Richard Cory and Roland: Support and One to Grow On

For my previous post about the myth of money, I was reminded of the poem "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson in this morning's sermon.  As I said here, the knowledge of the failure of money to satisfy is not new (it seems to have always been a favorite reflection topic from the wise and poets). But this poem, published in 1897, is a stark example of the foolishness of longing for and envying wealth and what accompanies it.

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked,
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king--
And admirably school in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Also, looking forward to the next posts about growing our students in their likeness to Jesus:  I have been reading a good bit of medieval literature about knights and such to prepare for this year's history section at Veritas.  In the last weeks I've read Beowulf, King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and The Song of Roland so far.  (Also, thanks to my newly received present of bagpipes, Braveheart is on in the background as I work.)

Besides feeling like I am a complete wimp (I have yet to unhorse even a single squire, nevertheless a great knight), I was struck while reading The Song of Roland how masculine and yet emotionally passionate the knights are.  I have been reminded of David and Jonathan's character and friendship a great deal. There is a rawness, an unbridled passion that exists in these Men. A few examples of how this passion comes out in what we might even consider "feminine" or "un-manly" ways, weeping and swooning.

The count Roland, when dead he saw his peers,
And Oliver, he held so very dear,
Grew tender, and began to shed a tear;
Out of his face the color disappeared;
No longer could he stand, for so much grief,
Will he or nill, he swooned upon the field. (Stanza 164)

Clear was the night, the moon shone radiant.
Charles laid him down, but sorrow for Roland
And Oliver, most heavy on him he had,
For's dozen peers, for all the for all the Frankish band
He had left dead in bloody Rencesvals;
He could not help, but wept and waxed mad,
And prayed to God to be their souls' Warrant. (Stanza 184)

It is essential to keep in mind that just prior to and following these quotations, Roland, Oliver, the Archbishop, and Charlemagne are killing men by the thousands, in especially brutal ways; we are not talking about Scarlett O'hara's fainting spells due to heat.  In the Song's vision of Men there is no problem for these valiant, virtuous men to confess their sins (or receive confession in the case of the Archbishop), ride into battle, kill the enemy, refuse to concede or retreat even when vastly outnumbered, weep and faint for lost friends, and then ride back into battle.  These men were Men.

How will we make such men and women of virtue and passion as of old? How might we disciple and train up men and women "with chests", as C. S. Lewis calls them in The Abolition of Man? We could be cynical and say that such "Great Men" never really existed, that they are a fabrication of the poet and pseudo-historian, but something deep within us testifies to the reality of the men of old. The world and God need such People badly, but institutes of education all around us are training children up in a way that will squash anything that might lead in the direction of true Humanity.  Lewis remarks:

"And all the time--such is the tragicomedy of our situation--we continue to clamor for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more 'drive', or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or 'creativity'. In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful."

More soon.