“Who will watch the watchmen themselves?” So asked the first-century AD Roman satirist Juvenal, observing the flagrant abuse of power all around, in the legal realm as much as everywhere else in his society. The question seems extra apt for us right now as well, watching the nominations for the new presidential cabinet roll in.
Under the rule of Julio-Claudians, the empire was unraveling—and fast. Nero, the caboose of the dynasty, became a byword for debauchery, extreme selfishness, and power abuses. It was during his rule that Juvenal was born and lived into his teens. And then a new dynasty took over, the staid and seemingly boring Flavians, bringing some hope of normalcy. But Vespasian, the thrifty miser who stooped low enough to tax urine donations for Roman fulleries, only ruled for a decade, and his beloved older son, Titus, only ruled for two years after that. His premature death left the empire in the hands of his paranoid younger brother, Domitian, whose fifteen years in power—until his assassination in AD 96—were not too different from Nero in flavor.
Thence Juvenal’s question. When the ones in charge lack all moral scruples, display vices instead of virtues, and punish those around who are virtuous, what happens to the state? Juvenal got to know the answer to this question: he was exiled from Rome for a time, at last returning after the death of Domitian. Maybe his contemporary, the historian Tacitus, was right: things were much better under the republic. The empire, with its one-person rule that trampledran roughshod over the Senate, inevitably had to lead to this.
Or maybe not. The history of the Roman Republic itself presents disconcerting precedents, even as more structures were built in to prevent such abuses. Once every five years during the Republic, two censors were elected for eighteen months. Usually drawn from the ranks of former consuls—the highest elected governing office—the censors’ primary job was to conduct a census of all Roman citizens. It was, in many regards, similar to the census procedure with which we are familiar today, but there was an extra dimension to this job too. The censors’ most controversial responsibility involved the Senate.
During the census, censors audited the moral character of senators’ lives, and had the right to purge from the rolls those who did not meet standards. Any senator convicted of a crime was likely to be dropped. And yet, we hear over time that the purging of rolls could involve the offense of choosing the wrong political alliances rather than rowdy parties with the Vestal Virgins.
It seems, as we look closer, that even during the Republic, watching the watchmen was sometimes difficult business. Choosing to target one’s political enemies, rather than enforcing universal standards of proper moral conduct, was more attractive to fallible men in power. Indeed, if there is anything history teaches us over and over again, there are always fallible men in positions of power, and the results are exactly what we might expect.
And yet, this does not mean we should just throw up our hands and give up. We do not speak enough of virtues and the merits of character in and of themselves, but the U.S. legal code—it too the work of fallible men—does contain helpful language here. Consider the concept of moral turpitude, generally defined as follows:
An act of baseness, vileness, or depravity in the private and social duties which a man owes to his fellow men, or to society in general, contrary to the accepted and customary rule of right and duty between man and man.
The definition is deliberately vague, as intent is part of it. But the general idea involves community, relationships, and ultimately citizenship, making it political in nature.
What kind of person behaves in a way that disrespects “the customary rule of right and duty between man and man”? In other words, what kind of man (or woman) behaves in such a selfish manner, abdicating all responsibility to the good of others and the state, as to disrespect his own role to society? The definition acknowledges that we are not our own, we did not make ourselves, and we do not live as islands or masters of our own tiny universe. Indeed, in a flourishing state, our own well-being is contingent on that of others, and so, good and moral citizenship involves respecting our duties to others. The existence of the category of crimes of moral turpitude, one could say, acknowledges the necessity of a well-ordered anthropology in a society. How we think of ourselves vis-à-vis others matters.
It is appropriate, therefore, that a conviction of a crime involving moral turpitude is a disqualifying offense for anyone applying for immigration or permanent residency in the U.S. It also often disbars one from practicing law. Both of these remind us of something ancient that we too often take for granted today: to be a full citizen of a state is a privilege and a blessing. It also comes with necessary strings—obligations we owe—attached.
But a question arises here, which brings us back to Juvenal’s concerns—and our own. If a conviction of “moral turpitude” offenses disqualifies one from citizenship or work in a legal profession, should it not also disqualify one from a government position in the general category of “watchman”? Except, who is going to say that an offense is disqualifying? Maybe those with the possible power to say it are the real watchmen, and not the ones whose status as future watchmen of us all we are now contemplating with alarm.
The lack of vocal opposition by the (American) Senate to the nomination of multiple candidates whose lifestyle fits the definition of moral turpitude is an apt reflection of what Alasdair MacIntyre has described in his book After Virtue. Because we lack a clear consensus on the virtues as a society, we cannot articulate clear consensus on the vices that disqualify from public service. And if we operate as though virtues and vices are all relative and vibes rule the day, moral turpitude becomes relative as well. If abortion is no vice in our state, then surely debauched drug and sex parties, of the sort some cabinet nominees have been reported to host, aren’t either. Besides, mushrooms were on the ballot in Massachusetts (even if they failed this time around—better luck next time).
But what if we remember that politics is, first and foremost, local? As we mourn the “after virtue” cabinet that is currently being assembled, we can focus at the same time on the spheres where we do have the ability to select thoughtful, virtuous watchmen for our communities—ones who will be faithful shepherds and servants for the common good.