“I recognize two authorities: priesthood and empire. The Creator of the world entrusted to the first the care of souls and to the second the control of men’s bodies. Let neither authority be attacked, that the world may enjoy prosperity.” — John I Tzimisces
“No offense, but you’re a coward.” That was the constructive criticism I received from a friend, in response to my last post about the nature of authority. He pointed out that all the thinkers I was arguing against (namely certian integralists) were talking about authority in a political context. I, on the other hand, had gone out of my way to talk about authority in every context except the political. In other words, I hadn’t responded to them at all.
“That’s a fair point,” I said, and then went about my day. But he didn’t let up. “If you think it’s a fair point,” he said, “set the record straight. Tell us what you think about political authority.” So, that’s what I’ll do.
The first thing we ought to say is that, technically, the rulers of this world all derive their power from God. That’s why St. Peter tells us, “Be subject for the Lord’s sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to praise those who do right” (1 Peter 2:13-14).
St. Augustine was more explicit in his masterpiece The City of God:
These things being so, we do not attribute the power of giving kingdoms and empires to any save to the true God, who gives happiness in the kingdom of heaven to the pious alone, but gives kingly power on earth both to the pious and the impious, as it may please Him, whose good pleasure is always just. (V.21)
And to be clear, I’m not saying this just to cover my bases. There’s definitely something un-Christian about “politics” in the ordinary sense of the word. Scripture never has anything good to say about men who seek worldly power. On that point, Tolkien is absolutely sound:
The proper study of Man is anything but Man; and the most improper job of any man, even saints (who at any rate were at least unwilling to take it on), is bossing other men. Not one in a million is fit for it, and least of all those who seek the opportunity.
That, I think, is the proper Christian attitude. At the same time, it’s well worth asking why God gives us government in the first place, and what He expects us to do with it. In this sense, we’re not studying man at all. We’re studying God. The pagans have political philosophy; the Christians have political theology.
So, on the question of what political authority is, I accept Augustine’s universalism. But on the question of what authority ought to be, I am—like the Prophets, the Apostles, the Fathers and the Doctors of the Church—a monarchist.
The central reality of Christianity is the Incarnation. By taking our nature upon Himself, He allowed us to become “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4). Now he calls us, not servants, but friends (John 15:15). He wants us to share in all that He is and all that He does. And that includes by sharing His authority with men.
In the Church, we call these men bishops. Christ gives to them His authority as priest and rabbi. They offer sacrifice at His altars and teach God’s people in His name. Again, they do this, not because God needs them (He doesn’t), but because He wants them. He honors man by allowing us to share in this part of His mission.
As in the Church, so too in the State. Christ is the King of all; He shares His kingship with the rulers of this earth because—again—He wants to. He gives men the honor of ruling His people in His stead.
So, in a sense, the Incarnation continues to unfold as the kingship of Christ is embodied in the person of the king—just as the bishop acts in the person of Christ when offering the sacramental mysteries. All such power comes from God, and belongs to God, but it comes to us through our fellow men.
And, as Metropolitan Kallistos Ware once observed, this incarnation of authority transformed Christendom into a vast, living icon:
If Byzantium was an icon of the heavenly Jerusalem, then the earthly monarchy of the Emperor was an image or icon of the monarchy of God in Heaven. . . .
[The Byzantines] believed that that Christ, who lived on earth as a man, had redeemed every aspect of human existence, and they held that it was therefore possible to baptize not human individuals only but the whole spirit and organizatin of society. . . . Byzantium in fact was nothing less than an attempt to accept and apply the full implications fo the Incarnation.
Needless to say, a president or a prime minister (much less a parliament or a senate) can’t “embody” Christ’s kingship the way a king can.
This is more of an Orthodox take, but if you read Thomas Aquinas’s De Regno or Dante’s De Monarchia, they basically make the same argument. Until very recently, the concensus among Christians has been nearly uniform on this point. While republics may be legitimate—that is, while Christians may be obliged to obey their laws—monarchy more perfectly embodies the ideal of temporal authority.
Really, to advocate for republican (i.e., non-monarchical) government is a kind of iconoclasm. It’s a rejection of the Incarnational worldview upheld continuously by the catholic, orthodox Church. Like Satan, the republican rejects God’s plan to share Himself completely with humanity. He rejects the embodiment of God’s authority.
Little wonder that Oliver Cromwell was not only a republican and a presbyterian, but also a puritan. Of course, he never denied the doctrine of the Incarnation. But clearly he felt that God’s opinion of humanity was far too high.
Anyway, James I famously quipped: “No bishops, no king.” I think we could just as easily say, “No king, no bishops.” Whoever hates one will find some reason for hating the other. And, before too long, that hatred will spread, like eldritch wings, to enfold all mankind.
But—wait! Am I not still dodging the question? Am I not still refusing to say how I would restore this ideal of authority in the 21st-century West? Well, if so, let me answer that question now. Simply put: I wouldn’t.
Put it this way. I just watched Matt Fradd’s terrific interview with Deacon Nicholas Kotar (whose books I can’t recommend highly enough). At one point, Deacon offered this spectacular insight:
We do not live in a place—this fallen world of ours—that has solutions all the time for political problems. The myth of progress—the “machine myth of progress,” as Paul Kingsnorth would have it—has fooled us into thinking that there is always a solution politically. This is something that a lot of Westerners simply believe to be true.
Amen. And I would say that the problem of political authority falls into this category of “problems to which there isn’t an obvious or immediate solution.” Still, I’m not too worried.
Students of history know that, occasionally, some nation will try to “evolve” from a monarchy into a republic. There’s Athens in the 6th century B.C. and Rome in the 4th century B.C. There’s Renaissance Florence and Cromwell’s England. Today, republics are more common. There’s France, China, Russia, and—of course—the United States.
Yet these experiments in non-monarchical government never last for more than a couple of centuries. And, frankly, they’re always incoherent. Long before Rome succeeded in defining its own “republican” ideals, it was transformed into an empire. Cromwell’s “protectorate” lasted for all of six years.
France has only been a republic for about 150 years. The American republic is almost 250 years young, but I don’t think anyone expects her to survive to her 300th birthday. Meanwhile—aside from the brief Cromwellian interlude—England has been a monarchy since the beginning of recorded history. Even if you start counting with Alfred the Great (as most historians do), the British Crown is well over a thousand years old.
We assume that, because we happen to be living in one of these republican interludes, republicanism is the new and everlasting normal. That, to me, is a fantastic example of chronological snobbery.
Remember, Machiavelli’s whole project was to advise the Italy’s various princes on how to manage the region’s inevitable transition to republicanism. If you’d told him that, by 1900, Italy would be a single peninsular kingdom, he would have laughed in your face. And yet—it was.
The only question left, I think, is this: “How will we know the king when he returns?” That, too, is fairly simple. We’ll love him.
On this point, too, I’m entirely in Tolkien’s camp. After all, this is the ideal of kingship we find in Lord of the Rings, with authority embodied in men like Aragorn and Théoden and Elrond. Many people are drawn to that ideal—especially at a young age, when the world still has an air of romance about it. Many more tear it down, especially when they get older, because they’re suspicious of ideals. Filial loyalty to a sovereign, they say, is dangerous fantasy.
I don’t really blame them. I wouldn’t believe it myself, if my fathers hadn’t passed down the love-songs they sang to their king—songs like songs, like “Will Ye No Come Back Again”:
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better loved ye cannot be.
Will ye no come back again?
And “Mo Ghille Mear”:
My gallant lad is my hero,
He’s my hero, gallant lad!
I found neither sleep nor happiness
Since my gallant lad went far away.
And it wasn’t only the Jacobites. Think of the War of the Roses. We have this hilarious anachronism, where we talk about the Lancastrians squaring off against the Yorkists. Now, tell me: what is Yorkism? How was the Yorkists’ platform similar to the Lancastrians’? How was it different? Draw a Venn diagram. Show your work.
Obviously, Yorkism isn’t an -ism like socialism or liberalism or anarchism. It’s not an ideology, a party platform. It’s a loyalty, a love.
The “kingship of love” isn’t unique to Christian nations. It’s intrinsic to monarchy. But that’s what makes it such a powerful icon. God gives the king a natural love for his people, and the people for their king. He does this (in no small part) so that, when He reveals Himself as our King, we’ll understand that He rules in love, and by love, and for the sake of love.
So, when we ask, “Who should be king?” we’re really asking, “Which ruler of men do I so love, and who so loves me, that we would live and fight and die for each other?”
This is what I meant in my last post when I talked about Cardinal Newman’s idea that true authority can only be recognized by our conscience. It reveals itself, not to the subtlest thinkers or the shrewdest debaters, but to the pure of heart.
I believe we’re living through an interregnum. And I believe that God will not send us a new king until our hearts are pure enough to know him. He won’t throw pearls before swine. He won’t restore this icon—this vision of His power and love—once we have eyes to see it.
Friends: After giving the matter much thought, I’ve decided that The Common Man will no longer be a weekly newsletter.
As most of you know, I have a nine-to-five job and a young family. I write in my free-time, of which (like all of you) I have little. And, more and more, I feel like I’m investing that time badly. The need to crank out a post every Friday has forced me to sacrifice quality for the sake of quantity. Frankly, you’re not getting my best work.
So, from now on, whever you hear from me, it’s because I feel like I have something important to say… not because I’m trying to fulfill my weekly quota. I’ll have the time to ruminate, research, and re-draft my posts until I’m 100% satisfied. Hopefully you will be, too.
Christ is risen! God bless you all.