R: Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Over 100 million Americans (and several members of this Party) watch our nation’s greatest annual display of consumerist excess: the Super Bowl. Between the touchdowns, interceptions, injuries, and dubious defensive holding penalties, we gather around our television sets to watch massive corporations peddle their wares to an eager marketplace. Perhaps now is an appropriate time to reflect on the ethics of consumerism. Can we, in good conscience, use our wallets to support companies that endorse the abuses of human rights throughout the world, or that publicly donate to evil institutions? If not, how are such purchases to be avoided practically?

In our globalized world, the supply chains that create our products grow increasingly complex. Even so, modern technology allows us to thoroughly research every company we purchase from, and to track the history of the products we buy and their component parts. If we know that our discretionary spending is being used to fund a cause antithetical to our values, do we not have a responsibility to not only cease buying such a product, but to encourage others to follow suit? Likewise, if we can choose between a cheaper item that was produced using child labor in abysmal working conditions and a more expensive item that was produced ethically, is it not our obligation to “vote with our dollar” and support the latter practice, even if our wallets take a hit? There are other, more tangible reasons to avoid buying products from global corporations. Buying locally allows us to strengthen the bonds of community with our immediate neighbors and humanizes the free market. Isn’t it better to know our grocers, bakers, and dairy farmers by name? Shouldn’t we choose the crummy local diner over the shiny chain restaurant, if only because the staff knows what you mean when you order “the usual?”

Some might argue that there’s an important distinction between buying a product for one’s own benefit—the profits from which are pledged to questionable causes—and supporting such causes directly. After all, money changes hands all the time. Surely, we would not be morally culpable for the illicit actions of a local employee, even if his salary is partially funded by our purchases at his establishment. So why should we be held responsible for the manner in which corporations choose to use their profits? Also, when choosing between a variety of different sources, how does one decide which is the most ethical? Every product is likely to have a dubious history to some degree, and the closer we approach this “perfect” ethical product, the more expensive it is likely to become. The most “ethical” lifestyle in this sense is also the most expensive. Can we really justify spending beyond our means in an effort to promote the common good—an act that might be equally performative as actually helpful? Would it not be more ethical to purchase cheaper products, and use the money we save to do good in our homes, churches, and communities?

Is the command to “love thy neighbor” inimical to globalist consumerism? Or does the complexity of the supply chain absolve us of responsibility for the results of our spending habits? How can we reconcile the good life with our role in the global economy?

R: Love is Blind

“Love is blind.” There are many ways in which this phrase can be interpreted. One is that love is blind because Cupid’s arrows fall indiscriminately. Another is that infatuation blinds lovers to each other's flaws (“But love is blind, and lovers cannot see / The pretty follies that themselves commit”). For this debate, I suggest that we focus on a different, though related, question: does true love require physical attraction? Or, to what extent does a flourishing romantic relationship depend on feelings of attraction, brought about through sensory (often visual) means?

Our first impressions of people, more often than not, are physical. This is purely necessary, and the fact has no moral bearing in itself. Before we can judge a person’s character, we see his face. Before we can discern a person’s wisdom, we hear her voice. But should we allow the emotional reactions that stem from such impressions to guide our further interactions with that person? Especially when considering romantic involvement, should we allow these feelings to dictate the terms of our relationship?

When it comes to romantic love, many would argue that our culture has developed an infatuation with its purely carnal aspect. It has isolated and glorified the visual components of love, separating them from the requisite obligations, and diminishing the whole by magnifying the part. Is this not one of the “errors of the age” that we Federalists have committed to resist? When choosing someone to date or establish a relationship with, would we not be better suited by trying to look past mere physical qualities, i.e., correcting our judgment by tempering our taste? After all, physical beauty is transient—enduring, committed relationships are not sustained by the stuff that appeals to the senses alone.

And yet, by stifling the power of the senses to incite feelings within us, do we not deprive ourselves of the proper enjoyment of romantic love? Surely, it is right and just that we admire the beauty of God’s creation, and what could be more attractive than those creatures whom, alongside us, he created in his image? Furthermore, we do not experience love in the abstract. The feelings and obligations of love are always directed toward some object—in the case of romantic love, toward one particular person. What is to be gained by failing to appreciate the full beauty of that individual? Should we not admire both attractiveness of face and strength of character, both physical charms and virtue? By ignoring the sensory aspect of love, do we steal some of its mystery?

Ultimately, this is a debate about the kind of romance we tend to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. But it may also be instructive to contrast romantic love with other types of love—familial love, love between friends, or the perfect love of God for his church.

What is the relation between physical attraction and love? Must one precede the other? In love, is willful “blindness” to sensuality a defect or a virtue? How should our romantic lives be rightly ordered?

R: Return What Was Taken

It is a matter of plain fact that the United States has, at various times throughout its history, engaged in or endorsed acts of deception, violence, and theft against groups of people of a certain race or cultural heritage. The Party should agree that the forced removal of Native Americans from their ancestral lands was a great evil, as was the institution of slavery. And we must also admit that the consequences of these sins reverberate into the present day. Some of our greatest cities (e.g. Chicago) are built on land stained by the blood of those from whom it was stolen. Many of the racial disparities that exist today can be traced back, in some capacity, to slavery and Jim Crow. Plenty of artifacts that sit in museums, including those with continuing cultural or religious significance, were obtained by deceit or other unethical means. That we can recognize evils committed in the past, however, does not make it any easier to determine what should be done about them in the present.

Many would argue that the principle “justice delayed is justice denied” applies strongly here. If certain errors of the past have never been addressed, and their victims have never been compensated, it is our responsibility to correct this injustice, even if the present generation played no direct role in the crime. What was stolen should be returned, and better late than never. While it is true that such compensation would greatly disrupt the current order of things, we should not allow a healthy respect for the status quo to impede our obligation to do what is right. Additionally, the idea that we share in the responsibility for past sins is a biblical one—it was Adam, not we, who ate “...the fruit / Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste / Brought death into the world, and all our woe.” Yet, the very issue we debate this week offers proof that humanity still labors under the consequences of his choice.


Someone in the negative of this resolution might argue that it is moot to speak of “returning what was taken.” How can we, in any real sense, give back something that was stolen long ago, from a generation whose very memory has faded? Many institutions today make “land acknowledgements,” attempting to bring awareness to the checkered history of the property on which they reside. Seeing the impracticality (or impossibility) of giving back this land to its original owners or even their distant heirs, perhaps it is enough that we acknowledge the errors of our forefathers, so as not to repeat them.


Even if one believes that the burdens of the past do, in fact, fall on our shoulders, he need not be in the affirmative. One might agree that past wrongs should be corrected, but disagree as to the means by which such a task should be accomplished. Is it really justifiable to require museums to give up their exhibits, or individuals to give up property obtained in good faith, to atone for a crime in which no living person took part? An injustice today does not necessarily correct an injustice yesterday. Further, one might argue that the sins of the past have been paid in a much more terrible sense than we could ever imagine. If the evils of slavery produced an imbalance on the scales of Justice, by what currency could such a debt be paid, except by the blood of the soldiers who fought to abolish it?


I challenge both sides of this resolution to lay out a framework for what constitutes ownership, and accordingly, theft. When a theft is committed by an individual, against an individual, “return what was taken” seems to be a reasonable solution, perhaps alongside additional retribution. But what happens when the crime is perpetrated not against an individual, but an entire community? In cases where the item stolen is less tangible, how can we “return” liberty, or music, or culture? To whom would it be restored? Does it matter when the crime occured, or whether the original victims and offenders survive?


Does justice demand retribution? Is it the responsibility of our generation to make amends for the crimes of the past? If so, how can restoration be accomplished without creating further injustice? If not, what view of tradition can we take which would exonerate us from our place in it?

R: The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

As students at Yale and members of the Federalist Party, we are in a unique position to appreciate the power of the pen. To glean wisdom from a book, to delight in poetry, to listen to music, is to enjoy the fruits of a tradition that stretches back to time immemorial. We know from personal experience that words are powerful. Many of us have refined our opinions on important matters after reading a moving passage from a book or hearing a perspicuous argument during a Federalist Party debate.

It is clear that written argument and spoken discourse are potent in their own way. But some would argue that words are powerless to effect large-scale change unless supported by action—that ideas expressed through force are stronger than ideas manifested on paper. American independence was secured not by Jefferson’s pen in Philadelphia, but by Washington’s sword at Yorktown. The institution of slavery was defeated not by the Emancipation Proclamation, but by the Union army. Wars are the most obvious example, but one would be hard pressed to find any successful political or social movement that triumphed by the might of the pen alone. And are not some evils so repugnant as to require immediate action, even violent action, to bring about their downfall? Further, one could argue that our postmodern culture is particularly resistant to intellectual arguments, making the pen less formidable today than in previous eras.

This is all well and good. But if our society is intransigent, isn’t this ultimately an intellectual problem, which resists remedy by physical means? If the failure of our culture is a failure to recognize the connection between ideas and actions, which allows and even encourages dissonance between what we believe and what we do, then the sword will only serve as a tool for purposeless destruction in the hands of a blind reformer. How can the sword be effective unless its bearer is fighting for some fixed and certain truth, which he can communicate effectively?

Of particular interest is how we, the individual members of the Federalist Party, participate in the dichotomy between the pen and the sword. As students at Yale, we have an obligation to take up the pen—to devote ourselves to a pursuit of wisdom. But as conservatives and members of this Party, we know that the good life involves action as well as words, or else our debates are only banter, and we are mere sophisters. Does not our commitment to resist the errors of the age require a serious exercise of the body as well as the intellect?

The pen and the sword both have their merits, certainly. But when is the time for debate, and when is the time for action? Must violence (or intentional non-violence) be only a last resort after discourse has failed, or do they go hand-in-hand? Are there any causes so urgent as to make discourse impractical? Further, does the university have a responsibility to teach us not just which beliefs to hold, but how they should be manifested? If so, should we view our education as mere preparation for some eventual “battle,” or is the love of wisdom and truth a high enough calling on its own?

R: Santa Claus is Coming to Town

Depending on your perspective, it has either destroyed faith, and made us numb to the beauty of supernaturally, or it has the potential to bring about the new evangelization. The thing I speak of is, of course, Santa Claus. The legend of Santa Claus can be traced back hundreds of years to a monk named St. Nicholas. It is believed that Nicholas was born sometime around 280 A.D. in Patara, near Myra in modern-day Turkey. Much admired for his piety and kindness, St. Nicholas became the subject of many legends. He gave away all of his inherited wealth and traveled the countryside helping the poor and sick. One of the best-known St. Nicholas stories is the time he saved three poor sisters from being sold into slavery or prostitution by their father by providing them with a dowry so that they could be married. 

I mean— that sounds ok… right? It started as a Christian thing, he seems like a cool guy, why not honor his memory by having NORAD track his non-existent flight around to world? At second glance, however, it is quite strange that on the day devoted to the birth of Jesus, we detract from the, already jubilant reason for festivities, and make up our own to excite our children and bring (false?) joy. Shouldn’t the birth of Christ be enough to make us joyful? Why do we need gifts, and a jolly old man in a red hat? There is also the issue that when children outgrow their belief in old St. Nick, they risk outgrowing their belief in the beautiful truth of Christ. When faith is misplaced, it is difficult to not become cynical about faith generally. There is also the issue for us that it is difficult to create Santa for one’s children without lying to them— something we all know we ought not do.

Yet, I am confident a large portion of the party grew up living the whimsical reality of Santa Claus and we seem to have remained faithful. What could be the harm in adding to the majesty of Christmas?