On The Virtue Of Knowing Nothing

For some reason, today I remember M., a college acquaintance who years ago talked to me in my dorm room late into the night. You see, M. had just completed a semester at The Oregon Extension (OE),† a sort of academic retreat in the southern Oregon mountains, where students live in cabins while exploring their Christian beliefs in an open-minded yet academically rigorous community. Upon his return to our New England campus for the spring trimester, M. sought me out, eager to report on his experience in Oregon.

M. was not the first OE alumnus I knew. I had already heard back from several other alumni who found the place all rather magical. OE had provided a truly transformative experience, at least for most folks. However, one of my friends, a man I had known since middle school, was not as taken by the OE curriculum.

But M. was taken, completely. He had sought me out with an almost furious energy; there was an urgency in his tone. And so, as I reclined on my bed, my back against the wall, M. gave me his impassioned report on what he had learned, and what he had learned could be boiled down to two things: He had learned that Christianity is all about grace, and that he knew absolutely nothing.

I recognize that this is hardly news that suggests epiphany. But for M., well, he had been transformed. He waxed on about Karl Barth and presuppositions; he mentioned paradigms. And he could not reiterate often enough that what OE had given him was the liberation that can only come from great insight: He knew nothing at all.

What M. was not saying was what Socrates may have said, namely, that in order to learn a man must first admit that he does not know what he claims to know. M.'s sort of doubt wasn't even Cartesian, for Descartes at least landed on something relatively familiar: his own self. What M. was really saying was that he had found a new virtue; that not knowing anything, at least anything certain or foundational, was a glorious gift, one wrapped and tied in bows of God's abundant grace. Ignorance was a liberating virtue.

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I recall overhearing a psychology professor at my thoroughly Protestant college tell a colleague that he "love[d] shattering the presuppositions of the undergrads." I am sure this professor's pleasure was rooted in love, or so one should infer within the context of a Christian institution of higher learning. But what I noticed then, and notice even now, is that many so-called "Christian intellectuals" seem very much interested in the demolition of their students' presuppositions, but have little interest in renovation, which seems a rather limited view of things. After all, it is all very well and good to knock down walls, but if the building is left razed, is this pleasing and wise?

When I told another OE alumnus about the psych prof's pleasure in dismantling, he opined that he felt the prof's words encapsulated what his experience at OE had been: professors delighting in deconstructing without taking to time to help rebuild.º

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So why do I think about M. today? Maybe because, in part, I am thinking of some of the "new virtues" before us: tolerance, multi-cultural empathy, open-mindedness, are forerunners of the new virtues, but they seem almost antique by comparison. No, there are even newer virtues, like "multi-tasking," flippancy, and maintaining a vital Internet avatar, to name a few. But the one virtue that I believe M. and his peers presented far ahead of their time is this necessary and seemingly humble admission that each of us knows nothing; that each of us must admit that we not only could be wrong, but we are wrong. To such humble folks, a sophisticated mind is a ceaselessly nuanced one; every answer, if one can be found, must be hopelessly complex, or complicated by the never-ending deferences that such a mind makes in the face of a problem, or in reply to a question. The truly smart person thinks, without necessarily ever landing on a solid answer; the inquiry is all that matters, complete with certain prescriptions against appearing too certain, too provincial, too anthropocentric or patriotic or partisan or American or patriarchal. An intelligent person is a cosmopolitan one, where everything bears equal moral and intellectual weight; where no one wants to land on one idea, even if it is demonstrably right, for fear of looking like that immodest man who decides, who prefers one country or region over all others; that simpleton who prefers Tuscany to Campania.

No, the intellectual is a person who believes in process, in pursuit. Actually landing on an answer, well, that is for those who possess a fearful mind, full of anxiety; an intellectually incurious mind that clings to God and other soothing constructs. The true intellectual is too democratic to have an answer, even a conviction, that is not arrived at by consensus, collaboration or roll call.

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In reading G. K. Chesterton's glorious Orthodoxy once again, I find that in 1908 Mr. Chesterton was already aware of what would perhaps become the 20th- and 21st-centuries' most pervasive intellectual movement (or mood). And it appears that M.'s insight is really not that new at all, at least to Chesterton:

"At any street corner we may meet a man who utters the frantic and blasphemous statement that he could be wrong. Every day one comes across somebody who says that of course his view may not be the right one. Of course his view must be the right one, or it is not his view. We are on the road to producing a race of men too mentally modest to believe in the multiplication table. ...Scoffers of old were too proud to be convinced; but these are too humble to be convinced."

The new virtue, this humility and modesty of which M. seemed so enamored, is the result of upending the very meaning of humility:

"Humility was largely meant as a restraint upon the arrogance and infinity of the appetite of man. ... But what we suffer from to-day is a humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly that part he ought not assert -- himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt -- the Divine Reason. Huxley preached a humility content to learn from nature. But the new sceptic is so humble he doubts he can even learn. Thus we should be wrong if we had said hastily that there is no humility typical of our time. The truth is that there is a real humility typical of our time; but it so happens that it is practically a more poisonous humility than the wildest prostrations of the ascetic. The old humility was a spur that prevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that kept him from going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether."

Chesterton is quite clearly on to something here, while I am most likely not. Clearly, I am struggling towards something. I want to know why many of those folks who most often tout the virtue of "thinking for oneself" seem to think for themselves the least; and why what appears to be an intellectual trend toward solipsism, where the self can only know its own claustrophobic self, instead trends towards the fad, the popular, the consensus. Why do those who tell me that I must find my own truth -- a truth that is binding to no one but me -- always seem to fall back on what everybody else thinks -- what the committee or voters or members or citizens or consensuses or Europeans think?

And why is it that M., who claimed to know nothing but the grace of God, knew enough to tell me that knowing nothing was liberating? And why, in the end, is God always reduced to either His ferocious law (ostensibly by those absurd conservatives) or His judgment-free grace of which M. so passionately spoke?

And I wonder why my more religiously liberal peers believe that there is at least one thing God damns: the self who dares assert that something is absolutely true.

Food for thought, or not.

Peace.

†Please note that I am not interested here in besmirching what others have found so helpful. I am merely using OE as a springboard, though not entirely. Alas, there are some things I must keep to myself.
ºI recognize that the goal of many Christian educators is to knock down false idols, and then cultivate in each student the necessary skills and passion so that he or she might erect a faith and Christian worldview that are self-determined.

©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Is Knowledge Midwife To Ignorance?

How Can It Be?

In Patricia Cohen's interesting New York Times article, "Dumb and Dumber: Are Americans Hostile to Knowledge?", writer Susan Jacoby ponders America's apparent penchant for anti-intellectualism or, perhaps more accurately, its antipathy toward knowledge. When dealing with such a topic as this, where hard-as-nails knowledge is concerned, we can expect to find some mention of Christian fundamentalism, and our expectations are indeed met. But how Christian fundamentalists have succeeded in convincing "nearly two-thirds" of the country to give equal weight to creationism is not something we can expect to explore in this sort of discussion. That omission is, sadly, something most of us could have also predicted.

Besides Ms. Jacoby's probably accurate but overstated charge against fundamentalism, she avers that the "failing educational system" is to blame (one wonders if Ms. Jacoby connects that deterioration with the largely liberal, largely Democratic teachers' unions), as are various progressive political goals in the restructuring of university academic policies in the post-civil rights era.

Though I admit that Ms. Jacoby may enlarge upon her thesis in her book, The Age of American Unreason, one suspects she ignores the utilitarian ethos that permeates the American dream. Utilitarianism is, in part, the personal pursuit of happiness as defined by each American; knowledge is useful insofar as it advances any person's particular pursuit. That "American Idol" finalist and successful country music singer Kellie Pickler deserves to be chided (by Ms. Cohen) for not knowing of the existence of Hungary, may indeed signify something, but surely it is not a sign that Ms. Pickler has been debilitated by her ignorance of European geography. Ms. Pickler's seemingly doing quite fine, and while she is not prone to writing books, she is no doubt au courant in those knowledge schemes that give her expertise in her field. To the frustration of many an intellectual, pragmatism often trumps idealism.

What seems to be lacking in Ms. Cohen's article is any query as to why knowledge -- however it is defined -- should matter. How DOES knowing of the existence of Hungary help anyone who will never travel to that fair land? What purpose does knowledge serve? Surely Ms. Pickler is an expert in her field; she might even be a country music genius. Does she really need to score well in a Trivial Pursuit match against her financially less-successful peers? What is the purpose of learning? Do we learn for knowledge's own sake -- or for our own edification -- or is learning tied to praxis, to what we will DO with our lives?

I bet Ms. Cohen and Ms. Jacoby both have some compelling reasons why knowledge matters, but we are not permitted access to those reasons here. Perhaps they believe knowledge prevents one from being deceived; perhaps knowledge is a great defensive weapon against the zeitgeist. Perhaps.

What is also lacking in this discussion is any apparent exploration of the elevation of expertise -- call it the apotheosis of expert witnesses, if you will -- that pervades intellectual life in America. One repercussion of this pervasive habit is the signal it sends: I don't need to know "it" -- some bit of knowledge -- because someone else does. Nary a day goes by, I am sure, when debates on a loading dock, or around a coffee kiosk, or on a sports bus, do not include some assertion made by an eager interlocutor who substantiates a bold claim by referring to "they say" or "everybody knows" or "I read somewhere," or some similar appeal to an external locus of control. Implicit in these statements is not just the self-interest in appearing right; what is also implied is that some other thing is all-knowing, authoritative, binding ... and right. Sadly, this other thing takes many a modern form: a panel or commission, an encyclopedia or news agency, a think-tank or the Internet, or a poll or survey or "peer-reviewed study." Why is this sad, you may ask? Because it reveals the deep disconnect modernity and prosperity have created: there is a divide between memory and knowledge stored. Once memory and knowledge were practically synonymous. But now, knowledge can be stored elsewhere, like in the brain of an expert, the opinions of a panel, or the servers of a search engine. One need not apply oneself as vigorously as in years past, since so much can be recalled with a few typed words.

One could say, then, that America's ignorance, if it is indeed so ignorant, is not the result of ignorance; America's ignorance is the result of its knowledge. After all, it is knowledge that has given us the edge over nature; it is the learned person who has given us all sorts of ways to live without needing to know how we do what we do. How many people understand the keyboard beneath their fingers, the screen before their eyes? Why memorize poetry when poetry can be this morning's digital wallpaper? All such things are given us by knowledge; it is the advances of the age that have allowed us to live unfettered by the annoying need to know. Finally, ignorance is bliss -- given to us by what we know. (It's all a twist on T.S. Eliot's line from "Choruses from 'The Rock'": All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance...)

Lastly, we forget that the appeal to expertise -- which is what journalists and pundits and researchers and politicians do all the time -- is also the fallacy of appealing to authority. Surely not a few Americans are cynical and hip enough to know this fallacy intimately; surely too, the American pedagogical ideal of "questioning authority," an ideal that might even be foundational to postmodern liberalism, has unwittingly led to the broader disinterest in knowledge (and left children confused as schools parade authorities through every corridor). In other words, those allegedly declining schools to which Ms. Jacoby refers have given Americans -- especially young ones -- permission to be their own authorities ... on everything. (See Raphael Demos' quote here.) How we who are products of American pedagogy choose to exercise that authority is by definition personal and private, for it is all about our utilitarian pursuit of happiness.

Who's to say dumb is not happy?

Peace.

BG


©Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Reason #2: We Are All Kings And Queens

Continuing yesterday's answer to the question posed to me by a Boston radio personality, I offer Reason #2. That question, in short, was why America is so thoroughly divided over the Bush presidency and the war in Iraq. Why the viciousness? Why the hate?

Part of me is tempted to reduce the issue solely to economics: never before have so many people had the means, power and opportunity to profit from political ax-grinding. Never before have there been so many pundits, so many critics, and so many customers willing to pay for punditry that tickles the ears. In the 1960s, during the Vietnam War, there were really only three sets of TV pundits, those on ABC, CBS, and NBC. Today we giggle at the old-fashioned thought of a few talking heads in pre-satellite quaintness; we've got instant news dished about the cosmos in instant fashion, with everyone serving as anchorman or anchorwoman. But with loads of markets and media through which those markets can be reached, money swirls around opinion, news and commentary like never before. There is a lot of action of which everyone wants a cut.

But it is about much more than money. It is about our being kings and queens.

Reason #2: Democracy is inherently divisive.

There are quotes we read every day that go in one eye and out the other. And then there are quotes that go in both eyes and clang around our heads for the rest of our lives. Here is one such mind-changing quote of Professor Raphael Demos' of Harvard University. Demos was describing Plato’s conflicts with his culture:

The Sophists gave rise to the prevailing tone of cynical disillusionment. They preached the relativity of all values. Private interpretation is the sole guide to conduct; right is nothing but power. What is good here or now, is bad elsewhere or at some other time. Man is the measure of all things - not collective man but the individual. Truth depends on one’s point of view; both virtue and belief are conventions; they have no basis in the nature of things. Plato took a determined stand against the Sophists... According to Plato there is a true right and wrong, which is a universal principle for all times. ... He objected to democracy, because a democratic society has no standards; the test is merely self-expression. The democratic life is one without a pattern, in which every desire is gratified because it is there, not because it is right. [emphasis added]

You need to read the quote again, then tape it to your bedroom ceiling. It is one of the most astute and prophetic statements ever made, astute in its trenchant insights, prophetic in what it says about today's culture wars (though Demos wrote this in 1937 about Plato's cultural battles 2,000 years earlier). What it suggests is that democracy is inherently divisive, where each voice is valid and each impulse is recognized by the chair. What it suggests is exactly what we each see in our workplaces everyday, where everyone knows more than the boss; it is what we hear on every op-ed page, where everyone is a better president or general; it is what we hear in our churches and synagogues, where everyone is a better pastor, priest, rabbi. We live in a culture where everyone could, in theory, run for president, or even be president. We live in a culture wherein we teach our children that there is no dream they should not dream; that they can be anything they want to be, even the CEO of America; or that they, as mere amateurs, can nonetheless critique with pride the performances of the best athletes, writers, philosophers, or religious leaders in the world.

Oscar Wilde wrote that even if his pursuit of Art was thwarted, he would nonetheless write on the lintel, if he could, scribbling there the word "Whim." If Art is Whim, democracy is whimsical. For it is inherently schizophrenic and moody, adapting to each powerful majority or protected minority with nary a thought. Its tastes are capricious; its thirst for change unslakeable. Everyone is right, even when they are wrong yesterday and perhaps wrong tomorrow. For even error is celebrated as "participation," or "openness," or as a vital part of "dialogue," provided, of course, that the object being discussed is not the anathema du jour. For to be wrong the wrong way is unforgivable.

There is a rarely mentioned fallacy called the fallacy consensus gentium. It is a relative (among others) of the fallacy argumentum ad populum. The latter is committed when one asserts that a thing must be true because it is popular; the former is committed when one asserts that a thing must be true (or false) because most people deem it so. The fallacy consensus gentium is the most democratic of all fallacies: voting and polling, the modus operandi of democracies, are used to determine the laws of the land. But to some of us, moral issues are not to be determined by a show of hands; we don't care what most people think about behaviors X and Y. We believe that unencumbered reason can determine truth, falsehood, and moral decency. But to submit moral and even political issues to a vote, at least to the logically minded, is to celebrate fallaciousness. Democratic rule is inherently irrational, built entirely on fallacy.

And democratic rule is hardly what most of us want when crisis hits the fan. I do not want a democratic fire department putting out a fire in my home; I do not want a democracy removing my gall bladder. I do not want a democracy running FEMA in the face of a Category 5 hurricane; and I do not want a democracy shaping the ecclesiastical and religious teachings necessary for the salvation of my soul. Democracy may be what is necessary for the governance of a country, but it need not permeate every aspect of life, particularly when we tout our society as based on reason. Democracy's inherent fallaciousness proves it to be full of wishful thinking. Forming committees may indeed build fraternity and community, but a committee is the last thing one wants protecting that fraternity and community from terrorism.

Granted, not every democratic decision is about morality. Historically, democratic decisions in this country addressed policy, how the body corporate should enforce laws, or recover taxes, or fund a military. But increasingly, or so I believe, we are voting on moral issues; we are polling on right and wrong, up and down. To extend democratic processes beyond their scope, to depend on them for guidance through moral and social issues, is to court disaster; for unreason is the fount of such dependence.

Thus, we can conclude two things. First, the divisiveness of American culture is native to democracy; democracy is built on the illogic of fallacy. Second, democracy is purposefully indifferent to any absolute that is not the absolute of majority opinion, particularly that majority which is won in the United States Supreme Court. For the attentive, that fact cannot be more ironic.

Tomorrow, reason #3.

Contratimes

©Bill Gnade 2005/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.