Congress Has an Age Floor and No Ceiling. That's Backwards for Gen Z.

Senator Dianne Feinstein's visible decline in her final years in office. Senator Lindsey Graham's sudden death. Senator Mitch McConnell's own recent hospitalization, and his halting explanation of it afterward. Three senators, three separate incidents, no obvious connection between them, except that the saga of these three senators is really one story about the problem of not knowing when to step down. That framing asks the right question of individual leaders. But it assumes the problem is a matter of personal judgment, each senator, in his or her own time, finding the wisdom to recognize the moment has passed. I think that gets the American version of this problem backwards. Congress's age problem is not a string of individual judgment calls. It is a structural feature of the Constitution itself, and it is quietly reshaping who gets represented in American government.

The Constitution sets a floor for federal office and no ceiling. A representative must be at least twenty-five. A senator must be at least thirty. A president must be at least thirty-five. Nothing in the document says how old is too old. Combine that asymmetry with the enormous advantages of incumbency, better name recognition, fundraising networks, committee seniority, and the result is predictable: a Congress that can start young but can never age out. It can only age up. The 119th Congress is now the third oldest in American history, with an average member age of nearly fifty-nine and a Senate averaging in the mid-sixties. This is not a temporary blip. It is the natural output of a system with a gate on one end and no gate on the other.

The consequences fall heaviest on the young. Voter turnout among Americans under thirty consistently lags well behind every older age cohort, and it is not because young people are uniquely apathetic. Representation is a two-way relationship. When a twenty-two-year-old looks at Congress and sees almost no one who has recently lived through what she is living through, student debt, the entry-level job market, climate anxiety, the particular texture of coming of age during a pandemic, the message she receives is not subtle. And the institution has the same problem in reverse: a body where the median member came of age decades before smartphones existed will struggle to intuitively grasp the interests of a generation that has never known anything else. A representation gap this wide does not fix itself. It compounds.

What is striking, looking back at the Constitutional Convention itself, is how little thought the framers actually gave to any of this. The age floors were not the product of careful deliberation about generational representation. They were barely debated at all. When George Mason argued for a minimum age of twenty-five to serve in the House, his reasoning was almost entirely personal: he said that if pressed, he would have to admit his own political opinions at twenty-one were, in his words, too crude and erroneous to merit any influence on public measures. James Wilson pushed back, arguing there was no more reason to incapacitate youth than age, where the requisite qualifications were otherwise present, and warned that arbitrary age limits would damp the efforts of genius and of laudable ambition. Wilson's objection did not carry the day, but it was never seriously engaged either. The Convention moved on. Delegates set twenty-five for the House and, three days later, thirty for the Senate, in votes with almost no recorded debate at all. A rule now treated as self-evidently wise was, at the moment of its creation, closer to an afterthought.

None of this means the framers were wrong that officeholders need a baseline of maturity. It means they never actually grappled with the other half of the question: whether there is also an age past which service becomes harder to justify, and whether a body with no answer to that second question can genuinely represent a country where half the population is under forty. We ask this question about nearly every other position of public trust and responsibility. We do not ask it about the two chambers that write the laws governing all of us. We just wait for each individual to find the wisdom to answer it himself, one retirement announcement, one hospitalization, one obituary at a time.

I would reframe the debate around a constitutional amendment: eliminate the minimum age requirements for the House, Senate, and presidency, and replace them with a maximum instead. I do not offer this expecting it to pass anytime soon, amending the Constitution is deliberately difficult, and it should be. I offer it because the exercise of taking the idea seriously forces a question American politics keeps avoiding: what age range should actually govern the people who govern us, considered as a design question, rather than left to the individual art of knowing when to step down. The framers left that question open by accident. It is long past time we asked it on purpose.

David Schultz is a professor of law at the University of Minnesota and a professor of political science at Hamline University.