Campus Blogs

These days central to the general expectations of students, parents, the broad and loosely identified “higher education community,” government agencies, high-school counselors, news reporters and pundits—virtually everyone—is the understanding that a university education provides and entrance into professions and careers. Education when more altruistically conceived is about solving social problems, changing society, producing change agents, or in today’s language “transforming” society, (we hope for the better, but that does not always seem to be the outcome), and exposing and undoing the networks of privilege and power that deny people their freedom of choosing to do as they feel they can, be what they desire to be, and follow their passions. In many Christian universities this focus on the solving of problems, transforming society, has taken the place of (or has become the major emphasis of) the older notion of shaping the minds, imaginations, hearts, and lives of students through a broad and sometimes deep “liberal” education which includes a healthy dose of Biblical and theological study. My experience in all of the settings noted above, and on many campuses including FPU, is that the common expectation of preparation for professions, for effecting change, for doing and gaining something tangible for the individual and for society at large is the common, pervasive understanding of the purpose of education.

Against this professionalization some argue for a renewal of the liberal arts, which I and many others on the FPU campus have taken part in.  Some of what we have argued on and off campus, in scholarly and educational societies, verbally and in print has been effective and some not. We have argued that It takes a great deal of education and training to understand and grasp the root and immediate causes of social problems to know how solve them. This does not come easy. If it were easy, we would not have such difficult arguments in our classroom and in the public arena over what the data on social trends tell us, let alone how to resolve social problems. Perhaps a little humility is in order. This argument is sound, if ignored by popular movements, writers, politicians, and those who seek to inspire students in chapel speeches and convocations.

We have also claimed that there are deeper arguments in thinkers of the past, great thinkers and great books as they are often called, and that these need to be mastered for the insights they offer, and how they challenge us to reconsider whatever are the happy hour specials of today’s ideas.  There is much to be said about this argument as well, though the student quickly finds that these thinkers disagree with each other on fundamental issues.  Is it Adam Smith or Karl Marx, Plato or Locke, poetry or science, theological law or human judgment, large social factors or individual actions that shape us?  Or in what ways do each of them speak to us? As we move past the “dead white male”s among these writers, the great thinkers of other cultures (Asian, African, Islamic, etc.) share the same problems. When women writers are included in the discussions as they have been for the last two generations at least (claims to the contrary notwithstanding) they too disagree with each other, and sometimes agree with the men who are assumed to be their oppressors and adversaries.

Students this week in my world history classes found it difficult to understand that a Chinese writer like Confucius would place conforming behavior to good manners and practicing traditional religious ceremonial and ritual was a virtue that taught one the high virtue of benevolence (or willing and acting well for the good of others). Islamic writers make the same kind of arguments in a different way. Can we not just be good? And when we are free and have the right intentions and ideas, won’t things just work out well and better for everyone? Aren’t past constraints the problem?  Students in my Renaissance history and literature class last semester found it disconcerting that some of the women writers of the age, even as they argued for women’s education and for greater opportunity to write and publish, would be considered “conservatives” in their day, and did not follow today’s feminist doctrines. If male writers are the problem, how can female writers not be the answer?

“Great” writers who have been at the core of a liberal arts education are not easy, whoever they are. It is not enough just to read, reflect and appreciate. When we read them, we do not absorb the answers to life’s  problems, we may instead learn the depth of the issues that confuse and divide us. To understand these writers, whoever, wherever, and whenever they are requires some professional training to understand what issues were that they addressed, why they addressed them in the way they did, and what the outcomes may have been in their time, and later. The new trinity of race, class, and gender may open our eyes to elements of texts, social organizations, and ideas that we might have missed without them, but when taken as the primary element of human experience they prove to be pretty thin soup that does not provide enough nourishment to work to the depths of the ideas we confront.

All of these arguments and commitments have their weaknesses. And there are other subjects that are and ought to be major parts of a professional and liberal education—how to think scientifically, what the social sciences can tell us and not tell us, and practical tools for living in a complex society like how to read and understand financial statements and calculate value, understand statistical analyses, and the role of the arts (traditional and contemporary) in enlivening and manipulating the emotions, in forming and dissolving communities—but this is not my purpose today. I support the basic expectation that a university education ought to prepare students for professions in our world.  Four years of work, and thousands of dollars in tuition, ought to result in being able to enter a profession and earning a living. Professional preparation need not contradict those other claims about the value of deep engagement with ideas and with reading lasting thinkers. My purpose is rather to point out some of the tensions that we live with today, and especially that we find in our teaching and life in the university, in conversations and in planning with colleagues and in discussion with students. These are the some of the tensions, and sometimes seeming contradictions I have been confronted with lately. Perhaps I will offer some thoughts towards addressing them in the near future.

I have to confess most often I do not like “popular histories.”  I have been trained to read dull, dry, technical works of history in my fields of study, and I find popular histories often misleading, and without the understanding of the mentality, questions, problems, institutions, and limitations of the times they are writing about necessary to write insightful history.  Many of our professions, not just in academia, have similar occupational hazards.

But I make an effort to read popular histories to gain ideas and insights into how to teach the subjects I have the privilege of discussing each week with students, often in introductory courses.  Popular histories offer models of communication of difficult subjects for non-specialists and provide ways of developing a subject in the classroom.

This last year I have read a few that I can recommend to my current and former students.  These have the benefit of being by academically trained writers who want to present their subjects accurately and with some depth, but also to communicate with broad audiences. They are sensitive not to politicize their arguments, but also to address their subjects in ways that allow their readers to recognize the complexities of the political world we live in and make judgements about how we should understand and respond when needed.  Here are three about the Middle East that I have read in the last year that I hope some readers of this blog might find interesting. 

The first is on a large topic, Islamic governmental order throughout its history, Hugh Kennedy’s (University of London) Caliphate: The History of an Idea (Basic Books, 2016). A “caliph” is the successor of the prophet Mohammed in leading the Muslim community (though not as a prophet) and a deputy of God.  Kennedy focuses on three questions, how a caliph should be chosen, “what should the caliph do and how extensive were his powers to be,” and how these questions were to be decided and on what evidence choices would be made. He develops the variations in answers to each of them, bringing the story up to the 21^st century and the proclamation of the restoration of the caliphate by ISIS. That story adds great depth to our understanding of a very large and powerful political tradition, and how we might understand the conflicts and claims we see today. 

The second and third each focus on individual cities: Thomas F. Madden of St. Louis University, a historian of the crusades, Istanbul: City of Majesty at the Crossroads of the World (Viking, 2016) and Simon Sebag Montefiore, Jerusalem: The Biography (Vintage, 2011).  Madden describe “The City” (the meaning of Istanbul) from ancient times, through its centuries as Constantinople the capital of Byzantine civilization and its Ottoman centuries, to the 20^th century as the capital of secular, modern Turkey, and the 21^st as Turkey has returned overtly to Islam under Erdogan. Madden illustrates the power of the city that was feared in Reformation Europe and a source of mystery before and after.

Montefiore likewise develops a history of Jerusalem from its ancient centuries as the city of David, Solomon and other Israelite kings, through New Testament times, to Islamic centuries where it was sometimes a religious center, sometimes the place of conflict (the crusades and between competing Muslim political leaders) and when it was a forgotten, dusty, small town in a desert.  He brings the story up to 2010, with it now as a Jewish and Muslim city, a place of passionate claims, tension, violence, intense archaeological work, and cherished sites for worship. You can find a presentation of the book and how he wrote it by Montefiore at C-Span.

All of these offer understanding without the technicalities and arguments of academic works.  Each is engagingly written and rewards anytime we spend with them.

One more written just last year might be added. It too is by an academic historian, written for a popular audience, and focuses on a topic of interest today, Robert Louis Wilken’s (Emeritus, University of Virginia) Liberty in the Things of God: The Christian Origins of Religious Freedom (Yale, 2019).  Today when the media narrative is that religion and Christianity are inherently oppressive and violent, Wilken tells the story of how arguments for religious freedom developed in the ancient church and were rediscovered during the Reformation in response to political and religious conflict. Ideas such as freedom of belief, conscience, and an allowance for multiple faiths in single political order were not, it turns out, the result of secular thinkers who turned from violent religious commitments to scientific toleration and peace. Rather these developed in the heart of Christian theology and political experience in ancient Rome and the kingdoms and cities of the sixteenth century.  

The reading of each of these has already found their way into my teaching. I think they have offered me ways of communicating more effectively (something we who teach always strive for), and greater understanding of our complex world.

We returned from the FPU Alumni and Friends Tour to Italy in July enriched, a bit tired, sometimes feeling overwhelmed with what we had experienced. Travel changes your perspective, your way of seeing. It challenges us and helps you see and experience things and events in ways we might not have been able to before.  And when you travel to a place like Italy with overlapping historical remains from the ancient, medieval, early modern and modern worlds the experience takes a while to sort out and deepens with time and reflection.

I asked our group of eighteen travelers to offer some of their trip highlights.  Here are their reflections.

Many reflected on how much we had seen.  Some liked the ancient cities of Ostia and Pompeii.  These uncovered ancient cities showed us how Romans lived (they even had toilets that flushed after a fashion).  And, of course, many thought of Rome itself—the Colosseum, the Vatican, the ancient ruins with the modern city all around.

Others recalled “all of Florence.”  And some thought Michelangelo’s work was amazing—the statute of David, the human forms pulling themselves from the marble, and the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican. 

Many of us were awed by the first site of the Duomo in Florence, along with Giotto’s campanile or tower, and the baptistry with Ghiberti’s bronze doors.

A number of us attended a Mass at the Duomo on Sunday morning (and then enjoyed a pastry and drink at a café on the plaza). The interior of the dome, with its painting of the afterlife rising up to the cupola brought a particular view of reality to the experience of coming before God in worship with people from all over the world. This was a highlight for many of us. We often worship wherever we are when traveling. We are always welcomed and refreshed and inspired to be with others in this common experience.

Two cities were noted especially, but for different reasons.  We arrived in Siena the day before the Palio—the twice-yearly horse race between the dozen or so intensely competitive neighborhoods of the city, identified by their animal mascots. Siena was alive with preparations for parties, dinners, celebrations, and awash with people crowding its narrow and twisting streets. The Duomo featured St. Catherine who as a young woman inspired people in Siena and far beyond, and who influenced political and religious leaders, convincing the Pope to return to Rome from under the influence of the French king in Avignon. 

We took a special side trip to Assisi.  For many of us this was a spiritual experience. The art in the cathedral tells the story of the many events of the life of St. Francis.  Every wall is covered with paintings by many different artists. I picked up a little book of scenes painted by the famous artist from the early 14^th century, about 100 years after Francis, Giotto. The paintings and the story were overwhelming. This was a place to sit and think or pray. Our guide was knowledgeable about the art, and also about the spirituality of Francis.

We also visited the small town of San Gimignano, with its tall towers, on a hill overlooking Tuscany.  You cannot get much better. A few remembered having some of the best gelato in Italy (and we had a lot of good gelato throughout the trip to compare it to!). The line for the little shop wound its way outside, and across two or three other shops, but it moved quickly, and the wait was worth it.

I asked the question about highlights at the end of our trip, so Venice, where we stopped first was back deeper in our memory. But a few mentioned the canals, St. Mark’s Basilica with its Byzantine dome and tiled mosaics, the brightly colored houses on the island of Burano, and, of course, a ride in a gondola with a soloist to set the mood.

Some special moments of the trip were recalled—the cooking class where we learned to make ravioli together (about 15 feet long as I remember it), and the opera dinner in Rome, a “bike ride on the Napoli coast,” our stay on Lido island in Venice, some of the unique shops, a sing-along at a restaurant in Venice, haggling over prices, dinner at the Rialto bridge, for those who stayed on for the extra excursion to Naples the beauty of Capri, and our extraordinary guide, Filomena. 

Many mentioned the good time we had getting to know each other, talking over dinner, long walks as we toured the sites. In a few moments of reflection, we see how travel opens our eyes, minds and hearts.