It’s true. I don’t carry in my back pocket impressive credentials. Nor do I find the ancient classics interesting. For these two elegant reasons, I suspect that many will look upon this essay with all the appreciation of a Roman citizen gazing upon the barbarian hordes marching nearer the gate.
Acknowledging this concern up front, my sincere pledge is not to lay the ax across the neck of classical education. Nothing needs to die here. Think of it like changing a few articles of clothing, not the removal of limbs.
Actually, come to think of it, you need not take this as anything more than one parent’s reasoned opinion. Now, of course, when I say one parent, I am keenly interested in the experiences of my family. My three children, who have ventured the hills of classical education, have sundry thoughts. As does my wife who has faithfully taught them. We’ve home-schooled. We’ve private-schooled. The word classical would aptly describe both efforts, though more so the latter than the former. While they might not want to express every point of contention in quite the same way, or with the same force, we share broad agreement. Nevertheless, it bears stressing that these are my opinions, stated in my own cheeky style, and the reader should hold me solely accountable for whatever is said.
Now I am well aware that the phrase “classical education” is a fairly pliable concept courting all kinds of opinions and modes of expression. Sometimes these opinions are expressed with a scholarly air, sometimes with a cranky, if not curmudgeonly frown. I have no real bone to pick here. Insofar as the word “classical” envisions a discernible core of pedagogy, the exact definition isn’t critical. I’m orbiting a concept. Certain particulars may or may not apply universally. If I don’t step on your toes, let us rejoice with smiles and hugs.
As we begin, I’d like to divide my complaints into several sections. One can certainly hope that the suggestions will prove to be broadly interlocking, relating back to the others in at least some dim oblique fashion. That’s my goal, anyway.
For Where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also
While it’s entirely appropriate to familiarize a student with the ancient classics, one of my chief concerns with the classical model centers on what might be described as an overly charmed fascination with, and fixation on, certain works of antiquity. This is to say that there can be a tendency to elevate the classics to a nearly divine status of importance.
If one is not careful, the centrality of a Christ-centered approach to education can subtly take a backseat to what the pagan classics can supposedly bequeath to the student. The search for the good, the beautiful, and the true slips into an undue exultation of these texts, displacing the passion for things biblical with a thirst for academic achievement. The affections of the heart shift. The educational center turns down a slightly different path. A misalignment of passion and purpose creeps in.
Simply stated, one must be wary of idolizing the classics.
I’ve witnessed this over the years. But in saying this, let me be careful. I’m not claiming to be able to see into a person’s heart. Nor am I claiming to be anyone’s judge. I can only point to instances where I think a person’s love for the classics turned into something unhealthy.
With that caveat fixed firmly in place, allow me to illustrate my concern with a quote from Joshua Gibbs. In a recent interview, he said,
“The love that we have for good things inspires us and compels us and obligates us (and with delight) to live out those things that we love. To increase them in the world. To make them more present. To make them more powerful. To glorify them.
If you love the Divine Comedy, you want to glorify it. You want to tell everyone about it. You want to live it out. You want to live in such a way that Dante would approve of your life.
If you love Augustine, if you love the City of God, if you love Boethius, if you love Jane Austen you want to live in such a way that these people would approve of you. You want to in a sense, like, you want a double portion of their spirit. You want to live out Jane Austen’s life in her absence. You want to collect her mantle and walk around the world as her and be confused for her. And you believe that this is good because that Jane Austen was a great human being. You believe that Dante was a great human being.
It’s not enough to just know the Comedy. It’s not enough to just, you know, be familiar with it and be capable of reproducing a schematic of all three of the canticles. What the classical teacher wants is the student to love this book. And I want to make a distinction here. Not to love learning. To love Dante. To love the Divine Comedy. Not to love learning in an abstract way but to love learning Dante. To love learning good things. To love learning things that last. Not just the love of learning any old thing. But the love of learning good things. And in that love, um, incarnating after Dante—Dante’s truth and goodness and beauty. Incarnating after Jane Austen. Her truth and goodness and beauty.
So that’s how I think it leads to a good life. That’s how I think the love of good things ultimately manifests itself in a human life. It’s by living Dante’s life after him. By living Jane Austen’s life after her.”
In the above quote, replace the word Dante with Christ. Replace Jane Austen with the Holy Spirit. Replace the Divine Comedy with God’s Word. Those substitutions would befit such lofty language.
Now I am well aware that Mr. Gibbs could be read charitably. I think it would take a fair bit of eye-scrunching, but I’m willing to extend it to him.
Actually, no. I take that back. I don’t like what he said. I think it’s imbalanced. At the very least, such effusive praise should raise a note of caution. We are being conformed to the image of Christ, not Dante. That is our destiny. Christ is the one on whom we should fix our eyes. He is the one we should emulate. He alone is the perfect God-man. To the degree that other human beings reflect Christ, we can appreciate and honor them, even seek to follow their example. Elders are to be models to the flock, after all. The same would be true of Paul who enjoined the saints to follow his way of life. But we must guard against the misuse of good things. This ever-alluring temptation resides in the basin of man’s heart.
Speaking with penetrating wisdom, D.A. Carson reminds teachers of a critically important truth. He said,
“If I have learned anything in 35 or 40 years of teaching, it is that students don’t learn everything I teach them. What they learn is what I am excited about, the kinds of things I emphasize again and again and again and again. That had better be the gospel.
If the gospel—even when you are orthodox—becomes something which you primarily assume, but what you are excited about is what you are doing in some sort of social reconstruction, you will be teaching the people that you influence that the gospel really isn’t all that important. You won’t be saying that—you won’t even mean that—but that’s what you will be teaching. And then you are only half a generation away from losing the gospel.
Make sure that in your own practice and excitement, what you talk about, what you think about, what you pray over, what you exude confidence over, joy over, what you are enthusiastic about is Jesus, the gospel, the cross. And out of that framework, by all means, let the transformed life flow.”
Beware the Inroads to Roman Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy
I don’t want to speak out of turn, since I am largely working from anecdotal evidence, but it seems there is a higher-than-usual allure/drift toward Catholicism and Orthodoxy in classical circles. This puzzling tendency might be attributed, in part, to the undue elevation of the classics. If someone begins to esteem the classics more highly than one ought, believing they contain unique, or superabundant deposits of truth, beauty, and goodness, then one has, in principle, opened to door to Catholicism and Orthodoxy. These two religious groups cherish the idea of (capital T) Tradition, and so if the canon of Western literature flowers into something akin to the divine, harboring a near mystical quality, some of the key presuppositions undergirding Catholicism and Orthodoxy suddenly begin to make more sense.
Tradition becomes a palatable concept. The epistemological framework appears more plausible. This is because truth is viewed as flowing equally, or very nearly equally, through diverse works of literature, rather than preeminently in the Scriptures. This is to say that when a man is engaged in a passionate love affair with the classics, the bright line between canonical Truth and human tradition can erode in surprising ways.
“Why yes,” says the person enticed by Rome. “Divine Tradition does seem to reside in the church fathers. I can see that Truth is embodied in a larger canon that we might call Tradition. There are insights to be had that will elevate liturgy, ecclesiology, theology, even architecture. Icons just might operate as windows into heaven…”
I don’t think it is a coincidence that Mr. Gibbs spoke the way he did. He’s Eastern Orthodox. And we would do well to take heed lest we slip into a different epistemological paradigm, one that subtly supplants the unique authority of God’s holy word.
Beware lest thy affections for the classics stretch beyond their proper limits.
Ivory Towernessness
Intellectually gifted people can make just about anything sound profound—even boring, wildly mediocre things. With all the craft of a Greek rhetorician, they summon historical references to spice up the text, draw out philosophical enigmas to baffle listeners, weave in well-crafted stories, conjure names like Plato, Aquinas, and Kant, cite classics, and utilize all manner of other handsome tactics to dress up the tale. This impressive talent is what might be referred to as ivory towernessness.
Sometimes I think educators find in the classics a delicious opportunity to flex their ivory towernessness. Even though the text in question is often arduous and archaic, it is nevertheless championed as a work of sublime beauty—a kind of pinnacle of human achievement—whereby the uninitiated are encouraged to rise beyond their more pedestrian notions of excellence.
It goes without saying that we ought to be challenged. And it is certainly true that we should be encouraged to mature in our tastes. But it also ought to be asked whether or not these older classics uniquely dispense wisdom. Similarly, it ought to be asked if the amount of heavy lifting required to elucidate them justifies their usage when other more enjoyable works could grant the same intellectual nutrients, but with greater ease.
My contention is that a fair number of these classics are only interesting if they’re dressed up in the purple robes of ivory towernessness. But if that is the case, then it follows that just about anything can be dressed up to look like a king or a queen. It all hinges on the skill of the teacher. Some drone on endlessly, causing their pupils to slip into a coma, while a magical few can make a tree stump seem astonishing. If your child has to endure the former, great will be his suffering; epic poems will be little more than burs stuck in the folds of their bleeding minds.
This isn’t to say that we should chuck the ancient classics. There are relatively good reasons for being broadly familiar with the foundations of Western literature. But students need not gorge themselves on it. Essentially all of the same insights and metaphysical questions and human dynamics can be drawn out of other more readable and enjoyable stories.
Allow me to linger on that last sentence.
In his book From Achilles to Christ: Why Christians Should Read the Pagan Classics, Louis Markos seeks to explicate various pagan classics, showing how the characters, themes and symbols within these myths both foreshadow and find their fulfillment in the story of Jesus Christ—the “myth made fact.” He seeks to dispel misplaced fears about the dangers of reading classical literature, and he offers a Christian approach to the interpretation and appropriation of these great literary works.
One of the remarkable features of his methodology is how easy it is to produce the same results with other literary works. No, really. A mildly gifted expositor can mine the same kinds of jewels from essentially any text. All it takes is a moderately rich tale, a modest investment of time, and a pinch of ivory towernessess.
Slow Down. Remember the Student’s Frame.
There’s a tendency among classical educators to run children through a kind of literary blitzkrieg. Students are not only subjected to extremely challenging works, but they’re introduced to them at a pace that can boggle the mind. What might be best suited for, say, 9th or 10th grade is pushed forward to 7th grade. The usual reply is that one would be surprised at what their child is capable of if they are challenged.
This is entirely true. I might be surprised at what my child could endure in a war-torn country while scavenging for food. But I don’t want that for my child. The same is often true with the demands of a full-throttle classical model. If I am willing to make their education the near all-consuming centerpiece, sucking up much of their time and energy with studies, then yes, I will likely be surprised at what they can accomplish. But as with everything in life, the costs are going to have to be weighed in the balance of missed opportunity, drudgery, perceived benefit, and joy.
In my view, students would be better served if the reading list (from 7th grade on) was dialed back.
Retention Rates = A Telling Story
The proof is often found in the pudding. Schools that introduce markedly challenging texts early in the curriculum typically experience a gradual decline in student retention. I’ve heard that seventh grade is where it really begins to take shape. Even if that isn’t the precise moment, I think it’s fair to say that the road to graduation is quite challenging, stretching most students beyond what they can bear, or are willing to reasonably bear.
Naturally, a private school has every right to make the path to graduation strenuous. If cranking out Navy Seals is the goal, so be it. But if so, I think it would be fitting for administrators to honestly recognize this fact and build it into their mission statement.
Here’s why I say that.
Oftentimes a school’s mission statement will focus on how they are intentionally seeking to raise up virtuous, godly Christians who are able to navigate the world with wisdom, skillfulness, and love. It’s a Christ-centered education. It goes without saying that this is entirely laudable. But when the mission statement is framed rather broadly (referencing Christians more generally), it envisions what should be attainable for most saints. But this is often not the case. Given the intentional rigor of the system, only a small subset of Christians are able to reasonably achieve such ends. It’s an elite system reaching beyond the abilities and joyful interest of most.
Thus, the practical on-the-ground realities effectively redefine the mission statement. The more honest statement would begin with: “We are seeking to raise up a fairly specialized subset of academic Christians who…”
There’s a way to make the classical model applicable to the vast majority of Christians. Simply reign in the elitism. As it stands, the educational process reminds me of the M. Night Shyamalan movie Unbreakable. There’s a sense in which large swaths of starry-eyed students are left in the dust in order to locate the crème de la crème—the unbreakable ones.
I will confess that this might be a touch overstated, but I want to get the point across clearly. You can be classical without being elite. And so if a Christ-centered education stands preeminently at the fore, then the classical bit can be adjusted to accommodate greater numbers of people.
Just make it easier.
I think that would be a very good thing. But I suspect that for most proponents of classical education, the classical bit has to be strenuous. Which is just not true.
At any given point, there are parents and educators arguing over what should constitute a classical curriculum. Let me state something plainly. A Christ-centered education is not dependent on a specific list of books unless we are talking about the 66 canonical ones. Those are the ones God has seen fit to impress upon us as of first importance. Those are the ones on which we should meditate day and night. Those are the ones that we speak about with our children throughout the day.
I’m not at all saying that we shouldn’t consume other books. Nor am I suggesting that there isn’t a Western canon of sorts. I’m merely saying that the rigor of the classical model isn’t going to suffer if we spend less time on, say, The Iliad, or Eusebius, or any of the other primary sources that often confound middle and high school students—especially when so much hinges on the skill of the teacher to elucidate the text in a winsome and highly understandable way.
Older Is Not Always Better. New Is Sometimes Far More Effective. And Pleasant.
Ever since the 1800s, there’s been a veritable cascade of fictional works, pouring down in numbers that nearly defy comprehension. My contention (get ready to be annoyed) is that humanity leveled up mightily in their storytelling capabilities in the 18th and 19th centuries. Fictional works produced in the last 300 years are just better reads overall. The prose is richer. The format is more accessible. Depth of character and setting shine more brightly. They’re truly enjoyable works expressed through a superior method of storytelling.
This shouldn’t be controversial. In the same way that the realism of oil on canvas revolutionized and advanced the arts, so too Dickens and Austen showed the world how a story can really be told. But even beyond these literary geniuses, there are mounds of beautifully written stories that naturally attract the minds of students. Handed the right book, they’ll naturally want to read them and discuss them.
Why kick against the goads?
Oblivisci Latin
Confession. I used Google translate to obtain that phrase. I’m about 99% sure that plugging in “forget Latin” won’t quite get at what I am trying to convey. But you know what, nobody really cares, because Latin just isn’t all that important these days.
Here’s the thing. As a parent hearing the pitch for classical education for the first time, there’s a certain heady appeal and esoteric sparkle at the thought of one’s child learning Latin. Not only does it smack of intellectualism—the kind which will distinguish them from the hordes—but it provides an opportunity for purchasing matching shirts on Amazon which read “Sola Lingua Bona Est Lingua Mortua.”
Let it be stated clearly that I am not denying there is value in learning Latin. There is. Just as there is value in learning nearly any other language. My main concern with studying Latin is that the benefits don’t outweigh what could be gained through other avenues of study. If, say, learning Latin affords a student ten pounds of benefit, one can attain twenty or thirty pounds of benefit by allocating the same amount of time to another language or field of study. Simply put, there’s a cost-to-benefit analysis that every parent and teacher has to consider. And I’m saying that Latin isn’t worth the squeeze.
Jonathan Roberts sums up my concern nicely when he writes,
“Yes, Latin study has secondary benefits, but there are easier and more practical ways to get them. If you want preparation for learning a modern language… well, why would you? Just learn the modern language. (Imagine somebody saying, “I’m planning to learn French, so I think I’ll warm up with some Italian classes.”) If you want a mental workout, study calculus. If you want an “unexcelled system” with predictable rules and clockwork regularity (and career value), learn JavaScript. But if you want to enjoy Virgil and Ovid and Augustine and Aquinas—without sacrificing their original beauty, clarity, or wit—then by all means, learn Latin, and learn it well.”
In the end, either a person goes all in, learning Latin with the prospects of reading classical works in the original language (Yikes!), or a person pivots, substituting Latin with other more relevant endeavors which will have greater payoff.
Unless your child is something of a born linguist with a penchant for study, Latin is likely going to prove arduous and frustrating. That’s how my children felt. Therefore, when the simple calculus of joy + interest + payoff is weighed in the balance of educational decisions, Latin just doesn’t win out.
While I think most of us know this intuitively given our modern context, we nevertheless feel the weight of the sales pitch. It tugs at us. It pulls at the I-want-to-be-a-good-parent string dangling inside us. We want the best for our child, and when the benefits of Latin are laid out like jewels on a black cloth, they appear sorely impressive, urging us to take the more challenging path.
The problem is that most of the benefits aren’t that beneficial.
Let’s look at a few.
Argument in Favor of Latin: Those who study Latin overwhelmingly score higher on standardized tests than students who have not studied Latin.
Reply: Of course. Because only the student equivalent of Navy Seals survive until the end of this educational process. The process naturally selects for the elect of the elect—those who are not only somewhat gifted but who have parents who are willing to support them with near endless energy. They are typically going to be the cream of the academic crop. But the question that begs to be asked is whether or not they’d score the same had they invested equal time in another field of study or language. I suspect that they would.
Argument in Favor of Latin: Studying Latin provides a fuller understanding of the English language. 40% of English words are derived from Latin.
Reply: It’s true. A significant percentage of English words are derived from Latin. But it’s also true that 100% of English words are English words, so why not just focus on them? Learning Latin prefixes and roots could certainly prove helpful, but one need not load themselves down with all the other baggage. Spencer McDaniel helpfully writes (Good and Bad Reasons to Learn Latin),
“It is true that Latin can help you understand words in English. Of course, we once again run into the problem that Latin is a very complicated language. If the only reason why you are learning Latin is to improve your vocabulary, then you are putting in way more effort than you need to, since, instead of learning the whole language along with all its convoluted grammar, you could just learn the Latin roots that are used in English and leave it at that. To understand that omniscient means “all-knowing,” you just need to know that the root “omni” means “all” and “sci” means “knowledge.” You do not necessarily need to know all the masculine/feminine and neuter declensions of the Latin adjective omnis, omne for all six cases in both the singular and the plural numbers, nor do you necessarily need to know all the conjugations of the fourth-conjugation verb scio in all three persons, both numbers, all three tenses, both voices, and all three moods. If you go to all the trouble of learning the whole Latin language when really all you wanted was to improve you vocabulary, you may just be putting in too much effort.”
Argument in Favor of Latin: Professional quadrants still rely heavily on Latin for terminology.
Reply: Some do. But so what? If the day comes, learn those words in that field.
Argument in Favor of Latin: Learning Latin allows one to read classics in the original Latin. Or it allows one to read untranslated works.
Reply: Sure, if you gain mastery over the language. But last I checked, most classical schools aren’t going that hard in Latin. And again, the number of students who will take an active interest in reading untranslated works is minuscule.
Sometimes the argued benefits of Latin rise to that of the nearly mystical, promising manifold blessings if the student will but drink deeply from its life-giving pools. Here I would point the reader to Cheryl Lowe’s article Top 10 Reasons for Studying Latin. See especially points nine and ten. I can’t help but think that the author got a bit swept up in the currents of her enthusiasm. Consider this rather bizarre proclamation:
“Learn Latin! You will be doing your part to save Western civilization and transform your education from good to great.”
Oh, my.
Concluding Thoughts
Now that I have trampled through the halls of classical education like a lumbering ork, causing the passerby to wonder if I like anything about the system, let me say in all candor that I do esteem the pedagogy. I just think certain conceptions of it need to chill out.
Learning is a lifetime endeavor. There’s a certain tiger-like breed of parent who wants their child to excel by the age of four and a half. This desire is somewhat understandable, but it is one that the passage of time typically quells, or at least softens. We all want our children to do well, but the kind of success we truly desire doesn’t hinge on the perfect selection of books or curriculum. Christian children have excelled and floundered under all kinds of educational approaches. A loving family with a good church in combination with a Christ-centered education usually accomplishes wonders.
God is good. You don’t have to sweat the little things.
So if you happen to be a parent who is struggling to keep up with an idealized vision of classical education, my sincere advice is to relax. Keep Scripture in the foreground. Have them read a lot. Have them play a lot. Be faithful day after day. Keep your hand to the plow. The harvest will come if you do. In fact, odds are good, if you are a sensible, loving parent who is concerned about your child’s soul, and you utilize the daylight God gives, your child is likely already budding with manifold flowers.
The Sound of Doctrine 