Alinsky was a self-described radical and Niebuhr was a devout Christian but neither man was an idealist. Both tended to see morality as a kind of cover story used by groups who, in Niebuhr's words, "take for themselves whatever their power can command." That doesn't mean that these two men believed that nobody had the ability or will to change the world for the better. However, anyone who attempts to do so better be ready to get his hands dirty. So when we turn to the book Obama has most recently cited as a major influence, Doris Kearns Goodwin's "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln," it's not the Lincoln of popular American myth -- the secular saint and martyr -- we find praised there. It's Lincoln the wily politician, who was not above carefully hedging his public positions and who prided himself on cajoling his opponents to his side.
All presidential candidates would like to be seen as resembling Lincoln -- even those who aren't gangly master orators from Illinois. Obama is no exception; he announced his candidacy for president at the Old State Capitol building in Springfield, Ill., where, in 1858, Lincoln made his famous "House Divided" speech against slavery. Obama's own reputation-making speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention also called for national unity in the face of political polarization, even if the divide is not nearly so deep and the causes are considerably less grave.
Lincoln's path to the Emancipation Proclamation was far from direct and unwavering, as the few critics of Lincoln-olatry these days are wont to point out. As a state senator, Lincoln voted against a resolution declaring the "sacred ... right of property in slaves," but he didn't insist that Congress abolish slavery in the states where it was established, either. (He didn't believe that this was within the legislative body's legitimate powers.) In his 1858 debate with Stephen Douglas, he assured the audience that he was "not in favor of bringing about in any way the social and political equality of the white and black races."
Without a doubt, Lincoln abhorred slavery, but what Goodwin describes in "Team of Rivals" was not a fiery abolitionist but a politician who "rather than upbraid slave-owners ... sought to comprehend their position through empathy." He insisted that most of slavery's opponents would have supported it, too, if they had been born into the plantation economy and had a financial and cultural interest in perpetuating it. Similarly, in the early stages of his national career, Obama won praise for his ability to win over conservatives by listening respectfully to their demands and concerns. The premise of "Team of Rivals" is that Lincoln deftly incorporated his former opponents into his administration, winning them over with his prairie charm, formidable intellect and political acumen. The primary selling point of Obama's candidacy has been his promise to heal the bitter rift dividing red state from blue, left from right, black from white, just as Lincoln was able to persuade an assortment of men, formerly at one another's throats, to pull together to save the Union.
However, the rivals Lincoln incorporated into his administration were fellow Republicans. With the Democrats and the slave-holding states (all of which rejected him in the general election), there could be no compromise. American conservatives are not fools, and while a sympathetic ear and a considered reception of their ideas may turn down the temperature in the debates between left and right, sooner or later they will require something more substantial. Already, with his support of the FISA bill and death penalty, Obama has begun the predictable "shift toward the center" of every candidate moving from the primary to the general campaign.
Obama, whose color and youth signify "liberal" in the visual symbology of American politics, looks like that previously mythical creature -- a progressive capable of capturing enough votes to win the presidency. If he turns out, as is likely, to be far more middle of the road, some of his supporters will surely feel betrayed. But how justified will that sentiment be? Obama the reader and writer has already shown an affinity for pragmatism, whether it's the Cabinet-level maneuverings of Lincoln or the "Let's make a deal" activism of Alinsky or the "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do" geopolitical realism of Niebuhr. Even in "The Audacity of Hope," a campaign bio (and therefore largely free of grist), he states:
"I think my party can be smug, detached and dogmatic at times. I believe in the free market, competition and entrepreneurship, and think no small number of government programs don't work as advertised ... I think America has more often been a force for good than for ill in the world; I carry few illusions about our enemies, and revere the courage and competence of our military. I reject a politics that is based solely on racial identity, gender identity, sexual orientation, or victimhood generally. I think much of what ails the inner city involves a breakdown in culture that will not be cured by money alone, and that our values and spiritual life matter at least as much as our GDP."
Unity sounds refreshing in a political culture battered and wearied by vicious partisanship. But bipartisanship means that sometimes the other side -- those people you've come to regard as the devil incarnate over the past 30 years -- will get what they want and you won't. Anyone who assumes that self-interest is what really motivates political groups isn't going to expect them to be moved by high-flown appeals to conscience and guilt; there will be wheeling, there will be dealing, and there will be half-measures. If he is elected, and if Obama asks his most idealistic champions to countenance some sacrifices, they will hardly be able to say that they weren't warned. Their disillusionment is most likely to come soon. Whether in the long run we'll regard him as a president who got things done or one who sold out will take a lot longer to decide.
About the writer
Laura Miller is a senior writer for Salon.
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