Each cultural time period generates new challenges for this objective, and ours is no exception. While classical Christian education emerged in Christendom, an era of western history in which the Christian faith was the cultural paradigm, this is no longer the case today. The “Age of Faith” may continue to cast its shadow over western society, but Christianity has lost its cultural cachet.

What does it look like, then, for Christian schools to prepare students for this new era? We cannot simply look back to the last century, or the century before that, or even the millennium before that. The last one thousand years all share a quality that the two thousand twenty-sixth year of the Common Era (i.e. 2025) does not: they occurred in a time when the intellectual, political, and cultural powers of the day viewed Christianity as the authority. If Christian educators want to glean wisdom from the past that is relevant for today, they must go all the way back to the days before Christendom, a time when Christians lived as strangers in a pagan society. This would take them to the 2nd and 3rd centuries when the young Christian movement was finding its way under the persecuting yoke of the Roman Empire. 

This article will explore how the early church engaged its pagan world intellectually and culturally in order to offer insights for modern Christian educators. The reality is that the world we inhabit today is, in many ways, more similar to the 3rd century than it is to the 20th century. A new form of paganism has emerged–an odd amalgamation of modern science, romanticism, and modern politics. In order for Christian educators to prepare their students to engage a pagan world, they need to understand it, and consider how their Christian brothers and sisters engaged it before them.

A Modern Pagan Society

Do we really live in a pagan society? Surely this is an exaggeration. Paganism connotes the widespread practices of superstition, animal sacrifice, and the occult. Even if practices like reading horoscopes are on the rise, they are certainly not mainstream.

In Cultural Sanctification: Engaging the World Like the Early Church (Eerdmans 2024), Stephen O. Presley suggests that the secular direction our culture has trod is a new form of paganism. Referencing Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor’s renown work A Secular Age, Presley observes that Christianity has become intellectually suspect and morally bankrupt. In its place lies “expressive individualism,” a form of epistemological and moral relativism that prioritizes internal feelings over external norms. Not unlike the 2nd century, in which the Roman Empire permitted a plurality of religious options so long as one bowed the kneed to Caesar as Lord, so our culture celebrates a religious pluralism for each to worship as he or she pleases.

Interestingly, contemporary culture has somehow made peace between the materialism of modern science with the romanticist qualities of the expressive individualism mentioned above. Truth, we are told, can be found through the deliverances of the scientific method and the inner revelations of ”who one is inside.” In this way, our culture prizes the objective truth of modern science and the subjective truths of the psychological “self,” yet not in an internally coherent manner. A dizzying schizophrenic oscillation of the objective and subjective is the result, in which both are valued but not simultaneously. You can have Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde, but not together. 

Christianity, on the other hand, is paradoxically where the objective and subjective meet. “In the Beginning was the Word,” the Gospel of John tells us, and “…and the Word became flesh.” Simon Kennedy, a research fellow at the University of Queensland in Australia, makes this point in Against Worldview: Reimagining Christian Formation as Growth in Wisdom (Lexham Press 2024). In this book, Kennedy argues for a new way of thinking about Christian worldview, underscoring that only God possesses the authoritative Christian worldview. Humans can develop a Christian worldview, subjectively speaking, but only through seeking a true apprehension of objective reality “that is obtained through the process of learning about God, the self, and the world (15). 

Even while the objective and subjective remain unreconciled in contemporary culture, there is a third ingredient we must consider: modern politics. One quality of a secular society, again, according to Charles Taylor, is the “buffered self,” the idea that cosmic and spiritual forces do not impact everyday life. If this is the case, there is an authority and power vacuum, one that is quickly being filled by modern politics. We could see this phenomonon in the most recent election: the desperation, angst, and fear-mongering that occurred throughout the process. Both sides of the aisle used rhetoric in a way to indicate that democracy was on the line and that only their ballot nomination could save us. Many people today longing for good news about peace and security look not to their churches, but to their political leaders. The new hope is in public policy, elected officials, and the preservation of democracy as we know it.

The effect of the amalgamation of expressive individualism (truth is found inside), scientific materialism (the physical world is all there is), and modern politics (only effective government can save us) is the new paganism. This paganism rejects a transcendent creator over and above all things, and replaces him with a worldview of immanence. This immanence takes normally good things in this world–the individual self, scientific method, and democratic government–and deifies them. In order to equip students to engage our neo-pagan world, let us now examine how the early church did so long ago. 

To Sanctify a Culture

In his book cited above, Stephen Presley argues that the early church’s model for engaging the pagan culture of the day was not isolation or confrontation, but sanctification. The earliest Christians were living in a world in which Caesar was king, and the empire promised peace through strength. Perpetual violence, sexual license, unbridled leisure, and oppression of the weak were core elements of this ancient culture. Christians were required to think prudently and biblically about how they would navigate such a world while being faithful to Christ.

Presley proposes that the posture these early Christians adopted was one of cultural sanctification. He writes, “Cultural sanctification recognizes that Christians are necessarily embedded within their culture and must seek sanctification (both personal and corporate) in a way that draws upon the forms and features of their environment to transform them by pursuing virtue” (12). In other words, Christians should continue to live in their local communities, engaging in normal cultural practices (so long as they are not sinful), even as they determine when to abstain, holding fast to their identity as pilgrims destined for an eternal home.

Presley then goes on to offer five ways the early church engaged in this “slow and steady process of living faithfully and seeking sanctification both personally and corporately in ways that transform the culture” (20). 

First, the early church crafted a distinct Christian identity. Through catechesis and worship, believers grew to understand who they were individually and communally as followers of Christ in a Roman world. They understood that even though they lived in a largely pagan society, Caesar did not lay claim to their ultimate identity.

Second, early Christians lived out a political theology in which they submitted to civil authorities and worked to be active citizens. They took seriously the teaching of Jesus to “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” even as they faithfullly worshiped God as the supreme authority over all things. Moreover, they understood that their ultimate citizenship is in heaven.

Third, the early church navigated the intellectual climate of its day with wisdom and eloquence. The church developed its own public intellectuals, equipped to evaluate the dominant ideas of the day and provide a defense for the Christian faith. These Christian intellectuals, such as Irenaeus and Origen, did not cave to the attacks on their faith, but instead provided persuasive arguments and responses.

Fourth, these believers engaged in public life with humility, compassion, and courage. They did not abstain from contributing to society in normal ways–having jobs, partaking in innocent leisure, having families, or even serving in the military. Rather, they participated in these societal functions with wisdom and virtue. In addition, they displayed exceptional compassion, caring for the poor and marginalized of society.

Finally, the early church was resolute in its hope in the coming kingdom of God. While their neighbors trusted in the glory of the Roman Empire, early Christians rooted their faith in the salvation they received through Christ and put their hope in the future resurrection. This hope served as a north star for them, guiding them through the complexities of living in a pagan society with a clear vision for the future.

Through these five avenues, early Christians avoided isolation, such as “the Benedict Option,” and confrontation, attempting to seize the empire for themselves. Instead, they learned to live under the authority of the Roman Empire and engage a contemporary pagan culture, while not abandoning their faith in Christ and commitment to Christian virtue. 

Seek the Welfare

In our modern pagan society, the church has a new opportunity to live out its identity in this way. The idea of cultural sanctification allows believers to approach culture, not as a world to flee or fight, but to help flourish. This approach is reminiscent of the Lord’s instruction to the Jewish exiles in Babylon back in the 6th century:

Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I have sent into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.

Jeremiah 29: 4-7 (ESV)

Here God commands his people to seek the welfare of the city, to contribute to its flourishing and success. Rather than waiting idly by for the eventual return to Israel, he instructs them to lead responsible lives, to engage in the culture, and to be productive members of the city. Moreover, he encourages them to pray for the city, remaining faithful to their Jewish identity even while they seek the city’s welfare.

In today’s pagan society, opportunities abound for Christians to embed themselves in culture while seeking to sanctify it. Christians simply committing to living virtuously will offer a stabilizing force for society and will set the church apart as a unique community. Engaging as active citizens and finding ways to serve in their neighborhoods is an additional way Christians can live out their calling to an unbelieving culture as God’s people. Finally, remaining conscious of prevailing ideologies of the day that run counter to Christianity, especially expressive individualism and what Carl Trueman calls the triumph of the modern self, will prove essential for preserving biblical doctrine.

These practices are all elements of an ancient Christian way of engaging a pagan culture, cultural sanctification, which “…sees Christians embedded within their culture but seeking sanctification so as to promote virtue and reject vice in their personal lives, in the church and in the activities and institutions of the surrounding world” (164). 

Insights for Christian Educators Today

What does it look like for Christian educators today to pursue this vision of cultural sanctification for their graduates?

Let me offer three suggestions.

First, Christian educators should reclaim the classical vision of education, which is the pursuit of wisdom and cultivation of virtue. The most important work teachers can do today, in partnership with parents, is to train students to be wise and discerning, both regarding intellectual ideas and practical day-to-day decisions. Presley’s observation regarding the virtuous lives of early Christians is profound, and yet, we must remember that virtue does not happen by accident. A virtuous persons is formed through the intentional cultivation of moral habits over the long-term. While grades, college acceptances, and accolades have their place, the cultivation of virtue must remain at the center of what Christian schools aim to do.

Second, Christian educators should equip graduates to grapple intellectually with the cultural ideas of the day. The way this occurred in the classical tradition is through training students in the liberal arts, the tools of learning. Modern education today is preoccupied with the pragmatic. Popular-level literature, worksheets, and 1:1 tablets is the strategy today for moving students from grade to grade. But for students to truly understand and evaluate competing ideologies, they need more than to study the “right answers.” They need to think through the ideas themselves, learn to define their terms, apply basic principles of logic, and debate opposing views.

Finally, Christian educators must infuse graduates with a theology of life that is grounded in scripture and tethered to a local church. It is no accident that Presley’s list regarding how the early church engaged culture begins with identity. If students are going to engage in cultural sanctification, they need to have clarity regarding their own life purpose. A robust theology of life provides students with the fundamentals of who they are in Christ, the different phases and stations of life they can expect to navigate, and a focus on the importance of staying connected to a local church.

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As Christians, we need to resist this inclination. One way we can preserve the sacredness of Christmas throughout all phases of life is to uphold our elders and the wisdom that often comes with the privilege of having lived many years. 

Renowned poet Malcom Guite gestures in this direction with a particular poem in his Advent anthology Waiting on the Word (Canterbury Press, 2015). The piece he directs us to is “Old Age” by Edmund Waller, a 17th century English poet and politician whose style was built upon later by Alexander Pope. 

“Old Age” by Edmund Waller:

The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;

So calm are we when passions are no more.

For then we know how vain it was to boast

Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes

Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,

Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Drawing from this poem, what follows are three ideas to stir up hope in Christ this Advent season, particularly as they relate to old age.

First, Waller compares youthful passions to the winds that stir up a rough sea. If you have ever been to the ocean or a large lake, you will know how quickly the water can become choppy as the winds pick up. In contrast, the seas become calmer as the winds dissipate and the water returns to a peaceful state. Similarly, youthful passions–the enthusiastic hunger for pleasure, adventure, and exhilarating experiences–certainly bring lots of excitement to life. But they also bring unpredictability and, at times, unsettledness.

This Advent season, we can easily get swept into the thrill and busyness of the season: listening to sentimental Christmas music around the clock, feeling the pressure to take advantage of the latest shopping deal, and attending as many Christmas parties as possible. But this poem prompts us to pause, slow down, and rest in the quiet. There is a deep and lasting joy to be found when life is slow and the day is unscheduled. Find times during this season to rest and meditate on the promises of Christ.

Second, the poem cautions us against putting our confidence and pride in fleeting things that are “…certain to be lost.” Our culture’s approach to the Christmas season is fleeting, practically, by definition. As Thanksgiving comes to a close, the shopping ads come out and the rush to put up Christmas lights begins. The next four weeks become a blur of activity that leaves most of us surprised at how fast it all went. One way we can put our confidence in the right things this Advent season is to set healthy rhythms of focus on lasting things. To be clear, I have no objection to gift-giving, decorations, and holiday parties. But the eternal things that will last with us this season will occur through deepening our walk with Christ and strengthening our vision and love for the beauty of the incarnation. What can you do each day to focus on things that will not be easily lost when this season is over?

Third, Waller observes that wise men become stronger through weakness. Most of us, I am sure, would express a desire to grow in wisdom. But less of us, I suspect, have counted the cost. For one sure way to grow in wisdom is to experience the humility of weakness.

Across time and place, the natural human condition has gravitated toward strength, honor, and success. But the truth is that moments of weakness and failure have the most impact on deepening our faith and shaping our character. We need only look to the God we worship, who became a man, entering the most helpless state as a mere infant. This Advent season, take time to reflect honestly on your weaknesses and ways in which God provided for you in those moments. Remember, as the apostle Paul reminds us, that Christ’s power is made perfect in our weakness, and therefore, when we are weak then we are strong (2 Corinthians 12:9-10 ESV). 

Amidst the noise, activity, and focus on youth, this short poem prompts us to consider a different approach. There is a joy that comes in the quiet, the peaceful, even in old age. As Malcolm Guite remarkes, “He (Waller) is realistic about weakness, but not bitter or resentful; rather he sees in the calm, and even the melancholy, the sense of emptiness that sometimes comes with age, an opportunity to God for a new wisdom” (38). 

This Advent season, may we experience this for ourselves, and as we encounter our finitude, take joy in the “eternal home” for all who put their faith in Jesus Christ.

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“In a typical lesson you decide, often quickly. Then you decide, decide, and decide again. You are a batter facing a hundred pitches in a row…What do you need to decide quickly, reliably, and well, while thinking about other things under a bit of pressure in the form, of, say, twenty-nine restless students, twenty-five minutes’ worth of work left to get done, and a ticking clock to remind you that you have fifteen minutes left in the class period?” (3). 

His solution is a mental model, that is, a framework to understand complex environments. In this case, teachers can filter the plethora of time-sensitive decisions before them through a grid of principles for a successful lesson. While teaching is a craft that takes extended time to master, Lemov believes that growth in the craft can occur much more rapidly through adopting a mental model composed of core principles. 

While Doug Lemov was developing his mental model for a successful lesson, classical education expert Christopher Perrin has been refining his own set of principles for sound classroom pedagogy. His course Principles of Classical Pedagogy through ClassicalU offers ten principles, or pedagogies, of great teaching. 

In this article, I will briefly review Lemov’s and Perrin’s lists of principles before going on to suggest three points of similarity, followed by three areas of difference. In doing so, I will demonstrate the value of insights gained through cognitive psychology and learning science, while arguing for the importance of situating any great teaching practice within a broader philosophy of education that takes seriously the full-orbed reality of what it means to teach and form human beings.

The Mental Model for an Effective Lesson

Through offering a mental model, Lemov seeks to help a teacher, first, grow in understanding of how learning works and, second, perceive accurately what their students need most to thrive in their classrooms. It is one thing, Lemov thinks, to have a set of teaching principles, such as “check for understanding” or “ratio,” two common phrases in the TLaC series. It is another thing to have an additional set of learning principles that “…can help explain why certain methods work as well as how and when to use them” (5).  In this way, Lemov’s five principles that comprise his mental model seek to offer guidance for both teaching and learning simultaneously. 

Let us review them now:

Principle 1: Understanding human cognitive structure means building long-term memory and managing working memory.

Lemov’s first principle focuses on the distinction between long-term and working memory in order to implement teaching practices that build long-term memory. The general idea is that while working memory is immediately accessible, it is extremely limited in capacity. Humans can only hold so much new information in their mind’s eye. Immediately following the exposure to new information, the forgetting process begins. The way to build long-term memory and strengthen the durability of knowledge is to implement retrieval practice techniques in which students are called upon to remember, or retrieve, what they were taught in the past. 

Principle 2: Habits accelerate learning.

Similar to the first principle, this second one offers guidance on how to use one’s cognition as efficiently as possible. The reality is that each day we are bombarded with common, everyday activities that require our attention. But what if we could put the mental effort of these mental tasks on autopilot in order to focus on more important work? This is the concept, described in cognitive terms, of a habit. The more we can help students put menial scholastic work on autopilot, from reading fluency to math fact automaticity to getting out a notebook to begin writing, the more they can focus their minds and wills on understanding deeper, more complex concepts. If you haven’t already, be sure to download Patrick Egan’s free Ebook and watch the webinar on how to help students build great habits.

Principle 3: What students attend to is what they will learn about.

This may go without saying, but focused concentration is the key to efficient and effective learning. And yet, we are all aware that there is a growing deficit of ability to attend to something for an extended amount of time in our world today. This principle seeks to equip students “…to lose themselves in a task and work at it steadily for a significant period of time, which means a setting where concentration can reliably be maintained and tasks and activities where the ability to focus is carefully cultivated” (20). Jason Barney’s The Joy of Learning offers a great path forward to implement this idea, known as “flow,” in the classical classroom. His webinar on the topic is also excellent.

Principle 4: Motivation is social.

It can be tempting to focus on the learning of each individual student, but this principle reminds us that humans thrive when they work together. In this way, the learning process, including the motivation to learn, occurs at both the individual and social level. Successful lessons occur within classroom cultures in which the norms and values of the classroom encourage individual hard work and intentional team work.

Principle 5: Teaching well is relationship building. 

The final principle Lemov identifies for an effective mental model of teaching and learning focuses on the power of relationships. Specifically, he emphasizes that the teacher-student relationship is one in which the student feels safe, successful, and known. Safety includes physical safety, yes, but also the intellectual safety to take risks. Success refers to the fact that a key objective of any lesson should be to help a student learn or do something. Finally, a student feeling known fulfills a core desire wired into all human beings for them to develop a sense of belonging. 

Overall, I find Lemov’s mental model, understood through these five principles, to be a helpful framework. The task of learning and mastering 63 “techniques” for a new and developing teacher is daunting. But equipping them with five big ideas, or principles, through which to filter their classroom decision-making and priorities, can simplify the teaching craft and clarify where to focus.

Perrin’s Principles of Classical Pedagogy

Now let us turn to classical education expert Christopher Perrin’s ten principles of classical pedagogy. According to an article written this past summer, Perrin is currently working on a book with fellow classical education consultant Carrie Eben that will seek to unpack these principles in order to equip great teaching. As a side note, we interviewed Eben on our podcast, which you can listen to here.

While Perrin does not use language of a mental model, it seems that his principles function in a similar way. By call them principles, rather than practices, he is directing us to think about the broader convictions teachers can adopt to govern specific practices. In other words, these principles exist less as a checklist and more as a filter. Teachers can measure a lesson against these principles in order to gain insight about how to strengthen the teaching and learning that goes on in their classrooms.

Given that Perrin’s article linked above provides brief descriptions for each principle, I will simply refer you to that article and list them out here. They are as follows:

1. Make haste slowly: take time to master each step.
2. Do fewer things, but do them well: it is better to master a few things well than to cover cursory content.
3. Repetition is the mother of memory: revisiting and reviewing past lessons deepens both affection and understanding.
4. The one who loves can sing and remember: the importance of songs, jingles, and chants.
5. Wonder commences learning that will last.
6. Order time and space for deep thought: cultivate leisure (schole) and contemplation. 
7. Embodied rhythms, liturgies, and routines shape the soul.
8. Students learn by teaching: knowledge taught is twice-learned.
9. The best teacher is a good book: the teacher becomes the tutor and a three-way conversation begins.
10. Learn in community through conversation: this creates a friendship of the soul that gives birth to deep and mutual learning.

What a fascinating list! Immediately, we can see the contrast between Lemov and Perrin in light of the language they deploy. Lemov’s focus is primarily material, in nature: cognition, socialization, and relationships all exist within an immanent frame of being in the world. In contrast, Perrin clearly values the spiritual and transcendent dimension on the same plane as the immanent. His desire for students to grow in love, virtue, reverence, and contemplation–beyond mere cognitive achievement–stands out.

What the Principles Have in Common 

There are three key ways I see Lemov and Perrin displaying similarity in the principles they prescribe. 

First, both approaches respect deep work and the building of durable knowledge. Lemov captures this value through his distinction between working and long-term memory as well as his emphasis on habits and attention. Perrin encourages teachers to proceed slowly and deeply through a lesson in order to build a strong foundation.

Second, both approaches appreciate the power of habit and attention. Obviously, habits and attention are the explicit focus for Lemov. He underscores the value of cultivating the right processes for learning to occur. It is not merely what or how much a student learns; it is how. Similarly, Perrin encourages the mastery of each step and using strategies like liturgies and chants to strengthen the learning experience.

Third, both approaches underscore the centrality of relationship in the learning process. Lemov grounds relationships in the power of motivation and social-emotional learning. Perrin looks to classical ideas about friendship and the formation of the soul to demonstrate the centrality of community in the classroom. 

How the Principles Diverge 

Nevertheless, there are core differences in which the prescribed principles diverge.

First, it is clear that while Perrin conceives of education as the full formation of a student (mind, heart, body, and soul), Lemov prioritizes the cognitive and emotional. While I do not think it is fair to say that Lemov values product over persons, I do think his view of humanity is limited by his secular vantage point. This anthropology lacks a moral dimension as well. If students are basically a bundle of cells directed by a nervous system, then the most that teachers can do is strengthen cognition and build “productive” social environments. But if students are eternal and embodied souls made in God’s image, then we need a different list, such as Perrin’s, to shape these souls accordingly. 

Second, and related, Perrin offers a compelling vision for learning, whereas Lemov only offers pragmatic motivation. From the very beginning, Perrin is clear that the goal of all education is wisdom and virtue. He writes, “By employing the following principles, teachers will naturally cultivate virtues of love, humility, fortitude,  diligence, constancy and temperance in the lives of their students.” In contrast, Lemov’s focus continues to be college and career readiness. While his preface does indicate a vision for cultivating an equitable and just society, within the D.E.I. stream of thinking, you can tell he is wrestling with the merits of this ideology, and ultimately fails to move beyond a myopic focus on the pragmatic benefits of education.

Finally, Perrin honors the situatedness of students in time and not merely space. He does so by recognizing the value of carrying on the rich tradition of goodness, truth, and beauty from the past into the future. His emphasis on great books, contemplation, poetry, and liturgy remind us that education possesses a broader cultural and civilizational significance, and therefore, responsibility. While both Lemov and Perrin rightly emphasize the paradox that humans both exist as individuals and members in communities, Lemov fails to address that we exist in communities of both space and time. A central goal of education includes honoring one’s intellectual, cultural, and religious heritage, and passing on the torch of this heritage to future generations.

Conclusion

In sum, there are benefits to both the mental model that Lemov proposes and Perrin’s list of pedagogical principles. Where Lemov falls short is where modern education usually does: failing to grasp the full-orbed nature of a human being and the implications this places on educators. Insights from cognitive psychology and the latest learning science will continue to improve the learning that goes on in our classrooms, and classical educators do well to implement these strategies in the classroom.

But we must not lose sight of the deeper and fuller reality of what it means to be human: that our students are made in God’s image, that they are embodied souls, that there is a moral universe to navigate as well as a physical one, and ultimately, that there is a God who intentionally designed and commissioned the human race to cultivate His goodness, truth, and beauty in the world. Through the incarnation of the Son of God, we are reminded that humanity is indeed special and unique in God’s sight, that our embodiedness is indeed good, and that through Christ, our fallenness can be redeemed for His purposes, including in the classroom.

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It is a great irony, therefore, that even while western society continues to secularize, leaving belief in the Christian faith behind, its moral instincts remain largely unchanged. Westerners do not question the existence of human rights. Nor do they doubt the equal moral standing of all people, the obligation of the strong to care for the weak, the rich to care for the poor, the benefits of education, the importance of a scientific understanding of the world, or the value in reforming society of its evils and injustices. Westerners do not need to be convinced of these values. They are, as Scrivener puts it, “the air we breathe.” 

Tom Holland, a British historian who himself is an atheist, has played a key role in shaping Scrivener’s thinking on the topic. In Dominion: How the Christian Revolution Remade the World (Basic Books, 2019), he contrasts the moral universe of modern western society with its ancient form in classical antiquity. Holland admits that even while his belief in God has faded over the course of his lifetime, he did not cease to be “Christian” in his thinking. The historian observes, “So profound has been the impact of Christianity on the development of Western civilization that it has come to be hidden from view” (17).

In other words, just as a goldfish has no conscious awareness of the concept of water, much less its H20 chemical composition, westerners today do not realize they live in a “Christian” world. They are living off the moral inheritance of a bygone era, prompting the question: What if the inheritance runs out?

In this article, I will explore one theory regarding how we reached this paradoxical moment in which society has left Christianity behind but retained vestiges of its moral foundation. Then I will offer some thoughts regarding how educators can equip the next generation of Christians to not only steward the inheritance, but contribute to it. Ultimately, I will argue that the new (ex-Christian) moral order, characterized by individual pluralistic spirituality and a preoccupation on happiness in this life, requires Christian educators to point students back to biblical, orthodox Christian thought and practice. This approach should be characterized by emphasizing the transcendence of God, the riches of Christian tradition, and the joy of following Christ within a local church community.

The Paganism of Secularism

In Remaking the World (Crossway, 2023), pastor and author Andrew Wilson offers a nuanced explanation for the rise of secularism in the Modern West. While simplistic explanations point to the displacement of religion via modern science, Wilson suggests that two ideologies emerged in the post-Reformation era that together became the theological parents of secularism: paganism and protestantism.

When Wilson refers to paganism, he does not have in mind animal sacrifices and witchcraft. Following intellectual historian Peter Gay, he observes that underlying the Enlightenment’s focus on progress and human reason lies a common appreciation for pagan antiquity and classical learning. There was something about the classical era that captured the attention of Enlightenment philosophes such as Diderot, Gibbon, Kant, and Hume. They revered the Greeks and Romans for their contributions to philosophy, mathematics, science, rhetoric, and lyrical beauty. This is easy enough to see on a visit to Washington D.C. The neo-classical architecture of a city erected following the Enlightenment is evident.

The reverence and appreciation for this pre-Christian intellectual era is one shared element between paganism and what will become modern secularism. But more importantly, the philosophes of the Enlightenment adopted the pagan worldview about the location of the sacred. Numinous encounters of the divine are a shared universal human experience. But where do these experiences come from? There are basically two answers: from this world or somewhere else. In classical paganism, the gods and goddesses possess supernatural power, and yet, they are still contained within this world. In contrast, the Christian response is that the origin of the sacred is a different world entirely, a spiritual realm ruled by a transcendent God.

There is therefore a surprising analogy between ancient paganism and modern secularism. Pagans and secularists alike look to life on earth for meaning and purpose. As Wilson puts it “The holy, the numinous and the sublime were essentially immanent rather than transcendent. And right across the ex-Christian spectrum, this had a significant impact on the way people thought about nature, art, sex, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” (151). Why search for the sacred in a world beyond if it can be found here in our cosmos?

The Disruption of Protestantism

The other theological parent of modern secularism, according to Wilson (a practicing Anglican), is protestantism. In Wilson’s view, there are four main ways protestantism contributed, in partnership with modern paganism, to the present “Christian” society albeit without Christianity:

1. Protestantism created an ecclesial disaster, shattering medieval Christendom into a thousand pieces, by replacing church authority with the autonomous self. Salvation became a matter of heartfelt faith rather than a religious state overseen by the Catholic church.
2. Protestantism caused division within the Church by turning its guns, not merely on church leaders, but on Church doctrine itself. The Church was replaced by churches, which inevitably led to the call for religious toleration and the privatization of religion. With a vacuum for central authority up for grabs, experimental science took its place as the modern uncontested gatekeeper of truth. 
3. Protestantism engendered disenchantment by replacing a spiritually-infused enchanted world with an approach in which the individual’s inward experience takes precedent over pious practices and superstition. Insisting on the authority of Scripture alone and the importance of personal faith, spiritual flourishing became possible through an immanent frame, as philosopher Charles Taylor would put it.
4. Protestantism weaponized religious doubt through normalizing public skepticism and disdain for Church doctrine and authority. Thus, skepticism became a natural step in the modern religious experience and not all pilgrims, including today, successfully overcome doubt to reach enduring faith.

While each of these points requires further elaboration, which Wilson provides, the upshot is that protestantism brought about significant change in the way Christians in the West approached their religion. It inadvertently led to the emergence of a religious menu, full of attractive options, to be selected by the consumer. Coupled with the paganism described above, the modern milieu emerged in which a person’s religious and existential needs for the sacred and a higher purpose could be met individualistically and pluralistically in this world.

Educating Protestant Pagans

This modern mindset toward religion is what Wilson calls protestant paganism. He writes, “Ex-Christianity in the modern West is the unwitting product of both these forces working together. Paganism, which has always seen the sacred as immanent and ultimacy as located within this world of space and time, reacted with the divisions and doubts brought by Protestantism, and produced a new entity” (156). It is a religion in which its adherents focus on the inward spiritual experience of the individual and practice moral virtues that bring happiness in this life.

Now we need to talk about education. In light of this proposed account for the “Christian air” society “breaths” without realizing it, how can we educate our students to be orthodox Christians rather than protestant pagans? 

I want to make five suggestions:

First, we ought to incorporate into our schools the recitation of historic Christian creeds. As a Protestant myself, I am in full support of shepherding each student to make a personal decision to put their faith in Jesus Christ. We can nourish individual faith with corporate confession of what we believe as educational institutions in support of the church.

Second, we ought to lead our faculty and students to reflect on the transcendent and holy character of God. This can happen through public scripture readings, worship, and prayer. But the focus of the time should be on God’s being and works, not merely ourselves. The integration of faith and learning can lead students to experience harmony between what they believe and what they think.

Third, we should pass on the riches of the classical tradition–the art, the philosophy, the myths–as a foil for Christianity. As classical schools, we share with pride that our students can recite the myth of Heracles, explain Plato’s forms, and read the epic of Virgil’s Aeneid. Sometimes we can lose sight of the fact that as Christians we pass on this legacy because of the role it plays in a greater legacy, the redemptive work of Jesus Christ.

Fourth, we should explicitly help students make connections between the modern values of the day with biblical teaching and Christian thought. Our students need to understand that human rights, science, justice, and compassion are God’s ideas. While contemporary culture has found a way to divorce its inherited morality from its Christian theological origins, at least for now, we can brighten the lines around the genealogy of our culture’s morals (to quote Nietsche!).

Finally, we must lift up the name of Christ over and above these inherited values. As Scrivener himself indicates, if western society abandons Christ, but retains the values, we will be left with legalistic judgment (200). Values can only judge while persons are required to forgive. Our students need to be regularly reminded of the gospel. Moral values and virtues do not save them. Jesus does.

As Western society continues to live off the inheritance of its Christian heritage, there is a crucial role Christians can play. Through are unity with Christ, we have an opportunity to not merely live off the inheritance ourselves, but contribute new deposits. It may be that the inheritance will one day run out. If it does, I hope I am not around to see it. Or it may be that through the faithful and quiet laboring of churches and schools, the inheritance grows and the light once again shines.

As Jesus taught his disciples:

You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

Matthew 5:14-16 (ESV)

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And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, on the earth.” And it was so. The earth brought forth vegetation, plants yielding seed according to their own kinds, and trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

Our modern world does not know what to do with nature. As a result, neither do our schools. For some, nature is a victim of humanity, a primordial entity (Mother Nature?) in need of rescue from the sins of industrialism. For others, nature is a tool, a utilitarian pathway to increased lifespans, decreased global poverty, improved technologies, and an overall brighter future. 

In scripture, we see that nature is the result of God’s creative activity. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” we read. The earth, in its earliest moments, is formless, empty, and dark. And yet, as the creation narrative unfolds, things change quickly. A once formless world is now given shape. Emptiness is replaced with life to the full even as darkness is swallowed up by light. “And God saw that it was good.”

A Calling to Cultivate

How might we lead our students to study the natural world in a way that is aligned with this biblical vision?

To do so, it seems, we must keep reading:

Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.”… And God blessed them. And God said to them [humankind], “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”And God said, “Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food. And to every beast of the earth and to every bird of the heavens and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food.” And it was so. And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.

Genesis 1: 26-31 (ESV)

Here we see humankind’s distinct responsibility: to rule creation as God’s royal deputy, stewarding the natural world with authority, dominion, and prudence. To rule is not to oppress as some might interpret the word “subdue,” but rather to oversee or govern toward a state of flourishing. This is the creation mandate, a divine injunction for the human race to bring order to creation, which will be latter mirrored by Christ’s own mandate to his followers to bring this order to fulfillment in the kingdom of God.

Wisdom of the Natural World

In the classical tradition, the study of nature was considered a subset of philosophy, “the pursuit of wisdom.” Natural philosophy, hence, is “the study of wisdom about the natural world.” And yet, in modern schools today, we study science, not nature. Our students learn the scientific method, the process for conducting experiments, and the importance of evidence-based reasoning. Through this study, they become devotees to scientism, modern scientific investigation, and are trained to gather “data” about the natural world to attain the desired ends of society.

But amidst this process, are students actually encountering this world for themselves? Are they being equipped to prudently rule and steward creation as God commands them? Are they learning to see it rightly for what it is, indeed, to love it?

Here I am reminded of a famous scene from the 1997 film Good Will Hunting. In a crucial moment of dialogue between Will (played by Matt Damon) and his professor-therapist Dr. Maguire (played by Robin Williams), Dr. Maguire confronts his pupil with a prophetic word:

You’re just a boy. You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. You’ve never been out of Boston. So if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written…Michelangelo? You know a lot about him I bet. Life’s work, criticisms, political aspirations. But you couldn’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.”

In the story, Will, a self-taught genius, can rattle off facts like a human encyclopedia, and yet, he does not actually know in the deepest sense. Why? He has not experienced the truth, goodness, and beauty of what he has studied for himself. He has not opened himself up to real experiences, becoming vulnerable to these things, and risking the opportunity to love.

Connecting Children with Nature

If we are not careful, we as educators can inadvertently commit the same error in our modern educational approaches to studying nature. In efforts to make knowledge useful, we can seal off the possibility of encountering beauty. In aims to train students to have power over nature, we fail to experience its healing powers over us. In objectives to increase A.P. test scores, our students can tell us everything about flora, except which specimens grow in their own gardens.

To be clear, I fully support and respect the processes and achievements of modern science. I would not be able to write this article in the nexus of modern technologies swirling around me in good conscience if I did not. But if we are going to educate children to study nature in the fullest sense, we must lead them to encounter nature for themselves.

In Volume 1 of her Home Education Series, Charlotte Mason writes,

He must live hours daily in the open air, and, as far as possible, in the country; must look and touch and listen; must be quick to note, consciously, every peculiarity of habit or structure, in beast, bird, or insect; the manner of growth and fructification of every plant. He must be accustomed to ask why–Why does the wind blow? Why does the river flow? Why is a leaf-bud sticky? And do not hurry to answer his questions for him; let him think his difficulties out so far as his small experience will carry him.

Home Education, p. 264-265

Here we see Mason’s instruction that for children to properly love and know nature, they must spend time outdoors. This time can be spent with generous amounts of free and unstructured play as well intentionally led nature studies. During these studies, students can observe a specimen closely and allow their minds to ponder what they observes.

In a later volume, Mason writes,

On one afternoon in the week, the children go for a ‘nature walk’ with their teachers. They notice for themselves, and the teacher gives a name or other information as it is asked for, and it is surprising what a range of knowledge a child of nine or ten acquires. The teachers are careful not to make these nature walks an opportunity for scientific instruction, as we wish the children’s attention to be given to observation with very little direction. In this way they lay up that store of ‘common information’ which Huxley considered should precede science teaching; and, what is much more important, they learn to know and delight in natural objects as in the familiar faces of friends. 

School Education, p. 237

Formal science instruction has its place, including the opportunity to conduct experiments and practice the scientific method. But in the earliest years, the goal of nature study is to put children in direct contact with nature. Through the nature walks described above, students self-direct their own observations, empowering their minds to explorer, wonder, and discover.

From Abstract to Concrete

In “The Parents’ Review,” the monthly magazine edited by Charlotte Mason, guest writer J.C. Medd, writes of nature study:

Its aim is to bring the child into direct relation with facts, to lead him from the abstract to the concrete, and to stimulate him to investigate phenomena for himself. This is to promote that process of self-instruction which is the basis of all true education.”

J.C. Medd, Volume 14, 1903, pgs. 902-906

In conclusion, a philosophy of nature study must begin with what nature is and our role as human beings in relation to it. In scripture, we see that nature is nothing less than God’s good creation, a masterpiece of God’s perfect design, echoing His love for beauty, design, physicality, life, and growth across ecosystems. We, as humans, are called to govern this great masterpiece, cultivating the natural world toward a state of flourishing. To lead our students to know nature for what it truly is, we must vacate our classrooms for a different classroom, one created a long time ago, and accessible by every child to be discovered, known, and loved.

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What does it mean to love God? How are we to love Him? What are we to love about Him? What parts of ourselves are we to employ in this endeavor? 

It has become popular in church circles today to emphasize loving God through the heart, the seat of our desires, affections, and emotions. Scholars such as James K.A. Smith promote recalibrating these desires through implementing intentionally formative habits, liturgies, and rituals. This whole-body approach to worship, Smith teaches, will form over time our desires to long for God’s kingdom above all else.

Smith is writing in response to what he believes has become a key error in the western church today: an overemphasis on human rationality. Smith does not deny that the human capacity to think, remember, and understand is essential to being human. But, Smith contends, it is not sufficient. Therefore, a full-orbed approach to discipleship and education will include the intentional formation of the heart, specifically through encountering beauty in communities through art, music, poetry, nature, and feasts.

In general, I agree with Smith and have interacted closely with his writing, such as here. A human is more than a brain on a stick. At the same time, it is important for Christians today to not swing to the other side of the pendulum and ignore human rationality altogether. In 1994, Mark Noll, who taught at Wheaton College before Notre Dame, famously wrote The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind. Spoiler alert: The scandal Noll refers to essentially is that, at the time of the publication of the book, there was not much of an evangelical mind. Conservative, Bible-believing Christians too often settled for tweet-length quips (before Twitter), proof texting, and feel-good theology as an alternative to quality research. 

Similarly, in 2018, Jonathan Haidt, an agnostic social psychologist at New York University, wrote The Coddling of the American Mind to raise the alarm that many Americans today have exchanged a rigorous pursuit of truth for group think and emotional reasoning. As a result, we have sidelined the mind from doing the intellectual work God intended it to, specifically the task of thinking through complex topics with lucidity and care.

In this second article in my ongoing series on the life of the mind, I want to dig deeper into Jesus’ command in the gospels to love God with the mind, alongside heart, soul, and strength. According to Jesus, one’s intellectual life is not spiritually neutral. What we think about, how we think, and our approach to learning itself all contain import for the way we know and love God. A key aspect of Christian discipleship, therefore, becomes cultivating the life of the mind for a vibrant love of God to grow. Let us now explore how this might be.

Jesus‘ Pursuit of Wisdom From the Past

One distinctive characteristic of the Christian classical education renewal movement is an enthusiasm for gleaning wisdom from the past. This knowledge of ancient wisdom provides students with a broader context for the history of ideas and helps them better discern truth from falsehood in their own day. 

To illustrate this insight, C.S. Lewis uses the metaphor of a clock. He writes, “If you join at eleven o’clock a conversation which began at eight you will often not see the real bearing of what is said…Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeking certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period” (“Introduction” to On the Incarnation, p. 4). 

When we read the teachings of Jesus, we find that our Lord shared this deep appreciation for wisdom from the past. As a faithful Jew, Jesus was a faithful follower of the Old Testament Law, which he believed was wisdom revealed by God himself. In Luke 10:25-28, a legal expert approaches Jesus with the goal to put this knowledge of the Law to the test. With a striking blend of authority and compassion, Jesus showcases his commitment to the Law while counter-testing the legal expert with his own question.

The Shema with Two Additions

The legal expert’s test question is about how to inherit eternal life, the answer of which both he and Jesus agree is found in the Law. Quoting the Pentateuch, the expert recites to Jesus, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind” (Deut. 6:5). Without pause, he continues “and [love] your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19:18).

It is important to note that the Deuteronomy passage is one of the most well-known in Jewish history and culture. It begins with the injunction, “Hear, O Israel,” which becomes the inspiration for the passage’s name, Shema (the word for “hear” in Hebrew is “Shema”). For faithful Jews, the Shema is handwritten on a small parchment and placed at shoulder height on the doorposts of observant Jewish homes (see Joel B. Green’s The Gospel of Luke of the New International Commentary series for further background on this passage). This practice is in accordance with Moses’ command in the passage to teach the words of the Law to Hebrew tradition throughout all facets of everyday life.

Interestingly, in Jesus’ conversation with the legal expert, there are two notable additions to the Shema. One is the neighbor-love command. The other is the inclusion of the mind to the list of ways humans are commanded to love God. (In the Shema, Moses lists heart, soul, and might, but not mind because the heart in Hebrew anthropology includes one’s rationality.) While both additions are worth exploring, in this article, I will focus only on the second, the addition of the mind as a pathway for loving God.

Love’s Four-Fold Structure

In his new book The Life We’re Looking For (Penguin Random House, 2022), author Andy Crouch references the Shema to offer a biblically-informed summary of what being fully human involves: “Every human person is a heart-soul-mind-strength complex designed for love” (33). 

Crouch distills these four categories as follows:

• Heart: the seat of desire and emotion
• Soul: the depth of self that is distinctive to each person

• Mind: the capacity and inclination to better understand our experience of God and this world

• Strength: the ability to work and play with all our being 

Together, this four-fold structure of what it means to be human finds its underlying goal to love, first and foremost, God, and also our neighbor. Crouch writes, “Most of all, we are designed for love–primed before we were born to seek out others, wired neurologically to respond with empathy and recognition, coming most alive when we are in relationships of mutual dependence and trust. Love calls out the best in us–it awakens our hearts, it stirs up the depths of our souls, it focuses our minds, it arouses our bodies to action and passion (35). 

A Loving Mind

The question, then, is how do we love God with our minds? What does a loving mind look? How do we hold together the deep affections of the heart with the activities of the mind? I will continue this inquiry in my next article, but for now, I will leave readers with three potential categories for how we might answer the question.

What we think about

Paul writes in Philippians 4:8 that Christians are to think about “…whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise.” It seems to me that one way we love God is by filtering the attention and content of our minds on what is good, true, and beautiful, all of which comes from God Himself.

How we think

While the mind is often connoted with cold rationality, I want to suggest that there is an artistry to mental activity that can be warm, elegant, and connective. When humans learn to think wisely according to the broader vision of wisdom as described in the Book of Proverbs, they flourish in a way that aligns with how God created the world. Proverbs 8 provides clues, specifically, for how the pursuit of wisdom connects to loving God with our minds.

Our approach to learning

In modern society, learning has been stripped of its relational qualities in service of utilitarian ends. Knowledge is power, or at least, the avenue for getting into college. But what if the pursuit of knowledge is meant to be primarily a relational enterprise? We form relationships with whom and that which we know. We can love God with our minds when we seek knowledge about Him that our love for Him may abound.

Join the Conversation

These are preliminary ideas that I will pick up in my next article. For now, I would be curious to hear what you think. How can we love God with our minds? Please comment below and join me in this exploration.

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‘Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life’––is perhaps the most complete and adequate definition of education we possess. It is a great thing to have said it; and our wiser posterity may see in that ‘profound and exquisite remark’ the fruition of a lifetime of critical effort.

So writes Charlotte Mason, educational philosopher and herald for a new-but-old way of approaching education. Many would follow in her footsteps, championing the simplicity of the notion that an endeavor as complex as education can be defined using three basic elements: atmosphere, discipline, and life. 

If Mason is correct, then all approaches to education, even ones we would not fully endorse here at Educational Renaissance, incorporate, in some way, these elements, or as Charlotte Mason called them, instruments. Let us take “life,” for example. All educational methods promote aspects of life. Rousseau insisted upon the uninhibited natural development of a child. Montessori highlighted her individual creativity. And Dewey prioritized learning through experience.

For Charlotte Mason, the instrument of life refers to the life of the mind and its need for nourishment through ideas. For a growing mind, facts and information simply will not do. It is ideas, and ideas alone, that will capture a child’s imagination and inspire a love for knowledge and life-long learning.

How about atmosphere? Again, if Mason is correct, then all methods of education implement some element of the instrument of atmosphere. The question is: what kind of atmosphere? You can imagine the atmosphere of a Victorian-era classroom in which the taskmaster-teacher institutes order throughout his tiny kingdom, yardstick in hand. Or the atmosphere of a freshman 101 course, crammed with students in a cavernous lecture hall as they await for their wiry old professor to take the stage.

In both cases, the instrument of atmosphere is present and has an impact on the educational method being deployed. We might describe the first atmosphere as strict, orderly, and intimidating.. We could describe the second as crowded and distant, yet full of energy.

In contrast to these two sketches, in this article, I will explore what sort of atmosphere Charlotte Mason had in mind as she defined education as “an atmosphere, a discipline, a life.” Through this exploration, we will learn how to create an educational atmosphere befitting of persons, which will serve as a foundation for relationships to emerge and a conduit for passing on a Christian “paideia.”

An Atmosphere for Persons

Charlotte Mason’s philosophy of education hinges on the premise that children are persons. So much so that if one could prove that children are not persons then her whole philosophy would fall apart. So what does Mason mean by “persons”? I think she has three big ideas in mind.

First, children have genuine thoughts and ideas about the world. School is not the first time they gain knowledge or begin to engage in intellectual activity. As soon as children are born, they engage the world in which they are born and seek to understand it. They are not empty buckets to be filled with grains of sand of information. They are living, breathing people created with the capacity to dynamically interact with God’s created world. 

Second, children possess an internal and psychological capacity that requires development. Specifically, children are created with affections that desire and wills that choose. Both affections and wills can and are shaped over time through outside influences. Therefore, we can say that children have real agency in this world and cannot simply be set aside as robots. 

Finally, children are creatures of relationship. Like all of us, they long to belong, to be affirmed, and to contribute to something greater than themselves. Consequently, all activity, especially education, contains a relational dimension. Education, therefore, is the science of relations, another way Mason defines the term. Real knowledge is touched with emotion and part of a wider web of relationships. 

Built for Relationship

Now that we have Mason’s view of children as persons in view, we can begin to think about an educational atmosphere that would be appropriate for such persons.

In For the Children’s Sake (Crossway, 1984), Susan Schaeffer Macaulay, an early promoter of Mason’s philosophy, writes, “When teachers value and trust the individual, a special atmosphere is created. Here it is possible to have structure and yet suitable freedom. The atmosphere can be friendly, purposeful, relaxed. In fact, it can be an oasis for the child who finds it the only place where he is able to have a satisfying life” (73). 

Here we see that an educational atmosphere befitting of persons begins with trust and respect. So often, a modern classroom can feel like either an industrial factory or amusement park. Extreme restriction or entertainment. But what if an atmosphere fit for persons offers a different way? We have all experienced managers who either do not care about their employees or do not want to take time to develop them. They become heavy-handed task masters constantly on the look out for errors or simply nowhere to be found when support is needed. Classrooms can feel like this, too, when teachers are too harsh on the one hand or disinterested to come alongside their students on the other.

Bill St. Cyr, founder of Ambleside Schools International, captures the heart of the caring teacher with the phrase “It is good to be me here with you.” In this relational context, an atmosphere emerges that will shape the child’s affections more than anything else. As Bill puts it, the children inhale the atmosphere that their teachers exhale. More than whatever the teacher has planned for the lesson today, the desire for goodness, truth, and beauty will be caught within the atmosphere, not taught. In short, a child will admire what the teacher admires.

Of the three instruments of education, it can be argued that atmosphere is the hardest to get right. Bobby Scott, a long-time leader at a Charlotte Mason school, points out in When Children Love to Learn (Crossway, 2004) that while discipline and life can be transplanted, atmosphere can only be built up over time. It is an atmosphere of relationship that begins with how we interact and treat children (73). It is then strengthened over time as teacher and students together engage in inquiry through their studies and love for God and His creation.

I would be remiss if I did not mention that while relationships are the core of an atmosphere, we cannot dismiss the significance of physical space. The thinking today is that a classroom’s physical atmosphere should match the maturity of the child. This is why modern classrooms are often decorated with cartoonish posters, glittery pictures, and the like. But if we begin with the premise that children are born persons, as Charlotte Mason encourages, then we will be led to build a different kind of space: one of beauty, nature, and order–an extension of real life, rather than an environment manufactured for children.

Passing on a Christian “Paideia”

In the classical tradition, education was always about passing on a particular culture. As Kevin Clark and Ravi Jain note in The Liberal Arts Tradition (Classical Academic Press, 2019), “The word the Greeks used for education was paideia, which meant not only learning intellectual skills, but also the transmission of the entirety of the loves, norms, and values of a culture” (211).

In fact, in Paul’s oft-quoted command in Ephesians 6:4, “Fathers, do not provoke your children, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord”, the Greek word translated “discipline” is paideia. For the apostle Paul, parents have a responsibility to promote and pass on a God-centered culture as one of their parental duties. By extension, Christian schools come alongside parents by promoting and transmitting this culture as well.

There are several ways to think about what a God-centered paideia might look like, including fruit of the Spirit, membership in a local church, the centrality of scripture, a heart for evangelism, and a transmission of church tradition. Behind all of these, I want to argue is the concept of atmosphere. Teachers who want to engage in real paideia, should begin not with curriculum, but with atmosphere–how they relate to their students and what sorts of values and ideas they will promote in their classrooms.

In the last several decades, we can see how the obsession with testing in schools has led to a decline in real learning. To be sure, assessments are important and master teachers regularly check for understanding through both formative and summative methods. But a truly Christian paideia, I believe, is undermined when the greatest purpose of the classroom is test performance or competition. To truly form lifelong disciples, teachers do better when they build the sort of atmosphere in which hard work is celebrated, questions are praised, and the unified goal of the class is to grow in wisdom and love for all that is good, true, and beautiful.

Conclusion

Teachers can use the instrument of atmosphere in their classrooms to promote relationship, goodness, and a genuine love for learning. As we have seen, all classrooms effuse a particular atmosphere. The question we ask ourselves is “What kind?” and “For whom?”. The best classrooms I have seen are ones in which genuine belonging is detected, emanating from the teacher, and students are called up to do their best work as they seek to live out their identity as creatures made in God’s divine image. As we seek to pass on a particularly Christian paideia to the next generation amidst a growingly secular world, we can begin with the instrument of atmosphere.

Want to learn more about implementing Charlotte Mason’s principles in the classroom? Join my virtual workshop this fall, provided through the Society for Classical Learning. You can also subscribe to our Educational Renaissance weekly blog.

Thanks for reading!

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“Why the History of Narration Matters” series:

Part 1: Charlotte Mason’s Discovery?

Part 2: Classical Roots

Part 3: Narration’s Rebirth

Part 4: Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration in Historical Perspective

Expanding Narration’s History with Comenius: Narration’s Rebirth, Stage 2 – The Great Didactic

Expanding Narration’s History with Comenius: Narration’s Rebirth, Stage 2 – The Analytical Didactic

This series began as an attempt to wrap up the loose ends of hints and speculations I had had for years, regarding the origins of Charlotte Mason’s practice of narration. Was it her own invention? Some passages I had discovered in a rhetoric textbook from the early 1900s, and then from Quintilian and John Locke, argued otherwise. Perhaps this, then, was a test-case for the broader question of Charlotte Mason’s relationship to the classical tradition.

Since then I have been able to fill in a pretty compelling set of stepping stones for the use of narration-like practices throughout the history of education. But one major gap remained…. the Middle Ages. I am excited to announce that I have filled in that gap; or at least, I have moved up the gap in the history of narration from the Renaissance proper to the twelfth century renaissance of the high Middle Ages. The source: John of Salisbury’s Metalogicon, or defense of the verbal and logical arts of the trivium. The proponent of narration: Bernard of Chartres.

While this investigation into the history of narration began with the theme of Charlotte Mason’s place within the classical tradition of education, it has come to represent more than that for me. In our recovery movements we have focused our attention on recovering the broader and more holistic purpose of education (the Why), in contrast to modern utilitarianism and pragmatism. In addition, we have rediscovered old curricular tracks (the What), like the liberal arts themselves. But we have not delved as deeply for the gems of pedagogy, the teaching methods of the classical tradition in all their multiform glory.

This short history of narration (which I am revising and expanding into a book to be published with Educational Renaissance) aims to uncover narration as it was practiced in the tradition, turning this pedagogical gem in the light of various centuries and cultural expressions. This historical understanding will then give us a flexibility and creativity of application with the teaching practice that we couldn’t gain any other way.

With that preface, let us travel back to the late Middle Ages!

The Twelfth-Century Educational Renaissance

Daniel D. McGarry sees the twelfth century as the birthplace of modern Western pedagogy, noting that while the “constituent elements were Greek, Roman, and early Christian in origin, yet it is also true that these received new form and life in the Middle Ages.”[1] He goes on to call this momentous time period of intellectual flourishing, in which John of Salisbury lived, the “twelfth-century educational ‘renaissance’.” Whether we agree with designating the twelfth century as the birthplace of modern Western pedagogy may depend more upon our assessment of the relative merits of ancient and modern teaching methods than anything else. But the important point for our purposes is the new life, and what we can undoubtedly call the rebirth of narration, among other teaching practices that occurred during this time period.

Jerome Taylor of the University of Notre Dame also has called the twelfth century a “renaissance”, describing it as “a time when centers of education had moved from the predominantly rural monasteries to the cathedral schools of growing cities and communes; when education in the new centers was becoming specialized, hence unbalanced, according to the limited enthusiasms of capacities of particular masters”.[2] Against this backdrop, John of Salisbury wrote his Metalogicon to combat a group scholars who repudiated the value of the Trivium arts of grammar, dialectic and rhetoric, and claimed to advance on to mastery of philosophy in but a few years of study.[3]

John of Salisbury closes his discussion of the importance of full grammatical training by discussing an eminent teacher of the previous generation, Bernard of Chartres, who taught at the cathedral school there beginning in 1115. Bernard is the earliest figure to be attributed with the famous “standing on the shoulders of giants” conception.[4] With such a value for the thoughts of those who came before, it is no wonder that we see him using narration as a core teaching practice. As we have mentioned elsewhere, narration is a fundamentally pious act that accords well with a focus on classic literature and the Great Books.[5]

Bernard of Chartres Teaching Grammar

John of Salisbury begins by describing Bernard’s method of teaching grammar:

Bernard of Chartres, the greatest font of literary learning in Gaul in recent times, used to teach grammar in the following way. He would point out, in reading authors, what was simple and according to rule. On the other hand, he would explain grammatical figures, rhetorical embellishment, and sophistical quibbling, as well as the relation of given passages to other studies. He would do so, however, without trying to teach everything at one time. On the contrary, he would dispense his instruction to his hearers gradually, in a manner commensurate with their powers of assimilation.[6]

This explanatory lecture method is well attested for grammatical teachers in the tradition going right on back to Quintilian. What is noted as of special importance is Bernard’s avoidance of being pedantic about the wrong sorts of details. In his discursive commentary on texts, Bernard took a methodical and gradual approach, suiting his teaching to the receptivity of his hearers. His unique sensitivity to what his students could “assimilate” was likely borne of his practice of listening to his students narrate the next day (see below).

Proponents of narration might be inclined to see in Bernard’s method nothing more than the ineffective lecture-based approach to education that we deplore. But according to John of Salisbury, Bernard would not leave his readings of texts and lectures there, simply in the air to be remembered or not by his pupils. Instead, Bernard was aware of the necessity for mental exercise through narration or recitation:

In view of the fact that exercise both strengthens and sharpens our mind, Bernard would bend every effort to bring his students to imitate what they were hearing.[7] In some cases he would rely on exhortation, in others he would resort to punishments, such as flogging. Each student was daily required to recite part of what he had heard on the previous day. Some would recite more, others less. Each succeeding day thus became the disciple of its predecessor.[8]

Bernard’s teaching practice involved students in the imitation of the authors “that he read to them” (see n. 28). In addition, we can see that this was a required daily practice for all students – a fact that impresses us with the pedagogical value Bernard attributed to it.  John says he “would bend every effort” to this task. We might say that Bernard assigned his students homework to remember something of what he had taught them the previous day. Failing to complete your homework for Bernard’s class might have dire consequences (i.e. “flogging”). It seems at least partly ambiguous whether details from Bernard’s lecture would be included in students’ recounting of the content of the texts. But we could easily imagine commentary and text fusing together naturally when the previous day’s topics were retold by many students, one after another.

We might wonder whether the recitation that Bernard speaks of was similar to what Charlotte Mason called ‘narration’ or if it involved the word-for-word memorization of select passages from the texts Bernard read aloud, what many modern classical Christian educators and Masonites now call recitation. While the details here are somewhat ambiguous, a few factors push me in the direction of the former. First, the fact that “some would recite more, others less” seems true to life for educators who have used narration, whereas if word-for-word memorization were in view, we would expect a teacher to assign a set number of lines. Would Bernard leave it to chance which passages his students memorized? Likewise, the closing observation that each day “became the disciple of its predecessor” seems to fit better with an oral recounting of the content from the previous day by many students than memory work.

A later passage also exhibits the same ambiguity about whether narration or memorization is in view:

Bernard used also to admonish his students that stories and poems should be read thoroughly, and not as though the reader were being precipitated to flight by spurs. Wherefor he diligently and insistently demanded from each, as a daily debt, something committed to memory.[9]

It is possible that this passage refers to Bernard’s homework requirement of memorization, while the other refers to narration. Or both could refer to the same practice of narration or memorization. Either way, even if we were to conclude (which I doubt) that word-for-word memorization is intended in both these passages, we could still argue that such a heavy use of recitation (as “a daily debt”) edges into the benefits of the unique practice of narration because of how consistently and vigorously it engages the memory.

At the end of the day, it seems most likely that Bernard employed both narration and word-for-word memorization (as did Charlotte Mason and countless educators throughout history). What he was most remarkable for was his use of these imitative exercises as a daily requirement for all students. In this way, we can see the features of earlier rhetorical and grammatical teaching reinvigorated and taken seriously in a way that John of Salisbury, at least, found remarkable and rare in his own time.

Bernard’s “Conferences” and the Narration-Trivium Lesson

For classical educators who worry about a bare recital of content, Bernard’s methods went further to cultivate what we might call the higher order thinking skills and creative production of his students:

A further feature of Bernard’s method was to have his disciples compose prose and poetry every day, and exercise their faculties in mutual conferences,[10] for nothing is more useful in introductory training than actually to accustom one’s students to practice the art they are studying. Nothing serves better to foster the acquisition of eloquence and the attainment of knowledge than such conferences, which also have a salutary influence on practical conduct, provided that charity moderates enthusiasm, and that humility is not lost during progress in learning.[11]

Bernard’s “daily debt” did not only involve narration and/or memorization, but also literary composition and discussion. These “conferences” might have sounded like what we call socratic seminars, involving the discussion of ideas from the authors being read as well as their relationships and applications to other ideas. This conclusion finds support in John’s claim that they would have a “salutary [health-bringing] influence on practical conduct”. Or else, these conferences could have required students to critique one another’s prose and poetic compositions, judging their merits and flaws. In all likelihood, both sorts of discussions occurred thereby fostering both “the acquisition of eloquence and the attainment of knowledge”.

Bernard’s method of teaching grammar thus coheres broadly with the Narration-Trivium lesson structure that I have advocated for as a fusion of Charlotte Mason’s narration lesson with the classical tradition.[12] Bernard’s explanatory lectures provided the set-up or 1^st little talk that enabled his students to understand the texts that he read to them. His extended commentary on the text cleared up further difficulties and focused on the detailed development of grammatical learning. The text and proper explanation were then required to be narrated, not immediately, but the next day by each student, as much as he could remember. Students’ preparation for this task might have involved them engaging in their own sorts of retrieval practice activities (perhaps involving notes) which would enable them to tell in detail the next day. They may also have memorized word-for-word particular passages or quotations from the texts, which they might have jotted down in a commonplace journal.

Then students would engage in “conferences” where they discussed the ideas and features of the texts they were studying, based on their knowledge of the text gained through lecture and narration. Finally, they would also write their own imitative compositions, share them with others for discussion and critique, thus training them in dialectic and rhetoric, the second little talk and a creative or analytical response to the text. Instead of happening all in a single lesson, this process would begin on one day and continue into the next, a practice that I would commend as well, esp. for older students. The Narration-Trivium lesson structure is intended to be flexible and adaptable by the teacher to the nature of the subject-matter and the needs of the students.

Bernard’s Methods as a Classical Inheritance

We might be tempted to think of Bernard’s grammatical pedagogy involving narration as simply a blip on the timeline of the Middle Ages, but its resonance with the practices of the classical era should cause us to wonder whether there were many more unremembered Bernards throughout the Middle Ages at earlier monastic or church schools, who followed the traditions of genuine classical learning. Even in his own time, Bernard’s pedagogy was adopted by many, according to John, even if it died off quickly:

My own instructors in grammar… formerly used Bernard’s method in training their disciples. But later, when popular opinion veered away from the truth, when men preferred to seem, rather than to be philosophers, and when professors of the arts were promising to impart the whole of philosophy in less than three or even two years… [they] were overwhelmed by the onslaught of the ignorant mob, and retired. Since then, less time and attention have been given to the study of grammar. As a result we find men who profess all the arts, liberal and mechanical, but who are ignorant of this very first one [i.e., grammar], without which it is futile to attempt to go on to the others.[13]

John of Salisbury’s nostalgic reflections of his own quality instruction in grammar by teachers following Bernard’s approach might cause us to wonder whether the human tendency to take short cuts is really to blame for narration’s neglect. As Plato feared, writing has proved to be “a recipe not for memory, but for reminder,” filling men “not with wisdom, but with the conceit of wisdom”.[14] In all times and places, narration (alongside other genuinely classical teaching methods) represents a hard and uphill climb, but the true route to the peak of the mountain of intellectual virtue.

In this final article on the history of narration, I’ve given you a taste of the book that Educational Renaissance published in early 2022: A Short History of Narration. I hope you’ve been inspired by the history of narration and that you will buy the book to take your practice of narration to the next level. Also, check out our webinars, like Habit Training 2.0 or one on Narration 2.0, to get the practical resources and insight you need to bring ancient wisdom into modern era in your classroom!

[1] Daniel D. McGarry, “Introduction” in The Metalogicon of John of Salisbury: A Twelfth-Century Defense of the Verbal and Logical Arts of the Trivium (Mansfield Centre, CT: Martino Publishing, 2015), xv.

[2] Jerome Taylor, “Introduction” in The Didascalicon of Hugh of St. Victor: A Medieval Guide to the Arts, translated by Jerome Taylor (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961; Forgotten Books reprint, 2018), 4.

[3] He actually addresses one particular advocate whom he nicknames Cornificius for the ancient detractor of Vergil, but this may be a literary fiction, and either way, the individual represents a movement of thought, on which see John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, 11.

[4] John of Salisbury, Metalogicon, 167:

Bernard of Chartres used to compare us to [puny] dwarfs perched on the shoulders of giants. He pointed out that we see more and farther than our predecessors, not because we have keener vision or greater height, but because we are lifted up and borne aloft on their gigantic stature.

[5] See Jason Barney, A Classical Guide to Narration, 89.

[6] John of Salisbury, The Metalogicon of John of Salisbury: A Twelfth-Century Defense of the Verbal and Logical Arts of the Trivium, translated by Daniel D. McGarry (Mansfield Centre, CT: Martino Publishing, 2015), 67.

[7] The translator adds a note, ibid., 68: “Literally: what they were hearing, namely, the selections that he read to them [from the authors].”

[8] Ibid.

[9] Another note from the translator, ibid.: “Bernard apparently required of each of his students the daily recitation of some passages memorized from their current reading.”

[10] Translator’s note, ibid, 70: “collationibus, collations, conferences, comparisons. Although ‘conferences’ would seem to fit here as a translation, Webb holds that ‘comparisons’ is better….”

[11] Ibid.

[12] See www.educationalrenaissance.com for a free eBook explaining the Narration-Trivium lesson.

[13] Ibid., 71.

[14] Plato, Phaedrus in The Collected Dialogues, 520.

“Why the History of Narration Matters” series:

Part 1: Charlotte Mason’s Discovery?

Part 2: Classical Roots

Part 3: Narration’s Rebirth

Part 4: Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration in Historical Perspective

Expanding Narration’s History with Comenius: Narration’s Rebirth, Stage 2 – The Great Didactic

Expanding Narration’s History with Comenius: Narration’s Rebirth, Stage 2 – The Analytical Didactic

The post Expanding Narration’s History in the late Middle Ages: Bernard of Chartres from John of Salisbury’s Metalogicon appeared first on .

Well, that depends on what humans essentially are. If humans are, at core, cognitive creatures, then it makes sense to focus exclusively on the intellect. This was the predominant view of modernism. Influenced by the Age of Reason and the notable success of empirical science, modern schools adopted a, generally speaking, intellect-only attitude toward learning. They drew a distinction between facts and values and insisted that only empirically-grounded facts could be studied. Everything else was dismissed as mere emotional conditioning.

In the classical tradition, however, the idea never gained traction that a human can be reduced to a brain on a stick. Instead, philosophers like Plato espoused a tripartite portrait of human beings: humans possess intellectual, affective, and appetitive components. The formative purpose of education for Plato is to shape humans to be virtuous, that is, to develop proper affections that will empower reason to subdue the appetites of the flesh. Or, as C.S. Lewis put it in The Abolition of Man, education prepares a human to use the head to rule the belly through the chest.

In this blog article, I will explore the idea that a truly formative education shapes not only our moral strength, but our very affective desires. Drawing on the work of James K.A. Smith, I will show how habits shape desires and the object of our deepest desires reveals who we are becoming. Educators, therefore, must think carefully about the practices put on repeat in their schools and how these habituated practices are shaping the very affections of their students.

Creatures Who Worship

In Desiring the Kingdom (Baker Academic, 2009), Calvin College philosophy professor James K.A. Smith argues that humans are liturgical creatures. In other words, the longing to worship is a central feature of what it means to be human. The question is not whether we will worship, but what or whom we will worship. Deep within our bones is a desire to love and experience the transcendent. Until this desire is fulfilled, we remain restless, hungry, and unfulfilled. As St. Augustine put it in Confessions, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”

In our modern secular world, religion may be on the decline, but our longings to experience transcendent fulfillment are not. Pointing to ongoing zeal for the market, malls, and the military, Smith offers three examples to demonstrate that when humans displace God as the object of our deepest desires, we replace Him with lesser goods. And when traditional religious rituals are excised, they are replaced with secular rituals, repeated affection-shaping practices, all the same. The diligent repetition of these practices is precisely how we keep the zeal for the objects of our desires intact.

Shaping Affections Through Habits

Now, on the surface, it may seem that humans wake up each and every day with the volition to choose what they will love and to what degree. But what Smith points out is that our loves are largely directed and aimed by habits already in play. These habits not only determine how we spend our time, but what we grow to love and, ultimately, what good life, or future kingdom, we envision to pursue.

Imagine, for example, the young man who begins each morning with phone in hand, checking last night’s scores across the National Basketball Association (NBA). He reads game summaries, notes individual player statistics, and checks the standings in each regional division. Finally, he scours the web for the latest updates on his favorite team, the Chicago Bulls. 

After a half an hour on the glowing rectangle, he rolls out of bed and prepares for the day. On the way to work, he listens to sports radio, recapping last night’s events, and looks forward to lunch break when he can discuss the latest NBA drama with his coworkers. He works diligently throughout the day and rewards himself every hour with a short excursion on his sports news app to preview the games scheduled for that evening. 

On the way home from work, he self-injects one more dose of sports radio, and thinks about whether he will watch the upcoming games at home or at a restaurant with friends. Pulling into the garage, he checks his text messages and the decision is confirmed. He pulls his Chicago Bulls jersey on and heads off to the local pub and is greeted warmly by his fellow religionists–I mean– fans.

Which Good Life? Whose Kingdom?

A cursory analysis of this everyday scenario would dismiss it as simply the story of a young man who enjoys professional basketball and supporting his local sports team. When we dig deeper, however, we see how his day is saturated with habits formed through practices that are training his desires and fueling his imagination. Checking his phone first thing in the morning, listening to sports radio on his drive into work, conversing with friends on the topic over a meal, and donning the ceremonial garb (a sports jersey) in the evening are habits which subtly reinforce who he is and what he longs for.

If he keeps this routine up, his devotion will only grow and with it his longing to re-experience day after day this vision of the good life. It slowly becomes part of who he is and brings a fulfillment that nothing else can. The path is set, with bricks composed of habits paving the way. His desires are honed in on the target and only the installation of new habits, humanly-speaking, can change the direction of the kingdom he is seeking.

Desiring the Heavenly Kingdom

LIke the basketball devotee, our schools are honing in on a certain target or vision of the good life, and this target is regularly reinforced through practices. For economically-prosperous countries in the West, it is very difficult to escape the attractive kingdom of wealth and materialism. This vision of the good life promises so much: comfort, popularity, acceptance, recognition, experiences, and the like.

But if our schools are to remain distinctively Christian we must look beyond this earthly kingdom in order to fix our eyes on something greater: the kingdom of God. What does this kingdom look like? 

In his first letter to the Corinthians, the apostle Paul writes:

For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. And because of him you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, righteousness and sanctification and redemption, so that, as it is written, ‘Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.’

1 Corinthians 1:26-31 (ESV)

It seems to me that this passage captures the essence of the heavenly kingdom. It is a kingdom composed of citizens who do not pretend to be of high-repute or worldly honor. They do not view themselves as deserving of either God’s grace or cultural recognition. They see the promises of the world for what they truly are: empty siren songs designed to stroke the ego, meanwhile the rocks of destruction grow ever closer.  

The vision for the good life we desire as Christians, and pray for our students to desire, is marked by hailing the power of Jesus. Our Lord Jesus, “God from God, Light from Light,” descended into this world to bring the kingdom of heaven, marked by baptism, self-denial, forgiveness of sin, and the hope of resurrection. 

Liturgies in our Schools

Smith proposes that we can determine the kingdoms our schools are oriented toward by taking inventory of its daily liturgies. By liturgies, he means the thick practices that shape our vision of a kingdom. For example, the liturgies of the basketball fan described above are his morning routine on his phone catching up on all the highlights, connecting with his friends at lunch on the topic, and scheduling his evenings around the upcoming games schedule. These liturgies–practices with desire-shaping and imagination-fueling power–shape his vision of what he longs for most.

So what liturgies exist in our schools? What repeated practices seem to bear the greatest influence over the culture of the student body? Over the parent community? Over faculty and staff? Are these liturgies oriented toward kingdom values of lifting up the name of Christ, growing more holy, and learning as a way of bringing honor to God? Or are our school liturgies at present spreading the gospel of a different kingdom, perhaps marked by academic repute, cultural acceptance, and worldly achievement?

Diagnostic Questions for Christian Educators to Consider:

To help you as a Christian educator discern with the Spirit’s aid what liturgies exist in your school and what liturgies don’t yet exist, here are some probing questions to consider:

1. What repeated practices seem to have the most influence in your school? What do students get most excited about? Why? 
2. What can you have students do, and do on repeat, to help them learn about and grow in their desire for the kingdom?
3. What thick practices of the church are appropriate to bring into your school while respecting the unique place the local church is to play in the life of believers?
4. How can the practices you implement in your school be distinctively counter-cultural, yet perhaps not anti-cultural? In what ways is your school practicing baptismal renunciation and cultural abstention? What are you saying “no” to?
5. How are you using instructional time to shape student affections for the kingdom? How can you incorporate embodied learning practices into your lessons?
6. How are using non-instructional time to shape student affections? What practices exist in the hallways, during passing periods and lunch times, and at recess?

Conclusion

These are challenging questions to be sure and, more than anything, they are designed to give us pause to reflect on our craft. To shape student affections for the kingdom, teaching a Christian worldview is not enough. Offering Bible classes is not enough. A weekly chapel is not enough. These are necessary components to be sure, but, they are mostly cognitive strategies when the students in our classrooms are affective creatures. In order to reach affective creatures, we need affective strategies–approaches to education that reach the heart. These will be strategies that acknowledge our embodiment and see the connections between what we do, what we long for, and therefore, who we are becoming. May we as educators continue seek first the kingdom of God, and as we do so, invite our students to join us on the journey.

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For someone like me, having spent my entire professional career straddling the aisle between the two (at a Charlotte Mason influenced classical Christian school), this can be easy to say. But the fact that narration — the centerpiece of Mason’s method, and her claim to fame, as it were — was not itself discovered by her, but was a mainstay of the classical tradition may come as a shock to some. As I explained last time, Mason did claim to have discovered how to use narration as a global tool of learning in such a way as to train students in the habit of attention and significantly improve their rate of learning and retention. But the devil is in the details. 

In this article I want to unpack some of those details, as a sort of preview of my new book A Classical Guide to Narration coming out with the CiRCE Institute in November. (I found out this week you can preorder on Amazon and at a discount on the CiRCE website. Also, have you seen the endorsements from Ravi Jain, Jessica Hooten Wilson, W. Davies Owens, and Bill St Cyr in the CiRCE press release?) The history of narration matters because it helps classical educators approach narration (and Charlotte Mason) with greater confidence. Once Mason is in the Great Conversation about education, classical educators will gain other helpful insights and correctives as well. Narration’s history also matters because it helps Masonites understand her application of narration in a fuller light. When they know the history, they can be better equipped for the task of continuing Mason’s legacy by bringing a liberal education to all children of the modern world in a way that is philosophically sound and holds old and new in concert from a Christian worldview.

Now to the history!

Narration as a Progymnasmata in the Rhetorical and Grammatical Tradition

In my own story of discovery, John Locke and Quintilian were the first to the party. In reading Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education I was struck by the similarity of thought with Charlotte Mason on numerous topics: the importance of attention, the role of the instructor, the futility of rules and the necessity of training in habit. But then I chanced across his discussion of Rhetoric and was amazed at his recommendations for the use of narration. Sometime afterward I discovered many of the same themes and topics in the opening books of Quintilian’s Institutes of Oratory, as well as a stunning similarity in the suggestions for narration, like using Aesop’s fables. At this point I knew I had struck upon something significant. 

Classical Roots Stage 1: Narration in Aelius Theon

But I still thought there might have been a simple and unique route along the narration highway: from Quintilian, to Locke, to Mason. It was only later that I realized narration’s roots went far deeper. For this I needed the expertise of a scholar of rhetoric: George A. Kennedy, the long time Professor of Classics at the University of North Carolina. In his masterful book Classical Rhetoric and its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times (2nd ed.; University of North Carolina, 1999), he writes:

“The earliest surviving treatment of progymnasmata is the work of Aelius Theon, a teacher in Alexandria in the middle of the first century after Christ. In Theon’s method of teaching a passage was read aloud and students were first required to listen and try to write it out from memory; after gaining skill in doing this they were given a short passage and asked to paraphrase it and to develop and amplify it, or seek to refute it.” (26-27) 

Here we have the first distinct step in the history of narration. The first surviving book of preliminary exercises for rhetoric students (a progymnasmata) records Theon’s “method of teaching.” And it is surprisingly book-based in a way that is reminiscent of Mason: a passage is read aloud, students are required to listen, and then write out a narration from memory.

This is clearly not dictation, where scribes in training would write as the text was read out slowly and with pauses, aiming for word-for-word accuracy. Instead, this “method of teaching” focuses on students’ ability to listen with focused attention, inwardly digest and reproduce content in writing as faithfully as possible.

For Aelius Theon, this practice no doubt honed students ability to hear and understand a complex discourse. This then became the foundation on which students could practice amplifying the thought or refuting it accurately. From what we know of the value of retrieval practice from modern research, it also likely gave his students a ready wit and a memory stocked with the style and vocabulary and living thought of the authors read to them. 

Classical Roots Stage 2: Narration in Quintilian

It is not surprising that we have to wait for Quintilian to hear of narration again. Many of the rhetorical handbooks deal more with the customs and details of judicial speeches that were most popular or effective in the classical era, and not so much with the pedagogy of how students were actually trained. Quintilian’s On the Education of an Orator, however, is the fullest ancient source of pedagogy we have, beginning from students’ very cradles with a call for the hired nurse to speak only the best grammatically correct Latin. 

Quintilian’s treatment of narration is assigned to the important work of the grammaticus, the elementary school teacher who would be responsible for training a student in written and oral expression, and beginning his study of authors (from poets to historians and astronomers). Among other things the grammaticus needed to prepare the future orator with the foundational skills and fluency necessary for elite rhetorical training:

“Let boys learn, then, to relate orally the fables of Aesop, which follow next after the nurse’s stories, in plain language, not rising at all above mediocrity, and afterwards to express the same simplicity in writing. Let them learn, too, to take to pieces the verses of the poets and then to express them in different words, and afterwards to represent them, somewhat boldly, in a paraphrase, in which it is allowable to abbreviate or embellish certain parts, provided that the sense of the poet be preserved. He who shall successfully perform this exercise, which is difficult even for accomplished professors, will be able to learn anything.”

Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory 1.9.2-3 (trans. John Selby Watson, ed. Curtis Dozier and Lee Honeycutt; Creative Commons, 2015) 49-50

Notice how, for Quintilian, we have a step added before Aelius Theon’s practice of written narration. After all, students can speak before they can write, so why can’t their narration training start earlier, when they’re just advancing from the “nurse’s stories” to their formal education. Here Aesop’s fables become the hallowed starting place for narration — a pattern we see in Locke and Mason as well. As anyone knows who has read them, Aesop’s fables are a great place to begin narration with young children partly because of their length. They are short but pack a punch. Get the children telling the fables read to them “in plain language,” not as an exercise in ornate style, but in elegant simplicity of plot and compact expression. Then as they develop their writing skills, they can do the same practice as written narration, with the emphasis placed upon simple, correct statement of fact, rather than stereotyped formulae. 

Narrating Poetry?

Of course, once narration of stories is in place, poetry provides the next challenge. We have to read a bit between the lines to imagine what exactly Quintilian is implying. Do each of the students have their own copy of the poems read? Or is the teacher still reading aloud to the students? If the former, then students might be able to look at the poem while they “take to pieces” and re-express “in different words” the verses. This would be a very different analytical task from narration, but a powerful rhetorical training practice in its own right. Benjamin Franklin employed a similar tactic in teaching himself to write essays. If the latter, then we have another example of narration being used as the foundation stone for rhetorical training, with students hearing a poem and then reproducing it in prose, paraphrasing it, amplifying parts and diminishing others. Of course, the fact that the form of the content is being deliberately changed has added an extra element of artistry to it, but presumably it is still long form telling, as opposed to the short, look-up-the-sentence-in-the-book answers of the exercises in our modern curricula. 

My instinct tells me that the second option involving narration is the more likely for Quintilian’s ancient context. Scrolls were not cheap and it is hard to see the average grammaticus of the Roman era providing his students with textbooks or copies of each poem. He did not have a teacher’s lounge with a copier to retreat to and quickly scan the poem he found in his old college textbook. Of course, students would likely have transcribed poems and memorized them by heart as well, so we could imagine a student first transcribing a poem and then proceeding with this exercise; however, students normally wrote on a wax tablet with a stylus, and while these could have multiple “pages,” it seems less likely that ancient teachers would tolerate this kind of lack of verbal memory. 

Lastly, we can appreciate the value of Quintilian’s concluding statement: “He who shall successfully perform this exercise, which is difficult even for accomplished professors, will be able to learn anything.” Not only does this seem to clinch the argument in favor of the latter (Is picking apart poetic lines that are right in front of you really that hard?), it prevents us from claiming that narration was an ancillary or insignificant thing in Quintilian’s pedagogy. Yes, it’s true that he doesn’t spend a lot of time discussing it, while he’s happy to wax eloquent on issues of Latin grammar and solecisms. But if it mattered little, why would he make so stunning a claim for it as a touchstone of all learning? Here we have a foretaste of Mason’s notion of narration as the centerpiece of education. 

Have you downloaded the free resource “Charlotte Mason and the Trivium: Planning Lessons with Narration”?

The Seed of Narration’s Classical Roots: Hearing-Dominance and Preliterate Narration

As modern people in a text-dominant society we tend to undervalue the power of human memory for extended discourse, as we have largely abandoned this ability in our reliance on texts. The reality is that the cost of paper and writing rendered the ancient and medieval world largely hearing dominant, even after the introduction of writing. “Hearing dominant” is a term I borrow from John Walton and Brent Sandy’s The Lost World of Scripture (IVP Academic: 2013), but the ideas of orality and literacy go back to my undergraduate reading of Walter Ong’s mind-blowing book (Orality and Literacy, Methuen: 1982). Hearing dominance means that people remembered and relied more on what they heard in day to day communal life than on the scripted communication of a text. We forget that until the modern era the vast majority of people were not literate, but relied on professionals for that sort of thing. 

Hearing dominance also means that oral narration of things heard was just a common occurrence. It almost didn’t need to be said, as it was so obvious a feature of social interaction with others. If you think about it, the only ways that content could have been passed down in a preliterate society would have been through narration or memorization. Whether a story or a wisdom saying, any tradition would have been passed down through tellings and retellings. Corrections would have occurred during family recitals, but only recognized authorities would likely have shared at public events. Oral narration would have simply been a part of culture and an aspect of normal social life before writing came along. And it makes sense that after the introduction of writing among an educated elite, the centrality of spoken and heard discourse would not immediately vanish.

These considerations seem to me to support the prominence of narration-like activities not only in the classical world, but in the pre-literate antiquity out of which the classical world was born. We might call preliterate narration the seed out of which the classical roots of narration sprung. After all, once texts became more and more prominent in education, narration was bound to be used as a technique to get the matter on the page into the pupils’ heads. It would have seemed natural. That’s not to underrate Aelius Theon’s or Quintilian’s pedagogical brilliance. It’s simply to see it in its broader context.

As we have become more and more text dominant we have moved further and further from the discipline of expecting one another (or our students) to hear and know enough to tell. Ironically this is exactly what Plato’s Socrates foretold in the dialogue Phaedrus. He retells a myth of an Egyptian Pharaoh Thamus being presented with the invention of great arts by the god Thoth. When Thoth praises writing as a “branch of learning that will make the people of Egypt wiser and improve their memories,” king Thamus counters,

“If men learn this, it will implant forgetfulness in their souls; they will cease to exercise memory because they rely on that which is written, calling things to remembrance no longer from within themselves, but by means of external marks. What you have discovered is a recipe not for memory, but for reminder. And it is no wisdom that you offer your disciples, but only its semblance, for by telling them of many things without teaching them you will make them seem to know much, while for the most part they know nothing, and as men filled, not with wisdom, but with the conceit of wisdom, they will be a burden to their fellows.” (Phaedrus 274e-275b, from The Collected Dialogues, Princeton: 1989; 520)

The problem of writing causing forgetfulness is akin to the problem of securing attention that Charlotte Mason puzzled over in our last article. In fact, we might even say it is the same problem. How can we prevent ourselves from relying on the written record for reminders rather than performing the spontaneous, yet difficult “act of knowing”? The answer lies in a task like narration that forces the student to immediately retrieve from memory. It was inevitable that rhetorical teachers would find a solution to this intriguing problem, given that one of their main tasks included training future orators in the art of memory!

In our next installment we will explore the rebirth of narration in the Renaissance with recommendations of Erasmus and Comenius, and John Locke’s critique of “classical” training during the Enlightenment.

Other articles in this series:

Part 1: Charlotte Mason’s Discovery?

Part 3: Narration’s Rebirth

Part 4: Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration in Historical Perspective

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