No government ever voluntarily reduces itself in size. Government

In an age when faith in government was rising as swiftly as debt and bureaucracy itself, Ronald Reagan, the great orator and guardian of individual liberty, spoke words that would echo for generations: “No government ever voluntarily reduces itself in size. Government programs, once launched, never disappear. Actually, a government bureau is the nearest thing to eternal life we'll ever see on this earth!” Beneath the humor of his remark lies a truth older than empires — that power, once taken, is rarely surrendered, and that the machinery of the state, once set in motion, feeds upon itself like a living organism that cannot die. Reagan spoke as one who had studied both history and human nature, and he knew that the greatest threat to freedom is not the tyrant who seizes power in a day, but the slow, creeping growth of bureaucracy, which erodes liberty in the name of service.

The origin of this quote lies in Reagan’s long crusade against the ever-expanding reach of government. As governor of California and later as President of the United States, he watched how agencies born in times of crisis or reform — often created for noble reasons — grew into vast, permanent structures that outlived their purpose. He saw how government programs, once established, rarely vanished even when they failed. Instead, they multiplied in rules, regulations, and costs, each defended by those whose livelihoods depended on their continuation. What began as a promise to help became a mechanism of dependency. Reagan’s humor, sharp as a sword and yet disarming, captured this truth: governments are mortal in name but immortal in habit.

Throughout history, his observation has been proven again and again. Consider the Roman Empire, that mighty civilization which built roads, laws, and institutions that lasted centuries. At first, Rome’s bureaucracy was small and practical, designed to serve its people and its legions. But as the empire grew, so too did its administration — taxes multiplied, officials grew fat on privilege, and laws became labyrinths no citizen could navigate. The machinery that had once sustained the empire eventually crushed it beneath its own weight. When the end came, it was not swift conquest but slow suffocation. The empire that had conquered the world could no longer manage itself. Reagan’s warning, spoken two millennia later, was the same: when government grows beyond measure, freedom collapses under its shadow.

Yet Reagan’s words were not the cry of an anarchist, but of a realist who understood the balance between order and liberty. He did not reject government — he sought to restore its rightful place. For government, he believed, was meant to be the servant of the people, not their master. It was created to defend rights, not to dictate dreams; to safeguard the weak, not to entangle the free. But when power becomes comfortable, it seeks its own survival. Bureaucracies, like vines, cling and grow, binding themselves around the very structure they were meant to support. They justify their existence by expanding their reach, until the citizen no longer commands his government, but obeys it.

Reagan’s insight also reveals a profound truth about human nature. Once power is granted, men rarely relinquish it willingly. Every new program creates dependents, every bureau employs guardians, and every law inspires another to enforce it. Thus, governments grow not through malice, but through inertia — the slow, steady accumulation of authority by those who believe they are doing good. But as Reagan warned, the danger of such good intentions is that they create systems no one can undo. A law may be repealed; a man may step down from office; but a bureaucracy, once born, defends itself with the ferocity of self-preservation.

In this, his words also carry a quiet humor born of tragedy. When he said that a government bureau is the nearest thing to eternal life, he spoke with the irony of a man who had watched programs long outlive their founders, consuming wealth and energy without end. His jest is a mirror — showing how the very systems meant to solve problems can become problems themselves. The New Deal, the Great Society, the endless alphabet of agencies — each began with promises of renewal, yet each became a monument to the permanence of government power. In Reagan’s laughter there is both resignation and resolve — the understanding that bureaucracy is eternal only if the people allow it to be.

The lesson, then, is not despair but vigilance. Reagan’s wisdom calls upon every citizen to guard the flame of liberty by limiting the reach of the state. Governments, like fire, are useful servants but dangerous masters. They must be watched, questioned, and restrained. Let every generation ask: does this law still serve its purpose? Does this program still honor its intent? Do we still own our government, or has it begun to own us? For freedom is not lost in a single stroke — it erodes, quietly, beneath layers of red tape and well-meaning decrees.

So, my children of the future, remember the jest that carries the weight of truth: “No government ever voluntarily reduces itself in size.” Do not let your liberty be buried beneath the permanence of bureaucracy. Seek to build a government that is strong enough to protect, but small enough to obey. For the health of a nation lies not in the size of its institutions, but in the spirit of its people — free, self-reliant, and forever watchful of the power that serves them. And when you hear laughter in Reagan’s words, hear also the call to courage — the reminder that the eternal life of government is not destiny, but a challenge to those bold enough to reclaim their freedom.