Death and Dominion

Oct22 by Dave Mathwin

Back in college I had a conversation with a friend who had recently graduated. He was a solid guy, and a good bass player. He seemed the perfect catch for some young Christian woman. When I asked about his dating life he opened up a bit and told me that he had made some mistakes in years past, and now felt he should not date anyone. He needed to get proper distance from his past to feel ready to have a genuine relationship. A few years later, he ended up happily married.

Many other Christians have similar stories. For me it was music. After becoming a Christian early in college I felt that I had to purge myself of some of the music I owned, especially of the band I devoted myself to in high school. I know now that this process is not unusual for new Christians, though it seemed so at the time.

I never really understood this process and resented it in many ways. I had no joy in throwing away those cd’s. But this summer I found myself involved in a conversation with Andrew Kern who pointed out that I purged myself of certain things in pursuit of proper dominion. The music might have been perfectly legitimate, but in my non-Christian past I did not integrate the music into its proper place, and in this sense the music gained a kind of power over me. I needed to hit the reset button, and cast my bread upon the waters so I might receive it back again, all towards the end of proper enjoyment. Though I had no real idea why I did what I did, good came from it. In this sense a Christian might very well listen to AC/DC and appreciate the guitar, drums, etc. without in the least feeling the need to run off and live the lifestyle described in the songs. Such people have dominion over AC/DC. The music has no control over them. Rather, they use it for their own good purposes.

Phillipe Aries’ short but incisive book, Western Attitudes toward Death from the Middle Ages to the Present describes just what the title indicates. Aries’ economical style and droll French wit make this book enjoyable to read, even given the subject matter. I don’t know where Aries’ came from theologically, but “dominion” forms the subtext of his work, which asks the question, “Is it possible for individuals and a society at large to have dominion over death?”

His first chapter, “Tamed Death,” peeled scales off my eyes. He begins with the early medieval period and shows how these people neither ignored or feared death. They accepted it, and, in a sense, gained dominion over it. “Death was a ritual organized by the dying person himself, who presided over it and knew its protocol” (emphasis mine). Of course one could never particularly determine the time of death, but through the simplicity of certain postures, and liturgies of prayer and forgiveness, one might rob death of at least some of its power. Aries quotes Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward to describe the medieval attitude:

The old folk, who never made it to town, they were scared, while Yefrem rode horses and fired pistols at 13 . . . . But now . . . he remembered how the old folk used to die back home on the Kama-Russians, Tartars, Votyaks, or whatever they were. They didn’t puff themselves up or fight against it and brag that they weren’t going to die–they took death calmly [author’s italics]. They didn’t stall squaring things away, they prepared themselves quietly and in good time. . . . And they departed easily, as if they were moving into a new house.

I have never liked the phrase, “Death gives meaning to life.” It is an absurd sentiment. Had Adam not fallen his life still would have had meaning, just as Enoch’s and Elijah’s life had meaning. That attitude also gives Death a kind of power, for now we must struggle to find “meaning” in life, and without an eternal perspective this will be very difficult to do. The medieval approach strikes me as far superior.

Aries shows that this sense of dominion man had over death disappeared over time. The shift began in the latter Middle Ages/Renaissance/Reformation (Aries blends them together) when death came with a sense of final reckoning, a summation of life itself. This may have had a salutary effect of bracing mankind for final judgment, but in the end it added a great deal of weight, burden, and expectation to death. We no longer “presided” over death, rather, death came with a long list of duties and expectations. Western man began to lose dominion.

As the Enlightenment dawned and science and “understanding” gained preeminence, health concerns began to separate people from death, both in terms of being with the dying or being around dead bodies, especially the presence of cemeteries and churches. A secularization of last will and testaments followed. Without the attendance of family and friends at death, documents disclosed the intentions of the dying instead of the actual dying person.

The Enlightenment in turn called forth a counter-reaction in Romanticism, where death got elevated to “sublime” status. At first glance the Romantics appeared to bring death back into the human fold by doing so, but Aries points out that Romantics did not counter the Enlightenment as much as they supposed. By making death a profound “experience” they put man on foreign footing in his relation to death. Under the Romantics the burden of death continued to increase, as did its power over us.

The modern age continued this trajectory, which culminated in a cult of the dead in the aftermath of World War I. Yes, honoring the past and those gone has its place. But Aries argues that Europe continued the dominion of death by excessive and repetitive attempts to memorialize the war-dead. This had the same effect as before–the dead, and death itself, had power over the living.

In the Victorian era official mourning might continue for many months after the death of a loved one. In the modern age, a modern industry has arisen to get rid of death as fast as possible. Now,

“too evident sorrow does not inspire pity, but repugnance, it is the sign of . . . bad manners: it is morbid. Within the family circle one also hesitates to let oneself go for fear of upsetting the children. One only has the right to cry if no one else can hear.”

The hidden nature of death in the modern west, like the Enlightenment, Romanticism, and post-war period, adds to death’s hold over us. It’s hiddenness shrouds it in mystery, making it seem omnipotent. “But really, at heart we feel we are non-mortals,” Aries writes, “And surprise! Our life is not as a result gladdened!”

Through all this I felt that Aries perhaps gave a tad too much credence to the early medieval view. Death is a curse, and in that sense not a natural part of life at all. Thus, there should be something foreign and mysterious to it. But Aries never talks about how the medievals arrived at their view, the book’s one weakness. Perhaps we can assume that in recognizing this from Scripture and church tradition, they gained dominion precisely by naming death correctly, just as Adam gained dominion (however briefly) by naming the animals.

Once we have dominion, death might even be transformed from curse to friend. We may remember St. Francis’ last stanza of his marvelous “Canticle of the Sun,”

Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Bodily Death,
from whose embrace no living person can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those she finds doing Your most holy will.
The second death can do no harm to them.

Detachment and Exploitation

Oct15 by Dave Mathwin

When we attempt to define civilization we might be tempted to think of things like refinement and gentility, but this is not quite right. As Kenneth Clark stated, “such things may be the agreeable results of civilization, but they are not what makes a civilization.” In fact, believing that “refinement” will heighten your civilization may lead to barbarism.

In the modern age perhaps the ultimate example of refinement goes to Louis XIV Versailles. I can think of no other place dedicated to symmetry, luxury, and delicacy. Yet at root Versailles existed due to heavy taxation and in some ways, exploitation. With its maze of manners and ridiculous customs, one could argue that Versailles exploited even those who lived there and “enjoyed” its opulence. I can’t imagine any sane person wanting to go back in time to take part in the massive charade. To me Versailles has little real beauty, and suffers from an excess of refinement. I think the links between Versailles and the terror and barbarism of the French Revolution can be overstated, but surely, some connection exists.

In The Birds by the great Greek playwright Aristophanes, a character named Meton says that,

With the straight ruler I set to work to inscribe a square within a circle; in this center will be the marketplace, into which all straight streets will lead, converging into the center like a star, which . . . sends forth its rays in a straight line on all sides.

It sounds heroic, clean, and noble, but then we remember that Aristophanes wrote comedies, and Meton is a figure of fun, a puffed-up fool.

The story of Athens is the story of Narcissus.

Their democracy under Pericles (ca. 450 B.C.) had its roots in the reforms of Solon (590-570 B.C.). Certain privileges still resided in the upper classes after Solon’s time in power, but clearly Solon broadened the political class and narrowed the social gap between rich and poor. Among his reforms. . .

All Athenian citizens received admission to the Areopagus
Foreign tradesmen were encouraged to settle in Athens and received citizenship if they brought their families
Any citizen could take legal action against another
Prohibition against a debtor’s person used as security for a loan.

The lock-step nature of Athenian society under Draco received a welcome outside stimulus. Athenians started trusting one another, and their economy grew. Plutarch writes that, “In Solon’s time, no trade was despised.” The exalted Agora in fact served as a market and a general festival area. Different people mixed together from different trades and classes.

Though no one believes that this sculpture of Solon was done anywhere near his lifetime, it reveals something of the common wisdom and concern that seems out of place with his upper-class roots:

If we go forward in time another 100+ years, we come to this bust of the Athenian statesmen Pericles.

Pericles had many successes and we can admire much of his statesmanship, but his face betrays him. We do not see what we see in Solon. With Pericles we have the smugness, arrogance, and touch of detachment for which the Athenians became notorious by 431 B.C. If Pericles gets his share of credit for the brilliant culture of 5th century Athens, he shares in the blame of how far they had slipped since Solon’s time. For example, under Pericles one could not marry foreigners, and foreigners in general had no hope of participating in Athenian political life.

Like Meton, the Athenians came to crave elegant simplicity and clarity. They obsessed over the ideal. The brilliant pythagoreans, who believed that all of life could be reduced to simple ratio, actually killed a member of their school who divulged the existence of irrational numbers. They murdered to stay detached from reality. Nothing should be allowed to end their beautiful dream.

This attitude bore bad fruit in more general ways. Athenians still benefitted greatly from foreign trade. In fact they depended on it, and Pericles’ initial strategy for the Peloponnesian war put absolute reliance on the availability of foreign goods. But the tradesman and the merchant now had no social standing, whatever their political rights might have been. The aristocratic ideal of refinement and detachment had taken firm root among the Athenian elite. If we take Aristophanes as a reliable source, in Pericles’ day the upper-classes avoided the Agora and hung out by the gymnasium with their own more leisured companions. Athens’ contempt for the artisan and merchant destroyed them. Trade depends on good relationships and good faith, the same qualities needed to hold together their empire. If Athens neglected their tradesman they would soon neglect their empire, and treat them as second class citizens.

As Lewis Mumford notes in his excellent The City in History, they did just that. Their platonic sense of detachment led to Athens exploiting its tributary states, once allies. This detachment and exploitation reached its peak in the Parthenon (funded by money taken under false pretense from their allies) which doubles as an insanely impressive technical achievement and a hymn to self-worship unequaled except by the pyramids and Nebuchadnezzar’s statue.

A “schism in the soul” of Athens had arrived, an imbalance that gave the life of the leisured mind precedence over the life of the laborer. Whereas before Solon gave economic incentive towards developing a trade, now tradesmen sat on the outside looking in. Plato later took the aristocratic idea to its fullest extent and enshrined philosophers as kings, strictly dividing the people based on their innate functionality. None could accuse Plato of loving democracy, but ironically, he is in many ways Pericles’ heir.

When looking at the Civil War modern history textbooks do a great deal of damage by glossing over the virtues of the South. Many in the North had no love for blacks, and the industrial system exploited people in ways not terribly different than slavery. Some southerners treated their slaves well (relatively speaking), some in the south spoke against slavery, etc., etc. The ante-bellum South was no monolith.

But in the end even the Southern romantic must see that large aspects of the refinement and gentility that the South possessed came from their aristocratic detachment, made possible by wholesale exploitation of blacks. Will Durant wrote that all cultural achievements have roots somewhere in exploitation of some kind. I disagree. But some cultural achievements do have rotten roots. Some of what makes the ante-bellum south appealing (i.e. the “Gone With the Wind” culture) had its roots in arrogance, but also in aristocratic detachment from the “vulgar’ aspects of life. Let others get their hands dirty. One southern newspaper wrote just before the war,

Free society! We sicken at the name. What is it but a conglomeration of greasy mechanics, filthy operatives, and moon struck theorists? They are hardly fit for association with any Southern gentlemen’s body servant.

Those “hardly fit” would soon bring judgment upon Southern society, much as all the merchants, farmers, and craftsmen scattered across the Aegean dealt a mortal blow to Athens by the end of the Peloponnesian War in 404 B.C.

Cannae, Carrhae, Adrianople

Oct4 by Dave Mathwin

Every good teacher will seek different ways to communicate effectively, and over the years much has been written about how teachers can adapt to the different learning styles of the students. Much of this information should be used as best we can but in the end, I think too much is made of it. After all, it is impossible for teachers to adjust individually to each of his/her students, and much easier for students to adjust to the teacher.

So much of how one teaches comes from who one is as a person. Teachers must be “on display” for much of the day, and so perhaps more than most professions, the strengths and weaknesses of teachers as people reveal themselves in the classroom. Since this cannot be avoided, it might as well be embraced. We have to play to our strengths and let the chips fall. This is inevitable and in one sense, appropriate. We are finite, limited, and are most effective when in a community of other teachers with different strengths. This way, in the end, it all balances out. Teachers can be blamed for a variety of things, but not our certain failure to be all things to all students.

One of my favorite sections of Toynbee’s A Study of History comes in volume four when he examines the subtle idolatries that infect civilizations — idolatries of the past, of institutions, or techniques. Toynbee applies this latter lens to the Roman army from its disaster at Cannae in 216 B.C. to its decimation at Adrianople in 378 A.D.

After Cannae Scipio helped bring about several reforms in the Roman infantry, making it more flexible and mobile. But it was Hannibal’s cavalry that had really done Rome in at Cannae, and Rome’s reforms in this area were not nearly as significant.

Fast forward 150 years and Crassus leads his army into Parthia. Once again, the Romans lose decisively, and once again, the cause is the Parthians heavy cavalry deployed in a wide open area.

Historian William Tarn commented that, “Carrhae ought to have revolutionized the world’s warfare,” but Rome ignored the evidence, or perhaps has no possibility of changing anything at the time. The Republic was collapsing all around them, and Caesar fought illegally in Gaul more or less simultaneously. In any case, Surena, the victor at Carrhae, was executed shortly after the battle and his magnificent cavalry broken up.

By 378 A.D. the empire totters on the verge of collapse, and the Goths deal a decisive defeat to Rome at Adrianople, with cavalry again the mainspring of this final disaster.

Toynbee argues that Rome idolized its infantry technique to the point where they never could adapt their cavalry, and this failure, among many others, helped end their empire.

One of Toynbee’s great strength is his search for spiritual roots to what seem like physical problems. Rarely do I disagree with how he applies this methodology, but I think I may in this instance.

The adaptations made by Scipio allowed Rome to conquer much of the Mediterranean within two generations, so their attachment to the technique/institution seems understandable, and if they “idolized” it that might be expected. This picture could fit Toynbee’s theory, but perhaps they didn’t “idolize” the technique, perhaps they simply had a finite army, just like every other civilization. Rome could never be all things to all men, and neither could their army.

Even during their declining “Empire” phase Rome continued to adapt their military, using auxiliaries from different provinces to fight alongside the standard infantry. So we cannot say that Rome had frozen itself in time from Scipio onwards. Their cavalry improved enough to help defeat Hannibal at Zama, and Caesar’s cavalry helped him defeat the Gauls — no small achievement.

Maybe we can say that Rome was a great teacher, and could reach many different students, but would always have a problem with students of certain type. To be limited is not the same as being idolatrous. To ask them to act differently is to ask them not to be Rome.

And, we have to admit, Rome had a very successful military for whatever shortcomings they possessed.

The issue Toynbee raises, however, still has value. Why did Rome improve in many ways at many levels, yet never develop an ‘A’ level cavalry?

I don’t know, but I would guess that. . .

Great cavalries usually develop in wide open geographies. Italy did not possess the typical geography that usually developed cavalries
But the geographic argument can be overstated, because medieval Europe was a “cavalry” culture, and European geography has little in common with Eurasian steppes or desert flatlands. The roots of the knight-errant lie in the social-political structure of feudal Europe. So. . . .
Rome inherited the Mediterranean city-state legacy, with its emphasis on a land owning infantry that fought and armed themselves to defend the city. Rome’s military was certainly an offensive machine, but they always fought best when they could, a la Henry V at Agincourt, advance to provoke an attack, then fight defensively. Cavalry strikes me as a distinctivly offensive weapon.
Even when the patricians governed Rome, they always thought of themselves as a nation of simple farmers (Toynbee could charge Rome justly with another one of his idolatries, the “idolization of the ephemeral self”). Romans, like farmers, were practical at heart, and probably had little time for the horse, a “useless” animal on the farm. Without a real love for horses, one could never develop a great cavalry.

I would curious for any other thoughts on this question.

12th Grade: The Assassination of Anwar al-Awaki

Sep28 by Dave Mathwin

Greetings,

One of my main goals for our first few weeks was to try and see how our current ‘War on Terror’ raises difficult questions and puts great stress on key democratic values and practices.

As an example of the kinds of questions and dilemmas we face as a nation we spent some time discussing the drone attack/assassination of Anwar Al-Waki. No one doubts that he was a “bad guy” whose English ability made him a unique voice for terrorists. He likely had an indirect hand in the Fort Hood shootings, as well as the failed Times Square bombing. Here is a Youtube of his last video message before his assassination:

What makes his death especially debatable is that he was an American citizen. Should we be allowed to, in effect, execute citizens without a trial?

There are different sides on this issue.

In favor of the action, we might say that:

He was a known enemy who fled the country and who advocated and perhaps facilitated attacks upon us. This is the very definition of treason.
We had no access to arrest him. In taking refuge in Yemen, he put us in an extremely awkward position. Yemen’s unique political and social dynamic make it a kind of no-man’s land. If he wants to go into a ‘no-man’s land’ where normal political rules don’t apply, then he forfeited his right to a trial.

Against it we could say that:

Civilization as a whole, and our legal system in particular, is inconvenient and creates inefficient burdens to us that we simply have to abide by in order to have civilization at all. Citizens must be dealt with through the legal process, no matter the person or circumstance.
Do we want to give the president the power to execute citizens without trial? Would this not continue the disturbing trend of increased presidential power that we have seen since World War II, and that has only accelerated after 9/11?
If we want a government to deal with all evil under the sun, we ask for an omnipotent state. Such a state would give its citizens no liberty. We must simply tolerate some evil (and evil people) for the sake of liberty.

Two articles about the incident can be found here and here.

In the broader context, I hope students saw this as another instance of our theme for this first unit, how the “War on Terror” does not just put stress on our security, but on our democratic system as a whole, our values, and so on.

Last week in the update I mentioned that we discussed the nature of our values as a country, and whether or not these values helped or hindered the war against terrorism. Students disagreed on this question, with most believing that our values hamper us, or leave open the possibility that we will be taken advantage of because of our values.

What we as a people think of this question will have a significant impact on how we deal with enemies abroad and at home. One student mentioned the famous account of a Navy SEAL mission in Afghanistan in book called Lone Survivor. The book details “Operation Redwing,” in which a small team was charged with killing a dangerous bomb-maker behind enemy lines. Unfortunately a few random shepherds discover the SEAL team in the early stages of their mission, and the soldiers must decide what to do. Some on the team advocated killing the shepherds to prevent them from possibly giving away their position. Others wanted to let them go, seeing as how they were civilians. In the end the team leader let them go. The Taliban discovered their position (likely because of the shepherds told others about what they saw), and only one member of the team made it out alive.

Upon reflection, the book’s author wishes he had killed the shepherds instead of letting them go, and most of the students agreed with him. The mission, and the perceived “greater good” of the mission, took precedence over the lives of the shepherds.

This specific mission touches on the broader ethical questions we face as a nation in general, and as a democracy in particular. If we believe in equality, that all lives have equal value, does that apply on the battlefield? Do we believe in “innocent until proven guilty” for others? Do these values apply in wartime? If we fight consistently or inconsistently with them, what are the consequences for our society? Students that advocated for letting the shepherds go argued that 1) Killing them would be a direct evil balanced out only against a possible, indeterminate good, and 2) Killing them would be an explicit admission that American lives were more valuable than the lives of Afghanis.

This decision also forces us back to the tensions in any democratic nation, for as we discussed in the first week, the natural community for democracies is “everybody.” We preach a universal ethic rooted universal values. Can we maintain our identity if we fail to act consistently with this? But how can we outside our borders?

There exists another possibility. . .

Perhaps it is when we fight in such a way that prioritizes our lives over others that we in fact, fight according to our values and not vice-versa. After all (say some), we have a “me-first” culture. Of course, human nature has always been “me-first,” but our culture at the moments seems particularly geared in this direction. Maybe this, and not “equality,” truly governs our actions today.

Whatever we think about these difficult questions, we must choose, and take responsibility for that choice.

Thanks once again,

Mr. Mathwin

The Mosaics at Chora

Sep26 by Dave Mathwin

Everyone wants creativity, but everyone knows that it just not just “happen.” Creative acts need a physical context (i.e. time, skill, etc.), but they also need a spiritual context. That is, for human beings to see things in new ways they need the inner spiritual freedom that allows them to see in the first place.

Idolatry comes in many forms, but within Christian communities it will almost always take an indirect path and have an indirect manifestation. We can idolize the past, or idolize institutions, for example. The Byzantine empire (ca. 330-1453 A.D.) gave much to the idea of civilization. We can find evidence of its vitality in its unique artistic and architectural contributions. They had a significant impact on the development of Russia outside their borders. But, as a “grafted” branch onto the Roman tree, they persisted in an irrational attachment to Rome’s imperial idea long after things in Italy showed that the emperor had no clothes. One could call it idolization of the past perceived glories of Rome, but they did not merely copy Rome’s culture. They blended with their eastern surroundings and invented something new. I think instead they stand accused of attachment to the institution of the emperor, or at least the idea of empire itself.

In another post we looked at how this idea led them into a foolish war against their Bulgarian neighbors, a conflict which took their eyes off more pressing concern of the rise of Islam. They never fully recovered from this mistake.

The truth of the failure of the imperial idea became obvious to the eastern church by the 14th century. The Islamic handwriting was on the wall to any person who had eyes. The Byzantine Empire’s time was at hand. Unfortunately, the eastern church’s realization of their failed investment in the institution of the emperor was too little, too late. But as they freed themselves spiritually from their attachment to the emperor, they simultaneously created some of the most magnificent art ever done in the eastern iconographic style in the monastery at Chora, right near the beating heart of Byzantium, just outside Constantinople.

To my western eyes this may not seem that impressive. But if we travel to Mt. Athos in Greece and observe contemporary works to those at Chora we see a difference in the examples below. . .

At Chora we see power in the images and a subtle touch only possible with a freed mind. At Athos I don’t see quite see the same inner depth.

The reason for these differences might be the persistence of the idolization of an institution. In Greece during the 14th century they still put their heart into the imperial treasure. Perhaps their physical distance from the emperor made their hearts all the fonder, more fond than they should have been. Though the monks in Constantinople were about to be engulfed, they may have had more inner freedom than those in Greece.

For the record, I am no art critic, and so would welcome any thoughts from more discerning eyes than my own.

Visual Democracy

Sep16 by Dave Mathwin

Last year a colleague told me about Ivan Illich. “Ivan Illych?” I asked. “No, the other one,” he replied.

I had never heard of him before. His Wikipedia page mentions that he was a Catholic priest, but most known for his social criticism. One look at his bibliography shows a wide range of interests. His book In the Vineyard of the Text lives up to all of my friend’s hype. I can’t call what follows here a “Book Review,” because the book is too dense, and the material too far out of my league, for me to fully grasp. But I am excited by it and hope to make progress as time goes by.

In this book Illich looks at what he calls the origins of the age of the book. He does not locate this with the printing press or the Englightenment, but with Hugh of St. Victor’s Didascalion written in the early 12th century (something else I had never heard of before). Of course books existed before this particular work. But Illich makes the observation that up until this point, books were made to be heard and not seen (i.e. The Illiad), or so visually stimulating that the text took a backseat. The words were entirely secondary.

With Hugh of St. Victor Illich believes a significant transition took place, whereby Hugh writes to be read rather than heard. Form follows function, so St. Victor writes in a way that allows for reflection. Plays rely on visualization, but books ask you to exercise methodical reason. Arguments build, and you have the opportunity to refer back. WIth that opportunity comes expectation, and so on. St. Victor, for the first time (according to Illich) writes with a thought towards creating the discipline of reading, which leads to the development of certain modes of thought, and for the next 800 years or so, we have the age of the book, an age which lent itself towards the formation of deliberative wisdom.

Illich, writing in 1993, notes that the age of the book has long since passed us by in favor of visual mediums. While he does not address this transition, he notes that it will of course have dramatic consequences for society, and I wondered what consequences it might have for democracy.

Does democracy needs books to thrive, or perhaps even survive?

Democracy predates the age of the book. We don’t need to think only of ancient Athens–we can think of innumerable local village assemblies from before Christ through the more official village and township elections of the Middle Ages. But I’m not sure these small scale democracies should really count as examples that pertain to us today. These local democracies did not need a “mass-produced” way of making decisions. Their communities were usually small enough for everyone to know each other.

Republican Rome had many democratic elements, but remained an oligarchy, for better or worse. They had a variety of structures in place to prevent the people’s ability to make quick decisions, and the patrician Senate dominated policy until the army, another kind of oligarchy, did so starting ca. 100 B.C.

So, although it’s almost boring to say so, we are drawn back to Athens.

Athenian democracy had many more wide-open features than modern American democracy. They made the majority of their decisions in the Assembly, which met 10x a year. Anyone could attend and vote in Assembly meetings, provided you arrived early enough, and there may have been as many as 5000 seats. Anyone in theory could speak, provided that you could hold the floor and didn’t get booed off stage. Voting often took place on the same day that laws or policies were proposed. It seems much more exciting than C-Span.

But the critics of Athenian democracy from Thucydides to Plato had a point when they argued that they often lacked the capacity for deliberative wisdom (I think both eminent men overstated their case, but they did have a case). If we believe Thucydides, Xenophon, and others we see that they had moments where passions got the best of them and led them to disaster. So while they were not a visual culture per se, they did seem to demonstrate the faults of visual cultures. That is, they are easier to manipulate. Now I do not agree that Athenian democracy had no brains behind it. Many speeches passed down to us by Thucydides had wit and reason behind them. It was not a smoke and mirrors show. But at crucial moments they seemed to lack the ability to reason carefully. This is a human fault, of course, not just one of democracies. But the lack of “deliberation” built into their government and society made it so they were more vulnerable to the swings of emotion and powerful rhetoric.

If Illich is right that we are long past the age of the book than we may be back in the situation of ancient Athens. I thought of this when I heard someone discuss our possible intervention in Syria. He opposed it but admitted that if video existed of the chemical attacks and it went viral on the internet we would have no choice but to intervene. The images would force our hand. I think that would almost certainly be true. Aside from whether or not we should intervene in Syria, would it be a good thing if images dictated our policy? Will democracy experience a seismic shift in the You Tube age, or did this shift happen 20 years ago?

As a parting aside, I feel I must read Illich’s Deschooling Society at some point. His quote from that book, “School is the advertising agency that makes you believe you need the society as it is,” in itself offers much food for thought.

Ibn Khaldun on Jeff Bezos and Steve Jobs

Aug16 by Dave Mathwin

Jeff Bezos’ purchase of the Washington Post has led to a flurry of articles about him, of which I liked these two. Clearly Bezos has a brilliant mind, supreme confidence, and intense drive. As I read some articles about Bezos I thought he had much in common with Steve Jobs. Both have drawn great praise and great criticism, with the praise coming for their revolutionary ideas, with much of the criticism coming from how they treat employees.

Regarding people with brilliant minds being in charge, medieval Moslem philosopher Ibn Khaldun wrote,

Benevolent government is rarely associated with a ruler whose mind is over-alert and intelligence over-developed. Benevolence is most commonly found in rulers who are easy-going or who behave as if they were. The worst defect of such a ruler is that he lays burdens on his subjects which are greater than they can bear; and he does this because his mental vision outranges theirs and his insight penetrates into the end of things as well their beginnings. . . . Divine Law prescribes in the case of rulers that excess of intelligence should be avoided. . . .because it produces oppression and bad government, and makes demands on people that are contrary to their nature.

Toynbee quotes Khaldun in volume four of his A Study of History in the context of looking at civilizations that begin to lose internal harmony. Decline in civilizations begins for Toynbee when society reveals various forms of spiritual schisms that misalign their focus. The lopsided nature of a mere intellectually brilliant leadership comes not as a blessing but a curse to a civilization. Perhaps Toynbee would not be so impressed with Bezos and Jobs.

But I do wonder if Toynbee was wrong about this. Apple products have made enjoyment of music, for example, accessible in ways not previously possible. I realize that a lot music is pirated but that is not Apple’s fault, and anyone my age can remember the necessity of buying whole cd’s to get the 2 songs you liked. Amazon may get a bad wrap for putting Borders out of business, but I love that the world is now my library, and I have benefitted greatly from the access that Amazon gives me. Of course nothing is perfect, but on balance it seems that Apple and Amazon have changed the world in positive ways. Let us grant that Bezos and Jobs are/were tough bosses. But both did, on the other hand, have a large role in creating companies that employ thousands of people.

But I hesitate to disagree with Toynbee, so I must imagine how he would respond. He might say that increased access is only an improvement of technique and not a real breakthrough. He might continue that improvement in technique does not improve our souls, and what’s more, this technical advance (unaccompanied by a spiritual advance) will likely fool us into thinking that we are “all that.” This delusion will lead to much greater problems later on.

This would be a really good counter-argument, one I am tempted by. But I don’t know.

I do really like Amazon Prime.

Inflationary Goodwill

Aug11 by Dave Mathwin

R.W. Southern’s book Western Society and the Church in the Middle Ages won’t change the discipline of medieval studies, but his work succeeds fundamentally in avoiding two key errors historians often make about the past.

The first error makes the present great, and the past barbaric and backward, an object of amusement. This view was far more prevalent in the 18th and the 19th centuries than today.

The second error is more subtle. Seeking to correct the first error, they explain the value of the past by showing how it led the world we have today. “If it wasn’t for Albert the Great, we wouldn’t have light bulbs,” or something to that effect.

More truth resides in the second error than the first, but both paths share the same pitfall. They both view the past only in terms of the present, and both assume of course that history would obviously want to lead to ourselves. The first falls prey to chronological snobbery, the second to the “Whig” fallacy.

Happily Southern avoids both. He seeks to evaluate the medieval church on its own merits, in its own context. The medieval system had strengths and weaknesses that we do not. His book essentially tells the story of how a dynamic church that saved the west from barbarism after Rome’s fall resembled a stagnant hulk by the end of the 15th century. For Southern the church’s triumph set the stage for its demise. In this respect, the medieval church is no different from any other organization. Every system has a potential Achilles heel.

The peak of the medieval period had a lot going for it. Gothic cathedrals and St. Thomas Aquinas both brought weight and meaning, combined with a feathery touch and sense of play. Aquinas writings’ have a great deal of intricacy, but they do not form a system. He was at heart a mystical theologian. Holding this tension in place requires a high level of spiritual wisdom, which Aquinas possessed. Those that came after him found it much easier to focus on the logical intricacy than the demanding spiritual wisdom and playfulness that accompanied it. The “problem” of Aquinas is the problem of medieval civilization. At some point it became akin to an Italian sports car — powerful, beautiful, and likely to break down in a such a way that you’ll have no idea how to fix it.

Jocelin of Brakelond’s Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St. Edmonds, which details events at the abbey in the 12th century, show this same trend. I expected some stories of bad monks or various squabbles here and there. What I did not expect was the overwhelming political focus of Brakelond’s narrative. Time and time again he discusses disputes over this or that property, arguments about this prerogative, this privilege of hunting or taxes, or whatever. There was a method to this seeming madness, as the heart of the disputes involved the independence of the Church. But one can’t locate the spiritual center of the abbey. The emphasis has shifted too much in a dangerous direction toward power and “worldly” concerns.

One of the more interesting parts of Southern’s work is his section on indulgences. His sympathetic eye led to some insights I had not considered before. He argues that there is something almost childlike about how indulgences started and how they originally applied in the life of the Church (I am not Catholic and make no attempt here to understand the doctrine, but New Advent always gives good information on such things). Those familiar with Daniel Pinkwater’s The Last Guru may recall the scene when the young protagonist Harold, having no idea what to do with his sudden immense fortune, asks if he can just give it away. Not possible, his money-man tells him. Billions and billions of dollars flooding the economy at once would create economic chaos. Harold would have to think of something else.

Southern looks at the problem of indulgences as a problem of inflation. The initial “gifts” might have been well-meaning and had a nice “impact” (if such things can be measured). But if the supply never ran out, and the gifts kept coming, they would eventually lose their value and their meaning. One would have to invent creative applications to keep up appearances, hence the arrival of what Southern terms the “Lawyer Popes” of the late 13th-early 14th century. I do not think Southern was Catholic, and I can appreciate that while his particular perspective on indulgences does not attempt to be the whole truth on the matter, it can function nicely as part of the truth.

My one problem with Southern is the basic problem of the British specialist school of historical writing. For them the past has innate value in itself, and should be understood on its own terms. So far, I concur. But unfortunately, that’s where the British specialist stops. In his mind (so it seems to me) the historian’s job goes no further than telling you what happened. I disagree, and think that history only becomes “History” when it has meaning and application for how we live today.

But while this defect prevents the book from being great, it does not stop it from being a worthwhile look at medieval times.

Scientists are Civilizations Too

Jul29 by Dave Mathwin

Mario Livio’s Brilliant Blunders looks at five of the major scientists of the modern era (Darwin, Pauling, Einstein, etc.) and examines the significant mistakes each of them made. Livio does not take cheap shots. He does not blame the scientists to errors they made due to what they could not have possibly known. Instead, Livio focuses on blind spots in their theories that they should have seen, or prideful mistakes they made later in life. Thus his book* functions as a psychological as well as a scientific study.

Each of the scientists in the book made their most significant contributions relatively early in their career (i.e., Einstein’s “Miracle Year”), and Livio believes this trend holds true for scientists in general. The scientists then committed their “blunders” later in life, and when asked to comment on this, Livio stated that most likely, these men were not content to stay with a pat hand. If at 35 you change the world with your theories, who wants to tinker with its finer points until retirement? Instead, the scientists somewhat naturally seek other major breakthroughs, but this time in areas outside their wheelhouse, which is when they make their mistakes.

Are scientists unusual in this regard, or might it be a common human trait? One thinks of presidential second terms that never seem to go quite as planned (Truman, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton, GW Bush, Obama?). Local Washingtonians remember the humdrum nature of Joe Gibbs’ second stint as the Redskins coach. U.S. Grant made a much better general than president. In literature we have figures like Merlin and Lear making their big gaffes late in life.

Of course it could be that we see “fall’s” at the end of things only in hindsight. We call it the end because he /she “fell” and ended their careers on a bad note. But they only would end if they did something bad, thus the theory is entirely circular.

I don’t accept this entirely, for some careers end well, and some know when to ride into the sunset. But the question remains whether or not we trace something general about human life, and we don’t need a perfect record for that. And if it reveals something about human life in general, it may reveal something about civilizations.

Spengler thought that civilizations had a natural lifespan, like biological organisms. No civilization by definition could keep going ad infinitum. I think that’s because he saw civilizations as the outworking of a particular idea, embodied in a particular people (or, perhaps for Spengler, a particular race). If we take the city-state idea with Athens, for example, we can see

An initial dynamism with the “new” idea of democracy embodied in a small community
This dynamism having great success, which leads to expansion
The expansion leading to inevitable betrayal of the idea, or at least, the idea can’t apply in the same way beyond their community.
The tension and contradictions now need resolution, which comes in the form of the Peloponnesian War.

One can see a similar process happening with the Roman Republic, and perhaps even Israel. The idea of a Jewish state had great moral and dynamic force in the wake of W.W. II. This gave Israel a great cohesion and sense of mission with their founding generation (’48-’67). But the success engendered by the force of the idea led to Israel becoming an occupying force, with all the inherent contradictions that implies for their original idea.

In the end I think we should recoil from inevitability Spengler preaches but still be strongly cognizant of the usual pattern of temptation. In order for our ideals or our identities to experience continual renewal, we need to be aware of their limitations.

*I should say that I did not read the book, but heard the author interviewed.

“One of these real toffs . . .”

Jul23 by Dave Mathwin

My favorite chapter in C.S. Lewis’ That Hideous Strength is “Banquet at Belbury,” when God removes the gift of language from N.I.C.E. and it immediately hurtles towards catastrophe. Lewis writes on Wither’s reflections during the banquet,

“We shall not,” Jules was saying, “we shall not till we secure the erebation of all prostundiary initems.” Little as he cared for Jules, a sudden shock of alarm pierced him. He looked around again. Obviously it was not he who was mad–they had all heard the gibberish. Except possibly the tramp, who looked as solemn as a judge. He had never heard a speech before from one of these real toffs and would have been disappointed if he could understand it.

I very much identified with the tramp as I read Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West. Here I was, tackling one of the great historical tomes of the 20th century. Here I was, understanding very little of it. Both things were as they should be.

Spengler makes me nervous, partly because he is leagues smarter than I, partly because I often don’t understand him, partly because of the occasional racial undertones of his work (thankfully not much in evidence in this book, I don’t think, though certainly present in others).

But I confess a certain sympathy for Spengler. I think of Longstreet’s comment in Gettysburg, “We Southerners like our generals religious and a little bit mad.” My favorite historians have a touch of madness about them. They try to have a grand unified theory. They try to make history matter. Today, for example, I picked up a thick book on the Plantagenets that looks promising in its details. The preface shows that the author has a good idea of cause and effect within a certain time frame, but in the end, one thing just leads to another. And if that’s all you have — in the end, who cares?

Still, I would have liked to have understood Spengler more. Large chunks of this work remain unintelligible to me. Apparently he was a recluse, and I have the impression that he wrote for himself more than the public. I open at random (honestly) and see this sentence:

In both cases we have in reality an outbreak of deep-seated discordances in the culture, which physiognomically dominates a whole epoch of its history and especially of its artistic world — in other words, a stand the soul attempts to make against the Destiny that it at last comprehends.

He writes like one of those German operas where something is always burning and people are always dying (taking quite a bit of time doing so to boot). For me, it’s just too much.

But this should not deter anyone. Despite his eccentricity, real gold can be gleaned (all I say next has the caveat, “if I understand him correctly”).

Spengler challenged received opinion magnificently. For him, Egypt was superior to Greece, and Renaissance art can’t equal either the Gothic or the Baroque. Rome’s empire came much more easily for them than for others.

Most challenging for our time, he viewed the health of a culture by its inner life. So things such as technological innovation and expansion have no real bearing on the health of a civilization. Both constant innovation and physical expansion for Spengler probably serve as hints of decay. It is the bored civilization, he writes, that thinks primarily in terms of economics.

He has moments of great precise insight. For example — we automatically think of the Greeks as the founders of history as a discipline. But he argues convincingly that the Greeks lacked an historical mind. He cites a few details to support this but the crux of the argument comes from Greek funerary practices. They cremated, while Egypt embalmed. The Egyptians knew everything about at least their official past, but the Greeks focused too much on absolutes to care about particulars. They loved Homer, but never bothered to dig at Mycenae as Schliemman did 3000 years later. They never bothered with the notion of Agamemnon as fact. Myth mattered to the Greeks, but little else. When we see this, so much of their literature, architecture, and even politics makes more sense.

Throughout Spengler urges us to see civilizations as a whole. We can’t take Roman sculpture and separate its time and place. Therefore we should approach mimicry of the past with fear and trembling, as we may get more than we bargained for. Along those same lines, culture can’t create out of a vacuum. We have no Beethoven now because our culture couldn’t possibly make one. But that’s not our “fault” anymore than we should blame 19th century Germany for not having a John Coltrane.

This is enough to encourage me to read again in the future. For now, if anyone understands the chapter on the meaning of numbers, or the physiognomic, or many other such parts of this book, please let me know.

“The Whig Interpretation of History”

Jun26 by Dave Mathwin

Most of us, I hope, like living in the present, in the time into which we have been born. Part of this affinity has something to do with familiarity. Those of us relatively comfortable with computers, cars, and indoor plumbing naturally have great reluctance to give them up, and so account them as great and noble goods.

When we take this attitude and apply it to the past, we may often tend to justify and praise whatever we imagine helped lead to our current happy state. This optimistic and somewhat childlike attitude has something praiseworthy about it. It has the appearance of making history and cause and effect have importance. Unfortunately, this common approach to the past rarely has anything to do with the past at all. What looks like “History” really a glorifies the present.

In his book, The Whig Interpretation of History Herbert Butterfield sets out to counter the “Whig” school of thought that sought to

. . . praise revolutions provided that they have been successful. . .

. . . emphasize certain principles of progress. . .

. . . divide the world into friends and enemies of progress.

“Whigs” have no monopoly on this sort of problem, but we gain insight by looking at The “Whig” methodology that flourished in the mid-late 19th century through World War I. They stressed a few key themes:

The Reformation as a vehicle for political and religious liberty
The Scientific Revolution as a victory of knowledge over ignorance
The secularization and urbanization of the modern state as the apotheosis of history itself

As Butterfield points out, the Whig interpreter makes a number of key errors.

History has its place in the human desire for classification and order. Just as God brought order out of chaos, so we too seek the same with our past. But if one’s real point of reference is the past and not the present, the ‘Whigs’ will inevitably shoehorn people and events to fit the present. Thus, Thomas Jefferson must be “good,” and George III must be “bad.” Or Martin Luther = “good,” Pope Leo X = “bad” when we look at the Reformation. In other words, we look to the past merely to confirm our present perspective.

But by ignoring complexity in people and events, and hinders our charity. Leo X, for example, does not have to be a good pope to still come out ahead of Luther in areas like tolerance toward the Jews. We can find many things to like about him. Conversely, we can certainly claim Martin Luther as one of our heroes if we wish, but we will not understand those who disagree with us if we refuse to see his flaws. We can love others better by seeing them as they really are.

In this way the Whig approach takes us away from reality. History can aid us well in our knowledge of God and our worship of Him, provided that it presents the past in the right spirit. Ideally of course, we draw correct conclusions about the past, but the right answer for the wrong reasons will only make us prideful. An approach to history that enlarges our hearts may will not guarantee that we draw the right conclusions, but it will help lead us down paths of justice and mercy.

Butterfield rightly emphasizes that history can and should confront us with the “other.” We need shaken from our complacency. When we have confrontations with the “other” (fiction can also do this), we open ourselves to the possibility of transformation. C.S. Lewis famously wrote,

The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes cannot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory world charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog. Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality… in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

Paradoxically, the study of history may benefit us most when it most resembles great fiction.

Standardization Is Decline

May31 by Dave Mathwin

While browsing lazily through some assorted links, I came upon this head-scratcher from The Guardian. The jist of it is that

[the EU proposed a law banning] jugs and dishes of olive oil in restaurants. From January next year, dishes of oil are to be replaced by bottles, which must be presented, claret-like, at the table with a tamper-proof nozzle and EU-approved labeling.

The law intended to “protect customers and improve hygiene,” which seems strange, as the article notes. Few of us imagine that we need protection from olive oil on plates. Thanks to the internet generating massive blowback, the EU withdrew the law. What bothered me about their withdrawl, however, was that they did not seem to think that the idea itself was bad, merely their technique of presenting it. Agricultural Commissioner Dacian Ciolos commented that, “the law was not formulated in a way designed to draw widespread support.” I suppose they may try again another time.

Many of the objections to the law centered around the burden it placed on smaller independent producers and smaller cafe’s and restaurants. Progressives like to use government to aid the “little guy,” but some regulation does the opposite. Big companies can much more easily absorb the costs of regulation than smaller ones.

Some regulation serves a public good. I do not believe that the “invisible hand of the market” should determine all things. As Philip Bobbitt argued in Tragic Choices, a purely unregulated market is another way of saying, “We take no responsibility as a society for our actions.” Pure capitalism can descend into a kind of fatalism.

That said, I do think that regulation can easily damage society in subtle and hidden ways. When regulation goes too far it limits freedom, and in this way, too much government can bring down a civilization.

Of course we need some government action to have any freedom at all. An anarchic state enslaves everyone to the power of the strongest. We romanticize the wild West, but who wants to have to carry around a gun to ensure our own personal security? Government needs to have a near monopoly on the use of force so that we can all go about our business in peace.

One particular objector to the EU’s Olive Oil proposal, though, hit the nail on the head of the true problem of over-regulation with this comment:

“What’s next? I really don’t see the rationale. The whole contract between restaurant and customer is based on trust. If someone’s going to break it, they’re going to break it. No one says you need to show the pack of flour that the bread came from, so why the oil?” (emphasis mine).

In his Civilisation series Kenneth Clark developed the idea that “confidence” formed the basis for the success of any civilization. In referring to the fall of the Roman Empire he asked,

“What happened?

It took Gibbon six volumes to describe the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, so I shan’t embark on that. But thinking about this almost incredible episode does tell one something about the nature of civilisation.

It shows that however complex and solid it seems, it is actually quite fragile. It can be destroyed.

What are its enemies?

Well, first of all fear — fear of war, fear of invasion, fear of plague and famine, that make it simply not worthwhile constructing things, or planting trees or even planning next year’s crops. And fear of the supernatural, which means that you daren’t question anything or change anything.

The late antique world was full of meaningless rituals and mystery religions, that destroyed self-confidence. And then exhaustion, the feeling of hopelessness which can overtake people even with a high degree of material prosperity.   There is a poem by the modern Greek poet, Cavafy, in which he imagines the people of an antique town like Alexandria waiting every day for the barbarians to come and sack the city. Finally the barbarians move off somewhere else and the city is saved; but the people are disappointed — it would have been better than nothing.

Of course, civilisation requires a modicum of material prosperity. What civilization really needs [is] confidence in the society in which one lives, belief in its philosophy, belief in its laws, and confidence in one’s own mental powers. The way in which the stones of the Pont du Gard are laid is not only a triumph of technical skill, but shows a vigorous belief in law and discipline.

Vigour, energy, vitality: all the civilisations—or civilising epochs—have had a weight of energy behind them.

People sometimes think that civilisation consists in fine sensibilities and good conversations and all that. These can be among the agreeable results of civilisation, but they are not what make a civilisation, and a society can have these amenities and yet be dead and rigid.”

The presence of “mystery religions” might seem far removed from over-regulation, but both have a “this is pointless, absurd, disconnected from real life” quality to them, and both can confuse and exhaust those subject to them. Silly regulations reduce trust in our institutions. This sense of confusion and despair produces a lethargy that saps a civilization of creative freedom.

Though I have not read even half of the volumes of Toynbee’s A Study of History, so far Volume 5 ranks highest in mind. Within the first few pages Toynbee describes on the main themes of the book when he writes,

In a previous part of this study we have seen that in the process of growth the several growing civilizations become differentiated from one another. We shall now find that, conversely, the qualitative effect of the standardization process is decline.

He goes on to argue that standardization makes society rigid, and in so doing, prevents creative responses to challenges we face. The “Dominant Minorities” that do so much damage can take the form of snobby aristocrats, or even wide-eyed, well intentioned bureaucrats.

Civilization needs some kind of standardization to allow for people to interact productively with others both within and without their respective civilizations. Some degree of unity, then, helps civilization to flourish. But it becomes all too easy to run too far with that impulse, and at some point the line gets crossed. Standardization eliminates individual or local initiative. I have heard from public school teachers, for example, who argue that the rise of standardized testing has not only proscribed what to teach, but how to teach.

Busy governments can fool themselves into thinking that because things may be orderly, that things are well. They may forget that civilizations are not sustained primarily through government action, but through the connections made by people in their communities — connections with their neighbors, their schools, etc. Foolish regulation puts up barriers to the trust that is essential between people. We no longer directly trust our doctor, we trust the program. This “top-down” approach to governance creates whitewashed tombs that can collapse almost instantaneously under the right conditions, a la Soviet Russia. Governments can, as C.S. Lewis points out, easily get confused.

It is easy to think the State has a lot of different objects — military, political, economic, and what not. But in a way things are much simpler than that. The State exists simply to promote and to protect the ordinary happiness of human beings in this life. A husband and wife chatting over a fire, a couple of friends having a game of darts in a pub, a man reading a book in his own room or digging in his own garden — that is what the State is there for. And unless they are helping to increase and prolong and protect such moments, all the laws, parliaments, armies, courts, police, economics, etc., are simply a waste of time.

Many conservatives often state that government programs threaten freedom. As a blanket statement, this makes no sense. Think of how our system of roads, and their regular maintenance, enhance our freedom of movement. But as a general rule it has a kernel of truth, at least in our day. The impact of improper regulation will not be direct or immediately felt, but in working against freedom of initiative and bonds of trust, it erodes civilizations from the inside out.

These concepts do not tell us exactly what to do in every case, but I do think that if we agree with Clark, Toynbee and the restaurant owner, we should have a “presumed guilty” bias against regulation in developed societies. Some regulations will and should pass the test of examination, but many others should not.

I think Joseph Tainter would have agreed with Clark and Toynbee as well.

The Inspiration of Amateur Historians

Apr30 by Dave Mathwin

Though Toynbee included 12 volumes in him monumental “A Study of History” panorama, in many ways it was volume 10 that should serve as a fitting conclusion. It only has about 150 pages of straight text with a few appendices and a long and needed index to the previous nine volumes, but these few pages reveal a lot about Toynbee personally, as well as his philosophy of history.

If I said that this volume serves as a “defense” of his ideas that might give the impression that the book has a didactic tone. Part of the charm of this volume for me, however, is that here Toynbee “let’s himself go” and speaks with passion from “the heart.” But rest assured the book contains Toynbee’s patented magic, as even in the first few pages we see him seamlessly weave in his grand view of history with personal recollections and observations about changes in women’s headgear in Victorian England and its similarities to fashion in Turkey during the 1920’s.

I can understand people disagreeing with aspects of Toynbee’s system. But forget his system — doesn’t this sound like fun?

His main arguments. . .

A historian’s proper vocation (as is the case in other vocations) is to receive and act on a call from God, to “feel after Him and find Him” (Acts 17:27). There are as many “angles of vision” as exist proper vocations. Historians have no monopoly on this vocation, nor any greater vision per se. But, he has a task nonetheless.
Given that each historian should have a spiritual calling, a good historian is accountable in his studies to God and His mission. Since God aims to unite all of humanity under Him, the historian should attempt to unite various fields of inquiry and present them to the public.
This leads to Toynbee explaining his dislike of the historian as professional specialist. The “professional specialist” spends his time in one small corner of inquiry. He pursues not true knowledge but an impossible omniscience, and whatever knowledge he gains will not have life and can never become wisdom. The professional disdains “popular” action in the world, and this pose wears a humble mask. In fact, Toynbee asserts, this mask hides “the three deadly sins of Satanic pride, negligence, and sloth.” No historian will attain perfection or omniscience, but our “best guesses” still have value whatever errors persist in them. As a pastor once told me, “A moving car is easier to steer than one standing still.”
The specialist’s field of inquiry has value, but it is the historian’s calling to put his gains into the broader stream of human knowledge. He must give life to dead facts by interpreting them in a larger context, for knowledge is never knowledge for its own sake. The “muse” that calls us to investigation in the first place also calls us to use our knowledge to put humanity in a better position to know God.

His admiration for Heinrich Schliemann sticks out noticeably here. Of all the historians Toynbee admires here (Polybius, Herodotus, and St. Augustine, among them) none of them could be called “professionals.” But he devotes the most ink to Schliemann, the ultimate amateur. The reasons for this seeming curiosity point to Toynbee’s larger theory about the nature of history.

Toynbee uses the word “muse” here, but not quite in in a colloquial way, but in fact, in a near literal sense. For him, the historian’s primary impulse is ultimately spiritual. He follows the Muse, the Spirit, as He/It leads. The muses, of course, did not deal with scribes recording tax records, but for those who wrote poetry. True historical awareness will therefore take poetic form. Just as love poetry gives expression beyond words, so historians should give expression to reality beyond the mere recording of facts.

Surely in Schliemann then, we find a man “inspired.” He can truly claim to have founded the modern discipline of archeology. He discovered Troy (with a great deal of uncredited help from Frank Calvert) and Mycenae, and the professionals who followed him almost to a man disdained his work. Toynbee neglects to deal with Schliemann’s checkered personal life or his professional errors, but this makes sense. For Toynbee, what really counts with Schliemann is his inspiration to make the past come alive.

Finally, towards the end of the book Toynbee sheds light on his religious views. He does the same thing in a more straightforward and polemical way in Experiences, which he wrote about a decade after this, and his views did not change from this volume until then. I do not agree with his final conclusion in either book, but here his views make more sense to me in the context offered. That is, I can see how much his “heart” was in his views.

There is much the Christian can affirm along with Toynbee, who argued that

Human nature has uniformity throughout history, and this fact must be accepted if history has any meaning.
Ultimate reality is spiritual reality, and that spiritual reality is Love.
Love expresses itself not in formulas or syllogisms, but in action, hence the historian’s call to action.

So far so good, but alas, he takes these truths and misapplies them. He rejects all religious dogma, for dogma has nothing of “action” in it (according to him). Creedal statements for Toynbee smack of the professional, ivory tower scribbler. But the common man, the man of action knows that God exists, knows that he is loving, and knows that this is all anyone needs. Any claim to truth beyond this is a claim of omniscience, an attempt to divide rather than unite mankind.

Toynbee’s argument here is hardly new, but he states it with clarity and passion. He was no cynic, He did not seek to attack religion, but to promote something “higher.” It grieves me to disagree so profoundly with someone I greatly admire, but Toynbee here should have brought his brain to accompany his heart. As Chesterton once said, “You cannot make a success of anything, even loving, without thinking.” He wrote in Orthodoxy,

The things said most confidently by advanced persons to crowded audiences are generally those quite opposite to the fact; it is actually our truisms that are untrue. Here is a case. There is a phrase of facile liberality uttered again and again at ethical societies and parliaments of religion: “the religions of the earth differ in rites and forms, but they are the same in what they teach.” It is false; it is the opposite of the fact. The religions of the earth do not greatly differ in rites and forms; they do greatly differ in what they teach. It is as if a man were to say, “Do not be misled by the fact that the Church Times and the Freethinker look utterly different, that one is painted on vellum and the other carved on marble, that one is triangular and the other hectagonal; read them and you will see that they say the same thing.” The truth is, of course, that they are alike in everything except in the fact that they don’t say the same thing. An atheist stockbroker in Surbiton looks exactly like a Swedenborgian stockbroker in Wimbledon. You may walk round and round them and subject them to the most personal and offensive study without seeing anything Swedenborgian in the hat or anything particularly godless in the umbrella. It is exactly in their souls that they are divided. So the truth is that the difficulty of all the creeds of the earth is not as alleged in this cheap maxim: that they agree in meaning, but differ in machinery. It is exactly the opposite. They agree in machinery; almost every great religion on earth works with the same external methods, with priests, scriptures, altars, sworn brotherhoods, special feasts. They agree in the mode of teaching; what they differ about is the thing to be taught. Pagan optimists and Eastern pessimists would both have temples, just as Liberals and Tories would both have newspapers. Creeds that exist to destroy each other both have scriptures, just as armies that exist to destroy each other both have guns.

Chesterton is mostly, though not absolutely correct in this. I would add what C.S. Lewis said, that he would not have believed in Christianity unless it professed some similarities with other religions. As he came to see it, given the world that God made, how could one not find something true? But Chesterton’s point has validity when it comes to Toynbee. I would have loved to ask him a few questions (actually, if I ever had the chance I would probably have been scared silly to ask Toynbee questions, but I will nonetheless live out my fantasy here).

You rightly state, Honorable Professor, that love is not love unless directed towards a certain end, unless it has action. What then, is the action of the love of God that you speak of? It must have a context, something definite in mind to which it is directed.
If love needs action, the action must take a definite form. It cannot remain platonically amorphous in the ether.
Would this not then result in the need for “dogma?” Dogma then would serve love, or at least make love possible, instead of detracting from it. This path would, of course, end of giving a a more pointed particularity to the truth you seek.

Despite the disagreement, I’m still charmed by this work, for it serves as a mighty sword thrust for making historians accountable to something larger than themselves and their narrow disciplines.

An Alternate Take on the Korean Crisis

Apr23 by Dave Mathwin

I never quite understood the only book I ever tried to read by acclaimed security expert Edward Luttwak, but I found his take on the improbable survival of the North Korean regime enlightening. For those who want the short version, he argues that the root of the problem has a lot to do with South Korea acting as an enabler of the North. Among his points. . .

North Korea could never survive on its own, so its survival can only come by acting as a parasite
The South has acted as a primary enabler, through payoffs, work programs, etc.
The South enables the North also through a failure to realistically face the North militarily.

Basically, if the South can change its behavior, Luttwak argues, the North cannot sustain itself for much longer. But the South fails to live up to strategic realities. He writes,

Meanwhile, South Korea has matched the North’s bellicosity with its own strategic perversity: It remains obsessed with an utterly unthreatening Japan and has been purchasing air power to contend with imagined threats from Tokyo as opposed to the real ones just north of the demilitarized zone. Seoul is simply unwilling to acquire military strength to match its vastly superior economy. Instead, it spends billions of dollars to develop its proudly “indigenous” T-50 jet fighters, Surion helicopters, and coastal defense frigates — alternatives for which could be much better, and cheaper, imported from the United States. Meanwhile, gaping holes remain in South Korean defenses (and thus we see the ridiculous spectacle of last-minute scrambling for missing equipment and munitions in the present crisis). And the cycle continues: Because the South allows itself to remain so vulnerable, it cannot react effectively against North Korea’s perpetual threats and periodic attacks. Instead, Seoul checks its bank account and gets ready for the next payoff.

Luttwak’s article illumines a great deal of the reality of the North Korean situation, and provides insight that we did not hear during the heat of the crisis. The idea of Japan still looming large in South Korea’s mindset testifies to the longevity and power of cultural memory. It made me wonder, however, if one piece remains missing. If Luttwak is right, we still have to ask the question why South Korea continues to keep North Korea on life support. We might arrive if we think of North and South Korea not as two separate nation-states, but as two brothers of the same family.

Families are meant to stay together, and the unnatural separation of North and South Korea after World War II traumatized both sides. But they coped with this situation differently, and South Korea, obviously, is the brother that made good. With their newfound and perhaps unexpected success, the South Koreans would inevitably feel twinges of survivor’s guilt. So, while others just see dangerous choices that need to run its course, South Korea remembers the way it used to be, back before things went awry. They give into the North’s demands maybe because they truly believe North Korea’s reformation is surely just right around the corner. This time, they’ll be good for it, if just for old times sake.

I feel for the South, and if I’m right about this sibling analogy, they have my sympathy. But I doubt that, whatever their good intentions, that their actions will pay off. Cousin Eddie, after all, stayed Cousin Eddie no matter how many vacations the Griswold’s took.

The Pre-Raphaelites and the Botswanan Metal Scene

Apr9 by Dave Mathwin

The National Gallery of Art is currently running an exhibit of Pre-Raphaelite art. The pre-Raphaelites came into existence in 1848, just at the beginning of the Victorian period. They opposed what they believed to be excessive classicism in art and design, and hoped to revive an appreciation for the Gothic style supplanted by the Renaissance in general, and, according to them, Raphael in particular.

I can admire the pre-Raphaelites to an extent. I too believe that the modern west has greatly undervalued the medieval period, including Gothic art. One can better appreciate the era when we realize that the Gothic style was the first time the west departed from the “Classical” style since ca. 500 B.C. The Church developed something distinct and original with Gothic art, which had a playful extravagance and boyish charm. We don’t often think about “playfulness” when we think of a medieval cathedral, but I submit that, for example, the location of Mt. St. Michael’s Cathedral out on the farthest reach of the Norman Coast has a glorious “why not?” quality.

The stained glass celebrated not just an unusual variety of people, shapes, and Biblical themes, but also an extravagant variety of color.

It seems that it was primarily this use of bold color that attracted the Pre-Raphaelites. So much then, for the background information. What about the art itself? Does it succeed?

Aye caramba! This is just awful stuff, an overdose of schmaltz and sentiment on an unusual scale.

What went wrong?

Some might argue that their art failed because they were not good artists, but this simply begs the question as to why they lacked talent. They obviously had certain technical skills necessary to create good art. Some might point to the problems within the Victorian era itself, but this would exclude the possibility of any great art in the Victorian era, and Dickens, Van Gogh, and Stravinsky (among others) put that theory to rest.

I think the problem is not their mission, but their method. Some months ago I discussed Toynbee’s theory of “Renaissances” and how they operate in history (my review of his book is here, and some thoughts on its application to music are here). In summary, Toynbee believes that

Borrowing from a “living” (i.e. currently existing) civilization, artist, or art form will usually lead to beneficial new creation, but
Borrowing from a “dead” form (i.e. civilization, artist, etc.) will mean the calling up of a ghost, which will lead to a sterile act of creation, a stillborn attempt at achieving meaning.

The pre-Raphaelites show all of the characteristics of reviving a dead ghost of a long forgotten form. The “ghost” constricts them, and so they try too hard, and end up producing sterile art that cannot move us in any way.

Strange as it may sound, I thought about Toynbee’s theory again when a friend sent me an article about the burgeoning heavy metal scene in, of all places, Botswana. Here we have an example of one people group attempting a birth of something new in their nation not from a dead past, but from a living present. While I have yet to hear any music, these pictures may give us a clue as to whether or not they will succeed.

Ok, perhaps we see a bit of rote copying in terms of the motorcycle and the leather, but still, who wouldn’t want to be that guy?

Again, the leather is “pretty standard,” but the cowboy hat is very cool, and he pulls it off.

No way western metal heroes like James Hetfield or Bruce Dickinson could ever pull off such a graceful yet arresting pose.

I look at this guy and think “Super-Hero,” and again, I love the hat.

Without hearing any music, I am encouraged and intrigued by the possibilities in Botswana. Sure, they borrow some metal conventions from the west, but they also seem to be putting a distinctly African stamp at least upon their image. One senses vibrancy here, whereas all the color in the world cannot take away the dead feeling I get while looking at the pre-Raphaelites.

All this proves once again, beware of the influence of a dead past.

Blessings,

Dave

A Stick in the Mud

A Classical-Christian History Teacher Seeks Help

Author Archives: Dave Mathwin