The man of conservative temperament believes that a known good is not lightly to be surrendered for an unknown better. Michael Oakeshott
Mankind has not passed through the Middle Ages. Rather mankind has retreated from the Middle Ages in reaction and rout. GK Chesterton
Our burden is heavy, but nothing to Christ’s. O there is a vast difference betwixt that which Christ bare, and that which we bear. We feel but the single weight of our own sins; Christ felt the whole weight of all our sins. John Flavel
There are some conversations that conservatives by nature do not want to have, conversations that push boundaries and ask questions for which there is no ready answer that fits inside the boundary markers.
True conservatism, a la Edmund Burke and Russell Kirk, admits of necessary change. But it is not in love with change, believing as it does that present society is an ecosystem that embodies equilibrium of a kind, based on hundreds and thousands of years of human experience. To upset that balance without an awareness of implications for the whole would be foolish.
The true enemy of conservatism is the social planner who knows exactly how things should work, even down to the math, and bows to no traditions. However, to keep that balance requires change, even as nature demonstrates.
So where do we go for that conversation? We first start by listening. To whom? The arts for a starter. As they say, art get there first. Artists in poetry, painting, sculpture, music, dance, etc. wonder aloud and almost genetically explore the “what ifs” of our species. Conservatives are not known for their arts sections in their magazines and newspapers, and nonfiction literature outside of science fiction doesn’t get a lot of press.
Second, we must listen to the aggrieved. Not so much those who pinch hit for them, but to them. Conservatives must clothe themselves in patience and restrain anger so that this story telling has the space to gain shape. I regularly listen to the Open Source podcast with Christopher Lydon. Sometimes I have to make myself listen. Lydon can be outrageous in his identity politics and his incapacity to be thankful, but he is the third rail for conservatives that though electrified and capable of frying my circuits makes sure that I am animated by voices I would not otherwise hear. I also choose to attend a church with diverse ethnicities. I am constantly reminded in worship and Life Groups that I cannot afford to pop off with ill-considered words, something I am more inclined to do if I hang only with those of my background.
Third, politically speak for those left out. If I know they are left out and don’t do anything about it, my conservatism is hollowed out and becomes primarily a tool for self-advantage.
Fourth, don’t be a shill for anybody. None of us is self-sufficient. We need community and support. But be aware of the dangers of group think that lets others do the deciding for us. Fifth, remember that conservatism is not an ideology but a set of principles. It is elastic more than it is programmatic, capable of adaptation and collaboration.
Humility is the mother of giants. One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak. GK Chesterton
Vietnam, Episode 4 – Mogie, a 19 year old who died in the fields of Vietnam in the summer of 1966 when I was entering my senior year of high school, is now an American story.
He insisted on going, and then entered into hell.
The summer he died I was working in ditches in the terrible heat and humidity of Virginia Beach laying water pipe for a construction company. I could hardly breath down in the ditches and my 130 pound frame took a pounding day after day after day. But it would soon be my senior year in high school. My worries were few and my future open with possibilities.
Very different from the ditches in Vietnam, where Mogie was emotionally falling apart, as he wrote, from the strains of war. Just staying alive and getting off the front line was his world. Courtesy of LBJ and “the best and the brightest” who served him.
The next summer I would be working in a dairy processing plant where it was always cold and sterile. That summer it wasn’t Mogie. He had been dead a year. This time it was the son of a man I worked with. He got the news at the plant. I remember the day. I can see the scene as clear as I see the room in which I now sit. The man went home and was gone for a time. When he came back, hardly a word was spoken about it all. He looked and acted broken, hollow.
I came back the next summer to earn next year’s tuition, and he wasn’t there. Don’t know what happened, where he went, how he was. It was like he was never there. I often wonder about him – often.
This triangle of father, mother and child, cannot be destroyed; it can only destroy those civilizations which disregard it. GK Chesterton