Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) lived during a time of great upheaval in British society. Hardly a decade prior to his birth, the restoration of Charles II (1658) concluded a period of internal strife in England with the Civil War (1642-1646) followed by the Protectorate of Oliver Cromwell (1653-1658). The reign of Charles came to an end at the Glorious Revolution which established William, Prince of Orange on the English throne in 1688, the consequence of which was the constant threat of a Jacobite rebellion throughout Swift’s adult life.

Born in Dublin of English parents (who had fled the Civil War), Swift would have been greatly influenced throughout his life by two powerful political forces. One was the divide between Tories and Whigs, the former generally supporting the Jacobite cause and the latter a more progressive policy. The lines that divided these parties were hardly clear and never consistent, but they led to many intrigues and infighting. A second force was the subjugation of the Irish originally by Cromwell’s Commonwealth. Swift moved back and forth between England and Ireland which indicates a struggle to consolidate his identity with one nation or the other. Ultimately late in his life he became a stanch Irish patriot writing works such as A Proposal for Universal Use of Irish Manufacture (1720), Drapier’s Letters (1724), and A Modest Proposal (1729). It was in this patriotic phase during which Swift wrote Gulliver’s Travels.

The great majority of scholars analyzing Gulliver’s Travels pick up on these political influences. It is noteworthy that Swift in many ways was writing his travelog against the backdrop of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (1719). Robinson was an emblem of English society, and the plot of the book highlights a view of English colonial power as superior to the natives located in distant lands. Gulliver, on the other hand, is similarly English, but becomes much more skeptical about his English society. He travels to many different lands that have well-formed cultures. He is presented less as a conquering force and more as a learner, pitting each new culture against his own native England.

In my analysis of Gulliver’s Travels, I recognize the importance of these political forces, but would like to set them aside – to the extent that is even possible – in order to draw out the educational themes presented by Swift. Now, even as I set this limitation, it should go without saying that there is an inextricable link between education and politics in the classical sense that a well-ordered polis depends upon the quality of education provided to the populace. In that sense, Swift’s pursuit of an educational ideal actually contributes to his critique of British politics.

Lilliput: Education Based on Class Rank

Lemuel Gulliver’s first destination is the island nation of Lilliput, inhabited by a civilization of tiny people measuring only six inches tall. At first Gulliver is mistrusted by Lilliputians, but soon ingratiates himself, which enables him to learn more about their society. He learns that they are educated based on class rank. It seems that Swift is perhaps providing a critique of the boarding school system in England. He writes:

“Parents are the last of all others to be trusted with the Education of their own Children: And therefore they have in every Town publick Nurseries, where all Parents, except Cottagers and Labourers, are obliged to send their Infants of both Sexes to be reared and education when they come to the Age of twenty Moons; at which Time they are supposed to have some Rudiments of Docility.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 35.

Here we have compulsory education of the ruling class who are separated from their family at a very young age. Swift is given to exaggeration, so we should not read into this a description of the actual historical situation he is criticizing. It is possible he has in mind models of education proposed by Richard Mulcaster or Roger Ascham. Both men had a progressive bent, perhaps incited by Queen Elizabeth being herself a well-educated lady. It was desired that all children be educated, and they promoted the education of young ladies as well. They recognized that not all could afford an education but insisted that at the very least the local vicar should be charged to at minimum teach the youths to read their Bibles. The work of Mulcaster and Ascham likely atrophied in the 17^th century into something of a pro-forma educational regimen the left Swift disillusioned with what we might call the Etonian model of education (a boarding school for the elites with almost guaranteed admittance to either Oxford or Cambridge).

The education of the children of the nobility contained training in “Principles of Honour, Justice, Courage, Modesty, Clemency, Religion, and Love of their Country” (35). In short, the ruling classes were trained in the array of virtues necessary to lead the nation. Today we would be wise to espouse these ideals, but Swift goes on to identify how the ruling classes in Lilliput were mired in the idiosyncrasies of political life and the imperial court. For instance, these well-educated leaders of society were of two parties or factions, those who supported the wearing of high heels on their shoes and those who insisted on low heels (25). So, despite the lofty values of the education received by the nobility, it serves little to no purpose in public life.

The distinction between the classes is made evident when Gulliver observes the education of the lower classes:

“The Cottagers and Labourers keep their Children at home, their Business being only to till and cultivate the Earth; and therefore their Education is of little Consequence to the Publick.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 37.

Despite the progressive outlook of Mulcaster and Ascham, it seems that by Swift’s time the prominent educationalists of the era had not effected any lasting change. This is genuinely the tragedy of what we might consider old world classical education – the English model coming out of the Middle Ages, refined through the Renaissance, and vivified by the Reformation. Its inability to reform over time left it susceptible to more radical forms of progressivism especially after the turn of the twentieth century. Swift views the educational system of England as brittle and stultified, espousing high ideals that never truly get embodied by the leadership of the nation.

Brobdingnag: A Rudimentary Education

Gulliver – having escaped from Lilliput, returned to England, and crashed once again – lands on the island of Brobdingnag. Here the people are enormous, standing about 70 feet tall. It is an agrarian society that is both simple and peaceable. He is first taken into the home of a farmer and becomes the favorite pet of the farmer’s daughter. As was the case on Lilliput, he is presented to the King, which once again provides him a perspective on the whole of the Brobdingnagian society. As regards education, Swift describes it as “very defective,” indicating his disdain for such a system:

“The Learning of this People is very defective, consisting only in Morality, History, Poetry, and Mathematics, wherein they must be allowed to excel. But the last of these is wholly applied to what may be useful in Life, to the Improvement of Agriculture, and all mechanical Arts; so that among us, it would be little esteemed. And as to Ideas, Entities, Abstractions, and Transcendentals, I could never drive the least Conception into their Heads.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 96.

Here we have a system of solid, bread-and-butter education. The subjects described would feed a populace well. But Swift notes how the scope of their education is only valuable insofar as it relates to life, and in particular their agrarian society. He depicts them as a very simple people who are not used to flourishes of intellect. Swift goes on to describe their legal system, an outgrowth of their educational system:

“No Law of that Country must exceed in Words the Number of Letters in their Alphabet, which consists only of two and twenty. But indeed few of them extend even to that Length. They are expressed in the most plain and simple Terms, wherein those People are not Mercurial enough to discover above one Interpretation. And, to write a Comment upon any Law, is a capital Crime.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 96.

Their education is simple, and their laws are simple. Swift seems to be indicating that such a society founded on a rudimentary educational system cannot have an elaborate legal system, but also doesn’t need one, as the populace is not all that creative in their criminal activity. They are simple people of the earth who are not prone to crime anyway.

Now, we might question Swift on this point, as the gentleman farmer is one of the ideals of a democratic society. Obviously Swift is making a point that the alternative to the class-based system of education in Lilliput is not a return to the simpler times when the populace only needed a rudimentary education. The discovery of the New World and the emerging Industrial Revolution pointed toward new horizons which the Brobdingnagians were poorly equipped to handle. As much as we might pine for simpler times, we must march forward and incorporate new ways of educating our young to meet the new challenges ahead.

Laputa: An Education Based on Scientism

The next destination Gulliver discovers – or actually is discovered by – is Laputa, a floating island that rules over Balnibarbi. The island itself is a marvel of engineering, as it can be steered in any direction over Balnibarbi by magnetic levitation. The King of Laputa uses the floating island to dominate the inhabitants of Balnibarbi by maneuvering the island over any rebellious cities to block any sun or rain from over the city, and to hurl rocks down on the inhabitants below. In extreme cases, the island can be made to slam down on a city. Lindalino is an example of a city that rebelled against Laputa. The rebellion of Lindalino is an allegorical representation of Ireland’s relationship with Great Britain.

As regards education, the Laputans were fond of mathematics, astronomy and technology. They founded an academy to research science and technology that would contribute to the advancement of their society. So enamored are they by their scientific thinking that “the Minds of these People are so taken up with intense Speculations, that they neither can speak or attend to the Discourses of others” (114). Their scientism, in other words, while aiming as the betterment of society in actuality has made them less capable of living meaningful lives through distraction.

Their scientific endeavors are governed by professors who “contrive new Rules and Methods of Agriculture and Building, and new Instruments, and Tools for all Trades and Manufactures” (130). Swift points out that “none of these Projects are yet brought to Perfection; and in the mean time, the whole Country lies miserably waste, the Houses in Ruins, and the People without Food or Clothes” (130). The point Swift is making is that scientific speculation is of no use if it does not actually solve problems that people face in real life. Among the many ridiculous projects undertaken by the Academy of Lagado is a new approach to architecture:

“There was a most ingenious architect, who had contrived a new method for building houses, by beginning at the roof, and working downward to the foundation; which he justified to me, by the like practice of those two prudent insects, the bee and the spider.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 133.

In Jason Barney’s twin articles on technicism and scientism, he addresses the same issues we encounter today in a culture where undue focus is placed on STEM without proper attention being paid to how education ought to be cultivating wisdom amongst our students. Without growing in wisdom, the moral framework of care for people’s actual problems is absent from our educational system. This is why STEM wedded to a liberal arts tradition is so powerful.

Now, to be fair, the scientific thinking in Swift’s age directly led to the Industrial Revolution, which in total benefited society in many different ways. But Swift recognized that there is a cost in human terms that perhaps could have been averted had the scientists of earlier generations been more conscientious about the tragic impact on human lives. The same goes for today. Very little ethical planning goes into creation and launch of new technologies. True, our smartphones have become everyday carry for the entire population. Yet, we are seeing the cost in lack of attention (see Nicholas Carr, The Shallows and Maggie Jackson, Distracted) and mental health issues (see this review article in Psychology Today).

The Land of the Houyhnhnm: An Education in Pure Reason

The final destination on Gulliver’s journey takes him to a location that is inhabited by Houyhnhnms and Yahoos. The Houyhnhnms (pronounced “hoo-IN-um” or “HWIN-um”) are talking horses whose intelligence exceeds that of humans. They tend to flocks of Yahoos, who are irrational humans (or human-like creatures). Swift creates a contrast between the Yahoos who represent the worst of humanity and the Houyhnhnms who are noble, rational and peaceable. Gulliver comes to learn the language of the Houyhnhnms and undertakes instruction from them. He is rather looked upon as a brute in most ways similar to the Yahoos, which offends Gulliver.

Gulliver learns that the Houyhnhnms are both noble and virtuous as a result of their education in pure reason. “As these noble Houyhnhnms are endowed by Nature with a general Disposition to all Virtues, and have no Conceptions or Ideas of what is evil in a rational Creature, so their grand Maxim is, to cultivate Reason, and to be wholly governed by it” (202). The purity of their reason is arrived at without disputation or debate. They neither take into consideration “both sides of a question” nor do they put any stock in opinions or disputes. Now, we might consider this a liability as we train our students in dialectic or logic to pit ideas against one another to arrive at the truth. However, a truth once known need not be debated or disputed, it is only necessary to use the tools of dialectic in the search for truth. So it seems the contention Swift makes here is that this equine civilization has used their rationality to ascertain what is ultimately true and have thereby dispensed with dialectic.

The guiding virtues of the Houyhnhnms are laudable. Swift writes:

“Friendship and Benevolence are the two principal Virtues among the Houyhnhnms; and these not confined to particular Objects, but universal to the whole Race. For a Stranger from the remotest Part, is equally treated with the nearest Neighbour, and where-ever he goes, looks upon himself as at home. They preserve Decency and Civility in the highest Degrees, but are altogether ignorant of Ceremony. They have no Fondness for their Colts or Foals; but the Care they take in educating them proceeds entirely from the Dictates of Reason.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 202.

Swift looks upon the education of the Houyhnhnms fondly:

“In educating the Youth of both Sexes, their Method is admirable, and highly deserves our Imitation. . . . Temperance, Industry, Exercise, and Cleanliness, are the Lessons equally enjoined to the young ones of both Sexes: And my Master thought it monstrous in us, to give the Females a different Kind of Education from the Males.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 203-204.

In these quotes we see Swift holding up a moral standard against the prevailing educational model of his time and finding it wanting. The educational vision is simultaneously traditional in its use of reason to acquire virtue – the Houyhnhnms upon learning about Socrates “agreed entirely with his sentiments” (202) – and yet progressive in that it is equitably dispensed to all. This is not to say that the Houyhnhnms did not have their faults. They are so rational as to lack compassion or any scruples about what we would consider propriety. For instance, they had no qualms about trading their children at the annual meeting so that each household had an equal number of boys and girls. One might be reminded of Spock from Star Trek, although his humanity at times wins out over the rational Vulcan half of his ancestry.

The most telling aspect of Gulliver’s relationship with the Houyhnhnms occurs after he returns to England. Gulliver struggles to relate with other humans, even his own family. “I must freely confess, the Sight of them filled me only with Hatred, Disgust and Contempt” (220). From the time of his departure from the Land of the Houyhnhnms, he refers to humans as Yahoos and his experience as “my unfortunate exile.” To compensate for this, he purchase “two young Stone-Horses, which I keep in a good Stable.” He writes:

“My Horses understand me tolerably well; I converse with them at least four Hours every Day. They are Strangers to Bridle or Saddle; they live in great Amity with me, and Friendship to each other.”

Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels (Dover, 1996), 221.

This is a bookend to the introductory letter in which Gulliver refers to his to horses as “two degenerate Houyhnhnms” (meaning they lack the speech of the actual Houyhnhnms) who influence him such that “I still improve in some Virtues, without any Mixture of Vice” (xi).

I think this indicates how the Houyhnhnm episode presents the author with an educational ideal absent in the prevailing educational model then current in the British Isles.

Renewing Our Educational Ideals

Swift’s book provides a really thoughtful engagement with what we might consider the ultimate goals of education. As such, we can productively engage with this reading to ask ourselves how we might understand and critique our own educational moment. Here are a few thoughts.

First, Gulliver reveals the vital importance of moral virtue. The simple morality of the agrarian Brobdingnag is cast in a positive light, even though it is not well informed by any high standard of intellectual engagement. Better is the Houyhnhnm set of virtues as it is connected to truth ascertained by reason. When we extract these ideas from the satirical setting of Swift’s world, there is much that we would want to establish as our own educational ideal. We ought to have as our chief aim to train our students thoroughly in virtuous living. They ought to be able to live with nobility and grace as a result of their educational upbringing.

Second, science and technology clearly have a place in education, yet it sits uncomfortably in an educational system. The humanities provide our students with a moral intuition that takes a long time to form. Moral reasoning is slow, while technological advancement is rapid. By the time the next technology burst on the scene, we are already decades late in our ability to think through the moral implications. IPads are already in the hands of toddlers, and we have not even considered whether this is a good thing. The educational system has approached STEM not as a way of thinking (scientific experimentation) nor as a means to solve meaningful problems. STEM needs to be taught such that it is properly situated within a liberal arts framework. The floating island of Laputa is a cautionary tale that still speaks today.

Finally, one of the elements drastically missing from Swift’s tale is any sense of spirituality. It is a fairly secular book that seeks utopia but cannot deliver apart from any recognition of God. The noble vision Swift provides actually falls flat (at least for me) in the absence of any notion of redemption. We truly ought to take seriously the moral vision of virtuous living. But we need the moral exemplar of Christ; to follow in his footsteps, as it were (1 Peter 2:12). My hunch is that a great deal of the ills that befell the prevailing model of education in the British Isles was a tired and impotent form of Christianity that had become overly politicized in the aftermath of so many years of political turmoil. Both England and Ireland would have felt these effects. Swift’s search for an answer looked everywhere without addressing what I would consider the root cause, the British Isles had so contested different forms of Christianity, that it had missed the Christ who could redeem them all. That is likely an overgeneralization, but perhaps one that Swift fell prey to. In our day, with social media rants befalling us from the right and the left, are we likewise susceptible to lose sight of Christ? Any educational ideal apart from Christ is likely to go off the rails. Our educational renewal movement must keep this at heart.

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Today the term ‘philosophy’ is almost synonymous with abstract questioning and skepticism; too often the modern discipline is construed as anything but practical—more likely to be concerned with whether or not we are in the matrix, or if words have any definite meaning at all, than how to live life in the here and now. As Mihalyi Csikszentmihalyi mentions in his classic Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience:

“’Philosophy’ used to mean ‘love of wisdom,’ and people devoted their lives to it for that reason. Nowadays professional philosophers would be embarrassed to acknowledge so naïve a conception of their craft. Today a philosopher may be a specialist in deconstructionism or logical positivism, an expert in early Kant or late Hegel, an epistemologist or an existentialist, but don’t bother him with wisdom.” (138)

The specialization of modern philosophy has resulted in a focus on the obscure to the neglect of the tried and true. To be sure, deep and unanswerable questions are not new to the philosophical tradition, but the workable wisdom of the tradition has too often gotten lost in abstruse reasonings.

Part of the problem with this development is that philosophy is neglected among the young: at our PreK-12 schools and in home education. Parents, teachers and curriculum planners have imbibed the assumption that philosophy is for college students. The unfortunate outcome is that few college students have been inspired with the love of wisdom that would make collegiate study of philosophy fruitful. But more than that, the moral reflection and wisdom necessary for life are absent from the time of life when they are most necessary to form character.

Of course, I know very well that philosophy was conceived of as the culmination of the liberal arts tradition. (Clark and Jain make a movement in the right direction by according it a place in 9^th-11th grades in their paradigm; see The Liberal Arts Tradition, 2^nd ed. Appendix VI, p. 287.) In the Roman period only after gaining mastery of the liberal arts of language and mathematics would a student proceed to Athens or some other school of philosophers to pursue the deepest questions. But this didn’t mean that philosophical questions were neglected along the way. And if we’re going to recapture the love of wisdom and restore the school of philosophers in our educational renaissance, we’re going to have to find ways to embody the issues and subject matter of moral philosophy more clearly in our pre-college teaching.

There are three clear steps to doing this that are more or less hinted at in our psychologist’s reflections on finding joy and fulfillment by getting into the flow of thought through amateur philosophy. They are 1) to recapture the vision of teachers and parents as amateur philosophers, 2) to embrace the humble path of wisdom, and 3) to avoid the trap of specialization by becoming philosophical generalists, approaching every subject from the perspective of moral philosophy.

Teachers as Philosophers

Our cultural conception of the ideal teacher is haunted by the ghost of amateur philosophers. Mr. Miyagi from the 1984 film The Karate Kid is a good example of this. While the character Daniel benefits from the domain knowledge and skill of Mr. Miyagi in karate, what he is really in need of is instruction in a way of life. Mr. Miyagi teaches him how to overcome obstacles and setbacks, by, for instance, repairing the damaged bicycle that Daniel had simply thrown into the dumpster. Even Mr. Miyagi’s famous trick of teaching Daniel karate blocks through household chores is just as much a moral and spiritual lesson about humbly accepting the necessity of work and submitting to elders or the tradition even when you don’t understand. And the heart of the movie turns on the acceptance of tragedy and grief through stoic and eastern conceptions of self-mastery.

This is just one example that could be multiplied many times, with the point being that our culture still has this dream of a philosopher-teacher whose role it is to guide us on a quasi-religious quest for wisdom and the good life. This fact owes something to Socrates and to stoics like Epictetus, but also to many others in a great tradition of philosophical schools down through the centuries.

But in the modern educational system the possibility for teachers to take on this role has been all but crowded out through the domain-specific siloing of teachers into prescribed time-windows and the competing conception of teachers as professional bureaucrats who dare not venture into the personal lives and values of their students. (To be sure, if my children were attending a government school, I’m not sure I would want just anybody trying to play Mr. Miyagi for them….)

In the late 19^th and early 20^th century Charlotte Mason expressed a similar critique, except that she feared that a focus on cramming content into students was undercutting the teacher-philosopher approach. She felt that her philosophy of “living books” tested immediately by narration went a substantial way toward avoiding this problem:

“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 p. 32)

The logic here is that when a teacher is too focused on forcing content into the minds of students, he or she is not able to focus on being the philosophical mentor that the student needs. Since the practice of narration helps to ensure that content is being assimilated well, the teacher is free to all but ignore that and focus on the deeper questions, the moral and intellectual habits of the student, and where next to point the student in their journey toward wisdom.

This dovetails well with the problem of specialization mentioned earlier. Our psychologist’s goal is, of course, to make us all amateur philosophers, and so his encouragements are particularly helpful to us as teachers, as we consider taking up Mr. Miyagi’s mantle:

 “Amateur philosophers, unlike their professional counterparts at universities, need not worry about historical struggles for prominence among competing schools, the politics of journals, and the personal jealousies of scholars. They can keep their minds on the basic questions.” (138)

Teachers at PK-12 schools and home educators should view themselves as amateur philosophers and focus on the big picture and the basic questions of philosophy. We should major on the majors, especially because we have the freedom to do so, but also because it’s what our students need at this stage in their development. And while natural philosophy and metaphysics have an important place, moral philosophy is the beating heart of an education centered on the formation of character or the development of virtue. Therefore moral philosophy should be pursued with an appropriate passion, as Socrates did, focusing on almost nothing else.

The Humble Path of Wisdom

For some of us teachers and parents, this will mean going back to philosophical school ourselves, in the sense of dusting off that old philosophy textbook from college. Or, even better, we could pick up for the first time those philosophical classics the textbook references, like Xenophon’s Memorabilia or The Memorable Sayings of Socrates, any of Plato’s Dialogues, Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics, or Epictetus’ Enchiridion. If we’re going to approach our teaching with a philosophical spirit, we have to catch the bug somewhere. It’s best to embrace that humble path of wisdom-seeking for ourselves and learn to revel in it. As our psychologist comments,

“Again, the importance of personally taking control of the direction of learning from the very first steps cannot be stressed enough. If a person feels coerced to read a certain book, to follow a given course because that is supposed to be the way to do it, learning will go against the grain. But if the decision is to take that same rout because of an inner feeling of rightness, the learning will be relatively effortless and enjoyable.” (139)

Of course, this is good advice if our goal is only attaining flow in the pursuit of wisdom for ourselves. However, one of the first principles of philosophy, or the love of wisdom, is that it cannot be merely self-referential in this way. Csikszentmihalyi has caught himself in a philosophical paradox here, recommending the modern dream of a light and easy path of pleasure.

Reading whatever I feel like doesn’t seem like the transcendent pursuit of wisdom. After all, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Proverbs 9:10), and a sense of humility and submission to the tradition in the midst of and in spite of painful emotions is one of the first lessons we have to learn. Even Mr. Miyagi knew that…. (“Wax on… wax off.”)

Christ’s yoke may be easy and his burden light to the one who has taken it on himself (see Matt 11:30), but this is only so for the one who has taken up his cross to follow the master to the place of his own brutal execution. Even for Socrates, the love of wisdom was a “practice of death” (Phaedo 81a). So perhaps I should rather urge you to read philosophy not for flow and pleasure, but for pain and death, and because you must, not because you will want to. Such is the minimum commitment necessary of one who would be a philosopher-teacher.

The Philosophical Generalist

But reading in this way to become philosopher-guides, we do not therefore embrace the steep climb of the specialist. We may need to climb the steep hill of Parnassus, or of Sinai, or finally of Calvary, but that is a different thing. As our psychologist mentions, specialization has its pitfalls:

“While specialization is necessary to develop the complexity of any pattern of thought, the goals-ends relationship must always be kept clear: specialization is for the sake of thinking better, and not an end in itself. Unfortunately many serious thinkers devote all their mental effort to becoming well-known scholars, but in the meantime they forget their initial purpose in scholarship.” (139)

We can be content to be generalists, especially if we can zero in on wisdom as the goal, rather than even the enjoyment of the pursuit of wisdom, which after all is a rather strange self-referential circle that our secular psychologist is unwittingly leading us into.

Part of the reason he feels he must do this is because of the splintering of moral philosophy into the social sciences (like psychology) in the first place. In The Liberal Arts Tradition (2^nd ed) Clark and Jain tell of the quest of the modern social sciences, like psychology, ethics or economics, to unmoor themselves from the unproven assumptions of traditional moral philosophy:

“The contemporary social sciences… often attempt to study aspects of man in isolation from one another without reference to man as a whole person in society pursuing happiness in and through his relationships. They also tend to ignore the central question of how virtue and meaning in life contribute to human happiness…. The methodologies of the contemporary social sciences implicitly critique traditional moral philosophy by suggesting it relies on assumptions about human nature and human purpose that are not rationally or empirically verifiable.” (132)

Our psychologist feels the need to justify recommending philosophical study merely on the basis of its potential for entering the flow state—an empirically verifiable method of increasing positive emotion. And since we all know positive emotions are a good thing, in a value-less world, he can recommend it to us without breaking our taboos (ironically) of radical individualism, since the positivity of positive emotions is a lowest common denominator value that we can all get on board with.

Of course, one of the reasons that we have been able to go as far with Csikszentmihalyi as we have in this series is that he stands within the new positive psychology movement, which is itself a revival of the virtue tradition of moral philosophy. In fact, Clark and Jain commend Martin Seligman, a founder of the positive psychology movement for how he “has powerfully and successfully unmasked the assumptions of the old therapy model and defended a return to the notions of eudaimonia [happiness or human flourishing], virtue, and the pursuit of meaning in life” (158); he “recognizes that there is a moral nature to human persons and that the social scientists have to recall lost categories such as responsibility, will, character, and virtue” (160).

My readers will have no trouble embracing such concepts, embedded as they are within a Christian worldview. But we can still feel intimidated away from employing these concepts and questions in our teaching. Especially if we’ve received some higher-level academic training, we may have been indoctrinated into the reigning social science dogma that aims to keep philosophy at bay.

When teaching history, for instance, we’re more inclined to focus on insuring proper delivery of content and the mastery of facts. We tend to avoid discussion of the virtue or vice of figures, why certain courses of action were right or wrong, and the questions of proper relationships or the purpose of government. In literature classes, we focus on questions of technique and artistry, authorial background and narrative trivia, to the neglect of the central moral dilemma of the book.

The example of Seligman and Csikszentmihalyi should encourage us to embrace the perspective of moral philosophy in our teaching of any subject, but especially in the humanities. Where are you on your journey in the love of wisdom? Let’s restore the philosophical school in our hearts, our homes, and our PK-12 classrooms.

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; Part 6: Becoming Amateur Historians; Part 7: Rediscovering Science as the Love of Wisdom.

Final installment: Part 9, The Lifelong Love of Learning.

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