Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Great Books, Pedagogy, and Hope

Great Books and the Great Conversation
About fifteen years ago I enrolled in the "Great Books" M.A. program at St John's College in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  It was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Much as I appreciate my undergraduate education, too often it rewarded me for concealing my ignorance and emphasizing what I already knew.  The problem, of course, is that my ignorance was thus shielded from the sterilizing sunlight of others' scrutiny and instruction.

Confessing Our Ignorance
Matthew Davis, my tutor and advisor at St John's, won me over to another way of viewing literature when, on one of the first days we met, he pointed to a passage in Plato's Republic and said "I have always wondered what Plato means by that."  Looking up at the class, he asked, "Do any of you have any ideas about what he might be trying to say?"

Mr. Davis is the first professor I recall who openly confessed his ignorance, and who thereby modeled what it means to open oneself to the instruction of a great text.  Not much has shaped my academic life as much as that.

Grappling With Classic Texts
As I have begun to mature into my own place as a teacher, I often think that this is the best thing I can give my students: not professorial and authoritative descriptions of texts, but an example of what it means to be a student.  I can try to be an example of someone who sits with texts and listens to them, grappling with them, like Jacob with the angel or like Menelaus with Proteus: persistently grappling with my superior and refusing to let go until I receive a blessing.  (Selah.)

For the last few years I have been seeking out and reading classic novels.  As I read them I feel like an apprentice architect touring buildings, looking not just at the outward form and function but looking for the supporting structure, trying to notice the decisions the artist made about what to include and what to omit.
Along the way, I have begun trying to write bits of dialogue, scenes, characters, and other elements of fiction.  I'm not trying to write a novel so much as trying to perform experiments the way high school science students do in labs: not to discover something new but to learn haptically, kinesthetically, experientially what the masters already know. I can't say that I've learned to write novels, so don't expect anything from me there.  But as I've paid attention, I feel I've begun to squeeze some blessings out of the books, including some unexpected ones.

I've noticed, for instance, that Craig Nova writes about the olfactory sense in a way that makes me notice aromas I never noticed before.  John Steinbeck has begun to make me care more about friendship, and about the people in front of me.  Harold Frederic has me rethinking my early faith, and this is helping me look ahead as I try to nurture it into a faith worth having.  Novels are helping me see the world differently.

So What Does This Have To Do With Hope?
I just finished Graham Greene's The Honorary Consul. Apparently this was Greene's favorite of his own works, and I can see why.  Like many of the really good novels I've read, it has left me thinking about a range of topics, and longing for someone to talk about it with.

Which brings me to hope.  I started reading Greene because Bill Swart, my friend and colleague, told me about how good Greene's novels are.  Bill was right about this, so I sought him out the other day to talk more about Greene.  We said too much to cover it all here, but Bill said something I can't bear not to repeat.  When we began discussing Greene's The Power and the Glory, Bill said "That book gave me hope that my own self-perception might be wrong."

If you know the novel, you know why, because you know how Greene's characters wrestle with being both sinners and saints.  If you don't know the novel, let me recommend it to you.

We Should Keep Teaching And Reading Fiction
I still have a lot to learn about novels.  I doubt I'll ever write one - or a good one, anyway.  But I'm delighting in reading them.  Perhaps that's why they matter so much: they delight us, and capture us.  When I'm in a good book I feel like I'm really in it.  I stop seeing words on a page and start seeing, with some inner eye, the world the novelist sees. 

And like all my other travels, journeys into fiction leave me a different person.  I see different possibilities, I see -- and smell -- my world differently.  I know it's important to teach young people to read non-fiction, but teaching fiction might be for them what The Power and the Glory was for Bill: a tonic for his soul, a sweet drink of hope that didn't just entertain, but that allowed him to envision his life, his work, and his purpose in an entirely new way.

Monday, December 24, 2012

The Idolatry of Fear

Let me start with some rough definitions: by worship I mean ascribing worth to something, to the point of making it a guide for one's actions.  By an idol I mean something that does not merit the worship it is given.

Now: when fear becomes the guide for our actions, we should ask whether that fear deserves to be at the center of our attention.

Because what resides at the center of our attention starts to shape us.  I don't mean it remakes us completely.  I mean that what we mentally caress and cherish will affect our ethical decisions.  The inward life has outward consequences.

Some fear is prudent.  It is prudent not to stand on mountain ridges or under trees during thunderstorms.  But if we live in constant fear of lightning, something has gone wrong.  Either we live in the wrong place, or lightning has taken too central a role in our minds.  Lightning becomes a monster, a demigod, a perpetual danger that stunts our growth and keeps our heads down.

The same could be said when we fear our neighbors: either we live in the wrong place, or we give too much credence to potential dangers and crowd out from our consciousness the potential joys of human fellowship.  So our neighbors become monsters and we become their victims, and we worship them as fearful gods whom we come to despise.

What is the antidote to the idolatry of fear?  Someone once said "perfect love drives out all fear."  If I can conceive of my neighbor not as a monster but as someone worth loving--even to a small degree--then I have begun to let love -- philia, agape* -- dwell at the center of my consciousness.  And I can begin to lift my head, just a little.

* Philia can mean "love," or "friendship."  The latter books of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics give a thoughtful treatment of philia.  Among his insights there, Aristotle says that where there is philia, there is no need for laws.  Like philia, the word agape can be translated as "love."  Charles Peirce used this word to describe the kind of love that seeks the good of the beloved (you can see more here and also in the Gospel of John) and distinguishes this from eros, the love that seeks the good of the lover.