Why Christian Monarchy Makes Sense

Professor’s Bookshelf #10: A defense of untimely truths

Charlemagne Crowned Emperor, Charles Rochussen, 1878–1881

Let me begin today’s post with the famous and never-fading words of the heroic Vendée nobleman François Athanase Charette de la Contrie, before he was shot by the French revolutionaries:

For us, our nation is our villages, our altars, our graves—everything that our fathers before us loved. Our nation is our faith, our land, our king. But what is their nation for them? They want to destroy our customs, order, and traditions. Well then, what is this country, without love and fidelity, that defies the past? This country of disorder and irreligion? For them, ‘nation’ seems to be nothing more than an idea; for us, it is a land. They have it in their brain; we have it under our feet, it is much more solid. Their world—which they claim is new, and which they wish to find while omitting God—is actually as old as the devil himself. Yet we are said to be the henchmen of old superstitions. But compared to these demons that are reborn from century to century, we are the youth, gentlemen! We are God’s youth, fidelity’s youth!¹

Then consider these seemingly unrelated words of Charles Coulombe from his book The Compleat Monarchist (Os Justi Press, 2025):

Is it not odd that Nazi, fascist, communist, and capitalist alike all opposed these corporatists [who were striving to implement Catholic Social Teaching]? One might be tempted to say that destruction of the unique Catholic social and economic vision was the one thing that united both Allies and Axis in World War II. (112)

Regardless of what side they fought on, no modern nation wanted the Catholic Church or its historic monarchies and aristocracies to thrive in Europe. Have you ever noticed how the wars of our era seem habitually to target not only actual or would-be enemies, but also traditional ways of life, which are seen as enemies to “progress”?

I imagine many readers of Tradition & Sanity became skeptics of modernity long ago—and there is every reason to be such. You might well be wondering: “If our ancestors were right about God, the Church, the family, beauty, virtue, holiness, and so many facets of life, could they not have been right about politics too? Is our preoccupation with democracy, as if it’s the best form of government or even the only just form, a mistake—perhaps even a serious one? What can be said, after all, on behalf of kings, princes, and nobles?”

It is providential that two recent books have appeared, perfectly suited to answering these and a host of related questions: the one I just mentioned above, Coulombe’s Compleat Monarchist—an exhilarating tour of the entire world of monarchism, in both theory and practice—and a collection of essays edited by Joseph Shaw called In Defence of Monarchy (Angelico Press, 2023), which focuses more on the British Isles, but contains an abundance of material on liturgy, ritual, and politics that stretches far beyond the UK.

In today’s post, I will be quoting from Shaw’s collection, as including Coulombe’s would make the post too lengthy. Plus, Coulombe is a well-known author and I suspect his book is better known, so I’d like to draw attention to the more obscure title. I will organize quotations under the names of the several authors, indicating pages for those who wish to look things up in the book when they pick up their own copies. —PAK

Sebastian Morello

A document or a flag will never be able to inspire the affections among a people that monarchy can effect in a nation. The reason for this is that a monarch is a person, and so the species of political affection in this case is interpersonal affection (this sort of warmth towards a nation embodied in a person was on full display to the whole world during the national mourning and funeral ceremonies for Queen Elizabeth II at the end of 2022). A man may pledge allegiance to a flag or an emblem or a written document, but such things have not pledged allegiance to him, and he may sensibly remain suspicious of any interpreters of such symbols.

In the case of monarchy, one may not only be moved by loyalty to the monarch but reasonably believe that the monarch is moved by loyalty to his subjects. Given that it is precisely by interpersonal relatedness that we flourish (which is why we form political societies at all), a government centred on this deepest aspect of human nature is surely incalculably more robust than any government that centres loyalty on an impersonal object. (56)

The point of Bagehot’s bipartite distinction of the efficient and dignified aspects of government is as follows: any successful government must be capable of moving the nation’s members both from without and from within. The nation’s members are moved from without by means of law and regulation and the coercive enforcement of such. The nation’s members are moved from within by patriotic feeling and national loyalty. There is a tendency among modern people to dismiss the latter as being of no importance, seeing the dignified aspect of government as mere “window dressing” and treating efficient government as the only aspect of any consequence. This is a grave mistake.

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When a government cannot rely on the loyalty and patriotic feeling of its citizenry, it quickly depends more on coercion to maintain order and civil stability— the procurement of which is its job. As a sense of patriotism wanes, so too must the state grow increasingly invasive and intrusive, as it can no longer rely on its citizens to be “moved from within” for the good of the nation as a whole. This is largely why conservative governments prize patriotism and treat excessive statism as unnecessary if patriotism is properly fostered, and why liberal and progressive governments peddle national repudiation whilst escalating the emergence of a highly coercive surveillance-state. Admittedly, there is a liberal tradition of nationalist emotion—especially exhibited in the revolutionary upheavals of 1789 and 1848—but such nationalism was always a means to increased statism and political expansionism. The liberal anthropology of atomisation will always remain in tension with patriotic feeling; and thus, for the liberal, order and stability will be maintained by Leviathan alone. No such dilemma, however, arises from the conservative’s communitarian anthropology.

The English can take pride in the fact that the dignified aspect of their government isn’t founded on a mere “noble lie.” Rather, it principally comprises an ancient sacral monarchy, regenerated with each monarch, beginning with an anointing from a lord spiritual (a bishop)—a venerable institution that has come down through the ages with the destined rise of an island people. Through centuries of oscillating between violence and negotiation, they have found a beautiful way to belong together, and every facet of their government’s dignified aspect testifies to this work of providence.

As the philosopher Simone Weil pointed out in The Need for Roots, the French are condemned to conjure up a sense of loyalty from a lie— and hardly a noble one— that theirs is a nation born from an “Enlightenment” dream of universal fraternity, freedom, and equality. Theirs, they must hold, is a nation that sprang forth from a piece of paper as if by magic, whose sorcery required nothing more than the crushing of religion and the murder of their own people— a small sacrifice for the miracle of “the Republic.” The English, thankfully, must subscribe to no such fiction. Indeed, the English remain one of the few peoples left on earth who may claim to live under a noble truth, albeit one hampered by accumulated Whiggish myths which now have the upper hand in their land’s current condition of decay. (56-58)

Paradoxically, then, the dignified aspect of government possesses an efficient power of its own— one, however, that is subtle and tacit— on which the efficient aspect of government depends to prevent it from overstepping its own mark. It is because conservatives believe that their country should be not just orderly but “lovely,” and that its lovability prevents the encroachment of the sort of surveillance state that has now emerged to frustrate our lives, that they are prone to become incensed in the face of unworthy and corrupt ministers and the decline of accountability. (59)

Sohrab Ahmari

We are wired, it seems, for ritual: a pattern of words and actions characterised by formality, rigidity, and repetition. (64)

Peter Day-Milne

The greater number of the new prayers [used for the coronation of King Charles III] combines with their blandness to weigh down the rite of investiture, making it stodgy and slightly boring rather than inspiring and poetically enchanting. (96)

The above example also illustrates another way in which the writers of the modern prayers have spoiled the symbolism of the coronation rite. Like bad novelists, the new liturgists tell rather than show. Eleven times they announce that something is a “ensign,” “sign” or “symbol,” but without helping us to picture the symbolism that they baldly assert. In contrast, the old rites show rather than tell. Only twice do they call something an “ensign,” and never do they call anything “sign” or “symbol”; but they help us to see the symbolisms of the rite clearly. (98)

The Church’s liturgical practice thus reminds us that one’s state of life structures one’s pursuit of salvation: to be a saint, a married man must be a good husband, and a bishop must be a good bishop. He cannot become a saint by excelling in some other role. (99)

Without justice, there can be no mercy. The modern prayers make the rites self-defeating. Just as talk of punishment is removed from the modern prayers, so, one might add, is talk of victory…. It is hard not to detect a very modern cultural cringe about manhood in these changes: a refusal to acknowledge the role of the manly virtues in life. One also detects in them a very modern, very Rousseauian reluctance to acknowledge the existence of wicked people; one senses the editing pen of someone who talks about “challenging behaviours” conditioned into “individuals” rather than sins committed by men and women. The Catholic, of course, will acknowledge that even the worst sinners can be saved; but he will reject the feckless modern refusal to impute moral responsibility to people; a refusal which ultimately lies behind our modern reluctance to talk of evil-doers. He will reject the depressing cringing blandness of the modern prayers. (102-3)

In their tone-deafness to concrete symbolism and their downplaying of sacerdotal mediation, they embody an already outmoded materialism; in their squeamishness about evil, they embody a self-indulgent Rousseauism that is the death of order; in their attempt to unpick good rulership from salvation, they express (one suspects) the tired political liberalism of the composers. (104)

James Bogle

Within a family, it is the parents who must govern. For similar reasons, monarchs are called, in law, parens patriae or “parent of their country.” Just as the ancient Roman word for “emperor,” that is, Imperator, meant “commander,” the office of any leader must, like that of a responsible commander, be one of accepting responsibility, taking charge, and serving those whom one leads, sacrificing selfish desires for the greater common good. That is the ideal of Christian leadership and monarchy, the supreme example being that of Christ the King, the “servant-King” who took the fullest responsibility for His people, even for their sins and even unto death upon the Cross.

This, indeed, is the theological meaning of the Crown of Thorns (as royal crown), the Reed (as royal sceptre) and the seamless garment (as royal alb), symbols of service, sacrifice, and redemptive suffering. In turn, they are consciously and symbolically reproduced in the ceremonial vesture and regalia of kings and emperors alike, such as the alb, stole, cincture, cope, sceptre, orb, and crown. For the Roman emperors, this latter was the crown of Charlemagne, worn by them for a thousand years from AD 800 until AD 1806, when Napoleon Bonaparte effectively dissolved the Holy Roman Empire, the central cynosure of Christendom, the social kingdom of Christ upon the earth.

Further, monarchy, particularly Christian monarchy, is a form of government that is centred upon a family at the apex of the social organism, not merely upon a group of individuals who have, by fair means or foul, managed to claw their way to the summit of political power. Monarchy has the added advantage that, unlike a republic, it is forever young since, being based upon a family, it will have new and younger members every time a royal princess gives birth to another child. This tends to give monarchy a more human quality than other forms of government.

By contrast, a republic do es not produce children in a line of succession but only a selection of often ageing and greying politicians, of no particular background beyond the world of narrow party politics, who have merely managed to attain high office by outwitting, outlasting or outmanoeuvring (sometimes corruptly) their opponents. Higher and nobler feelings of loyalty, self-sacrifice, and duty fit naturally towards one’s monarch and sovereign, as to a father or mother, but perhaps not quite so well towards a mere politician who has managed to climb the greasy pole of political ambition. (119-21)

Unlike a presidency which, when the occupant dies in office, necessitates an inevitable, and exploitable, time lag between death and a fresh election, a monarch is immediately succeeded by his or her heir, in accordance with the hereditary principle. This, a principle that many see as anachronistic and outdated, is, in fact, a powerful and important bulwark against tyranny and a potentially vital protection for democracy. Indeed, this combination of the two principles— hereditary and democratic— may be the best constitutional safeguard for any state. (125)

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The prayers for the Emperor were no longer said after 1918. They were adapted for rulers in general in 1956. They were changed again following the Second Vatican Council, becoming a prayer pro omnibus res publicas moderantibus (“for those in public office”) and placed right at the end of the intercessions, behind the prayers for unbelievers and atheists, signifying the complete lack of importance that a clericalist and Modernist like Archbishop Bugnini now attributed to the laity and to the lay temporal power, in stark contrast to Pope St Gelasius I in his blueprint for Christendom, Famuli Vestrae Pietatis, of 494. (129n20)

Conversely, many so-called “modernisers” today so often think that modernising must necessarily mean abolishing colour, pageantry, and tradition, replacing it with the monochrome, the dull, the oppressive and even, occasionally, the outright tyrannical. They even pretend to call this “progress” or “progressive.” It is, in reality, neither. (135)

Joseph Shaw, “On Monarchy and Tradition”

I start with human— that is, non-divine— traditions because the anti-traditional attitude is so powerful in secular culture that even some Catholics who accept the importance of divine Tradition with a capital “T,” as a source of Revelation in Catholic theology, can be dismissive of any other kind of tradition. It is one thing (they might say) to acknowledge that Jesus Christ revealed things to the Apostles which were not written down in Scripture, which therefore come to us by Tradition; it is quite another to feel obliged to do (or believe) things simply because some fallible humans in the past happened to choose to do (or believe) them. And that is what human traditions are, are they not?

Well, not quite. I would define traditions as those practices which have been performed by our predecessors (ancestors, predecessors in the Faith, previous incumbents in the roles we fill, etc.), which (a) have been continued over time by successive generations (not necessarily without breaks), and (b) have been regarded as significant, and are therefore (c) regarded as binding to some degree on the present generation.

Thus, it is likely that we feel that we ought, in some sense, to continue various inherited cultural practices, such as Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas trees, attending Shakespeare plays, and so on….

These things have value because things characteristic of a cultural group are markers of identity. They give members of the group shared experiences and a sense of belonging, both synchronically, with other living members of the group, and diachronically, with previous generations…. Traditions teach and manifest values, and one’s induction into traditions is at the same time an induction into the values of the group whose traditions they are. A group with shared traditions, accordingly, is a group with shared values. Human beings do not absorb values as abstractions, but as embedded in what they do. (138)

If they [political traditions] are highly abstract, without ceremonial or culturally resonant appendages, it will be more difficult for them to serve as centres of solidarity. (140)

This [idea of the King as God’s “vicegerent”] might sound like a recipe for arbitrary rule, but properly understood, it is the opposite. The kings of the Old Testament were subject to God’s law and were held up to the mark by priests and prophets. A leader who claims to be the delegate of the people, on the other hand, can commit all kinds of crime in their name: whether because, as he claims, they desire it, or for their benefit.

What prevents any constitutional leader from ruling tyrannically is a sense in which there is a higher law, something that limits his actions, that ensures both fair play in politics and justice to ordinary people. This obligation, ultimately, is to God, and is expressed more clearly by a head of state who is appointed by God, as it is generally expressed, than one appointed by “the people.” The religious symbolism of monarchy, therefore, should not be seen as the co-option of the Church to serve the State, but as the State’s subordination to principles of justice which are ultimately interpreted by the Church. Stalin and the French revolutionaries were perfectly happy to co-opt the Church; what they did not want to do was to obey the Church.

It remains true that a wide range of constitutional arrangements are compatible with the Faith and have historically been blessed by the Church. The point is not that monarchy is the only legitimate form of government, just that it embodies in a uniquely clear way a Catholic understanding of political authority. (140-41)

To repeat, the temporal/spiritual distinction is not a secular/ religious distinction in the modern sense. There is no non-religious sphere of life in premodern thought: the word “secular” in this context simply means “pertaining to the saeculum,” the current age, as opposed to eternity: which is to say, “temporal things,” or “the world.” The distinction is, rather, between those means and goals which relate to eternal things, and those which focus on temporal things. God’s will is normative for each, and God is the only source of authority for either. If we want to know who mediates divine authority for a political community, considered as a political community, it is the secular ruler. The kind of ruler who symbolises this best is a single, lifelong ruler, wholly taken up in a role conceptualised as sacred: that is, a king. (167)

They [Protestants] would rather fine music, or subtle intellectual endeavour, or complex hierarchy, if they must exist, had no place in evangelisation. It is inappropriate to place any of these things between the individual believer and the Almighty, because as created things they are affected by sin and associated with human pride. Of course, created things cannot be entirely evicted from religious affairs, but this general tendency of thought leads to radical simplification, in music, art, and architecture, and to anti-intellectualism and radical egalitarianism. The Protestant hope, as Newman expressed it, was that a purified religion would be “much more powerful,” because the extraneous elements are holding it back…. On the contrary, the Catholic instinct is that the means by which, in the circumstances of our own history and traditions, God’s authority is mediated to us, is worthy of veneration precisely because God is worthy of veneration. (171–73)

Whereas the radical Protestant wanted to remove the monarch to see God more clearly, his modern descendant has come to see the flattening and erasing of all hierarchy and complexity as an end in itself. The glory goes not to man, and not to God, but is simply expunged from the world. (174)

1. European Conservative, Winter 2024, p. 109; also https://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2016/05/the-world-they-say-is-new-is-as-old-as.html.