We live in a decaying society of morality, which bugs me on a

Hear the cry of Bruce Buffer, spoken not as an idle boast but as a lament for our age: “We live in a decaying society of morality, which bugs me on a daily basis. I consider myself one of the last chivalrous white knights out there.” These words strike like a bell tolling at dusk, warning that the virtues which once held men upright are fading, that honor and integrity—once prized above all—have become relics whispered about but seldom lived. Buffer’s words remind us that though our age boasts of progress in wealth and power, its soul may yet be withering if morality is forgotten.

The ancients, too, feared such decay. Plato spoke of the cycle of states, where republics and kingdoms, when consumed by greed and pride, rot from within until tyranny or chaos takes their place. To him, the collapse of morality was the surest sign of decline, for when men cease to live by justice, truth, and honor, their society becomes a house built on sand. Buffer echoes this same fear: that we, dazzled by consumption and blinded by vanity, have forgotten the code that once made men strong and noble.

His invocation of the chivalrous white knight is no accident. In the Middle Ages, knights were bound by chivalry—not merely the wielding of swords, but the defense of the weak, the honoring of women, the keeping of one’s word even unto death. These knights, though flawed and human, symbolized an ideal that gave meaning to their power. Power without virtue was mere brutality; power tempered by chivalry became a shield for the innocent. To claim kinship with these knights, as Buffer does, is to declare allegiance to a timeless code in an age that seems to have discarded it.

Consider the story of Sir William Marshal, often called “the greatest knight.” Born to obscurity, he rose not only by skill of arms but by loyalty, humility, and honor. He defended kings, yet never betrayed his word; he grew rich, yet gave freely to the poor; he held power, yet ruled with fairness. His life was not without hardship, but his reputation endured because he embodied the spirit of chivalry. In him, we see that even in turbulent times, a man who clings to virtue can stand as a pillar when the world around him crumbles.

Buffer’s words are thus both critique and challenge. He laments the decaying society where honor is mocked, where selfishness is celebrated, and where men no longer feel bound by codes higher than themselves. But he also calls us to remember that the way of the knight is not dead so long as one man or woman still chooses it. Every act of kindness, every defense of truth, every sacrifice for the vulnerable is a spark that defies the darkness of moral decay.

The lesson is clear: do not measure your life by riches or applause, but by your faithfulness to morality. Be steadfast in truth even when lies are easy. Be generous even when greed is rewarded. Be protective of the weak even when the strong scoff at you. In these things lies the spirit of the chivalrous white knight, not in armor or in battle, but in the courage to live honorably in a dishonorable age.

What, then, must we do? In our daily lives, restore courtesy where rudeness reigns, loyalty where betrayal festers, and integrity where corruption thrives. Teach the young that to be strong without virtue is to be hollow, but to be virtuous is to wield a strength that endures beyond time. Stand as examples in your homes, your communities, and your work, so that even in a decaying society, the code of honor is not lost.

Thus remember: though the world may grow dark, one knight with a steadfast heart can light the way. Bruce Buffer’s words are not a boast but a summons—to live as guardians of morality, to resist decay with virtue, and to prove by our deeds that the age of honor is not gone, but waiting to be reborn through us.