Fighting the most important war
In the priesthood of Jesus Christ the deepest dimensions of the male psyche can be fulfilled to the highest degree.
History has shown time and again how priests have acted out their distinctively masculine ethos of creative and heroic struggle for the sake of the salvation of souls and the building of Christian civilization.
Contemporary society, now largely “enemy-occupied territory” under the control of the “Dictatorship of Relativism” will require similar men, alert to the tremendous crisis of our era.
Many noble souls are wide-awake to this, as Cardinal Karol Wojtyla discovered when he used to ask the seminarians of Cracow why they had decided to become priests:
“And often…I hear the answer that it was these times, times of great struggle between good and evil, times of the great struggle between Mary and Satan, that draw many…into the priesthood, so that they might participate in this great battle fully, decisively, in a defined manner…I will say even more: this battle runs through the heart of each of us. A priestly ordination, a priestly vocation, does not free us from the battle.” (Adam Boniecki, The Making of the Pope of the Millennium, quoted in George Weigel, The End and The Beginning, p.55.)
Both Lion and Lamb
Along with the convert to Christianity, C. S.Lewis, Ignatians asserts that this ideal of chivalry is “terribly relevant” and “certainly practical; practical as the fact that men in a desert must find water or die” (C.S. Lewis, “The Necessity of Chivalry”).
Why? Because chivalry is an ideal that assembles, focuses, and streamlines in one clear-cut vision the virtues that must characterize a man in his masculinity.
For the spirituality of the Society of Ignatians is keenly alert to the fact that the priest is built on the man ‒ and the man must be fully masculine, with the virtues that characterize man as man, in order that he be capable of fulfilling his duties as priest.
But the true warrior-priest must also have, rather paradoxically, those virtues of gentleness, modesty, almost shyness for peacetime.
As C. S. Lewis remarked in his essay “The Necessity of Chivalry”, the masculine ideal embodied in chivalry is “‘escapism’ in a sense never dreamed of by those who use that word; it offers the only possible escape from a world divided between wolves who do not understand, and sheep who cannot defend the things which make life desirable”.
Lewis had argued his point as follows:
“The word chivalry has meant at different times a good many different things ‒ from heavy cavalry to giving a woman a seat in a train.
But if we want to understand chivalry as an ideal distinct from other ideals ‒ if we want to isolate that particular conception of the man comme il faut [one should] which was the special contribution of the Middle Ages to our culture ‒ we cannot do better than turn to the words addressed to the greatest of all the imaginary knights in Malory’s Morte D’Arthur. ‘Thou wert the meekest man’, says Sir Ector to the dead Lancelot. ‘Thou were the meekest man that ever ate in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest’.
The important thing about this ideal is, of course, the double demand it makes on human nature.
The knight is a man of blood and iron, a man familiar with the sight of smashed faces and the ragged stumps of lopped-off limbs; he is also a demure, almost a maidenlike, guest in hall, a gentle, modest, unobtrusive man.
He is not a compromise or happy mean between ferocity and meekness; he is fierce to the nth and meek to the nth.
When Lancelot heard himself pronounced the best knight in the world, ‘he wept as he had been a child that had been beaten’.
What, you may ask, is the relevance of this idea to the modern world?
It is terribly relevant. It may or may not be practicable ‒ the Middle Ages notoriously failed to obey it ‒but it is certainly practical; practical as the fact that men in a desert must find water or die.[…]
The medieval ideal brought together two things which have no natural tendency to gravitate towards one another. It brought them together for that very reason.
It taught humility and forbearance to the great warrior because everyone knew by experience how much he usually needed that lesson. It demanded valour of the urbane and modest man because everyone knew that he was as likely as not to be a milksop.
In so doing, the Middle Ages fixed on the one hope of the world. It may or may not be possible to produce by the thousand men who combine the two sides of Launcelot’s character. But if it is not possible, then all talk of any lasting happiness or dignity in human society is pure moonshine.
If we cannot produce Lancelots, humanity falls into two sections ‒ those who can deal in blood and iron but cannot be ‘meek in hall’, and those who are ‘meek in hall’ but useless in battle ‒ for the third class, who are both brutal in peace and cowardly in war, need not here be discussed.
When this disassociation of the two halves of Launcelot occurs, history becomes a horribly simple affair.
The ancient history of the Near East is like that. Hardy barbarians swarm down from their highlands and obliterate a civilization. Then they become civilized themselves and go soft. Then a new wave of barbarians comes down and obliterates them.[…]
The ideal embodied in Lancelot is ‘escapism’ in a sense never dreamed of by those who use that word; it offers the only possible escape from a world divided between wolves who do not understand, and sheep who cannot defend, the things which make life desirable.”
(C.S. Lewis, Present Concerns, “The Necessity of Chivalry” (first published in Time and Tide, August 1940)