Ridin' Fence
On this Fourth of July, as the flags rise over Grant County and citizens begin setting off fireworks, I find myself thinking not only of the battles that won our independence, but of the quiet institutions meant to preserve it. And I fear one of them has lost its way. A Supreme Court that once guarded the Republic with sober judgment now behaves, at times, like a rogue court—untethered from wisdom, allergic to humility, and too easily satisfied with excuses that would embarrass a first‑year law student. The ideological split is certainly a problem, but the lack of zeal from some, and the overzealousness of the rest is even worse. And history shows what happens when the Court forgets the solemn meaning and purpose of the robes they wear.
The trouble is not merely that the Court is divided. Division is as old as the Republic. The trouble is that too many justices now treat the Constitution as a stage for improvisation—some drifting lazily through cases as if the text were optional, others lunging at the law with ideological fervor that scorches more than it illuminates. A rogue court is not one that disagrees with me; it is one that forgets the difference between judgment and impulse, between interpretation and invention, between the humility of service and the vanity of power. And when the Court forgets these distinctions, the nation pays the price. We have seen this before. We have seen it in eras when justices mistook their robes for armor, their opinions for prophecy, and their preferences for constitutional truth. The pattern is old, and it is repeating.
In recent years, the Court's drift has become unmistakable. We now see opinions that contradict their own logic, dissents that read more like campaign speeches than legal reasoning, and majority rulings built on interpretations of "original meaning" that historians themselves dispute. Some justices treat precedent as a suggestion; others wield it like a club. And in case after case, the robe seems less a symbol of sober judgment and more a costume worn by actors who have forgotten the script.
The Court's latest ruling in Trump v. Barbara fits this modern pattern almost too well. The majority insists that children born to parents "unlawfully or temporarily present" are nevertheless fully "subject to the jurisdiction" of the United States, as if the phrase carried no distinction between those who owe allegiance to this nation and those who remain under the full jurisdiction of another. Chief Justice Roberts' opinion, wrapped in the language of civic uplift, declares that "citizenship… was the right to have rights," and that the Framers extended this promise to "every free-born person in this land." But this is the kind of double-talk that sounds noble while obscuring the actual constitutional question. The jurisdiction clause was never meant to describe partial, incidental jurisdiction over foreign nationals; it referred to the complete jurisdiction owed by those who belong to the community. To pretend otherwise is not interpretation—it is evasion dressed in patriotic prose.
And this is precisely the problem. When the Court begins to rely on slogans instead of sober reasoning, when it treats constitutional text as a stage for rhetorical flourish rather than careful judgment, it becomes a rogue court—not in the sense of lawlessness, but in the sense of drifting away from the humility and clarity that once defined its vocation. The issue is not ideology. It is the willingness of some justices to substitute sentiment for logic, and the eagerness of others to stretch meaning until the Constitution becomes whatever they need it to be in the moment.
The birthright citizenship decision is only the latest example. The majority stretched the Citizenship Clause beyond anything the Reconstruction framers debated, while a partial dissent insisted the executive order didn't violate the Constitution—but did violate statute—and then suggested Congress could fix the problem with a legislative tweak. Another dissent warned that the Court had made "a mistake that will seriously affect the country's future." When the Court's own members cannot agree on the basic meaning of the words they are interpreting, the problem is not ideology. It is judicial unseriousness.
And this pattern is not confined to immigration. We have watched the Court expand executive power in one ruling and restrict it in another, with no coherent principle connecting the two. We have seen "states' rights" invoked one day and ignored the next. We have seen emergency orders issued with barely a paragraph of explanation, as if the Court were too busy to justify its own authority. These are not the habits of a wise institution. They are the habits of a court that has forgotten the gravity of its calling.
Thomas Jefferson often spoke about the courts, and to paraphrase: "What I fear the most are the federal courts. They move as quietly as gravity—steady, with noiseless foot, and always gaining ground. Once they claim it, they never return it. Little by little, they draw the states into the grasp of the very government that thrives on them."
Jefferson feared a judiciary that would expand its reach "with noiseless foot," swallowing the authority of the states and the liberties of the people. He saw clearly what we are only now beginning to admit: that a court without humility becomes a court without limits. And a court without limits becomes a danger to the very Republic it was created to guard.
On this Fourth of July, as we celebrate the birth of a nation built on ordered liberty, we would do well to remember that institutions do not remain virtuous by accident. They remain virtuous only when those who inhabit them remember the weight of their calling. The robe is not a shield for ideology, nor a stage for clever rhetoric. It is a reminder that judgment must be slow, careful, and accountable to the people whose lives it impacts.
A rogue court is not inevitable. It is simply what happens when wisdom is neglected, when humility is dismissed, and when the guardians of the Constitution forget that they, too, are bound by it. The Republic has survived worse courts than this one, but only because citizens refused to surrender their vigilance.
Jefferson did not trust judges, much less the Supreme Court — and neither should we. Out here in Grant County, we know that institutions, like fences, don't mend themselves. They stay upright only when someone cares enough to check the posts and tighten the wire. The Republic is no different. Everywhere we look, posts are down and wires are cut. This Fourth of July, let's honor our freedom not just with fireworks, but by "ridin' fence" around this great nation that has been handed down to us by the blood of patriots and the Grace of God.
