"Aeneas 2012": A Defense of Faith in the White House -- Matt K
Monday, April 19, 2010 at 5:24PM Matthew K
November 1, 2009
Great Books II
“Aeneas 2012”: A Defense of Faith in the White House
“The great conflict of the 21st century,” states Clinton administration secretary of labor Robert Reich, “may be between the West and terrorism.”
But terrorism is a tactic, not a belief. The underlying battle will be between modern civilization and anti-modernist fanatics, between those who believe in the primacy of the individual and those who believe that human beings owe blind allegiance to a higher authority; between those who give priority to life in this world and those who believe that human life is no more than preparation for an existence beyond life; between those who believe that truth is revealed solely through scripture and religious dogma, and those who rely primarily on science, reason, and logic. Terrorism will disrupt and destroy lives. But terrorism is not the only danger we face. (italics added)
Referring to the avowed Christianity of President George W. Bush, potential prez Al Gore condescends to call it, “A particular kind of religiosity…the American version of the same fundamentalist impulse that we see…in religions around the world.” This is the era of political sentiment toward Christian Presidents in which we now live. But if Reich is content to label the author of this essay an “anti-modernist” fanatic, the author will not object. If Reich deigns to shove the author into the “deistic” cubbyhole along with men such as Virgil, the author will remain silent, and probably blush. Certainly, he will attempt to live up to the honor, to which end he (the author) will now construct a thesis—a “View of the True American President”—on the shoulders of one of those “anti-modernist” (in fact quite ancient) Roman types, whose protagonist Aeneas is as good a Presidential archetype as one is likely to find.
Utilizing Virgil’s material is quite convenient when facing the wrath of the terrifyingly “modern” men of science such as Mr. Reich and Mr. Gore, for it allows one to “hide behind the toga,” as it were, of a Roman poet whose brilliance the “modernly enlightened” might nevertheless find formidable. For if the author of this essay may dare to employ a bit of the “reason and logic” of which he and the rest of the deistic lot are supposedly so devoid (vide supra), he can comfortably peek out from behind Virgil’s marble toga and explain that to attack the following thesis is to attack Publius Vergilius Maro. For that thesis—derived straight from the pages of the Aeneid—is that Aeneas’ “blind allegiance” on divine wisdom is a model which every American president ought to emulate.
The undeniable success which Aeneas ultimately gains recommends itself to the American president. Contrary to Mr. Reich’s faith in “the primacy of the individual,” however, Virgil’s protagonist only attains this success by devoting “blind allegiance” to the gods in three distinct ways. First, Aeneas’ primary thought is always for the gods—both in plenty and in peril. Second, he counts his personal passions less important than his divine responsibility as a leader. Finally, Aeneas holds fast to the will of the gods and to fate. In doing so, he does not hesitate to fight in order to perpetuate that will. Having “blindly” devoted himself to the gods in these three respects, Aeneas might be called the Roman “precursor” to a successful president.
Aeneas’ constancy to the gods in war—but more importantly in peace—is a virtue that American presidents might strive to imitate more assiduously. It is all very well for politicians to sniff condescendingly at “religiosity” when America prospers. But when suicidal fascists steer jets into metropolitan skyscrapers, their pious renditions of “God Bless America” are merely laughable. Aeneas, however, avoids this fickle tendency by worshiping the gods even when the Mediterranean couldn’t look bluer, even when “seas offshore / Looked promising and smiled back at the wind” (Virgil 67). For example, before he and the “Aeneadae” even embark on their epic journey, Aeneas first “made offering to Dione’s daughter, / My divine mother, and to other gods /Who give protection to a work begun…” (Virgil 66). His thought for the gods is especially commendable because it is not merely the frightened groveling of the oppressed, but a sincere gesture of reliance. And yet Aeneas takes his constancy one step further. Even when in no particular danger, even when heart-sore at the death of Pallas, even when “duty pressed him to give time / For burial of the dead,” he first “discharged his ritual vows / As victor to the gods” (Virgil 331). Though distinctly troubled in spirit, Aeneas deliberately recognizes that “By will of the high gods our flag is raised…” (Virgil 332). This species of devotion is sadly unheard of nowadays. What American presidents do not realize is that the United States quarter is double-sided. In other words, there is another side to the sternly heraldic eagle perched on the laurels of victory. On that other side, as the more perspicacious will have noticed, are the words “In God We Trust.” Aeneas realized the dual nature of constancy to the gods in a manner which the successful president will imitate.
Having demonstrated attention to the gods in time of plenty, Aeneas—like the wise American president—enjoys their attention in time of peril. When the Trojan fleet—the symbol of their liberty, livelihood, and destiny—“smoulder[s] and exude[s] smoke / As the great sluggish heat [eats] into hulls / And the contagion seep[s] all through the body,” the gods to whom Aeneas has pledged himself do not disappoint (Virgil 149). “Almighty Jupiter,” he pleas, “Grant that our fleet survive this fire, father, / Even now: at the last moment save the frail affairs of Trojans from destruction” (Virgil 149). The gods reply to their servant instantly.
Scarce had he spoken when a black storm broke
In wild fury with spouting rain, while peals
Of thunder shook the low lands and high places.
Down from the whole sky the torrents came
In dense murk, black as pitch, out of the south.
And ships were filled up, half-burnt timbers drenched,
Till all the fires were out…(Virgil 150)
One must wonder whether Mr. Reich’s “primacy of the individual” can accomplish as much. In the same manner as Aeneas, only the president who recognizes his weakness as an individual (in times of peace) can count on Divine aid when his weakness is evident in times of danger. Having done so, he will assuredly incur the wonder of nations, who will echo Iapyx’ exclamation that
No mortal agency brought this about,
No art however skilled, not my own hand
Preserves you, but a greater power, Aeneas.
A god is here at work. (Virgil 383)
Subjecting his personal passions to his divine responsibility as a leader, Aeneas again proves himself worthy of emulation. The best way in which to study this virtue is to compare him to his erstwhile lover, Dido, whom Virgil craftily maneuvers into the position of a “foil” to Aeneas. “Prisoners of lust,” both rulers initially succumb to their personal passions, just as several presidents who shall remain unnamed have allowed their personal weaknesses to compromise their duty as leaders (Virgil 102). During this interlude, progress in Carthage and the Trojan camp goes to seed: “Towers, half-built, rose / No farther; men no longer trained in arms / Or toiled to make harbors and battlements / Impregnable” (Virgil 98). Dido is a lost cause; she has already renounced all pretention of morality, permitting her reputation to stand “no longer in the way of passion” (Virgil 98). Aeneas, on the other hand, inclines his ear to the rebuke of Mercury, who asks “What have you in mind? What hope, wasting your days in Libya? If future history’s glories do not affect you, if you will not strive for your own honor, think of Ascanius, think of the expectations of your heir…” (Virgil 105). In other words, Aeneas checks his irresponsibility for the sake of future history, his honor, and his children. Accordingly, he “[fights] down the emotion in his heart” (Virgil 107) and pilots his intentions toward “the course heaven gave him” (Virgil 110). Aeneas, as a model of responsibility toward his nation and toward the gods, recognizes that his calling as a leader supplants his personal desires and “leave[s] that land of the sweet life behind” (Virgil 105). The outcome of his virtuosity is splendid: He successfully reaches Italy, and founds one of the greatest civilizations in history. Dido, in comparison, never renounces her irresponsibility and comes to a horrificly dramatic end. With these two cases in mind, one must wonder how many presidents have “wast[ed] their days in Libya,” allowing personal desires to cloud their judgment and compromise their divinely-bestowed responsibility to their own people. Virgil does not parse the distinction between Dido and Aeneas into vague discussions of “the primacy of the individual,” or “science, reason, and logic.” His opinion of irresponsibility or responsibility in leaders—including American presidents—is evident: The former leads only to destruction, while the latter leads to “the stars of heaven” (Virgil 12).
Aeneas sets the bar for the American president in a final manner: He tenaciously holds fast to the will of the gods—to fate. In order to understand this “vision” to which he clings so firmly, one must understand the prophecy which is the underlying current of the Aeneid. Possibly to appease those gods who “lost” the battle of Ilium, Jupiter promises Venus that “In Italy [Aeneas] will fight a massive war, / Beat down fierce armies, then for the people there / Establish city walls and a way of life” (Virgil 12). Eventually, the Father god fortells, Romulus will spring from Aeneas’ line and “call by his own name his people Romans” (Virgil 13). And though these will become “Lords of the world,” the road is not strewn with lotus: Aeneas finds that he must first encounter Scylla, Charybdis, the horrors of Hades, and even the hostile natives of Italy. Nonetheless, he sails after the fulfillment of his “covenant” as one might chase a rising sun. Even when “Burdened and sick at heart,” he manages to encourage his people by “feign[ing] hope in his look, and inwardly / contain[ing] his anguish” (Virgil 10). Exemplifying the true commander-in-chief, he rallies his men onward toward Italy by uplifting them not only with his own example, but with stirring addresses:
My men, who have endured still greater dangers,
God will grant us an end to these as well.
You sailed by Scylla’s rage, her booming crags,
You saw the Cyclops’ boulders. Now call back
Your courage, and have done with fear and sorrow.
…We hold our course for Latium, where the Fates
Hold out a settlement and rest for us.
Troy’s kingdom there shall rise again. (Virgil 10)
In the same manner, he who desires to be leader of America cannot view her as “just another country,” whose destiny is no different from any other’s, whose role in the world is mediocrity—whose fate is purely accidental. The American president must—like Aeneas—keep the divinely-willed destiny of his land in the forefront of his mind, as a land whose fate has always been that of a “city on a hill.” And, occasionally, he must be willing to put up a scrap for Her.
In the same way Aeneas, holding fast to the gods’ will, is willing to fight in order to perpetuate that will. However, he is first and foremost reluctant to war: “Never should I have come here had not Fate / Allotted me this land for settlement…” (Virgil 335). He is no pugnacious aggressor. Yet when a fight is inevitable, Aeneas does not shrink from it. And because he marches in accordance with the divine will, his purposes are invincible. Recognizing that “I am the man / Whom heaven calls” (Virgil 248), he feels no qualms in taking up “The helmet with its terrifying plumes / And gushing flames, the sword-blade edged with fate…the great spear, / And finally the fabric of the shield / Beyond description” (Virgil 252). This shield, forged on Vulcan’s anvil, seems a particularly apt metaphor for both Aeneas and his American counterpart. First, it is a defensive armament. Second, it represents the trust and accord of the gods. Third, it literally represents the future of the Trojan race in the engraved figues which adorn its circumference. In the same way, the American president can learn from this metaphor: His war must have a defensive motive at its root; he must feel that it is God’s will; he must realize that war represents the honor and future prosperity of his nation. Possessing these three facets of certitude, he will resemble “Lord Aeneas…aglow / With starry shield and armor forged by heaven…” (Virgil 373). The American president who emulates Aeneas in his (a) loyalty to the divine will and in his (b) willingness to fight in accordance with that will, shall experience success akin to the glory of the Trojans.
At this point, one might object to the whole comparison between (a) Aeneas and a Christian president, and (b) the Greco/Roman gods and the God. It is, of course, quite obvious that Aeneas is not a Christian, and that his “gods” do not exist (at least not in the form he would have imagined). Therefore, could it not be argued that drawing the present comparison between Virgil’s Aeneas and a godly American president is a heresy of sorts? Is it not like using the black market to obtain something “good?” Almost, but not quite. It is more like buying a copy of the Bible on the black market, which is a common practice in several regions around the world. In other words, one should never hesitate to “borrow” those Biblical principles which one might find even in secular literature. “Every good thing,” says James 1:17, “and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.” Christians need not fear to use these “good things” to their advantage and to the furtherance of the Faith. In the same manner, Augustine asks drily in his On Christian Doctrine: “Since rhetoric is used to give conviction to both truth and falsehood, who could dare to maintain that truth, which depends on us for its defence, should stand unarmed in the fight against falsehood?” (Augustine 101). The discipline of rhetoric to which Augustine refers in this rhetorical question was an overwhelmingly “pagan” art at the time, yet he recognizes its uses in giving “conviction to…truth.” So in the same way, Christians need not fear to extract moral and Biblical principles from Classical literature, which shares not a few common characteristics with the Classical art of rhetoric, if by that extraction they may also give “conviction to truth.” Therefore, it seems perfectly obvious that if by the use of pagan literature one may defend the concept of a Christian President from the acidic expectoration of men like Reich and Gore, one ought to. It seems quite plain that a shield is a shield, whether “Christian” or of Vulcanic make.
Thus, Aeneas’ “blind allegiance” to divine wisdom is a trait which every President of the United States ought to follow. Aeneas demonstrates this allegiance in three vital ways: He gives first thought ever to the gods, in peace and in danger; he sacrifices his personal desires rather than compromise his divinely-bestowed responsibility as a leader; he devotes himself—and his sword—to the will of the gods and to the fate of his nation. Whatever Mr. Reich may feel about the “primacy of the individual,” “anti-modernist fanatics,” and “religious dogma,” Aeneas’ ultimate success as a leader is indisputable. If one desires to see an example of “individual primacy,” he is quite free to examine Dido, who deliberately spurned all loyalty to the gods, all responsibility, and all sense of fate. But the examination will probably prove uncomfortable. Returning to a more constructive note, there seems to be no reason why the president who imitates Aeneas’ example could not enjoy success and prosperity akin to his. In fact, God promises prosperity to those leaders of nations who—like Joshua—“meditate on [the book of the law] day and night.” To those who follow Aeneas’ and Joshua’s example, God assures them that “you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have success” (Joshua 1:8). And yet there is one final gesture of devotion to Divinity which Aeneas demonstrates, and which every president ought to replicate—and it is, perhaps, the hardest of all. After his plea to Jupiter to “Grant that our fleet survive this fire,” Aeneas accompanies his prayer with the ultimate sign of faith. “Otherwise,” he adds, “do what now remains to do: / With your consuming bolt, with your right hand, / If I deserve it, blast me and overwhelm us” (Virgil 149-150). May God’s will be done toward America. But in the meantime, the President of the United States ought to emulate Aeneas in his wise leadership, and echo Lincoln’s explanation that: “We trust…that God is on our side. It is more important to know that we are on God’s side.”
Reader Comments (1)
Excellent paper, Matt. I've really enjoyed getting to know your mind these last three years. Keep thinking great thoughts!