Follow the money to the Common Core

“I wouldn’t mind it nearly as much if I didn’t feel like I was just part of a big corporate and political campaign,” said a third-grade teacher I know. She was talking about the Common Core Curriculum. Recently another friend pointed me to this article in Politico, which helps me to understand. Though it contains some encouraging news about resistance efforts that have gained some momentum, there is also material that concerned me very much.

This, for instance:

The proponents would appear to have all the advantages. The Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation already has pumped more than $160 million into developing and promoting the Common Core, including $10 million just in the past few months, and it’s getting set to announce up to $4 million in new grants to keep the advocacy cranking. Corporate sponsors are pitching in, too. Dozens of the nation’s top CEOs will meet today to set the plans for a national advertising blitz that may include TV, radio and print.

libraryI’ve actually read and thought about this before. Whatever philanthropic good the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation may be responsible for, its presence at the roots of public education is sobering. That the developer of a computer operating system would be supporting, and gaining a dominant voice in, the content of our children’s intellectual development suddenly (or not so suddenly) explains why STEM so steamrolls the humanities in the operative conception of what an educated person is.

I prefer Wendell Berry’s wonderful phrase “furnishing the mind” to describe the process of educating someone. It implies the self as a dwelling place to be adorned with useful, beautiful things to use, care for, and create other things with. The mission statement at the CC website speaks rather drably of “knowledge and skills that our young people need for success in college and careers. With American students fully prepared for the future, our communities will be best positioned to compete successfully in the global economy.”

web-logo-2-1402247-mUnfortunately, students who do not have a richly furnished inner world are not “fully prepared for the future.” I think children need to know how to use the various forms of technology. I used it myself last night when I had to Google “substitute for canned cream of mushroom soup.” It improved my tuna casserole. But it takes the meat and potatoes served up by the humanities — imagination, philosophy, faith, art — to find meaning (rather than information) in the often bewildering and difficult circumstances of adult life. The global economy spins on its own, and human essentials like wisdom and freedom do not register there at all — nor are they articulated in our current notions about what makes an educated person.

It’s the weak in a society — the children and the elderly — who feel the effects of its bankrupt values first. The fact that millionaires, rather than respected educators, are developing the educational plan for the next generation feeds my cynical belief that it’s all about creating good consumers, dependent on a host of intermediaries between themselves and everything they want.


After writing this post about the role of experts in the morphing of the Christmas season in area public schools, I read Alice’s post about how Christians are partly to blame. She makes some great points about Christmas being meaningful to Christians, but not to people of other faiths, or of no faith. Our church has done Advent Conspiracy projects for the last two years, and one of the first points made in the Advent Conspiracy video is that the Christmas story is ours to tell — not the mall’s, not the school’s, not the government’s — and we Christians haven’t done a very good job, getting as caught up in the excesses of the season as anyone else.

However, there’s more going on. While it’s true that we shouldn’t expect nonChristians to celebrate the spiritual significance of Christmas, Jesus Christ is not exclusively a religious figure — “religious” in the sense that the word has come to mean: a category of experience that has no intellectual legitimacy. He’s a historical one. Dallas Willard writes about this in Knowing Christ Today, where he comments dryly that Jesus

was quite intelligent and knew what he was talking about. That is not unreasonable in the light of his place in world history. His responses to these [worldview] questions emerge from the ancient learnings of the Jewish nation, and they have been developed through the ages, in various ways, by his followers. But they are fundamentally his, and without him they never would have attained the status in history that they have. Without him and his answers there would have been no “Western civilization” as we know it. So let us assume that he actually knew what he was talking about…

In The Divine Conspiracy, Willard quotes Jaroslav Pelikan: “Jesus of Nazareth has been the dominant figure in the history of Western culture for almost twenty centuries. If it were possible, with some sort of super magnet, to pull up out of that history every scrap of metal bearing at least a trace of his name, how much would be left?”

There is a place for studying a person of such enormous impact, and studying him in such a way as to suggest the real scope of his influence. But when I was growing up, Jesus was someone I learned about in church. No history teacher ever breathed a word about him in school.

Today we have a further stage in this evolution. Jesus has been “tamed” (to use the language of Narnia). At Christmas, he is a figure behind one of many cultural traditions. They all have some spiritual content, but we can’t talk about that. And we can’t mention him without mentioning everyone else. He’s not really a standout.

Maybe the “Christmas Wars” of recent years have happened because at Christmas, Christians feel the smart. But it’s not something to be fixed by fighting for the Nativity scene to be displayed here or there. It’s not even something the Advent Conspiracy refocusing of the Christian story at Christmas can fix. The only real solution is revival: an awakening of the thirst for knowledge of God from the ashes of the bland cultural Christianity that has so effectively deadened our witness, not just at Christmas, but year-round.

Prophetic Untimeliness

In Prophetic Untimeliness: A Challenge to the Idol of Relevance (2009), Os Guinness explores the fascination with relevance that permeates evangelicalism, diagnosing it as a result of our uncritical immersion in our current view of time. He summarizes the problem in two densely woven sentences:

The faith-world of John Wesley, Jonathan Edwards, John Jay, William Wilberforce, Hannah More, Lord Shaftesbury, Catherine Booth, Hudson Taylor, D.L. Moody, Charles Spurgeon, Oswald Chambers, Andrew Murray, Carl Henry, and John Stott is disappearing. In its place a new evangelicalism is arriving in which therapeutic self-concern overshadows knowing God, spirituality replaces theology, end-times escapism crowds out day-to-day discipleship, marketing triumphs over mission, references to opinion polls outweigh reliance on biblical exposition, concerns for power and relevance are more obvious than concern for piety and faithfulness, talk of reinventing the church has replaced prayer for revival, and the characteristic evangelical passion for missionary enterprise is overpowered by the all-consuming drive to sustain the multiple business empires of the booming evangelical subculture.

The book begins by reviewing of the historical impact of clock-time, examines the ways it has shaped our values and concepts theologically, and offers a 3-part prescription for finding a perspective not held captive to our present culture:

  • Cultivate an awareness of the unfashionable.
  • Know history.
  • Pay constant attention to the eternal.

The gospel, he points out, is eternally “relevant” or it’s not good news at all. Our concern is not to “make it relevant,” but to be faithful to its message amidst the whirl of our time. In this way we can be something like the prophets of old, who often didn’t feel at home in their times but who were faithful to proclaim God’s truth.

Last night during a long car ride, I read the “solution” section aloud to my husband. I’ve tossed out blurbs to him here and there as I’ve been reading the book, and he wanted to hear it. It was an interesting experience, and it made me realize what a good book this would be to read with a group.

My husband complained that Guinness “paints with a broad brush” — he makes sweeping statements about periods of history, and about present-day church and culture. But to me, this is the delight of reading Guinness. He is so well-read and such a master of his subject that he can make such generalizations as a way of contextualizing his statements. His failure to support them in detail here results not from failure to have support, but from a decision to keep the focus clear and narrow (the book is only 119 pages long). But it was lots of fun to read aloud and be stopped so often to process and clarify.

It’s also only fair to add that my husband’s view, after hearing only the last section of the book, is that Guinness criticized extensively and solved minimally; his solutions (above) were not as thorough and developed as my husband would have wanted to see. But I didn’t feel that way. Maybe they seem undramatic because we are already cultivating them in various ways in our lives. But as ways of tying down our perspective in points outside the limits of culture — or, as Guinness puts it, of finding “an Archimedean point of leverage outside of history and society” — all three are effective disciplines to cultivate. As Christians we have one foot in eternity and one foot in time, and we need to be well balanced between them.

This is my third book by Os Guinness, and I always appreciate the elegance and wit of his thinking. There may be points here and there that I quibble with, but the overall effect of reading one of his books is intellectually astringent. There are insights large and small, breadth and depth and erudition that challenge and inspire. I would recommend this book to any evangelical for its power to startle, awaken, provoke and motivate.

A larger and truer confession

Someone forwarded Ben Stein’s CBS Sunday Morning “Confession” to me by email. Mr. Stein uses the following exchange as a springboard for discussing God’s alleged departure from America:

Billy Graham’s daughter was interviewed on the Early Show and Jane Clayson asked her ‘How could God let something like this happen?’ (regarding Hurricane Katrina).  Anne Graham gave an extremely profound and insightful response.  She said, ‘I believe God is deeply saddened by this, just as we are, but for years we’ve been telling God to get out of our schools, to get out of our government and to get out of our lives.  And being the gentleman He is, I believe He has calmly backed out.  How can we expect God to give us His blessing and His protection if we demand He leave us alone?’

Mr. Stein is Jewish and does not purport to speak for Christians, but the comments of Anne Graham Lotz reflect a common sentiment among believers, one I’ve heard before. I have no problem with the idea that we reap what we sow, but I take issue with how that principle is interpreted here. I disagree with the notion that God used to confer special blessing on America, but he’s gone now. I think it reflects a misunderstanding that strips God of both faithfulness and transcendence.

Biblically, the only nation God ever explicitly chose was Israel. With the advent of Christ, he didn’t withdraw that blessing, but he did widen it to extend the invitation to all nations. Jesus’ last recorded words are,

19“Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,

20teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28, emphasis added)

The idea that America is/was a “Christian nation” is true only in a limited sense. Its humanistic ideals are Christian; the Bible affirms the glory of humanity made in God’s image. The ideal that all are “created equal” was biblical when the founding documents were drawn up, and in every instance in which Americans have been challenged to rise up out of the hypocrisy of official oppression. But the idea that because of this we can appropriate a collective divine blessing implies that Christianity is a nationalistic proposition. It isn’t.

Jesus called for “disciples.” Throughout history, misguided rulers have assumed that he meant “nations.” But disciples are individuals. Disciples are not legislated or coerced, but choose freely to follow.  Disciples are, as Dallas Willard points out, apprentices learning to be like Jesus, to do what he said, to reflect his character. The impersonal cultural Christianity defined as a set of lifestyle choices is probably the worst thing that ever happened to this country’s understanding of the gospel.

If the conception of nationalistic Christianity is erroneous, then the suggestion that God would “calmly back out” is equally erroneous. But beyond the logical untenability of it, think about how false to the biblical picture of God this is. How can we believe that he, having made salvation available “once for all” out of his great love and mercy, would abandon us? “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” is quite clear. He has dwelt here not in our institutions, but in individual human hearts. To suggest that he has departed is to claim that he has gone back on his promise to those who believe. It would be a betrayal of the worst proportions, one that would discredit one of the central tenets of God’s nature as he has always defined himself: faithfulness.

The Anne Graham Lotz comment above paints God as an aggrieved, merely polite, and ultimately powerless parent. It reduces the problem of evil in the world — a problem theologians and ordinary human beings have wrestled with for centuries — to a cause-effect equation similar to that suggested by those folks who argued that God was punishing America on 9/11.

I don’t pretend to have the problem of evil neatly solved. I do recognize, however, that it has something to do with the high stakes of the freedom God has built into his universe. (Even natural events like hurricanes, Paul implies in Romans 8, are related to human freedom; the falleness of creation began with the human fall.) A.W. Tozer offers a picture of a ship to illustrate the relationship of God’s sovereignty to human freedom:

An ocean liner leaves New York bound for Liverpool. Its destination has been determined by proper authorities. Nothing can change it. This is at least a faint picture of sovereignty.

On board the liner are scores of passengers. These are not in chains, neither are their activities determined for them by decree. They are completely free to move about as they will. They eat, sleep, play, lounge about on the deck, read, talk, altogether as they please; but all the while the great liner is carrying them steadily onward toward a predetermined port.

Both freedom and sovereignty are present here and they do not contradict each other. So it is, I believe, with man’s freedom and the sovereignty of God. The mighty liner of God’s sovereign design keeps its steady course over the sea of history. God moves undisturbed and unhindered toward the fulfillment of those eternal purposes which He purposed in Christ Jesus before the world began. We do not know all that is included in these purposes, but enough has been disclosed to furnish us with a broad outline of things to come and to give us good hope and firm assurance of future well-being.

Unlike the “saddened gentleman” of the excerpt above, who alters his purposes and withdraws his presence because he is displeased, the God of Tozer (and the Bible) is always present and always sovereign no matter what evil choices people may make. He is a much grander God, one who is surely grieved by evil, but who is as far superior to it as the sky is above the earth. We can choose to worship him, to be reconciled through the provision he has made, or we can defy him. Either choice has a consequence. But we cannot unseat him from his throne.

I second David Bentley Hart’s perspective on God’s attitude toward hurricanes and other evils:

For, after all, if it is from Christ that we are to learn how God relates himself to sin, suffering, evil, and death, it would seem that he provides us little evidence of anything other than a regal, relentless, and miraculous enmity: sin he forgives, suffering he heals, evil he casts out, and death he conquers. And absolutely nowhere does Christ act as if any of these things are part of the eternal work or purposes of God.

We need a larger and truer Confession, a creed that squeezes out the self-pity and pessimism of much that passes for Christianity today. And instead of lamenting and blaming, we need to pray without ceasing for our neighbors, our leaders, and each other.

What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? (Romans 8:31)

The Abolition of Man: Contemplating Skepticism

Stepping outside the Tao, they have stepped into the void. Nor are their subjects necessarily unhappy men. They are not men at all: they are artefacts. Man’s final conquest has proved to be the abolition of Man.

–from Lewis’ title essay, “The Abolition of Man”

The Abolition of Man: How Education Develops Man’s Sense of Morality consists of three lectures given by Lewis in 1943. Partly because my reading experience was fractured by countless interruptions, I found it a challenge. But in essence, the three essays together develop an argument about the erosion of common consent to the existence of a universal moral law — and what kind of society emerges from that skepticism.

Lecture 1:

“Men without Chests” focuses on an English textbook for British secondary school students. Lewis takes one example, the textbook’s discussion of Coleridge’s claim that a waterfall is not merely “pretty,” but “sublime.” The textbook authors undermine the idea of objective value by stating unequivocally that Coleridge is really talking about his own feelings, not the waterfall at all. The school boy who reads this passage, Lewis points out, “will believe two propositions: firstly, that all statements containing a predicate of value are statements about the emotional state of the speaker, and, secondly, that all such statements are unimportant.”

Not so, Lewis argues. A central aim of education is to instruct the “chest” — the faculty that mediates between intellect and feeling, head and heart. The point of reference, across many different cultures and throughout history, has been what Lewis calls the Tao: “The doctrine of objective value, the belief that certain attitudes are really true, and others really false, to the kind of thing the universe is and the kind of things we are.” He gives examples from Plato, Aristotle, Stoicism, Christianity, and Oriental forms of thought, but makes no attempt to “prove” the Tao, taking it as a doctrine of first things.

My favorite passage from “Men without Chests:”

For every one pupil who needs to be guarded against weak excess of sensibility there are three who need to be awakened from the slumber of cold vulgarity. The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles but to irrigate deserts. The right defense against false sentiments is to inculcate just sentiments… A hard heart is no infallible protection against a soft head.

Today, when our most eloquent cultural critics challenge the undiscerning worship of science and technology that have resulted in part from embracing “head” without reference to the seats of either emotion or morality, they are observing the result of the trends Lewis is focused on in this essay.

Lecture 2:

“The Way” examines subjectivism and shows how moral relativism ultimately undermines even itself. If all value is subjective, there is nothing authoritative on which to base this claim. Also in this essay, however, Lewis raises another alternative, not subjectivism but nihilism:

The Nietzchean ethic can be accepted only if we are ready to scrap traditional morals as a mere error and then put ourselves in a position where we can find no ground for any value judgements at all. It is the difference between a man who says to us: ‘You like your vegetables moderately fresh; why not grow your own and have them perfectly fresh?’ and a man who says, ‘Throw away that loaf and try eating bricks and centipedes instead.’

Lewis, explaining that he’ll need another lecture to do justice to this problem, moves on to his culminating final address.

Lecture 3: “The Abolition of Man”

Ultimately the rejection of all value leaves brute force as the only governing power. “In what sense is man the possessor of increasing power over Nature?” Lewis begins. Taking the airplane, the “wireless,” and contraceptives as his examples, he concludes:

What we call man’s power is, in reality, a power possessed by some men which they may, or may not, allow other men to profit by. Again, as regards the powers manifested in the aeroplane and the wireless, Man is as much the patient or subject as the possessor, since he is the target for both bombs and propoganda. And as regards contraceptives, there is a paradoxical, negative sense in which all possible future generations are the patients or subjects of a power wielded by those already alive… Each new power won by man is a power over man as well. Each advance leaves him weaker as well as stronger. In every victory, besides being the general who triumphs, he is also the prisoner who follows the triumphal car.

This final lecture would have been excellent to read in conjunction with That Hideous Strength. In this lecture, Lewis does in prose what the novel does in fiction: paints a picture of the logical outcome of human society “sanitized” of the Tao in which the law of Nature replaces the humane. (That Hideous Strength gives a vivid picture of this happening to the members of the “advanced” society of the N.I.C.E. — “National Institute for Controlled Experiments”). The Tao, after all, instructs us in right living within the framework of Nature’s order. Humanity may throw out the roadmap, but we cannot escape Nature.

Lewis concludes by coming full circle, making oblique reference to the official skepticism of the school English text he began with and extending it to its resulting moral blindness:

The kind of explanation which explains things away may give us something, though at a heavy cost. But you cannot go on ‘explaining away’ forever: you will find that you have explained explanation itself away. You cannot go on ’seeing through’ things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. It is good that the window should be transparent, because the street or garden beyond it is opaque. How if you saw through the garden too? It is no use trying to ’see through’ first principles. If you see through everything, then everything is transparent. But a wholly transparent world is an invisible world. To ’see through’ all things is the same as not to see.


The final section of the book is an appendix of illustrations from the Tao. Different moral laws are given, with their occurrence in various writings, including ancient Egyptian, Jewish, Norse, Babylonian, Hindu, Chinese, Greek and Roman sources.

My thoughts:

I grew increasingly interested as I read. I could see that Lewis was writing prophetically. There are so many present-day trends that illustrate the surrender of the humane to the technological and the scientific, a surrender that could not have happened without the moral preparation Lewis observed in his day.

It’s impossible not to think of the books I’ve read recently by Neil Postman. In Technopoly, Postman discusses the evolution of a culture from tool-using to technological to technopoly, with the power of a shared worldview diminishing with each phase. Lewis is talking about the same phenomenon in more philosophical terms.

At the time I write this, the debate over health care reform is raging in the country. Over the past year, during the presidential campaign, other debates have raged as well over issues of science (abortion, stem cell research, birth control in schools), America’s use of power, and the role and extent of government. When I read this passage from “The Abolition of Man,” I had to stop and consider these things in the light of what Lewis says here about the essential political equations that remain despite how “progressive” humanity becomes:

I am not speaking of particular corruptions and abuses which an increase of moral virtue would cure: I am considering what the thing called “Man’s power over Nature” must always and essentially be. No doubt, the picture could be modified by public ownership of raw materials and factories and public control of scientific research. But unless we have a world state this will still mean the power of one nation over others. And even within the world state or the nation it will mean (in principle) the power of majorities over minorities, and (in the concrete) of a government over the people. And all long-term exercises of power, especially in breeding, must mean the power of earlier generations over later ones.

It seems to me that our politics and our public discourse reflect what Lewis describes in these lectures. They are not entertaining reading; they take some work. But they provide terms for thinking about our present lives. The terms available to Lewis in 1943 are much more categorical and unequivocal than those considered permissible today. Lewis addressed an audience that might disagree with his view, but would not find the notion of “absolutes” offensive. What a change 66 years have made in the “spirit of the age.”