Mortimer Adler's Kryptonite

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Mortimer Adler and his wife with Pope Paul VI

Mortimer Adler's Kryptonite

Readers of this blog will be aware of my love and admiration of Mortimer J. Adler (1902 - 2001). To him I owe my knowledge and familiarity with a host of philosophical ideas. Not only did he introduce me to the fundamentals, but he also steered me away from some pretty severe philosophical mistakes. He taught me how to read a book, and introduced me to The Great Books of the Western World. He greatly influenced my writing style, and his essay on learning and teaching became the foundation of my approach to teaching. 

And yet, like all superheroes, Adler had his weakness. Unfortunately, that weakness was religion. Specifically, Thomistic Catholicism.

This post is not intended to be a comprehensive treatment of Adler's views on Catholicism, or on theology in general. If that is of interest to you, read his book Truth in Religion: The Plurality of Religions and the Unity of Truth (1992), which will be discussed later in this blog post.

Instead, in this post I will present an email which I wrote to one of my rabbeim (whom we'll refer to as RJM) ten years ago, at the height of my Adler odyssey, inquiring about Adler's fall into Catholicism. 

Here is my email and RJM's response, minimally edited for publishing on this blog. Links and transliterations were added by me.

[Note: even though I say so clearly in my email, I want to emphasize that the third question was not asked by me, but by one of the younger yeshiva guys; I, myself, would have phrased the question differently - in a decidedly less "Christian" manner.]

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Kol ha'Seridim to RJM

Dear [RJM],

As a fellow reader of Mortimer J. Adler, I have three question about Adler and religion that I'd like to hear your thoughts (or opinions) on.

Question #1: What's up with his conversion to Christianity? I was just rereading the passage at the end of his second autobiography, which details his conversion: 

In March of 1984, after a trip to Mexico in February, I fell ill, probably from a virus that I had picked up there. The illness was protracted. I was in the hospital for five weeks and, after leaving the hospital, was in bed at home for several months or more. Though I underwent all the diagnostic tests and procedures that the physicians could think of, the illness was never adequately diagnosed; and the cure, when it finally came, involved numerous antibiotics and two blood transfusions that brought my red corpuscle blood counts back to normal.  

During this long stay in the hospital, I suffered a mild depression, and often when Caroline visited me I would, unaccountably, burst into tears. Father Howell, the Rector of Saint Chrysostom's Church, also visited me, and once when, at my bedside, he prayed for my recovery, I choked up and wept. The only prayer that I knew word for word, was the Pater Noster. On that day and in the days after it, I found myself repeating the Lord's Prayer, again and again, and meaning every word of it. Quite suddenly, when I was awake one night, a light dawned on me, and I realized what had happened without my recognizing it clearly when it first happened.  

I had been seriously praying to God. But had I not said at the end of How to Think About God, that no one who understood the God of the philosophers as well as I thought I did, would worship that God or pray to him. Only if, by the gift of grace, one made the leap of faith across the chasm to the God of religious Jews and Christians, would one engage in worship and prayer, believing in a morally good, loving, just, and merciful God.  

Here after many years of affirming God's existence and trying to give adequate reasons for that affirmation, I found myself believing in God and praying to Him ...

In your opinion, is this just another example of an otherwise rational mind being overcome by a powerful religious emotion at a time of insecurity and proximity to death? Or did Adler himself commit a severe philosophical mistake - no doubt originating in his preoccupation with Thomas Aquinas - of which we he was unaware? At the end of this chapter in the autobiography, Adler makes some statements about "the mystery of the Trinity." I find it baffling that the same mind who wrote How to Think About God can simultaneously embrace faith in the Christian doctrine, all on the basis of "grace" which was "received" during a bout of illness and a period of depression. 

Again, perhaps this is just another example of how we humans can compartmentalize, shutting off our minds in certain areas of our lives, no matter how rational we are in everything else. 

Question #2: What about the Torah mi'Sinai argument? From How to Think About God, it appears that Adler was completely unaware of the Sinai argument: 

A third point to be noted follows directly on what has just been said. In the three monotheistic religions of the West - Judaism, Christianity, and Islam - the proposition that God exists is not an article of faith or religious belief. The first article of faith in all three religions is that God has revealed himself to us in Holy Writ or Sacred Scripture. This, of course, entails the affirmation that God has revealed himself to us in Holy Writ or Sacred Scripture. This, of course, entails the affirmation that the God who has revealed himself exists. But it goes far beyond that proposition to something that can never be proved, or even argued about, something that is always and only an article of faith or religious belief: namely, the fact of Divine revelation ... 

It is in no way improper to argue about whether belief in God's existence can be established by reason alone, or at least thereby made reasonable. But it would be quite improper to argue about the reasonableness of the first article of religious faith, that Sacred Scripture represents God's revelation of himself to us. That belief can be neither proved nor disproved, nor is it really a proper subject of argument pro and con. 

Did he just not encounter Torah mi'Sinai in his reading? Does he have some argument against Torah mi'Sinai of which I am unaware? If so, I would love to hear it.

Question #3: What is the state of Adler's soul? This is a question that one of the other guys in yeshiva asked me. I don't really know enough about the soul to be certain that I understand the question, which is why I have turned to you. 

Any thoughts on these questions would be most appreciated. 

- [Kol ha'Seridim]

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RJM to Kol ha'Seridim

Dear [Kol ha'Seridim],

Great to hear from you. I hope you are well.

Response to Question #1: I think Adler had an unusual attitude to religion, inasmuch as he accepted the Thomistic distinction between matters of faith and matters of reason. He seems to have systematically excluded theological doctrines from genuine philosophical scrutiny, because of his assumption that their acceptance or denial is premised on faith and not rational analysis alone.

Adler has a whole book on the subject of religion, called "Truth in Religion", which, in my opinion, is the worst volume he ever produced, poorly reasoned and very obviously a "set up" designed to lead the interested person to the "leap of faith" into Catholic Christianity.

The book starts out rationally, seeking to demonstrate that we must reject relativism and seek objective truth even in the realm of religion. Nowadays, this is a major point that needs to be stressed, so kol ha'kavod to him for making it clear. He summarily dismisses polytheistic religions for good reason, but these are about the only meritorious aspects of the text. It is all downhill from there.

Adler argues, for example, that the mysteriousness of a religion is evidence for its veracity, because a purely rational religion wouldn't require revelation for its establishment. In these passages he is clearly arguing in favor of Christianity and against Judaism, although he is never so explicit. All in all, it is not an objective I don't recommend the book, although I am confident that you would not come to any harm in reading it ...

By the way, it is well known that a disproportionate number of Adler's Jewish students in the University of Chicago converted to Catholicism after studying Aquinas with him, although he waited till much later to do so.

Response to Question #2: I doubt if he was aware of the argument. Most philosophers aren't. For example, David Conway (ironically, a student of Antony Flew) authored a book called "The Rediscovery of Wisdom", in which he argues that the ultimate goal of philosophy should be the contemplation of God, and that generations of philosophers have been misled by the gross distortions of later thinkers. He basically shows that the purpose of philosophy was classically understood as a process of achieving yediat Hashem (knowledge of God) and ahavat Hashem (love of God), and also argues that many of the supposed "debunkings" of proofs for God's existence are fatally flawed and should never have gained the currency they now have in academia. He therefore reestablishes the existence of God as a fact and the goal of knowledge of God as the raison d'etre of all rational creatures.

Amazingly, he brings Judaism into this, looking at the varied interpretations of Maimonides and Spinoza vis a vis the purpose of mitsvot. Conway concludes that the Torah's objective is indeed what Maimonides states - the same as the objective of philosophy, to enable the Jewish nation to dedicate their lives to the contemplation of God. Keep in mind that this guy is a secular academic, so this is all pretty amazing already.

The problem emerges when he compares the relative merits of philosophy and Judaism, and questions the basis for belief in the revelation claim. He literally totally misreads the story and misrepresents the tradition, claiming that Jews themselves believe that the events were not written down until hundreds of years after the fact, etc. He doesn't even mention the mass revelation component because, as he states in the text, his impression is that Moses went up onto a mountain by himself to receive the laws!!! (I tried to contact and correct him, but I was unsuccessful and kind of gave up).

BTW, I also penned a letter to M.J. Adler, which he received and which was read to him, literally days before his death. The response I got from his assistant was that matters of religion are very personal. But I did argue for the rationality of belief in Judaism as opposed to Christianity quite passionately. Perhaps he had hirhurei teshuva (thoughts of repentance) before he died.

Response to Question #3: Ultimately, I don't think anyone but the Ribbono Shel Olam (Master of the Universe) can know the answer to this question in a definitive manner. We have no access to the recesses of anyone's soul, how they truly conceive of God, etc. So speculation is all we have.

Adler accepted an idolatrous religion but his sophisticated version of that religion precluded him from the gross philosophical materialism, emotionalism and infantile God-concept normally associated with it. So it would seem that the possibility exists that Adler's soul was sufficiently actualized and thus distinct from matter such that it could have survived his physical death. And from the standpoint of halakha he was certainly a tinoq shenishba (a "captured baby" i.e. a Jew who was raised without knowledge of Judaism) par excellence, so a halakhically mandated karet (spiritual excision) wouldn't be an issue. Plus, the remote chance exists that he may have recognized his error and repented in his last moments of life.

On the other hand, it is possible that his conception of God (the foundation of his understanding of reality) was not sufficiently purified of its material elements and thus his soul remained imprisoned in the shackles of physicality and perished.

In the end, whatever he was zocheh (meritorious) to, we can be sure he received it! 

I hope this speedily composed response is helpful. Feel free to continue the correspondence as you see fit.

Best Regards,

RJM

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I found RJM's response to be enlightening, since it provided a greater context for Adler's theological misstep. I was particularly intrigued by RJM's attempt to contact Adler on his deathbed, and the latter's response (via his assistant) that "matters of religion are very personal" - an uncharacteristic response from a man who was so committed to truth and precision in thinking.

In writing this blog post I came across an article by Deal Hudson about Adler's conversion, entitled The Great Philosopher Who Became Catholic. Hudson writes:

The more we talked the more I realized Mortimer really wanted to be a Roman Catholic, but issues like abortion and the resistance of his family and friends were keeping him away. I tried to show him that his own Aristotelian-Thomistic metaphysics of act-potency led him to understand the necessity of protecting unborn life. But just at that moment, Mortimer would uncharacteristically mutter, "It's all too complicated," and change the subject. But I knew that he knew he was being inconsistent. I didn't have to press him – because I knew he knew, and it was only a matter of time before he acquiesced.

At several of our seminars was the Catholic prelate of San Jose, Bishop Pierre DuMaine. The bishop and I would sometimes tag-team the philosopher on the Catholic Church, and we would all end up laughing about how Mortimer deflected the inevitable conclusion.

These reports of inconsistency and evasiveness on Adler's part in matters of religion are consistent with RJM's testimony about Adler's response to his letter. 

It would be easy to pass judgment on Adler and condemn him for this severe intellectual / philosophical / epistemological shortcoming. Indeed, when I first learned of this truth, I held it against him, and was almost angry at him for this failing. I felt: "How could MY Adler, whose views on all philosophical matters are backed by airtight reasoning and solid arguments - how could he hold such a stupid view? Arriving at a false conclusion through a mistake in reasoning is one thing, and I realize that no human being is infallible, but to accept an irrational belief system on the basis of an irrational 'faith experience'? That is unforgivable." 

Looking back at my reaction, I am reminded of one of my favorite passages from John Steinbeck's East of Eden:

When a child first catches adults out - when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just - his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.

Now, ten years after this email exchange, with an additional decade's worth of learning, maturity, and self-knowledge under my belt, my judgment of Adler has softened considerably. I have come to realize that we ALL have our blind-spots. Some people go through their entire lives without becoming aware of their blind-spots. Others, like Adler, actively resist the distortion in thinking which arise from these hidden biases, but ultimately succumb in moments of weakness. None of us is immune to this type of blindness, and we can never be sure that we won't succumb. 

Now I am at the point of maturity where I realize that it is possible to acknowledge that a great thinker can make a childish error, without this diminishing the emunas chachamim I have when reading his works, "for there is no man so wholly righteous on earth who does [only] good and never sins" (Koheles 7:20).

Every superhero has his kryptonite. 

Adler: The Realm of Doubt

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Artwork: Shadow of Doubt, by Greg Staples

Adler: The Realm of Doubt

My students occasionally ask me epistemological questions, such as: "How do we know that we know what we know?" "What level of certainty do we need in order to believe something?" "What is the difference between knowledge and opinion?" and the like. 

The clearest and most enlightening statement I have read about questions like this is from Mortimer J. Adler, in The Six Great Ideas (1981), pp. 45-55. Here is the relevant excerpt, without commentary.

The Realm of Doubt – Mortimer J. Adler  - from Six Great Ideas (1981), chapter 7, pp.44-55 

When should we say, “I know,” and do so with complete assurance? When, after expressing a judgment, are we warranted in adding, “This is something that I know beyond the shadow of a doubt”?

When instead, with something less than complete assurance and yet not without some basis for our judgment, should we say, “I believe,” “I think,” “I have the opinion that ...” or use such phrases as “in my judgment” or “in my opinion”? When, after expressing a judgment, should we add the comment: “This is something I have reason to believe is true”?

The criteria for drawing the line that divides the realm of certitude from the realm of doubt can be stated abstractly. As so stated, the criteria are not difficult to understand. Difficulties only arise when we try to apply these criteria to particular cases in an attempt to decide which of our judgments belong in the realm of certitude and which in the realm of doubt.

The criteria are as follows. A judgment belongs in the realm of certitude when it is of the sort that (1) cannot be challenged by the consideration of new evidence that results from additional or improved observations, nor (2) can it be criticized by improved reasoning or the detection of inadequacies or errors in the reasoning we have done. Beyond challenge or criticism, such judgments are indubitable, or beyond doubt.

In contrast, a judgment is subject to doubt if there is any possibility at all (1) of its being challenged in light of additional or more accurate observations or (2) of its being criticized on the basis of more cogent or more comprehensive reasoning.

Let me illustrate this by reference once again to judicial proof in a jury trial of issues of fact. In criminal prosecutions, the degree of proof required is defined as being “beyond a reasonable doubt.” But this does not take the verdict rendered by the jury out of the realm of doubt.

What the jury is asking to bring in is a verdict that they have no reason to doubt – no rational basis for doubting – in the light of all the evidence offered and the arguments presented by opposing counsel.

It always remains possible that new evidence may be forthcoming and, if that occurs, the case may be reopened and a new trial may result in a different verdict. It also remains possible for the verdict to be appealed to a higher court on the grounds of procedural errors that affected the weighing of the evidence in the deliberations of the jury.

The original verdict may have been beyond a reasonable doubt at the time it was made, but it is not indubitable – not beyond all doubt or beyond the shadow of a doubt – precisely because it can be challenged by new evidence or set aside by an appeal that calls attention to procedural errors that may have invalidated the jury’s deliberations – the reasoning they did in weighing and interpreting the evidence presented.

In civil litigation, the degree of proof required is defined as being “by a preponderance of the evidence.” Here the jury’s verdict claims no more than that the answer it gives to a question of fact has greater probability than the opposite answer. As the jurors have interpreted and weighed the evidence, they have found that it tends to favor one answer rather than another. Here, as in a criminal prosecution, additional evidence or better thinking on the jury’s part might result in a different verdict. The balance might shift in the opposite direction.

In the affairs of daily life, many of the judgments we make are, like jury verdicts, beyond a reasonable doubt or are favored by a preponderance of the evidence. For all practical purposes, we regard judgments of the first sort as being so highly probable that we act on them as if they were certain. We need not hesitate to act on them even though new evidence may be discovered. In the light of all the evidence we have before us and the thinking we have done, we have no reason at present to doubt the truth of such judgments. But we should always remember that that does not make them indubitable; that does not give them the kind of certitude that removes them from the realm of doubt.

The essential difference between genuine certitude and the substitute for it that is often called “moral certainty” or “practical certainty” lies in the finality and incorrigibility of indubitable judgments. Even when we act on a highly probable judgment as if it were a certainty for all practical purposes, it remains a judgment that is subject to correction, to challenge, and to criticism. It is one about which we may in the future think it reasonable to change our minds.

In a wide variety of daily affairs – in the conduct of family life, in the care of our bodies and in all matters of health and disease, in our business or professional careers, in our financial dealings, especially in making investments, in our political discussions, especially with regard to foreign policy and internal relations – we frequently act on judgments that are not beyond a reasonable doubt, but are simply more probable than their opposites. In the light of the evidence available at the time and in the light of the best thinking we have done so far, we regard them as more likely to be true.

The critical caution we must exercise is contained in the words “at the time” and “so far.” These words remind us that the future always holds the possibility of additional evidence and better thinking, either of which may shift the weight of probability in the opposite direction.

The realm of doubt is the realm of judgments that have a future, for better or for worse. This is not so in the case of judgments that have the finality and incorrigibility of certitude.

If we turn now from judgments that we make in the practical affairs of daily life to the conclusions of historical research, to the findings, hypotheses, and theories of the investigative sciences, and even to certain branches of mathematics, the same criteria function to place in the realm of doubt a fairly large portion of what these learned disciplines offer us as knowledge. This assessment may appear shocking to those who, distinguishing between knowledge on the one hand and opinion or belief on the other hand, regard history, science, and mathematics as branches of organized knowledge, not as collections of mere opinions or beliefs.

The word “knowledge” for them has the connotation of truth; in fact, it is inseparable from it. There cannot be false knowledge, as there can be false opinions and beliefs. The phrase “true knowledge” is redundant; the phrase “false knowledge” is self-contradictory.

However, those who hold this view acknowledge that there is progress in these disciplines. They as well as everyone else speak of the advancement of learning in all these fields. They attribute it to new discoveries, improved observations, the development of sounder hypotheses, the substitution of more comprehensive theories for less comprehensive ones, more elaborate and more precise analysis or interpretation of the data at hand, and rectified or more rigorous reasoning. Less adequate formulations are replaced by better ones – better because they are thought more likely to be true, or nearer to the truth being sought and, therefore, better approximations of it.

In short, all these branches of organized knowledge have a future, a future they would not have if the present found them in possession of judgments about what is true or false that had finality and incorrigibility. To whatever extent history, science, and mathematics have a future, to that same extent these bodies of “knowledge” belong in the realm of doubt, not in the realm of certitude.

I put the word “knowledge in quotation marks because the word has two meanings, not one. The same holds for the word “opinion.” The recognition of the two senses in which we use these words will overcome the shock initially experienced by those who recoiled from locating history, science, and mathematics in the realm of doubt, because they are accustomed to regarding them as branches of knowledge, not as collections of opinions or beliefs.

Let us first consider the meaning of the word “knowledge” that has already been mentioned. It is the sense in which knowledge cannot be false and, therefore, has the infallibility, finality, and incorrigibility that are attributes of judgments in the realm of certitude. Let us call this the strong sense of the term.

At the opposite extreme from knowledge in this strong sense is opinion in the weak sense of that term. When we use the word “opinion” in this sense, we refer to judgments on our part that are no more than personal predilections or prejudices. We have no basis for them, either empirical or rational. We cannot support them by appeal to carefully accumulated evidence or by appeal to reasoning that gives them credibility. We do not, in short, have sufficient reason for claiming that they are more likely to be true than are their opposites.

We prefer the opinions to which we are attached on emotional, not rational, grounds. Our attachment to them is arbitrary and voluntary – an act of will on our part, whatever its causes may be. Since we may just as capriciously adopt the opposite view, unfounded opinions of this sort fall to the lowest level of the realm of doubt.

In between these two extremes lie judgments that can be called knowledge in the weak sense of that term and opinion in the strong sense of that term. Here we have judgments that are neither arbitrary or voluntary, judgments we have rational grounds for adopting, judgments the probability of which we can appraise in the light of all the evidence available at the moment and in the light of the best thinking we can do – the best analysis and interpretation we can make of that evidence, again at the moment.

At the moment! The future holds in store the possibility of additional or improved evidence and amplified or rectified reasoning. That fact, as we have seen, places such judgments in the realm of doubt. They have the aspect of opinion because they may turn out to be false rather than true, but they also have the aspect of knowledge because, at the moment, we have no reason to doubt them. They are beyond reasonable doubt, but not beyond the shadow of a doubt, from which they cannot escape because they have a future.

Readers who have followed the argument so far may begin to wonder whether the realm of certitude is a completely empty domain. If not, what sort of judgment can we expect to find there?

The answer I am about to give applies not only to judgments we make in the course of our daily lives, judgments ordinarily made by persons of common sense, even the judgments such persons may come to make when their common sense is enlightened by philosophical reflection. It also applies to judgments in the field of mathematics and in some, if not all, of the empirical sciences.

Truths called self-evident provide the most obvious examples of knowledge in the strong sense of that term. They are called self-evident because our affirmation of them does not depend on evidence marshaled in support of them nor upon reasoning designed to show that they are conclusions validly reached by inference. We recognize their truth immediately or directly from our understanding of what they assert. We are convinced – convinced, not persuaded – of their truth because we find it impossible to think the opposite of what they assert. We are in no sense free to think the opposite.

Self-evident truths are not tautologies, trifling and uninstructive, such as the statement “All triangles have three sides.” A triangle being defined as a three-sided figure, we learn nothing from that statement. Contrast it with the statement, “No triangle has any diagonals,” which is both self-evident and instructive, not a tautology.

The self-evidence of the truth of the latter statement derives immediately from our understanding of the definition of a triangle as a three-sided figure and from our understanding of the definition of a diagonal as a straight line drawn between two nonadjacent angles. Seeing at once that a triangle contains no nonadjacent angles, we see at once that no diagonals can be drawn in a triangle.

Our understanding of diagonals also enables us to see at once that the number of diagonals that can be drawn in a plane figure that is a regular polygon having n sides (where n stands for any whole number) is the number of sides multiplied by three less than that number, the product being then divided by two.

Sometimes, as in the case of “No triangle has any diagonals,” the self-evidence of the truth derives from our understanding of definitions. Sometimes, it derives from our understanding of the terms that are not only undefined but are also indefinable, such as “part” and “whole.”

Since we cannot understand what a part is without reference to a whole, or understand what a whole is without reference to parts, we cannot define parts and wholes. Nevertheless, our understanding of parts and wholes makes it impossible for us to think that, in the case of a physical body, its parts are greater than the whole. That the whole body is always greater than any of its parts is not only true, but self-evident.

Equally self-evident is the truth that nothing can both exist and not exist at the same time; or that, at a given time, it can both have and not have certain characteristics. Our understanding of what it means for anything to act on another or be acted upon gives us another self-evident truth. Only that which actually exists can act upon another and that other can be acted upon only if it also actually exists. A merely possible shower of rain cannot drench anyone; nor can I be protected from the rain by merely a possible umbrella.

How about the prime example of self-evident truth proposed in the Declaration of Independence – that all men are created equal? Clearly, it is not self-evident as stated if the word “created” is understood to mean created by God, for the existence of God and God’s act of creation require the support of reasoning – reasoning that can be challenged. Suppose, however, that the proposition had been “All men are by nature equal.” On what understanding of the terms involved might that statement be regarded as self-evidently true?

First of all, we do understand “equal” to mean “neither more nor less.” If, then, we understand “all men by nature” to mean “all human beings” or “all members of the same species,” it becomes self-evidently true for us that all are equal, which is to say that no human being is more or less human than any other.

All persons have, in some degree, whatever properties belong to all members of the species Homo sapiens. The inequality of one individual with another lies in the degree to which this or that specific property is possessed, but not in the degree of humanity that is common to all.

I have dwelled at some length on this example not only because we will have to return to it in later chapters dealing with the idea of equality, but also because the proposition about the equality of all human beings may have to be defended against those who advance the opposite view – Aristotle, for example, who maintains that some human beings are by nature born to be free, and some are by nature born to be slaves; or the male chauvinists over centuries past, and even in the present, who believe that females are inferior human beings.

I think the truth of the proposition about human equality can be defended against all these errors, but a self-evident truth should need no defense whatsoever. Hence the proposition, though true, may not be a good example of self-evident truth.

Another whole class of truths for which certitude may be claimed consists of those called evident, rather than self-evident. I do not, as Descartes thought, have to infer my existence from the fact that I am aware of myself thinking. I perceive it directly, just as I perceive directly the existence of all the physical objects that surround me. If there is any doubt at all about the truth of such judgments, it is the merest shadow of doubt about whether I am suffering a hallucination rather than actually perceiving.

When I am perceiving, not hallucinating, there can be no doubt that the objects I am perceiving actually exist. Such judgments have a semblance of certitude that falls short of complete certitude only to the extent that a shadow of a doubt remains concerning the normality of my perceptual processes.

Whether my perceptual objects exist when I am not perceiving them is another question, to which I think the true answer is that they do, but its truth is neither self-evident nor evident. Reasoning and argument are required to defend its truth. If we go beyond judgments about the present existence of objects that we are at the moment perceiving to judgments about their existence at other times and placements, or to judgments about their characteristics or attributes, we pass from the realm of certitude to that of doubt. Though we less frequently misperceive than we misremember, our perceptions as well as our memories give rise to judgments that are often in error or otherwise at fault.

Judgments that articulate what we perceive or remember take the form of statements about particulars – this one thing or that, one event rather than another. We are also prone to generalize on the basis of our perceptual experience. In fact, the judgments we are most likely to be insistent about are generalizations from experience. Many of these are unguarded and turn out to be unwarranted because we have said “all” when we should have said “some.” Even scientific generalizations sometimes overstate the case. The history of science contains many examples of generalizations that have been falsified by the discovery of one or more negative instances.

The falsification that I have just referred to provides us with one or more example of judgments that belong in the sphere of certitude. When the discovery of a single black swan falsifies the generalization that all swans are white, our judgment that that generalization is false is knowledge in the strong sense of the term – final, infallible, incorrigible. Nothing that might possibly ever happen in the future could reverse the judgment and make it true rather than false that all swans are white.

The number of self-evident truths is very small. The number of falsified generalizations, both those made by scientists and those made by laymen, is considerable; and the number of perceptual judgments about the evident truth of which we have certitude is very large. But it is not the number that matters when we compare the realm of certitude with the realm of doubt. What matters is that only judgments in the realm of doubt have a future, a future in which the effort we expend in the pursuit of truth may bring us closer to it.

Neglecting the Thinkers of the Past

Yesterday's post on "the Academic Approach" reminded me of a piece I wrote in November, 2008, which hasn't yet been published on this blog. I had planned to write a sequel to that post, but never got a round to it. I figured that it was time to re-post and complete what I started then. 

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Artwork: Ancestral Vision, by Mark Poole

Neglecting the Thinkers of the Past

Part 1: Neglecting the Ancients in Western Thought

"The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold." This statement, made by Aristotle, is the basis of a book written by Mortimer J. Adler called Ten Philosophical Mistakes (1985). Adler’s thesis is that many of the philosophical problems, perplexities, and distortions of the modern era are the consequences of errors made by prominent post-16th-century philosophers. 

According to Adler, these errors "are extremely simple mistakes, capable of being stated in a single sentence or two. The truth that corrects them is correspondingly simple and similarly capable of a brief statement." Adler explains these errors were the philosophical consequences of subtle but mistaken premises: 

[T]hey are mistakes in a long train of thought, leading from erroneous premises through many steps to the false conclusions or consequences that those premises ultimately entail. At the very beginning, before the consequences are discerned, the mistake appears innocent and goes unnoticed. Only when we are confronted with the repugnant conclusions to which cogent reasoning carries us are we impelled to retrace our steps to find out where we went wrong. Only then is the erroneous premise that at first appeared innocent revealed as the culprit - a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Adler writes that there is one guiding principle which might have saved them from their errors. That principle was stated by Aristotle, in more or less these terms: “It is necessary to call into council the views of our predecessors in order that we may profit by whatever is sound in their suggestions and avoid their errors.” According to Adler, if these modern philosophers had diligently studied the works of the ancients - whom I refer to here as "the Baalei Mesorah of Western Thought" - they would have realized that the questions which they believed that they had discovered anew had actually been asked, discussed, and answered (whether correctly or incorrectly) many centuries earlier: 

We cannot find in their writings the slightest evidence of their sharing Aristotle’s insight that no man by himself is able to attain the truth adequately, although collectively men do not fail to amass a considerable amount; nor do they ever manifest the slightest trace of a willingness to call into council the views of their predecessors in order to profit from whatever is sound in their thoughts and to avoid their errors. On the contrary, without anything like a careful, critical examination of the views of their predecessors, these modern thinkers issue blanket repudiations of the past as a repository of errors. The discovery of philosophical truth begins with themselves. 

Proceeding, therefore, in ignorance or misunderstanding of truths that could have been found in the funded tradition of almost two thousand years of Western thought, these modern philosophers made crucial mistakes in their points of departure and in their initial postulates. 

Adler maintains that if only these modern philosophers had made a concerted effort to learn from the questions, answers, and discussions of the ancients, they might have saved themselves from many philosophical embarrassments and problems which resulted from their misguided attempts to answer the philosophical questions which they believed they were the first ones to think of. 

If Adler is correct in his claim that the well-known post-16th-century philosophers did not study the works of their ancient predecessors, we are justified in asking the follow-up question: "Why not?" Surely these men were aware of the unparalleled intellectual reputations of men like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Why wouldn't they make it their priority to learn as much as they could from these great minds before attempting to develop their own theories? 

Adler answers that "The commission of these errors can be explained in part by antagonism toward the past, and even contempt for it." He explains: 

The explanation of the antagonism lies in the character of the teachers under whom these modern philosophers studied in their youth. These teachers did not pass on the philosophical tradition as a living thing by recourse to the writings of the great philosophers of the past. They did not read and comment on the works of Aristotle, for example, as the great teachers of the thirteenth century did. 

Instead, the decadent scholastics who occupied teaching posts in the universities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries fossilized the tradition by presenting it in a deadly, dogmatic fashion, using a jargon that concealed rather than conveyed the insights it contained. Their lectures must have been as wooden and uninspiring as most textbooks or manuals are; their examinations must have called for a verbal parroting of the letter of ancient doctrines rather than for an understanding of their spirit. 

It is no wonder that early modern thinkers, thus mistaught, recoiled. Their repugnance, though certainly explicable, may not be wholly pardonable, for they could have repaired the damage by turning to the texts of Aristotle or Aquinas in their mature years and by reading them perceptively and critically. 

That they did not do this can be ascertained from an examination of their major works and from their intellectual biographies. When they reject certain points of doctrine inherited from the past, it is perfectly clear that they do not properly understand them; in addition, they make mistakes that arise from ignorance of distinctions and insights highly relevant to problems they attempt to solve. 

With very few exceptions, such misunderstanding and ignorance of philosophical achievements made prior to the sixteenth century have been the besetting sin of modern thought. Its effects are not confined to philosophers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. They are evident in the work of nineteenth-century philosophers and in the writings of our day. We can find them, for example, in the works of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who, for all his native brilliance and philosophical fervor, stumbles in the dark in dealing with problems on which his premodern predecessors, unknown to him, have thrown great light. 

Modern philosophy has never recovered from its false starts. Like men floundering in quicksand who compound their difficulties by struggling to extricate themselves, Kant and his successors have multiplied the difficulties and perplexities of modern philosophy by the very strenuousness – and even ingenuity – of their efforts to extricate themselves from the muddle left in their path by Descartes, Locke, and Hume. 

The post-16th-century philosophers were exposed to the words of the ancients, but in a "fossilized," "dogmatic" fashion unilluminated by the light of understanding. While this doesn't entirely excuse these philosophers from their neglect of the wisdom of the ancients - since they should have returned to these works and examined them firsthand, rather than relying on the inadequate presentations of their teachers - it certainly explains why they viewed these works as repository of superficial explanations and simple errors.

What is the solution to this problem? Adler answers:

To make a fresh start, it is only necessary to open the great philosophical books of the past (especially those written by Aristotle and in his tradition) and to read them with the effort of understanding that they deserve. The recovery of basic truths, long hidden from view, would eradicate errors that have had such disastrous consequences in modern times. 

Part 2: Neglecting Our Predecessors in Jewish Thought

Unfortunately, the problem identified by Adler in the world of Western Thought has struck the Torah world with equal force and equally devastating consequences. Just as the modern secular philosophers have neglected their predecessors (i.e. the classical philosophers and thinkers of antiquity), the modern Jewish philosophers have neglected our predecessors (i.e. the Baalei Mesorah), and for similar reasons.

Before we go any further we must first define the vague term "Baalei Mesorah" as used in this context. My usage here is intended to be extremely broad. I am including in this category Chazal (i.e. the Tannaim and Amoraim), the "Kadmonim" (i.e. the Geonim, Rishonim, and early Achronim) [1], and many of the later Achronim and contemporary Jewish thinkers as well. 

If we left things there, this definition would be too broad. What unites the Baalei Mesorah of whom I speak? Who is excluded from this large group? How can we tell the difference between someone who is considered a Baal Mesorah by this definition and someone who is not? To answer this question, I'd like to borrow another concept from Adler - one refers to as "the Great Conversation": 

What binds the authors together in an intellectual community is the great conversation in which they are engaged. In the works that come later in the sequence of years, we find authors listening to what their predecessors have had to say about this idea or that, this topic or that. They not only hearken to the thought of their predecessors, they also respond to it by commenting on it in a variety of ways.

To my mind, the Baalei Mesorah are those who are united by their participation in the Great Conversation of Torah with each other. Throughout the ages these chachamim have been engaged in asking, answering, and debating the same fundamental questions, such as: Who is Hashem? What is avodah zarah? What is emunah? What is the soul? What are mitzvos? What is hashgachah and how does it work? How and to what extent can we understand God's justice? In other words, the Great Conversation of Torah revolves around yesodei ha'Torah (the foundations of Torah). 

But I would like to emphasize the key part of my definition which allows us to distinguish those who are Baalei Mesorah from those who are not: "the Baalei Mesorah are those who are united by their participation in the Great Conversation of Torah with each other." We do not maintain that the Mesorah is a rigid set of fixed teachings handed down from generation to generation. Rather, the Mesorah is a living dialogue between the great thinkers of the past, present, and future, united in their pursuit of truth, guided by the light of revelation and reason. Although the earlier thinkers cannot receive communications from the later thinkers, these later thinkers can join the Great Conversation of Torah by "calling into council the views of our predecessors in order that we may profit by whatever is sound in their suggestions and avoid their errors." 

Those thinkers who attempt to address these fundamental questions without consulting (or adequately consulting) the Baalei Mesorah have excluded themselves from the Great Conversation of Torah. They may discuss the same topics and questions, but their refusal to meet the great minds of the past precludes their inclusion in this conversation - just as two individuals cannot be involved in a conversation if one of them shuts his hears to the voice of the other. 

By this criterion it should be clear which types of people I would exclude from the group of Baalei Mesorah. Among them are:

• "Bad Academics" who do not look to the Torah, Chazal, and the Kadmonim as a source of wisdom, but approach these texts with other agendas - many of whom, like the post-16th-century philosophers criticized by Adler, harbor "antagonism toward the past, and even contempt for it"
• members of the Reform, Conservative, Karaite, Reconstructionist, or any of the deviant breakaway "Jewish" movements which have consciously decided to sever ideological ties with the Mesorah community of Rabbinic Judaism and reject its fundamental teachings
• mystics who claim to have received divine revelations and have sought to change or augment Judaism with new teachings that have no basis in the Mesorah
• neophyte "Jewish philosophers" who speculate on the yesodei ha'Torah without doing their intellectual due diligence; also in this category are intelligent laypeople who fancy themselves scholars but don't actually learn
• unqualified rabbis and educators who, like the "decadent scholastics" criticized by Adler, have "fossilized the tradition by presenting it in a deadly, dogmatic fashion, using a jargon that concealed rather than conveyed the insights it contained." 

The members of these groups might have valuable insights to offer - just as Adler would concede that the post-16th-century philosophers have what to offer. But since they have cut themselves off from the Great Conversation of Torah, then I cannot consider them to be Baalei Mesorah on par with Chazal, the Kadmonim, and those Achronim who form links in the Mesorah-chain. 

As a Jewish educator, the last group I mentioned causes me the most grief. I have had so many students who have asked their teachers good, powerful, important questions about Judaism, only to be given vapid off-the-cuff answers, answers laden with meaningless jargon, fluffy emotional answers with no substance, sound-byte summaries of real answers which warp their meaning - all because their teachers never bothered to seek out the answers to these questions in the writings of the Baalei Mesorah. After years of asking these questions and receiving poor answers, many students give up and conclude that there are no answers. In the worst case scenario, these students leave Judaism altogether, since they feel they must turn elsewhere for truth and guidance. 

I have spoken to students who have received this type of Jewish education. It brings to mind Adler's description of the poor education received by the post-16th-century philosophers is exactly how these students describe their formative years of education to me: "Their lectures must have been as wooden and uninspiring as most textbooks or manuals are; their examinations must have called for a verbal parroting of the letter of ancient doctrines rather than for an understanding of their spirit."

A student recently wrote the following thank you note at the end of her Chumash final - with my underlines for emphasis. I quote it here as an example of what students are looking for, and what I think teachers need to do in order to prevent the problems we've been discussing:

I really enjoyed this class this year. I love that you give us the opportunity to think for ourselves and come up with our own ideas and possible answers before telling us what the meforshim say. I also really like that you share your own ideas, knowledge, and stories. I also love that you have a strong focus on learning the pshat. I have been in so many classes where we just mindlessly read through the pesukim and they immediately told us the meforshim and dictated what we should write in our notes. I really appreciate the fact that you teach us for life instead of just teaching us for the final at the end of the year. 

Note the points that this student made. She feels (a) that I am enabling her to gain a real knowledge of the pshat, (b) that she feels connected to the Baalei Mesorah in a living, dynamic, intellectually exciting way, (c) that she is thrilled with the fact that she gets to think for herself before learning from the Baalei Mesorah, and (d) that her learning is "for life" - not merely "for the test."

If we hope to overcome this epidemic of Baalei Mesorah neglect, we must introduce our students to the Mesorah as a vibrant, living intellectual heritage which offers answers to their questions and guidance in their lives. We must train our students in the type of thinking that enables them to take part in The Great Conversation - not to be passive receptacles for dead words on dead parchment. Most importantly, we must inculcate in their minds and hearts - by guiding them through example after example after example - that the Baalei Mesorah were the greatest thinkers, and that if we hope to become thinkers ourselves, we must become their students and gain as much as we can from what they have to teach. 

[1] These Kadmonim include, but are not limited to: Rambam, R' Avraham ben ha'Rambam, Rav Hai Gaon, Saadia Gaon, Ramban, Ibn Ezra, Ralbag, Rabbeinu Bachya ibn Paquda, Rif, Sforno, Rashba, Rashi, Baalei Tosafos, Ritva, Radak, Rashbam, R' Yosef Albo, R' Yehudah ha'Levi, Meiri, Avudarham, Raavad, Ran, Rabbeinu Yonah, Sefer Ha'Chinuch, Abravanel, Chazkuni, Rabbeinu Bachye ben Asher, Rosh, Tur, and more.

Texting, Torah, and the Stamina for Immortality

Originally published in April 2012 (not counting the updated social media references). 

Texting, Torah, and the Stamina for Immortality

The Technological Generation Gap

I heard a shiur by Rabbi AZ about this generation's unprecedented preoccupation with and dependence on technology. Smartphones, Facebook, texting, Snapchat, Instagram, and other forms of online/electronic social networking - the average teenager considers these things to be an indispensable component of his or her very being. Many of these kids cannot conceive of a life in which they are not constantly connected to their social circle via the various modes of technology. To some, the thought of giving up their phone is actually terrifying. 

Members of the older generations have a difficult time understanding this phenomenon. To them, the notion of being so attached to their cell phone is laughable, pathetic, and altogether mystifying. "What do you mean you can't live without your phone?" "Do you really need to be texting everywhere you go?" "How much time do you spend on YouTube anyway?" "Don't you want to spend time with your friends in person instead of communicating with them through typing?" These expressions of astonishment reflect a drastic disconnect with the direction in which the world is moving. 

Rabbi AZ believes that this new wave of technology will change (and is already changing) the way our minds and psyches work. Just as such changes have occurred with every major technological advancement in history (e.g. the agricultural revolution, the invention of the printing press, the industrial revolution), so too, the human psyche will be changed with the rise of the "information age." Rabbi AZ maintains that the driving force behind this change is the fact that we carry our technology on our bodies and are connected 24/7 (or 24/6, for Jews). This constant connectedness to our social circles and to the world is largely responsible for the change in how we relate to others and how we relate to ourselves.

Changes in Man

Some might challenge Rabbi AZ's assertion by quoting the words of Shlomo ha'Melech in Koheles:

Whatever has been is what will be, and whatever has been done is what will be done. There is nothing new under the sun. Sometimes there is something of which one says: "Look, this is new!" - it has already existed in the ages before us. As there is no recollection of the former ones, so too, of the latter ones that are yet to be, there will be no recollection among those of a still later time (Koheles 1:9-11).

"How can you say that things are changing?" one might ask. "Are you saying that just because we have new technology, the way that humans operate will change?"

The answer is that Shlomo ha'Melech was talking about the permanent nature of things - not the particulars, which clearly do change. Adler provides a good example of this distinction in Desires Right & Wrong: the Ethics of Enough (1991):

[We] must distinguish between primary natural needs and those that are secondary and instrumental. The primary natural needs are those that are inherent in human nature and so are the same for all human beings everywhere and at all times. Having a capacity for knowledge, man has a natural need for it. As Aristotle said, "man by nature desires to know."

To acquire knowledge, human beings do not need schools as now constituted and operated. At other times and other other circumstances, the need for knowledge was served by parental instruction, indoctrination and discipline by the elders of the tribe, pedagogues and tutors, and so on. There are many different means to serve the acquisition of knowledge by the young. At different times and under different circumstances, each of these different means may be required to implement the acquisition of the real good needed.

These secondary and instrumental needs can be called "natural" only in the sense that they are means for implementing needs that are natural. They themselves are not natural in the sense of being inherent in human nature and so common to all human beings everywhere and at all times.

Keeping this distinction in mind helps us answer the question often asked: "Do not natural needs change from time to time and with variations in the surrounding circumstances?" The answer is both no and yes. No, primary natural needs never vary. Yes, the instrumental needs that we call "natural" because they are needed to implement our natural desires, do change.

In our present society, people think schools are needed; that was not always the case. In our urban society, people think that public transportation is needed to serve the need to earn a living by those who live at a distance from their place of work. That was not the case in tribal life or in rural agricultural communities. Health is a primary natural need, but it is only in an environment being polluted by the effects of advanced technology that we now need, secondarily and instrumentally, environmental protection for the care of our health.

When the word "need" is used with reference to whatever may be needed to implement our natural desires, we must remember that, unlike our primary natural needs, the secondary instrumental needs are variable. New needs come into existence; needs that once existed disappear. Such variation in needs violates the sense of the word "natural" when it is applied to primary needs. The secondary needs can be called "natural" only in the sense that the goods needed to serve to implement genuinely natural needs.

Our growing dependence on recent technology falls into the category of "secondary instrumental needs." At its core, the human psyche remains the same, but changes in our secondary instrumental needs can trigger changes in our psyche and the way we view the world.

The Tragedy of the Vampire

As I listened to Rabbi AZ's shiur, I was reminded of a passage in Anne Rice's book, Interview with the Vampire (1974), which I am currently rereading. 

SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! 

The protagonist of the book is Louis. In 1791 Louis is transformed against his will into a vampire by another vampire named Lestat. The two of them subsequently transform a five year old girl named Claudia into a vampire, whom Louis grows to regard as his beloved immortal daughter. Louis and Claudia eventually flee from Lestat and travel to France where they encounter a group of "Old World" vampires led by the 400-year-old Armand. A series of sinister events leads to the death of Claudia and all of the other "Old World" vampires except for Armand. Louis and Armand band together as the sole survivors, and begin to develop a vampiric companionship.

Up until this point, the nature of this companionship has not been defined. It is only towards the end, when Louis is contemplating leaving, that Armand tells him why he needs a companion:

[Armand:] "You fear that, the isolation of it, the burden, the scope of eternal life."

[Louis:] "Yes, that's true, but that's only a small part of it. The era, it doesn't mean much to me. She (Claudia) made it mean something. Other vampires must experience this and survive it, the passing of a hundred eras."

[Armand:] "But they don't survive it. The world would be choked with vampires if they survived it. How do you think I came to be the eldest here or anywhere?" he asked.

[Louis:] I thought about this. And then I ventured, "They die by violence?"

[Armand:] "No, almost never. It isn't necessary. How many vampires do you think have the stamina for immortality? They have the most dismal notions of immortality to begin with. For in becoming immortal they want all the forms of their life to be fixed as they are and incorruptible: carriages made in the same dependable fashion, clothing of the cut which suited their prime, men attired and speaking in the manner they have always understood and valued. When, in fact, all things change except the vampire himself; everything except the vampire is subject to constant corruption and distortion. Soon, with an inflexible mind, and often even with the most flexible mind, this immortality becomes a penitential sentence in a madhouse of figures and forms that are hopelessly unintelligible and without value. One evening a vampire rises and realizes what he has feared perhaps for decades, that he simply wants no more of life at any cost. That whatever style or fashion or shape of existence made immortality attractive to him has been swept off the face of the earth. And nothing remains to offer freedom from despair except the act of killing. And the vampire goes out to die. No one will find his remains. No one will know where he has gone. And often no one around him - should he still seek the company of other vampires - no one will know that he is in despair. He will have ceased long ago to speak of himself or of anything. He will vanish." 

That is why Armand needs Louis. Armand senses that he is unable to connect to the present generation and is in danger of remaining frozen in the world of the past, which is quickly fading.

"I must make contact with the age," he said to me calmly. "And I can do this through you ... not to learn things from you which I can see in a moment in an art gallery or read in an hour in the thickest books ... you are the spirit, you are the heart," he persisted.

The Torah's Stamina for Immortality

The dilemma that confronts the vampire, as expressed by Armand, closely parallels the dilemma that confronts the teachers of Torah in the face of the changes in technology and society. Rabbi AZ concluded his shiur by calling attention to the fact that the educational methods employed by the guardians of the Mesorah (Torah tradition) must be adapted to this rapidly changing world. If the methods used by teachers clash with the mentality of the present generation, we risk alienating the modern Jewish teenager. Rabbi AZ said:

The question is: How can the method of learning Torah - how can the process of learning the methodology and the Mesorah - how can that transform from [the old way] to the new way that people think, the new way that they take in knowledge ... The old ways are fixed, and the people running the institutions are not 20 years old. They're 50 years old. They don't live in this kind of world. So the old institutions are made for different people. 

New changes in educational media are happening every day. Public services such as Google and Wikipedia have revolutionized the manner in which people seek out knowledge and information. Devices like the Kindle and iPad are threatening to replace the book as the medium of learning. Institutions like TED and Khan Academy are changing the way people educate themselves.

We have seen our Mesorah undergo many changes throughout the millennia of the Torah's existence: 

• The transition from having "direct access to Hashem" via Moshe Rabbeinu in the Midbar, to the implementation of an independently standing Torah-system in Eretz Yisrael. 
• The transition from the age of Nevi'im to the post-prophetic era. 
• The transition from a centralized, authoritative Sanhedrin overseeing the formulation and transmission of Torah she'baal Peh, to the fragmented educational organizations in galus. 
• The transition from a purely oral Torah she'baal Peh, to a limud Torah she'baal Peh that is anchored in writing: first in the form of the Mishnah, then the Sifra, Sifrei, Tosefta, and Braisos, then the Talmuds, and so on. 
• The transition from the "Geonic monopoly" of the to post-Geonic authority. 
• The transition psak that naturally emanated from learning the primary sources of Torah she'baal Peh to psak rooted in the written works of the poskim. 

Although the Torah itself is perfect and unchanging, these changes in our circumstances have made it necessary to adapt. For example, if Rebbi Yehuda ha'Nasi had not radically altered the model of teaching Torah she'baal Peh, then it would have been utterly lost. His decision to alter the manner in which Torah was taught and learned does not imply any lack of perfection in the Torah itself.

The sum of the matter is that the Torah does have the stamina for immortality, but in order to tap into that stamina, the teachers of Torah in every generation must adapt to the continually shifting reality of the present age. The guardian of the Mesorah must embody the spirit of Torah, but must simultaneously "make contact with the age." The teacher who fails to do this runs the serious risk of stultifying the Torah in the eyes of the contemporary student and endangering the entire chain of the Mesorah.

Mortimer J. Adler's Mussar for Religious Educators

I came across a lecture delivered in San Fransisco on April 19, 1941 by Mortimer J. Adler to the American Catholic Philosophical Association entitled, The Order of Learning. At the beginning of the lecture, Adler announced "I am going to deal with the means of education, not with the ends ... The question I propose to answer is: Given ideally perfect ends, how shall the basic means be ordered?"

At first I dismissed the lecture offhand because it was addressed to Catholic educators, but then I realized that it might be worth reading, since the essay is really about teaching, and might contain insights that could be of use to Jewish educators as well. Lo and behold, Adler didn't let me down. 

Here is an excerpt from the lecture which, in my opinion, should be taken to heart by all Jewish teachers. To minimize cognitive dissonance, I have substituted Catholicism-related terms for their Jewish equivalents. 

Artwork: Academy Elite, by Volkan Baga

The Order of Learning - by Mortimer J. Adler (excerpt)

Now I say that all of these right procedures appear to be radical innovations only because they were forgotten or corrupted by the decadent classical education of the last century, against which progressive education rose in justifiable rebellion. Truly, all these procedures are founded on ancient insights about the order of teaching and learning, insights which every Jewish educator must possess if he understands the nature of man and of human teaching, according to the principles of the philosophy he generally affirms. Let me briefly enumerate some of these points. The Jewish educator knows: 

1. The difference between intellectual habit and sensitive memory. Hence he knows that verbal proficiency, which is a work of sensitive memory, must not be confused with the habit of understanding. 

2. That habits of understanding can be formed only by intellectual acts - acts on the part of the student, not simply acts by the teacher. Hence he knows that the teacher is always a secondary cause of learning, never a primary cause, for the primary cause must always be an act on the part of the learner’s own intellect. 

3. That the intellect depends on sense and imagination, and also that it can be swayed and colored by the motion of the passions. Hence he knows that the discipline of the liberal arts must precede the process of acquiring the speculative virtues, for it is the liberal arts which rectify the intellect in its pursuit of truth — the arts of grammar and logic which protect the intellect against the deceptions of verbal and other symbolization, and all the wayward imagery of sense; the arts of logic and rhetoric, which guard against the incursions of passion, and the coloring of thought by irrelevant emotion. 

4. That the intellectual virtues are always a mean state between vicious extremes of saying too much or saying too little — dogmatic affirmations in excess, or skeptical denials in defect. Hence he knows that truth is always an eminent synthesis of false extremes, a sober resolution of false issues made by extreme positions; he knows that the truth can be genuinely possessed only by a mind which sees the truth always as a correction of manifold and diverse errors, and never by the mind which tries to be alone with the truth in an artificially antiseptic environment. 

The Jewish educator knows all these things, because they are fundamental truths in his philosophy of man. But, unlike his secular colleague, who may not acknowledge these truths at all, or certainly not know them so deeply, but who nevertheless seems to practice according to their meaning, the Jewish educator, who knows them, often violates them in practice by educational methods which: 

1. Put a premium on verbal memory instead of intellectual habit.
2. Proceed as if the teacher were the only active cause of learning, and as if the learner could be entirely passive.
3. Neglect or wrongly subordinate the liberal arts to a supposed mastery of subject-matter.
4. Try to do the impossible — namely, to give the students genuine possession of the truth without ever really perplexing them first by the problems or issues which the truth resolves — and this requires a vital experience of error, for genuine perplexity is usually killed along with the dummy opponents who have been made into straw men for quick demolition. 

Before I proceed now to a brief statement of the order of learning, based upon these truths, let me anticipate one objection I have received from Jewish educators as to means. I am told that Jewish education must give its college graduates a fundamental body of truths for the guidance of their lives. I am told that this necessitates the covering of much ground. You can guess my response. I simply ask what is the point of covering ground, if the students’ feet never touch it, if they never learn through independent exercise to walk by themselves, with head erect and unafraid of all intellectual opposition and difficulty. What is the point of memorizing truths, if they can really guide us only when they are genuinely possessed, if they can protect us from falsehood only to the extent that we understand them as fully refuting errors — real, live errors, not dummy ones concocted for the purposes of an easy victory. I would feel happier about the graduates of yeshivot if they really understood a few truths well — understood them as solving problems which vigorously challenge the mind and perplex it — rather than be able to recite, from merely verbal memory, a whole catechism of philosophical answers to problems they did not really understand or take seriously. I would be happier if they were merely disciplined in the pursuit of truth and in the rejection of error, rather than be, as they now are in so many cases, unable to give an account of what they know because it is known by memory rather than possessed by intellectual habit.

Adler's Footnote: The point I am here making does not deny that it may be useful in some way for Jewish students — or, for that matter, any other students — to be “indoctrinated” with philosophical truths they do not really understand and, therefore, do not really possess. Truths, thus acquired, do not constitute knowledge, subjectively, but only right opinion. If a person, for one reason or another, cannot attain knowledge, it is better that he have right opinion than be ignorant or in error — for right opinion can serve as a guide to action, even if it fails utterly to perfect the intellect. But the utility of right opinion, which may justify the sort of indoctrination that goes on in many Jewish institutions, does not justify the process of indoctrination itself in the sphere of liberal education, aiming specifically at the perfection of the intellect. For, in the first place, the method of indoctrination, if condoned, is likely to result in the imposition of wrong opinions — as Jewish educators are the first to realize when they survey the work of secular institutions; and, in the second place, the method of indoctrination violates the very nature of liberal education by substituting opinion, right or wrong, for knowledge ... certainly if the matters fall within reason’s sphere, and the authority is human, truth so held is mere opinion. But the aim of liberal education is the perfection of the intellect by the genuine possession of the habitus of knowledge. The utility of right opinion for certain practical purposes cannot, therefore, excuse failures in liberal education.