Ten Commandments
Of the two Supreme Court "Ten Commandments" rulings recently issued, Van Orden v. Perry is the one that most interests me.
The Texas case is about a big rock Ten Commandments plunked down on the state capitol grounds in 1961. The court's opinion, written by Chief Justice William Rehnquist, said governments "must not press religious observances upon their citizens" but allowed it is appropriate for public displays to acknowledge the role of religion in American life.
Justice Breyer, concurring, had a different explanation.
And he basically says the monument is allowable because there are other, secular monuments on the courthouse grounds (he even includes a map); the monument is not in-your-face and is not inside a courtroom; it was there for 40 years before anyone objected; and it was donated by a private group (the Fraternal Order of Eagles), who "while interested in the religious aspect of the Ten Commandments, sought to highlight the Commandments’ role in shaping civic morality as part of that organization’s efforts to combat juvenile delinquency."
This seems similar to the 2003 ruling of a three-judge panel of the 3rd U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in a case in my hometown. In West Chester, Pennsylvania, a 50-by-29-inch bronze plaque of the Ten Commandments had been drilled into the exterior courthouse wall, beside the front door, in 1920. A local atheists' group challenged it, but the court ruled that the current county commissioners' decision to keep the plaque in the face of the objection was motivated by historic preservation, not a desire to proselytize.
But this appeal to "historic preservation" puzzles me. Because, having written a 400-page history of that town, I regard the plaque as rather an intrusion on its history than an expression of it.
The plaque is not original or even that old -- a courthouse stood there for 134 years without one. The courthouse in Chester County, moreso than in most places, has two historical identities. Like any court house, it was the home of the legal system, the seat of judges and the site of trials. But, almost more than that, it was the people's public parlor. It was where 19th century West Chester showed the world what it was, or thought it was.
Courts met there four times a year, for sessions lasting a few weeks. The rest of the time, the courthouse was everyone's property. West Chester was a town big enough to have a thriving social and political life, but too small to have a large meeting hall of its own. The courthouse served that purpose.
West Chester's main Baptist and Presbyterian churches both got their starts in preaching done in the courthouse in the 1820s. Chester County Horticultural Society showed off its prize vegetables in the grand jury room. Abolitionists met there, and mobs attacked them. Political parties nominated their candidates there. Private recruiters banged the drum there to rally men for the Civil War regiments.
The court house is the whole reason West Chester exists -- the town grew up around it. Landowners in that region lobbied the state government for years before the assembly, at the end of the Revolution, agreed to move the seat of Chester County. The old county seat was Chester; the new one after 1786 was a mud-splattered wide spot in the road beside a log tavern called The Turk's Head.
Over the years, as the village became a town, the citizens paid to beautify and improve the building -- or persuaded the commissioners to tax the rest of the county to do it. They rebuilt the courthouse in 1846, then expanded it, then expanded it again. They added a sundial and a clock; and in 1869 they erected a fountain in front with one spigot for people, one for horses, and a little trough at the bottom for dogs to drink from.
During the building, and rebuilding, and expanding of the courthouse, nobody proposed posting a Ten Commandments plaque. The plaque arrived in 1920. A committee of citizens, headed by a Bible class teacher, bought it. It was put up with the consent of the county commissioners, but the idea wasn't theirs.
It was erected at a time of great fear among the Protestant majority in middle America, which felt threatened by the tide of immigration from southern and Eastern Europe and the nebulous menace of atheistic Bolshevism. Darwin's teachings seemed to derail traditional Bible-based morality.
None of this was explicit in the erection of the plaque. But the Ku Klux Klan played on these fears and claimed hundreds of members in West Chester in those years. There were intense fundamentalist revivals in the borough churches, under huge banners printed with: "Christ For West Chester: West Chester for Christ."
Separation of church and state, like equal rights for all citizens, was a concept that lay dormant in America for many decades. These concerns were simply not part of the public discourse in West Chester in 1920. Nor was the idea that atheists (or Hindus, or Buddhists, or wiccans) could come to that building seeking justice, but meet effrontery at the door.
The plaque represents a particular moment in a long history. It is not the town's present. Nor is it the town's past. It is utterly unreflective of the West Chester of the 19th century: Quaker-secular, unpretentious, fond of making money, practical, moralistic but not too. Progressive academies for young ladies were welcomed, brimstone-breathing evangelists and proselytizing Sunday schools were discouraged. If the courthouse belonged and belongs to all the people, it ought to be acknowledged that those people were not typically obsessed with Old Testament moralistic religion, except for the one generation that tacked up its creed on the limestone.
The Texas case is about a big rock Ten Commandments plunked down on the state capitol grounds in 1961. The court's opinion, written by Chief Justice William Rehnquist, said governments "must not press religious observances upon their citizens" but allowed it is appropriate for public displays to acknowledge the role of religion in American life.
Justice Breyer, concurring, had a different explanation.
On the one hand, the Commandments’ text undeniably has a religious message, invoking, indeed emphasizing, the Diety [sic]. On the other hand, focusing on the text of the Commandments alone cannot conclusively resolve this case. Rather, to determine the message that the text here conveys, we must examine how the text is used. And that inquiry requires us to consider the context of the display.
And he basically says the monument is allowable because there are other, secular monuments on the courthouse grounds (he even includes a map); the monument is not in-your-face and is not inside a courtroom; it was there for 40 years before anyone objected; and it was donated by a private group (the Fraternal Order of Eagles), who "while interested in the religious aspect of the Ten Commandments, sought to highlight the Commandments’ role in shaping civic morality as part of that organization’s efforts to combat juvenile delinquency."
The setting does not readily lend itself to meditation or any other religious activity. But it does provide a context of history and moral ideals. It (together with the display’s inscription about its origin) communicates to visitors that the State sought to reflect moral principles, illustrating a relation between ethics and law that the State’s citizens, historically speaking, have endorsed. That is to say, the context suggests that the State intended the display’s moral message — an illustrative message reflecting the historical “ideals” of Texans — to predominate.
This seems similar to the 2003 ruling of a three-judge panel of the 3rd U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in a case in my hometown. In West Chester, Pennsylvania, a 50-by-29-inch bronze plaque of the Ten Commandments had been drilled into the exterior courthouse wall, beside the front door, in 1920. A local atheists' group challenged it, but the court ruled that the current county commissioners' decision to keep the plaque in the face of the objection was motivated by historic preservation, not a desire to proselytize.
But this appeal to "historic preservation" puzzles me. Because, having written a 400-page history of that town, I regard the plaque as rather an intrusion on its history than an expression of it.
The plaque is not original or even that old -- a courthouse stood there for 134 years without one. The courthouse in Chester County, moreso than in most places, has two historical identities. Like any court house, it was the home of the legal system, the seat of judges and the site of trials. But, almost more than that, it was the people's public parlor. It was where 19th century West Chester showed the world what it was, or thought it was.
Courts met there four times a year, for sessions lasting a few weeks. The rest of the time, the courthouse was everyone's property. West Chester was a town big enough to have a thriving social and political life, but too small to have a large meeting hall of its own. The courthouse served that purpose.
West Chester's main Baptist and Presbyterian churches both got their starts in preaching done in the courthouse in the 1820s. Chester County Horticultural Society showed off its prize vegetables in the grand jury room. Abolitionists met there, and mobs attacked them. Political parties nominated their candidates there. Private recruiters banged the drum there to rally men for the Civil War regiments.
The court house is the whole reason West Chester exists -- the town grew up around it. Landowners in that region lobbied the state government for years before the assembly, at the end of the Revolution, agreed to move the seat of Chester County. The old county seat was Chester; the new one after 1786 was a mud-splattered wide spot in the road beside a log tavern called The Turk's Head.
Over the years, as the village became a town, the citizens paid to beautify and improve the building -- or persuaded the commissioners to tax the rest of the county to do it. They rebuilt the courthouse in 1846, then expanded it, then expanded it again. They added a sundial and a clock; and in 1869 they erected a fountain in front with one spigot for people, one for horses, and a little trough at the bottom for dogs to drink from.
During the building, and rebuilding, and expanding of the courthouse, nobody proposed posting a Ten Commandments plaque. The plaque arrived in 1920. A committee of citizens, headed by a Bible class teacher, bought it. It was put up with the consent of the county commissioners, but the idea wasn't theirs.
It was erected at a time of great fear among the Protestant majority in middle America, which felt threatened by the tide of immigration from southern and Eastern Europe and the nebulous menace of atheistic Bolshevism. Darwin's teachings seemed to derail traditional Bible-based morality.
None of this was explicit in the erection of the plaque. But the Ku Klux Klan played on these fears and claimed hundreds of members in West Chester in those years. There were intense fundamentalist revivals in the borough churches, under huge banners printed with: "Christ For West Chester: West Chester for Christ."
Separation of church and state, like equal rights for all citizens, was a concept that lay dormant in America for many decades. These concerns were simply not part of the public discourse in West Chester in 1920. Nor was the idea that atheists (or Hindus, or Buddhists, or wiccans) could come to that building seeking justice, but meet effrontery at the door.
The plaque represents a particular moment in a long history. It is not the town's present. Nor is it the town's past. It is utterly unreflective of the West Chester of the 19th century: Quaker-secular, unpretentious, fond of making money, practical, moralistic but not too. Progressive academies for young ladies were welcomed, brimstone-breathing evangelists and proselytizing Sunday schools were discouraged. If the courthouse belonged and belongs to all the people, it ought to be acknowledged that those people were not typically obsessed with Old Testament moralistic religion, except for the one generation that tacked up its creed on the limestone.
