That Letter Never Came

The masters of the world are born that way.

Andrew Carnegie started as a bobbin boy--a poorly paid and often dangerous job. The kind of job that gets mentioned in the chapters between the triangle shirtwaist fire and Sacco and Vanzetti, but right before Upton Sinclair rides in on a white stallion. Perhaps not exactly the hunger games, but an unlikely place from which to become a notorious industrialist and philanthropist (I mean books, seriously, if he actually loved the people he would have given them healthcare).

 Napoleon was a junior officer from a provincial backwater. His family were political dissidents, and thus he started his career with a dubious anti-connection: with doubts of his ultimate abject loyalty to the republic and the revolution. And yet he became the most formidable warrior king the world has ever seen. The greatest general since Sobutai. The greatest law giver since Hammurabi. The Corsican Ogre, deserving of the mythological appellation for his near supernatural prowess in the field or over a thank you note. 

There is nothing in their roots or early lives that would suggest future greatness. There are no fortuitous connections that were gifted to them. Both began in conditions that should well have ended in ignominy and obscurity, if not premature death. One could argue that each was presented with remarkable opportunity, but not one in a million with the same opportunities accomplished anything like what they did.

Was this because there were no other intelligent men with similar opportunities? No men of charisma, industry, and ability to contend? Of course there were. But they are not the names in our history books. Of course it is not just Napoleon and Carnegie in our history books, and theirs is not the only level of attainment worth calling out, but they are conspicuous archetypes that I wish to use for my point.

The example of the pauper who becomes king is far more striking for our purposes than, say, Alcibiades, who was born to wealth and power. But even consider Alcibiades. Was he the only man of Athens born to wealth and power? Were there not those of equal, and even greater, wealth and privilege? Did Socrates not have many other students? And yet Alcibiades is a force of nature; a host unto himself--a Feanor. One of the few born with more, but unlike Cyril the bulldog, born not only with a quadruple portion of original sin, but also of ambition, cunning, initiative, and fortitude.

And why should we be surprised? The parable of the talents, as well as the writings of St Paul, are explicit that the gifts given to us are not necessarily given in the same type and the same amount. Some of us are common middle class Americans of reasonable intelligence and ability, and some of us are John the Baptist, St. Paul, or Bach. It seems to me ludicrous to stubbornly insist that one has no natural betters, or assume that it is luck that makes the great. I've seen the reverse of this in my own small way.

Based on my experience with the executives I have worked with, I think that this rubric can be applied to mundane executive offices that we deal with day to day. My current boss is truly impressive. He is better at his job than I will ever be at mine, and I am not shabby. He is the kind of person I see with the ability to lead a company in 10 years; an impressive marriage of charisma, work ethic, and intellect. The CEO is obviously not the master of an industrial empire, or emperor of half of Europe, but there are degrees in these things after all. To one 5, to another 3. Each with talents in different measure.

At the expense of potentially making you mad, probably most fortune 500 CEOs are more excellent than anyone who will ever read this. That is not to say they are morally superior. Achilles does not throw down Hector because he is a good Christian, or even a good Greek. The United Health CEO that got shot in the back was probably really good at his job, and truly convinced--however erroneously--of the rightness of reducing claim payments for the good of the shareholder. Accident, malice, and favoritism are not enough, you have to have the spark as well.

And even then, what is a CEO against the mighty backdrop of history? They have their 3 talents to our one, yes, but not near the five, let alone possessing the riches of the master. How many of the powerful, impressive, charismatic people to carry the CEO title will be a Carnegie? None? Basically none.

What is my point?

Virtu can be honed, but the heights are reserved for a few. You see, unlike you and I, they got their metaphorical letter from Hogwarts at age 11. There are wizards amongst the muggles. I'm a muggle. You're a muggle. Most of us are muggles. And that is okay. It is not a bad thing to be a muggle. And just because we are muggles is no excuse to act helpless. It turns out the the great and the good (and even the bad) are still humans in need of guidance, advice and remonstrance. If anyone had the strength of will and eloquence to convince Napoleon that his brothers should not be kings we would all be eating frog legs and enjoying it. Even the squibs who are CEOs and get a glimpse of Dumbledore, for all their wealth and excellence, are motes in history. John the Baptist they are not.

What we can do is be virtuous. Thanks be to God, we are not called to be the captains and the kings of our time. We are called to be fathers, wives, children and workers, and in this there is room and more for virtue and greatness in our own small way, and our Father in Heaven delights in it. So focus less on what you could have been born to the right tribe under the right stars, or if you only got that Hogwarts letter. That is not what we have been given. We have been given to be parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and citizens. To play our small parts with faithfulness, diligence, and even joy.

Napoleon is in hell. His mastery on earth has come to naught. It turns out that political power, wealth, and influence are not an antidote against death, and all of our daydreams about having them are just proof of divine providence in not letting us have them. We may not always want to hear it in our fallen flest, but... 

Blessed are the meek.