This week we continued with The Song of Roland and delved into the topic of the violence in the story.

Those familiar with this story will note partial similarities to Homer’s The Iliad, and perhaps these similarities were intended by the author. Both stories have extended battle scenes with vivid descriptions of the violence, with limbs cracked, armor pierced, heads split, and so on. Both stories have their authors and their characters exulting in the carnage. Here is just one example:

Gradonies was bold and brave, a strong intrepid fighter. Now he finds himself faced with Roland. And though he has never seen him before, he recognizes him by his proud face, noble body, his regard for bearing, and he is filled uncontrollable dread. He tries to escape but fails, for the Count strikes him with such force that the blow splits the helmet, nose piece and all, cleaves through his nose, and his mouth, and his teeth, and his whole body and the coat of linked chain mail encasing it, the gilded saddle, both sides of the silver saddle tree, and deep into the horse’s back. He kills them both. Nothing could have saved them.

And another, this one involving not just a ‘regular’ soldier, but a high ranking clergyman, the Archbishop Turpin:

Nothing can turn [the Archbishop] aside: he charges against Abisme and strikes him on the shield studded with amethysts and blazing rubies, which a devil in Val Metas had given to the Emir Galafres, who in turn presented it to Abisme. Turpin strikes him; he does not spare him; and after one blow I don’t think the shield was worth a farthing. He chops through the body from one side to the other and kicks the corpse onto the bare ground.

The French say: “That was a noble stroke! The cross will not suffer while the Archbishop is there to protect it.”

We might expect such similar language from Homer’s tale of pagan Greece, but The Song of Roland fashions itself squarely within a Christian worldview, and means to communicate a Christian message. We might understand as Christians the need for violence at times. But violence is necessary only when something is wrong in the world. Some might assume that if we must fight, we should conflicted about it and have a heavy heart about our task. Above all, we certainly should not revel in it.

Whatever you may think about this sentiment (and it is one shared by many moderns, Christian or otherwise), it certainly was not one shared by the author, and we should consider why.

I remember years ago my next door neighbor had her grandson living with her on the weekends for a few months. He was in training to be a police officer. When I asked where he hoped to be assigned, she replied, “He wants to be right in the thick of it in downtown Baltimore. He wants to be where the action is.” Naturally this attitude worried his grandmother, but she said most of his academy friends felt the same way.

Some of you may know that one of my sons recently graduated from his training to be a firefighter, and is now working regular shifts at a local station. His first week was slow. Sure, a few interesting things happened on some other shifts, but his shift had it easy. This meant some downtime at the station, and some light days. You might think that a job where not much happened might be appealing, but my son was frustrated. In his view, he didn’t become a firefighter to play cards. He wanted action.

One can have two perspectives on this:

1. These are the wrong attitudes to have. If one wants “action” as a police officer or firefighter, then one “wants” crime and property destruction to occur. The world would be better without crime or fires or medical emergencies. We do have to deal with them, but we should not be “excited” to deal with such things.
2. Since crime and fire do exist, we need to have people trained to deal with them. If we need to deal with them, wouldn’t it be better to enjoy the work? Is fighting crime or fire something one can do to the glory of God? If so, they should ideally find joy in the task. Probably, the cop who enjoyed the job is more likely to be better at it than someone who hated it.

One might think that Roland as a character belongs to the past, but not necessarily. He is a type, although one we don’t see much of anymore. In CS Lewis’ autobiography Surprised by Joy he recounts his experiences meeting different kinds of soldiers in the trenches of WW I. He writes,

Perhaps the best of all us was Wallie. Wallie was a farmer, a Roman Catholic, a passionate soldier (the only man I ever met who really longed for fighting) and gullible to the [highest degree]. The technique was to criticize the Yeomanry. Poor Wallie knew that it was the bravest, the most efficient, the hardest and cleanest corps that ever sat on horses. He knew all that inside, having learned it from an uncle in the Yeomanry when he was a child. But he could not get [his words] out. He stammered, and contradicted himself, and always came at last to his trump card: “I wish my Uncle Ben were here to talk to you. He’d tell you.” Mortals must not judge but I doubt whether any man who fought in France who was more likely to go straight to Heaven if he were killed. I would have been better employed cleaning his boots than laughing at him. I may add that I did not enjoy the short amount of time I spent in the company he commanded. Wallie had a genuine passion for killing Germans and a complete disregard of his own or anyone else’s safety. He was always striking out bright ideas at which the hair of us subalterns would stand on end. Luckily, he could be easily dissuaded by any plausible argument that occurred to us. Such was his valor and his innocence that he never suspected us of any but a military motive.

Charlemagne’s battle cry is “Mountjoy!” and his sword is named “Joy” (as translated from the French), so we know his approach. Some might assume that Charlemagne was a war-mongering sadist, but the story will not allow for this interpretation. Among other things, there are the last lines in the book, which read,

The King has gone to bed in his vaulted bedroom. God sends St. Gabriel to visit him, and he says, “Charles summon all of the hosts of your Empire and enter the land of Bire by force of arms, and rescue King Vivien, for the pagans have laid seige to him in the city of Imphe, and the Christians there are pleading and crying out for you.”

The Emperor does not wish to go.

“Oh God,” says the King, “my life is a burden!” And the tears run from his eyes and he rends his white beard.

We should not read this as Charles contradicting himself or his life’s work. Rather, a faithful reading of The Song of Roland causes us to examine our own life critically, just as Charlemagne had to do with his.