REASON TOGETHER

On Inner Brilliance

I have a pet theory that I like to call “The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance.” Despite that ridiculous name, or possibly because of it, I often find myself trying to explain this theory to friends, family members, and unsuspecting passersby. This doctrine concerns the individual and how he or she relates to the rest of society.

According to the doctrine, the individual is a storehouse of great wealth and potential. Each person carries about in his or her bosom an inherent luminescence, an inchoate genius. The wider world, and the people and systems that comprise it, are judged by their ability to recognize and nurture this spark.

Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

It’s always been inside of you, you, you

And now it’s time to let it through-ough-ough

– Firework, Katy Perry

Perhaps Maslow is partially to blame for this, considering the exalted position he gave to self-actualization. John Locke may also bear some guilt, since he seems to have saddled us with the heavy burden of pursuing our individual happiness (so long as we don’t trample the rights of our neighbor). But no philosopher or theologian is likely to take credit for the doctrine in its popular form. If The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance had a creed, it would go something like this:

I am the great protagonist of history.
Everyone who lives and who has ever lived and who ever will live are supporting characters and extras in my story.
My successes and failures are of utmost significance, the things upon which angels long to look.
The world is just and good exactly to the extent that it rewards me.
My greatness is intrinsic to my nature. I was born with it. It is not dependent upon displays of talent, ability, and goodness.
My inner brilliance deserves to be recognized. Money, fame, and romantic attention are all acceptable forms of recognition.
People who encourage me are good. They are on the right side of history.
People who criticize me are bad. They are either usurpers or presumptuous in the extreme.
Whatever shortcomings I have are adorable foibles and only add to my mystique.
Whatever talents I have are profound and whoever beholds them is lucky beyond comprehension.
My current position in the world is insufficient. My territory must be increased.

You have probably heard the hymns of this doctrine. You have seen the movies and the TV shows in which our protagonist, simply by being our protagonist, deserves to have every dream come true. One outworking of the doctrine is evident in the live’s of the world’s least happy people.

THE LEAST HAPPY PEOPLE IN THE WORLD

As Arthur Brooks, President of the American Enterprise Institute, explained in a lecture at the 2014 Aspen Ideas Festival, statistically speaking, the least happy people in the world are 45 year old men. What is it about middle age men that are so sad?

“What you find out about the guys who are 45 and they’re having a hard time is basically this; when you’re in your 20s and you’re in your 30s…life and its goals are actually simple. You want to do better, you want to be happier, you want to be more successful, hit the gas on your career. Make more money, get the promotions….”

“And things are great and that seems to work. And then guys hit their mid-40s and they say, whoa, I’m on the wrong road. I mean, this superhighway I’ve been cruising down, I don’t want to be on this highway, I want to be on a road that I chose. I want to be on that little dirt road over there, right? There’s a guy on it, on a motorcycle, okay? No helmet, okay? I want to be that guy. I mean, he’s doing it his way. He chose that little road. I want to be that guy.”

The modern career has a built-in mechanism for the display of inner brilliance. Work hard and you can ascend. (I’m not saying that every person who works hard is doing so to reveal his or her inner brilliance. You, reader, as surely not guilty of this. I’m really talking about other people.)

But, as demonstrated in Mr. Brook’s quote, career success can begin to feel a bit flimsy in middle age. So, is there a better way to understand ourselves as humans? I believe there is. But be warned, things are about to get religious.

CHRISTIAN ANTHROPOLOGY & INNER BRILLIANCE

It is possible to discuss meaningfully the subject of good work (or education for it) only by first clarifying the questions What is man? Where does he come from? What is the purpose of his life? – E.F. Schumacher

The foundational intuition of The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance is that people matter. Not simply “mankind” as a class, but individual men and women. We know that we are significant, even if we can’t tell you why. This is where the doctrine starts, and “by mixing a little truth with it, they had made their lie far stronger.”

Human beings made by God and in His image is the foundation of Christian anthropology. We are a special part of creation. Humans matter, and our significance isn’t a result of our talents or abilities. And because this is true, humans have a dignity that does not depend of their size, net worth, or political value.

The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance and Christian anthropology both agree that humans are important. But while the Christian derives that importance from the fact that he or she bears the image of God, The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance looks to the unique essence of the individual.

Christian thought also differs from The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance in how it treats others. According to the doctrine, life is a struggle to assert my own preeminence. Other people tend to be a hinderance in that struggle insofar as they are also self-centered. In contrast, the ideal of Christian fellowship consists in seeing others as fellow recipients of grace. Rather than struggling against them, we are called to struggle with them. As Bonhoeffer said, “It is only when he is a burden that another person is really a brother and not merely an object to be manipulated.”

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the Christian faith and The Doctrine of Inner Brilliance are at odds about the very purpose of life. The latter seeks to bring honor and glory to the self. However noble the means may appear, the end is nothing more than pride. But for the Christian, “the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” We are taught in the Lord’s prayer to seek the glory of God, the Kingdom of God, and the will of God. And so, in a surprising and paradoxical way, we find our true end by abandoning the attempt to glorify ourselves.

Wes Crawford Interview

Last week I had the chance to talk with Wes Crawford about his history in music, his thoughts on worship, and his upcoming album. Unlike your meandering existence, this interview has been edited for clarity and length.

How did you initially get into music?

Music was always a part of my life. My mom, starting in 4th grade made me take 3 years of piano lessons. After that I could choose to quit if I wanted to. And I did. I quit as soon as the three years were over.

There was a lady up the street from my house in Arlington who taught me. She had three pianos in her living room, and our piano lessons were purely for fun. They weren’t oriented towards a competition. So in my earliest memories, music wasn’t a means for advancement. It wasn’t about proving myself. It was purely about learning music for the fun of it.

I quit the piano lessons in 7th grade and immediately joined the school band. I had a leg up on the other kids because I could read music and knew a bit of music theory. I choose trumpet because we happened to have a trumpet in the house. In high school I played trumpet in the jazz band, which I loved. I was pretty good at it. I actually made lead in the Texas all-state jazz band my senior year. So it made sense for me to go to UNT and play music.

My natural talent got me pretty far, but I never really had the intense work ethic that a professional musician needs to have. And it was at that point that I started getting involved with Denton Bible Church and working on ministry. So, just as I was starting to run up against my limits in the UNT jazz program, I was more and more interested in ministry.

You and I first met you when you were leading worship at Denton Bible Church. As a worship minister, who was influencing you at that time?

Well, I’ve never had any formal training as a worship pastor. I remember asking John Bryson, who was leading Denton Bible’s college ministry at the time, “who are the worship leaders around the country that I should be learning from?” And he admitted that he didn’t know of anything or anyone that I should talk to. As a result, I had to go find people who were doing interesting things.

The Passion movement was gaining steam at the beginning of my career as a worship pastor. And I believe they started with a healthy re emphasis that was centered on God. They were talking about God as “the famous one.” But that movement suffered from a strange self-consciousness in later years.

I was reading John Piper at the same time, who was a huge influence. And I was in reading groups with John Brown where we would go through these classic writings by Christians from previous centuries. I also started listening to Kevin Twit and Indelible Grace, and that was a key point theologically for me. I had learned so much at Denton Bible, and I was beginning to grasp the functional centrality of the gospel – that the death and resurrection of Jesus was the center point of theology. And I began to understand how worship ministry fit into that – how we are formed by the words that we’re singing.

Did you plan to have a career as a worship minister?

No, as I started getting into ministry, I always assumed that I would be a Bible teacher. I thought music was just how God brought me to Denton, but that I would get my degree, play music as my hobby, but then move on. But as I’m going through these various states of ministry, I keep getting asked to lead worship. And even though I didn’t have a clearly articulated vision of what music ministry was for, I intuited that there was something important about it. I loved the words of the hymns we were singing, and I knew that they were important.

So I was leading worship for the college ministry at Denton Bible, and around that time I was also asked to lead worship at a church in Sherman. The church had an older congregation, and they felt strongly that there should be a piano. It was ok if I wanted to play my acoustic guitar, but there had to be a piano as well. This introduced an important learning experience for me, because my piano player was an older woman named Pat. Working with Pat, I had to learn – on the fly – how to play out of the hymn book in a way that worked. I had to take my skills and Pat’s skills and put those together in a way that made sense. It was a great education for me.

And from Denton you moved to Mexico?

Yes, as a missionary, and I really thought “I’m done with music. Now I’ve grown up. I’m going to start big boy ministry. I’m going to administrate BTCP [a Bible training program for pastors] around the country. I’ll do some teaching and I’m going to sit in with the elders and help them with strategy for the church, and things like that. Maybe I’ll get involved with the band, but music is really in my past.” And when I got down there, the first thing they said to me was, “hey, we need somebody to lead worship.” Ha! And so I led worship. In Spanish. And that wasn’t a frustration, really. It was just different than what I’d expected.

About a year before I arrived the church really didn’t have any musicians. And there was a sweet working-class family in the church who saw that need and determined to meet it. This family lived out in the western suburbs of Monterrey where they had two four wheelers. And when they saw this need in the church, they said, “we’re going to sell our four wheelers and buy instruments and get ourselves in lessons and we’re going to meet this need.” And that’s what they did. Out of that family, I had a drummer, a singer, I had an 11 year old piano player and a bass player. And that was my band, essentially.

So again, this is another scenario where week to week I have to figure out how to put something together that makes sense. And that was a great experience for me to work with people’s strengths, minimize their weaknesses and make something good for the church. That was very formative for me and the way I approach leading a worship band. I’m not trying to imitate some popular worship band. I’m trying to work with the people I have with me that morning.

And did you carry that philosophy with you when you moved to Kansas City?

Leading worship at Redeemer in Kansas City was certainly different. We had a lot more musicians, and we had a long list of songs that we played. But, yes, the philosophy was the same. If you’re the kind of worship leader who goes into a Sunday with a target in mind. “I want it to sound like this.” That’s one way to go. But I firmly believe, from my jazz education as well as my theological background, that I should look around each Sunday, and say, “who have I got here. What can we create with this group of people that’s beautiful?” I just want to assemble musical personalities and let those personalities come through.

So, tell me about the record. Why did you choose to record these Nathan Partain songs?

I think I have a skill as a curator. We did a lot of songs at Redeemer. Probably too many. Nathan’s songs stood out to me because they go right to the heart of theology. They go to the heart of the gospel and press into it in ways that you just don’t find songs doing very often.

Also, I get the sense that he’s writing from the experience of his community and for a congregation. The songs we’ve done on the record are the ones that gave voice to some specific ways our own congregation was experiencing God’s grace and became favorites for our church.

You know, the enemies of good art and of beauty are more than just laziness. Sentimentality is an enemy. The desire for everything to appear perfect all the time is an enemy. There’s a slickness, or a sheen—trying to recreate the perfection you see on television, or trying to make something that is ready to be mass-marketed—that is sadly becoming the norm in most churches. I say it’s sad because it tends to obscure the humanity involved. At Nathan’s church they have a stated goal of cultivating a culture of art patronage; that is, of not only valuing beauty but also its creation by and for people. Somehow the fact that these songs were written for a specific group of people made them easy for us to relate to as well. And I tried to capture that sense of community on the record.

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You can learn more about Wes’ album by visiting his Kickstarter campaign.

A Hermeneutic of Love

Your spouse has sent you the following message:

Question: What does it mean?

It is literal. Your spouse hopes to speak with you.
It is conciliatory. You had a fight earlier, and he/she would like to patch things up.
It is aggressive. You had a fight earlier, and he/she would like to continue it.
It is seductive. “Talk” is a euphemism.
None of the above.

Why should this message require interpretation in the first place? It’s not as though the message is complex. No, indeed it is a plain enough sentence. The issue is that the people involved are complex. Maybe if humans were simpler we wouldn’t have to work to understand each other. We could take in messages like a computer receives data. We’d have no need for a hermeneutic – a way of understanding the words and glances that pass between us.

A hermeneutic is like an interpretive filter, and you don’t have to know the word to master the skill. As advertisements and talking points fill the air around us, we constantly filter them without a conscious thought. One such filter has been called the “hermeneutic of suspicion.” We protect ourselves by casting a suspicious eye at news headlines, marketing messages, and (especially) the pronouncements of our political enemies. We need this protection. Without it we would be forever duped, clicking links to learn the one weird trick for curing diabetes.

And yet the armor that protects us from the world should be shed at the threshold of our homes. A hermeneutic of suspicion won’t do when speaking to the people we love. Still, we can’t dispense with interpretation altogether, even at home. Think of that text message. We still need some way to understand the people around us. So, what would happen if we traded a hermeneutic of suspicion for a hermeneutic of love?

Go ahead and check 1 Corinthians 13 if you like, but you probably already know how it works. Patience, kindness, and deference toward the beloved are the marks of love. This isn’t a checklist so much as a posture, a way of being.

The hermeneutic of suspicion takes every slight as an act of aggression. And there are no shortage of slights. Maybe your spouse makes you late, they fail to do a chore they said they’d do, or they frown at the meal you’ve just made. The hermeneutic of suspicion warns you not to let any insult pass unnoticed and unremarked upon. Your spouse is being unreasonable, it tells you, and you would be unreasonable to ignore it. And so you respond, not out of love, but out of self-defense.

Of course your spouse has a hermeneutic too. He or she will interpret your response. They can assume the best about you, extending patience, or they can be suspicious, mining the worst possible meaning from your words. If they opt for the latter, then the cycle continues and your home bristles with hurt feelings and hurtful words.

But the hermeneutic of love shows a more excellent way. Maybe one’s spouse has a valid reason for being late. And perhaps the time spent waiting could be profitably used. It’s easy to occasionally forget a task. Maybe you could gently remind them, or even do it yourself. And who doesn’t get fussy about food now and then? It’s a visceral reaction, not a judgement about the worth of the work you’ve done.

Employing a hermeneutic of love requires surrender. It demands that we give up the eternal struggle to be seen as the most correct, the most mistreated, or the least ridiculous. It requires the acknowledgement that the only way to “win” at marriage is as teammates rather than opponents. The alternative is to turn our families into “a sort of private political system in which rights and interests must be constantly asserted and defended,” as Wendell Berry put it.

The week of Valentine’s is a good opportunity to try out the hermeneutic of love. Commit to gracious and loving interpretations of your spouse for just a few days. I don’t doubt that it will be hard, but take heart. Love never fails.

Dave Rubin: No longer a “progressive”…

Dave Rubin (you should look him up) is a popular liberal you-tuber, pod-caster and media figure who has been syndicated by The New York Times, Time Magazine and Huffington Post.

In a video recently published by Dennis Prager’s PragerU, Rubin gave a helpful appeal to “progressives” to return to their classical liberal roots. I think that most of my left or progressive leaning friends would find this appeal difficult to accept. Difficult because, though they’ll find themselves wanting to agree with Rubin… too many caveats will prevent them from being able to. Rubin’s depiction of the “classic liberal” is far more closely aligned with libertarianism than anything resembling modern day progressivism. He, like many others who have become disenchanted with the progressive movement, came to realize that the ideology known as political liberalsim began as a philosophy that cherished freedom of thought and ideas, freedom of expression… freedom from a government that could force you to do or be what someone else wanted you to do or be. But Rubin found that somewhere down the line from this original ideology, something changed. And that something, became progressivism. And progressivism, among other things, was far less about the individual’s freedom and far more about identity politics… which I believe is nothing more than a fancy phrase for tribalism.

Broadly speaking, tribe mentality doesn’t work when it comes to government. It’s oppressive even when the ‘tribe’ your fighting for (by way of government intervention) is a minority. I’m a libertarian. And yes, I know that it’s easier to be a libertarian when the particular “tribe” that you belong to happens to be the tribe that is the majority. But I believe that attempts to (I’m being very specific here…) “level the playing field” by use of government such that no-one has any advantage over another is a commendable fallacy at best and a dangerous oppression at worst.

I’m a libertarian because I believe that the classical liberal defense of the the individual’s freedom is the right approach to government.

How to Fake Your Death

I get it. You want to live out your days in anonymity on a remote beach. You’re picturing a life without burdens, debts, or responsibilities. But first things first. You need a plan.

It’s not as easy to disappear as it used to be. Surveillance cameras are mounted on every corner and tucked into every pocket. No one slips through an airport unnoticed, particularly if they’re traveling internationally. This is no time for whimsy.

THE PLAN

You’ll need cash to start your new life. It’ll look suspicious if you make a large withdrawal prior to your death, so start socking away some money now. A few thousand dollars is enough to get started. Just remember that you can’t use a bank card anymore, so you’ll have to carry this with you.

Work on getting a high-quality fake id. Try to get it now, because you’ll want to lay low afterwards. Pick a normal name and a common place of birth. The idea is to arouse as few suspicions as possible.

I shouldn’t have to mention this, but you can’t take your cell phone with you. You won’t be able to make phone calls or texts anymore. You’ll have to stop making status updates on Facebook. Twitter and Instagram are for the living. This is part of the allure of faking your own death, isn’t it? You can finally disconnect from social media once and for all.

Speaking of social media – don’t say anything out of the ordinary before your death. You can’t start suddenly sharing your feelings and telling people how important they are. Unless, of course, you are planning to kill yourself.

Yes, suicide might be your best bet. Accidental deaths raise a lot of questions. With suicide, everything is more clear and the authorities won’t be as thorough looking for your body. It will be hard on your family. Harder than an accidental death, even. But they will still stand to benefit from your life insurance policy. I know the movies all say that life insurance doesn’t pay out for suicide, but the movies are wrong.

Consider throwing yourself off of a bridge. It should be high enough that survival is improbable. If at all possible, the water below should be icy. The search party will give up sooner if the water is painfully cold.

The temptation to attend your own funeral will be intense. Resist it. Nothing good can come of seeing other people grieve for you. You’re likely to either feel sorry for them, or to be disappointed that they aren’t grieving more. Either way, it will only intensify the urge to contact someone.

You have your plan now. There’s nothing left to do but execute it; to execute yourself and your old life. It’s time to write the letter, take one last look around, and go.

YOUR NEW LIFE

Whoever wants to save their life will lose it. By faking your own death, you have gotten back your life. Your freedom came at a steep price, but now your life is really your own. Death has relieved every debt.

Well, almost every debt. There is one thing that still remains. By faking your own death you have made a declaration. You have stated unambiguously that your previous life was unacceptable. It must have been. Why else would you take such extreme measures to end it?

You didn’t do all of this just so you could rebuild the same life again. Your new life will have to be better than your old. It can’t submit to the same indignities or endure the same tedium.

So, what’s it going to be? The beaches of Costa Rica? The wilds of Patagonia? You can go anywhere and be anything. Remember that everyone thinks you’re dead. It’s no use worrying what people will think of your choices. You’ll never again have to make small talk at your high school reunion, casually delivering a defense of your life. You have become the author of your own existence and its sole critic.

In this way, faking your own death has been clarifying. It has cleared away the clutter of life. You are no longer distracted by a relentless stream of trivialities. You aren’t concerned about the endless rounds of layoffs and promotions at the office. You don’t care who wins the next election.

With everything else striped away, the real contours of life are revealed. The dilemma of existence comes into view. And what emerges? What are you left with? Your actual desires, reality, and the gulf that yawns between the two.

Life as an ex-suicide is not quite what you imagined. You expected to spend all of your time basking in the honeyed sunlight of evening. But your new reality feels suspiciously familiar. The afternoon sun sits hot on your neck and the bus stop reeks of garbage. It’s enough to tempt a resurrection.

Your old life may have been unsatisfactory, but at least it provided excuses. Your career was to blame, or maybe your spouse. Your children were spoiled. But now, free from all of that, you have no one to blame but yourself.

And the challenge of life is still the same. How do I live up to my own longings?

The Good Life & Community

Two days after my high school graduation I drove with my older brother to Keystone, Colorado. Our plan was to spend the summer in the mountains before coming to UNT for the fall semester. Although “plan” is probably too strong a word, since we hadn’t thought to secure jobs or a place to stay before setting out.

Lucky for us, the town was in need of unskilled laborers, and we were able to quickly find work and an apartment. The apartment was actually employee housing – a furnished room with bunk beds plus a kitchen that we shared with our suitemate. Though humble, it was the first place I’d ever lived without my parents, and as such it held an unshakable air of sophistication. Besides, that aforementioned suitemate was a female who scandalized me by her very existence.

My brother worked as a waiter that summer, which meant that I got to eat free breakfast on occasion. My job was with a hotel. I held the position of “house boy,” and carried myself with all the dignity implied by that title. For all its down sides, the job gave me plenty of time to think.

I spent long mornings pushing a vacuum cleaner up and down cavernous hallways. The burgundy carpet was already clean, and so I understood my work there to be essentially ceremonial, drawing parallel lines along the length of the floor. The stillness of the empty meeting rooms and the drone of the vacuum created the perfect environment for uninterrupted reflection. I had time to think about my impending college career and the adult life that awaited me thereafter.

One recurring daydream went like this: I would work for a large chain of hotels. I would be some type of vaguely executive professional travelling to all of the different, but unfailingly exotic, properties owned by the company. I wouldn’t need a house because I could always stay in the immaculate rooms of the gleaming hotels. All my meals would be eaten at nearby restaurants. There would be fried foods.

I didn’t get very far into my reverie without thinking of women. There would need to be a female. Easy enough. I would be married, and my wife would travel with me. I would work during the day while she swam, read, or applied cucumbers to her eyes (as women in hotels seemed wont to do). I felt sure that my future spouse would be pleased to permanently live this way.

If you think that I made some mental accommodations for my progeny then you have overestimated me. Children had no place in this fantasy. It would just be me and my thoroughly relaxed wife floating frictionlessly through the world. We would live happily without ties to anything, anyplace, or anyone.

Silly as it was, my daydream was quintessentially American. It followed a pattern visible in the work of the beat poets and country music radio. Hit the open road. Follow your passion. Chase your dreams.

But all that rootlessness tends to ignore an important fact: other people matter. We humans are social animals, intended for community. And community is the native soil of good conversation.

If we’re to have any hope of real dialogue, then we will have to cultivate the kind of relationships that can sustain it. A room full of friends engaged in meaningful discussion is the reality of which social media is only a simulation. But unlike social media, a room full of friends requires some limitation. It demands that the participants inhabit one particular place and that they speak with specific people. As Wendell Berry put it:

No matter how much one may love the world as a whole, one can live fully in it only by living responsibly in some small part of it. Where we live and who we live there with define the terms of our relationship to the world and to humanity.

My summer in the mountains eventually came to an end. When it did, I came to Denton to start school. I have been here now for about 18 years. I am decidedly less cosmopolitan than I imagined I would be; yet I can’t help thinking that parochialism is a small price to pay for community.

This is the sixth post in a series on the topic of conversation. Links to the previous posts are below:

1. How to Impress a Teenager

2. A Feast for the Soul

3. The Case for Wonder

4. Minimalism of the Soul

5. A Fair Fight

Death Is My Life Coach

A reader of this blog (oh, you read that right) recently asked me an unfair question. He requested a reading list on the good life. What can we read and consider that will make us more capable of facing down the next 50 or so years?

His question was unfair because, really, that is the only question I am interested in. In a certain sense, everything I read is an attempt to better understand how to live well. I’ve put together reading materials on Virtue Ethics, Family, and Embodiment, all in an effort to clarify that question and explore its potential answers.

But allow me to give a somewhat peculiar recommendation. I’ll bypass Plato, skip the Sermon on the Mount, ignore the Stoics, and head straight for Gizmodo. That’s right, I’m sending you to a tech blog to learn about the good life.

In 2015, Gizmodo posted a story called This Is What Happens to Your Body After You Die. The lengthy post chronicles the deterioration that befalls our flesh upon death. It tells of enzymes breaking down cell walls, of toxins running free, and of the body digesting itself.

Does that sound morbid? Gratuitous? If so, that’s not why I’m recommending it. I like it because it reminds me that I’m not built to last. I have an expiration date.

Such a conviction is hard to maintain. As C.S. Lewis once said, it can be difficult to believe that, “my hand, this hand now resting on the book, will one day be a skeleton’s hand.” Maybe that’s why the Bible returns again and again to remind us of our mortality. We are repeatedly being compared to flowers, and the comparison is not complementary. We aren’t flower-like in our beauty or fragrance, but in our ephemerality. “Like a flower he comes forth and withers.”

Being conscious of our mortality isn’t simply a piece of knowledge around which we can construct a theory of living. Rather, it is a way of being in the world. It makes us – or has the potential to make us – comport ourselves differently. This is something the philosopher of ethics seldom mentions, but that the novelist never forgets.

Consider Ames, the narrator in Marilynne Robinson’s novel Gilead. In the book, Ames is writing letters to his young son. He does so because he is old and likely to die before his boy becomes a man. This knowledge, this settled conviction of mortality, pervades his thoughts and actions. He sees the world differently and more clearly than most of us. He is less ambitious, less vain, and more observant. I’d like to quote the entire book as an example, but I’ll settle for two paragraphs:

“As I was walking up to the church this morning, I passed that row of big oaks by the war memorial — if you remember them — and I thought of another morning, fall a year or two ago, when they were dropping their acorns thick as hail almost. There was all sorts of thrashing in the leaves and there were acorns hitting the pavement so hard they’d fly past my head. All this in the dark, of course. I remember a slice of moon, no more than that. It was a very clear night, or morning, very still, and then there was such energy in the things transpiring among those trees, like a storm, like travail. I stood there a little out of range, and I thought, it is all still new to me. I have lived my life on the prairie and a line of oak trees still can astonish me.

I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all mere apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it. And I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us. In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets. Because I don’t imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me to try.”

Acknowledging the reality of death can shake us out of our stupor. It can kindle a sense of nostalgia and wonder for ordinary things. When death is our mentor, we are less likely to fall into boredom and pride. And we are more likely to be humbled and astonished by ordinary things; even a row of oak trees.

A Fair Fight

A friend of mine grew up in a house of discussion, debate, and disputation. Every topic was a fresh opportunity for disagreement. They weren’t fighting with each other, mind you, just talking with passion. It was the family past-time, and they knew how to do it without hurting one another’s feelings.

This same friend’s wife had the opposite experience. Her family never fought, never debated, and hardly ever disagreed. Differing opinions were looked upon as potential fights to be avoided. Tension was resolved with space, time, and the tacit agreement to never again bring up the issue.

As you might imagine, this created a certain imbalance in their home. Both of them were skilled at sniffing out the slightest tension. Upon detecting a mild difference of opinion, they proceeded to react in opposite ways. She would retreat, he would advance. She wanted to avoid discussion, and he wanted to settle the matter. He even offered her counterpoints to his own arguments. The result was a slow chase around the house with my friend arguing against himself.

Though absurd, my friend’s situation is far from unique. Most of us have some kind of reaction to argument. And often, that reaction is anxiety. I’ve been in plenty of discussions (I suspect you have too) where a difference of opinion arises and someone in the group tries desperately to snuff it out. They read disagreement as social tension, and try to ease it as quickly as possible.

On the other hand, some people say that they enjoy debate. Too often this is code for, “I’ve never conceded a point.” With an offensive posture, they deflect every question and wave off every challenge. In so doing, they guarantee that the discussion won’t advance.

Socrates had a different approach. He certainly wasn’t scared of debate. After all, he was in the habit of asking provocative questions to everyone he encountered. But neither was he a pugilist; using discourse as an opportunity to pummel his interlocutors. Instead, he approached every conversation with a mix of curiosity and humility. He was confident that other people knew things that he didn’t know, and he was determined to find those things out.

The Socratic method gives more dignity to human beings than much of our contemporary dialogue. Instead of mocking or pathologizing disagreement, it asks questions. In so doing, it assumes that the people with whom we are speaking are reasonable. It assumes that they hold their positions because they believe them to be true.

I recognize that my wife and I are currently creating a home that is having an impact on our kids. The way we handle controversy is shaping how they react to it. I hope they will grow up to be comfortable with debate. I hope they will soak up the rules of good discourse – maybe even learn a fallacy or two. I want them to think of disagreement, not as a reason for anxiety or aggression, but as an opportunity for curiosity and humility. Who knows, maybe our discussions will even impress them.

This is the fifth post in a series on the topic of conversation. Links to the previous posts are below:

1. How to Impress a Teenager

2. A Feast for the Soul

3. The Case for Wonder

4. Minimalism of the Soul

Minimalism of the Soul

I was recently provoked to envy by an Instagram post. I realize that is the main purpose of Instagram – to show us meticulously staged moments which make our own lives seem drab. But this time it was in the description more than the image that I glimpsed an enviable vision of the good life.

The picture was of a young couple travelling across the country and living out of a van. Now, I have already been young, and it is a condition I do not wish to revisit. Also, I am a homebody who values regular showers and clean laundry, so they can keep their van. What sent me into revery was the description of the couple. They didn’t have much money, it said, but what they did have was plenty of time for “reading, writing, hiking, and thinking.”

Reading, writing, hiking, and thinking. I would like to spend more time doing those four things, to enjoy their slow and ponderous pace. I am anxious to miss out on a great many things; to ignore the stream of diversions that constantly beckons. In short, I would like to practice a minimalism of the soul.

These thoughts occurred to me recently as I watched Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things. The movie cobbles together interviews with a variety of people, all of whom adjure you to join their tribe. (Perhaps “church” would be a better word. The movie is incurably religious.) The thesis is that we all want to be free, but we are imprisoned by our stuff. We work hard so that we can buy new things, but this endless stream of purchases will never make us happy. The result is inescapable misery. We have built our own gilded cage, full of cheap clothes and gadgets.

In the movie, freedom is synonymous with purging. Get rid of your stuff. Maybe trade your suburban home for a tiny house. Remove yourself from the crushing cycle of getting and spending. Minimalism isn’t sold merely as a way to get more closet space. Instead, it’s the path to living more simply, more authentically, and with greater control.

Admittedly, this is a compelling vision. I relish the thought of paring down until the only things that remain in my life are those things that I really want. I approvingly imagine a sparse and gleaming house. But wouldn’t a well ordered mind be worth more than well ordered cabinets. But this is easier said than done.

Matthew Crawford explained the phenomenon in his book, The World Beyond Your Head:

“Think of the corporate manager who gets two hundred emails per day and spends his time responding pell-mell to an incoherent press of demands. The way we experience this, often, is as a crisis of self-ownership: our attention isn’t simply ours to direct where we will, and we complain about it bitterly. Yet this same person may find himself checking his email frequently once he gets home or while on vacation. It becomes effortful for him to be fully present while giving his children a bath or taking a meal with his spouse.”

It seems that our diversions may be more difficult to part with than our possessions. Crawford investigates the possibilities of “skilled practices” as an antidote to chronic distraction. When we engage in tactile activities such as cooking a meal, riding a motorcycle, or building a musical instrument, we are interacting with the real world on its own terms. These activities guide our attention. And that guidance differs qualitatively from the manic shrieking of radio ads and click bait headlines.

Conversation with other people offers a similar reorientation. When we diligently attend to other people, we are engaging with a real part of the world on its own terms. It would be rare, I think, for someone to have a long conversation with their child and later lament the time they missed with their cellphone.

Most of us are not in a position to be able to travel around the country in a van. (My friends Darren and Lindsey Smitherman might protest this point.) But that doesn’t mean that we have to resign ourselves to cluttered minds and disordered souls. We can choose a short list of worthwhile things – reading, writing, hiking, and thinking, for instance – and begin the hard work of discarding the clutter.

The Case for Wonder

Why did humans ever begin to philosophize, to create literature, or to make scientific experiments? What has been the animating force behind this remarkable project known as civilization? Among the many possible answers, consider the case for wonder.

Philosophy was, from the start, awe-inspired. Plato said that, “philosophy begins in wonder.” Aristotle agreed that “it is owing to their wonder that men…philosophize.” Martin Heidegger claimed that “astonishment carries and pervades philosophy.” And Alfred North Whitehead believed that, “philosophy begins in wonder. And, at the end, when philosophic thought has done its best, the wonder remains.”

This sentiment is not exclusive to philosophers. Thomas Aquinas saw that poetry and philosophy arise from the same impulse. “The reason why the philosopher can be compared to the poet,” he said, “is that both are concerned with wonder.” And the writer Annie Dillard insisted that the work of literature is to, “give voice to this, your own astonishment.”

The scientist can also be driven by a wide-eyed admiration with the world. Albert Einstein remarked that, “he who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.” Isaac Newton once described his own inspiration as that of, “a boy playing on the seashore…whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

It’s no surprise that civilization should be the fruit of wonder, nor that conversation would be enriched by its presence. It is a posture towards the world – one that acknowledges that this planet is odd, unexpected, and yet intelligible. This posture creates the conditions for the genuine curiosity upon which good discussion depends.

Such curiosity is in short supply. On one side we meet people so disenchanted with the world that they think there is nothing interesting left to discover. Someone else has already climbed all of the mountains and plumbed all of the oceans. The person sitting across from us, familiar and ordinary, couldn’t possibly surprise or intrigue us. Best to stick with safe, predictable pleasures. An endless stream of diversions become the tawdry successor to the longings of youth.

On the other side we meet people so fearful of curiosity that they dare not ask honest questions. They are strict partisans, anxious to draw lines around their politics or theology, and to banish anyone who falls outside of those lines. In so doing, they exile themselves to an island of their own narrow point of view. It’s an island well armed against heretics, but vulnerable to demagogues.

The surest way back to curiosity is around a coffee table. It is at a pub table, or on a walking path. As individuals silence their phones and attend to one another, they can’t help but court wonder. As they enter honestly into discussion, their disenchantment begins to dissolve. The bizarreness of this world, after all, is hard to conceal.

When the partisan leaves the echo chamber of social media, he encounters the forms upon which his straw men were based. People are not so ridiculous, as it turns out. Or, at least, they are not ridiculous in the way he had expected. He is likely, over time, to soften on some positions. He will have confronted the complexity of reality and been changed by it. He is also likely to believe some of his positions even more strongly. But in those instances they will be, more than before, his true opinions. His former fear and disdain for his political enemies will have been replaced with honest intellectual conviction.

We have spent too much time with our heads buried in screens. That is a world full of diversion and certainty, but too often devoid of wonder. We would do well to lift ourselves up, leaving behind disenchantment and fear, and confront other living human beings. And in such encounters we could expose ourselves to that civilizing force known as wonder.

This is the third post in a series on the topic of conversation. Links to the first two posts are below:

1. How to Impress a Teenager

2. A Feast for the Soul