As I get older, I seem more inclined to think back over my
life in academia and wonder what has been accomplished by me and others. I
might be classified as a baby boomer, and, like others my age, there is a
tendency to think back to formative years, especially in the 1960s and 1970s
when most of my college education occurred. What was I thinking about in those years?
Vietnam? Yes. I served without distinction as an intelligence officer in the
Air Force. Teaching? Yes. My dream was to be a college professor and have the
summers free for camping and hiking in the wilderness. Somewhere, I got lost
along the way, although I managed to earn a PhD in philosophy and have a career
in academia (not much camping and hiking in the wilderness, though). I remember
reading a lot in those formative years. Perhaps the things I can now recall
shaped who I have become. I remember a few lines from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s
“I Am Waiting” (from A Coney Island of
the Mind, 1958):
“I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America.”
I thought it might be me … the one to really discover
America, I mean. But then I read Growing
Up Absurd (Paul Goodman, 1960), and was nearly certain that the book was
about me. How could I discover anything in the midst of so many contradictory
trends and beliefs? In the midst of ups and downs, some psychological and emotional, I turned to philosophy – in search of the truth and that lost sense
of wonder. That is when I began to seriously listen to Bob Dylan. I found words
and sentiments that resonated with all sides of my many confusions:
From Bob Dylan’s Dream:
“While riding on a train goin’ west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few
friends I had.
…
As easy it was to tell black from
white
It was all that easy to tell wrong
from right
And our choices they were few and
the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would
ever shatter and split.”
To Wedding Song:
“It’s
never been my duty to remake the world at large
Nor
is it my intention to sound a battle charge
’Cause
I love you more than all of that with a love that doesn’t bend
And
if there is eternity I’d love you there again.”
And eventually to Mr. Tambourine Man:
“Take
me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My
senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My
toes too numb to step
Wait
only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m
ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into
my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I
promise to go under it.”
I read, I listened,
read more, and began to move away from dreams of seeing truth and kindness and
tolerance and all those other youthful ideals rule supreme. I came to a
conclusion not unlike one I had read about in T. S. Eliot’s Choruses from the Rock:
“Endless invention, endless experiment,
Brings knowledge of motion, but not
of stillness;
Knowledge of speech, but not of
silence;
Knowledge of words, and ignorance
of the Word.
All our knowledge brings us nearer
to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to
God.
Where is the Life we have lost in
living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in
knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost
in information?”
I was the rock. I was
becoming a motionless object lost in a non-descript landscape. I also remember
much of my Jewish upbringing as the son of an orthodox Rabbi. My favorite
lessons revolved around the Book of Job. I remember talking with my father
about what G-d said to Job from the whirlwind – essentially asking Job where he
was when the world was created and whether he had seen the gates of death or
the breadth of the earth. The lesson I recall is that it is precisely because
our knowledge is incomplete and limited that the possibility of a deity exists.
A powerful lesson. But also a challenging one. Because a person cannot know
what G-d knows, a person cannot attribute beliefs, causes, reasoning, and so on
to G-d. One can only make the best of one’s situation without pretending to
know what one cannot know.
That basic lesson of
humility has threaded its way through my philosophical studies in skepticism
and led to this self-imposed question adapted from O. K. Bouwsma: Would it not
be a remarkable coincidence if the limits of my imagination happened to coincide
with the limits of reality? Otherwise worded, it comes to this mantra: I know
less than I am generally inclined to believe. While that may sound depressing,
it is a very liberating thought. One need not be bound by entrenched beliefs,
tradition, bias, and so on. One can nearly always find alternatives to explore.
One can learn. One can help others learn. The problem with education now,
versus what I recall from a wayward path to this day, is that too many people
are not interested in a rebirth of wonder. Too many believe they know the right
answer to nearly every issue of any complexity. Too many are not willing to
consider alternatives or learn. Learning involves a stable and persistent
change in what one knows or is able to do. To learn, one must admit first to
not knowing or not understanding. Then one must commit to an inquiry process
and be open to alternatives. Learning involves effort and an admission of
ignorance. Too many have grown old too soon, given up on learning, and lost a
sense of wonder in a sea of emotionally-held opinions. That one idealistic road
I was traveling as a youth has been shattered and split.
