On honoring honor …

Yesterday, a friend and I discussed the phenomenon that has accompanied death of Senator John McCain. It has been amazing, nearly causing a psychotic episode with at least one of his enemies. Overall, the outpouring of respect and admiration has been grandly comforting and reassuring. But why?

One can’t simply apply the usual explanations to this unusual situation.

We must, I think, avoid the temptation to under-symptomize our analysis, that is we shouldn’t seek one overlaying reason for the national outpouring of respect for John McCain’s life. It isn’t based on any uniform set of catalysts.

There are those who respected his military service but didn’t care for his political views.

There are those who scarcely know of his military service but resected his career as a senator.

There are those that believe he was following noxious orders when shot down but exhibited sublime heroism as a POW.

There are those who simply believe he was an orchid growing from a cesspool.

We could go on and on, and add greater complexity, but let me add a reason of my own to the mix.

First, I recall that someone once commented, I think it might have been Thomas Hobbes but I’m not sure and too lazy to research it, that “Our passions don’t change, just the objects of those passions.” Add to this my belief that our passions can either be good or evil “monsters of our Id.”

This reference to the film Forbidden Planet responds to my lifelong fascination with the science fiction films of my youth. In many, the Earth harbored subterranean monsters of cosmic threat and danger. Something (in the 1950s it was nuclear testing) unlocked these monsters, often mutations of insects or reptiles. The monsters rose to surface and threatened to destroy our way of life until some hero, often as not B-Actor John Agar, pronounced the ubiquitous phrase “It just might work.” He would then save us all from the monster-of-the-day.

In a social, but horrific, negative example, we witnessed, with the election of Barack Obama as president, such a seismic release of our national monster. We thought we were conquering the lingering rot of racial hatred. Alas, that monster only lay buried, awaiting a nuclear bomb-like explosion in the form of the election, to our highest office, of an African-American. In contrast to the movies, though, society was not united in defeating the monster and sending it back to the bowels of the earth.

No, evil people fed and nourished the monster. Worse, they set it upon their enemies and opponents, enlisting the services of a foreign enemy and the foreign owners of an influential television show. It worked. The monster grew and began consuming us. Would we survive? Where is our John Agar?

Perhaps we see hope. Can goodness lay buried in a subterranean tomb? Can some event loose it from its captivity? Can the better monster of our nature rise to fight the other?

Enter the phenomenon of John McCain’s death. Has it freed forgotten forms of decency and respect for honor that have lain buried for so many years? If so, how can we find ways to nourish it and make it grow? Can our salvation await us, birthed from the contemplation of this brave man’s life?

Perhaps it can if we realize that we are our own John Agars.