In my previous article, I reflected on the nature of civilizations: how they emerge, what they are built upon, and why they fall. I specifically examined the story of the fall of the Roman Empire. While it is difficult for historians to identify a single point in time when the decline began, various cultural, moral, and economic factors interweaved to ripen the moment for Rome to fall. And fall it did, ushering in a two hundred year period known as the Dark Ages. While the Middle Ages themselves span a period of one thousand years, many of which were full of learning and insight, the first few centuries after Rome’s fall can fairly be characterized as a step backward. Roads became unsafe, public works such as the sewage system went into disrepair, and libraries were disregarded if not burned to the ground.

And yet, the Dark Ages may have been dark for some, but they were not dark for all. When Alaric, King of the Visagoths, crossed the Rhine and sacked Rome, signaling the beginning of the end of Roman imperial dominance, an unexpected spark of civilization was fanned into flame in an unexpected place—Ireland. While literacy declined across the Roman Empire through barbarian expansion, it was the Irish who saved, or at least helped save, civilization. How could this be? It all started with a man named Patricius, also known as St. Patrick.

Patrick, Apostle of Ireland

Patrick was a middle-class Roman Brit who planned on living a normal life. It was a major surprise then on the fateful day that he was kidnapped on Britain’s western shores by Irish pirates and become a shepherd’s slave for the next six years, from age 16 to 22. He suffered major beatings and starvation. He lost out on the education his friends would receive. He learned what it meant to suffer without hope. That is, until the fateful day that God rescued him. According to his self-penned Confessio, with copies dating back to the 8^th century, a miraculous ship appeared one day and led by a vision from heaven, he managed to escape and return to his homeland.

Can you imagine? The freedom he experienced after six years a slave must have been incredible. Finally, he can get back on with his life in Britain. But interestingly, he chooses a different path. Instead and inexplicably, he decides to return to Ireland, this time not as a slave, but as a missionary. He became ordained as a bishop and returned to Ireland, the land of his captors, to bring them the gospel.

Now, there are many myths about Patrick in his effort to evangelize the Irish, many of which could very well be true. Did he fight off pagan priests in a wild west showdown of magic and power over the elements? I’m not sure. Did he teach the Irish about the doctrine of the Trinity using the three leaves of a shamrock? We don’t know (though imagine if he used a rock–I can’t think of a surer way to unitarianism!).

But we know this. The island was transformed by this man’s courageous service and ultimately God Himself. Over the next 300 years or so, during the so-called Golden Age of Ireland, over 200 churches were planted, an estimated 100,000 Irish men and women came to the faith. Slavery was abolished and ancient Celtic practices of violence and human sacrifice all but came to an end. While 1,000 miles away Rome was moving from peace to unrest, the opposite was the case in Ireland.

The Spread of Libraries

But I have not yet explained how the Irish saved civilization. Sure, Ireland may have been preserved, but what about the rest of Europe? When Rome fell, the inhabitants of the region were not as fortunate: an entire library of classical literature was nearly lost. Homer, Plato, Demosthenes, Herodotus, Virgil, and Cicero. Lost. A thousand years of ideas about society, virtue, faith, and citizenship gone. The precious gift of literacy all but disappeared.

And yet, God in his providence, would use Irish monks to save it. While libraries burned on the Apennine Peninsula, they were built on the Emerald Isle. When monks and scholars fled the barbarian violence of the Goths and Vandals, they brought their texts to Ireland. There Irish monks fastidiously copied the texts, wrote commentaries, opened schools, and a renaissance of learning was born. Over the next few hundred years, Irish monasteries would pop up all over Ireland, Britain, and soon back to continental Europe. Eventually, literacy, learning, and confidence began to rise again in Europe, notably with Charlemagne and his prized teacher Alcuin. Western civilization, resting on the edge of a knife, was saved. Today there are decorated Irish manuscripts from the early medieval period that are the great jewels of libraries in England, France, Switzerland, Germany, Sweden, and Italy, bearing witness to this amazing yet forgotten story.

Our Cultural Moment

We all feel the angst of our present times. While it is refreshing to live on the other side of the pandemic and the division it caused, we can sense that the tension is here to stay. As I write this article, Roe v. Wade has been overturned, sparking both celebration and anger. Meanwhile, inflation is rearing its ugly head, the Russia-Ukraine war continues, and the tenacity of the election year grows fiercer by the day.

With these kinds of issues swirling around us, it is natural for people to find ways to cope. These methods range from healthy to dangerous. For example, exercise can be a great way to relieve stress and clear one’s mind. So can picking up new hobbies, like keeping a garden or playing a sport. Sadly, of course, some people turn to less healthy methods, such as food, drink, or sexual addiction.

A growing trend I have seen people turn to for respite from the pressure of our current times is the screen. While the statistics vary, it safe to estimate that Americans spend anywhere from 7-10 hours on a screen per day. This includes cell phone usage, checking email, watching the news, and streaming shows (most often through services like Netflix or DisneyPlus). While it is outside the scope of this article to explore the neurological effects of this trend, I do want to register a concern nonetheless. In tense times like these, not unlike those in the wake of the fall of the Roman Empire, we do not need more distraction. We need meaning. Our souls do not need more entertainment; they need engagement with the goodness and beauty of the world. Most importantly, of course, we need spiritual connection with our Creator God and to experience the grace available to use through union with Christ.

Cancel Netflix, Save Civilization

To wrap up this series, inspired by Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization, I was reminded and inspired by the power of books, specifically the Great Books. These books have been passed down throughout the ages and organically vetted for truth, depth, and insight. They serve as the foundation of civilization, both locally and globally. The West has its canon as does the East. My encouragement, then, for all of us seeking to kindle a renaissance of education is this: go to the library and read great books. Walk in the way of the Irish, put down your screens, and get lost in the world of word-encoded ideas. Ponder the good, true, and beautiful. Think deeply about God, humanity, and the created order. Cancel your Nexflix subscription and save civilization.

The post To Save a Civilization, Part 2: The Road to Rebuilding appeared first on .

Mason’s revival of narration therefore stands as a signpost of her larger project. And it is a project that we find inspiration from here at Educational Renaissance. The renaissance had a healthy respect for and appreciation of the classical past, while at the same time being quite innovative in a number of areas. In a way narration is simply one piece of this broader puzzle: all the pieces will help create a more accurate picture of Charlotte Mason as an educator within the liberal arts tradition of education.

In this article we come to Charlotte Mason herself to see how her recommendations for narration square with those of the classical and renaissance educators we have surveyed. We will see that Mason’s use of narration was at least as innovative as any other educator in its history, even if the steps she took make perfect sense as natural developments. In the process we will discern some new possibilities for narration, including how we could revive the narration practices of earlier educators to supplement Charlotte Mason’s recommendations, or even reach out into new and uncharted territory with narration to attain new pedagogical goals. 

We will begin by looking at three issues raised by Charlotte Mason’s practice of narration: 1) the focus on rich texts, 2) the main goal of knowing content, and 3) the methods of narration.

Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration, Issue 1: Focusing on Rich Texts

Readers who are familiar with Charlotte Mason will be aware of some of the ways that Mason’s narration differs from that of the educators we have surveyed so far.

The first and most obvious difference, perhaps, is that the focus of Mason’s narration is upon a rich text, and not an informative lecture, as in Erasmus or Comenius, or else the telling of any story that the child knows, as in John Locke. In this way Mason sides with Aelius Theon, Quintilian and the secondary steps detailed by Locke. 

Charlotte Mason has a very practical and down-to-earth set of considerations for her decided preference for what she calls “living books” over “oral teaching” (not to mention the “dry-as-dust” textbooks of her era). Her thoughts in her third volume School Education are worth reproducing in full:

“Reason for Oral Teaching.––Intelligent teachers are well aware of the dry-as-dust character of school books, so they fall back upon the ‘oral’ lesson, one of whose qualities must be that it is not bookish. Living ideas can be derived only from living minds, and so it occasionally happens that a vital spark is flashed from teacher to pupil. But this occurs only when the subject is one to which the teacher has given original thought. In most cases the oral lesson, or the more advanced lecture, consists of information got up by the teacher from various books, and imparted in language, a little pedantic, or a little commonplace, or a little reading-made-easy in style. At the best, the teacher is not likely to have vital interest in, and, consequently, original thought upon, a wide range of subjects.

“Limitations of Teachers.––We wish to place before the child open doors to many avenues of instruction and delight, in each one of which he should find quickening thoughts. We cannot expect a school to be manned by a dozen master-minds, and even if it were, and the scholar were taught by each in turn, it would be much to his disadvantage. What he wants of his teacher is moral and mental discipline, sympathy and direction; and it is better, on the whole, that the training of the pupil should be undertaken by one wise teacher than that he should be passed from hand to hand for this subject and that.”

Charlotte Mason, School Education, vol 3 pg 170

For Mason an inspirational lecture requires a master-mind, in a way the type of teacher that Erasmus called for in his work on education, who could interpret to his students the best of a whole host of great classical works of literature on all topics. But in Mason’s day and age, the master-mind teacher approach would require experts on a variety of subjects, like science and literature, history and math, art and Bible—a feat that was becoming less and less attainable as scholarship proliferated in the modern era. At the same time schooling was spreading to more and more children of the British empire, making this ideal less and less viable, or even desirable for teachers specifically. Teachers were no longer scholars. Specialization had virtually ruled that out. 

And for Mason the practice of narrating from rich texts allows the teacher to focus more, not less, on the “moral and mental discipline, sympathy and direction” that students really need. As she says at the end of her 1st chapter on “self-education” in her final volume Toward a Philosophy of Education:

“In urging a method of self-education for children in lieu of the vicarious education which prevails, I should like to dwell on the enormous relief to teachers, a self-sacrificing and greatly overburdened class; the difference is just that between driving a horse that is light and a horse that is heavy in hand; the former covers the ground of his own gay will and the driver goes merrily. The teacher who allows his scholars the freedom of the city of books is at liberty to be their guide, philosopher and friend; and is no longer the mere instrument of forcible intellectual feeding.” (vol 6 pg 32)

Narration focuses on living books or rich texts as a means of providing the most vibrant and vital source of thought, while relieving the average teacher of the burden of inspiration. She can be a philosopher-guide even in territory she has not mastered to the point of being able to speak on it with power and conviction. 

Exceptions to Focusing on Rich Texts Only

There is an exception clause to Charlotte Mason’s nixing of oral teaching, and that is foreign languages. In her 6th volume Toward a Philosophy of Education, Mason reports on a development in foreign language instruction at her House of Education (the training school for future teachers and governesses) and the Parents Union School at Fairfield where they were apprentice-teachers:

“The French mistress gives, let us suppose, a lecture in history or literature lasting, say, for half an hour. At the end the students will narrate the substance of the lecture with few omissions and few errors.” (vol. 6, p. 212)

It should be noted that this occurred with the senior students, and was a less frequent exercise than narrating from a text. Early training in French, German, Italian or Latin consisted of narrating from texts after they had been translated or “thoroughly studied in grammar, syntax and style” (vol. 6. p. 213). 

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Mason’s concession to the value of oral teaching. As she herself admitted:

“We cannot do without the oral lesson—to introduce, to illustrate, to amplify, to sum up. My stipulation is that oral lessons should be like visits of angels, and that the child who has to walk through life, and has to find his intellectual food in books or go without, shall not be first taught to go upon crutches.” (Parents Review, Vol. 14, 1903, “Manifesto Discussion with Charlotte Mason”, pp. 907-913)

We have to wonder if Mason’s concerns would have been quite the same, if podcasts had been available in her day… or equally, if books had not been so cheap and readily available. Mason seems to base her advice to focus on narrating from books upon the practical realities of lifelong learning that were available in her day. Books would be the chief source of intellectual nourishment for her students, and so they should learn to walk on their own two feet in reading books from the start. 

Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration, Issue 2: The Main Goal of Using Narration

The second area in which Charlotte Mason’s practice of narration differs from the other educators of the classical era or renaissance is in the main pedagogical goal. For Quintilian, Aelius Theon and John Locke the main goal had been rhetorical training: the development of style through imitation. Students were learning, through narrating texts or stories, to speak fluently and to the point, with concise and clear expression. They might very well remember many of the exact details of things they narrated, and certainly stocking the memory with words, phrases, ideas, and common topics was necessary. But the point of all that memory-stocking and practice was the students’ own rhetorical style and fluency. 

As you’ll recall, this changed with Erasmus and Comenius in the renaissance. Now the focus was on the content of the teacher’s lecture or explanation. And they even made a point of emphasizing that the substance of the things, rather than the style of the teacher’s expression, was the important thing to be narrated in the child’s own way. For them, the main goal of narration is the students’ knowledge or memory of content, a scientific rather than rhetorical pedagogy, if you will. Students were learning, through narrating their teacher’s lecture or explanation, certain truths either as background to a text or as pictures of the way the world works. The emphasis is entirely upon narration as a sealing up of new knowledge, and not upon the development of style. 

Well, Charlotte Mason made an innovative leap. Familiar with John Locke’s narration from texts to develop style and fluency in speech and writing, and perhaps also with Comenius (given her quotations from him), she fuses the approach of the two to focus narration upon rich texts, with the main goal of memory of content or the development of knowledge. If you take a moment to glance at the table I have made below, “Narration in Historical Perspective Table,” you can see that she has pulled from the left and top right sections down into the bottom right.

Now here we must note one or two exceptions that seem to indicate that Charlotte Mason had rhetorical training in mind, even if she preferred for various reasons not to emphasize it as the main goal of narration. For instance, when discussing composition of the youngest students (Form I) in her 6th volume, she mentions the style of students’ narrations, as well as the accuracy of the content, saying, “The facts are sure to be accurate and the expression surprisingly vigorous, striking and unhesitating” (vol. 6, p. 190). However, she is still adamant against Locke’s method of coaching students to correct their narrations, whether written or oral, in the younger years: 

“Corrections must not be made during the act of narration, nor must any interruption be allowed.” (vol. 6, p. 191)

“Children must not be teased or instructed about the use of stops or capital letters. These things too come by nature to the child who reads, and the teacher’s instructions are apt to issue in the use of a pepper box for commas.” (vol. 6, p. 191)

“But let me again say there must be no attempt to teach composition.” (vol. 6, p. 192)

Even for the oldest students (Forms V and VI), Mason’s emphasis is against too much active focus on matters of style and rhetoric, preferring a natural imitative process that comes passively through a focus on content:

“Forms V and VI. In these Forms some definite teaching in the art of composition is advisable, but not too much, lest the young scholars be saddled with a stilted style which may encumber them for life. Perhaps the method of a University tutor is the best that can be adopted; that is, a point or two might be taken up in a given composition and suggestions or corrections made with little talk. Having been brought up so far upon stylists the pupils are almost certain to have formed a good style; because they have been thrown into the society of many great minds, they will not make a servile copy of any one but will shape an individual style out of the wealth of material they possess; and because they have matter in abundance and of the best they will not write mere verbiage.” (vol. 6, pp. 193-194)

In essence, Mason’s approach to the development of style was as an afterthought that will take care of itself by narrating rich texts if the teacher doesn’t get in the way. This approach will fall short of what many modern classical Christian educators desire, who value the revitalization of active teaching of the art of rhetoric as a major goal of the movement. We might situate Charlotte Mason in this conversation by imagining the dangers of a “stilted style” or overly programmatic formalist structure, that might result from certain types of prescriptive rhetorical training. The long, natural process of narration that Mason envisioned might, in and of itself, subvert the dangers of formalism in our students’ writing and speaking, even if our schools do engage in somewhat more active coaching in grammar, punctuation, style and rhetorical forms than she envisioned. 

Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration, Issue 3: The Method of Narration

We leave to the last the method of narration, whether oral or written. As we saw, classical educators often emphasized one or the other, or else both in sequence. Aelius Theon seemed to envision older pupils, trained in writing previously, coming into his rhetorical school ready to write their narrations immediately. Quintilian, and John Locke after him, envisioned a process that started earlier with oral narration, moving to written narration and composition exercises as students grew in facility with the skill of putting pen to paper. From reading in between the lines of their comments, Erasmus seemed to envision written narrations to be turned in to the teacher, while Comenius implied students becoming teachers explaining truths aloud to the rest of the class after the teacher had first done so. 

Charlotte Mason provides the fullest vision for narration as a consistent pedagogical practice, where both oral and written narration play a consistent role in students’ education. Students gently progress to writing their own narrations as they are able. Examinations at the end of the term utilize written “narration” of any amount of knowledge previously stored in students’ memories by initial narration. Given how central narration became in Charlotte Mason’s schools, it is not surprising to find her and her schools after her innovating other creative ways to narrate through the fine and performing arts. Karen Glass quotes from an article in the Parents’ Review long after Mason’s death about the practice of artistic narrations:

“But is narration…always merely ‘telling back’? It must be, we know, the child’s answer to ‘What comes next?’ It can be acted, with good speaking parts and plenty of criticism from actors and onlookers; nothing may be added or left out. Map drawing can be an excellent narration, or, maybe, clay modelling will supply the means to answer that question, or paper and poster paints, or chalks, even a paper model with scissors and paste pot. Always, however, there should be talk as well, the answer expressed in words; that is, the picture painted, the clay model, etc., will be described and fully described, because, with few exceptions, only words are really satisfying.” (Know and Tell, pp. 46, 48)

It may be a matter of debate how much these dramatic and artistic forms of “narration” began during Charlotte Mason’s lifetime, and to what extent they would fall under her definition of narration. Interestingly, Helen Wix, the author of this article, emphasizes the need for words. Acted narrations require words necessarily and are attested nearer Miss Mason’s time (see the second block quote on Know and Tell, p. 48 from The Parents’ Review of 1924, the year after Mason’s death). We also know that illustrations of particular moments from a literature or history book were a common practice in PNEU schools that Mason supported. So I have included drawn and acted narrations as innovations of Charlotte Mason. But it seems clear that oral and written narration were always the core and regular daily methods of narration, while other artistic “narrations” featured as occasional experiences that kept things fresh. 

The Practice of Narration for Charlotte Mason and Classical Christian Educators Today

What can we learn from this history of narration to guide our practices today? I will conclude this series with a list of propositions and suggestions for the future of narration in our movements today. These twelve points summarize what we’ve learned and point forward to exciting possibilities for using narration as classical Christian and Charlotte Mason educators.

1. Narration began in the rhetorical tradition with the main goal of developing students’ style in rhetorical training.
2. Renaissance educators shifted the focus of narration from books to lectures and the goal of narration from style to knowledge of content. 
3. Charlotte Mason adapted narration from the tradition for her context in accordance with her philosophy of education and mind. 
4. Her innovations in narration included taking the focus on rich texts from the classical era and joining it with the main goal of knowledge of content from the Renaissance educators. 
5. She also elevated it to the core status of the primary teaching and learning tool of the PNEU, a development that has support from modern research on retrieval practice.
6. Therefore, classical Christian educators who adopt narration may want to revive some of the rhetorical training pedagogy from John Locke, Quintilian and Aelius Theon.
7. Educators who follow Charlotte Mason may also want to consider more carefully her concerns about training in style or composition and whether or not the concerns she had about creating a “stilted style” were responding to specific trends in composition or rhetoric instruction during her day. 
8. Perhaps some Masonites will opt for more explicit rhetorical training than she might have envisioned, even while avoiding the errors she was warning against.
9. Given the technological developments of our modern world in audio and video recording and the free accessibility of high quality material from “living” voices and scholars, both Masonites and classical Christian educators might want to expand the role of inspirational lectures and oral teaching in education, with narration as the learning tool for either content or style. 
10. Classical Christian educators may feel that many of their teachers (or video instructors) reach the level of “master-minds” (in Charlotte Mason’s terms) and therefore inspirational lectures should play a larger role in their schools, or online courses. 
11. If the power of the spoken word is gaining new prominence through video recording and sharing technologies, then perhaps the next important innovation in narration would be to employ video recordings of great modern orators for students to narrate with the goal of developing their own rhetorical style, while also learning content.
12. At the same time, the use of lectures/speeches as a focus of narration should not crowd out the central importance of rich texts (either for Charlotte Mason or the classical tradition). In our day and age, a facility with the thoughts of the best minds of earlier eras has never been more crucial for students’ development of moral wisdom and historical judgment. 

Hope you have enjoyed this series! Share your thoughts in the comments on why you think the history of narration matters.

Earlier articles in this series:

Part 1: Charlotte Mason’s Discovery?

Part 2: Classical Roots

Part 3: Narration’s Rebirth

The post Why the History of Narration Matters, Part 4: Charlotte Mason’s Practice of Narration in Historical Perspective appeared first on .

I was musing around the local public library a year and a half ago looking for inspiring non-fiction, when what should I stumble across in the new books section but this gem. I’ve been hooked ever since. I think the reason is because it released me from the necessity of writing ornate literary prose about my life, and instead gave me a method for tracking the things that were important to me.

As I’ve delved deeper and deeper into the work of classical school administration and teaching, it’s become more and more necessary for me to increase my productivity and decrease my stress levels. As I’ve become a father, it’s become more important to keep my personal habits dialed in, like devotional reading and prayer, exercise, quality time with my wife and play time with my daughter. Bullet journaling has given me a way to track that and other things, as well as a space to dream and plan, such that I have a clear record of my own thoughts and goals and progress. And going back over my old journals from the past couple years clears away the fog from my memory, gives me a sense of peace, and makes me an amateur historian of my own life.

This little anecdote, or testimonial (whichever you prefer), is all a prelude to this next installment inspired by Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi’s Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. In one of the later sections of his chapter on “The Flow of Thought” (in which are found more reasons per page for a classical education than most classical ed best-sellers), he discusses the realm of history, as an avenue into the flow state: that active ordering of consciousness where the challenge meets our current abilities and we enter a timeless experience of joy in the pursuit.

Previous articles in this series, The Flow of Thought:

Part 1: Training the Attention for Happiness’ Sake; Part 2: The Joy of Memory; Part 3: Narration as Flow; Part 4: The Seven Liberal Arts as Mental Games; Part 5: The Play of Words.

Future installments: Part 7: Rediscovering Science as the Love of Wisdom; Part 8, Restoring the School of Philosophers, Part 9, The Lifelong Love of Learning.

History as a Route into Flow

Our psychologist begins by conceding that history may be a little bit trickier of a flow activity than some other classical subjects:

“Although history lacks the clear rules that make other mental activities like logic, poetry, or mathematics so enjoyable, it has its own unambiguous structure established by the irreversible sequence of events in time.” (132)

You’ll remember that having clear rules is one of the qualities that make the experience of flow easily attainable. If your brain knows what to do and what not to do, then it’s easier to play the game with full intensity and without the hesitation and worry that so often causes our conscious minds to step out of focus on what we’re doing and start questioning the activity or ourselves. The saving grace of history is its “unambiguous structure” found in the sequence of time. Csikszentmihalyi goes on to claim that amateur historiography has served the purpose of ordering human consciousness for a long time:

“Observing, recording, and preserving the memory of both the large and small events of life is one of the oldest and most satisfying ways to bring order to consciousness.” (132)

Recall our earlier article on The Joy of Memory (pun intended), and how the recollection of one’s ancestors was one of the most satisfying and ubiquitous experiences of early, personal history. Just to recount the names of those who came before, often at great length, served the purpose of situating the individual within the larger tribe or clan, within the broader story of time. As human beings we have always felt great pleasure in this rehearsal (at least until our modern ultra-individualistic age).

There’s a reason the Bible is full of genealogies, and while part of that is how they establish the historical purpose and accuracy of the text, the genealogies also witness to this human love for knowledge of the past and how it leads up to the present.

History and Modern Individualism

One of the most striking features of our psychologist’s encouragement to amateur historiography is how focused it is on the individual. From a Christian and classical perspective, this seems both uniquely right, and strangely unsettling and off-kilter. To understand why this paradox could be the case, listen to this paragraph on becoming an amateur historian:

“In a sense, every individual is a historian of his or her own personal existence. Because of their emotional power, memories of childhood become crucial elements in determining the kind of adults we grow up to be, and how our minds will function. Psychoanalysis is to a large extent an attempt to bring order to people’s garbled histories of their childhood.” (132)

On the one hand, his emphasis here is perfectly understandable, given that he is a psychologist. His focus on the individual’s story, especially their childhood, makes perfect sense, given the history of the discipline and such luminaries as Freud and Jung.

And from a Christian perspective, the importance of a single individual cannot be overestimated: created in the image of God, our personal stories are of immense value and worth. All the hairs of our head are numbered and not a sparrow falls to the ground without the will of our Father. Our calling includes culture making and making something of our personal past is certainly a legitimate part of the human vocation.

However, the way that he approaches the subject seems symptomatic of one of the great failings of the modern era: the abandonment of piety and tradition. Kevin Clark and Ravi Jain in The Liberal Arts Tradition diagnose the modern offense of impiety against our whole culture that we have inherited (Version 2.0; pp. 15ff.)—a situation that explains more than any other our particular educational weaknesses in the study of history. I’m alluding to the outcry against our general ignorance of our own history (whether American history for us Americans, or basic world knowledge, like the “Who’s Shakespeare?” comments of young adults).

How does this ignorance stem from impiety, you may ask? Our psychologist’s description of the different levels of history provides a good example of what I mean. Notice the order in which his practical suggestions flow:

“There are several levels at which history as a flow activity can be practiced. The most personal involves simply keeping a journal. The next is to write a family chronicle, going as far into the past as possible. But there is no reason to stop there. Some people expand their interest to the ethnic group to which they belong, and start collecting relevant books and memorabilia. With an extra effort, they can begin to record their own impressions of the past, thus becoming ‘real’ amateur historians.” (133)

Did you catch it? First comes the individual and the journaling that I opened this article with, then comes the “family chronical,” followed lastly by the “ethnic group,” the larger cultural unit of one’s people. In a way, this is entirely backward. First in a child’s historical consciousness should be the history of his people, followed by how his family’s history is situated within it, and only lastly how his emerging personal history contributes and relates to the history of the family and people.

A sense of piety, of duty or obligation to one’s family, city, culture and the divine, would properly recognize the individual as coming into the world dependent and situated within the broader story of the culture, within which the family and individual find their place. This contrasts sharply with the quest for “self-discovery among a buffet of potential selves” that characterizes modern individualism (Clark and Jain 22).

But for understandable reasons, our psychologist’s instruction manual begins with the unmoored modern adult floating on a sea of individual preferences, and imagines her taking up the work of journaling to solve her “personal” problems, only to delve into the psychologically restorative and satisfying work of digging up her family past, ending in a great culmination of expanding interest in the history of her broader “ethnic group” as a sort of hobby to fill up the spare hours of old age.

As Csikszentmihalyi puts it,

“Remembering the past is not only instrumental in the creation and preservation of a personal identity, but it can also be a very enjoyable process.” (132)

What I find most saddening about this set of assumptions is how lonely it must feel to operate in a world of personal-history-making rather than the old ideal of grand historical discovery. We are born into a world that already has a history, irrespective of us and our psychological needs and preferences. And this historical sweep will continue on long after we are gone (assuming the Lord tarries), and it is immensely freeing and enlivening to recognize this fact.

Aside: Download the Free eBook “5 Tips for Fostering Flow in the Classical Classroom”

Wondering how to practically apply the idea of flow in your classroom? These 5 actionable steps will help you keep the insights of flow from being a pie-in-the-sky idea. Embody flow in your classroom and witness the increased joy and skill development that result!

You can download “5 Tips for Fostering Flow in the Classical Classroom” on the flow page. Share the page with a friend or colleague, so they can benefit as well.

The Wide-Open Spaces of History

Interestingly, Charlotte Mason bemoaned the lack of historical knowledge in her own day (late 19^th and early 20^th century). This should caution us against the too ready nostalgia for the education of the past that we classical educators are susceptible to by nature. Golden eras in education come and go all too quickly in the history of the great classical liberal arts tradition. But we should have the confidence to hear God’s assurance that a remnant remains of 7,000 who have not bowed the knee to the Baals of educational nonsense of whatever era or name.

And so for the perennial problem of historical ignorance, Charlotte Mason points the finger at our methods of teaching history, rather than blaming the rising generation:

“If there is but little knowledge of history amongst us, no doubt our schools are in fault. Teachers will plead that there is no time save for a sketchy knowledge of English history given in a course of lectures of which the pupils take notes and work up reports. Most of us know how unsatisfying is such a course however entertaining.” (Vol. 6, Toward a Philosophy of Education)

History is deep and wide, vastly so, and a short series of entertaining lectures will not satisfy the amateur historian. He longs to ride free across the plains, and the method that Charlotte Mason recommends to multiply the time and secure the attention is, of course, narration:

“Each school period is quadrupled in time value and we find that we get through a surprising amount of history in a thorough way, in about the same time that in most schools affords no more than a skeleton of English History only. We know that young people are enormously interested in the subject and give concentrated attention if we give them the right books. We are aware that our own discursive talk is usually a waste of time and a strain on the scholars’ attention, so we (of the P.N.E.U.) confine ourselves to affording two things,––knowledge, and a keen sympathy in the interest roused by that knowledge. It is our part to see that every child knows and can tell, whether by way of oral narrative or written essay.” (Vol. 6, Toward a Philosophy of Education)

The key is to give students the right books, sizable books written by legitimate historians, not those canned books written by committees. The attention of students is strained, according to Mason, more by the teacher’s chatter than by a dusty and weighty tome of history. In fact, the dust is but the natural by-product of exploring dusty deserts!

Flow as a Signpost

And such exploration can be a gripping entrance into the flow state, but not as an end in itself. In a way this whole series on the flow of thought supporting classical education suffers from a major liability. By drawing attention to the joy of learning, the flow experiences possible through the classical liberal arts and sciences, it might make the impression that the real point of learning was the joy itself—as if happiness for its own sake was the goal at which growth and virtue was ultimately aimed.

Now I don’t mean to contend with Aristotle ill-advisedly on this issue—perhaps there is a better way of construing eudaimonia that doesn’t have the unfortunate resonance with fleeting emotional states, like the English “happiness”. So perhaps substituting it for ideas like “human flourishing” does the trick. However, a fully Christian view of this life as the domain of taking up one’s cross before receiving the crown might justify replacing flow as an end goal. Instead, I’m inclined to follow the modern sensation Jordan Peterson in designating the flow state, experienced in history or learning or anything else, as rather a clue to meaning and transcendence, than the final goal.

The joy of learning is not an end in itself, but a signal implanted in our souls by God of the path on up to ultimate value and purpose. The delight found in exploring the wide-open spaces of history points to the larger story of God’s work in the world and its ultimate goal in the new age. The flow state is meant to let us know we’re on the right track and to point us onward and upward into the foothills of the heavenly Zion.

C.S. Lewis used the term ‘joy’ or the German ‘sensucht’ to get at this very idea, even though he predated the psychological term ‘flow’. For him the presence of such desires or longings, that were at the same time so pleasurable, was part of what convinced him that heaven had to be a reality. This is sometimes called the argument from desire for the existence of God or heaven and it goes back at least to Aquinas. The logic is as follows:

• All natural desires (like for food, sex, companionship, etc.) have an object of fulfillment in this life.
• But there is this experience of ‘joy’ or ‘sensucht’ (flow?) which is at the same time pleasurable and an experience of longing for something that nothing in this natural world can satisfy.
• Therefore, since “nature does nothing in vain,” there must be something beyond this world that can satisfy this longing.

There may be some who still contest the legitimacy or usefulness of this argument. It does rely on a certain way of thinking about the world that not everyone may share. But I don’t see any reason to contest the commonsensical assumption that “nature does nothing in vain” (Aristotle, Politics, Book 1), and the corollary that makes it necessary to explain the longing aspect of Lewis’ ‘joy’ without some transcendent value.

Viewing the flow state through the lens of the argument from desire makes sense of Csikszentmihalyi’s discussions of meaning and transcendence. For Christians who have found the ultimate source of meaning and transcendence in the revelation of God and his story (within which our amateur historiography must be situated), all the transcendent experiences of humankind in pursuit of virtue, excellence, beauty or historical knowledge ultimately act as signposts to God himself. It was for this reason that the Christian liberal arts tradition culminated not in philosophy, but in theology. Wisdom and knowledge are swallowed up in wonder and worship.

Previous articles in this series, The Flow of Thought:

Part 1: Training the Attention for Happiness’ Sake; Part 2: The Joy of Memory; Part 3: Narration as Flow; Part 4: The Seven Liberal Arts as Mental Games; Part 5: The Play of Words.

Future installments: Part 7: Rediscovering Science as the Love of Wisdom; Part 8, Restoring the School of Philosophers, Part 9, The Lifelong Love of Learning.

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Cohen proposes a return to teaching patriotic history. He does a good job of nuancing what this means, especially in light of the charged environment of today’s identity politics. He recollects his own upbringing on the Landmark Histories series and books like Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes. In these works he finds a “fascination with the American past.” There is a quality of civic education that American history can promote, without in any way denying the “darker side of American history, too.” He sees how teaching history with patriotic value would benefit society. “Patriotic history is a kind of glue to civil society, it’s not just about feeling good about who you are, it’s about holding the country together.” Cohen holds up Lincoln’s “Lyceum Address” as a paradigm. Good, critical reflection on America’s history can promote “affection for America and what it stands for” regardless of racial, ethnic or religious background.

Cohen traces several trends that today work against a patriotic approach in the teaching of history. First, he identifies a tendency to privilege “subaltern” history. While there is the need to promote knowledge of underprivileged people groups, Cohen cautions against a read of history as simply power and dominance. The ideals of, say, the framers of the constitution are worthy of admiration, forming something that can knit together society despite the social and political differences that divide us. Second, he notes an emphasis on transnational history. Universal historical concepts are obviously worthwhile to study, but they have all too easily ignored the connection of universals to actual nation states. Third, Cohen identifies how there has been an attempt to do history without politics, warfare or diplomacy; again tracing universal concepts without having the delve into localized conflicts. Finally, he notes that history, especially at the university level, has become so fractured into subdisciplines that scholarship doesn’t speak to the broad matter of citizenry. In light of these trends, he calls for a return to balance so that patriotic citizenship enters once again into the study of history.

As a history teacher, I found this paper to be insightful about the current state of affairs. It is difficult to find a high school history textbook that connects its readers to a sense of their citizenship. History ought to connect to a student’s understanding of their own role in society so that he or she can enter into civic discourse. Cohen considers the United States an exceptional country with an exceptional mission of enduring value. A student who gains this kind of perspective from historical study is well positioned to actually serve and meet the needs of society. Formational ideas like these enliven and personalize historical instruction.

The second paper, delivered by Yuval Levin, was focused predominantly on educational policy debates in the 1990s and where they are heading today. He chronicles the major policy strategies of the left and right establishments then as centering around a bipartisan agreement on quantifiable test results. By tracking test results, the US could measure student achievement against foreign competition, particularly in light of America’s falling status in education globally. Test results also gave a method to hold teachers accountable, on the assumption that holding teachers’ feet to the fire would improve academic achievement. This tethering of educational policy to standardized test scores “resulted in a very clinical approach,” meaning that character and citizenship, hallmark issues for conservatives, were sidelined as major policy issues.

Levin delineates the political perspectives of the left and right as they respond to major crisis issues. The left tend to champion the underprivileged whereas the right tend to champion social order. (I’m reminded of Jordan Peterson’s understanding of personality traits, with liberals being high in openness and conservatives being high in order.) Thus when it comes to education, the left will call for access to education for the underprivileged often seeing political controversies as a matter of oppressed vs. oppressor. The right, on the other hand, will see the removal of character and citizenship from educational policy as a threat to the well being of institutions that uphold social order, such as the family, religious communities, service organizations or corporations. The right, then, sees political controversies framed as civilization vs. barbarism. Thus when it comes to education policy controversies today, issues have become more stratified around these ideologies. Furthermore because the bipartisan compromise of 1990s focused so heavily of measurable outcomes, both sides compromised their distinctive values, actually making it more difficult to find common ground now.

As a conservative, Levin calls for policy makers to bring character and civics back into schools, because education is not just about test scores. In the Q&A that follows, Levin addresses the difficult question about character in the public school setting. Who decides what ethical values are normative? Levin suggests that the difficulty of making decisions about ethical norms should not dissuade policy makers from championing their core educational ideals.

Both papers intersect on this idea of moral character and civic duty. Education without these ideas seems to omit much of what educators throughout the ages felt was education’s fundamental aim. Plato, for instance, in his Protagoras states:

“Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to him. He cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this and abstain from that.”

The Works of Plato (Simon & Schuster 1956), 213.

Moral conduct and right living are the signs of a person who is well educated. We might marvel at the intellect of our latter day wiz kids who can code new apps for our iPhones, but I think we equally mourn the loss of public virtue that comes as a result of educational policy focused solely on standardized test achievement. Education ought to offer more than job skills and marketable credentials. Benjamin Franklin in his Proposal for the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania (1747) included in students’ studies the following:

“Morality, by descanting and making continual Observations on the Causes of the Rise or Fall of any Man’s Character, Fortune, Power, &c . mention’d in History; the Advantages of Temperance, Order, Frugality, Industry, Perseverance, &c. &c. Indeed the general natural Tendency of Reading good History, must be, to fix in the Minds of Youth deep Impressions of the Beauty and Usefulness of Virtue of all Kinds, Publick Spirit, Fortitude, &c.”

One can hear his experiment in personal virtue explained in his autobiography lurking in the background of this program of study. Moral character and civic duty stand at the center of Franklin’s vision of a virtuous, civil society built on popular sovereignty and natural human rights.

I might be tempted to be self-congratulatory, dwelling as I do in the private education sector, to see the public school system mired as it is in an impasse of policy debate. The temptation for all of us in education, even in private Christian education, is to lose sight of this moral vision of education. There are lessons to be planned, papers to be graded, students to manage, and a host of attendant duties that make teaching more than a nine-to-five job. It is imperative, though, that we not lose sight of our highest aims as educators. Cultivating moral character and civic duty in our students begins with us teachers caring about these values, calling our students to a consideration of these values, and orienting our classrooms around these values.

The national education policy debates are instructive. I look forward to upcoming Education 20/20 speakers at the Fordham Institute. You can learn more about the events here. In the future, I hope to learn more about other education policy think tanks. The more liberally-minded Lumina Foundation recently came to my attention, potentially offering a different perspective on the state of current education policy. Educational renewal is something that is important to us here at Educational Renaissance, thus we look back at important ideals from the past while connecting to the currents of educational thought today.

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