When a president calls out the National Guard to restore order in American cities, passions rise quickly. Some applaud the decisive action, seeing it as a president’s duty to protect the public from crime, the drug culture and lawlessness. Others recoil, arguing that the Constitution assigns the responsibility of policing to states and municipalities, not to the federal government.
That debate surfaced with intensity during Donald Trump’s presidency, when he considered or initiated deployments of federal forces in cities plagued by violence. To some, it was overdue leadership. To others, it was presidential overreach.
I saw a glimpse of the human cost of this tension in Philadelphia. During a hospital stay, two nurses told me they dreaded living in the city. Gunfire echoed so often, they felt unsafe taking their children to playgrounds. For them, the promise of federal help was not a threat to democracy but a lifeline to daily safety.
Yet the constitutional question cannot be brushed aside. Our system is built on federalism: the idea that states, not Washington, bear the primary responsibility for internal policing. The president is commander-in-chief of the military, but not chief constable of Philadelphia or Chicago. Opponents of Trump’s actions insist that allowing presidents to assume that role erodes the division of powers that protects liberty.
This tension is hardly new. American history shows us that presidents have often acted beyond the letter of the Constitution when they believed the survival or stability of the nation demanded it.
Faced with crises, presidents have acted first and left the Constitution to catch up later.
Consider Thomas Jefferson. As a strict constitutionalist, he insisted that the federal government could exercise only those powers clearly listed in the Constitution. Yet when Napoleon offered to sell Louisiana in 1803, Jefferson seized the opportunity. The Constitution said nothing about acquiring new territory or incorporating its inhabitants as citizens. Jefferson himself admitted that he could find no explicit authority for the purchase. He even drafted a constitutional amendment to authorize it. But when the chance came, he dropped his scruples.
Instead, Jefferson justified the purchase by stretching the president’s treaty-making power. Critics cried foul, insisting treaties were never meant to permanently expand U.S. territory. Moreover, Jefferson negotiated the $15 million deal before Congress gave its approval, potentially trampling on Congress’ control of the purse. For a man who had long preached about limited federal power, it looked like hypocrisy. Yet few today regret the Louisiana Purchase.
Abraham Lincoln faced an even more severe test. With the Union at stake in 1861, he suspended habeas corpus, jailing thousands of suspected Confederate sympathizers without trial. The Constitution mentions suspension of habeas corpus in times of rebellion or invasion, but places that power under Congress, not the president. Chief Justice Roger Taney ruled in Ex parte Merryman that Lincoln had acted illegally. Lincoln ignored him.
His administration also closed newspapers and arrested editors critical of the war effort – clear violations of the First Amendment. Lincoln’s defense was blunt: Extraordinary times demanded extraordinary measures. Congress later retroactively approved many of his acts, but constitutional purists have never forgotten the precedent.
What unites Jefferson, Lincoln and Trump is not ideology but a pattern. Faced with what they saw as crises, each chose to act first and leave the Constitution to catch up later. Supporters saw bold leadership. Critics saw dangerous overreach.
So where does that leave us with Trump and the National Guard? On one side are citizens like those nurses in Philadelphia who long for relief from violence and drugs. On the other are Americans who fear that allowing presidents to police the streets, even with good intentions, undermines the federalist balance that protects us all.
The Constitution has always been both sturdy and elastic. Its silences invite presidents to push its boundaries. History shows that such actions often provoke outrage in the moment, only to be judged more kindly – or more harshly – by later generations.
Trump’s use of federal forces to confront urban crime belongs to that larger story. Whether it will be remembered as courageous leadership or unconstitutional intrusion depends not only on legal arguments, but on what legacy it leaves for the country. Difficult challenges require flexibility on the part of leaders. Ultimately, the electorate will decide if they acted wisely.
