Democracy in America
Americans are the first native democrats. When Montesqueieu wrote political philosophy, he puzzled over it in an expert, but alien manner. He was like a tourist at a kiosk. He might have puzzled until he understood the geography better than a native, but he was still not a native himself. He might have wished to be a democrat, but he was, regrettably, a Frenchman. He might have even been a Frenchman wearing a democratic costume, but he didn’t sleep in the costume. Americans are democratic in their sleep. Their equality is indigenous. As far as I can tell, they are the first native democracy in the world. Other nations, like France or Greece, might have tried democracy on for a while, but it was only an experiment. America isn’t experimenting with democracy, for there was never a time before the democracy. Before 1776, there simply was no America. In England, the democratization of their government has been like ivy creeping over a tower. For an American, the ivy is as much a part of the tower as the bricks. And so to the American, good is synonymous with democratic and bad means undemocratic. The favorite Conservative accusation is that “such-and-such liberal policy is socialism;” and the Liberals accuse the Conservatives of being secret despots. And, of course, any clever despot will call his dictatorship a democracy. It sounds good to us, because it is native. We think it good like we think the flag good, and many people would become just as upset at the questioning of democratic ideals as they would at the stomping on the flag. Such a horrible action means that you are either a hostile foreigner or a traitor. Like the flag, however, democracy is an omnipresent idea that is hardly ever examined in detail. Our respect for the flag and for the democratic ideal doesn’t come from formal reasons, but from an atmosphere. It is not a bad atmosphere in America (with the possible exception of Los Angeles), but these essays are written because some day the atmosphere will change just as the season changes; because one day I smelled the sweet winds of summer and realized that because I am a Christian, I am a monarchist. A kingdom of heaven implies a king, and it’s high time we became comfortable with the idea.
It is hard to tell exactly what Americans think about kings, most Americans having never encountered one other than Old King Cole in the nursery rhyme. Old King Cole is a fortunate soul to have survived to the present day, what with his being an employer of servants and a smoker. At best, Americans regard a king as a beautiful but nearly defunct tradition, like stained glass windows. At worst, they are the enemies of freedom, the cruel personification of persecution of the poor and greedy abuse of power. Either way, a monarchy is certainly thought of as “less” than a democracy. It is perhaps an old bad habit that civilized nations can outgrow once they are sufficiently enlightened. School boys are shown to observe George Washington’s good form and humility in declining a crown. I am not sure whether George Washington should have accepted a crown, but his refusal doesn’t mean that all crowns should be abolished. We believe that the democratization of Iraq will transform it from chaos to civilization. We have sent soldiers to Iraq who might even believe that they are fighting and dying to spread democracy. But democracy is not something worth dying for; democracy is simply the best way to preserve liberty, which is worth dying for.
Liberty, as some might suppose, is not impossible under a monarch, even if that monarch holds life and death in his hands. For liberty is not the freedom to whatever one wishes, but the freedom to do what is good. The drunkard may wish very earnestly to urinate in the public streets, but he is not free to do so unless freedom is some insane disorder that must be zealously guarded from falling into natural human decency. In a state where is liberty is maintained, the drunkard is free to buy or rent a home and use his own commode there. The real problem with the monarchical system is not that all kings persecute this liberty, but that bad kings do. A bad king is far worse than a bad democracy, which is why Japan was democratized after the Second World War. A good king, however, is far better than a bad democracy, as I shall explain later. There is, of course, no such thing as a good democracy, because the whole democratic system is centered on the principle that no one man can be trusted with power. This principle is really the only thing in the center of democracy, for everything else is necessarily spread out. After World War II, it was no longer possible to permit real kings, and the world gambled that a nation of men couldn’t possibly commit as much evil as one man ruling a nation. Thus the rest of the Christian (or Post-Christian) world has hastily dressed in democratic garb, and those that aren’t dressed for the party are considered enemies or backwards.
The curious part of the office of king, however, is that in spite of our native “democraticness,” our historical removal from the age of monarchs, and our distrust of consolidated power, we have a very fit idea of what a king should be. Like a dragon, we’ve learned enough about them in fairy tales to have a specific way of imagining them, but we don’t expect to find one out in the woods. The point of most eschatological writings is that we ought to expect the king in the woods, especially when we don’t expect him. The thought of the hidden but rightful king has all the soaking and intoxicating truth of the stars and the moon. However far off and unearthly they may be, they are visible to everyone on a clear night, and we can hardly help but to stand under them in our most important and romantic moments. The idea of the king cannot be forgotten. Royal imagery is on the coins in our pockets, in our games, jewelry, clothes, and beer. Even if an unconscious democratic spirit runs deep within the American, an unconscious human spirit runs deeper and colder—and that spirit recognizes the right of royalty.
Just as the taking up of the Christian creed required us to change loyalties from ourself to Christ and our neighbors, so are we also required to change loyalties from the democratic ideal to the king. If you believe that Jesus is who he says he is, you are left with no choice. You equality with the rest of mankind is forfeit—you are now primarily a subject of the king. This change does not mean that you cannot vote or assist in preserving the American democracy—but you can’t maintain the attitude of a native democrat any longer. You may no longer insist on a right to equality, nor criticize an office of authority simply for being such. You mustn’t hold that peoples with kings are ignorant or backwards. Most importantly, you must always keep in mind that the current American democracy is a temporary arrangement, a type of joint stewardship of the king’s land. And, like any good steward, you must make sure that the land and its people are ready, as the old carol says, to “receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing.”
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