So much of a devotional is what you pack of it. Last night, Victoria recalled Jesus’ impossible command to “love your enemies,” the nub of what we had read that morning from Matthew, and applied it. The impossible becomes possible when I chunk my learning.

“These aphorisms frame, and then are forgotten.”

“Love your enemies” may be an example of Hannah Arendt’s “certain concepts, certain guideposts for future remembrance, and even for sheer reference” that I wrote about three days ago and that serve as bridges between talk and talk — the bridges and the talk that will help revive the spirit of the American revolution.

If we look at these guideposts as short-term memory aids — as “takeaways” from our reading for us to apply in the emerging public sphere — then we won’t dismiss them or, worse, revere them as aphorisms. They’ll be on the level of the sayings of the Desert Fathers — wisdom reduced to aphorism but made mysterious (i.e., infinitely scalable) by either lost or extant context.

The aphorisms, so understood, don’t just carry us from one talk to the next. They aren’t minutes to be read at a next meeting. They frame experience and permit experience — all of experience, and not just the harshest of it — to teach. Life becomes, in a way, what we look for in the best computer simulators, technology that, as educational theorist Ulrich Boser puts it, “allows people to apply their skills in a real-world setting without the high stakes.”1

These aphorisms frame, and then are forgotten. Experts are generally poor teachers of their expertise because they have automated what we once had in common with them — aphoristic knowledge suitable for our narrow but essential short-term memory:

. . . most of what experts know is simply beyond their actual ken. They don’t really know what they know; they made it fully automatic. (55)

The automation comes from a steady diet of word and context. The words, no longer needed and relegated to books, are forgotten. So I’m evolving my curriculum to speak less in class. Boser again:

Fewer words—and more breaks between ideas—make it easier for people to grapple with new information. (42)

Lincoln, someone whose life’s mission was to restore what he understood to be the revolutionary spirit, wrote with a lawyerly reductionism. He liked words like “nub” and “rub.” Here’s how the president-elect ended his letter to his friend, Alexander H. Stephens, the future vice-president of the Confederacy:

You think slavery is right and ought to be extended; while we think it is wrong and ought to be restricted. That I suppose is the rub. It certainly is the only substantial difference between us. [Emphasis original]

Here’s practice in the emerging school of democracy: talk, pith, experience, repeat.

[Feature photo by Luna715 and insert photo by milkan. Both used by permission.]

  1. Boser, Ulrich. Learn Better at 126.

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