"Premature Originality"

“One of the surest ways of being original nowadays, since that is what we are all straining so anxiously after, would be simply to become a well-read man (in the old-fashioned sense of the term), to have a thorough knowledge and imaginative appreciation of what is really worthwhile in the literature of the past.  The candidate for the doctor’s degree thinks he can afford to neglect this general reading and reflection in the interests of his own private bit of research.”

In today’s academic world, you must find a niche.  It won’t do to write generally about revenge in Hamlet or Nature in British Romanticism.  To be heard you must be an expert on your subject, and you must find an angle adopted by no one else.  Half of your career may be spent in search of this angle, but that’s the cost of a seat in the learned circles.  At the end, if you’re lucky, you will be crowned eminent scholar on the feminist echoes in some obscure poem. 

In Literature and the American College, Irving Babbitt warns of the dangers of specialization.  He distinguishes between assimilation and production.  College, he writes, is intended as a time of reflection, during which students assimilate the learning of the ages.  Graduate school creates the productive scholar, who contributes his own thoughts and writings.  If one skips the reflective stage and enters immediately on graduate-level productivity, “one may shine as a productive scholar, and yet have little or nothing of that humane insight and reflection that can alone give meaning to all subjects” (128). 

Since our undergrad situation does not fully emphasize assimilation, Babbitt suggests another degree between undergrad and doctoral—a new degree focused on reading widely.  He proposes a program which, through broad and intelligent reading, promotes discipline in ideas.  Maybe our Master’s degree would fit this description, but even the M.A. is more research-focused than Babbitt intends.  Students should become well-read, as he defines it: “to have a thorough knowledge and imaginative appreciation of what is really worthwhile in the literature of the past.”  The proposed program’s instruction would emphasize the “relationship between literature and thought.”

An abrupt transition to grad school, writes Babbitt, “encourages the student to devote the time he still needs for general reading and reflection to straining after a premature ‘originality.’”  Entering my senior year, I find myself with a basis in some fields and in certain eras of literature.  However, I could use another year or two, at least, to fill in the gaps in economics; the history of ideas; logic and rhetoric; medieval, classical, and French literatures; and literary criticism--to name a few subjects!  Of course, I must be selective.  I can’t know everything and know it well.  But I've often felt that I should read more of the classics before I’m ready to narrow down my interests.  What constitutes readiness, though, or should I say “well-read-ness”? 

I’m supposed to be looking for graduate programs, but I hesitate to just choose one of the fields I like right now.  Maybe I’m using Babbitt as an excuse, but it sure feels like I’m “straining after a premature originality.”  My inclination to postpone grad school could spring from a number of motivations, bad and good:
-fear of the unknown
-a valid need to fill in gaps of knowledge
-an irrational desire to be perfect at something before I even begin
-the hope that a path of study will magically unfold with unquestionable lucidity…at a later date
-laziness (have you ever tried to fill out those applications?)
-lack of clarity about the significance of literary study

These uncertainties, and especially that last factor in the list, prompted me to write this blog.  And it’s helping—I’m airing concerns and, even better, surveying them in the light of past thinkers like Babbitt.  I really don’t think I’ll end up in an obscure, narrow topic in graduate school, because I can choose my course of study.  But choosing a preliminary field, and deciding whether to plunge in or delay, are very relevant issues.

Babbitt on Scholarship

"The final test of the scholar must be his power to penetrate his facts and dominate his impressions, and fuse them with the fire of a central purpose."

                                                                       -Irving Babbitt

Reflection as Creation

In Literature and the American College (1908), Irving Babbitt defends "the humane endeavor which it is the special purpose of the college to foster--that effort of reflection, virile above all others, to coordinate the scattered elements of knowledge and relate them not only to the intellect but to the will and character; that subtle alchemy by which mere learning is transmuted into culture.  The task of assimilating what is best in the past and present, and adapting it to one's own use and the use of others, so far from lacking in originality, calls for something akin to creation."

Nockian Notes

My study of Albert Jay Nock has come to a close.  Though Nock wrote about eighty years ago, his critique of American educational theory applies today.  Below is an assortment of particularly timeless ideas:

• The new system focuses on training, not education—professional knowledge, not formative knowledge.  Nock does admit that the university system is admirably well-organized for training!  It simply is not educational.  Therefore, it’s not a university.

• Nock questions the assumption that “a big school is a great school.”  Are we judging by quantity or quality?

• He critiques “grab-bag education.”  In traditional education, students had to stretch themselves to complete a proscribed program.  Nowadays, the curriculum stretches to fit the students, including those who are incapable of harder courses.  Nock is flabbergasted at the number and variety of easy electives offered at institutions of higher learning.  I suspect he would not approve of my Organic Gardening, Jogging, and Swahili electives!  (To tell the truth, I’m beginning to wish I had taken Latin, Ethics, and some other courses.)

• In a liberal university, the burden of education used to rest fully upon the student; now it’s up to the faculty to help “get us through” quickly.

• Our system leaves little room for discipleship-style education, i.e. students who go to study under a diversely talented great man (common in the Middle Ages).  Now the university program itself tends to carry more importance than the professor you seek.  And professors have to be specialists; they don’t need a grasp of the Great Tradition.

• Bad news: There’s no way to fix the university problem.  Because of strong interests attached to the current system, our society will not relinquish the bad theories.  Nock's little book is rather pessimistic, don’t you think?

• Good news: The Great Tradition stands alone.  We can’t hurt the liberal tradition by our neglect; we can only benefit ourselves in seeking it.  Listen to this… “We can do nothing for the Great Tradition; our fidelity to it can do everything for us.  Creatures of a day, how shall we think that what we do or leave undone is of consequence to that which abides forever?” (155) 

Liberal Education

Bloom called it the “Great Books” approach.  Newman called it “enlargement of mind.”  Nock uses this phrase: the “Great Tradition.”  The Great Tradition aims to inculcate certain views and demands, “which take proper account of the fundamental instincts of mankind, all in due measure and balance.”  Fundamental instincts include those of workmanship, the intellect, religion, beauty, poetry and manners (54).  This approach is based on the reality that human nature is unchanging, and it promotes balance among all parts of knowledge (remember, that was Newman's concern).

Tracing a typical pre-twentieth century student’s education, Nock reveals the details of liberal education.  After reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic, the student was immersed in Latin, Greek and algebra.  He also read some classical history, geography and mythology.  In college, he studied the range of Greek/Latin literature, math up to calculus, physics & astronomy, a brief logic course, and an overview of English linguistic history.  Now, this list makes me stop and ask:

What’s so great about Greek and Latin?

Or, why are classical studies central to a liberal education? Nock answers:

The literatures of Greece and Rome comprise the longest and fullest continuous record available to us, of what the human mind has been busy about in practically every department of spiritual and social activity….This record covers twenty-five hundred consecutive years of the human mind’s operations…. Hence the mind that has attentively canvassed this record is not only a disciplined mind but an experienced mind; a mind that instinctively views any contemporary phenomenon from the vantage-point of an immensely long perspective attained through this profound and weighty experience of the human spirit’s operations. (52)

So Greek and Latin were not studied just because of blind tradition: classical learning is more significant than we moderns realize!

Note from an English major:  By critically reading Greek and Latin, a student would learn how to analyze literature.  As a result, Nock said that English courses were practically non-existent!  Since you knew analysis, you could easily apply the principles to your own culture’s literature.  For Nock, university English courses are fluff; they’re made to cater to “ineducable” students.  And, even though I’m an English major, I see his argument.  No offense taken, Mr. Nock.


>Sappho


What’s so great about the Great Tradition?

  All progress in history has been made through clear, mature, profound thinking.  On the other hand, we’ve all seen the horrible results of wrong-headed policies and movements.  The development of “right thinking” in individuals is the long-lasting societal benefit of the Great Tradition.  Bottom line: Ideas have consequences, so let’s make sure influential people are acting on the right ideas.  (For more reasons behind liberal education, see my Newman post.)

The Theory of Education in the U.S.

Published in 1932, Nock’s small volume addresses the unsuccessful educational overhaul that had taken place around 1900.  The classical, liberal system had been replaced by our utilitarian, democratic system—and everyone agreed that the effect on students was not entirely desirable.  While his contemporaries were “incessantly tinkering” with new methods, Nock proclaimed bluntly that the problem was in the underlying educational theories.  Until these were replaced, the system would never work.  Nock’s work is pertinent, because the same theories still reign today.

Nock identifies three faulty theories—rather, they are the distortion of the three ideas listed below.

1.    Equality: All people are equal, so all people should go to school or university…right??  Nock argues that not all people are capable of higher education.  He distinguishes (rather harshly!) between the “educable” and the “ineducable.”  (The educable person “is one who gives promise of some day being able to think”! p.124)

2.    Democracy: A falsely democratic attitude resents superiority.  This attitude demands that educational standards be adjusted down to the lowest common denominator in society. Further, giving the people “what they want” supersedes an objectively good curriculum.

3.    Literate Citizenry: Good, honest government depends on the voters being well informed, so they must know how to read.  But really, Nock claims, “everything depends upon what he reads, and upon the purpose that guides him in reading it” (43).  Literacy is not an automatic road to well-judged public opinion.

The core attitude that allowed these theories’ popularity is the determination of parents that their children should have better opportunities and as much education as possible.  This is a great motivation…but remember:  The wrong thing for the right reasons is still the wrong thing. 

Thinking "Christianly"

The comment conversation on a previous post, Relativism and Belief, provoked relevant thoughts that I want to share in a bona fide post.  They relate specifically to my question: What does it mean to be a Christian scholar?  I emphasized the importance of a comprehensive, objective worldview, i.e., one that consistently addresses all areas of life.  For me, that means a Biblically-based view of reality.  I didn’t consider the question “How?” until a reader commented about her experience of trying to forge a Christian worldview (thanks Leah!).

I think Leah hit on the difficulty that most Christians have: how to think "Christianly" about certain topics.  The practical outworking of studying literature, philosophy, etc., is challenging, because our thought is greatly affected by what we inadvertently hear or randomly read.  And what we hear or read today has a good chance of being anti-Christian or (almost as bad) watered-down Christian material.

Education through conversation is the remedy. I comprehend more in the word “conversation” than a face-to-face chat.  Walter Scott observed, "All knowledge is gained by communication either with the dead, through books, or, more pleasingly, through the conversation of the living."  Wise Christians in past ages wrote about the subjects we study, and wise Christians today address these topics deeply and pertinently.  But how are we to discover, choose among, and “converse with” these thinkers?  I’ve often sighed in agreement with Solomon: “Of making many books there is no end.” (Eccl. 12:12)  There’s no end of reading them, either!  After all, time is fleeting.  Who has time to read—much less decide what to read?
 

Biblioteca de la Real Academia De La Lengua, Madrid, Spain

We need wise people in the educational arena: curriculum designers, book reviewers, worldview training designers (there are a lot of good ones), perceptive scholars, and excellent TEACHERS.  These living people can help me to navigate among the material out there.  At the same time, I need to approach them critically—trusting God's Word, not just one person or organization.  If I do find an unaddressed gap or deviation in a certain subject’s literature, perhaps God is calling me to write about it.  Perhaps I am the one who will smooth a perilous bump on the road of truth.  Perhaps I am the one who will guide others to view honestly some thread of reality's tapestry.  And maybe I am the teacher who will help a student understand an important idea, or hand him a book that enflames his passion for truth. 

The studious, “conversational” approach to a comprehensive, consistent worldview is not an easy road or an obvious one. It is the long, arduous, worthwhile challenge of Christian education.  Yes, worthwhile.  I often think that I’d like to homeschool my future kids: if I can help them develop a solid, comprehensive faith, that is the most valuable educational foundation I could pass on to them.  Faith that informs every area of life is rock-solid, God-honoring, and joyful.  One can securely build life and eternity upon such faith. 

Knowledge Its Own End

One of my central questions is “How is liberal education relevant in our world of action?”  I wanted to answer this by looking at how I can make a lasting, positive difference through a life of intellectual learning.  But Newman prompted me to look first at a non-utilitarian angle: knowledge as an end in itself.

Why would I study knowledge just to have knowledge?  In Discourses V-VII, Newman’s two main points are 1) liberal knowledge is a good in itself and needs no other commendation; and 2) liberal knowledge is useful to the individual and society.
The first point is the subject of Discourse V: Knowledge is its own reward, “sufficient to rest in and pursue for its own sake” (78). Education is not utilitarian job training; it is something deeper.  Since this point is hard to wrap my mind around, I list Newman’s supporting arguments below:

• It’s not a new concept.  That liberal learning is inherently valuable has been “the common judgment of philosophers and the ordinary feeling of mankind for ages” (78). For example, Cicero makes the following argument:  After our physical and familial duties are provided for, we are next attracted to “the search for truth.  Accordingly, as soon as we escape from the pressure of necessary cares, forthwith we desire to see, to hear, and to learn; and consider the knowledge of what is hidden or is wonderful a condition of our happiness.”

• Refinement and enlargement of mind, or intellectual cultivation, result from liberal learning.  Liberal knowledge is not learned for an exam and then forgotten.  Rather, “it is an acquired illumination, it is a habit, a personal possession, and an inward endowment” (85).  This illumination comes from philosophical knowledge, i.e. knowledge acted upon by reason and concerned with general ideas, as opposed to mechanical knowledge, i.e. very specific, utility-focused know-how. 

• Liberal education is an unchanging principle that will stay as constant as human nature.  Because of the constitution of the human mind, we are satisfying a direct need of our nature in the very acquisition of liberal knowledge (78). 

• Our nature depends on external aids to reach its potential, and knowledge is the principal aid.  “Every thing has its own perfection,” writes Newman, and each thing’s “best” is worth pursuing. Why do we adorn our lawns with flowers?  Or decorate our homes?  After all, “beauty leads to nothing beyond itself,” but we value it nonetheless.  We recognize physical beauty, and even beauty of our moral being, i.e. virtue.  Likewise, there is a beauty, or perfection, of the intellect.  The intellect should strive toward perfection, as well.  The idea that we are reaching toward ideal perfection is an Aristotelian concept.  Aristotle wrote that all objects and people have a telos, or end: the perfect development of the object/person.  “We perfect our nature…by adding to it what is more than nature, and directing it towards aims higher than its own,” concludes Newman (93).  Education is the “more than nature” ingredient that moves us toward our telos.  Liberal education is to the mind what light, colors, and composition are to a beautiful painting, like this one by Monet.

So, intellectual cultivation—or liberal education—is an end in itself, as witnessed by the concept’s longevity and the inherent delightfulness of learning.  I have experienced this delight: in the past, I dismissed it as lagniappe, not quite a reason to devote my life to learning.  If I listen to Aristotle, though, that delight is an indication of human nature developing toward the highest intellectual potential.  Further, liberal learning is “the search for truth.”  To grasp truth and develop beauty of mind—if that’s not a significant objective, I don’t know what is.

After dwelling on the inherent qualities of liberal knowledge, I must bring in Newman’s second point: liberal knowledge is useful.  Sure, it doesn’t have to be useful, but liberal knowledge is a good, and “the good is always useful” (124).  To choose one way of articulating the concept, liberal education is an atmosphere of intellectual cooperation among learned men, in which the student learns the great outlines and principles of knowledge.  Though the student pursues in-depth only a few areas of learning, his professors and his knowledge of the intellectual tradition guide him in understanding the whole picture.  He develops a “philosophical habit” and a cultivated mind that fit him for any role.  The greatest practical result is a general culture of mind that prepares a person for any calling, and which has been a characteristic of virtually every great man.

"Democratic Blindness"

Newman calls liberal learning “a gentleman’s knowledge.”  He emphasizes that, for knowledge to be liberal, it is pursued only for its own sake.  If I understood Newman correctly, when knowledge is pursued solely for use, it ceases to be liberal.  In other words, utility is not the measure.  Instinctively, I feel that this is true.  I know firsthand the delights of learning and its influence on my personal development.  But there’s still a disconnect: liberal knowledge seems like a selfish pleasure when considered apart from its uses.  The concept of “useless,” gentlemanly learning has an aristocratic flavor—a bad taste on my American palate. 

According to Allan Bloom, many Americans share this reaction.  In a section titled “Tocqueville on Democratic Intellectual Life,” Bloom identifies the core of my attitude: in the context of today’s inequality and poverty, pursuing the useless seems wrong.  He writes,

The democratic concentration on the useful, on the solution of what are believed by the populace at large to be the most pressing problems, makes theoretical distance seem not only useless but immoral.  When there is poverty, disease and war, who can claim the right to idle in Epicurean gardens, asking questions that have already been answered and keeping a distance where commitment is demanded?  The for-its-own-sake is alien to the modern democratic spirit, particularly in matters intellectual.  Whenever there is a crunch, democratic men devoted to thought have a crisis of conscience, have to find a way to interpret their endeavors by the standard of utility, or otherwise tend to abandon or deform them. (250)

This devaluing of learning’s intrinsic worth is a “peculiar democratic blindness.”  Bloom observes, “The deepest intellectual weakness of democracy is its lack of taste or gift for the theoretical life.”  The university exists to cure this weakness.  In a democracy (unlike an aristocracy), the university is often the ONLY center for the cultivation of the mind.  This institution is necessary to preserve “freedom of the mind” in our society, and the true openness to knowing, by emphasizing the permanent questions and the classic works that addressed those questions.  Rather than providing us life experiences that we could have in society, a university should provide experiences we generally don’t have in a democratic society.

Here, then, is one answer to my concerns: By encouraging the theoretical life, liberal learning fills in the weak areas & blindness that I, as a product of my society, have acquired.  In the next post, I’ll look more carefully at Newman’s argument for knowledge as an end in itself.

Newman and Aristotle

 If you’re a writer, you may have noticed a certain phenomenon: your writing style, to a certain extent, adapts to that of the author you are currently reading.  Newman’s most frequent allusions are to Aristotle, so he evidently pored over the philosopher’s writings.  Newman not only quotes Aristotle’s ideas, but he imitates his style.  Like Nicomachean Ethics, The Idea of a University is structured in chapters and numbered subdivisions.  Both authors very logically present their arguments or questions, canvass every aspect, define words, anticipate objections, elaborate on examples, methodically establish points, and summarize frequently.  In the case of me reading Newman, I’m afraid I absorbed some of Newman’s nineteenth-century wordiness without mastering his logical, Aristotelian organizational style!

Relativism and Belief

Now that theology is effectively excluded from the university, what does it mean to be a Christian scholar?

Newman establishes that theology concerns the fact of God.  Religion is not just a custom-based institution that satisfies human emotional needs.  In the mid-nineteenth century, this may have been a little easier to argue than it is now.  The secularization that Newman feared has been fulfilled.  In academia, religion is based on feelings, not knowable truth, and thus has lost its intellectual validity.  Because God has been declared dead, theology is no longer knowledge.  It is simply a useful sentiment.  Our universities have adjusted accordingly:  To fit the restructuring of a godless reality, each university discipline has adapted new theories and explanations of human behavior, the mind, the family, politics, creativity, and culture.

As a person of religious convictions, I am certain of God’s all-powerful existence, but I am undeniably influenced by the culture’s demeaning view of religion.  I have begun to feel confusion about being a Christian scholar, seeking knowledge of the Truth amidst a general consensus that theology is not valid knowledge.  At times, I feel like two people: the scholar who delights to seek knowledge within a framework informed by God’s truth, and the uncertain scholar who is intimidated by the loud voice of modern method.

The university, which is based on relativism, automatically sets up a conflict for those who espouse objective beliefs.  Because I believe God IS, I also believe he has established truth, and it is a high, honorable aim of man to uncover that truth.  However, in academia, interpretation and mutual appreciation have deposed truth.  If I claim to know the right view, I am insulting all the other views.  Relativism and objective truth are incompatible…and thus I am incompatible with modern theories. 

How does this conflict manifest itself?  In the field of Literature, classic approaches are overwhelmed by modern critical theory.  Rather than objectively studying the significance of a text, we formulate relativistic interpretations.  Instead of looking at how literature speaks to the big questions (What is truth? What is man and how should he live? What is his relation to the divine?), we use narrow theories to examine/psychoanalyze what the text says about the self, “otherness,” female empowerment, sexual tension, etc.  If I interpret a text from the stance of knowableness, I am asserting obnoxious objectivity in what Allan Bloom calls “a gray network of critical concepts.”  For instance, in my independent study project on the American Puritans, who attracted me by their real, stalwart faith, I am hesitant to show my Christian-based admiration too openly.  If I did that, I might be suspected of sanctioning the Puritan sin of intolerance.

In The Closing of the American Mind, Bloom discusses the modern academic opposition to firm belief.  He argues at length that the modern virtue of “openness” has closed our minds.  To be “open” is to equally value all cultures, religions, ideas, etc.—no one is “right” or “wrong.”  After all, history tells us that wars and other evils were caused by people who claimed to be right.  Bloom writes, “Relativism has extinguished the real motive of education, the search for a good life” (34).  Relativistic openness creates an attitude of indifference among students.  If it doesn’t matter which ideas you choose, why bother to learn any? 

The alternative to the “openness of indifference” is the “openness that invites us to the quest for knowledge and certitude” (41).  If things can be known—if deep, important questions can be answered—then education is water for the thirsty.  Relativism-based education is like wandering in a desert—when there’s a bewildering sandstorm and you’re parched.  There’s no hope of finding your way, because there is no destination.  Eventually, hopeless thirst recedes into apathy, and the traveler stops looking for a path.  The soul waits to die.  Religious belief gives me a destination, solid footing, spiritual and mental sustenance, guidance on the pathway, and (so to speak) an ever-ready oasis of refreshing water. 

Religion is consigned to the realm of opinion, but I believe it is truth.  Because it is truth, knowledge of God merits a place in that grand quest for truth: the university.  Perhaps you can see why I sometimes feel torn into two people—and experience guilt for feeling that way.  I’m still confused about what to do with the situation:  Since there’s no reconciling relativism and belief, is there still a way to seek grounded knowledge, while engaging with today’s academic conversation?  Is this a war of ideas, or does it call for skilled avoidance?

Theology as a Branch of Knowledge

Newman asks the question: “Now what is Theology?” A little too simply, perhaps, he answers: “By Theology, I simply mean the Science of God, or the truths we know about God put into system.” To elaborate, “Behind the veil of the visible universe, there is an invisible, intelligent /Being, acting on and through it, as and when He will.” He then proceeds with a beautiful exposition of God’s attributes, summarized in this quote from Dicourse II:

According to the teaching of Monotheism, God is an Individual, Self-dependent, All-perfect, Unchangeable Being; intelligent, living, personal, and present; almighty, all-seeing, all-remembering; between whom and His creatures there is an infinite gulf; who has no origin, who is all-sufficient for Himself; who created and upholds the universe; who will judge every one of us, sooner or later, according to that Law of right and wrong which He has written on our hearts. He is One who is sovereign over, operative amidst, independent of, the appointments which He has made; One in whose hands are all things, who has a purpose in every event, and a standard for every deed, and thus has relations of His own towards the subject-matter of each particular science which the book of knowledge unfolds; who has with an adorable, never-ceasing energy implicated Himself in all the history of creation, the constitution of nature, the course of the world, the origin of society, the fortunes of nations, the action of the human mind; and who thereby necessarily becomes the subject-matter of a science, far wider and more noble than any of those which are included in the circle of secular Education.

If God is indeed such an all-encompassing, personal, sovereign Being, then the knowledge of Him is indispensible to a full view of reality. Returning to Newman’s “all knowledge forms a whole,” the question about Theology is the following: “Can we drop it out of the circle of knowledge, without allowing, either that that circle is thereby mutilated, or on the other hand, that Theology really is no science?” (50). Knowledge of the universe cannot be separated from knowledge of its Creator, who “has so implicated Himself with it…that we cannot truly or fully contemplate it without in some main aspects contemplating Him.” Therefore, if God is real, Theology is a branch of knowledge that bears heavily on every other branch. Since the University’s purpose is the teaching of universal knowledge, Theology is a part that should not be excluded from the whole.

The Idea of a University

A tenet of liberal education is that all knowledge forms a whole, and John Henry Newman explores this idea in full.  Newman (1801-1890) was an influential English writer, educator, priest and cardinal. During the two centuries prior to Newman, British Catholics had been prohibited from attending Oxford and Cambridge, so the Catholic community felt an intellectual lack. In 1851, he had an opportunity to be directly involved in promoting Catholic education. He became the organizer and first president of the only Catholic university in Ireland at that time. In 1852, Newman delivered ten lectures in Dublin, which are now printed as chapters in
The Idea of a University. In these discourses, he argues against “mixed” Protestant-Catholic universities, i.e. secular universities, because such institutions omitted theological studies altogether.



In the introduction to my edition, Martin Svaglic identifies the main point (the "idea") that threads together Newman’s arguments: “All knowledge forms a whole,” of which the branches of learning are segments. By illuminating the connections among these branches, liberal learning allows perception of the whole.

In Discourses I-IV, Newman argues that Theology deserves its own department (“chair”) at the university. His reasoning runs thus:



1. Since the University’s purpose is to teach all sciences, and Theology is a science, the exclusion of Theology is inconsistent.

2. All sciences are connected together and bear upon one another. If any science is to be taught thoroughly, all the sciences must be taken into account, including Theology.

3. As the science of the eternal, self-dependent, all-perfect Creator, Theology exercises a tremendous influence over other sciences and is needed to correct and complete them.

4. If Theology is neglected, other sciences will usurp its subject matter, leading to imbalance and error.

My ponderings are soon to come. Right now, my mind is running on questions like “What does he mean by Theology?” and “Now that theology is effectively excluded from the university, what does it mean to be a Christian scholar?”

Questions of a Contemplative College Student

As a senior in college, I often hear the question “What do you want to do?”  Others in my situation can attest to the domino effect of this particular question—discomfort turns to anxiety, then to disgust, perhaps morphing into depression.  Eventually, I resorted to a quick-fix: a variety of prepared responses.  Every few months, I change the current post-grad “plan” for another imagined pathway, and it works pretty well to prevent stress attacks.  Nonetheless, as graduation approaches, I’ve finally given more thought to “what I want to do with my life.”

 In my experience, the question refuses to be tackled head on.  When I really think about what I “want to do,” the subject gives way and I stumble into a deeper layer, composed of new questions.  Because doing must flow from a proper understanding of my identity and my place in the world, I instead probe these questions:  “What do I want to be?  Is it even a matter of what I want?  What is my purpose?” 

At this point, the floor gives way yet again, and I would be in a freefall….Postmodernism tells me there are no answers, and I have no purpose.  Other voices whisper that I am the answer; I must “find myself” and “follow my heart,” which leaves me as much in the dark as before.  But my fall was broken early and gently by exposure to what has been called the Great Books approach.

The classic authors built the solid ground from which I can enter a discussion of life’s essential questions.  The greats of the past pose these questions: What is man?  What is his purpose? Or, what is the good life?  The works of Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Shakespeare, and, of course, the Bible explore human nature, theology, natural law, civil society, the role of poetry, etc.  Truth is available on these topics, and truth is applicable to our lives.  Identifying human nature and pondering how to live—these will shed the wise light of history and philosophy on my concerns and decisions.

Within the large questions posed by the world’s great thinkers, my specific queries for this blog are as follows:

What is liberal education?  The university is the natural place for discussing timeless questions and studying great books.  And liberal education, based on the great books, is the doorway to the kind of intellectual environment which Allan Bloom calls “the community of those who seek the truth.” 

How is liberal education relevant in our world of action?  Though I feel pulled toward academia with my thirst for knowledge, I am repulsed by the thought of a useless life.  The last thing I want is to sit in an “ivory tower” of intellectualism, writing obscure books that no one will ever read.  Knowledge for its own sake?  Not too appealing.  I hate to sound harsh, but that is what academia looks like to a lot of students.  In my generation, I’m not alone in a strong desire to change the world—and to us that means feeding the hungry, helping the poor, establishing foundations, starting movements, being world leaders, etc.  So I guess my question is the following: Can I make a lasting, positive difference through a life of intellectual learning?

My heart cries an instinctive “yes,” but my mental reasoning demands proof.  I suspect that I will find, among the wiser voices of the past, a clearer vision of the benefits of deep thinking, reading, and writing.  I hope that liberal education will emerge as both noble and practical.  

Within this inquiry, I include a topic of particular interest to me: Why is the study of literature important?  What is its role in relation to the other realms of knowledge?  I’m pursuing degrees in English Literature and French, so elucidation on the purpose of literature will help me decide whether to continue my literary studies.  I certainly enjoy the field, but again, I seek a deeper impetus than what I “want to do.” 

To explore these topics, I am reading four books this summer.  In The Closing of the American Mind, Bloom critiques the modern university, claiming that the current mode of education impoverishes students’ souls.  I’ve read most of this volume and seen that, sadly, his laments are based on truth.  I will refer to Bloom as I go along, but my posts will begin with John Henry Newman’s The Idea of a University.  I will then move to The Theory of Education in the United States by Albert Jay Nock, followed by Irving Babbitt’s Literature and the American College.  My current plan is to accurately identify their basic arguments and, where appropriate, respond with connections among the readings, observations about the contemporary situation, and references to my original questions.

Please join an earnest student who seeks to better understand purpose, education, and human existence in this brave new world.   I appreciate your feedback!