There is a presidential election coming in 2028.
You may think that sounds premature. It isn’t.
The race doesn’t begin when candidates announce. It begins when alliances form, when donors make quiet commitments, and when organizations decide who will be lifted up — and who will quietly be squeezed out.
I watched Secretary of State Marco Rubio speak in Munich last week. It was a strong speech. Confident. Clear. Grounded in America’s historic alliance with Western Europe. He looked like a man comfortable on the world stage. A man wanting to prove he belongs on the world stage.
And I found myself asking a larger question.
When Donald Trump leaves the stage, who stands there next — and who stands behind them?
For the first time in a long time, the Republican Party has a deep bench. JD Vance. Marco Rubio. Glenn Youngkin. Vivek Ramaswamy. Each brings talent. Each brings ambition. Each brings potential.
But potential is not the same thing as independence.
Donald Trump disrupted something in 2016. Whatever one thinks of his style, he walked into politics with his own resources and his own agenda. The traditional donor class did not build him. They did not fund him into existence. In many ways, they were left on the outside looking in.
And that sent a message.
For decades, Americans have watched candidates promise reform and then govern with altogether different priorities. Priorities influenced by the financial ecosystem that carried them to power. Large donors write large checks. Large donors expect access. Access brings influence. Influence brings policy.
That pattern is not new. It is woven into modern politics.
Trump challenged that pattern. Not perfectly. Not without resistance. But he challenged it.
The question now is whether that disruption becomes the new normal — or whether it was simply an exception.
Will the Republican Party allow a fully contested primary in 2028? Or will organizations and power brokers quietly consolidate behind one heir apparent before voters have truly weighed their options?
We have seen what happens when parties bypass robust primaries. Voters notice. Voters resent it. And often, voters respond.
I like JD Vance. I respect Marco Rubio. I admire Glenn Youngkin’s record in Virginia. Vivek Ramaswamy has undeniable energy. But admiration is not the issue.
The issue is allegiance.
If America First was more than a slogan — if it was a governing philosophy — then who carries it forward? And can they carry it forward without becoming indebted to the very structures that resisted it?
Because here is what many Americans understand instinctively: money in politics is never neutral.
Campaigns are expensive. Media is expensive. National organization is expensive. Unless a candidate arrives with extraordinary personal wealth, they must raise funds. And when funds are raised, relationships are formed. When relationships are formed, expectations follow.
That is not cynicism. That is reality.
For years, many of us have spoken about what is often called the “deep state” — the permanent bureaucracy, the consultant class, the professional political operatives who remain while elected officials come and go. Those structures do not disappear. They adapt. They wait.
And they prefer predictability.
Disruptors are tolerated only temporarily. Systems prefer stability. Systems prefer familiarity. Systems prefer candidates who understand how things are “supposed” to work.
So I ask again:
When Donald Trump exits the stage, does the system quietly reset?
Will the next president be chosen by voters — or shaped long before by donors, consultants, and institutional power?
These are not accusations. They are questions. And they are questions worth asking early.
The 2028 election will not simply be about personality. It will not simply be about messaging. It will be about whether the political and financial architecture that defined Washington for decades reasserts itself fully.
If the Republican Party believes in competition, then let there be competition. Let the candidates debate. Let them challenge each other. Let them prove not only their talent, but their independence.
Because voters are not naïve.
They know that campaign money flows somewhere. They know that influence follows money. And they know that governing courage is rare.
Donald Trump was, in many ways, an anomaly. The exception. The disruption.
The next election will tell us whether that disruption changed the system — or whether the system was merely waiting its turn.
Who will lead?
More importantly — who will own the leader?
Answering that question begins now.
No Loss for Words 
The Oath We Take… and the One We Keep
by Steve DanaThere was a time when an oath meant something. Not just the words. Not just the ceremony. The weight of it.
You stood, you raised your right hand, and you spoke words that bound you—not only to the people in front of you, but to something higher. Whether you were a man of deep faith or simply a person of conscience, you understood that you had crossed a line. You were no longer just a private citizen. You had made a commitment. And that commitment came with expectations.
I remember taking that oath. More than once.
Different terms. Different seasons of life. But the same words. The same promise: to faithfully execute the duties of the office, to support and defend the Constitution, and yes—for many of us—to do so “so help me God.”
That last phrase mattered to me. It wasn’t filler. It wasn’t tradition for tradition’s sake. It was a reminder that my word was not just given—it was witnessed.
And that changes a person. Or at least, it used to.
Today, I find myself asking a simple question: what exactly does an oath mean anymore? Because in our public life, we have become very good at requiring the oath… and not nearly as good at expecting anything from it.
In the biblical sense, an oath was never casual. It was a covenant. You did not invoke God’s name lightly, because to do so falsely was to place yourself under judgment. Your word was your bond, and your bond was tied to your standing before God. That kind of thinking produces a certain kind of person—careful, deliberate, aware that promises are not tools but commitments.
Our Bible Study Fellowship group is studying the book of Nehemiah chapter 10 this week. I was struck by the seriousness of the Jews as they swore an oath to God accompanied by a penalty for failing to honor the oath.
In Nehemiah 10 verse “29 all these now join their fellow Israelites the nobles, and bind themselves with a curse and an oath to follow the Law of God given through Moses the servant of God and to obey carefully all the commands, regulations and decrees of the Lord our Lord.”
It was that penalty part that got my attention. We do solemnly swear, under penalty of perjury as it says when you sit as a witness in a legal proceeding. Under penalty of criminal indictment.
What happened to that penalty part with our elected officials?
Over time, that part faded right off the paper.
In our constitutional system, the oath became less about a covenant with God and more about a commitment to a framework—the rule of law, the Constitution, the structure of government itself. That was not a step down. It was, in many ways, a step toward unity in a diverse nation. You didn’t have to share the same theology, but you did have to agree on the same foundation.
Fair enough. But something subtle happened along the way. We kept the words, but we lost the weight.
Today, an oath of office is required before an official can assume power. Refuse to take it, and you don’t get the job. The system is very clear about that. No oath, no authority. The line is sharp, and it is enforced.
But once the oath is taken? That’s where things get… flexible.
If you are testifying in a trial, lying will get you in jail. If you are a politician, lying will get you re-elected.
There is no law that says, “You have violated your oath, therefore you are guilty.” Instead, we rely on a patchwork of enforcement—criminal law if a statute is broken, impeachment if political will exists, elections if voters are paying attention. The oath itself becomes more of a reference point than a standard of judgment.
And so we arrive at a strange place.
An elected official can stand before the public, swear to uphold the Constitution, and then—through action or inaction—ignore, reinterpret, or selectively apply it in ways that would have once been unthinkable. As long as those actions fall within the gray areas of law or politics, the oath itself offers no direct consequence.
The promise is made. The accountability is optional.
Now, to be fair, we live in a complex society. Not every disagreement is a violation. Not every policy choice is a betrayal. Reasonable people can—and should—debate how best to uphold the Constitution and the laws of this country.
But that’s not what troubles me. What troubles me is something deeper.
It’s the growing sense that the oath has become a formality rather than a boundary. That it is something we say to gain office, not something we carry once we have it. That the words are recited, but not necessarily believed.
And that brings us back to the heart of the matter.
An oath is only as strong as the person taking it.
If a man believes he is accountable—to God, to the law, to his own conscience—then the oath has force. It shapes his decisions. It restrains him when it should. It guides him when the path is unclear.
But if he believes he is accountable only to circumstance, or power, or convenience… then the oath becomes little more than a step in the process. A box to check. A sentence to recite.
We have built a system that insists upon the taking of the oath. But have we built a culture that insists upon keeping it? That’s a harder question.
Because laws can only do so much. Courts can only reach so far. Elections, as important as they are, come long after the decisions have been made. In the end, the strength of an oath rests not in the enforcement mechanism, but in the character of the one who speaks it.
That may not be a satisfying answer in an age that looks for systems to solve every problem. But it is an honest one.
We cannot legislate integrity. We can only expect it. And that expectation begins with us.
If we, as citizens, treat the oath as ceremonial, we should not be surprised when those we elect do the same. If we reward results over principles, power over fidelity, outcomes over process, then the oath will continue to fade into the background.
But if we begin to ask different questions—if we begin to look not just at what our elected officials promise, but how they govern once in office—then perhaps the oath can recover some of its meaning.
Not because it is enforced more harshly. But because it is taken more seriously.
So here is the question we ought to be asking ourselves: “When an elected official raises their hand and swears to support and defend the Constitution… do we expect them to live that oath?”
Or have we become comfortable with simply hearing them say it?
Because the answer to that question may tell us less about our leaders… and more about us.
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