Trump is steamrolling congressional Republicans. What’s in it for them? | David Kirp

Like soldiers in a well-disciplined army, Republican members of US Congress do whatever Commander Donald Trump demands. While the foot soldiers may occasionally grumble, they quickly fall in line when Trump intervenes.

Republican representatives go through contortions to satisfy the bully in the White House: we hated deficits, goes the party orthodoxy, but now we vote for adding trillions to the deficit; we supported Ukraine, but now we cozy up to the Russians; we scrutinized cabinet nominees, but now we give our “advice and consent” to a cabinet of knaves and charlatans.

In being supremely supine, these legislators are behaving as if they were members of parliament, taking their cues from the prime minister. Yet as every schoolchild knows, “balance of powers” was the framers’ watchword, with the three branches of government each held in check by the others.

Apologies for this civics lesson, but it’s a reminder that this is not the world we now live in. The constitution is merely an inconvenience for Trump, who says that he “doesn’t know” whether he must abide by its provisions.

“I run the country and the world,” the president said, in an Atlantic interview. He regards Congress’s role as merely rubber-stamping his decisions – its members have no business thinking for themselves. Case in point: Trump’s “big, beautiful bill.”

The final version of that 1,037-page measure was pushed through the House of Representatives in less than a day. Legislators had precious little time to understand, let alone debate, its provisions because Trump and his sock-puppet, Mike Johnson, the House speaker, don’t give a fig about their opinions. To adapt a line from the comedian Rodney Dangerfield: “They don’t get no respect.”

Under these circumstances, even the brightest bulb would have missed a provision here or there. It’s no wonder that some Republicans were embarrassed by their ignorance of the specifics of the legislation.

Consider the case of Mike Flood, a Republican backbencher from Nebraska. “I am not going to hide the truth – this provision was unknown to me when I voted for that,” Flood said during a town meeting, responding to questions about a provision that makes it easier for the federal government to defy court orders. He would not have voted for the bill, Flood said, if he had realized what was in it.

Marjorie Taylor Greene, the walking conspiracist from Georgia, was also flummoxed. “Full transparency, I did not know about this section, blocking states from regulating artificial intelligence for a decade. I would have voted NO if I had known this was in there.”

Why do the Republican members of Congress stand for such treatment? Why don’t they speak up or quit?

Imagine how Republican lawmakers would respond under the influence of truth serum. “Should Congress have a say in setting tariffs?” they might be asked. “Is it OK to lift immigrants off the streets and ship them to a hellhole in El Salvador?” “Should Elon Musk & Co have been allowed to rampage through the federal government?” “How about Trump intimidating federal judges who dare to challenge his actions?”

Some true believers in the Republican party would doubtlessly follow their Pied Piper, even if it meant leaping over a cliff, but many lawmakers would be aghast. How do they reconcile their beliefs and their behavior?

Ethicists argue that government officials have a duty to speak out against moral rot, even if there’s a price to pay. Consider the fate of the former congressman Adam Kinzinger, who voted to impeach Trump and, facing likely defeat, opted not to run again, or Liz Cheney, who lost her House seat because she spoke truth to power. Those principled decisions are as hens’ teeth: rare as they are commendable.

My colleagues are too scared to express their opinions, said the Alaska senator Lisa Murkowski, who is often the lone Republican voice of dissent in the upper chamber. “You’ve got everyone zip-lipped. Not saying a word, because they’re afraid they’re going to be taken down, they’re going to be primaried, they’re going to be given names in the media. You know what, we cannot be cowed into not speaking up.”

Resigning on the grounds of principle is almost unheard of, and it’s easy enough to understand why. If you’re a Republican legislator, you have a nice life, with a decent salary, a generous healthcare plan and a solid pension. Constituents fawn over you. Little League all-stars and scout troops pay you a visit, hanging on to your every word. You get VIP treatment at Butterworth’s, the “in” restaurant for the Trump crowd.

Maybe you justify your decision to stay on the job by imagining that you’re doing something of value. Perhaps you contend that there’s no point in your resigning because whoever replaced you would behave in the same way. But those rationales cannot stand the light of day.

The lawmakers who privately blanch at Trump’s authoritarian impulses presumably entered politics with the idea of doing good. They might ask themselves whether – by following the herd and being dissed by the White House – they are still doing good. If their honest answer is “no,” the only justification for their remaining in office are the creature comforts and the intangible perk of obeisance. Should that suffice?

Such arguments would have carried weight during the Watergate era, when ethics in public life were taken seriously. In the present political climate, on the other hand, even to remind lawmakers that speaking out or resigning may be the morally right course of action risks being dismissed as terminally naïve. But history will surely be unkind to the politicians who put ambition over principle and paved the way to autocracy. How will they justify their actions – or inaction – in this crucible year?

• David Kirp is professor emeritus at the Goldman School of Public Policy, University of California, Berkeley