In the year of our Lord 2010, the voters of the United States

The journalist and political commentator Charlie Pierce, in his sharp and unflinching style, once wrote: “In the year of our Lord 2010, the voters of the United States elected the worst Congress in the history of the Republic. There have been Congresses more dilatory. There have been Congresses more irresponsible, though not many of them.” His words ring with both lament and indictment, for they are not simply an attack on one moment in politics, but a reflection on the cycles of folly that repeat throughout the story of governance. Beneath the irony and outrage, Pierce speaks as one who has seen the promise of democracy tarnished by the very hands meant to uphold it. His tone echoes the prophets of old, who mourned not because they hated their people, but because they loved them—and could not bear to see them turn from wisdom.

To understand the origin of this quote, one must look to the political upheaval of 2010, when anger, fear, and disillusionment swept through the American body politic. The nation, weary from recession and divided by ideology, turned to a new Congress born of rebellion—a Congress that promised reform but delivered paralysis. Pierce, ever the chronicler of civic decay, saw in this moment the triumph of pettiness over purpose, the rise of legislators who sought not to serve the Republic, but to break it for sport. In his eyes, it was not merely that these men and women failed at their duty; it was that they mocked the very idea of duty, wielding power not as stewardship but as spectacle.

His phrasing—“In the year of our Lord 2010”—is deliberate. It cloaks modern outrage in the language of sacred chronicle, as though future generations will read this year as a warning, carved into the annals of time. For Pierce understood that history is not written only by victors, but by witnesses—those who record the moment when ideals begin to crumble. His words stand as a reminder that democracy is not self-sustaining. It must be nurtured by citizens who vote with conscience, and guarded by leaders who remember that authority is not a crown but a trust.

The ancient world offers countless reflections of this truth. In Rome, as the Republic waned, men rose to office not for service but for spectacle. The Senate, once the heart of reasoned governance, became a theater of rhetoric and vengeance. The historian Livy wrote that Rome fell not by the sword of its enemies, but by the corruption of its own ambition. So too did Pierce see in 2010 a Rome reborn—a democracy weakened not by invasion, but by division, by those who mistook obstinacy for principle and cynicism for wisdom.

Yet within his bitterness there is an echo of hope. For to condemn is also to care. Pierce’s rage is the rage of one who still believes that the Republic can do better, that it deserves better. Like the ancient philosophers who scorned complacency, he urges us to remember that the quality of our leaders mirrors the quality of our people. “The voters,” he says pointedly, “elected the worst Congress.” In that one line, he places responsibility where it belongs—not solely on the powerful, but on the collective conscience of the governed. It is a reminder that freedom without vigilance breeds decay, and that when we trade discernment for apathy, we invite ruin to our doorstep.

Throughout history, the same lesson repeats. When Athens executed Socrates, when Weimar Germany collapsed into tyranny, when nations everywhere chose comfort over courage, the result was always the same: the death of self-government. Pierce’s words, though anchored in a moment of American frustration, speak to the eternal rhythm of human folly. Every age produces its “worst Congress,” its unworthy rulers, its failed institutions—because every age risks forgetting that democracy demands maturity of spirit as much as it demands votes.

The lesson, then, is not despair but awakening. Citizenship is not a right alone; it is a craft. It must be practiced with discernment, humility, and courage. Do not look at leaders as saviors or enemies, but as reflections of your own vigilance. Learn from history, for it is a stern but faithful teacher. When Pierce writes of the “worst Congress,” he is not cursing a single moment, but warning of a pattern—the ancient cycle by which complacent people lose the republics they were too weary to defend.

So remember this, O listener: the strength of a nation lies not in its armies or its wealth, but in the wisdom and virtue of its people. When you choose leaders, choose those who build rather than destroy, who listen rather than shout, who serve rather than scheme. For though history may sometimes make fools of us and our best intentions, as Alija Izetbegović once said, it also rewards those who rise from folly with renewed purpose. Let the words of Charlie Pierce stand, then, not as a eulogy for a fallen Congress, but as a call to arms for every citizen: to think, to question, to care—for only by such effort can the Republic endure.