*Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM
“When law replaces love, and procedure replaces purpose—politics loses its humanity.” —Dr. John Ortiz Teope
I have seen a political party fall apart—not for lack of money, leaders, or loyal followers—but because it surrendered its heart to its lawyer. It mistook intellect for instinct, and strategy for soul. The tragedy began the moment the party allowed its sole legal counsel to speak louder than its conscience, to lead the march without ever stepping into the crowd.
Politics, after all, is not a courtroom—it is a living, breathing battlefield of people, emotion, and story. And when you let a lawyer run it like a case before a judge, you are not fighting for the people anymore—you are filing motions before a deaf nation. The verdict will always be the same: disunity, loss, and slow death.
A legal counsel has a sacred duty: to protect, not to possess. To defend the party from external threats, not to direct its internal pulse. His wisdom is precious when the party is in trouble before the Commission on Elections or in the courts, but his voice should never drown out the voice of the grassroots, the volunteers, and the believers who bleed for the cause.
But some parties forget that. They let legal minds replace political hearts. They trade passion for procedure. Suddenly, meetings sound like hearings. Memos replace rallies. Debates replace dreams. And one by one, the operators—the true warriors who know how to move people, to organize barangays, to awaken the weary and the poor—quietly leave. The fire dies, and the party becomes a shadow of what it once was.
I pity that party, not because it is weak, but because it chose to be soulless. It survived in paper, but died in spirit. It won arguments but lost elections. It could quote laws, but not feel the pulse of the people. It was a party that learned how to defend itself in court, but forgot how to defend the hopes of the nation.
Politics, unlike the courtroom, does not reward the smartest—it rewards the most human. The battle is not fought in oral arguments but in the trust of the masses, the laughter of the children in campaign caravans, the tears of volunteers who believe they are part of something bigger than themselves. Lawyers argue to convince a judge. Politicians live to touch a life.
Yes, lawyers are necessary—they are the armor when storms come. But they must never become the general commanding the march. The lifeblood of a party flows not from the ink of pleadings, but from the heartbeat of those who still believe in change, in movement, in people.
And so the lesson stands like a warning carved in marble: a party run by its legal counsel may win in court, but it will lose in the streets. For the law may protect your existence, but only love for the people sustains your purpose.
I still remember the last meeting I attended before that party died. The hall was cold—not filled with lawyers, but dominated by their sole legal counsel—speaking Latin phrases that no ordinary member could understand. Outside the window, I could hear the muffled chants of our forgotten supporters and sidelined leaders, the same people who once marched for us under the sun and rain. They were replaced and silenced to give way to rich, traditional, turncoat politicians whose loyalty was measured only by convenience. They were there, waiting for a sign of life from the party they once loved. But no one came out. No one even noticed them.
That night, I knew the party was gone—not by expulsion, but by extinction of spirit. It had lost the sound of its own heartbeat.
As I walked out of that building, I whispered to myself, “You cannot resurrect a party through manipulations using circumventions of legal procedures; you can only resurrect it with people.”
And somewhere in the silence of that night, I felt the truth echo back—politics without passion is like a song without a voice. And no matter how perfect the lyrics, it will never move the heart again.
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