More on the Humanities

Fall                             Waxing Blood Moon

Walked the fence today, checking for limbs, plants I’d missed.  Sure enough, about a third of the way around a large fallen tree branch pressed against the chain link shorting the fence and creating a hissing, popping sound when nudged.  The air smelt of burnt plastic fibers.  A visit with the chain saw fixed that problem.  Later on I tightened up the rope from a place where it had sagged.  After turning the fence off of course and putting Rigel in her crate.

This fence is a great metaphor, but for what I’ve not yet discerned.

On a topic close to my heart a professor of English for forty years wrote this essay:  The Decline of the English Department. Mr. Chace places yet another shot across the bow of careerism and the practical major while trying to suss out just what went wrong.  He puts his finger on the fragmentation of the humanities into gender, race, media and technology studies as well as the lack of passion for books and the traditional humanities.  In general I appreciate a man who takes responsibility for the dismal thing that has happened and I like Mr. Chace’s posture in this piece.

While I would like to blame the victims, too, the politically wracked departments attempting to right ancient wrongs in scant years by creating university departments, I find it lets off the hook the real culprit.  A relentless scanning of the horizon for opportunities to make money without regard to the social or environmental costs lies at the bottom of this debasement of education.

Crass instrumentalism has invaded every aspect of our lives.   Witness the prosperity gospel.  The growth of the mega-church. The new business orientation of medicine where patients are now consumers and doctors employees.  The rank greed filleted for all to see as the great economic crisis unfolded last fall.  The loose expansion of credit with fine print so dense not even its creators understood it.  Partisan politics make the party a blunt instrument for personal and factional advancement rather than a representative tool for negotiating compromises amongst civilizations conflicting interests.  Professional sports now have contracts in the quarter of a billion dollar range.  Tens of millions are not unusual for catching or throwing a football.  Educators at the elementary and secondary levels now teach to the test, a strategy created to insure that they meet federal standards and that their students pass high stakes tests.

It is this coarsening of the social fabric, gone from a workmanlike denim for the post World War II economy to a scratchy burlap in this age of the derivative, that has led to a pushing aside of any thing that does not promise economic or political gain.

This is not new.  A friend of mine has a neighbor in his condominium who was hired to teach philosophy at West Point.  In the time period before he began teaching a widespread cheating scandal unfolded.  The honor code had no clothes.  Leadership at West Point told him, “We can’t believe it, but we just never thought to teach our students ethics.  You have to put together a group of experts and develop a curriculum.”  Ethics is one of those disciplines that you can be taught, that you can know well, and that will have no affect on you at all unless you have the will to apply it.

It is not enough, in other words, to teach justice and critical thinking and wisdom and equality if there is no social will to honor them.  That social will comes from a shared conversation about our past, about our common destiny and our mutual responsibility.  Instrumental thinking places all the emphasis on results with means receiving attention only as they bend circumstance to the result.  This is a recipe for disaster as any historian, English or philosophy professor can tell you.  It is not new, it is not a new thing under the sun.  Rather it is a lesson learned by Moses when he came down from Mt. Sinai and found even his brother Aaron bowed before the golden calf.

Judgment came then and it will come now.

Estranged

Fall                                   Waxing Blood Moon

Tomato picking and compost bin rebuilding, the bulk of the morning.  To keep our young pups from celebrating life by knocking down the straw bales out of which I designed this compost bin a wire fence now encircles the bales, with an other, shorter wire fencing material for a gate.

The day started chilly, but has warmed up to 69.  It’s one of those fall days when the Andover H.S. Marching Band can be heard carrying pompoms and the thud of padded football players in its wake.  As this sound comes across the fields of vegetables and the cul de sacs between our home the football field, I become at once both younger and older, thrust back to Alexandria High School and Friday night football while by necessity comparing that time with the present.  It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just a bit strange.

Caught episode 1 of a Harvard class on Justice taught by Michael Sandel.  It’s well worth the time.  Sandel’s teaching style combines the Socratic/law school method of hypotheticals with analysis of responses.  The engagement of the students makes it obvious Sandel is a teacher as well as a philosopher.  I only want to comment on one, striking observation he made about philosophy.  “Philosophy,” he said, “is not about something you don’t know; it is about making you look at what you know from the perspective of a stranger.  Philosophy creates an estrangement from our own experience.”  This is so true, as is his follow-on comment that once you gain this insight you cannot go back to the naive state.

Every hour of every day I see my self and the world through the lens of philosophical analysis, the lens fitted over an anthropological  camera body.  The two together make the world a strange and exotic experience at every turn.

Doubt

Fall                               Waxing Blood Moon

Got this comment on my post:  Blood Moon Risin

Gently put, nicely said. Doubt isn’t it’s own reward but I think it’s an honest place to be. As you quote Rilke at the outset – the first stanza of his famous, profound and beautiful “Fall Day” – I’ll offer another Rilke for you.

There’s a story in the collection ‘Stories of God’ that he wrote while working on the ‘Book of Hours’, which most folks consider his better (of the two) work).

Regardless, the story is called, in English, ‘A Tale of Death and a Strange Postscript to it’. In it, a happy couple that have squirelled themselves away from the world, are greeted by death. In their fear they hide from Him, and little by little lose their joy of life.

I love this story because I too am afraid to die. It’s helped me acknowledge and move past that fear.

Keep writing – you do it well –

Regards,

Jack

Jack Beacham
Stories-of-God.com
Jack.Beacham@Stories-of-God.com
98.21.188.5

As Jack intended, I’ve rethought that post, considered it.  Here’s how I see it now.  Doubt is an odd word and I’d never noticed it before this comment.  Doubt sets the conceptual table and has a trick for dessert.  Doubt, defined by the person identifying it in another, says really,  “Oh, I see.  Right now you can’t see the things I see, but if and when things clear up for you, you will see them.”  That is, the  idea of doubt from the position of its identifier defines the doubter using the identifiers terms.  In other words, if I express my sense that there is nothing knowable beyond this life, I’m a doubter.  In fact, all I’m identifying is my sense that this world is all we get.

I get the sense that Jack is a kind and compassionate man. I appreciate his taking the time to respond.

As for me, I understand his doubt about my take on the afterlife.