Justice Neil Gorsuch: Power Ambitions Must Be Checked

In this episode, Nick Gillespie engages in conversation at the U.S. Supreme Court with Justice Neil Gorsuch about his new children’s book, Heroes of 1776: The Story of the Declaration of Independence, co-authored with Janie Nitze.

Gorsuch and Gillespie consider why the United States stands as a nation built on shared creeds rather than on ethnicity or faith, and why safeguarding these ideas demands persistent effort and bravery. They touch on originalism, the ideal of equal justice under law, the perils of governmental overreach, and the increasing intricacy of regulation at both federal and state levels.

Ultimately, Gorsuch contemplates what it will take for the American experiment to endure for another 250 years, from studying history to mustering the courage required to defend freedom.

 

0:00—America’s 250th anniversary

3:24—Unsung heroes of 1776

4:43—Why America is not an ethnostate

8:00—Originalism and equal justice under the law

11:29—Is America a libertarian project?

13:33—What constitutes government overreach?

14:31—Does America have too many laws?

21:41—Federal bureaucracies and state legislatures

24:03—Political polarization and the judiciary

30:54—What will allow America to have another 250 years?

34:06—How can younger people cultivate courage?

 

Producers: Paul Alexander & Natalie Dowzicky

Director of Photography: Kevin Alexander

Audio Mixer: Ian Keyser

 

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Transcript

This transcript has been edited for style and clarity.

Nick Gillespie: This is The Reason Interview with Nick Gillespie. My guest today is Neil Gorsuch, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court and co-author with Janie Nitze of the new children’s book, Heroes of 1776: The Story of the Declaration of Independence. 

Justice Gorsuch, thanks for talking to Reason

Justice Neil Gorsuch: Oh, delighted to be here. Thank you.

Let’s start with Heroes of 1776, which is timely for the forthcoming 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The book centers on everyday men, women, and children who accomplished something truly extraordinary: they toppled a distant and repressive government in the name of liberty. What core takeaway would you want America to grasp as we mark this milestone?

Well, I expect there will be plenty of fireworks, tasty barbecues, and parades, but I hope we also pause to reflect on the gift we’ve received and the burden we bear. The Declaration of Independence presents three fundamental ideas: that all of us are equal, that every person possesses inalienable rights bestowed by a creator—not by government—and that we have the authority to govern ourselves.

Our nation isn’t founded on a faith tradition, nor is it grounded in a shared cultural heritage. It rests on these principles. We’re a creedal nation, and I hope we take a moment to recommit to that belief and to recognize the courage required to defend it. Those principles did not arise automatically, and the stories of the people—men, women, and children—in the book illustrate the bravery needed to advance them in their own era.

Discuss the notion that this was never inevitable, because the way historical narratives are taught—especially to children—often presents events as if they were a straight line leading to the present. How do you underscore that the move toward independence wasn’t preordained?

There are several threads in the book that illuminate that point. For one, the three core ideas existed in a Europe of monarchies where the notion that all people are created equal was unheard of; kings and serfs prevailed, and rights came from the crown, not from a creator. And the very concept of self-government was a risky bet in the world of the Declaration.

You’re right; most of us take it for granted, as if it’s the air we breathe. Yet those ideas were fraught with danger and not universally accepted. The British declared Americans had claimed an alienable right to speak freely, and the vote was far from assured at the Continental Congress, with intense debates and divisions.

So this scene is at the Continental Congress—

At the Continental Congress—

—and they faced a choice between bold action and cautious maneuvering.

Indeed. The debate was fierce, and it’s important to remember that only roughly 40% of colonists supported the Patriot cause, with another 20–30% Loyalists, and many undecided. The country was not united; it was deeply split.

Right.

There was no inevitability about independence. It was far from guaranteed.

And you spotlight a couple of individuals who either altered their vote or recognized the necessity of unity. Could you share a story or two?

Two compelling anecdotes appear in the book. One concerns Caesar Rodney. Delaware’s delegation was deadlocked. Rodney, then serving in the militia in Delaware, was summoned back from duty. He rode eighty miles through a night of thunder and hardship, enduring cancerous facial pain, to cast a decisive vote in favor of independence, breaking Delaware’s stalemate. John Adams described him as the most unusual man he’d ever seen. Rodney could have sought relief elsewhere, yet his patriotism anchored him to the cause.

Another figure is Edward Rutledge of South Carolina. He initially opposed independence on July 1, and during the June vote cycle, the delegates wrestled with whether to proceed at all. After an initial rejection, Rutledge reconsidered the following day, realizing that national unity mattered more than his personal stance, and he changed his vote.

When you describe the nation as creedal rather than ethnically based, you’re rebutting claims that the signers were drawn from a single ethnic group. Some critics say the signers were nearly all Protestants and that Charles Carroll of Carrollton—the only Catholic signer—was an exception. How do you respond to the claim that the Founding was an ethno-state?

I’d push back against that notion. The Revolution, the Constitution, and the broader arc of our history have certainly faced challenges in living up to the Declaration, but I view the Declaration as our mission statement and the Constitution as our practical toolkit. The core message—equality before all, the inalienable rights endowed by a creator, and the right to self-rule—admits no exclusion. The signers were diverse in background, and the ideal itself is inclusive.

We can point to moments when the nation has reconciled that mission with reality—Lincoln’s Civil War address, which challenged slavery in light of the Declaration’s premise; the Seneca Falls movement advocating for women’s suffrage; and Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1963 speech at the Lincoln Memorial, where he described the Declaration as a promissory note that had begun to be honored. The question remains: how long should it take to fulfill those promises?

How do you reconcile the beauty of that language with the stubborn reality of delayed fulfillment?

I don’t see the civil rights movement as a single moment that ends in 1965. The struggle for civil rights has persisted since 1776, and the nation remains in that ongoing movement. The idea of the semiquincentennial, for instance, hints at a journey toward a future milestone rather than a completed journey. It’s a perpetual process, not a finished project.

What about the next major expansion of rights—what frontier remains unresolved for groups that today may be overlooked?

That’s part of the book’s challenge: to tell younger readers, “That’s for you to decide.” The mission statement exists; you must translate it into your era and work to realize it.

Shifting to the topic of originalism—the judicial philosophy you adhere to—how do you remain faithful to the text and its original meaning without indulging in a broad assertion of rights not explicitly enumerated? How do you anchor the American project in a written document and the context of its time?

Think of the Declaration as a set of ideals, while the Constitution functions as the operative manual. The Constitution distributes power across three branches, with checks and balances, and it also recognizes state powers and the rights of the people. My role as a judge is to ensure equal justice under law before the courts, not to draft laws or to override the people’s representatives. If a party presents a strong legal argument, it is my duty to uphold it, regardless of whether it is popular.

And you’re cautious about overstepping the text. If you’re guided by the intent of the law, how do you avoid projecting your personal preferences onto statutes?

To recap: the aim isn’t to legislate or to amend the Constitution through judicial decree. If you realize your goal is not to make or rewrite law, but to apply it as a reasonable person would have understood it at the time it was enacted, you reduce the risk of injecting contemporary desires into past statutes. The process of constitutional change happens through formal amendments, not judicial inventiveness, and that remains the proper boundary for my work.

Are there limits to federal power, the purview of the states, and the rights retained by the people? How do you decide when a matter falls under federal jurisdiction or lies within state authority? Do unenumerated rights further complicate this balance?

I view the First Amendment as particularly revealing of a tolerant national character: the rights to free speech and free exercise, among others, were not guaranteed in every contemporaneous society, yet they took root here. The Bill of Rights provides a starting point for what government cannot do to the people, and those boundaries have gradually extended through the Fourteenth Amendment to apply at the state level as well.

So, when a state opts to ban something like alcohol, how do you weigh the question of liberty against state prerogatives? At what point does a government overstep?

I won’t venture into cases that may reach the Court, but I can remark that telling the founders they couldn’t drink would have drawn a strong reaction. They famously opposed many restrictions; the Boston Tea Party is a vivid memory of their willingness to push back against regulation. The constitutional moment includes a balanced celebration of liberty that must withstand the test of time and the pressures of compromise.

Earlier you and Janie Nitze collaborated on Over Ruled, a work that argued for fewer laws and greater judicial restraint. How does that theme relate to the broader discussion here?

Janie Nitze is a remarkable figure—one of the most insightful legal minds I know. She’s a fellow commentator who clerked for me as well as Justice Sotomayor, and she also runs a preschool, which is an incredible combination of intellect and care. Chris Ellison’s artwork brings history to life with a sensitivity that blends authenticity with vivid detail. As for why we wrote Over Ruled, the premise is simple: while law is essential for protecting rights, too much regulation can threaten liberty. The rule of law isn’t about merely following rules; it requires discernment to avoid turning law into a tool of oppression. The founders anticipated this tension; Madison warned against a flood of laws, and the founders designed a process that makes it hard to pass legislation precisely to prevent overreach. Today, the abundance of laws is a concern, as the federal code grows by millions of words each year and the federal register balloons in size. This abundance, some argue, can undermine liberty and trust in government.

Can you share a concrete example of how overreach can affect ordinary people?

The book is filled with case studies. One is the tale of John and Sandra Yates, a Florida fisherman who faced a cascade of penalties under a complex regulatory regime. A state wildlife official, deputized alongside NOAA, scrutinized his catch for inches and measurements, accusing him of exceeding quotas, and the bureaucratic apparatus wound up seizing his livelihood after a protracted legal ordeal that stretched over years. The Sarbanes-Oxley framework, enacted after corporate scandals, has occasionally tangled individuals in compliance requirements that can devastate their personal lives even when the underlying conduct is minor or ambiguous. In John’s case, he bore the cost of a lengthy legal battle and lost his commercial fishing license—hardly a case of gross wrongdoing, yet a costly punishment arising from a sprawling regulatory regime.

Do you sense a broader trend of such cases across the country?

Yes. There’s a pervasive tendency toward expansive rulemaking, especially as Congress passes legislation and bureaucracies fill in the gaps with rules. The total amount of federal code and regulation keeps growing, and the sense of trust among people to sort out issues locally feels strained. A key driver seems to be a loss of mutual trust and a desire to exert control from the top, sometimes bypassing the usual legislative channels.

What do you think is behind this expansion of administrative power? Is it a breakdown of trust, or the engine driving it?

I don’t want to attribute it to one cause. The 1960s, for instance, were turbulent, and state licensing and regulation have intensified as well. Ultimately, responsibility lies across the board: it’s not solely about federal apparatus, but about licensing and regulatory regimes at the state level too. The pattern is shared across the country, and it’s something we need to address thoughtfully rather than resort to drastic action.

So you’re not advocating armed rebellion against a distant, indifferent government?

No, that’s not what I’m proposing. The aim is to rebuild trust and recognize that people who disagree can still love their country. Consider Adams and Jefferson—ardently opposed, yet later in life they renewed correspondence, discovering common ground that transcended their quarrels. The book portrays such connections and shared commitments that endured despite sharp disagreements.

What’s the practicality of the Court modeling this approach today? Given public trust in institutions, how can the Supreme Court reflect good-faith deliberation rather than appearing detached or partisan?

The Court’s legitimacy rests on independence, not popularity. The colonists valued independent judges who weren’t drawn into political games, and that legacy informs our work. We’re nine justices from across the country, appointed by different presidents over many years, tasked with resolving significant disputes with an emphasis on equal justice under law. We can be friends despite disagreements, and our record shows substantial unanimity: about 40% of the time we issue unanimous decisions in the core cases where the justices disagree on the lower courts’ rulings.

Could you share an example of a case where your view evolved as a result of the arguments presented?

That’s a for-the-record matter. I won’t detail particular opinions, but the process is rigorous: I start with a large stack of briefing materials, study the underlying authorities, discuss with my law clerks, listen to the oral arguments, and consider perspectives offered by the advocates who have long worked on the case. The conference room is a place for open, orderly deliberation, and I’ve changed my mind based on the force of good arguments. That is how the system should work.

Do you take satisfaction in engaging with colleagues who hold different views—does that drive much of the courtroom dynamic?

I believe many colleagues would echo that sentiment. Though our interpretations of the law may diverge, there is a shared commitment to the rule of law and to the institution of the Court. I deeply value the dialogue, even when it becomes pointed. My conversations with former Justice Breyer, for example, reflect a genuine respect for intellectual diversity while still embracing a common goal of principled adjudication.

Turning back to Heroes of 1776, your collaboration with Janie Nitze and Chris Ellison has produced vibrant illustrations for readers familiar with Philadelphia and the Independence Mall. What should younger readers take away about history’s function beyond memorizing dates?

History serves as a repository of examples that illuminate how ideas have played out in practice. It offers a toolkit for facing today’s challenges by studying how past generations confronted similar problems. In the book, we spotlight not only well-known founders but also lesser-known figures who demonstrated courage. Names like Mary Kay Goddard remind us that printing the Declaration in the midst of danger was an act of conviction that helped mobilize support for liberty. People faced personal risk, with consequences ranging from property loss to imprisonment, yet their actions helped secure the cause.

Goddard’s story is notable. What about Charles Carroll of Carrollton, whose signature carried weight in a crowded field?

Carrollton’s signature is legendary, and the anecdote about distinguishing the signer amid a crowded list underscores the importance of clear testimony. It’s a reminder that courage can involve simple acts, such as making one’s role unmistakable in the face of danger.

Do you think courage is an innate trait or something that can be cultivated, especially among young people making life-defining choices for themselves and for society?

Courage can be nurtured through exposure, practice, and habit. Historical figures like Washington and Franklin cultivated personal virtues, and scores of others tracked their progress in daily deeds. The idea is to foster environments in which virtuous behavior is encouraged and sustained—Washington’s rules of civility and Franklin’s Virtues list stand as examples of deliberate self-improvement. The point isn’t perfection but steady effort toward better conduct in public life.

We’ll leave it there. The book is Heroes of 1776. The co-author is Justice Neil Gorsuch. Thank you for speaking with Reason.

It’s been a pleasure. Thank you.