Congress has always reserved expulsion as its nuclear option. Not a tool for headlines. Not a mechanism for partisan vengeance. A last resort.
Since the founding of the Republic, the bar has been intentionally high. Article I, Section 5 of the Constitution gives each chamber the authority to expel a member, but only with a two-thirds vote. That threshold wasn’t an accident. It was a safeguard—a recognition that the people, not political rivals, choose their representatives, and that overturning that choice should require overwhelming consensus and undeniable cause.
Historically, Congress has used expulsion sparingly. During the American Civil War, members who openly supported the Confederacy were expelled en masse. It was existential. The Union itself was on the line. Later expulsions followed clear criminal convictions or undeniable acts of corruption. Think Michael Myers in the wake of the ABSCAM scandal. Think James Traficant after conviction on federal charges. The pattern was consistent: due process first, expulsion last.
That norm—quiet, deliberate, restrained—held for generations. Until it didn’t.
My situation marked a turning point—not because Congress lacks the authority to expel; it can—but because the process began to shift from adjudication to anticipation, from evidence to optics, from constitutional duty to political theater.
Let’s be clear about something that should not be controversial: allegations are not convictions. Investigations are not verdicts. Ethics reports are not substitutes for a court of law. When Congress moves to expel a sitting member before the legal system has run its course, it is no longer acting as a deliberative body. It is acting as judge, jury, and—conveniently—executioner.
And that should concern everyone, regardless of party.
Because once the standard drops, it doesn’t just drop for one person. It drops for everyone. Today it may be a controversial freshman from New York. Tomorrow it could be a veteran lawmaker who falls out of favor with leadership. The mechanism doesn’t change—only the target does. And when that happens, expulsion ceases to be a constitutional safeguard and becomes a political weapon.
This is not about defending bad behavior. It’s about defending process.
Due process exists for a reason. It is the bedrock of the American legal system. It ensures that facts are tested, evidence is weighed, and guilt is determined beyond the passions of the moment. Congress is not exempt from that principle simply because it finds itself under public pressure.
If anything, it should be held to a higher standard.
The voters are not bystanders in this equation. They are the ultimate arbiters. If a member has lost the confidence of their constituents, there is a mechanism for that: elections—regular, scheduled, democratic elections. Not snap judgments driven by media cycles or internal caucus politics.
Expulsion should never be a substitute for the ballot box.
When Congress bypasses that principle, it sends a dangerous message: that the will of the people can be overridden not by law, but by consensus among elites; that representation is conditional—not on the Constitution—but on approval from within the chamber itself.
That is a slippery slope.
The institution of Congress depends on legitimacy. And legitimacy depends on fairness. If members can be removed based on allegations rather than adjudicated facts, then every member serves at the pleasure of political winds, not constitutional order.
That is not stability. That is chaos dressed up as accountability.
Expulsion must return to what it was always meant to be: rare, justified, and rooted in due process. Anything less risks turning one of the most serious powers in Congress into just another tool of convenience.
And once that line is crossed, it won’t be easy to draw it again.