Chesterton on the Family

"When we step into the family, by the act of being born, we do step into a world which is incalculable, into a world which has its own strange laws, into a world which could do without us, into a world that we have not made. In other words, when we step into the family we step into a fairy-tale." ~Chesterton, Heretics

In Chapter XIV of his book Heretics, G.K. Chesterton takes modern writers to task for their take on the institution of the family. Many Evangelical Christians today might assume that on the basis of Chesterton's Christianity and their own antithetical stance toward modern views on the family they and Chesterton would be fitting bedfellows. On the contrary, Chesterton's brief essay should make the typical evangelical uncomfortable, and in just the right way.

He begins, as Chesterton so often does, by turning several ideas on their head. Some suppose that the family or the small community is too narrow, but Chesterton argues that it is actually broader than what most men choose to seek outside of the small community. Men naturally choose to avoid the unpleasantness of differences, and so seek society with those with whom they are most like. The small community destroys this possibility, because there are few who are alike, despite their general similarities. Brother Bill hates what I love, Cousin Kitty is just odd, and Uncle Bob has untidy political views. Neighbor Joe never "minds his own business," which is to say that he is minding his own business quite well, and is too full of life to be interested only in himself and wants to know more about me.

When a man is not free to choose his own clique, he is forced to learn to be in society, a society much broader and more potent than the small universe he would create for himself to serve his own predilections and myopic desires. The small community, and more particularly the family, requires submission to the Divine Will that is so inscrutable to our meagre rational powers and limited capacity for knowledge.

Chesterton does not, however, argue that the desire to be free from the overwhelming vivacity of the neighborhood is a bad thing. What he challenges is the notion that it is a noble thing, or even more acutely, that it is a source of strength. Nietzsche laments with beautiful language the commonness of the herd, but his desire to escape it does not show his great strength and vigor of life, but rather his great impotency and weakness to be immersed in life. The man who desires freedom from the neighborhood and considers it a virtue has a nihilistic bent, a being for death--that most narrow and empty slice of human existence toward which we all turn, but from which we will all be raised to new life (or second death, which is Hell itself).

Chesterton goes on to make a poetic plea for the romantic and interesting life of the neighborhood and the family--where one may be renewed by the endless novelty, variety, and surprise that awaits at every strange turn of human will in each other with whom one lives in that uncomfortable intimacy of the small community. What may be gained for oneself is not only romantic, however, but quite vivifying to the soul--for the being-for-self is by nature consumptive of resources, whereas the being-for-others is pouring forth of its resources. That doesn't sound vivifying, except when one adopts the Christ-like maxim that losing one's life is how it may be saved, that through sacrifice comes bounty, that by burying one's seed into the soil of other souls it may produce fruit pressed down, shaken, and multiplied a hundredfold. The exciting possibilities of such investment in other souls requires the faith that rests upon the limitless bounty of the God who has Created, sustains, and shall renew all that He has made; not the faith that rests upon the very limited resources of one's own finite soul.

When one meekly abandons himself to the Providence of the Father in Heaven, one opens himself to Good Surprises beyond anything he can imagine. All it takes is loving one's neighbor as oneself, which, if is not yet obvious to say, requires one live, truly live, amongst one's neighbors.

Two untitled poems

How does the oak stand up so strong,
While leaf and limb and acorn fall?
He stretches down and up and out so long,
Breaking through heavenly and earthly walls;
Yet through him air and water flow,
Wind does bend him and light shapes.
Years will pass and he'll outgrow,
His summer laurels and winter capes,
His greens and goldens, browns and bare.
Beneath brilliant blues and radiant reds,
He wears silver moon and sunshine flare,
All out of doors, all in his bed.

---

Full sail and fifty on they sped,
Threshing fields of sun-splashed spray,
A harvest red in dawn and blood,
Fixéd they upon yon waterway.
Cold scowls upon men's faces fell,
Cold winds blew behind their sails,
Cold hearts gripped helm, and
Home hearths too were gripped,
Where cold cry wives' and mothers' wails.
Blasted winds propelled their craft,
Blasting guns propelled their steel,
Blast upon blast till most fell at last,
And last of them were brought to heel.
"Give up thy Gold or give up the Ghost!"
Up blood boiled as boiled up the sea,
"Our precious Ore ye shall feel and Full!"
Bloody cries spilling, spilling blood by the lee.
Somewhere sunward soared a lone albatross,
She lingered aloft uncompelled to alight,
Drifting slowly among wispy clouds,
Accompanying spirits long into the night.
A rising wave o'er a sinking ship,
So runs the course of many a corsair,
Ambitious men make for a stormy sea,
Leaving behind many a weeping widow, fair.

Image no. 1

Hark, this fly upon the glass,
Whose life, a fortnight, may endure,
A pure and holy image art,
A mark, marked by imprimatur,
A glory, reflecting by the Light,
Whose life, no night, could long endure,
Whose pure and holy image imparts,
Peace, by order of loves, secured;
Your silent wings send forth resonant winds,
They whisper gently past the ear,
Perceptible only to that soul,
Who attends amidst the noise to hear;
The voice of praise they, pregnant, bear,
And birth in hearts with hollow cavity,
Whose echoes sound the blows of love:
A fugue of tones timbred by Divinity.

Book Review: The Liberal Arts Tradition: A Philosophy of Christian Classical Education

The Liberal Arts Tradition: A Philosophy of Christian Classical Education by Kevin Clark
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

First, the positives.

Clark and Jain state in the introduction that their book is extending the bridge that the contributions of Douglas Wilson's book, Case for Classical Education, and Evans and Littlejohn's book, Wisdom and Eloquence, have made toward repairing the ruins of the classical liberal arts education. I think that they have given Classical educators, whether Boards, Administrators, or Teachers, a wealth of material for reflection, integration, and probably reorientation of their classical and Christian schools. Perhaps most significantly is their integration of Piety, Gymnastic, Music, and Philosophy into the pedagogical course that includes the seven liberal arts (grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy). They also seek to integrate Theology, but I found their sections on theology (the shortest in the book) to be the least developed and compelling. It isn't that I disagreed with their conception of the place of theology, but they did not bring much clarity to the study of theology as a subject, leaving it to be considered as a discipline that provides the grounds for and permeates the rest of the subjects. On the whole though, this is a delightfully fresh and welcomed addition to the literature on classical education and I hope it becomes a required reading for parents and classical educators in Classical schools and homeschools everywhere.

Second, the things that could be improved. Though this section is lengthier, it doesn't detract from the tremendous value of this book. In fact, it is because I like this book so much that I hope a second edition comes out that improves some of the things that may turn off the reader who isn't immediately excited about it, or has little or no experience with classical and Christian education.

First, a minor quibble. For a book that is outlining a philosophy of Christian Classical Education that values beauty, the layout of the book is underwhelming. The cover is adequate, but inside the margins are too narrow, the blocky highlight quotes that interrupt the text are obtrusive, and the footnotes will be intimidating to anyone who isn't used to reading scholarly literature (or, rather, scholarly literature that uses footnotes rather than endnotes). For the second edition, my humble suggestion would be to widen the margins to at least one inch on the top and bottom, and perhaps 1.25 on the outside edges; eliminate the highlight quotes or relegate them to the margins in a smaller font; turn the footnotes into endnotes, either at the end of chapters or at the end of the book.

Second, a second edition should go deeper into explaining the role of theology as a subject at the end of the course of education. If there are implicit theological elements throughout, what sort of "catechetical" knowledge of the Bible, if any, should classical educators provide, and how should theology capstone the entire endeavor at its end? What sort of theological study did the medievals employ?

Third, a second edition should expand the appendices. The first appendix was little more than talking points for what promises to be a much more detailed explication of a recurrent theme in the whole book, which is how the late medieval shift in philosophy opened avenues into modernity. The claim is probably an overstatement, or at least needs to integrate other factors, but as it stands in the book, the reader is just left wondering why such an important historical shift is only getting two pages of summary. Appendix II requires explanation. It was not clear to me how exactly the features of the chart were to be used, or what made the chart's contents a narrative. Appendix IV, like Appendix I needs to be expanded, and perhaps integrated with Appendix I since there seems to be some connection between nominalism, voluntarism, and the rejection of two of Aristotle's four causes. Appendix V looks great, so great in fact that it might be better put in the introduction to help the reader see the whole in one image before diving into each particular.

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On the self and desire

Christianity is full of apparently paradoxical statements. The appearance is, I believe, a product of our own incapacity for the truth--an incapacity somewhat derivative of our finitude (we don't possess a nature fully capable) and moreso derivative of our pervasive and total corruption (what nature we have has been destroyed in its capacities). It doesn't make sense that "he who seeks to save his life shall lose it, while he who seeks to give up his life shall find it" because we have been imprisoned by our own aberrant desires, rendering whatever capacity for understanding that could be used subject to that aberration.

Consider the apparent paradox of determinate freedom. Some have argued that true freedom requires the will to be free from all constraints, free from the determining influence of anything that is not the autonomous, individual will or desire. Freedom means choosing as my desire is directed by my desire alone. May other factors offer themselves up for influencing that choice? Surely, but they cannot be said to in any way move the will toward one or another option in the choosing. The will remains self-determining. And in being entirely free of all external determination, the individual who wills is self-defining by virtue of the free choices made. A claim to aseity seems a necessary implication of this view.

Christianity, however, asserts the entire givenness of created being, and, in the fullness of time, the sons of God shall be revealed only as they see (and I think "see" is a metaphor for know, here) Christ face-to-face, that is, unveiled because the corruption that blinds will be completely removed. For the Christian, the self, like being, is entirely given. It comes from God the Father, is imaged in Christ Jesus the Son, and is accomplished by the power of the Holy Spirit. The Christian self is entirely determined by an Other that is not the self, not the individual chosen by the autonomous choices of the will. The Christian identity is received rather than taken, discovered rather than invented--it is the result of surprise rather than contrivance. The oddity of the givenness, and the paradox that arises out of our finitude rather than our sinfulness, is that amidst all of the givenness of the self, the individual is fully participating in the revelation of his identity. There are analogies that help to illustrate this idea, but I have yet to find a definition or description that satisfies rational criteria for explanation (not that there isn't one, or that it hasn't already been found--I can speak only for the places where I have looked!).

Practically, for the Christian, the paradoxical aspect of entire givenness and full participation comes in relinquishing our corrupted desire to be self-determinate and self-defining. Our natural desires are inherently self-oriented. We put our own desires as a priority, we consider ourselves before others, we think in terms of what will benefit ourselves more easily and more willingly than we think in terms of what will benefit others. This is enslavement given the nature of reality. Since our selves are entirely given, we cannot find ourselves by seeking our own desires. It is a vicious circle, and one that cannot avoid importing (whether consciously or unconsciously) things from others that we observe. The lie that I can make myself, even through imitation, fails to recognize that I may be given something other than what I would choose. Let me illustrate.

For most of my childhood I fashioned myself as a professional athlete. My parents largely indulged my efforts by continually driving me to practices and games, waiting long hours after practice was over while I worked extra to improve my skills, and by supporting my decisions for pursuing the sport beyond high school. In college I retained the desire and, although I had to reconcile myself to the possibility of some alternative because I was not given a scholarship to play, I walked-on and redshirted my first year, all the while continuing to work and cultivate my efforts toward the image of "professional athlete." When it became increasingly clear during my time on the team that I would never become a professional athlete bitterness and resentment became the consistent pattern of response to my circumstances. Far from being "free" in my own choices, I was driven by emotions that I did not enjoy, but had not the will to put away so long as that will was fixated upon the false image of the self I had chosen. However, when God broke my will of its clinging to this false image, I was liberated to both enjoy the sport in the capacity that God had graciously granted to me to participate in it, and I was free to receive a new and as yet undiscovered self of what God had in store that I had been blind to. Although I did not receive this discovery with the surprise of an excited child eager to imagine and receive limitless joy offered by the Father, that too was available to me. It was not until my desire died that the self God was fashioning for me could be resurrected unto my understanding.

The Christian life is full of many such deaths because of our idol-making tendencies--crafting selves for ourselves rather than receiving our true selves from the knowledge of God in Christ. The self-seeking that derives from the unpurified will is enslaved to the passions that arise from unfulfilled (or unsatisfying) desires. The self-receiving that derives from the purified will--the will that anticipates God's moving and shaping of the self in ways unexpected and better than expectation--anticipates and receives the surprises of God's Providence with thankfulness and joy at the chance of discovering anew what it is that God is giving to us--our true selves; the selves that look just like Him.