Alito: The Justice who Reshaped the Supreme Court and Restored the Constitution by Mollie Ziegler Hemingway

The Supreme Court is an institution filled with history—good, bad, and ugly. It is an institution which has, in its record, handed down decisions both accurate and misguided, well-reasoned and socially legislated. Its justices have at times been well-equipped to address the deepest questions of government’s role, and in other cases, they have been people whose names will forever linger as those who failed to exercise their gift of reason, or who reasoned from faulty premises. In Mollie Hemingway’s most recent book, she does not simply give a history of a justice or a biography of Samuel Alito, but a history of the institution and a biography of the Court itself.

Hemingway has a remarkable gift for making complex subjects simple without losing their complexity. She has gone to great lengths to personally interview those who knew Alito when he was serving on the Court of Appeals, as well as those who have come to know him intimately—not only as a judge, but as a husband, a citizen, and even as a baseball fan. Her facts are well documented, and the one area where there is room for critique is not that she has under-documented the portrait she attempts to paint, but that at times she has over-documented it. In her pursuit of exactitude, she occasionally includes quotes that border on the vulgar. Notwithstanding this, it is admirable that instead of simply presenting Alito the justice, she has also shown us Alito the man.

Certainly, while always remaining within the bounds of the facts—all the facts—Hemingway has arranged them in such a way as to make the reader sympathetic to Alito and his interpretation of the law. She offers many critiques of other justices, both liberal and conservative. Sonia Sotomayor bears a large share of the blame for some of the more controversial decisions made by the Court, as does Chief Justice John Roberts. Neil Gorsuch, Clarence Thomas, Elena Kagan, and Amy Coney Barrett are presented as figures who are at times in real opposition to what Alito considers the necessary course of action. Ketanji Brown Jackson, I must admit, is treated with considerable contempt, and in this I do not disagree. Even someone as widely respected as former Justice Antonin Scalia is, at times, criticized by Hemingway through Alito. Indeed, one of the most interesting aspects of this book is that it not only shows the Court as it is now, but also as it once was, with in-depth descriptions of justices such as Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Stephen Breyer, John Paul Stevens, Anthony Kennedy, and David Souter. This greatly enriches the narrative, as it shows Alito in relation to others who were at times more famous, who at times outshone him, but from whom he always earned respect and admiration.

The name of Justice Samuel Alito will likely be remembered for his opinion in the decision in Dobbs, which struck down a fifty-year precedent that protected what you describe as the right of some human beings to murder other human beings. In some ways, the history of every Court since Roe v. Wade, from Rehnquist down to Roberts, has been the history of a colossal failure to adequately respond to what you view as an egregious abuse of constitutional law and constitutional telos. Samuel Alito was a young man studying at Yale when Roe was handed down. Now in his seventies, he helped to strike it from the record.

The author also devotes a significant portion of the book, intermittently, to Alito’s judicial philosophy. I was quite surprised to learn that Alito is not, as I had imagined, a pure constitutional originalist in the same sense as Antonin Scalia or Clarence Thomas. What Hemingway calls Alito’s “all steak, no sizzle” approach to judicial review is, she argues, his defining characteristic as a Supreme Court justice. He is, in a way, a very original originalist. Unlike Scalia, he takes a more practical approach; he believes in the Constitution and in the values it embodies, but he also believes in common sense. It is not only by reading the Constitution of the United States that we can understand Alito’s philosophy; we must also read what might be called the constitution of nature.

This practicality, without descending into a legal positivism that sees man as nothing more than a subject of law, is what gives Alito’s jurisprudence its distinctive texture. He is not content with a cold recitation of clauses, nor does he wander into the fog of untethered moral invention. Instead, Hemingway presents him as a judge who reads the Constitution with one eye on its text and the other on the enduring realities of human nature. Law, in this view, is neither an abstract game nor a malleable instrument, but a framework built for real people within a real moral order.

This should be required reading in classes on jurisprudence and the American legal system. Hemingway, in a move that is rare among explicitly biased political reporters—even on the conservative spectrum—has managed, to a remarkable degree, to stay out of the political realm, for which she deserves admiration. Certainly, she does not hesitate to call things as she sees them, or as Alito sees them, but her goal is not primarily political, and in reading this book, ours should not be either.

Review written by C. A. Gerber

May 4th, 2026

The Benedict Option: A Strategy for Christians in a Post-Christian Nation by Rod Dreher

Is the answer retreat? Is today’s modern liberal culture too far gone to save? Have we invested “our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor” in a project that is not worth the former two, much less the first? Perhaps this is not the exact, word-for-word argument that columnist Rod Dreher makes, but it certainly appears to be something close to it. In The Benedict Option, Dreher takes us back in time to examine the life and example of St. Benedict and his band of reclusive followers, arguing that the community they formed is exactly the kind of community in which we should participate—and the kind of life for which we should be willing to die.

Dreher begins his argument with intellectual history, describing the twin forces of reason and faith—represented by Athens and Jerusalem—as guiding the Church and society through the Middle Ages. It is within this context that the life of Benedict and his monks, living for Christ as a community rather than merely as individuals, takes place. Dreher continues his intellectual chronology with the thought and life of St. Thomas Aquinas. Coming from a Protestant background, I am compelled to concede the greatness and intellectual seriousness of the man who is likely the premier theologian and philosopher not only of his period but extending into the present day. One of Dreher’s most important strengths is his ability to appeal to authorities such as Aquinas when making the case for Christian philosophical realism. Nor does Dreher resort to blaming the typical villain of anti-Enlightenment Christian critiques, René Descartes. Although he mentions Descartes, Dreher critiques not his methodology but the thinkers who followed him. Rather than blaming Enlightenment figures directly for current skepticism, Dreher instead points to William of Ockham, the father of nominalism, as the source of the problem. Let me explain.

Dreher posits that two rival worldviews were at work during the High Middle Ages, which have since split philosophical discourse into two nearly unbridgeable camps. The first, Christian realism, is associated with Thomas Aquinas and, earlier, Aristotle. This view holds that real, discoverable truths exist and are grounded in God. In other words, a tree is genuinely real, present, and accessible to the senses, but ultimately ordered within a meaningful and purposeful reality. This was the dominant view for centuries following Aquinas’s death. In contrast, William of Ockham proposed nominalism—the view that things do not possess inherent reality, causality, or necessity. Reality becomes fragmented into isolated parts, and meaning is no longer embedded in the world but is instead fluid. While nominalism leaves room for God, it undermines the idea of God’s unchanging nature. For Ockham and his intellectual descendants, the qualities of nature are not necessary but contingent. God could have just as easily commanded Moses, “Thou shalt kill,” if He had so chosen. The key difference lies in the nature of meaning: for realists, meaning exists independently and is discovered; for nominalists, meaning is constructed. Dreher sees this shift as the catalyst for the modern struggle between objective meaning and subjective self. His argument is that once society rejected realism and embraced nominalism, the checks and balances that governed both society and meaning itself began to unravel, piece by piece.

The solution, Dreher proposes, is not political engagement. He argues that such efforts have failed. In a sense, he calls for retreat—perhaps into local communities, perhaps even into something resembling monastic life. However it is framed, engagement with an increasingly counter-Christian culture is not, in his view, the answer. The problem with this is that Christians are called to be the “salt and the light” of the earth. Classical teachings hold that Christians remain in the world as a counterbalance to evil. It is through engagement with a fallen world that redemption is pursued. Dreher overlooks this in his advocacy for intentional Christian communities. While such communities are not inherently wrong, his emphasis neglects a significant part of the broader picture.

Secondly, Dreher significantly overestimates the ability of community to preserve truth. While he is correct to reject the nominalism of William of Ockham, he veers toward the opposite extreme, failing to adequately account for the free will of individuals to accept or reject biblical mandates. Community, though valuable, cannot guarantee faithfulness. Because of human fallenness, no structure—no matter how well-ordered—can serve as a safeguard against error. Dreher himself concedes that community is not salvific. Yet by placing such weight on retreat and communal life, he effectively elevates it beyond its proper role, risking a subtle shift away from personal responsibility and active witness in the world.

The final problem with Dreher’s argument is that, although he is overly optimistic about humanity’s ability to achieve harmony within community, he simultaneously underestimates humanity’s capacity to act in accordance with natural law—especially when the survival of culture itself is at stake. His claim that the answer no longer lies in voting for political candidates risks creating a false dichotomy. The truth is that the answer never lay solely in political engagement. Both Christian theologians and the American founders understood that political involvement, while necessary, is not sufficient. We can agree with Dreher that “politics is not the solution,” but we must also insist that “retreat into community is not the solution either.” In avoiding one ditch, Dreher has driven into another. There have always been those who spread fear and predict impending collapse. Perhaps such collapse is near. But even if our systems are irredeemable, our institutions corrupt, and our world deeply fallen, the answer is not withdrawal. It is to stand and act—even if such action appears futile—so that we cannot be said to have remained silent.

It is important to avoid misrepresenting Dreher’s argument. He does not advocate burying our heads in the sand or withdrawing entirely from political life. In fact, he encourages continued support for causes such as the right to life, traditional marriage, and core tenets of Christian conservatism. Dreher is not unpatriotic, despite how his argument may sound. He clearly loves America and its people; more broadly, he values Western civilization and seeks to protect it from forces he believes are eroding it from within. The issue lies less in what Dreher explicitly argues and more in how his argument may be interpreted. He is correct to point out that many of our current solutions are ineffective. However, where he errs is not in diagnosing the problem, but in his response. Like others in the post-liberal movement, he risks rejecting the very system that allowed the problem to emerge—and that may still contain the means for its resolution. The problem is not classical liberalism or our system of government. Nor is it that we mistakenly believe politics alone is the solution. Rather, the problem lies in expecting too much from imperfect systems and people. It lies in demanding perfection from a fallen world and then abandoning it when that expectation is not met.

What, then, is the verdict? Is The Benedict Option worth reading? Yes—with important caveats. The book succeeds not so much in accomplishing its stated aim, where it ultimately falls short, but in establishing the necessary groundwork for a broader discussion. Dreher’s real contribution is that he forces readers to confront where things may have gone wrong and to consider possible solutions together. This conversation, as Dreher himself suggests, should take place within communities—but without idolizing community, dismissing political structures, or denying individual responsibility. The Church was not called to survive history by retreating from it, but by confronting it—generation after generation—not with certainty of victory, but with certainty of truth. That is where we must stand. 

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

April 24th, 2026

How To Test Negative for Stupid: And Why Washington Never Will by Senator John N. Kennedy

A defense of candor as a political weapon against obfuscation—or, to say it in plain English, say what you want to say and don’t give a rip about what anyone else thinks.

From the very title, John Kennedy makes it clear right away what his intention with this book is, and what it is not. Unlike many other biographies, he is not trying to give an exhaustive autobiography or an analysis of every policy choice he has made in nearly a decade serving in the United States Senate. It is more of a comedy book, though certainly one tinged with personal bias: at once charmingly blunt and incredibly provocative, it is a collection of anecdotes, observations, and lessons from a lifetime of public service, combined with searing one-liners designed to expose the absurdities of modern political life.

If you have heard Senator Kennedy speak, you are unlikely ever to forget him; that said, speech alone does not make a great senator, or even a decent man. Although this book is more concerned with landing a punch or producing a laugh than with creating a unified and sustainable political argument, perhaps that is good; perhaps that is what is needed in a Washington, D.C., clogged with career politicians.

In a sense, this reads like any other political autobiography: the senator is immensely self-serving and will rarely admit his own failures unless it suits the purpose of comedy. He is also determined not to criticize those in authority over him at this particular time, though that does not mean he refrains from poking fun at them. The senator’s style is blunt and sometimes coarse, as all will acknowledge. The language in this book is not the language used by a fifth-grade Sunday school teacher—though Kennedy himself is a Sunday school teacher, a devout Christian, and a man who founded a local Presbyterian church.

It is also hard to pin down Kennedy’s exact philosophy in the political realm. He seems to be a jack-of-all-trades in this regard: some populism, some traditional conservatism, and certainly some more libertarian arguments. Neither does he fit neatly into the isolationist or interventionist camps, and he has strong words for both Rand Paul, the contemporary isolationist in the U.S. Senate, and his friend Senator Lindsey Graham, who, Kennedy states, has resolved not to be part of the problem, but rather “to be all of the problem.” It is quotes like these that make this a memorable book, quite aside from the possibility that it may serve as a steppingstone for announcing his candidacy for some future office. “The brain is a remarkable organ,” he believes. “It lasts a man from the moment of conception until the moment he is elected to the U.S. Senate.”

By the former paragraph, I do not mean to give the impression that Kennedy is unphilosophical or inconsistent in his presuppositions. On the contrary, while discussing his opportunity to study at Oxford, Kennedy states that he has been profoundly shaped by the philosophy and theology of C. S. Lewis, whom he quotes several times throughout. He also makes arguments using terms drawn from Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, and, certainly, many of the Founders.

Yet this raises a deeper question: is candor, by itself, virtuous? Certainly, the ability to cut through nonsense and convoluted politics is admirable, but when the nonsense is stripped away, what then remains? Bluntness without depth can become its own kind of error, replacing careful reasoning with applause lines. I am not certain that this is the effect of Kennedy’s words; that may not be known for some time. Yet, when reading this book—as all those invested in the political process should—it is vital to remember this point: that wisdom is better than jewels, and depth better than satire.

Review Written by C. A. Gerber

April 8th, 2026