Losing and Regaining the Metaphysical
Have we lost the metaphysical? And how do we regain it?
David Denby, author, journalist, film critic
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U. S. Representative David Price on the Influence of Reinhold Niebuhr
In this excerpt from a podcast with National Humanities Center Robert D. Newman, U. S. Representative David Price reflects on the transformative experience of reading the work of Reinhold Niebuhr. Price notes how his exposure to Niebuhr in a Yale Divinity School classroom continues to shape his thinking about human nature and American democracy.
The writing of Reinhold Niebuhr
U. S. Rep. David Price (NC-4)
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“You Have to Be There”
Averill Corkin describes the moment she decided to major in the humanities after seeing a video performance of the song “Du måste finnas” (“You Have to Be There”), in which a female refugee, overcome with loss and fear, questions the existence of God. She notes, despite the language difference, she understood the woman’s experience through the melody and the nature of her performance. She goes on to talk about the power of the humanities to connect us through our appreciation of art regardless of geographic, cultural, and language boundaries.
The song “Du måste finnas” (“You Have to Be There”)
Averill Corkin, Graduate Student, Harvard University
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Madonna’s Mandorla
While acting as a teaching assistant for a large art appreciation course, Caroline Jones witnessed a student’s curiosity about a painting of the Madonna. Such symbols, so pervasive and recognizable in Western culture, she realized, are not as simple and self-contained as they may seem to some of us. The experience helped her to see that even familiar objects are best considered through multiple frames, and that all parts of the humanities—including art history, religion, and history—are made more robust when put into a dialogue with one another.
<a href="https://nationalhumanitiescenter.org/meet-the-fellows/caroline-a-jones/">Caroline A. Jones</a>, professor of art history at MIT
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A (Buddhist) Conversation in Yangon
Intentionally wandering in Yangon, Burma with a good friend, led to being found by two Buddhist monks our same age. I was there to study how Buddhism influences culture as part of a study abroad program through Samford University. The monks invited us to spend the day at their monastery. The all-day conversation that ensued still serves as a beacon – it was a pinpointed moment of having to re-think all that I thought I knew and a moment that marks the beginning of an aspiration to introduce students to all they do not know.
“What do you think of my beliefs and vow?” they asked. The question, in such an uncommon context, pierced through the absolutism and fundamentalism I had been raised in as a christian evangelical. My pastor would have told me to explain that they were going to hell until they accepted Jesus Christ as their lord and savior. That they were so earnest and loving contrasted with my unfounded piousness. Their questions and sharing proved capable of releasing me from what I thought I was supposed to be. All that I thought I knew had to be vetted and re-thought. It also set a precedent by which I now live my life: living well in communities is better done in the absence of fundamentalism – I could not have shared meals with them in peace had I dogmatically preached that my way was better than another. They were not doing that. Their experiences were shared humbly and openly. They walked me through the path of the humanities as they asked questions that necessitated a more robust understanding of who I was, how I got to that monastery, and to consider where I was headed and why. Moreover, I came away with the belief that our communities benefit from a robust willingness to humbly approach space and place-making knowing that our preconceptions are always incomplete – we can’t live well until our worldviews allow for exceptionally diverse experiences. The meaning of that day is still being made; being confronted so holistically with all that I did not know was life changing; it made my life better and richer and more interesting. As a teacher, my pedagogical decisions are imbued with the spirit of that day. I join other thoughtful teachers in the humanities in prodding students to work rigorously, to practice the skills necessary for crafting worldviews that incorporate disparate, complex narratives. The intent is to prepare them for literal and figurative conversations wherein their hard-earned deftness with complexity will lead to healthy living in healthy, inclusive communities.
A conversation with Buddhist monks in Yangon, Burma
2004
Kyle Jones, 35, High School History Teacher
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A Mountain of Faith
It was the middle of nowhere—nothing but sand, the occasional old car or rusted out piece of machinery, a strange lake known as the Salton Sea, and in the distance a rising mound of color that glimmered in the desert sun. In 2010, with encouragement from my religion professor, my mother and I quite literally drove across the country, roughly 2600 miles to Salvation Mountain, a mound of colorful paint that displayed biblical and religious messages. Bible verses accompanied images of bluebirds, flowers and waterfalls, all molded out of a mixture of clay and straw. This visit proved well worth the journey as it helped me to jump into ethnographic fieldwork while also allowing me to experience my first prominent ‘humanities moment.’
Rising 50 feet high and spanning 150 feet wide, the Dr. Seuss-like whimsical creation was made entirely by hand and proved to be as unique as its creator, Leonard Knight, an elderly man who dedicated his life to building this mountain in an effort to proclaim God’s love. Leonard was as kind hearted and gentle spirited as I had imagined. He lived at the mountain staying primarily in an old shaded hammock. A couple people who would check on Leonard over the years explained that he spent his days scavenging the dump for old building materials that he could use to add to his mountain. Along the way, he would often pick up something to eat. Salvaging car doors, windows, ladders, and buckets, Leonard incorporated anything he could find into his masterpiece. Over time, he built it up—adding new sections like a makeshift trophy room that contained local plaques he received or the ‘yellow brick road’ that consisted of a painted yellow stairway to the top.
Showing us around, Leonard emphasized the reason for building the mountain: he wanted to tell the whole world that God is Love. He explained, “people got too complicated with love. Just keep it simple.” While his mountain displayed bible verses like the Lord’s Prayer and proclamations like “Jesus loves you,” perhaps above all Salvation Mountain acted as a direct representation of one man’s personal faith and larger understanding of the world around him. The mountain embodied a lived religion that ventured beyond static scriptures into the dry heat and sun-worn desert landscape of California.
As an undergraduate, I understood religion within a sociological lens. It could help organize groups, driving and inspiring a range of outlooks and perspectives. But it was also magical, evoking a sense of wonder and awe. Like other humanities, religion helps us to explore and think critically about the human experience while deeply tugging at our emotions. Talking with Leonard a man who lived off the grid in a hammock in the desert, he whole-heartedly believed in the power of love and set out to embody such a love through the best way he could: a large colorful mountain. Of the handful of visitors I met that day, Leonard was the only person who had any strong ties to religion. Though his proclamation seemed apart from the views of those who stumbled upon the creation and an anomaly in a seemingly ‘middle of nowhere’ location, Salvation Mountain reveals the rich life and prevalence of religious thought that exists in marginalized places.
While faith is normally looked at in the grandeur of cathedrals, churches, mosques, and temples, or even the beauty and solace of redwood forests, canyon lands, and ocean horizons, Salvation Mountain’s appearance on the margins of town and society show that even in the most unlikely of places, religion can drive conversation, thought, and action. It reveals the complexity and power that religion can have, even when its just one person calling out in the desolate desert.
2010
Victoria Machado, 30, PhD Candidate in Religion & Nature / Writing Instructor at the University of Florida
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Quo Vadis: Religious Experience and Critical Thinking
I was a high school english teacher in a suburban high school, and I am currently teaching philosophy at a community college in New Jersey. At various moments throughout my career I have encountered students who resist discussions about faith and religious experience. The reason for this, I have observed, is the role of religious indoctrination in their family life and the powerful influence of their religious institutions. While I have never discounted the importance of faith and religious experience as being important and relevant to help one with identity formation and the interpretation of suffering in the world, some students who are defensive about their faith were unable to see the value of discussing the nature of religious experience. In this respect, their faith often prevented them from understanding what religious devotion is and how to talk about it openly.
The role of the humanities involves asking difficult questions about religion, and it is unfortunate that religious fundamentalism across the spectrum of different faiths often undermines a students' ability to think deeply about the origins of their motivating influences. For this reason, it is even more critical that we support the humanities to encourage students to think beyond their narrow influences, and to understand that questioning religious belief does not mean abandoning it.
John Cleary, 60, Associate Professor of Philosophy
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Give Me My Wings
"It's time now
My time now
Give me my,
Give me my, Wings"
Having grown up in a particularly religious family, one that didn't encourage listening to rock music, hearing Tool's brilliant lyrics and masterful musicality struck a cord from the first song I heard. However, their song "10,000 Days (Wings, Part 2)" that shook me to my core.
On the quad at the University of Redlands, I would belt out songs in the warm night air, when the campus was quiet save the echoes of my voice. So when I really listened to "10,000 Days" and sang the lyrics into the darkness, I was rapt with emotion; I felt the message in the song. While the song is about the lead singer's mother, her piety, and her passing, the singer demands that she receives her wings. The somber tones and religious metaphors caused my voice to tremble as I sang the tune. Tears welled as the fast paced tempo, ethereal guitar, and driving drums demanded my presentness in the moment.
I remember this moment so vividly because I was at a turning point in my relationship with religion, sexuality, and life. This song opened up a pathway to healing myself and defining those relationships on my own terms. I didn't have to ask for freedom, I could demand, "Give me my wings!"
Tool
"10,000 Days (Wings, Part 2)"
2008
Richard Daily, 32, Ph.D. Candidate
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