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.
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!
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?
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.
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?”
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!
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)
