Do You Know Your Own Mind?

Do you know your own mind?  More interestingly, does anyone else know your mind?  Now add the subgroup: do scientists know your mind?  Does modern science provide an adequate understanding of the human mind? 

Marilynne Robinson’s Absence of Mind is a reflection on that topic.

First, though, it is worth noting the curiosity of this book and author combination.  Robinson is best known as a novelist.  (Gilead is a very good novel.  Perhaps, fifty years from now, it will even be a Great Book.  Serious praise, there.)  

So, here we have a novelist giving a set of lectures which are published as a book on a subject other than Literature. 

There are not many people who can write adeptly in both the fiction and non-fiction worlds.  

Never has been if you think about it.

(Indeed, the more you think about it, the more you realize how shockingly rare the ability is.  That list must exist somewhere:  people who wrote both fiction and non-fiction books which are well worth reading.  (To be on the list, both the fiction and the non-fiction have to be really good.)  Could I make a list of 100 such people?  I am not so sure.  In fact, as I ponder it, I begin to doubt I could come up with 100 names.)  

But, Robinson has pulled it off—this book is quite good.

The argument:  modern science has completely obliterated the mind.  We all know we have a mind, we all know our minds think things, but Science (with a capital S) has completely discounted the evidence of our mind.  

Freud did this quite famously in Civilization and Its Discontents. Someone tells Freud about the Oceanic Feeling, the sense of eternity he has, which is a subjective fact for the person explaining the feeling.  Freud notes that such a feeling is not confined to this one person, but is widespread.  However, Freud does not have this sense.  Thus, it does not exist.  QED.  Thus Spake Freud, setting the pattern of proof for much of 20th Century Science.

But, as Robinson notes, 20th century science has an underling problem when it comes to the human mind.  Freud taught us how to think about the mind scientifically; no need for your introspection, just read Freud.  Darwinists also taught us the science of the Mind.  So did the Skinnerians.  (So did the Marxists.  So did the Nietzscheans.)  

Yet, and this is the point which is rarely noticed, while we have at least 5 (and really even more) strains of 20th century scientific thought which completely describe the Mind, these scientific theories are mutually contradictory.  Robinson is right: there is simply no way to reconcile Freud and Darwin in the theory of the Mind.  

More generally, the mind described in modern scientific treatises (of any school) does not bear a lot of resemblance to what I actually perceive as going on in my own head.  Maybe I am deceived about my own mind.  But, whence comes the confidence that it is me who is deceived; whence comes the confidence that Others, the Scientists, are not deceived when they posit theories about my Mind?

To take the example from Freud.  If my mind can sense eternity, that oceanic feeling which convinces me of the existence of eternity, but modern science cannot detect eternity in my mind, which is right?  Is there any reason to believe that Science can uncover the totality of what goes on in my mind?  Is there any reason to distrust that portion of my thoughts which are not susceptible to scientific refutation? 

Indeed, if we take Science seriously, there is little reason to Trust that our minds are capable of reasoning correctly.  Consider, for example, a Darwinian multiverse in which there are infinitely many universes—a theory which is trotted out to explain why we don’t need a God to explain the Universe in which we find ourselves.  

Now if there are infinitely many universes, then there is necessarily one like ours in every respect except for the fact that the human mind does not reason correctly, that what the human mind thinks is logically proven to be true is, in fact wrong.  There is a universe out there somewhere with lots of people thinking they are really intelligent because they have figured out some neat things about the universe, but everything they know to be true is, in fact, false.  

With infinitely many universes, that universe must exist somewhere.  Right?  How do we know it isn’t our universe? 

We trust our minds to reason correctly.  We trust them to develop science.  Yet, there is a suicidal impulse in the modern mind—as we trusted it to come up with explanations about itself, the explanations have all tended to obliterate the mind, to destroy any reason to suspect that the theory being used is True.  If all our thoughts are driven by X, then it necessarily follows that the minds of those who accept that theory are also driven by X, at which point it is useful to wonder why anyone would believe X to be.  

Modern science requires the idea of a trustworthy mind, immune from simplistic, deterministic processes, able to sort through and evaluate the world in which it finds itself.  Modern science requires a mind like the one most of us actually experience.  But why then reduce that mind to something incapable of feeling and thinking all the things I feel and think?

All of this is much like the denigration of the idea that Faith is a means of having Knowledge.  Yes, Reason is important and teaches us much.  But at the end of the day, Faith also teaches us much.  

That statement annoys many people to no end, and yet those same people get out of bed every morning with complete Faith that the world of today will function like the world of yesterday—a belief, as Hume pointed out centuries ago, for which there is not a shred of evidence.  It is literally impossible to test the hypothesis that the future will be like the past.  Yet, we all know it to be true.  I have never met anyone who doubted it.  And how do we know it?  The Mind is a curious place, isn’t it?

Robinson’s book is well worth reading.  It is the sort of book which sets the mind wandering into all sorts of avenues and alleys.  A thoughtful book puncturing some of the Pieties of the Age.  It would be nice if there were more books like that.

Related Books
Sayers, Dorothy The Mind of the Maker “Is This My Autobiography?
Rovelli, Carlo Reality is Not What it Seems “Science Says…”

How to Convince Students to Read?

A while back, I discussed Mark Edmundson’s Why Teach?  In Defense of a Real Education.

As I noted in the review, I didn’t learn much reading his book. But in a strange way, it sure inspired me. 


It was one of those books which frequently made me pause and think. Why Teach? Why am I a Teacher? What is my goal? 

Teaching, really teaching, in the modern college is tough.  Very tough.   

I love my students. I really do. But, truth be told, and it is not a pleasant thing to tell myself, most of my students, whom I dearly love, do not actually want an education. Most of my students just want an A and a diploma. The tough part of teaching, the really tough part, is figuring out a way to convince those students who just want an A and a diploma that maybe they should want something else. Maybe they should want to pause and get an education. 

The students who want an education are easy and fun to teach.  Professor, student, Great Book—an amazing education.  I love teaching those students.

But, how to convince the majority of my students that this is what they should want, that their lives will be richer and fuller if they momentarily forget about that A and that diploma and just think about Truth?

Therein lies the thing I started pondering deeply while I was reading Edmundson’s book and have been pondering ever since. I too have been playing the kinder, gentler Jeremiah—not with my colleagues, but with my students.  I have been using gentle enticements to try to lull my students into a new set of desires. 

I have been trying to model a Joy of Learning, and hoping that the spirit will catch on. And it has worked on many, many students.  But not all.  If I am honest, not even most.  Maybe, and here is the intriguing part, just maybe the kinder, gentler approach should be accompanied by methods more dramatic.

I’ll give an example.  In my macroeconomic theory course—textbook intermediate level course required of all majors—I have long been assigning supplemental books, books which normal people buy at a bookstore and read. I assign three a semester, tell students to just read them and enjoy them. I then ask painfully simple exam questions about them—as I tell students up front, if you read the book, you will know the answer. A few students read the books—it is surprising, quite honestly, how few.  Students don’t read anymore. Yet I keep putting these books in the course because for the students who do settle into a comfortable chair and just read for the pleasure of reading, there is that gentle enticement to the realization that learning stuff just for the joy of learning it is rather enjoyable.

A couple of years ago, one of those supplemental books I assigned was Chernow, The House of Morgan. It is a massive doorstop of a book.  I assigned it knowing full well that most students wouldn’t read it. After all, the previous semester, most students didn’t read Michael Lewis’ Flash Boys, which is short, quick, and lively. 

So, I figured since most students don’t read no matter how quick and easy the book is, why not throw in a longer supplemental book which will be immensely wonderful for that small minority of students who take it up and read it?  I assigned that book before I read Edmundson’s book.  But, now I am wondering—shouldn’t I do this every semester, shouldn’t I do more to convince students that spending one month reading just 25 pages a night of a magisterial history book is something worth doing? 

One thing is certain, I will fail to convince economics majors that they should want to read something like The House of Morgan.  It should not be a tough sell.  After all, if you are going to major in Economics and want to work on Wall Street, then you should be interested in the history of the Morgans. I have no hesitation is saying that emphatically. My students should want to read this book.  It is a wonderful book.  I can even add that the semester I did this, I had a student come in late in the semester with her dog-earned, well-marked up copy saying that not only was it the best book she had read in college, she had bought a copy for her father for Christmas. It’s that good.

Indeed, if you are at all interested in the word of finance, you, Dear Reader, should also read it. You can even click on the link, go straight to Amazon and buy a copy. A mere twenty-five (25!) pages a day and you can read it in a month. And, it is really good.

Most of my students did not and would not want to read this book.  It is 720 pages of text—a longer book than most of them have ever read.  But, don’t be too hard on my students. How many readers of this blog do you think clicked the link above to buy a copy of the book?

So, how do I teach my students to want to read more? Anything I do to convince them they should want to read a book like The House of Morgan will a) at best convince a very few more students to read it and b) certainly annoy and offend lots of students who resent being told that their preference sets should be altered.  If Edmundson and I are right about the problems of the modern college, then this shouldn’t even be a hard decision to make.  Obviously I should do more.

Why Teach?  Because Teaching can improve the lives of my students.  There is no other reason to teach.  It’s not about the grades, it’s not about the diplomas, it’s not about making students happy.  It is about improving lives. 

My students don’t know that.  I do. 

Yeah, it’s out of fashion to suggest that professors know something that students don’t know about what is best for the students.  But, if I don’t know more than my students about what makes a better life, then why am I a teacher?

The Way or The Great Game?

At one level, Kim, by Rudyard Kipling, is a rollicking adventure story of an Irish orphan growing up on the streets of India during the British Raj.

At another level, it is a deep refection on choosing the purpose of your life. It is this second level that makes this book worth reading (and rereading).

One of those Big Questions which I have spent innumerable pleasurable hours talking about with students is: “What should I do with my life?”  College is the first time most students have ever really been faced with that question.  Through high school, the next step was always obvious for the college-bound student.  Get good grades so you can get into college.  But, suddenly, the next step isn’t so obvious.

My students often start the conversation imagining that what is puzzling them is which career they should choose.  It turns out that everyone has advice for them on the “right” career path. 

It is actually quite surprising how many people give advice to others on which career is the right one.  For example, these days just about every student has been told by someone, usually multiple someones, that a major in Computer Science is the right choice.  Now, knowing many of these students, I can safely say that such advice is beyond awful for most of them.  A successful career programming computers requires a very particular (dare I say peculiar?) type of person.  Most people would hate such a job.

But, the fact that everyone is perfectly willing to tell a 20 year old what would be a good career path is exactly why the student is so confused.  Who is right?  Which is the right career?

That is how the conversation starts.  That conversation usually lasts under five minutes before I ask some variant of, “What do you want out of life?  What is your goal?”  And then begins the fascinating conversation.

This is exactly the central question in Kim.  Our Hero, nicknamed “Little Friend of All the World,” is a social chameleon; he can blend in anywhere.  His parents were Irish, but Kim has been so tanned by spending his days outdoors, he can easily pass as Indian. He is a very clever street urchin.

There are two threads to the plot.  First, Kim meets a Tibetan monk, who is looking for the place where Buddha’s arrow landed to create the River in which one bathes to wash away all sin.  The quest to find this river is The Way.  It is the way to enlightenment, to spiritual fulfillment, to peace and happiness.  Kim becomes a disciple of this charming and holy man and joins him on his journey in following The Way.

Meanwhile, Mahbub Ali, an Afghan horse-trader who works with the British secret service in spying on the enemies of the land, recruits Kim into The Great Game of espionage.  Kim is a natural spy, blending in well with whomever he meets.  Kim could become a great spy, indeed, without a doubt, the greatest spy of all.  The Great Game is exciting and daring and requires all of Kim’s intelligence and charm and wiles.

And right there is the choice facing my students.  Is the goal of life The Way of spiritual fulfillment or The Great Game of an exciting and lucrative career?  Kim is exactly like my students:

“Sahibs get little pleasure of travel,” he reflected. “Hai mai! I go from one place to another as it might be a kick-ball. It is my Kismet. No man can escape his Kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi Miriam, and I am a Sahib”—he looked at his boots ruefully. “No; I am Kim. This is the great world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?” He considered his own identity, a thing he had never done before, till his head swam. He was one insignificant person in all this roaring whirl of India, going southward to he knew not what fate.

Who is Kim?  The disciple of a Tibetan monk who will find joy at the discovery of the sacred river?  The student of The Great Game who will blaze a career of such success that people will write books about him?

And, like all Great Books, Kim is really asking: Who are You?

It is no wonder that my students are so tortured with this question of what they want to do with their lives.  It is a universal question.

Colleges don’t help students with this question, however.  They are also deeply conflicted.  The whole idea of an American liberal arts college is that The Way is the object of study.  The liberal arts are distinguished from the practical arts, and the colleges and universities were created to help students delve into the mysteries of life and thereby discover their complete selves. 

But, in a Faustian bargain, American liberal arts colleges have raised the price tag to $70,000 a year by promising training in The Great Game. They will help the student get that lucrative job.

So, we have a historical curriculum structure grounded in teaching The Way, yet the rhetoric of both the colleges and the instructors is the promise of teaching how to play The Great Game.  No wonder college students are confused.  If you study literature and history and philosophy and economics and science purely for the career benefits such study will bring, it does not take long to realize that you aren’t getting a lot of career benefits from most of your classes.

Break the pattern.  Pick up Kim and read it because it is a fun book wrestling with a deep question and let it take you wherever it will.

Skipper Worse

Raise your hand if you have ever heard of Skipper Worse by Alexander Lange Kielland.  

Anyone?  Anyone? 

This novel was included in Charles Eliot’s series, Harvard Classics. That series was intended to show that you could get a basic liberal education in a library which fits on a five foot shelf.  

So, imagine the challenge—you have a mere five feet of bookshelf space and you want to put in all the classics.  So, Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Plato, Aristotle. And so on.  Oh, and Kielland’s Skipper Worse.

A curious choice to put it mildly.  I had never heard of this book until a friend of mine, Chris Fauske, published a translation of the book.  Chris kept telling me the book was really good.  He was right; it is very well worth reading.  

That is what got me puzzling—why hadn’t I ever heard of Kielland or this novel in any other context?  And you can imagine my shock when I found it listed as one of the books in Charles Eliot’s (yes, Charles Eliot, President of Harvard, proponent of Great Books!) Harvard Classics.   Hard to get a bigger stamp of Great Book than that.

But, then it gets really odd:  Skipper Worse does not have its own page in Wikipedia.  Now we have a Great Book without a Wikipedia page!  I suspect this is a set of one.

And then, I discover that Harold Bloom didn’t list Kielland’s novel in the appendix of The Western Canon, which pretty much lists every work of high fiction ever written.

So, what do Charles Eliot and Chris Fauske know that the rest of the universe doesn’t?

Kielland is Norwegian and is part of the generation of writers who helped create Norway as a distinct country and people.  Publishing this work in 1882, he is doing for Norway much what Dickens was doing for England or Tolstoy was doing for Russia—trying to capture society as a whole in a novel.  

Using this novel as the reference point (I have no other independent knowledge of Norway in the late 19th century (yeah, clearly I have a critical failing in my education—how did 1880s Norway get skipped in every class I ever took?)), Norway was caught in a real cultural crossroads as an older maritime culture met a burgeoning commercial class met an intensely devout religious class.  Poor Skipper Worse.  

(Can I note how hard it was to get over the fact that “Worse” is just his last name and not the English word “worse”?)  

Skipper Worse likes to sail boats.  At the start of the novel he has just completed the first-ever round-trip voyage from Norway to Rio.  (Almost, but not quite, as important a voyage as Dias rounding the Cape of Good Hope, to be sure.)  

The Skipper’s ship is named The Hope of the Family (insert “Symbolism Alert”).  By the end of the first chapter, you know this is going to be one of those nice novels where a maritime hero settles back into the life of his beloved homeland.  Except it isn’t.  While he was away, Norway changed.  

Skipper Worse’s old life no longer exists, and he is suddenly faced with a problem.  What world should he join?  There is the grand new commercial world where Skipper Worse can become a shipping magnate running a large-scale commercial enterprise.  There is the intense new religious community where Skipper Worse can thwart the devil and all his works through a life of simplicity and intense devotion.  And there is his tavern and his old friends with whom he can while away the years getting merrily drunk and telling tall tales.  

Oh, and there is a girl.  A young girl, much younger that the Skipper.  Maybe Worse can regain his lost youth with this younger bride; all the more important because Worse’s son is, well, not a good fellow (nothing to look forward to there).  

Throw in some interesting characters from the commercial and religious worlds, and you have an intriguing portrait of Norway at a slice in time when Norway has to decide what it means to be Norway.

For the scope of the novel, it is surprisingly short; just 164 pages in the Fauske translation.  Yet despite being under 200 pages, I feel like I know this town, these people.  And it breaks my heart to see them so divided, so poised on the cusp of great societal upheaval, so unprepared for what the future will bring.  These are people who are simply not prepared for the 20th century.

Another curious note, Skipper Worse is a prequel to Kielland’s earlier novel Garman & Worse.  But, for as much as I enjoyed Skipper Worse, I am not eager to read the sequel.  This is partly because I have such a quaint little picture of this town that I am not sure I want to know what happens next.  

On prequels: what is the first literary prequel ever published?  To qualify: an author needs to have written both the original and the prequel. Retelling old myths doesn’t count—it has to be an original story followed by another original story that precedes the one already published.  

I have not exhaustively thought about this, and I may be missing something really obvious, but it is just possible that Skipper Worse is the first one that would qualify.  I’d be happy to hear that this is wrong, by the way—I suddenly am quite interested in this matter.  (Don’t ask why I am interested. I have no idea why I get interested in anything.)

On Wikipedia: the lack of a Wikipedia entry on this book is more than just puzzling.  It also makes me wonder if I should take up a project about which I feel twinges of guilt all the time.  Should I be spending time each week improving Wikipedia?  I love Wikipedia—I use it all the time.  But, I often note small errors or omissions or things that it would be good to include.  I certainly know enough random, but kinda interesting things.  I could do this.  But, I never have.  Why not?  Surely working on a free, global encyclopedia is not a bad use of a half-hour a week.  Yet, I have been tortured with the idea that I should do this for over a decade, and never once done so.  I have no idea why not.  But, I can say—creating at least a rudimentary Wikipedia page for Skipper Worse is certainly worth doing.

In the meantime, I’ll simply recommend Skipper Worse to you.  (The Fauske translation is the one in the Amazon link above.)  The novel is a very pleasant way to spend an evening or two.

The Follies of John Kenneth Galbraith

Consider John Kenneth Galbraith’s (he of three names—so as not be confused with John Galbraith, you know, the one without the Kenneth) book, The Affluent Society.  

Here is the funny thing about Galbraith.  To non-economists of a certain age (read: old), Galbraith was one of the leading lights of economics, the guy who popularized Keynes, the guy who understood economics and could explain it to the masses.

But, within the economics guild, Galbraith barely exists. Sure his name floats around in the waters here and there, but I have never met an economist who actually took him seriously.  Occasionally, I would see a reference to Galbraith’s claim that the function of advertising was to manufacture desires. Said reference was usually provided as a launching point to show that advertising does nothing of the kind.  

So, Galbraith was the non-economist’s economist and the economist’s non-economist.  I was never tempted to read him.

But, then the Library of America (Arbiter of Taste) published a volume of Galbraith.  Clearly the Universe was whispering in my ear, “Time to Read Galbraith.”  Who am I to argue with the Whisperings of the Universe?

In one way, Galbraith was exactly what I assumed he was—a rather sloppy and lousy economist.  My goodness, there it is, that Sasquatch of economics: an actual sighting of someone arguing post-Friedman that inflation is caused by wage demands, not that silly money stuff about which you may have heard.   

But, it turns out that Galbraith’s rather dated economics is a minor part of the argument as a whole; indeed, strip out the sloppy macroeconomic model, and The Affluent Society would be a vastly better book.

One way to read The Affluent Society is that it is merely Walden, Part 2.  

By the mid-20th century, it was obvious: America was a very affluent society.  Indeed, the level of wealth in mid-20th century America was staggeringly high by historical standards.  And, we are even more affluent now than we were when Galbraith was writing.  

As we have gained all this new wealth, we have all this new stuff.  Getting wealth and new stuff makes us happier, right?  So, surely we must all be in some sort of perpetual ecstasy these days.  

But, we aren’t.  Why?  “Among the many models of the good society, no one has urged the squirrel wheel.”  Yes, we want more wealth and better stuff, but there is always even newer and even better stuff on the horizon, so we are left with a perpetual feeling that we aren’t quite at the Stuff Frontier.  This breeds dissatisfaction.  Sure, I have a new iPhone, but that new iWatch sure seems even more Awesome.

At this point in the argument, Galbraith starts running into problems.  He doesn’t like the fact that we always want more.  He thinks we should be content with the basic necessities of life. But along comes The Corporation (insert shudder) which through Advertising (insert screams of terror) manufactures in us false desires for the things which they are producing.  Left to ourselves, we would have a different set of desires.  

And, what, pray tell, would that look like?  How exactly are our desires being corrupted?  “Houses; automobiles; the uncomplicated forms of alcohol, food and sexual enjoyment; sports; and movies require little prior preparation of the subject for the highest enjoyment.  A mass appeal is thus successful, and hence it is on these things that we find concentrated the main weight of modern want creation.”  Hmmm.  Something seems amiss in that there list of manufactured enjoyments.  

Ah, yes, he clears it up in the next sentence: “By contrast, more esoteric desires—music and fine arts, literary and scientific interests, and to some extent even travel—can normally be synthesized, if at all, only on the basis of a good deal of prior education.”  

If only we were all as enlightened as John Kenneth Galbraith to like the proper things, the things requiring a fine (preferably Ivy League) education, you know things like fine art and sophisticated forms of alcohol and sophisticated food, and, yes, even sophisticated sexual enjoyment (oh, JKG, how it would have been nice for you to have explained that one), if only we all had these educated tastes, then those corporations (shudder) and their advertising (terror) would not be so effective.

And, suddenly, the game is up.  Clearly that Advertising doesn’t seem to be working on dear old J. Kenneth Galbraith.  He sees right through it and enjoys his sophisticated pleasures.  That is because his desires are natural and not manufactured.  He likes Cognac and Mozart because it is natural to like Cognac and Mozart—all you need is a fine education. You, unenlightened Reader, like Beer and Football because corporations convinced you to like them.  And I, Your Humble Narrator, like cognac, beer, Mozart and football because…hmmm.  I am stuck there.

One way of looking at it: all our desires are manufactured.  Nobody is born liking Led Zeppelin or Drake.  Some people develop good taste and like the former; some don’t and like the latter.  Why?  Taste formation is a complicated thing.  But, it is not clear that our desires are any more manufactured in an age of television advertising than they were in the Dark Ages.  People liked decorative clothing long before corporations came along to tell them they should like them.

Another way to look at it: we have necessities: food and shelter.  But, once you have shelter from the rain, it is wrong to want insulation to keep you warm in winter?  Is it wrong to want air conditioning to keep you cool in the summer?  Is it wrong to want a man cave so you can put in a large screen TV and an epic audio system so you can watch football in a state of total immersion?  Nobody wanted any of those things before they were invented.  But, it sure is nice now that they are invented, even though I only have two of the three.  Is it bad that in idle moments I think I would be really nice to have the third?

Galbraith would surely say it is wrong, but that is because his preference set is quite different than mine.  You see, dear old JK Galbraith has a sophisticated set of preferences based on objective reality.  I am not exaggerating.  JKG knows that because of all those false wants, we spend too much on private goods (you know, things you buy for yourself) and not enough on public goods (you know, things the government buys for you).  

You aren’t allowed to disagree with JKG on that point, by the way: “This disparity between our flow of private and public goods and services is no matter of subjective judgement.”  If you think we aren’t underfunding public goods, you are a flat-earther.  It is objectively true.

Now that line of argument would be intriguing if John Kenneth Galbraith could actually stick to his argument.  But, he can’t.  You see: only some public goods are underfunded.  Military expenditures are overfunded.  Uh…  So, public goods that Galbraith wants more of are underfunded and public goods Galbraith wants less of are overfunded.  And Galbraith knows this because…well, because, he, unlike the rest of us who disagree with objective truth, sees through the attempt to manufacture false desires.

What genuinely puzzles me about Galbraith is how he is so certain that his own desires haven’t been manufactured.  How does he know he isn’t the deluded one and the people he thinks are deluded aren’t seeing clearly? 

In the end, The Affluent Society is a flawed book.  But flawed in a way that makes it eminently worth reading.  It makes you think.  That is high praise.  

Higher praise: I was faced with the choice on where to keep Galbraith’s book.  Does it belong in the economics section or the non-economics, nonfiction section of my library?  He now lives in the latter—this is very high praise.  Before reading him, I assumed he would be filed under economics and relegated to being a bad economics book.  But, the parts that are good in this book, the non-economics parts, are worthy enough of respect, that he got filed outside of economics.  I am not sure he would see that as praise, but it is.

You Are a Creator

Imagine you were going to describe God to someone.  What is the first thing you would say about God?

Compare your answer to this:  what is the first thing the Bible tells us about God? 

God is a Creator.

Dorothy Sayers’ The Mind of the Maker is an extended reflection on this idea.  Like many a Great Book it roams all over the place, but for a moment, think about her central thesis.  If we want to understand the Trinitarian God, we can begin by thinking about the creative human.

Genesis actually tells us to do this.  On the sixth day, when God creates Human (which is what the Hebrew word ‘adam  means), Genesis tells us God creates Human in His own image. 

And what is the only image of God which the text has presented to this point in the narrative?  God is a creator.  God the creator creates Human in His image. God creates creators.

How does Creativity work according to Sayers? 

First there is the Idea, the controlling thought. 

Then there is the Energy, the actual implementation of the idea. 

Then there is the Power, the effect of the implementation of the idea. 

Think of a book. There is the idea in the mind of the author (what is this book attempting to say?), the actual words of the book (how can the author’s idea be communicated?), and the effect the book has on the reader (what does the reader think or feel after reading the book?).

God the Father is the Idea; God the Son is the energy; God the Holy Spirit is the Power.  All work together as one creator, no part can be removed and still have the Creator intact, each part is distinct and yet fully the being of the Creator.

Like all analogies of the Trinity, this one breaks down if you lean on it too hard.  But, the importance of Sayers’ book is not as another attempt to explain the Trinity.  Rather, the book is a marvelous examination of the idea of Creativity.

If Sayers is right, then we, created in the image of God, are created to be creators.  All of us. 

We will not all become Michelangelo or Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot or Bach.  We will not all be famous.  But, there is inside each of us an inner creator screaming to be let out.

Our problem is that we often do not let out the creator within. 

As Sayers notes, the image of the perfect Creator is one in which all three parts are equally there, an equilateral triangle. We need the controlling idea, the means to cause the idea to become incarnate, and the power to enable the creation to work in the world.  

But we are all too often scalene triangles (unequal sides). Artists fail when they are either too driven by one part of that trinity or when one of the parts atrophies.  

(Remember when you took Geometry?  When you asked why you need to learn the subject, did your teacher say, “So you can think about God”?) 

Sayers notes the distinction between
1. the Father Driven artists, possessed of an intellectual idea but never learning the craft of expressing their ideas;
2. the Son Driven artists with the tools to express, but nothing to be expressed; and
3. the Spirit driven artists who imagine they can work their Power on the world with neither Idea nor a Means to express an idea.  

(Sadly, Undergraduate artists are almost always that last group—nothing to say, and no skill at saying it, yet they spew their emotions onto the page.)  

None of us are perfect Creators.  Indeed, most of us are very bad at it.  But, our lack of moral perfection is not an excuse to cease from trying to do the right thing. Similarly, our lack of creative perfection should not stop us from creating. 

So, create something today.  Write a poem, even a bad one.  Draw a picture.  Put a plant in a pot or arrange some flowers in a vase.  Cook a meal you have never made before.  Tell a friend about something you read and awaken in that friend the desire to read it too. 

You are made in the image of the Creator God. So: Create.  

Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial