don’t-do ethic: More than half of Gen Zers want to be influencers as a career. Pew now tracks the universe of “news influencers.” A growing number of those in public office now, especially in Washington, spend their time making social media videos and angling for spots on podcasts and cable news instead of focusing on their governing responsibilities. Some of them would rather be media figures than in office. We have a president with an overwhelming media presence but no legislative agenda. The DOGE disaster was led and operated by those with big ideas and sharp words but no governing experience. In short, the commentary industry is booming while our nation’s biggest problems—uncontrolled national debt, illegal immigration, China’s rise, AI’s threats, inflation, cratering student achievement—go unaddressed.

 

Former New York Gov. Mario Cuomo famously said that we campaign in poetry but govern in prose. His point was that there is a time for rhetorical flourishes, but we must also do the hard, unglamorous, necessary day-to-day work of governing. To our nation’s detriment, we seem to have entirely forgotten the second part. As we celebrate America’s independence this summer, let’s remember that there would be no America to celebrate if we had only Jefferson’s poetry. We needed the prose writers committed to governing, namely those who crafted the Constitution and then served in federal, state, and local capacities.

 

As another former New York governor repeatedly argued more than a century ago:

 

The man who really counts in the world is the doer, not the mere critic—the man who actually does the work, even if roughly and imperfectly, not the man who only talks or writes about how it ought to be done.

 

President Theodore Roosevelt’s sentiment is as timely as ever: Get out of the cheap seats and into the arena. Indeed, the very best way to honor America on this 250^th anniversary is to stop writing and talking and start serving.