Crafting a National Epic

America has no national epic. Nor mythology. Nor even a novel of particular distinction (hence the reason every author can aspire to write the Great American Novel). J. R. R. Tolkien was concerned that Britain had a similar lack of national mythology, so to rectify the problem he created Middle Earth, cobbling together pieces of Anglo-Saxon mythology, adding bits of English history and dashes from Roman, Celtic and other mythologies, and then giving the whole thing the original touch of a single author. If one were to undertake such a project for the United States, where would you begin?

In a previous thought experiment, involving the boys of St. Boniface College, I asked if America has a canon. The result included Homer, the Bible, and the works of Shakespeare, among other things. But none of those were written by Americans, you might say. Right you are. The curious thing about the United States is that it is overwhelmingly a nation of immigrants. So we should expect that our deep cultural roots run beyond our own shores. Indeed, even the Roman epic, the Aeneid, locates Roman origins in the Greek world, though it also draws upon elements of more local Italic history. It seems to me an American epic should draw on our indigenous pre-Columbian history, the history of the colonies and United States themselves, and the literary heritage of our primary parent cultures in Europe.

In addition to the works named above, where might an author of a great American mythological epic look? Virgil looked to Homer, so why don't we take a look at some other national epics? I turned to the Wikipedia page on the matter.

First there are the ancient roots: Homer, Virgil and Scripture. All these are fairly well known to most educated folks.

But then I started looked at more modern works. The great works of England are not so obscure: Beowulf, the Faerie Queene, Paradise Lost and Shakespeare. Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain) is not nearly so widespread, though known to students of early English history.

But the national epics (or contenders for that title) of the other British nations are lesser-known. For Scotland, John Barbour's The Brus - about Robert the Bruce and Scotland's fight for independence throughout the Middle Ages - and James Macpherson's Ossian cycle - a retelling/translation of Scottish mythology (pictured above left) - are the leading contenders. I'd never heard of either, but both look like fun (at least if I can get through the old Scottish of The Brus). Ireland's Táin Bó Cúailnge - the story of an ancient raid to steal a magic bull (pictured below right) - I have never read, but I remember shelving it at the city library; does that count? Of course some would argue that James Joyce' stream-of-consciousness Ulysses is the real national epic of Ireland these days. The mythical Mabinogion of Wales I am familiar with, but only because of some poking into Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles.

And what of the Germans, that largest ancestral group in America. I started to read the Nibelungenlied - the story of the hero Siegfried, his murder and subsequent avenging by his wife - one break, but did not finish. I have never picked up Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther, nor am I sure I want to; Romantic though I be, I'm not sure I want to read about the the sturm und drang of an angst-ridden young man.

Or what of the Norse, the bold folk who were the first Europeans to come to the New World? I think I own a copy of the Eddas somewhere, but I have never read it.

I was as lost among the various works that have tried to be or have been held up as some sort of American national work: Joel Barlow's Columbiad? Never heard of it. It doesn't even have its own Wikipedia page! Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass? It may be a collection of poems, but could make great source material for an epic writer. Alas, I confess I've never read it. Several works I read in part or whole in high school: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn I enjoyed; To Kill a Mockingbird was all right (though hardly epic, but perhaps I need to read it again) and I hated The Grapes of Wrath. I never made it through Moby-Dick (a second attempt may be in order) and I have never even picked up The Great Gatsby or Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha. But at least we've all heard of these.

So what does all this mean? Let me suggest several possibilities:

1. The epic, or at least the national epic, is dead. If people cared more we would have at least heard of these. In fact, if people cared, we'd already have one, right? But although England has several great contenders for the title, I think Tolkien was right that none of them quite synthesized England and its habits in the way that the Aeneid did for Rome. Work remained to be done, as evidenced by the run-away success of Middle Earth.
2. I have a lot of reading to do when I retire. Some day if I find myself independently wealthy and feeling inspired, perhaps I'll start writing that American epic. In fact, I might start sooner.
3. Perhaps we all have a lot of reading to do. This may have been an imperfect catalog of our roots as Americans, but was something of the sort. If we are so cut off from our own heritage we are culturally adrift, a dangerous thing.
   

A Christian Political Mythology

A while back I was reading a blog post and got to thinking about how we, as Christians, view the world. Is this life a place of exile or a pilgrim land, through which we merely pass? If we are merely passing through, we would do well to ignore the world, even hide from it, and focus on the end goal, our return (reditus or nostos) to the Lord. On the other hand, if this present life is a gift from the Lord, then it should not only be noticed, but cherished. How we understand the Christian response to politics is largely colored by our understanding of our present state. (I have recently been reading Lloyd Alexander's Westmark trilogy, which has perhaps fueled my interest in legitimacy, law, subversion and such questions.) So what exactly is our present state? I have been trying to piece together a few archetypal insights into what you might call a Christian political mythology. Here it is:


Once upon on time there was a great and glorious kingdom, ruled by an ancient and wise King. Though His dominions were vast and rich, one day He decided to create a new land for His kingdom. Yes, create. Somewhere in the distant seas He decided to raise an island. He drew up plans, dispatches the greatest engineers and landscapers in the kingdom and a lavish island world was made. Legend had it that some of the most spectacular wonders of this land were the product not of His servants' hands, but of the King's own mental powers.

On this island He chose to settle some of His leading citizens. But in spite of choosing only the finest of settlers, and in spite of the lavish world He had created for them, the island settlers revolted against the King. And so, He decreed, their island home would no longer be a place of privilege, but of exile.

As the years passed, the distant King became increasingly relegated to the stories of legend. There were rumors among the islanders that at some distant time His armies had come and smashed the greatest wonders of their island home. But many of them doubted that these stories were true. They began to doubt that there were other lands, a splendid capital city with streets of gold, or a great and benevolent King Who ruled there. Some of the islanders even began to doubt that there were such things as greatness or benevolence.

But then a very curious thing happened: the King returned to His island. At least, that is what certain small gatherings of people began to claim. First they whispered it in the dark, but soon some were shouting it in the streets. He had returned, showing Himself to those of His subjects who were still faithful. He assured them that greatness and benevolence and love were indeed real, and He was the embodiment of them all.

But then something as curious as the King's return occurred (or so the story was told). He left. The King left the island once again. He had ordered those willing to listen to live as His faithful subjects and then He had left. But not without promising to return again (and this time, He said, there would be no confusion: He would come in power and might with all the royal armies). Moreover, He promised that those who remained faithful citizens of the kingdom, who proved themselves in the midst of this rebellious land, would be taken with Him back to His capital city, where they would rule with Him.

But what, the faithful asked, were they to do in the meantime? Should they seize control of the island, making war on their fellow islanders? Many doubted that had been the King's intention. Indeed, from time to time secret messages would be smuggled back and forth between the King, on the mainland, and His faithful subjects on the island. Though He exhorted them to love one another and remain faithful to Him, He never spelled out exactly how the island should be governed. While a handful of the islanders proclaimed themselves to be in open rebellion against the King, most simply doubted His existence. Some even stated publicly that they wished there was a King beyond the seas, but - alas - they were convinced there was none.

Some of the small number of open rebels, denouncing the tyranny of the King, demanded a government of the people, a democracy. The vast majority, doubting there ever had been a King, did not see themselves as rebels, but nevertheless thought this a good idea. Could they too, the faithful wondered, enter into such a government? Or would it be treason, a betrayal of their beloved King? Some said they should have no dealings with rebels. Other insisted that by sitting in council with the doubters, perhaps the faithful could win them over. And, after all, the King had left no governor to rule the island in His stead. Was it really treasonous to form a democracy, which might try to govern according to His will, in His absence? Some insisted the faithful should band together in one corner of the island, where they might live according to the King's laws, abandoning the rest of the island to the rebels. Other thought the King would want them to extend His reign across the whole of the land.


This, it seems to me, is the basic place of the Christian: we live in a world which was once a gift, became an exile, but has been transformed into a rite of passage, a preparation for some great reward and responsibility to come. How do we, Christians, live in the midst of a secular world? Do we abandon the political realm to the secularists? Do we try to seize government to impose virtue upon the unbelieving? Can we compromise with those do not share our moral views?

Insofar as the world is in rebellion against God, we are subversives in such a world. But we are also restorationists, traditionalists, loyalists trying to defend the monarchy of Christ the King. We are revolutionaries, insofar as we are called to change the world. But we are also pilgrims, ever called to remember that something greater lies beyond this world, and in our future.

These, it seems to me, are the conundra of Christian political philosophy. Relating them in a single story does not solve them but it does, I hope, at least bring the questions into slightly sharper focus, by bringing them into relation with one another.


This post first appeared on the Quincy House blog a few days ago.

Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve

The other night one of my former roommates was watching The Two Towers while I was doing some research in the next room over. I ignored it for a while but eventually gave up on that endeavor and joined in on the viewing. Afterwards he and I got to talking about various 'historical' questions regarding the world of Tolkien and soon we were pouring over appendices and family trees and such things.

That, in turn, reminded me of an interesting idea that came to me some days before. Do you ever wonder what the world would have been like had death not entered the Garden? Many of the Church fathers argue that Adam was established by God as king over the whole world and I see no reason to disagree. After all, he would always be the oldest man living, with the most experience caring for God's creation. But think about it: as time progressed, not only would Adam's sons come along, but also his grandsons and great grandsons and so on, for countless generations. And each new generation would have known all of the preceding generations. (You might contend that this would soon get to be an awful lot of relatives to know, and that is true, but when your life has no end, you've got a lot of time to get to know them too.) I can just imagine wise old Adam traveling about the world, visiting his sons, his vassals, who might rule whole continents, and their sons and meeting the latest members of the 1,000th generation. Wild, eh?

(A brief aside here: some might contend that this whole vision is based on a literal reading of the first few chapters of Genesis, which might in fact only be a myth, meant metaphorically. I am willing to consider that possibility, but if that is the case, I think we first need to plumb the depths of the myth before we try to decide what it means. We are far too quick to jump to interpreting the myth, before we even think of its full implications.)

So I had this whole notion in my head of how countless generations would have lived side by side had death not come to the Garden, when I realized that this will actually happen in the life to come. Many pious traditions contend that Adam and Eve, after being the last to leave Purgatory, will take their rightful places of glory in heaven. Not only shall we be there, but also (God willing) shall our fathers and grandfathers and all the generations between us and our first parents. Isn't that wild? There are a few Civil War veterans among my ancestors and I often forget that they were actually real people and (perhaps even more amazing) I am of their own flesh and blood. But then to think that I will actually meet them, and spend eternity with them, and with all generations to the dawn of time... Wow! (Yes, it is possible that there will be a few gaps in that line, that not everyone will be in heaven, though that hardly makes the idea less stunning. Besides, von Balthasar, I think it is, holds out hope that no men will go to hell. I don't know his line of reasoning and I doubt I could understand it, but I'm willing to hope and trust in God's saving power.)

So now, when I read in the Chronicles of Narnia that we are Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, I sit up and take note.


This post originally appeared on December 20th, 2006 on the Quincy House blog.