In Rosemary Sutcliff’s modern classic, The Eagle of the Ninth, she tells us the story of Marcus, a young centurion in the Roman military, who has been stationed in Great Britain. Upon arriving to take his first command, at a fort in the furthest frontier of the Empire, Marcus observed his new surroundings. He observed the rougher conditions of a fort so far from Rome itself, he noted a humorous and crude drawing of a centurion made by a disgruntled soldier, but of particular note was a rosebush which was not native to the area.
And in one corner of the officer’s courtyard, some past commander, homesick for the warmth and colour of the South, had planted a rosebush in a great stone wine-jar, and already the buds were showing crimson among the dark leaves. That rosebush gave Marcus a sense of continuance; it was a link between him and those who had been before him, here on the frontier, and the others who would come after.1
That rosebush became a powerful symbol of something very dear to Marcus, namely, that he was part of something larger than himself. He was part of something which preceded his coming and which would endure long after he had moved on. His place in the world made sense because he understood where he fit.2
To understand what has come before and how it has led to our part to play in the now, as well as to understand how we can shape things in the now for the good of those whom we will never meet, is of unspeakable value. Without understanding our connection to the past and our responsibility to the future we are all adrift on an ocean of purposelessness. Living in the now can be good. Living for the now is unspeakably misguided.
There is another great book which portrays the idea of continuance in a powerful way; The Two Towers by J. R. R. Tolkien. In the second book of The Lord of the Rings trilogy we read of Frodo and Sam as they are laboring to take “the one ring” to the evil land of Mordor. As they are taking a treacherous secret road into that accursed land, climbing “the stairs of Cirith Ungol”, they pause in their wearisome task to take a little rest and food. During this brief respite they begin to reminisce about the old stories of Middle Earth.
‘I don’t like anything here at all,’ said Frodo, ‘step or stone, breath or bone. Earth, air and water all seem accursed. But so our path is laid.’
‘Yes, that’s so,’ said Sam. ‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?’
‘I wonder,’ said Frodo. ‘But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’
‘No, sir, of course not. Beren now, he never thought he was going to get that Silmaril from the Iron Crown in Thangorodrim, and yet he did, and that was a worse place and a blacker danger than ours. But that’s a long tale, of course, and goes on past the happiness and into grief and beyond it – and the Silmaril went on and came to Eärendil. And why, sir, I never thought of that before! We’ve got – you’ve got some of the light of it in that star-glass that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?’
‘No, they never end as tales,’ said Frodo. ‘But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later – or sooner.’
‘And then we can have some rest and some sleep,’ said Sam. He laughed grimly. ‘And I mean just that, Mr. Frodo. I mean plain ordinary rest, and sleep, and waking up to a morning’s work in the garden. I’m afraid that’s all I’m hoping for all the time. All the big important plans are not for my sort. Still, I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales. We’re in one, of course; but I mean: put into words, you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book with red and black letters, years and years afterwards. And people will say: “Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring!” And they’ll say: “Yes, that’s one of my favourite stories. Frodo was very brave, wasn’t he, dad?” “Yes, my boy, the famousest of the hobbits, and that’s saying a lot.”’
‘It’s saying a lot too much,’ said Frodo, and he laughed, a long clear laugh from his heart. Such a sound had not been heard in those places since Sauron came to Middle-earth. To Sam suddenly it seemed as if all the stones were listening and the tall rocks leaning over them. But Frodo did not heed them; he laughed again. ‘Why, Sam,’ he said, ‘to hear you somehow makes me as merry as if the story was already written. But you’ve left out one of the chief characters: Samwise the stouthearted. “I want to hear more about Sam, dad. Why didn’t they put in more of his talk, dad? That’s what I like, it makes me laugh. And Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam, would he, dad?”’
‘Now, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, ‘you shouldn’t make fun. I was serious.’
‘So was I,’ said Frodo, ‘and so I am.3
In that powerful moment Sam and Frodo realized that they were the present characters in a drama which had been unfolding for ages and which would continue to unfold long after their own time. The stories of the past had shaped who they were now, and what they did now would shape the stories which would be told in the future. They could not be who they were without what had come before, and what they did now would affect what others would do and say in the future.
The realization of our own continuity with the past, and the responsibility we have to do what is good in the now for the sake of those in the future, is a critical part of understanding our purpose and belonging in God’s unfolding drama. We are shaped by forces and events in the past which we have had no control over. Though we have no control of what has been, we are certainly empowered by understanding what has taken been. Our knowledge of the past informs who we are, both as individuals and as a people (be it as a nation or as Christians or both).
Connecting with the past is critical for our sense of belonging to something greater. It teaches us that we are part of a continent rather than a lone isle. Looking at the past is like looking into a mirror that shows us who we are. Only this mirror does not merely show us what we look like; it shows us how and why we came to look as we do. A man informed of his past is a man best prepared to act right in the now and to shape the future well. We are receivers of an ongoing story and the stewardship of its current chapter has been passed to us.
A Classical Christian Education seeks to imbue this idea of continuance in the bones of its students. Students deserve to understand who they are and this comes by connecting them to their past. By knowing who they are they may become better laborers for the good in their own day. By becoming laborers for the good in their own day serve those whom they will never meet this side of eternity. Students need to have that same dawning moment of realization that Marcus, Sam, and Frodo had; that they are a part of an ongoing story.
When we read the holy Scriptures (from the unfolding story of creation, prophets, kings, the incarnation of our Messiah, and teaching and acts of the apostles) we should not merely see a story that took place long ago which has no connection with us. We should see it as the earlier chapters of the same story we are now helping to forge. It is the same story that Athanasius received and fought for and passed on to Augustine, and Augustine to Anselm, and Anselm to Calvin, and Calvin to Edwards, and so on until it came to us. It’s an unbroken and ongoing story of which we have received the present stewardship. We are to cherish and preserve the earlier chapters, to contribute for the good to the present installment, and to live with those in mind who will yet receive it from us. We have a real responsibility to those who are not yet; a joyous responsibility.
The story never ends (even if it culminates). It is that very fact which makes the story so meaningful. What we do now is partly determined by those who came before. What we do now will be inherited by others as part of their foundation. The parts we play in the story will echo in eternity. We are each of us small, to be sure, but we are a part of something unfathomably great. We are writing, under the Lord’s guidance, part of a story that will never end and our chapter in the story matters.
The best news yet, those who are in Christ will reprise their roles in the epilogue.
Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle of the Ninth (Square Fish, 2010), 10.
Of course, little did Marcus know that he was about to be dislodged from the only life he’d ever known and would have to reorient his understanding of how he fit into the world.
J. R. R. Tolkien, The Two Towers (London: HarperCollinsPublishers, 2022), 362-363.