Educating citizens

I want schoolchildren to learn all about how many of the Founding Fathers owned slaves, and I want them to learn all about exactly how morally awful and physically brutal a system of race-based chattel slavery ours was.

I do not want that to be the only thing they learn about the Founders, though: I want them also to learn about how the men and women of the founding generation – and of the half-dozen generations before that – loved and cherished their rights and their liberties, and honored those among them who served the public interest honorably.

I want them to learn all about how we casually cheated, bamboozled, and murdered Native Americans, but I do not want that to be the only thing they learn either about Native Americans or about the “White Man’s” dealings with them, past and present.

I want schoolchildren to learn about the terrible religious bigotry that stained the souls and the honor of our forefathers in nationhood, and I want them to learn about how they struggled to find a way to order their lives so that each man could worship and advocate for truth according to conscience, and at the same time fully participate in society and in the public counsels – and how, in the main, they succeeded in so ordering their lives after much effort.

If I reject the tendency to deify the Founders, I repudiate the tendency to demonize them: they were human, just as we are; and just as we have, so did they have, feet of clay.

I want schoolchildren to know the awful things the men we revere did (and the women, too), even as they believed – not wrongly – that they were basically good people about a worthy business and even a truly noble cause.

I want them to remember how hard it was for our forefathers to recognize the humanity in others – wasn’t it obvious to them? – and how deeply that failure to recognize the full and equal measure of humanity they shared with those others (who should have been fellows) wounded their own.

I want them to remember how the Civil War was and was not “over slavery”.

I want them to remember, because I want them to realize how much the ways in which which our forebears did and did not struggle with each other in peace tell us about the real and genuine importance of the causes for which the parties to that terrible conflict contended in war, and I want them to be capable of thinking about the limits to the moral vision of even the best of men, even and especially those with the best of intentions, and about the strictures societies place on the moral imagination of their members, and about why those strictures exist, and about what it costs to adjust those strictures, and about what we get for an adjustment of them, whether well or poorly done.

I want them to be mindful of the consequences of our failure as a society to recognize the humanity of others – whether they be the gay couple, the snake-handling Pentecostal, the immigrant family from Honduras, the Catholics with ten children or with two, the Muslim refugee with four mouths to feed (he was a promising young lawyer back home before the war), or the young man with the mullet and the penchant for playing Merle Haggard records and the perpetual sunburn and three-beer buzz (he’d be happy to turn the music down and even happier to tell you why your engine rattles like that at low revs) – because, simply and shortly put, those others are people, too.

I want them to know all about the men and women in the founding generation and in every generation after that, who – in the main – loved  public spirit, honesty, fairness, industry, kindness, and charity, but did not always practice them or even try to. The Founders knew that being good citizens meant first and foremost being good neighbors, and they believed that America was exceptional precisely because in America people worked until they found the way to order their lives together (except when they didn’t, and remember what happened then?). They knew the world was dangerous, and they did not let it scare them (except when they did, and what happened then?). They understood how lucky they were, and tried to be worthy of their good fortune (except when they didn’t, and what happened then?). They were happy when their neighbors did well and they were there to help when times were tough (except when they weren’t, and what happened then?).

I do not know whether we are still – or ever were – the kind of people the Founders believed themselves and tried to be.

In the depth of my soul I know that such a people is the only kind of people it is worth trying to be.

Let’s each of us make a go of it.

Slave_sale_Charleston_South_Carolina

Charleston, SC slave auction

5-John-Adams

John Adams

The public challenge of Catholic faith

Catholics have a peculiar way of thinking about politics: ours is a universal way of thinking about “the things of the city”. If this way of thinking is peculiar, it is nevertheless neither unique, nor inaccessible to people who do not share or subscribe to Catholic claims regarding the basic structure of the world (“We believe in one God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth, of all things visible and invisible…) and the ultimate reason of things (“For God so loved the world…”). Indeed, its very universality – the universality of the claims Catholicism advances and by which Catholicism professes to live as true – requires Catholics to engage discussion and debate in the public square by way of publicly available arguments, i.e. by way of reason deployed in a manner that does not require even notional assent to the data of faith in order to be comprehensible and even cogent.

This is not an easy task, though it is one that all citizens – of every tradition of faith and religion, and none at all – all share together and in equal measure.

As Benedict XVI put it when he visited the United States in 2008, “[Freedom] also demands the courage to engage in civic life and to bring one’s deepest beliefs and values to reasoned public debate.” NB it is freedom that requires such courage, not Catholic faith specifically, nor even religious conviction broadly considered – though the measure to which Catholic faith is compatible with ordered liberty in society will always be established in the concrete by the measure to which Catholics actually do display such courage in public life.

JohnCarrollPeale

Bishop John Carroll, SJ, by Charles Wilson Peale

The difficulty for Catholics – not only for Catholics, though for Catholics especially – is that we very often disagree about which of our convictions ought to guide us in our consideration of a given public question, and about where our faith is guiding us in this or that public matter, great or small.

This ought not be a surprise to anyone, since Catholics are and always have been people who – to say it with Chesterton – agree about everything, and disagree about everything else.

The matter is complicated, however, by an ineluctable, often troubling and even embarrassing fact: the “everything” about which Catholics agree is an intricate weave of truths the Church teaches, which do not come to us all directly from a single source. Some of the things the Church teaches as true are things the Church has learned directly from God, e.g. that He is one nature in three persons (though it took a good deal of thinking to understand that God had taught the Church about His Triune nature, and still more very messy and often quite bloody history had to happen before we had hashed out exactly what that teaching means and does not mean, especially regarding the Second Person of the Trinity – but I digress), and teaches as true because God has revealed them to the world through the Church; there are other things that the Church teaches because they are true and we know them to be true quite apart from a direct and immediate Divine didactic intervention, e.g. that there is a cause of, and an order to all that is, and that we are capable of knowing a good deal about that order and about the principle by which things are ordered (e.g. that good is to be done and evil to be avoided, and therefore that it is wrong deliberately to destroy innocent life, that human life begins at conception – not a matter of religious conviction, as is so often erroneously claimed – for if real assent to the truth of revelation were necessary in order to recognize the intrinsic evil of procured abortion, then advocates of legal abortion would have a much stronger case), that defrauding a worker of his just wage is not only wrong, but one of the worst things one human can do to another, inter alia).

When everything is so complex, everything else is inevitably complicated, and we owe it to ourselves, to our fellows in religion, and to our fellow citizens to be mindful of the complexities as we engage in discussion and debate about matters touching what we used to call, “the public weal”.

Practically speaking, it means that we must resist the temptation to reduce our public advocacy of this or that policy to a mere matter of applying Catholic teaching to a particular social problem. It means, in other words, that as Catholics, the first thing we must resist doing is publicly claiming that it is “as Catholics” that we hold anything in the way of policy: the Church teaches us it is an act of charity to welcome the stranger, but she does not tell us how to conduct that charitable activity – upon which our salvation mysteriously and at once doubtlessly depends – in a manner consistent with our duty as citizens to obey the laws and our duty as participants in the government of our republic to make laws that provide for the common defense and promote the general welfare. The danger in taking principles meant to be guides to forming prudential judgment, and erecting them into principles of conduct from which policy directly flows, is clear and present: it leads in short order both to irresponsible citizenship and to ineffective Christian witness.

The second thing we must avoid is closely related to the first, and involves our modes of evaluating the fitness of candidates for the offices they seek, and the manner in which we conduct that evaluation in public discourse.

Neither our system, nor the persons who seek offices within and under that system, are perfect. Every candidate for every office supports some policy or holds some position, which is ultimately indefensible morally. No one may support a candidate because of the candidate’s opinions and/or policy positions, which run counter to the moral law (and “no one” means “no one”). When we support candidates who hold morally repugnant opinions and/or policy positions (and we do so every time we support any candidate) we do so despite that candidate’s opinions and positions – if, that is, we do so in a manner consistent with the moral law.

The foregoing considerations do not foreclose the question whether support for this or that candidate is morally defensible, still less whether support for this or that candidate is really prudent (in the technical sense of the term). For example: a Catholic might have supported then-Senator Obama in his bid for the Presidency, despite his confessedly radical views on legal abortion, on the grounds that his social policy broadly would tend to decrease the number of children actually slain in their mothers’ wombs; it is harder to see how a Catholic could have supported President Obama’s bid for a second term, given the war his administration was waging on the Catholic Church at the time the regulatory framework of the infamous HHS Mandate was being crafted (if the description of the Obama administration’s stance toward the Church as a “war” seems hyperbolic, remember that the editors of America Magazine – a publication known neither for partisanship, nor for hyperbole in analysis –  opined at the time,  “The church cannot function peacefully in the United States under the current regulatory framework.”). Even in this example, however, the issue before each of us as citizens was neither simply nor primarily one of “connecting the dots” between Catholic teaching and public responsibility. The teaching of the Church was, and is, clear: even so, Catholics did reach different conclusions then regarding the most appropriate manner in which to allow Catholic teaching to inform our choices as citizens.

That, for example, I think citizens who chose to support President Obama in his bid for a second term, despite his administration’s stance and behavior toward the Catholic Church in the United States, made a profoundly wrong-headed choice, is beside the point. Even if they were wrong-headed, that cannot on its own be proof of my fellow citizens’ insufficient formation as Catholics or as citizens. Still less can it be used as proof of bad faith.

The present election cycle presents us with similar difficulties.

Former Secretary of State Hilary Clinton is known as a lifelong champion of legal abortion. A Catholic could choose to support her despite this (again, not because of it) on the grounds that her social policy program would tend actually to reduce the number of abortions. That assumption could be – indeed ought to be – exposed to the most rigorous critical examination. Assuming a fellow Catholic – or any citizen of whatsoever religious persuasion, or none at all – were interested in supporting Clinton, one might also urge that a candidate so obviously in the pocket of the abortion interest cannot inspire the confidence of a candid mind, even one that happens to share the Senator’s views on the subject broadly.

In other words: while Catholic teaching informs at least one of the hypothetical citizens’ thinking on the issue of abortion, it need not be applied directly and immediately to their thinking together about the question whether to support Sen. Clinton in her bid for the Presidency.

Said shortly: the question is not whether, but how we ought to bring not only Catholic doctrine in its distilled form, but the whole great Catholic tradition of thinking about politics, to bear on our thinking about how to order our lives together.

Clinton’s olim colleague in the Senate and co-contender for the Democratic Party’s nomination, Sen. Bernie Sanders, describes himself as a Democratic Socialist.

Not a few fellow citizens have questioned whether Catholics can support a Democratic Socialist in a bid for office.

Many of the Catholics who have raised the question whether their faith permits them and their fellows in religion to support Sanders believe that Democratic Socialism is wrong on basic points of anthropology, bedrock realities of politics, and fundamental economics.

This may or may not be the case: the Church, however, does not pronounce herself in a universally binding manner on those matters, nor does she proscribe the specific political creed such fellow Catholics impugn. Indeed, Democratic Socialism is so far from being proscribed by Catholic moral teaching, that it has been (in its explicitly Christian acception) the political position of the past several Bishops of Rome.

The point here is not that Catholics ought therefore to espouse either Democratic Socialism or Sanders: the point is that to decry Democratic Socialism as incompatible with Catholic doctrine sic et simpliciter is both counterfactual and lazy; citizens – Catholics and others – who maintain (as I do) that Democratic Socialism is wrong on basic points of anthropology, bedrock realities of politics, and fundamental economics, owe their fellows who see it differently an argument.

The current front-runner for the Republican nomination is a man of such character, that anyone needing an appeal to the authority of supernatural revelation in order to accept that he is unfit to serve as canine controller of any town or village in the country, let alone to hold the highest office in the land, frankly cannot be trusted to contribute to the national conversation.

We noted earlier that our system is not perfect.

Our system does, however, tend to give us the candidates we deserve, and our unwillingness to argue with each other has produced a frankly disappointing crop of candidates, even when compared to the generally lackluster quality of candidates for political office in the history of our republic.

Another part of what has brought us to this point – to this surreal, bizarro-world place in our national life at which we are arrived – is our willingness to let ourselves be “sold” on candidates who “speak my language” and “represent MY views” etc., coupled with our unwillingness to expose the candidates with whom we tend broadly and generally to agree, to the caustic process of critical examination, at precisely the same time we are willing to believe the absolute worst about the candidates with whom we broadly and generally disagree.

Here, Catholics have a tremendous opportunity once again to prove, contra Paganos, that Catholic religion is not only not inimical to the morals of a republic, but can – if practiced – in fact have a quite salutary effect thereupon: indeed, the Catholic Church is the bearer, the caretaker, the champion of the greatest intellectual tradition that ever there has been or shall be; that tradition has always inspired those in it to dedicate themselves to the task of making subtle and particular distinctions within the unity of truth, to seek and always be in awe of the infinite nuance necessary and possible within the oneness of knowledge, to live in the confidence that comes from knowing that the world is larger (the Church wiser, and God greater) than one’s own powers of apprehension; indeed,  true religion has always inspired men and women to think all the good they can of those with whom they find themselves in disagreement; to mark and toe the line between the position and the one who holds it; to pronounce judgment only in the case of gravest necessity, and only for the best of all possible motives, i.e. the salvation of souls (the salus animarum, which in the present context also has the added incentive of serving the salus rei publicae).

In the meantime, let us remember that citizens and the candidates they choose are imperfect even in the best of times: the world, after all, is fallen and awaiting – St. Paul says it is groaning in travail – the fullness of its redemption; only Christ has the true and lasting victory over evil.

Meanwhile, we mostly muddle.

Though most of it were muddling, nevertheless, we must be about it. We are citizens of a great republic, and, to borrow a phrase from Edward R. Murrow, “There is no way for a citizen of a republic to abdicate his responsibilities.”

The contribution Catholics have a chance to make to the national discourse, is that of their example: let us be those quintessentially Chestertonian people who agree about everything, and disagree about everything else – only let us do so carefully, rigorously, and always charitably.

Baseball and the soul of America

Baseball is back. What does this mean for America?

Whatever else it means, it means that we Americans, as a nation and a people, are once again given the chance to pluck the mystic chords of memory, to draw from the well of story and grace, and renew our acquaintance with the better angels of our nature.

Baseball is the expression of our genius for living and for ordering our lives together:

Supposing for the time being, and for the sake of argument, that the edifice of Western philosophy does have an American inflection (if the idea of a talking edifice seems strange, remember that edification is one of the reasons for speech, and that, in the philosophical context invoked by Cavell, education—the goal of philosophy—is a matter of “building up” before or as much as it is a matter of “leading out”), it becomes reasonable to wonder what philosophy might sound like in America. By way of suggestion, and as a way further into the problem, consider the following lines from Terence Mann, the character James Earl Jones played in Field of Dreams, a film based on the W.P. Kinsella novel, Shoeless Joe:

Ray, people will come Ray. They’ll come to Iowa for reasons they can’t even fathom. They’ll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they’re doing it. They’ll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won’t mind if you look around, you’ll say. it’s only $20 per person. They’ll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. and they’ll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They’ll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they’ll watch the game and it’ll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they’ll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. america has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it’s a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh, people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.

The idea of there being one constant through all the years is one of the most problematic ideas, with which philosophy has wrestled since its inception, indeed in the thinking of which philosophy may be said to be born. The thickness of memory, and the movement toward something, say a future, under the impetus of something past, in the hope of finding it there (though transformed utterly, as though an army of steamrollers had passed over it), when taken with baseball’s power to remind what was good and communicate, let us say, name a hope for what could be good again, may call to mind the magnificent phenomenology of memory St. Augustine gives in Book X of the Confessions. One may no more be made to hear it, than could Ray Kinsella make his brother-in-law see the game being played a few feet away. Can a game provide the peace that is lacking in the human heart? If it is the right game, perhaps the game called contemplation of wisdom, some to whom the name of philosopher has been granted have thought so.

There is a further text of baseball from another Kinsella story, one that instances a way of thinking that, if not exactly the kind of thinking that is philosophy, is at least concerned with concepts that are the stock-in-trade of accepted philosophy:

“Why not baseball?” my father would say. “Name me a more perfect game! Name me a game with more possibilities for magic, wizardry, voodoo, hoodoo, enchantment, obsession, possession. There’s always time for daydreaming, time to create your own illusions at the ballpark. i bet there isn’t a magician anywhere who doesn’t love baseball. Take the layout. No mere mortal could have dreamed up the dimensions of a baseball field. No man could be that perfect. abner Doubleday, if he did indeed invent the game, must have received divine guidance “and the field runs to infinity,” he would shout, gesturing wildly. “You ever think of that, Gid? There’s no limit to how far a man might possibly hit a ball, and there’s no limit to how far a fleet outfielder might run to retrieve it. The foul lines run on forever, forever diverging. There’s no place in america that’s not part of a major-league ballfield: the meanest ghetto, the highest point of land, the Great lakes, the Colorado River. hell, there’s no place in the world that’s not part of a baseball field.

On the side of philosophy, the quoted text contains an explicit discussion of dreaming and wakefulness, which have been themes of philosophy since Heraclitus; then there is the limitlessness of the field, which names quite literally the apeiron, and the convergence of time and always that might name the transformed condition of our world, into the history of which the eschaton irrupts; lastly, a reader may receive the invocation of hell, not as mere profanity, but as an admonition: the ballfield, and therefore America, and therefore the world (the whole of which is contained in an American ballfield) is a place in which we are playing out matters of eternal life and eternal death.

Baseball is a serious game.

Of course, no reader need necessarily see these things, and any reader may experience something akin to outrage at the suggestion that baseball, which is so obviously an entertainment, ought even for a second be considered as somehow in relation to the giants of Western thought. Perhaps no sane person would dare to suggest that W. P. Kinsella’s baseball story should be treated as though it were philosophy. Even so, the text of the game may be taken to show that there is in america, in American practices, an inchoate awareness of the flux of time and infinity within the weave of the world, which could be theorized.

Anyway, there’s plenty more about baseball and about America in The Soul of a Nation: America as a Tradition of Inquiry and Nationhood, so get on over to Amazon, or order direct from the publisher, Wipf & Stock, or go out and support your local bookseller.

We’re all in this together…

My brother introduced me to the Old Crow Medicine Show perhaps a dozen years ago, when their album O.C.M.S. had just dropped to instant critical acclaim and put them on the cusp of major commercial success. Their song, “We’re All in this Together”, instantly struck me as the best track of the album, and a real song of America:

The song is not only American, but also philosophical, historical, theological: perhaps I ought to have said, it is American precisely to the extent it is all three together and at once.

The procedure of the narrative, from seeing, sounding, to seeming – and then to to the certain knowledge of memory, which is found “in between”, thus naming the metaxy as the space of recollection in which we live presently – the presence of the past, the presence of the present, and the presence of the future, as St. Augustine articulates the power of memory to make us who we are in Book X of the Confessions – in the space that is caught between the beginning and the beyond – before us and behind us, as Emerson says in his Experience and as Cavell retells in This New Yet Unapproachable America – takes us through enough of that history, and barely avoids dropping (picking up?) enough names along the way, to make us think of breadcrumbs, or materials strewn on the ground: from the aforementioned “in-between” to the line that harkens to Plato – a line I’ve always understood Plato to mean for us to cross – dividing faith from fear – to the admission of intention in either constructing or collapsing eschatological tension in an explicitly Pauline register with the invocation of ourselves as images in mirrors, and the call for us to “put this thing together” and walk the path that worn-out feet have trod (a thoroughfare for freedom, as in another song of America?), and the appeal to evidence (of fellowship enduring) through the taste of salt in tears.

I will not now insist on hearing “the slow road to freedom” invoke the methodos – the hard road – of philosophy (recalling perhaps the ancient notion of philosophy as a way of life and preparation for death), though I cannot fail to tell you that I hear it.

One of these days, I am going to pull together the essay that has been percolating for more than a dozen years, involving some critical observations of Stanley Cavell in his collection of essays In Quest of the Ordinary, in which Cavell revisits Thoreau’s revision of Emerson’s assertion that the whole history of philosophy is contained in a single American day – an idea I thematize in The Soul of a Nation as placing America in the way of philosophy by placing the projects of civilization and history in America, thereby making America to stand in the way of the history of order as such:

More to this, as in order further to place America in the way of philosophy: wonder—an experience possible only in community—the experience of the community of the divine and the human, is the condition and the constitutive of the experience of order. Socrates’ interpretation of the Delphic oracle is a challenge to the city (one that cannot be known not to be a mortal threat, at least not prior to examination). Thoreau would have America take up Socrates’ challenge to the city—to embrace, rather than indict Socrates’ commitment to philosophy. This is to say, Thoreau would make America to stand or fall on her ability to make good on Socrates’ commitment. Thoreau’s claim to be contemporary with the most ancient philosophers ought to be read in this light. Consider now the following from Emerson’s essay, “Nature”:

“Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn is my Assyria; the sunset and moonrise my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of faerie; broad noon shall be my England of the senses and the understanding; the night shall be my Germany of mystic philosophy and dreams. (Carpenter, Ralph Waldo Emerson: Representative Selections, 17)”

Emerson, the American scholar, here claims that the whole history of civilization, and all philosophy is contained in one American day. This claim, in its turn, establishes the question of America’s relation to philosophy, as one, not of negation, but of assumption. To the extent that there is an America to speak of, it will have in it the whole project of civilization—and in a way that leaves open the question whether America depends on that project, or whether that project depends upon the success of America, and finally, whether these are really alternatives, i.e., really mutually exclusive.

I will have to include the OCMS song, as a sort of test-case, along with the three versions of “America the Beautiful” – though to say how and why were to write the essay. Here is a promise…

Looking for America

A chance hearing of a bit of this song the other day put the whole thing in my head. I keep returning to it, and I keep wondering: “Why are we so afraid?” and “What are we so afraid of?” – I mean broadly and generally: could anyone hitch-hike from Saginaw to Pittsburgh today? Would anyone dare? I mean to say: it probably was not the most prudent course to take even in 1967, and the song’s character’s disposition is one of clear vision and disenchantment, so we cannot imagine that his choice should have been rooted in care-freeness or naïveté.

The man in the Gabardine suit may well have been a spy, you know, but Kathy’s traveling companion chose to poke fun – a deflection (is that the right word for it?) that as such did not directly challenge the premise on which the call to caution was based.

Then again: no candid mind can deny that the phenomenon we once unproblematically called “mass hysteria” is at least as American as (Mrs. Wagner’s?) apple pie. Think Witch Trials and Snake Oil and Utopian Separatism and EO 9066 and “safety-this” and “safety-that” and a hundred-hundred other things between.

Perhaps this is the reason for the journey and the deflection (if that’s what it was): it is as if the survival of America – wherever America is, and if America is out there at all – depends in any given moment on whether each of us – whether any one of us – will stick his thumb out and place himself in the hands of – a stranger? – a fellow traveler? – and laugh (not uncompanionably) at the lady afraid of the Man in the Gabardine Suit who might be a spy but is on the bus.

As one who has spent a lot of time counting cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, and traveled more than most through space and time in search of America, I wonder…

The Poles of the Revolution (plus ça change…)

“If we take seriously the idea that Jefferson and Adams thought representatively, that they were, in the words of their mutual friend and fellow founding father, Benjamin Rush, “[T]he poles of the revolution,” and that, while others wrought and fought, “[They] thought for [them] all, (letter to Adams, october 17, 1809)” then their thinking with and against one another will have a claim to being the first expression of an American tradition of thinking. That claim was substantiated when we found, in the subsequent history of America, the presence of the arguments that constituted their conversation.” – The Soul of a Nation, 199

The question is whether we have words left for a conversation:

“America, like philosophy, exists only and entirely in an endless conversation. One cannot stop either; engagement in each is a matter of finding oneself (engaged) in it.” – ibid., 4