Is loyalty too much to ask?

The current president of Germany, a largely ceremonial post roughly analogous to our Governor General, is Horst Kohler. His previous job was chairman of the IMF.

He succeeded Johannes Rau, founder of five universities and holder of nine honorary degrees, a veteran of 40 years of public service; who succeeded Roman Herzog, professor of constitutional law, former university president, and former president of the Federal Constitutional Court; who succeeded Richard Von Weizsacker, war hero, member of parliament, and mayor of Berlin, a man whose esteem amongst his countrymen as “conscience of the nation” rivals that of Vaclav Havel. And so on.

Mind you, German presidents are selected by a different process (a college of electors, made up of every member of the federal and state parliaments). But one finds a similar picture looking at recent appointees as Governor General of Australia, which include a former commander of the Australian Army, a former Archbishop of Brisbane, and a former Justice of the High Court of Australia. The same for presidents of Ireland (elected by direct popular vote): the last three were, respectively, a vice-chancellor of Queen’s University, a noted human rights campaigner and member of the Senate, and a four-term cabinet minister.

You get the picture. In each of these nations, the office of head of state, though limited in everyday practicability, is nonetheless considered an important one, to be filled only by the most respected and accomplished members of society. Though the methods of selection vary, the criteria do not. It isn’t just that the office retains certain important constitutional powers, for which a background in law and politics is considered useful. It is also that, in their symbolic role, they are expected to represent the very best of their societies: the qualities to which they aspire, the ideals they wish to instill. Dilettantes and timeservers need not apply.

They take these largely ceremonial posts seriously, because they take their societies seriously. There are lots of moral examples around, after all, at home and abroad. They needn’t be given formal state office. And yet in these countries they are. Why? Because they recognize there is a collective aspect to our lives. We give meaning and purpose to our existence in many ways, but amongst these is through our participation in society, combining our efforts with others in the construction of a moral order.

Indeed, all of our individual efforts are embedded in this structure. A society that believes in certain things -- justice, truth, itself -- offers reassurance that our individual lives have meaning, that others hold the same fundamental values, that we are not alone. To install a member of this society who notably exemplifies these values in a place of high honour reinforces us in the belief that the enterprise as a whole is worthwhile, even that there is something noble about it -- if not always in the reality, at least in the ideal. That’s an audacious thing to believe. But audacity is one of those things that make life worth living. Audacious societies make for audacious individuals; they are the arenas in which larger lives may be led.

What are those binding ideals, the values a society holds in regard, the qualities its head of state embodies? Again, they are remarkably consistent from country to country: integrity, compassion, wisdom, service. And, I suggest, loyalty. You may have heard a lot of that term lately, usually in some sneering reference to “loyalty tests” or “the loyalty police.”

The suggestion is of something shrill and shallow, empty salutes, cheap flagwaving. But loyalty -- patriotism is another word -- is not something that attaches to symbols, not deep down. They are simply the conduits, the lightning rods. When we talk about loyalty, we really mean loyalty to each other: a commitment to the common endeavour, and the ideals it represents; a willingness to sacrifice for one another, in extremis even to lay down our lives. When we are disloyal, it is not a flag we betray, but our fellow citizens.

That’s a lot to ask, but societies cannot function without it. Nor can it be conditional: I am loyal today, but I wasn’t yesterday and I might not be tomorrow. A “loyalty” that comes and goes depending on the price may be many things, but it is not loyalty. It is the opposite of it, in fact. A society whose citizens’ allegiance is contingent at all times on whether they profit from the exchange is doomed to fail, since everyone cannot always be a net beneficiary.

It is not possible to extract the same degree of loyalty from each and every citizen, nor would it be wise to try. But it is possible for a society to teach the importance of loyalty, to honour it as a virtue -- or at the very least, not to legitimize its opposite -- in the same way as we do other values. And the obvious starting point is at the top. It is not unreasonable to expect that the Governor General, as the Queen’s representative, should be unconditionally loyal to Crown and country, any more than it is unreasonable to expect that the Pope should be Catholic.

So I was wrong. It is not the office the government has mocked by appointing a woman whose loyalty, so far as anyone can tell, is divided between at least two countries and possibly three. It is us.