T hese are perplexing times for American liberals. Last November’s euphoria has given way to frustration and even doubt. This was inevitable, to an extent, because governing is always harder than campaigning. Mario Cuomo’s dictum that we campaign in poetry but govern in prose applies with special force to a president whose eloquence on the campaign trail so effectively aroused enthusiasm and raised expectations.

But some critics have gone farther, charging that liberalism is undermining itself because, as Alan Wolfe puts it, "all too often, liberal politicians lack the courage of liberalism." This diagnosis leads to a prescription: We must "get liberals to once again believe in liberalism." This is a version of the 12 Angry Men/Mr. Smith Goes to Washington theory, prominent to this day in Hollywood–a leader willing to confidently deliver an unvarnished liberal message will sweep away all before him. (The remake would star Warren Beatty.)

Reviewing Wolfe’s new book The Future of Liberalism in these pages, E.J. Dionne rejects the author’s shortage-of-courage thesis but focuses on a related phenomenon–namely, liberal ambivalence–about radicalism, populism, social democracy, globalization, individualism, and much else [See "Liberalism Lost and Found," Issue #14]. While it’s hard to object in principle to Dionne’s suggestion that liberals should "face their own contradictions squarely," it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi as a bumper-sticker (except perhaps among former Marxists). More to the point, it’s inadequate analytically. Today’s liberals face political difficulties not because they’re gutless or conflicted but because many of the things they believe (rightly, in my view) go against the grain of beliefs that are deeply entrenched in our political culture.

That is not a reason to abandon liberalism. As Wolfe, Dionne, and Paul Starr have shown, the liberal tradition is responsible for much of what is best in modern America, and it charts the most promising path to future reforms. It is, however, a reason to proceed in full awareness of the obstacles in its path and to acknowledge that along the way we will often have to accept much less than we want. This means that liberals in high places may have to be less full-throated than either Wolfe or Dionne might prefer. But as the late Ted Kennedy so shrewdly recognized, a series of modest victories can add up to major changes.

Last year’s electoral sweep, to begin, was a victory for the Democratic Party, but not necessarily for liberalism. Self-described conservatives outnumber liberals by nearly two to one, and the liberal share of the population has risen only marginally, from 19 to 21 percent, during the past decade. And while 72 percent of Republicans consider themselves conservative, only 37 percent of Democrats consider themselves liberal, versus 39 percent moderate and 22 percent conservative. Republicans are ideologically homogeneous; Democrats represent a diverse coalition. If liberals hope to pass major legislation, they must negotiate and compromise with members of their own party whose outlooks differ from their own.

This is a current reality, unlikely to change anytime soon. Other challenges to liberalism have roots deeper in our history. One centers on the role of government. The early American liberalism of the founding era embodied a handful of basic ideas: among them, fear of tyranny and of concentrated power; mistrust of human nature, which needed to be checked and channeled through institutions and rules; and a preference for government that was limited in scope, though not purely laissez-faire by any means.

From this parsimonious beginning, the federal government grew by fits and starts. The Whigs successfully advocated investment in the public goods needed for economic growth, a strategy that arch-Whig Abraham Lincoln continued as president through measures like the Morrill Land-Grant Colleges Act. The post Civil War expansion of industrial corporations created a thrust toward government as a countervailing power that could limit monopolies and impose regulations in the public interest. Three generations after Andrew Jackson strangled the Bank of the United States, repeated financial crises led to the creation of a much more powerful central bank, empowered to curb dangerous market-based instability. A generation after that, an economic crisis that overwhelmed the capacities of individuals, civil society, and state governments led to new national institutions and policies to provide some measure of security against disaster. In the wake of World War II, the overlapping demands of national defense and global leadership produced a large standing army and a new array of security-oriented institutions. The war also sparked demands to move the historic commitment to equal rights from an abstract norm to concrete practice, which involved the national government in a new system of enforcement. And rising public concern over the externalities of economic growth–especially its impact on the economy–led to new national institutions, laws, and regulations.

Each of these expansions of national power seemed justified, and often compelled, by changing circumstances. In the aggregate, though, the federal government became more expensive and intrusive; it assumed more responsibility that it could easily discharge; and it presumed a level of competence that it often lacked. After the mid-1960s, trust in government declined steadily, reaching an historic low in the month before Barack Obama’s election. It has not improved appreciably since.

This is the central conundrum of modern liberal governance: While state power has grown, America’s anti-statist public culture has persisted. Our national default setting, from which we deviate only under extreme pressure, is suspicion of state power. Half a century ago, this took the benign form so pithily characterized by political scientists Lloyd Free and Hadley Cantril, that Americans were "ideologically conservative" but "operationally liberal." Today, after policy failures at home and abroad, many American object to larger government, not (only) on ideological grounds, but also because they doubt its competence and integrity. While the American people accept many liberal aims (including fundamental health reform), they mistrust the means by which liberals typically pursue them. As Obama is discovering, change we can believe in requires a government we can trust, which most Americans don’t think we now have.

Few Americans were pleased to see hundreds of billions of dollars flowing to rescue reckless banks, a miscreant insurance company, and auto manufacturers that had been losing market share for decades. The nearly $800 billion allocated to the stimulus package have yet to produce results that most Americans can see for themselves, and arguments that things would have been even worse without it, while clearly correct, haven’t gained as much traction as the administration hoped.

Seen together, the steps the federal government has taken over the past year to avert possible economic catastrophe have made the American people worry much more about the budget deficit and our current fiscal trajectory. In turn, these fears have made it even more difficult to pursue affirmative liberal causes like universal health insurance. Despite the President’s promises to the contrary, 60 percent of the public, according to a recent poll by the Brookings Institution and WorldPublicOpinion.org, simply doesn’t believe that we can achieve coverage for all without raising their own taxes and substantially increasing the deficit. Perhaps that is why a majority fears that government action designed to improve our health care system could end up making things worse. Historically, liberalism has been a philosophy of limited government. Most Americans still believe in limits, even if they can’t precisely locate them, and right now they have a vague but strong feeling that government has crossed the line and is dangerously overextended.

Moreover, as more public business is transacted at the national level, policy becomes more complex, opaque, and intangible, making ordinary citizens feel they have less and less control over the political system. In a recent NPR/Kaiser Family Foundation/Harvard School of Public Health survey probing public attitudes on health reform, for example, 71 percent of respondents said that Congress listens too little to "people like me," and only a third thought that there was any group in Washington that "represents your own views on what’s best for the country." This sense of diminished influence strengthens the suspicion that remote centers of power are controlling events over the head and out of sight of the people. At the extremes, this yields what Richard Hofstadter so memorably termed the "paranoid style in American politics," of which the summer furor over "death panels" is but the latest manifestation. "None dare call it treason" is a persistent virus in the American body politics, emerging whenever our political immune system has been weakened.