What do “fascist” and “democracy” mean again?

Recently, my wife and I were listening to a podcast featuring three East Coast millennial film-school snobs talking for two hours about Wes Anderson’s masterpiece, The Grand Budapest Hotel. To be clear, we like this podcast and this kind of talk … but being that it’s 2024 and that the film is (kind of) about the rise of fascism in Eastern Europe in the early 20th century, the hosts wasted no time firing off the usual array of neo-liberal pith about how we’re currently in a similar moment being foisted upon our country by conservatives. They were really pleased with themselves because of the pith.

Now, we’re so used to these kinds of sentiments in the mainstream media that we barely hear them anymore, but it raised an interesting question from my wife: “What is a ‘fascist’ again?” It’s a fair question, due to how readily the word gets thrown around these days.

“Anybody who disagrees with you politically” was my answer. “Fascist” has come to stand in for “political opponent” or “someone with different ideas than mine.”

She then asked, “And what is ‘democracy’?”

“Anything you agree with politically,” I responded. In the way that we talk (or tweet) about things, we are all, apparently, in the business of defending democracy, all the livelong day, and our opponents (regardless of their actual perspectives) are actively trying to kill it.

Now, these are very cynical answers born of the apparently hopeless moment we find ourselves in, where how we talk about things is being positioned as more important than the things themselves. Both “fascist” and “democracy” have (obviously) been weaponized in the rhetorical sewer that is considered discourse in 2024.

Pick your mainstream media outlet, and it is probably terrible. “Democracy dies in darkness” is the slogan of The Washington Post. Heavy-handed and full of its own virtue, it’s apropos that the slogan debuted on Snapchat—that venerated social media platform of record. Long live excellent journalism!

Democracy also might die when we have a (supposedly “pro-democracy”) presidential candidate who is going on weeks of radio silence and who, even when she speaks, seems unwilling to do so without a teleprompter. Her campaign strategy seems to be “I’m not Donald Trump—see you in November!” In her defense, that “worked” last time. We had an assassination attempt on another candidate a little more than a month ago (remember that?), which the mainstream press has completely lost interest in, but about which some sweet, empathetic musicians and comedians said things like “Next time, don’t miss.”

Most of our discourse is about how Kamala Harris sounds when she talks (which is hardly ever lately) or how J.D. Vance feels about Diet Mountain Dew. We’re living in the first act of (insert your favorite teenage dystopian movie here).

In a way, The Grand Budapest Hotel speaks to something we have lost in all of our supposed progress: restraint. It’s (in part) about dedication to a craft and a way of life (service), which endures even when the world appears to be burning to the ground around it. And behind all the Wes Andersonishness, it’s about dignity in a world gone mad.

I’m reminded of Paul’s first letter to Timothy, in which he writes, “First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all, which is the testimony given at the proper time.”

I would love to live “a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way.” The text says that this would be “good” and “pleasing in the sight of God our Savior.” It certainly sounds good to me.