Pascal

He perfectly sums up what I try to say in Divine Sonship.

Is not the royal dignity sufficiently great in itself to make its possessor happy by the mere contemplation of what he is?

Monarchy Pt. 7

Royal Worship

            One of my favorite Christmas traditions is chuckling at the poor misguided souls that hear something about X-Mas and immediately begin to act as if some cruel secret police force has kicked in the door to their church and started burning their Bibles. This reaction is the result of laudable loyalty and embarrassing ignorance. I said earlier that the problem with much Christian belief is not so much a lack of zeal as a lack of imagination. In this case, it is a lack of Greek, for anyone who knows the alphabet can see that X-Mas is not an irreligious conspiracy, but a shorthand way of writing cristos. I, for one, am considerably more offended about the unperceived removal of the mass from Christmas than the ristos from Christmas. You see, there are many problems with the Roman Catholic or High Anglican mass, and most of them are related to inadequate heating—but they still celebrate the true meaning of Christmas, at least semantically speaking: Christ’s Mass. It is a magical season, but it is magical because it is holy. It is a moment for family, but only because something bigger than the family has arrived—it is the coronation of a king. The moment ought to have some pomp to it, and the solemnity of men who are taking seriously something much bigger than themselves. It ought also to have joy, the inexpressible joy of an infant in one’s arms, or of the prospect of a great feast, or of the arrival of a dearly-paid for freedom.

            Every Sunday service, as a matter of fact, ought to have a bit more joy and solemn pomp to it. The modern American Sunday services that I have attended were very zealous, but they were ultimately reflections of the style and character of their loudest and most persuasive members. If we had more imagination, we might find ourselves to alter the tone of our gatherings. Imagine, for example, that the President of the United States (your most recent favorite, if you don’t like the current one) was planning on attending your church this week. Wouldn’t the church make every possible preparation? Wouldn’t the building be cleaned from steeple to basement by an eager body of volunteers, each detail carefully attended and meticulously approved? Wouldn’t the parking lot be swept, the grass mowed, and the windows polished? Wouldn’t the best musicians prepare their finest efforts and the preacher pore over his sermon with special care? Wouldn’t the choir clean their robes? The congregation would arrive at the church early, and there would be no dirty clothes or sleepy eyes—dressed in their finest, they would wait with excited whispers for the arrival of such an important man. Upon his entrance, every person would be struck with an awed silence, and then even the smallest children would crane their necks to see this great man. Ties would be reordered a last time, young backs straightened and old bellies sucked in. Then, as the honored guest was seated, nervous musicians would ply their bows and sound their horns, and the mothers of the players would beam with pride that their young man was playing for such an important event. As the attendants and celebrants perform the service, each member steals glances at the guest, hoping for his pleasure and approval.

            If we take seriously the belief that we have a king of greater authority and glory than any other ruler, and that at every gathering of his people He is somehow mystically present with the possibility, in some unknown eschatological sense, of sounding a trumpet and actually appearing, why do we offer to him so little honor compared to our petty elected officials? If we truly believe in our heads what we have confessed with our mouths, that Jesus Christ is Lord, our behavior in church would change dramatically.

            One of the silliest platitudes I find on bumper stickers (which are otherwise entertaining reads) is the statement that “Christianity is a relationship, not a religion.” I am not sure how these terms became logically exclusive, let alone in the same class of qualification. It is nearly like saying “John is a banker, not a Pennsylvanian.” I suppose that the lie about religion is only included to highlight how revolutionary is the statement that Christianity is a relationship. There is ample biblical evidence to demonstrate the depth of love that can be found, in some mystical sense, between a Christian and his Lord. I am suspicious of the modern mania for speaking of Jesus as if he were a boyfriend, not because of the lack of sincere affection on the part of the believer, but because of the lack of fear. Any genuine mysticism has been accompanied by a profound awareness of the bigness of God, of his grandeur and greatness. It is, for those that would dare seek intimate knowledge of him, an almost painful experience, like stepping into light so bright that it sears your skin. What would it be like to have a “relationship” with a King? Even little girls who dream of handsome princes know that in the moment of his arrival they would grow a little timid. As Mr. Beaver says, “Only a fool would appear before Aslan without his knees knocking.”

            My purpose here is not to discourage the pursuit of this sort of relationship, with our immortal King—heaven knows I need more work here than anyone—but to encourage those who do believe and practice this love relationship to act seriously upon it. If you will not behave like a king is visiting, at least consider the idea that your lover is visiting and behave accordingly. I doubt that any of us would show up as late or as ill-dressed to a date as we do to church.

Monarchy, Pt. 6

On Feasting

            If then, we are sons and daughters of the king, we may reasonably look ahead to some sort of family life within the king’s court. It would be irresponsibly dangerous for someone as ill-trained and unimaginative as myself to attempt a picture of the heavenly estate, but the one institution I am sure of (from the Biblical evidence) is the institution that the modern family has almost entirely forgotten: Family dinner.

            The modern family finds family dinner hard to prepare and hard to schedule, largely because of other busyness. To cut out family dinner to accommodate work and school schedules is like throwing away the painting so as to better hang the frame. All of the various errands, commutes, and exchanges of the work day only exist to put family dinner on the table. When family dinner becomes an accidental pleasure or a holiday treat because the work world has overgrown it, the natural balance has been lost. It’s no good to anyone to bring home the bacon if no one will be home to eat the bacon. The modern family brings home bacon with both mother and father, and eager children preparing for their own careers nearly from diapers, but all of this is done for the pleasure of bringing it home, not for eating it, let alone sharing a joke or a song while they eat it. This is, I believe, one of the reasons why vegetarianism has become so popular—not because there is any sense in forsaking bacon (which is delicious), but because those people which are resolved to eat grass are at least eating grass together, and that is infinitely more pleasant than eating out, eating at the office, or eating in the car. I would have all of us become vegetarians if it meant we would consume our vegetables at a common table rather than our meat alone in our automobiles.

            One of the many things that the elderly would say, if anyone listened to them, is that we younger folk ought to come over for dinner more often. It isn’t for their sake (it takes quite a bit of effort for them to prepare a meal at their age), but they know that half the angst and pathos of the modern young person would be solved by a hot dinner, a comfortable chair, and a few good jokes. The proof in this case is quite literally in the pudding.

            The thought of eternity as some sort of incorporeal state of being or perpetual narcotic bliss is wholly an Eastern idea. It has no place in Christian theology, and it certainly has no place influencing Christian behavior. I am increasingly disturbed by services in which the pastor or celebrant invites the Spirit to lull us into blank oblivion with devotional sounding electronic music. Being asleep, however, isn’t any more spiritual than being awake, and if God had intended us to spend eternity in a state of adoring half-slumber, he would have made us more like jellyfish, and less like knobby trees. Besides, if this sort of Pastor was really intent on leading us into a blank stupor, he could lead us into a sounder and more satisfying sleep by preaching on the theology of stuporial worship. Out of the many details omitted regarding the resurrected body of Our Lord, the one confirmation we did receive is that he ate a piece of fish. He might have spent several hours a day meditating and perhaps he listened to dreamy music, but this is only speculation. The only confirmed information we have is that he ate, and I think we might reasonably expect to be do the same. A man that expects to spend his birthday in a state of nirvana or uninterrupted beatitude is far less in touch with reality than a man who hopes to have a good meal with friends and family at the end of the evening. Your body will not be the last trumpet, but it will still sit down to dinner.

            Of course, one cannot have dinner with the spirit of democracy, even if the people of the table have a democratic spirit. Whether the table is round or not, our communion table must remain in the center of Sunday worship. It is, in some sense, practice for drinking wine and eating bread at the great wedding feast of the King. Indeed, the earliest churches did have magnificent feasts, but they were waferized because the feast was too good for the people, not because the people were too good for the feast. Once we are convinced that our Sunday meetings are the covert gatherings of an invading kingdom, and not a social club or a yoga session, we can pay homage to the King by celebrating his feast in his absence, and somehow, in a manner far beyond what I have room to ponder here, eating and drinking Him.

Monarchy Pt. 5

Divine Sonship

The modern Christian doesn’t take his beliefs very seriously. It is not for a lack of earnestness, but a lack of imagination. He is like a young groom escorting his bride out of the wedding chapel, gushing forth in great excitement about the curious sensation of the wedding band on his finger. He says her married name over and over, trying to accustom his tongue to the strange sound, and then he deposits her at her parent’s house and informs her he will see her for breakfast in the morning.

We do the same thing at Easter-time. We dress up (and we do make a handsome crowd) in our finest clothes, awaken at dawn, and attend the morning service with glad faces. We listen to the sermon attentively, and then discover with renewed joy and relief that the tomb is empty—thank heaven for a happy ending. And that, for us, is the end of the day. We spend the remainder of the morning quite literally running down rabbit trails. There is nothing wrong with the Easter bunny (other than its egg-laying, which it should really have examined by a medical professional), but the meaning of Easter morning has hardly been scratched. If Jesus’ body could not be contained by death, what shall we think of our own bodies? What does the resurrection mean for these hands? What wild hope now seizes you when you realize the incredible fact of immortality? Whenever fast food is offered henceforth, the Christian ought to draw himself up and say “know you not that you offer this filth to an immortal body?” Playing with chocolates and bunnies is a wonderful way to spend any afternoon except Easter Sunday.

The truth of Divine Sonship is one of these thunderous doctrines that the modern churchman fails to take seriously. If he did think about it seriously, he might fall down. We have established, if we take our Lord seriously, that there is a real and rightful king. There is a royal family, and we are in it. Try for a moment to imagine that some prince from a far off country has made plans to visit your home. Is it possible, in your wildest fancy, to imagine that you are the prince that shall grace your dinner table tonight?

Before we get ahead of ourselves and start demanding the respect of those lowly plebians around us, we must temper the realization of our newfound status with a thorough scrubbing of humility. We are members of the royal family, but it was a promotion from shoveling the horse’s stables, and it wasn’t even because we were doing a good job. It was the entirely undeserved kindness of the king that dignified us, and the moment we begin to think of ourselves with false flattery, the old stable smell starts up again. Our orders to humility are like that one condition upon which the whole fairy tale hinges: you must be home by midnight, you mustn’t look in the red cupboard, you mustn’t swim in the sacred pond by midnight, you mustn’t eat the apple from the one forbidden tree; for if you violate this one easy commandment, all the magic will rumble away into dust.

Humility shouldn’t be that hard, however, for if you take the working out of Divine Sonship one step further you find that you are surrounded by dazzling Lords and Ladies. Women understand all of this much better than men. From childhood, they know that they are part princess, even if the princess is still sweeping the cinders. I am terribly unworthy of my wife, but she puts up admirably with the slow wits of her stable boy.

Nearly all of us are aware, despite television and air-conditioning, of the existence of those strange and uncivil creatures called neighbors, and the realization of the royal family has its most immediate and important application here. If your neighbors are Christians of any type, they are nobles and their property is a baronial estate, one which you are privileged to abut. If they are not Christians, they are still potential royalty, and the King would have you treat them with all the respect of ambassadors. Either way, there can be no question of a change in attitude toward them. You have the honor of sharing lawns and summer days with immortal princes. Imagine your humble (heart beating nervously, of course) excitement as you see one of them approaching his carriage. Might you have the distinction of greeting him today? If so, it will be with greatest respect. Imagine your awed excitement if this grand man were to stop and talk with you. Perhaps you might someday be given the honor of preparing a dinner for his family, watching the royal children, or helping to clean the garage. Even cleaning a very dirty garage is as epic a task as the Augean stables when it is done in service of a Lord or Lady.

C.S. Lewis talked about this marvelously in his description of the “Weight of Glory.” “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendship, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is the immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours.”

Monarchy pt. 4

The Return of the King

            I am hardly worthy to write down the phrase which heads this chapter, for it is the most magical and spine-tingling spell which was ever woven over me. I hardly ever say it aloud, and when I do, I speak it almost in a whisper, for it is the most revolutionary phrase that was ever uttered in the lands of men. These words are an earthquake, changing the center of one’s life and altering your loyalty forever. It is like a wedding vow—words which acknowledge you have left the shores of your youth and said the irrevocable phrase which seals your heart and hand to a new loyalty.

            Tolkein’s novels show, in allegory, the romance of the story: A nearly forgotten man ranging the wilderness, traveling disguised but urgently. His sword joins the cause in its darkest hour, and then, after the final battle, his face is revealed and the true and long-yearned-for king is restored to his throne. A new age on Earth begins.

            I recently read a snide remark aimed at a Christian who had mentioned judgment before a “great white throne” at some political function. This scoffing is the inevitable reaction of the provincial evolutionist to genuine Christian belief. An irreligious man is not usually upset by private devotion, attending mass, or blessing the meal, though it may evoke a muffled snicker. He must scoff at the great white throne, because the shining throne necessarily implies the (to him, imaginary) shining king. To the evolutionist, the blessing at the meal or the prayers before bedtime resemble homage to a mysterious and impersonal force, a power without a face. He also worships a nebulous power without a face, but calls it evolution, or psychology. When you start to talk of thrones and kings, he bursts out laughing and says “I suppose you think he has a beard as well?” The state of the king’s shaveness is beyond the scope of these essays, but the evolutionist does provide us with a valid point about our person…that he is, even if he is imaginary, a persons. We are not discussing an idea, nor an attitude, nor an office. We do not await the sudden return of some tradition, like crossing ourselves in confession. It is a real man, with hands and hair and feet and a voice, and perhaps even a beard. We do not know what his return will look like or even what he will look like but we do know his claim is legitimate. This is his land, and there will be no question of his crown.

            The New Testament speaks of his kingdom in two ways, and the first is in the sense that we have already been discussing—a coming kingdom, something that is not yet realized but can be hoped for and expected. As concretely as the kingdom is described in these terms, it is also referred to as “already here.” It is present in every Christian home, and its citizens gather in prosperity and in persecution across the world. It expands its borders in China and Pakistan, and it renews the weary lands of Europe where shadows have settled for a season. In  America, it is a state unto itself, hidden within the visible state. If its citizens are asked to bend their loyalty from the permanent to their temporary home, they need only recount the examples of Joan of Arc, Tyndale, and Bonhoeffer to see how subjects of the king must remain loyal—for it is only through the authority of the king that any temporary arrangement holds its power.

            But in the meantime, we wait. The Return of the King will renew all things, and it is around this central political idea that our voting, our prayers, our work, and our service must be done. Though we might vote in elections temporarily, we have no choice but to be monarchists now. The resurrected king will take a great white throne at the last trumpet call. Then those from the furthest corners will behold a real man and ask “Who is this, that even the wind and the waves obey him?”

Monarchy, Pt. 3

The Good King

            If humanity cannot be trusted with anything other than democracy, but is, in its best moments, desirous of a king, what then can be done? Men have had years of laughter, valor, and honor under good kings, but just as many years of sorrow under bad ones. Even if there was some man that might be capable of executing the office, kings without lineage have no claim to foreign lands. What king, even if he were heir elsewhere, could possibly command a knee to bend on American soil? Before an American could even begin to imagine kneeling to a king, he would need to imagine loving the king in the same way he loves the home of his parents, or his most sacred childhood haunts. He would have to see the king as the very embodiment of his homeland. This sort of thinking is not a regression from democracy, but the fulfillment of it. It is the patria become flesh, and dwelling among us. Consider this passage from Lowis Lowry’s Number the Stars:

Annemarie’s thoughts turned to the real king, Christian X, and the real palace, Amalienborg, where he lived, in the center of Copenhagen. How the people of Denmark loved King Christian! He was not like the fairy tale kings, who seemed to stand on balconies giving orders to subjects, or who sat on golden thrones demanding to be entertained and looking for suitable husbands for their daughters. King Christian was a real human being, a man with a serious, kind face. She had seen him often, when she was younger. Each morning, he had ridden alone through the streets of Copenhagen, greeting his people. Sometimes, when Annemarie was a little girl, her older sister Lise, had taken her to stand on the sidewalk so that she could wave to King Christian. Sometimes he had waved back to the two of them, and smiled. “Now you are special forever,” Lise had told her once, “because you have been greeted by a king.” …So she turned her thoughts again to the king…she remembered a story that Papa had told her, shortly after the war began, shortly after Denmark had surrendered and the soldiers had moved in overnight to take their places on the corners. One evening, Papa had told her that earlier he was on an errand near his office, standing on the corner waiting to cross the street, when King Christian came by on his morning ride. One of the German soldiers had turned, suddenly, and asked a question of a teenage boy nearby. “Who is that man who rides past here every morning on his horse?” the German soldier had asked. Papa said he had smiled to himself, amused that the German soldier did not know. He listened while the boy answered. “He is our king,” the boy told the soldier. “He is the King of Denmark.” “Where is his bodyguard?” the soldier had asked. “And do you know what the boy said?” Papa had asked Annemarie. She was sitting on his lap. She was little then, only seven years old. She shook her head, waiting to hear the answer. “The boy looked right at soldier, and he said, ‘All of Denmark is his bodyguard.’” Annemarie had shivered. It sounded like a very brave answer. “Is it true, Papa?” she asked. “What the boy said?” Papa thought for a moment. He always considered questions very carefully before he answered them. “Yes,” he said at last. “It is true. Any Danish citizen would die for King Christian, to protect him.” “You too, Papa?” “Yes.” “And Mama?” “Mama too.” Annemarie shivered again. “Then I would too, Papa.”

            In this sense, the people possess their king as much as they are possessed by him. One cannot say about the spirit of democracy that it wore a red bow-tie on Thursday or that it is spending the week on the west coast. A king, however, can be seen in the square, greeted, and sung to. A good king’s greeting makes you special forever. A good king is worth dying for.

            One of the curious and marvelous proofs of Christianity is that, despite being unprecedented, it was wholly familiar. Despite its weird and seemingly arbitrary shape, it is a shape that completes a puzzle. The incarnation of the Christ was nothing like what it was expected to be by those who were looking for it, and it met the nearly forgotten expectations of those pagans which had long ago despaired of looking for it. The Jews knew that the Messiah would come; the Pagans knew he would be the child of God, and that like the corn-king, he would replenish all things.

            When he was walking the empty country of Palestine, he was an infuriation. Here was a man with no education that understood the entire Jewish law, a man which swore everyone around him to strict secrecy, but told parables in which he called himself a king. He couldn’t be trapped into a trick question by all the cunning in Judea, and he seemed simultaneously bent on destroying and defending all things. He was a man no one expected, because he was the right man—the most familiar of men, the son of man. Any talk of his being a “good teacher” is evidence that the person talking hasn’t actually read any of his teachings. To those that Jesus did teach, he identified himself unmistakably as a king…one greater than the Sabbath. He called himself Lord. (kurios) He spoke constantly of his kingdom, and this kingdom was not some metaphysical “state” with harps, clouds, and golden gates…it was a kingdom already present, a kingdom to be unleashed upon the soil he walked upon and over the waters that he commanded. His disciples say that he was such a king that bread, wine, stones, trees, and even death itself submitted to him. The final debt of all previous kings knelt (and was broken) before this one. He was, in fact, the man in whom and for whom all things were created.

            The best and most beloved Presidents of the United States have spoken (need examples here) as stewards of an office they were entrusted. It is because they are stewards that they are called leaders, and not rulers. The semantic difference is enormous. It may be similar to the difference between a mother and a mother-in-law. When a foreigner calls the American President the “ruler of America,” someone hastily explains to him that we have no ruler. Even the highest office is not lofty enough for a crown in this land. Yet the constitution, when it speaks of things “endowed by [men’s] Creator,” affirms that the election of leaders is only a right because it was given. There is an original ruler, whether he is acknowledged or not, who is older than memory. He is like a landlord who returns to his estate after many generations of servants have passed through it, some even forgetting there ever was a Lord of the house. Some others say that the story of the Landlord was only invented to keep the children and weak-minded in line. Some others say that the Landlord was the only reasonable explanation before biological evidence solved all the questions of ownership. It is our job, as the faithful servants, to remember that the Lord of the house is good, and to make it ready, unfaithful servants and all, for the Master’s coming, which is said will be like a thief in the night.

Monarchy Pt. II

On Equality

            C.S. Lewis: Let us wear equality, but let us undress every night.

            All men are created equal, but form that moment of fertilization men must continually create equality artificially, for there is hardly a moment of genuine equality afterwards. The Declaration of Independence recognizes this truth, and that is why “despite voting and elections, America is still a democracy.” If we are to preserve this democratic equality, let us not do it for inaccurate reasons, like those of most modern politicians. They talk about equality as if it is a virtue inherent in every member of mankind, each one wise, good, and worthy.

            The real reason for the democratic system of government is far less flattering. Not one of us can be trusted. This is what Montesqeieu’s puzzling came out to mean: The power of rule must be divided to keep it from being abused. It is the reason why partisanship is so important. Liberals and Conservatives are much better for the nation when they are wasting the hours in petty scuffles than when they agree. For when they do agree on something, like the “noble” equality and goodness of mankind, they make some terrible destruction of liberty, like modern public education.

            In short, it is the Fall of Man, not the Dignity of Man, that necessitates the democratic system. The only brilliant originality each of us brings to democratic rule is Original Sin—and if we are all equal in origin (or, all created equal), let no man be given uncontested or unchecked power over another. C.S. Lewis pointed out that the problem with slavery isn’t nearly as much about there being no persons fit to be slaves (I would volunteer the Senate and the House) as there being no men fit to be masters. It is a curious paradox in a world in which it is commonly asserted that all men have equality through their common humanity, to realize that all men are desperately unequal except in their common propensity to inhumanity. American equality, therefore, is artificial, and like anything artificial, isn’t wholly satisfying. It is like clothing, something we must put on because we are damaged creatures and can no longer be trusted to guard against our own evil. In an unbroken (or eventually, in a restored) world, there will be no need to guard the harmony between man the beast and man the reflection of God.

            For as much as one part of us resents (wrongfully) any idea of servitude, inferiority, or lesser honors, another part realizes that social inequality, however silly it may sometimes look, is more natural than social equality. Consider the H.M.S. Pinafore. The entire first act is a comedy about how absurd are the social rules which separate the couples. Would the second act be satisfying if the ship’s company divided all the leadership and responsibilities according to election, and declared themselves all to be equal to one another? Of course not, and it is as unnatural an idea for a ship of state as it is for a ship of the sea, or in the case of Pinafore, a love boat. Pinafore is satisfying because men are not equal—because it is absurd for Captain Corcoran to say “Three paces to the front…if you please.”

            Because the natural inequality is so satisfying when it is hit upon, men will look for it in the absurdly superior if they cannot enjoy the naturally superior. They end up (in a bizarre but fascinating way) following the lives of vacuous blonde actresses and enormous athletes, and their public presence is received much like royalty is received in other countries. Men must celebrate something, and if they cannot celebrate Lords, Knights, and Heroes, they will celebrate celebrities. Unfortunately, this is like celebrating celery. Still, the Academy Award for Best Celerette or Defensive Celery of the Year awards are two of the few genuine honors we are still able to confer, and thus they are followed with the accordant pomp.

            We are unable, in an increasingly frightening way, to give any real honor (or dishonor) in education. Here the false idea of equality has taken such a firm hold that the old methods of education (which actually produced some sort of learned man at the end) are regarded as barbaric. They may have been stern, but they certainly were not barbaric. Our own age is barbaric, however kind, for it teaches only one language, no logic, and no ethics. Also, gym class.

            You see, the idea that every child should graduate educated is a fatal one. It ensures, not that every child will be educated, but that the meaning of the word educated will be altered. Children are unequal, and they will learn this either in the classroom or the first time they set foot into the street. If their teachers have lied to them and told them how clever and wonderful all of them are (success is a favorite word), they will then know what they have suspected all along—that their teachers were talking nonsense. It must be hard for a young man constantly affirmed in his own goodness and deserving to find himself suddenly and employee to an employer, a layperson to a pastor, and a debtor to his credit card. If he I particularly unfortunate, he will develop that cancerous attitude which says to every person it meets “I’m as good as you,” but abuses those under him. For a Christian, this attitude is particularly dangerous. We must constantly think of ourselves as very low things somehow privileged to drink and eat of the very highest things. When some person (like a pastor, teacher, or employer) exerts authority over us we are to behave as servants, but we are to serve with the care and awe of one that is serving in the king’s own court.

Monarchy, pt. 1

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.”