Today I had the honor of listening to Bible Institute of Los Angeles professor John Mark Reynolds speak to local high school teachers about Critical Thinking.  As the school embarks on a new journey toward the “college preparatory” label, most teachers feel divided between pastoring students into Christianity (that “monstrosity” of an upbringing; Thanks for describing this problem in all its colors, Tom SB.) or teaching rigorous academics.  Reynolds clearly revealed the false dichotomy, and yet revealed an ultimate goal for Christian Religious Education: good habits of mind and heart.  He focused the habits of mind by calling them the skills to recognize validity in logic.  The habits of heart focus more on the experience a student gets as he steps into the interpretive experience, whether reading Plato or the Bible.  Put together, habits of mind and heart educate students to read for experience and to analyse.

The paper:

“With the goal of providing our nation with competent employees and citizens, corporations and educational associations, including Apple, Sun Microsystems, Walt Disney Company, and the National Education Association, ask educators everywhere to redesign curriculum and instruction for twenty-first century skills.  Among the standards is the call to “Promote deeper engagement with core subjects through analysis and synthesis, not merely descriptive or memorized facts: In a world of facts at our fingertips, depth of knowledge matters more than breadth.” (Partnership for 21st Century Skills, 2007).  This call is in response to the observation of the lack of critical thinking by employers and educators alike.  Critical thinking is the root of the skills of analysis and synthesis.  Richard Paul, in an address in Berkeley, California, defines critical thinking in two ways.  First, it is “a system for opening every system… it opens up business…chemistry…sports.  It enables us to put things into intellectual perspective” (Paul, 2007).  Second, “Critical thinking is thinking that analyzes thought, that assesses thought, and that transforms thought for the better. […] It’s thinking about thinking while thinking in order to think better” (Paul, 2007).

           My experience with ninth graders has inspired me to focus on the skill of critical thinking, as well.  The ninth graders I taught and observed for the past 4 weeks have numerous obstacles to developing critical thinking skills. The obstacles can be divided into two common categories, both of which are under the control of the teacher: learning environment and instruction strategies.  In addition to these categories, teachers should design instruction with the knowledge that most ninth graders are not yet skilled thinkers or meta-thinkers, nor are they deeply self-motivated.  Scaffolding is always necessary in the design of quality instruction.

           First of all, how can teachers foster critical thinking through the learning environment?  The Partnership for 21^st Century Skills claims that experts want a whole system that involves technology and place in relationship with the goal of both “formal and informal learning” in order to free children for their full development (Partnership for 21st Century Skills, 2009).  Two areas in which a teacher can improve their classroom environment, beyond many common sense lighting and classroom arrangement strategies and the more difficult task of fostering a critical thinking school culture, are providing “relevant contexts “ and utilizing all of the research and technology tools they have. 

           A phrase that could help form the connection between environment and instruction is “just in time” rather than “just in case” (Partnership for 21st Century Skills, 2009). By using technology to connect students to peers around the globe as well as the local community, student can solve problems “just in time” in a real context.  Developing a new perspective of classroom environment to include the internet space as well as local space can help expand the relevance of foreign language instruction, specifically.

           My first attempt at teaching ninth graders nearly failed, in my opinion, because I did not make relevant a potentially successful context.  We were to learn vocabulary in order to communicate about houses—rooms, furniture, their descriptions and locations.  I found a blueprint of a house up for sale in Barcelona that was also a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Many students had recently encountered UNESCO in a previous project, and I thought that filling in the blueprints with rooms and furniture would be sufficiently relevant.  However, I did not build into the situation enough relevance through an actual problem.  Rather, students simulated a small discussion over where they might put furniture in the house.  A real context would involve communicating with a peer in Spain, perhaps getting real pictures of a house from the peer, and extending the relationship into the future by dwelling in a common, internet space periodically.

           In addition to the lack of relevance, I did not prepare the ninth graders to accomplish the simulated task that I gave them.  Rather than providing the needed build-up practice, step by step instruction, a clear objective, and immediate feedback, I gave them a broad goal of “learning the house vocab” by “talking about this house and filling out the blueprint with vocabulary.”  I should have built in scaffolding strategies for the learning experience that would demand critical thinking. 

           A simple practice that will help students develop thinking about thinking involves a deck of cards.  The teacher, while giving a lecture or some other learning experience, will emphasize two critical questions.  For example: What does this Spanish word mean?  How does it fit into a grammatically correct sentence?  Give an example.  Then, during any point in the class time, the teacher will walk to the cards, draw one, and ask the person whose name was drawn to answer the two questions.  Eventually, by simply walking toward the deck of cards, nearly every student will be asking questions about their own thought: what does this word mean and how do I use it?  (Paul, 2007)

           This strategy would have helped my ninth graders to focus their thoughts, quite literally, on the activity.  A final strategy that connects place to instructional design strategies is small study groups.  In the context of my house blueprints, Margaret Fuller, a veteran teacher who advocates study groups, would say that an hour each week could encourage critical thinking if the study groups met over a real-world problem (ReLeah, 2006).  In my case, every Wednesday during the unit, my students should have met in groups of 5 to discuss several issues including how one should build and design a home.  Allowing for some freedom of interest to vary the topic, students would come, each Wednesday, with a reading or writing task in preparation for the group work.  They would leave with a summary of the time and a future goal and task.  In the case of foreign language, students would need to demonstrate what words they learned by writing some Spanish, and creating lists of words they would need to have a more meaningful discussion in Spanish.  This type of group work is meaningful and relevant to ninth graders because it is social, and it is beneficial because it may contribute to a culture of critical thinking (ReLeah, 2006).”  …For addition bibliographical info, please ask.

What is religion for Bataille? Most fundamental to his thought is his theory of world economics, of the play and movement of energy in its excesses and productions. What is most valuable or might be said to be his morality? I have been exploring a few of his writings for these answers, particularly wanting to understand how Bataille’s thought may fit or not fit with Christianity. After all, he uses a very religious vocabulary.

In Bataille’s thought, man wishes to return to intimacy with the world, which means that man is no longer transcendent to the order of things and capable making things. A thing is that which is defined by its usefulness, for all objects we interact with are defined by their function to or for something else. The order or world of immanence lacks things as they are distinct and defined by any use. After all, for there to be a thing or an object, there must be a transcendent subject, and a transcendent subject is contradictory to immanence.

In interacting with objects for their usefulness, man continues to accumulate energy to the point that the energy in him will destroy him—a stomach ache from eating too much may reflect this, and the subsequent gaining of weight to the point of, well, nearly bursting or at least dying from its complications. Hence, man wishes to return to immanence; that is, to expend his excess energy rather than continue to produce. Expending useless energy is where the experience of pleasure comes from.

When objects become things, we can only act with the intent of production or effecting something else, which can only build or produce more energy in the long run (even though it might also require a small expenditure of energy). The greatest expenditure of energy comes in sacrifice because self-sacrifice involves an expenditure which is utterly useless and can have no return. This is why it is necessary to sacrifice that which is most valuable—that is, what increases production (such as a cow, one’s house, or one’s life). As Bataille says, “This is so clearly the precise meaning of sacrifice, that one sacrifices what is useful; one does not sacrifice luxurious objects. There could be no sacrifice if the offering were destroyed beforehand” (49).

Bataille is aware of a contradiction in the economic goal of immanence. He says,

But if man surrendered unreservedly to immanence, he would fall short of humanity; he would achieve it only to lose it and eventually life would return to the unconscious intimacy of animals. The constant problem posed by the impossibility of being human without being a thing and of escaping the limits of things without returning to animal slumber receives the limited solution of the festival. (53)

Let me try to explain: To be human is to be conscious, to be aware of one’s self, which can only happen in recognizing and juxtaposing with the world of things; that is, man finds his consciousness in his perception of the order of things. Without the order of things to perceive, man loses himself in immanence with the world. Thus, man cannot achieve the immanence he desires through the expenditure of energy without losing himself—reducing to the level of an animal consciousness which lacks the ability to be a self-consciousness. Man’s individuality, the possibility of speaking of a person or anything is distinct, is maintained only by anxiety, or the wish to remain alive in the world of things. Thus, Bataille says, “

Religion, whose essence is the search for lost intimacy, comes down to the effort of clear consciousness which wants to be a complete self-consciousness: but this effort is futile, since consciousness of intimacy is possible only at a level where consciousness is no longer an operation whose outcome implies duration, that is, at the level where clarity, which is the effect of the operation, is no longer given. (56)

Thus, religion is a perpetual search for immanence, stimulated by its bursts of energy release, epitomized by sacrifice and orgy, but enacted through any waste or use of energy with no aim. The

Although Bataille is well aware of the contradictions that the economy of immanence poses, I think that the contradiction is seen even before one begins to move toward immanence. Moving toward immanence, if it can be given a principle or direction, requires expending energy. However, once this understanding becomes an understanding, that is, it is consciously recognized, it becomes a moral principle or morality. A morality, as Bataille realizes, is by nature self-defeating because, by nature, it assumes a purpose, and purpose contradicts immanence. Hence, Bataille’s religion, when it becomes a religion with a morality of expending energy, is self-defeating because even this useless expenditure can be said to have a use, the purpose of preventing the buildup and destruction caused by the buildup of energy.

A father in Maine is appealing to the US Justices, wanting them to reinstate a $5million verdict against these protesters who showed up at his Marine son’s funeral. Thus, the Supreme Court will review whether the protesters’ messages are protected by the first ammendment, which intertwines freedom of religion with freedom of speech and press.

Whaddya think, folks? Personally, I’ve been fiercly perturbed by people who spout “you can’t legislate morality!” without quite fully explaining themselves and/or completely understanding the full depth of their dictum. My own view: one cannot not legislate morality. Having a constitution is in and of itself a certain morality. And in this recent fiasco, I think the Supreme Court may finally be encountering the delicacy of this situation.

If one wishes to equate “freedom of religion” with “amoral legislation,” one will soon discover that the American public will become a brutal lot playing on a brutal stage. One will then have no right to throw out “thank God for dead soldiers.” Or, one must accept that legislating morality cannot be avoided, that “freedom of religion” does not mean “amoral legislation,” but “freedom” (a value, a moral) as set forth and interpreted by the US.

What think you?

Frank Schaeffer, his son, is another story.

Frank began his career working for his father, but lived to turn on the movement Francis had created.  He converted to Greek Orthodox Christianity and began writing in support of decidedly non-Christian conservative causes.  In 2007, he published a book entitled Crazy for God: How I Grew Up As One of the Elect, Helped Found the Religious Right, and Lived to Take it All (Or Almost All) of it Back.

Surprisingly enough, I found this book in the Dordt College bookstore yesterday, and started flipping through it out of curiosity.

The prologue contains this revealing paragraph about the hobbling effect of his upbringing:

“Every action, every thought, every moment I stumble into is judged by some inner voice.  Everything seems to have a moral component: eating — because there are hungry people; sex — don’t even start.  What I write, don’t write, who I talk to, don’t talk to, and how I raised my children, their characters, accomplishments, failures, whether they ‘love the Lord’ or not, everything points to my relationship with God, real or imagined.”

My dad was with me in the bookstore.  Like Frank, I suppose, I owe most of my religious beliefs to my father (and mother).  Unlike Frank, I don’t plan on rejecting those beliefs anytime soon, although I hope to explore them and deepen my understanding of them throughout my life.

I read this paragraph from Frank’s book to my dad.  He looked at me, I looked at him, and we simultaneously said, “Yeah!” Frank’s paragraph is a perfect description of our religious heritage.  Everything in life is directed towards our Lord and Savior.  Every part of our life should be honoring to him.

Frank seems to regard the fact that he was raised with this attitude as a curse, a ghost that haunts him everywhere he goes.  For me, this approach to life is a source of incredible freedom.  Living for something greater than myself, surrendering my life and my choices to a God who loves and cares for me is a relief, a relinquishing of a burden.  Through Christ’s forgiveness, I have freedom from guilt, and through Christ’s law, I have a perfect guide to this crazy world.  Knowing my own selfishness and stupidity as I do, I would not have it any other way.

Of course, in practice, the Christian life is far from simple, but it was still startling to see someone sum up my worldview so well while describing it as a negative.

Thoughts?  I’d love to hear what you guys think about this, especially if you don’t share my perspective.

If you’re interested in reading the book for yourself, it’s available on AAAARG [which all TVA readers should be involved in, of course].

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Summary: Bataille begins his theory of religion, surprisingly enough, with the question of how we humans can conceive of the “immanence” of the animal. These are the distinctions Bataille makes between this immanence and the perceiving of a human: the animal does not subordinate its objects to itself, the animal does not experience the duration of its object, and the animal cannot regard itself as an object. All of these restrictions have to do with the animal’s inability to transcend its object — hence, immanence. Bataille equates transcendence with self-consciousness; so another way to describe the immanence of animals is to say that they perceive without consciousness.

The consequence of this immanence, he imagines, is something half-way between our human consciousness and a world without consciousness. The latter can be glimpsed in the “meaningless” layers of nature uncovered by the hard sciences, in the bounding of atoms and gurgling of chemical processes; but animal immanence dazzles and eludes the eye of the mind. The mystery of it prompts what Bataille calls The Poetic Fallacy of Animality — because we simply cannot imagine perception without consciousness, so “the correct way to speak of it can overtly only be poetic, in that poetry describes nothing that does not slip toward the unknowable.” But because such poetry does not penetrate what it addresses but simply puts a vague “fulguration” of words, a halo around the emptiness of incomprehension, Bataille finally insists that the only clear (ie., non-poetic) description he can offer of animal immanence is that animals are like “water in water.” This is an important and recurring phrase.

(Incidentally, he does offer us, by way of disavowing its use, the following poetic description of animal perception: “There was no vision, there was nothing — nothing but an empty intoxication limited by terror, suffering, and death, which gave it a kind of thickness…”)

Commentary: There isn’t much here, yet, that seems to point toward religion or a theory of religion, except the poetic intensity of Bataille’s language. On that note, I admire his characterization of poetry as that which slips “toward the unknowable.” It is this aspect of his style — that it slipped toward the unknowable — that repelled his contemporaries like Sartre, who avoided him because of his “mysticism,” and it is also (I’ll bet) what attracted posterity, like Lacan, Foucault, Derrida.

Regarding his description of animal immanence, an obvious question is this: why does he distinguish the animal from the human? Aren’t humans in fact animals?

I think this question — though it is in some ways a wrong one — gets at the path that will eventually lead Bataille from animal immanence to religion: humans are animals, yet the definition of animality must be a definition in contrast to human consciousness. In some ways, the performance of this definition is a kind objectifying and sacrificing of the animality in humans — though for the purpose, as will become clear in later posts, of regaining intimacy — which ceremonially displays the anguish of the tension in us which he will argue leads us to religion. He concludes the introduction to the book with these words: “The basic paradox of this ‘theory of religion,’ [...] brings a powerlessness to light, no doubt, but the cry of this powerlessness is a prelude to deepest silence.”

At any rate, I think it is important to the argument of the rest of the book for the reader to perform his thought experiment with him, to attempt to conceive of perception without consciousness, to fail but feel the “sticky” temptation of poetry.

In connection to my current study on desire, my interests have spread into the philosophies concerning food, humor, and horror. Thus far, I have only had time to do a moderate amount of reading on food, a nearly worthless bit on humor, and a more serious amount on desire in the broadest sense. Bataille is the first I have read who discusses fear or, rather, horror; specifically, he traces the connection between horror and desire.

In Transgression, Bataille makes the obvious point that Desire becomes more meaningful when it overcomes resistance (95); things that come easily are not valued. It is with this in mind that he approaches the the character of prohibitions, restrictions, and taboos. Societies construct their norms and with them come those things which are not permitted but are thought of with disgust and horror, such as murder, sexual activities (in certain contexts, of course), and doing anything which might endanger one’s self. The role of a prohibition, whether explicit or implicit, is to prevent or protect. It is important to see then that prohibitions are not meant to protect one from something that is not desirable; without desire, there would be no prohibition. If there were no desire, there would be no reason to expend energy in constructing the prohibition. That which is prohibited must have value in order to be worthy of a restriction.

Thus, Bataille says,

I think that the feeling of horror (I am not talking about fear) does not correspond, as most people believe, to what is bad for us, to what jeopardizes their interests. On the contrary, if they horrify us, objects that otherwise would have no meaning take on the highest present value in our eyes. Erotic activity can be disgusting; it can also be noble, ethereal, excluding sexual contact, but it illustrates a principle of human behaviour in the clearest way: what we want is what uses up our strength and resources and, if necessary, places our life in danger. (104)

Horror is closely linked with death and, therefore, the sacred. All horror, in fact, points to death—we are horrified by what negates us or brings us harm. At the same time, however, we tend to enjoy the closeness of death and that negation. Bataille notes the peculiar enjoyment of reading stories, where “We do well to live vicariously what we don’t dare live ourselves. Not that it is a question of bearing misfortune without weakening: on the contrary, enduring it without too much anguish, we should take pleasure in the feeling of loss or endangerment it gives us” (Transgression 106). Why? “[O]nly the fictitious approach of death, through literature or sacrifice, points to the joy that would fully gratify us, if its object were real—that would gratify us at least in theory, since if we were dead we would no longer be in a condition to be gratified” [emphasis mine] (Transgression 109).

Desire, which is the useless expenditure of energy, an expenditure which does not seek to gain anything in return but only give away, is, for the individual, most thoroughly accomplished in death, where the individual gives everything away for nothing in return. Desire, therefore, is epitomized in death, for death is what gives life value. The intertwined pair of horror and desire may be difficult to see in a horror film, except for the fact that people love to watch them; it is quite obvious, however, in religion or what is sacred. In his Theory of Religion, Bataille says, “Undoubtably, what is sacred attracts and possesses an incomparable value, but at the same time it appears vertiginously dangerous for that clear and profane world where mankind situates its privileged domain” (36). Trespassing the Sacred and Holy presents an incomparable danger even as it presents an incomparable value. Why is this? Perhaps I will attempt to take this up in a later post.

An advertiser wrote on a description for a new collection of Berry’s essays that Berry writes about “fragmentation” and the search for health through wholeness.  I think Berry would agree with the description if each word be read and understood in all their potential depth.  The problem he writes: fragmentation, pieces, bits, the piecemeal, and the overestimation of humanity’s role and power.  The solution: health through acknowledging mystery, ignorance, fragility, and dependence.

Niebuhr would agree, if he’d let me play puppet master with his ideas for a short while.  Niebuhr writes that modern history is the story of people living beyond their means.  My metaphor to describe living beyond our means is that we are all really stuck on a wheel that turns us round and carries us forward.  If we move to act to far beyond our proper place, it is as though we reach out beyond the wheel.  Reaching too far lets the turning human only grab a tuft of the turf on which he or she roles, only slowing down the forward motion.  Tucking in for the ride, however, lets the mystery of existence carry, or spin, the human forward.  I don’t know where the urge for creativity lies in this metaphor, but at the very least the urge must be restrained to fit the metaphor and acknowledge mystery.  Otherwise, the urge would flare out of control, taking over the creation rather than thriving with it.

Taking further liberties with Niebuhr’s ideas in Faith and History, I think an inactive passion is an appropriate human posture in history.  I use the word passion because I discovered that Christ’s passion wasn’t merely a modern emotion sort of passion but fully absorbing his surroundings.  I add inactive because passion has been turned into a word for a burning fire under a boiler that makes steam in order to power our endeavors, physical and otherwise.  Like the industrial steam power, our contemporary passion acts quickly and destructively to accomplish narrow and immediate goals.

And now the social science connection: social science started in an industrial passion and is moving toward an inactive passion.  The new passion is more inactive as we realize the futility of “pure” science.  I call it inactive because less than pure science (or more than pure, for that matter) calls for methods that hold polar and binary thinking in tensions of twos and threes. For example, lab science becomes observation in both the lab and the field; theory must be enacted and dynamic.

I come to the conclusion that a “fruitful tension” for today, in our struggle to continue forward while within proper limits, should be a practice of living as best I can (practicing life, or praxis) followed by dissecting bits of that same life.  I think Robert has shown that labeling things goes a long way to a fruitful fragmentation.  Going further than labeling, one might take out bits of life for a few days at a time in order to find their proper place and limits.  Or one might isolate bits in order to see their connections.  For example: I isolated 1.5 hours of my day by driving to Echo park instead of driving straight home to West Hollywood before picking up my wife from Downtown.  I took these same 1.5 hours that I usually spend at home.  Today, by fragmenting my life, I see what’s missing: I cannot make supper at home, clean our home, or use the Internet to continue my job search.  I can, however, take time to sit in a coffee shop, CHANGO, and write my thoughts on paper, and read.

Other people call this fragmentation their time for reflective thought or creative thought or prayer or holy scripture reading.  I want to expand this idea of reflection and thought time to the idea that a time away from one’s own commonplace slices life just so.  So that the whole is divided and put back together, with the fruit of knowing how the pieces work best together.  I suppose I’ve turned on Berry’s words, or at least those of the advertiser, advocating for a new sort of fragmentation.  I hope I don’t forget to put myself back together, and I hope I still know how to cook when I get home.

After typing this short essay/blog, I noticed Robert’s thoughts on specialization and habits comment on the day-to-day as well, especially constructing habits in order that the mind can fly around, unconcerned about the practical.  I suppose I disagree with Wittgenstein, in that case.

“While relativism is a position one can entertain, it is not a position one can occupy. No one can *be* a relativist, because no one can achieve the distance from his own beliefs and assumptions which would result in their being no more authoritative *for him* than the beliefs and assumptions held by others, or, for that matter, the beliefs and assumptions he himself used to hold. The fear that in a world of indifferently authorized norms and values the individual is without a basis for action is groundless because no one is indifferent to the norms and values that enable his consciousness. It is in the name of personally held (in fact they are doing the holding) norms and values that the individual acts and argues, and he does so with the full confidence that attends belief. When his beliefs change, the norms and values to which he once gave unthinking assent will have been demoted to the status of opinions and become the objects of an analytical and critical attention; but that attention will itself be enabled by a new set of norms and values that are, for the time being, as unexamined and undoubted as those they displace. The pint is that there is never a moment when one believes nothing, when consciousness is innocent of any and all categories of thought, and whatever categories of thought are operative at a given moment will serve as an undoubted ground.”

Is this the idea of worldview as put forth in terms of philosophy of language? If not, how compatible is this idea with the idea of worldview and presupposition?

In Book IV, Augustine laments the wild years of his young adult life, regretting the value he placed in the sensual world as determined by “the flesh.” Although one may be tempted to attack Augustine as an anti-material grouch, the entirety of Book IV shows a different line of thought. “The flesh” guides Augustine to things of a transient nature—and herein resides their sinfulness. What are these transient things? Augustine mentions the typical sensual pleasures, but even proffers something as beautiful as friendship. Really, anything that isn’t God is transient. Creation is transient. Only the Creator is eternal. Augustine is here propounding the medieval developments of the Creator-creation gap and the (originally Greek) problem of movement in the universe. More importantly, he puts it into practical terms for the inner struggle of his own soul.

With this philosophy, Augustine becomes quite sensual. All of creation is transient, but all of creation is more fully and properly enjoyed when grounded in the permanence of the Creator. When this is done:

You will lose nothing. The decayed parts of you will receive a new flowering, and all your sicknesses will be healed. All that is ebbing away from you will be given fresh form and renewed, boundly tight to you. (IV. xi [16])

Enough with all of this context. Where is this language analogy?

First off, Augustine uses language as an analogy for the totality of creation. When he attacks the problem of movement (inherited from the Greeks), as things pass in and out of existence, they form the whole of creation:

That is the way our speech is constructed by sounds which are significant. What we say would not be complete if one word did not cease to exist when it has sounded its constituent parts, so that it can be succeeded by another. (IV. x [15])

Secondly, Augustine uses language as an analogy for man’s innate desire to perceive the whole (creation grounded in Creator) rather than the parts of creation:

All that you experience through it is only partial; you are ignorant of the whole to which the parts belong. Yet they delight you. But if your physical perception were capable of comprehending the whole and that not, for your punishment, been justly restrained to a part of the universe, you would wish everything at present in being to pass away, so that the totality of things could provide you with greater pleasure. The words we speak you hear by the same physical perception, and you have no wish that the speaker stop at each syllable. You want him to hurry on so that other syllables may come, and you may hear the whole. (IV. [17])

Such sensual vibrations tickle the ear—they are delights! In part, the vowels are the most beautiful. The consonants, a blissful rhythm. They are lost, however, unless they come and go, weaving together from existence to nonexistence into that greater poetry.