James Madison, in Federalist No. 10, wrestled with the oldest problem in politics: what to do about factions. He knew you could not erase them. People will always gather around shared passions, interests, or grievances. That is human nature. His answer was to design a system strong enough to contain the fire.
The architecture of the Constitution was intended to temper passions and moderate extremes. A large republic would spread factions out so no single one could dominate. Checks and balances would slow down impulses. Distance and representation would give people time to think, to deliberate, to reconsider before rushing into something rash.
When I first wrote about Federalist No. 10, it struck a nerve. Some readers pushed back hard. Others unsubscribed. I lost followers. That reaction was telling, because it showed just how deeply faction resists self-examination. People did not want to hear that their own side was as vulnerable to the dangers of faction as the other. Madison’s warning was not meant for someone else. It was meant for all of us.
And for a long time, that structure more or less worked. We argued, sometimes fiercely. We disagreed in Congress, in newspapers, and at the dinner table. But the system absorbed the heat. It was not perfect, far from it, but it allowed disagreement without dissolving into destruction.
Lately, it feels different. Distance no longer exists. Outrage travels at the speed of a click. The very tools we have built to connect us have instead given factions a megaphone and a bankroll. And too often, anger does not just pass through us. It defines us.
That is what Madison feared most. And that is the danger we are living with now.
The Architecture Breaks Down
When I go back to Federalist No. 10, what strikes me is not just Madison’s brilliance but his assumption about time and space. He believed distance would slow the spread of passions. He believed competing factions would cancel each other out because it would take too long for any one group to dominate.
But today, distance has collapsed. We carry the whole republic in our pocket. Outrage moves at broadband speed. And rather than cancel each other out, factions reinforce each other in digital silos.
It is not just that people join factions. Increasingly, they become factions. Their identity is consumed by the side they have chosen. That is a dangerous shift, because once outrage becomes identity, compromise feels like betrayal. Listening feels like surrender. And violence starts to feel like a reasonable option.
And when faction becomes identity, violence moves from being unthinkable to being inevitable. Madison’s warning begins to echo Scripture and is repeated by Abraham Lincoln: “If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.” (Mark 3:25)
Not the First, and Not the Last
The killing of Charlie Kirk in Utah was shocking, but it was not unique. Political violence has been pressing in on us from every direction.
In July 2024, a gunman opened fire at a rally for Donald Trump in Pennsylvania. Trump was wounded, a supporter named Corey Comperatore was killed, and others were injured. The sight of a former president bleeding on stage should have shaken us all.
Two years earlier, Paul Pelosi was beaten nearly to death in his own home by a man armed with a hammer, hunting for the Speaker of the House. The attack was fueled by conspiracy and rage, and it left the Pelosi family scarred.
Earlier this year, Minnesota lost a respected leader when former House Speaker Melissa Hortman was gunned down alongside her husband, Mark. On the same day, State Senator John Hoffman and his wife, Yvette, were also attacked in their home. Their assailant carried a “hit list” of public officials.
And in April, Pennsylvania’s governor, Josh Shapiro, and his family survived when Molotov cocktails were thrown into their residence after Passover dinner. The alleged attacker said he planned to assault the governor with a sledgehammer if he encountered him.
Different places. Different targets. Different grievances. But the pattern is unmistakable. Bullets, hammers, and fire are replacing argument. Homes, rallies, and public stages are turning into front lines. Each act makes the next one feel more possible.
We cannot dismiss these as isolated outbursts. They are warnings. They are reminders that violence does not care about parties or ideologies. Once unleashed, it spreads.
A Night in Indianapolis
To understand what a different choice looks like, we need to go back to April 4, 1968.
Robert F. Kennedy was campaigning in Indianapolis when word reached him that Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot and killed. His staff begged him not to speak that night. The crowd waiting for him was large, mostly Black, and already restless. Many feared riots would erupt the moment they heard the news.
Kennedy climbed onto the back of a flatbed truck, holding a crumpled piece of paper. He looked out at a community that had just lost its most important leader and said quietly, “Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice for his fellow human beings, and he died because of that effort.”
He did not tell them to calm down. He did not deny their anger. He admitted it was natural. And then he connected their grief to his own. “For those of you who are Black and are tempted to be filled with bitterness and hatred and a desire for revenge,” he said, “I can only say that I feel in my own heart the same kind of feeling. My brother also was killed by a white man.”
Then he offered something rare in politics: humility. He asked the crowd not for vengeance, but for compassion. “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness, but love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another.”
Finally, he reached back to ancient words: “Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and to make gentle the life of this world.”
That night, more than a hundred American cities erupted in riots. Indianapolis did not. Kennedy’s words calmed a city because they carried the weight of grief, the ring of sincerity, and the courage to speak for unity when division would have been easier.
Would It Work Today?
It is worth asking if anyone could give that speech today.
In 1968, Kennedy’s words were broadcast on the evening news and carried by newspapers the next day. Today, they would be chopped into clips before he stepped down from the truck. Some would call him weak. Some would accuse him of exploitation. Others would meme his face into ridicule.
We live in an age where every act of compassion risks being reframed as political calculation, where every word is spun into proof that you are either with us or against us.
That is the difference between then and now. We do not just lack leaders with Kennedy’s moral credibility. We lack a shared space where words like his can be heard without distortion. Is that the fault of our leaders, or is it a reflection of us?
What Healing Could Look Like
So what do we do? What does compassion look like in this moment?
It starts small with listening. With slowing down before we share, before we react, before we let anger become our identity. James writes, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” (James 1:19–20) That is not just spiritual advice. It is civic survival.
Compassion looks like treating violence against an opponent with the same seriousness as violence against a friend. It looks like refusing to excuse political violence, even when the victim is someone you cannot stand. It looks like drawing the line together and saying: “Not here, not now, not ever.”
It also looks like small, ordinary acts. Forgiving a neighbor. Hearing someone out at work. Resisting the urge to reply with contempt. Healing is not one grand speech. It is a hundred daily choices.
Are You Listening Now?
The killing of Charlie Kirk is the latest warning. But it can also be an invitation.
We can continue to let outrage define us. We can keep sorting ourselves into factions until violence feels like the only language left. Or we can choose another path. We can choose what Kennedy asked for in Indianapolis: love, wisdom, and compassion toward one another.
The republic Madison helped design will not collapse because the blueprint was wrong. It will collapse if we stop listening, if we stop forgiving, if we stop seeing each other as human.
The last word belongs not to anger, but to grace: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)
So I will ask you again: Are you listening now?
And I want to hear from you. How do you see the divisions in your own community? Where do you find moments of compassion that give you hope? Healing is not something we can write into existence. It is something we practice together.
Well said! The question before us is whether we will choose to strengthen the "blueprint" that Madison and others bequeathed us or will we allow our passions to get the better of us. In times like this, I fall back on the work of sociobiologists (E.O. Wilson) that selfishness beats altruism with groups, but altruistic groups beat selfish groups. It all comes back to ongoing work to strengthen the blueprint to increase the number and resiliency of altruistic groups.
Thank you, Scott, for these wise words.