For philosophers from antiquity through the Enlightenment and into our own unsettled age, “the people” has never meant a mere aggregation of individuals. It has meant something far richer: an organized community bound together by shared political and economic experiences, a common moral vocabulary, and a recognizable way of life. Without that shared core, there may be population, but there is no polity.
Cicero, Aristotle, and John Jay—writing in Federalist No. 2—each understood this principle with striking clarity. A commonwealth, or “res publica”, is not simply territory or administration. It is a moral and civic union. Cicero described a people as a multitude united by agreement about justice and partnership for the common good. Aristotle grounded the polis in a shared conception of the good life, cultivated through laws, customs, and institutions. Jay, reflecting on the American experiment, argued that the thirteen states were one people precisely because they shared a common origin, common struggles, and common principles.
In all three, the same truth emerges: a multitude becomes a political reality only when it shares values. Mere coexistence, even if economically productive, does not suffice. Aristotle was explicit on this point. A society organized solely for trade is not yet a polis. There must be a shared understanding of justice, a common set of rules—a common game—and a commitment to play by them.
John Jay extended this insight into the American context. He emphasized that shared struggle is often the crucible of shared identity. The American colonies, he wrote, were united not only by descent and language, but by collective trials. That insight echoes through later history. The Great Depression and the two World Wars forged a unity across class, region, and background. Americans from all walks of life were drawn into a common cause against totalitarianism. Those experiences did not erase differences, but they reinforced a shared national identity grounded in sacrifice and purpose.
Conversely, history also demonstrates the fragility of that unity. The Civil War remains the most sobering example. It revealed that when core moral commitments—particularly regarding human dignity and justice—are no longer shared, the claim to be “one people” collapses. That lesson should not be forgotten today, though it is too often ignored.
For Cicero, a mass living under tyranny is not truly a people, because it lacks the freedom necessary for moral and civic partnership. For Aristotle, a dispersed population lacking a shared constitution is not a polis. For Jay, the United States could only endure as one nation if its people continued to share fundamental values. In each case, the moral core precedes politics. Agreement about justice and the common good is not the product of political structures; it is their precondition.
This brings us to the modern phenomenon of identity politics. In its contemporary form, identity politics organizes society into groups defined by race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, or religion, each advancing its own interests and grievances. These categories often become the basis for dividing society into classes of “oppressor” and “oppressed,” encouraging a politics of perpetual conflict.
Such a framework stands in tension with the classical and American understanding of a unified people. Instead of emphasizing shared values and common purpose, it fragments the polity into competing factions. It invites claims of victimhood and provides opportunities for those seeking power to mobilize and exploit these divisions. What begins as a call for recognition can devolve into a system of permanent grievance, where unity becomes suspect and common identity is dismissed as an illusion or a tool of dominance.
Identity politics is closely linked to multiculturalism, or what some communities describe as culturalism—the preservation and elevation of distinct group identities within a broader society. While cultural diversity can enrich a nation, it also raises a fundamental question: can a people remain unified if its constituent groups no longer share a common moral and civic framework?
This question becomes particularly urgent in the context of immigration. Who, precisely, are “the people”? The biblical tradition offers a nuanced perspective that is often overlooked in modern debates. In both the Old and New Testaments, the people of God frequently find themselves as sojourners—foreigners in strange lands—or as hosts receiving those from outside.
The Hebrew scriptures distinguish between two types of foreigners: the “nokri”, a transient outsider, and the “ger”, a resident alien who has taken up dwelling within the community. Both were afforded protection under the law. Leviticus commands that the foreigner be treated with justice and even love, recalling that the Israelites themselves were once strangers in Egypt. Sojourners were granted access to provisions such as gleaning, a form of social support that preserved dignity by requiring participation.
Yet these rights were paired with clear obligations—an aspect often neglected in contemporary discussions. The sojourner was expected to obey the laws of the host community, both civil and moral. He was not free to import practices that conflicted with the fundamental commitments of the host society. Observance of the Sabbath and abstention from idolatrous practices were not merely religious requirements; they were expressions of a shared moral order.
In both the Old and New Testaments, the sojourner is called to renounce practices incompatible with the host community’s laws and values. While protected and respected, the sojourner did not automatically receive full civic status. Greater inclusion was often contingent upon deeper integration into the life and norms of the community.
At the same time, the host community bore its own responsibilities. Justice, protection from exploitation, and care for the vulnerable were not optional. These obligations were rooted in the belief that all persons bear the image of God. Thus, the relationship between host and sojourner was reciprocal, grounded in mutual duty rather than unilateral entitlement.
This biblical framework aligns more closely with the classical understanding of a people than with modern identity-based approaches. It recognizes both the dignity of the individual and the integrity of the community. It affirms compassion without abandoning the necessity of shared norms.
Today’s immigration debate often emphasizes rights while neglecting responsibilities. The language of obligation—particularly the obligation of newcomers to adapt to the moral and civic framework of their host nation—is frequently absent or dismissed as exclusionary. Yet without such mutual expectations, the very conditions that make a unified people possible begin to erode.
If Cicero, Aristotle, and John Jay are correct, then the survival of any republic depends on more than laws and institutions. It depends on the cultivation and preservation of a shared moral core. A people must know who they are, what they believe, and what they are willing to defend together.
Absent that, the term “the people” becomes an empty phrase—invoked often, but no longer understood.
