Category: Story

Sep 18 2017

According to the educational website, Edutopia,

Parent involvement is the number one predictor of early literacy success and future academic achievement.”

But, according to the Pew Research Center,

About a quarter of American adults (26%) say they haven’t read a book in whole or in part in the past year, whether in print, electronic, or audio form.”

We all intuitively know that reading – to our kids, in front of our kids – benefits our kids. But we also all experientially know that reading requires time and energy – two commodities we as parents too easily believe we possess in too small amounts.

Perhaps we do better reading books in the summer when the schedule seems lighter and the days longer. And yet, if we aren’t reading consistently ourselves (and especially during the school year), how will we convince our kids of this supposedly important habit, both in their studies now as well as later for the long-term?

This weekend, I began reading Jackson J. Spielvogel’s Western Civilization, the excellent history textbook our secondary students use all through their 7th-12th grade years. My daughters (all of whom had weekend reading assignments in Spielvogel) noticed my seemingly strange selection as they walked by me lying on the couch, and wondered out loud why I was reading their textbook on a Saturday night.

Before I could answer, they each mentioned how much they themselves liked Spielvogel’s text and how it helped them anchor in the timeline of history the many original source novels and essays we read. This, of course, is exactly how our teachers intend the book to be used, but it was nice hearing my kids’ explanation of our pedagogy (the method and practice of teaching) and how it helped them learn.

(Candidly, it was also nice to feel like I was doing something – i.e. reading the same book they were – that communicated interest in their lives and what they are learning. And, I learned and re-learned quite a bit about the ancient world of Mesopotamia, Egypt, and classical Greece.)

At all levels of our curriculum, our students read plenty of great books. As parents, why not read some with them? In lower elementary, learn some phonograms with your little ones; in the upper elementary, jump in on a chapter book every now and then, or read along in Susan Wise Bauer’s The Story of the World history series.

If you have a student in the secondary, ask him for the booklist this year (we’ve already handed out all his books) and get started on a novel or essay now that he’ll read later in the year. Last year, I intentionally chose to read Moby Dick with my senior, but as I knew it would take me longer to read than her, I gave myself a couple months of extra lead time and finished just before she did. On the several occasions at the dinner table she shared what had been discussed in class and her thoughts concerning it, I could engage genuinely, which meant a lot to me and, I think, to her.

Forsake the “all or nothing” mentality that paralyzes so many of us (dads especially) and pick a book or two to read with your student this semester. Our kids – regardless of age or grade – will take note of our efforts and benefit as we model (even sporadically and imperfectly) this important tool and discipline of learning.

Sep 11 2017

The following four-minute video debuted at Parent Orientation, with the text taken from Mr. Dunham’s “One-of-a-Kind and of One Mind” address to parents.

There isn’t one parent here who doesn’t want the fruits of classical Christian education listed in the video for your child:

– Respect

– Curiosity

– Concern

– Joy

– Passion

– Love

We are of one mind here, which is why we are here. As Petra parents:

– we’re finished with academic education that doesn’t contribute to a student’s physical, emotional, and spiritual experience;

– we’re done with curriculum that does not teach the biblical story of creation, fall, redemption, and consummation, tying all subjects together and giving them meaning;

-we’re through fighting trial-and-error educational progressivism, test-driven curricula, and no particular moral end in mind.

Instead, we’re of one mind in pursuing this one-of-a-kind classical Christian education as our desired means to the best of ends for our kids. We intend for them to engage with the best books, impassioned teachers, and most beautiful school culture possible.

Prior to the school year’s start, our staff invested good and profitable time learning and preparing to cultivate in our students four key faculties of flourishing, as presented by Academic Dean Sam Koenen:

1) Attentiveness. We become what we behold because we are worshiping beings. 2 Corinthians 3:18 describes this reality: “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.” We want to call our kids to study with rigor, defined as “being able to pay close and extended attention to that which is studied.”

2) Memory. The ability of students to access what they have learned in the past so they know how to live in the present is crucial to their success. Memory has always been an essential attribute of God’s people (consider the theme of Deuteronomy: “remember, remember, remember”), and is therefore an important element of our curriculum and pedagogy.

3) Imitation. We are made in the image of God and are called to act as he does – in imitation of the truth, goodness, and beauty of his word and his work in the world. How do students learn this at school? Through our teachers, who do not just handle our curriculum; they are our curriculum.

4) Harmony. Helping students recognize and resolve discord in their character is important for helping them do the same in resolving discord in the world. To learn to love and live at peace with God, man, and themselves is how human flourishing happens.

Ours is a one-of-a-kind education, and we want to be of one mind concerning it. We invite you to get informed, to stay involved, and to pray for our little school as we seek to instill these four characteristics in your students – not only for themselves, but for the flourishing of humanity and the renown of Jesus the Christ.

Jul 3 2017

One of the joys of summer (apart from the school year ending, of course) is the opportunity to walk back through the past nine months and thank God for His blessings, for they are many.

Academically, we saw students at every level work hard, embracing the curricular challenges presented within each new grade and seeking to understand what our teachers so passionately attempted to present and inculcate. Our new Upper School Lyceum presentations from faculty contributed to the weekly intellectual stimulation, as did the many Grammar School field trips and educational festivals highlighting different aspects of our world. We witnessed the manifestation of fruit from our academic endeavors at each Recitation (Grammar and Upper School), by the expression of creative projects hanging on the walls, in the conversations and discussions engaged in in the classrooms (and, I’m told, at dinner tables everywhere), and through our Upper School Thesis presentations – all culminating in our Senior Commencement at the end of the year, in which we graduated 10 students we loved very much.

Artistically, we witnessed the deeper establishment of our music program with our new 4th-6th grade Orchestra joining our dynamic 4th-8th grade Choir for two wonderful Schola Cantorum concerts. We studied many and varied forms of visual art, and learned some of the history of each along the way. We dedicated a full two days to our Upper School Shakespeare Festival, extending our love for the Bard down into our Grammar school in partnership with Montana Shakespeare in the Parks and their Montana Shakes! week-long program in which over 40 of our 3rd-6th graders participated. Our Upper School students participated in our first-ever Film Festival and studied three stunning films from Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Decalogue project. And, we took a big step in our Drama program, producing a custom version of the theatrical favorite, Meet Me in St. Louis, complete with rousing song and dance numbers performed in front of record attendance numbers – our first foray into the wonderful world of the onstage musical.

Athletically, it was a banner year of spirit and accomplishment: we saw continued improvement at all four levels of our volleyball program, turned in our best JV basketball record to date of 10-3, and won our third state championship in five years in Ultimate Frisbee. Most importantly, we saw the beginnings of an actual fan base – of students K-12 (and their families) attending and cheering on our Griffin teams because they were our own. Our new line of Griffin Gear helped unify our look, and Spirit Days and our new Contio Spiritus pep rallies each month gave expression to our newly-cultivated school spirit.

Of course, if we’re talking spirit, there were our traditional feasts for Reformation/All Saints’ Day, Advent, and Easter, as well as yet another beautiful morning for Field Day, all of which added to the fun. We installed the first elements of our new Grammar playground (with more still to come), our 3rd-6th graders took history on parade, our 7th-12th graders learned about etiquette (and looked great doing so) at Protocol, and we loved hosting our elders for Grandparents’ Day. Finally, our Upper School house system competed – athletically, dramatically, academically, and musically – throughout the year, and we were all reminded of – maybe even surprised by! – the unity fostered by the houses when we retired them for summer at our year-end closing awards ceremony, where we celebrated each other’s accomplishments and cried a tear or two at a powerful slide show summarizing 2016-17.

Administratively, we celebrated our freedom to educate students the way we do during School Choice Week, welcomed dozens of school leaders from other parts of Montana interested in what we were doing, and secured another five-year accreditation from our accrediting body of the Association of Classical and Christian Schools. We improved systems (most significantly being online registration), welcomed new Board members, and attempted to lead humbly and with care for each and every student and family. We sought to own our shortcomings and failures, asked forgiveness and took responsibility for what we could or needed to, and worked to view issues as opportunities to get better. Most importantly, we sought God’s Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, and remain ever-grateful for what we discern to be His gracious response to us.

Thanks be to God…for 2016-17, and for everything.

Dec 22 2016

(This is Part 2 of Miss Owens’ post on Charles Dickens. Click here to read Part 1.)

Poverty, and the disgraceful workhouses, were societal ills about which Dickens cared strongly. It was a problem that had affected him personally, and quite powerfully. When he was about 11 years old, his father became deeply indebted; though the family was lower middle class and shouldn’t have needed to worry about money, Dickens ended up suffering for his father’s incapability to spend within the family’s means. When his father was incarcerated in debtors’ prison, Dickens had to leave his school, move to a new location near his father’s prison, pawn his books, and go to work in a blacking factory: a place that produced shoe black. He earned 5-6 shillings a week. It was difficult, distasteful, and enormously embarrassing work for Dickens. In fact, he later said that his time in the blacking factory, working to pay off his father’s debts, left him psychologically damaged. Not long after this, the entire family moved into the debtor’s prison with his father. From that time onward, the plight of the poor and needy was ever on Dickens’ mind.

And so it was in the 1840s that Charles Dickens found himself nonplussed with the quality of help given to the British poor and needy. He toyed with writing a pamphlet for distribution, urging the better off to take notice of the needs around them and to give to those in poverty and destitution; to fight the demons of Ignorance and Want (personified later in A Christmas Carol). Yet he wasn’t entirely sold on the concept of pamphlet distribution. Then he visited Manchester, a northern region of England that had experienced massive population growth due to booming cotton industry. In the early 1700s about 10,000 people lived in Manchester. By 1850, 400,000 lived there, with most of the growth occurring from 1800 onward as population numbers doubled every few decades. The jobs paid well, if you could get one and keep one. And it wasn’t uncommon for many children to labor just as strenuously as adults. Dickens’s heart was moved by the state of common welfare in Manchester; it was there he found his inspiration to write not a pamphlet, but a novel expressing the same moral calling.

A Christmas Carol at its fundamental level is a call to all people (but for Dickens, specifically British people) to help those in need, and in this it represents a significant humanitarian addition to Christmas. Today we associate Christmas season with requests for funding from non-profits, or with Santa bell-ringers outside of stores, collecting money for the Salvation Army. But Christmas wasn’t always linked with humanitarian aid, with the call to help those less fortunate than ourselves. We can thank Dickens for that in part. Early in the story, Scrooge’s nephew Fred reprimands his uncle for refusing good things that don’t turn a profit, reminding him that the good might not always be profitable, in the sense that Scrooge cares about anyway, and yet the good is still good. Perhaps we can’t always put a price tag on “good”—and perhaps doing good might actually cost us something. But the message Dickens hopes we see is that not doing good costs us even more; and that the good act of giving, looking out for our neighbors, gleans us much more than a profit margin. This is a message that cuts against the grain of our American culture that wants us to give, but only if we end up giving the best gift and people know we one-upped them—our American culture that wants us to spend all of our money of expensive, trendy presents so that charity work gets the left-overs—our American culture that bedazzles us with sales and must-haves and whispers of “they’ll love this so you must buy it.” What’s profitable, and what is good?

Scrooge begins a miser, an old man who’s built his fortune partly by refusing to share it with anyone. But he doesn’t end that way. Dickens’ Christmas Carol is a story of redemption and rescue; grace comes, from the outside, to work an inner change. Light and life and hope and charity intervene, but not without a good dose of painful honesty and difficult self-reflection. In order to be rescued, Scrooge must face his past, look honestly at his present, and ponder the future of a life unchanged. It’s a call Dickens makes to each of us.

Dickens’ contemporaries heard this call: in 1844 charitable giving spiked in Britain; in 1874 Robert Louis Stevenson declared he would give generously after reading the book; after reading A Christmas Carol, Thomas Carlyle invited guests over for not one, but two Christmas dinners; an American factory owner in 1867 closed his factory for Christmas and sent a turkey to the home of every employee, and in the early 1900s the Queen of Norway sent gifts to the crippled children in London, signed “with Tiny Tim’s love.”

So as we enjoy A Christmas Carol, we should consider what the takeaway is for us. Does Dickens have anything to say about American consumerism and the needs of the impoverished? What kind of futures are we building for ourselves in the way we spend Christmas? The needs are many. May we meet at least a few.

Dec 21 2016

If you’re like me, you might take A Christmas Carol as a fixture of Christmas—one that is so familiar that likely it doesn’t gain much deep consideration. The tale of a miserly old man whose evening is startlingly interrupted by four ghosts who intervene to rescue him from his curmudgeonly and parsimonious ways is straightforward enough, the message fairly unobscured; after all, Dickens wasn’t interested in wrapping up the moral of the story in layers of symbolism.

But sometimes what is familiar is the least examined. Take the title, for example—A Christmas Carol. Some versions of Dickens’ story include singing, but not all Christmas Carols include, well, carols. Dickens didn’t even publish it intending it to be sung; he published it as a book. So why did he entitle it A Christmas Carol? Well, in actuality he entitled the book something other than just the innocuous A Christmas Carol: really, the novella is entitled A Christmas Carol in Prose, Being a Ghost Story of Christmas.

Now, Charles Dickens knew how to turn a penny; he had made himself a fair amount of money as a writer and had a good business sense. So certainly his title has something to do with marketability. Who, perusing the books for sale amid other wares, wouldn’t have his eye caught by a Ghost Story of Christmas? Or, for that matter, a Christmas Carol in prose? In 1843, the year Dickens published Christmas Carol, Christmas carols were well-entrenched in English Christmas celebrations. Classics such as “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” “Joy to the World,” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful” had been around since the 1700s. “Silent Night” had just been penned in 1818, and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman” was practically hot off the presses, being written in 1833 (although the lyrics are said to date back to the 1400s). So clearly Dickens was relying on a catchy title to capture the attention of book buyers. (His strategy, and his enduring story, worked: the book has never been out of print since its first printing in 1843.)

And, interestingly enough, because the work was entitled A Christmas Carol, he didn’t pen it in chapters, but instead, mirroring choral music structure, he divided his book into staves (the plural of staff, the system of lines and spaces onto which we write notes). It’s as if he wants us to think of the story being sung to us, or even as if we are all carolers, singing the ghost story to each other, participating in it, investing ourselves in its message. Now what’s interesting about many of the Christmas carols Dickens knew (and that we still sing today) is that they often take deep truth and express it in layered verses; each verse takes us deeper into the truths about God, or our condition, or the circumstances surrounding and significance of Christ’s birth. Perhaps this is what Charles Dickens had in mind when he decided to title his novella in a way that echoed familiar carols.

If that’s the case, then why did he choose this means? Why write a book, a story, that echoes Christmas carols in structure, depth, and even title? What was he after? Primarily, Dickens hoped to motivate readers to do more to help the poor in Britain—this is why men come around to Scrooge’s shop, collecting money for the poor (and are soundly rebuffed by Scrooge’s “Bah, Humbug!” and query about workhouses and prisons), why there are beggars on the streets, why Tiny Tim’s life is in jeopardy as his family struggles to make ends meet with paltry wages. But in order to fully appreciate these elements of the story and Dickens’ objective, we need to understand a little about Dickens’ context.

The Industrial Revolution had been underway in England since the late 18^th century, so at least one if not two generations of British families had seen their situations change drastically because of the many innovations—some for the better, but many for the worst. As labor became mechanized, laborers became scarcer. And as industry moved away from the countryside and into the cities, people flocked to the cities. But there they found often hardship, lack of employment, crowded living conditions, and sometimes even destitution. Add to that a few bad harvests and mass unemployment following the end of the wars with Napoleon (defeated finally in 1815 at the Battle of Waterloo), and England was facing an enormous crisis.

Old ways of helping the poor were simply unsustainable. By 1834 British Parliament passed the New Poor Law, which legislated a new way to deal with the poor: rather than merely offering them assistance as they needed it, the British system would now require impoverished people to earn help, in the workhouses. The poor and destitute had to seek help by applying to the workhouses, a place to live as well as work. Though the law was intended to keep able-bodied workers at their jobs and homes, as you might imagine, many critics of this law saw it merely as a way to penalize the poor rather than help them.

(This is Part 1 of Miss Owens’ post on Charles Dickens. Click here to read Part 2.)

Oct 28 2016

(The following post is the third of three adapted from a message presented by Academic Dean Sam Koenen at our new Thursday morning Lyceum. Read Part 1 and Part 2.)

When the story begins, John’s world is very narrow and purposeless. He thinks that his reason for existing is simply to follow the Landlord’s rules. He doesn’t understand much about the world around him, and he hasn’t seen much because he hasn’t gone far from what is familiar to him. It is only when he ventures outside of what is familiar to him, when he goes a few yards farther down the road, that he experiences something that alters his life forever.

All of us are in a similar position. Like John, we don’t see very clearly and we don’t understand very much. We often obey our Landlord’s rules out of fear of the consequences rather than love for the Landlord. Like John, we need to hear a voice calling us, a beauty that draws us out of our common experience and fear into a new reality.

I submit to you that for those who have ears willing to hear and eyes willing to see, your humanities classes this year will offer many opportunities to experience the kind of Joy that came to John. Ask the seniors if they have ever had a moment in humanities class when they felt a “sweetness and a pang so piercing” it made them forget about everything else, a sudden shocking moment of a beauty that pointed beyond itself to that which is ultimately Beautiful. The same can happen to you if, like John, you are willing to venture a few yards farther down the road, a little way past the familiar, a little way beyond what you are used to.

It may happen to you when you read of Aeneas returning to rescue his people, helm afire and god-forged shield held high. Or when you read of Beowulf’s body, broken in his final battle. For some, Joy will come when Elizabeth finally sees that all the pride she had been seeing in Darcy was mirrored in her very own prejudice, and that she does love him, she does.

Perhaps Joy will come when you read of the simple obedience and faith of the early fathers of the church, willing to die joyfully for Christ, or read in George Herbert’s poetry how God uses our afflictions to tune our hearts to the key of his love. Or when you read of how the Redcrosse Knight’s first glimpse of the Celestial City breaks his heart with its beauty.

At some point, the moment for Joy will come, and the only question is whether you will be ready for it. Will you? Will you be ready to hear the voice say to you “Come”? Will you hear the sweet musical sound? Will you see the mist part and glimpse the island? Will you see the object of your nameless desire?

At the end of The Pilgrim’s Regress, John eventually realizes that the object of his desire cannot be found in this world. All the beauty and delight he found in objects in this world were signposts pointing him to a beauty and a delight of an object that transcended this world. At this point John realizes the truth of the words St. Augustine wrote in the opening of his Confessions, words addressed to God:

“You stir us so that praising you may bring us joy, because you have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is [restless] until it rests in you.”

John realizes that the voice he heard long ago, and the island he saw, and all the beauty and joy he had known from that day to this was all used by God to draw his heart to its proper place. God made John restless by design so that John would learn contentment in God alone and not in the gifts of God.

The same is true of each of you. God has poured numerous blessings into your lives. One of those blessings is that he has placed you at Petra this year to learn and grow in wisdom and virtue. But this year won’t be all beauty and joy and glimpses of islands. There are papers to be written, speeches to deliver, tests to take, conflict with friends to resolve, sins to confess. But this is all part of the work of planting and pruning apple trees so you can enjoy an abundant harvest of the sweet fruit of good education.

And rest assured that while you labor toward this harvest of education, God himself is at work in you, watering your weary roots, pruning your dead branches, and preparing you for the harvest of mature godliness.

He has made you restless by design, and he will not rest in his work until you find perfect rest in him.

Oct 26 2016

(The following post is the second of three adapted from a message presented by Academic Dean Sam Koenen at our new Thursday morning Lyceum. Read Part 1 and Part 3.)

In his autobiographical allegory, The Pilgrim’s Regress, C.S. Lewis tells the story of a young boy named John who lives in a town full of rules. His parents tell him that if he doesn’t follow the rules, the Landlord who owns the town will throw him into a black hole full of snakes. This naturally upsets John, who strives as hard as he can to keep the rules. He strives so hard that the rules are almost the only thing that John can think about.

Lewis writes,

Now the days and the weeks went on again, and I dreamed that John had little peace either by day or night for thinking of the rules and the black hole full of snakes. At first he tried very hard to keep them all, but when it came to bed-time he always found that he had broken far more than he had kept: and the thought of the horrible tortures to which the good, kind Landlord would put him became such a burden that next day he would become quite reckless and break as many as he possible could; for oddly enough this eased his mind for the moment. But then after a few days the fear would return and this time it would be worse than before because of the dreadful number of rules that he had broken during the interval…

John went out one morning and tried to play in the road and to forget his troubles; but the rules kept coming back into his head so that he did not make much of it. However, he went on always a few yards further till suddenly he looked up and saw that he was so far away from home that he was in a part of the road he had never seen before. Then came the sound of a musical instrument, from behind it seemed, very sweet and very short, as if it were one plucking of a string or one note of a bell, and after it a full, clear voice–and it sounded so high and strange that he thought it was very far away, further than a star. The voice said, Come.

Then John saw that there was a stone wall beside the road in that part: but it had (what he had never seen in a garden wall before) a window. There was no glass in the window and no bars; it was just a square hole in the wall. Through it he saw a green wood full of primroses: and he remembered suddenly how he had gone into another wood to pull primroses, as a child, very long ago–so long that even the moment of remembering the memory seemed still out of reach. While he strained to grasp it, there came to him from beyond the wood a sweetness and a pang so piercing that instantly he forgot his father’s house, and his mother, and the fear of the Landlord, and the burden of the rules. All the furniture of his mind was taken away. A moment later he found that he was sobbing, and the sun had gone in: and what it was that had happened to him he could not quite remember, nor whether it had happened in this wood, or in the other wood when he was a child. It seemed to him that a mist which hung at the far end of the wood had parted for a moment, and through the rift he had seen a calm sea, and in the sea an island.

What John experiences out on the road is the awakening of a nameless desire, a desire that is simultaneously sweet and painful. This is what C.S. Lewis calls Joy, with a capital “J”. Joy is an extremely important concept to Lewis: experiences of Joy and the search to find what caused it eventually led Lewis to become a Christian.

Lewis scholar Louis Markos explains what Lewis means by Joy this way:

Joy signified an intense, overwhelming desire for an indefinable, numinous “something” that was just beyond his grasp. Joy, that is, was a feeling, but a feeling that pointed beyond itself. If one tried to hold on to the feeling and enjoy it as an end in itself, it would quickly vanish…Likewise, if one tried (greedily) to reproduce the feeling, it would never come; joy comes only when the mind forgets itself and seeks something else.

As the story goes on, John leaves his family and sets out from his hometown in search of the object of his nameless desire. His search is made more difficult by two things. First, he finds many things that pretend to be the object of his desire–art, music, girls, ideas, fame, etc. These do indeed give him pleasure for a while, but not for very long. Second, John’s search grows desperate when he realizes that the more counterfeits he finds, the harder it is to remember what Joy really feels like.

What does all this have to do with humanities, Mr. Koenen? Well, everything, which I will explain in my third and final post.

Oct 24 2016

(The following post is the first part of three adapted from a message presented by Academic Dean Sam Koenen at our new Thursday morning Lyceum. Read Part 2 and Part 3.)

Why study humanities? As the name implies, we study the humanities in order to become human. Think about what this means. Since we are studying to become human, that must mean we are not human yet, or at least not fully.

So what does it mean to be human? Certainly we are all human biologically, and fully so in this meaning of the word. None of us are semi-species, half-human and half-something-else (though some may act like it at times). From a Christian worldview, we must define “human” by looking at Jesus Christ, the only perfect human. To be human means to be like Christ.

This helps us understand the purpose of the humanities then: we study them in order to become more like Christ, and therefore more human. And we all know that we need to grow in this way. But if we are to grow in Christ, why do we study so many books written by humans, many of them profoundly flawed, many of them not even Christian, some of them wildly antagonistic toward Christianity?

This is an excellent question, and its answer has two parts. First of all, because all truth comes from God even when uttered by pagan tongues. All beauty, even if painted by rebellious hands, has its beginning and its end in God, the Supremely Beautiful One. And all goodness has its measure in the goodness of God.

The second reason such books can help us become more like Christ is because of the doctrine of common grace. God graciously gives good gifts even to those in rebellion against him. To many non-Christians, God has revealed truth, given artistic gifts, and even the ability to love, sacrifice, and live virtuously. By studying the best that humans have thought, said, and done through the ages, we begin to participate in a Great Conversation of what it means to be human. We recognize both our common humanity with these authors and humbly acknowledge that though they may not have full access to the truth revealed in Jesus Christ, yet in many ways they are far more human than we have yet become.

Finally, we don’t just read these books on their own. We also study them from a Christian framework, learning to see the world through the lens of Scripture, trying to see through the eyes and heart of Christ. And as we read these books, they begin to change us. They make us restless, awakening in us deep desires that we can’t quite name. The best way I can explain this effect books have on us is by telling a story…which I will do in my next post.

Aug 3 2016

On Wednesday morning, I was delayed getting to school as I had to replace a dead battery on our van. Having jumped our 2008 Honday Odyssey via our 1990 Volvo and exhausting my handyman abilities (it doesn’t take much), I drove the vehicle to our local AutoZone in search of someone who knew more about basic car maintenance than I did.

I was helped by a delightful gentleman in his late sixties named Frederick. In the midst of a surprisingly enlightening discussion of battery options, Frederick told me that he had been in the Navy before finishing his undergraduate and graduate degrees in music, writing his dissertation on a 15th century French composer in King Louis’ court, teaching as a professor at Denison University, a liberal arts college in Ohio, and singing opera in New York, New Jersey, and across Europe. He then retired to Montana five years ago with his wife (who retires in March from her payroll post at Montana State University) to be with friends, and continues singing with the Intermountain Opera Bozeman whenever he can.

This is the guy who changed my van battery this morning.

This is the guy who gave me an inspiring start to my day.

In April of 2014, The Atlantic published a piece titled, “Why I Teach Plato to Plumbers” by Scott Samuelson, a philosophy professor at Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. In the article, Samuelson wrote:

Once, when I told a guy on a plane that I taught philosophy at a community college, he responded, “So you teach Plato to plumbers?” Yes, indeed. But I also teach Plato to nurses’ aides, soldiers, ex-cons, preschool music teachers, janitors, Sudanese refugees, prospective wind-turbine technicians, and any number of other students who feel like they need a diploma as an entry ticket to our economic carnival.

So why, according to Samuelson, should plumbers study Plato?

My answer is that we should strive to be a society of free people, not simply one of well-compensated managers and employees. Henry David Thoreau is as relevant as ever when he writes, “We seem to have forgotten that the expression ‘a liberal education’ originally meant among the Romans one worthy of free men; while the learning of trades and professions by which to get your livelihood merely, was considered worthy of slaves only.”

Walker Percy Quote (low res) — Walker Percy shirt model: Academic Dean Sam Koenen

I met a free man today in Frederick – humble, helpful, well-spoken, and not the least bit insecure that, after a career in academia, he is now in the business of getting his hands dirty installing van batteries (and doing a fine job of it, I might add). He retold the major twists and turns of his life’s story with humor, spoke of his joy singing opera, and relished the fact that he and his wife had no regrets leaving their hustle-and-bustle life across the Hudson River from New York City to come be with friends in little Bozeman, Montana.

From everything I gathered in our short time together, Frederick has made for himself a good life, but what does that mean, and is it the same for everyone? Charles Taylor, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Philosophy at McGill University, writes in A Secular Age:

Every person, and every society, lives with or by some conception(s) of what human flourishing is: What constitutes a fulfilled life? What makes life really worth living? What would we most admire people for?

At Petra Academy, these are the kinds of questions we ask students, because these are the kinds of questions students will spend the rest of their lives trying to answer. Ours is an education not just of information, but of formation; not just of the study of characters, but of character itself; not just of pursuing truth, but of knowing the One Who is and has the Word(s) of Truth (John 1:1; John 6:68-69). Fulfillment, worth, admiration – these all flourish as fruit from this quest.

Next week, I’m due for a haircut from my barber, who makes a good living cutting hair by day while joyfully – strangely – reading obscure European philosophers by night. He takes seriously what he does, runs a good shop, travels a bit with his family, and always has interesting ideas to discuss with those in his chair. It seems a good life, one that rewards him with more than a buck, for he – like Frederick – has gained a freedom afforded by the Humanities, and that is a good and glorious thing.

Feb 29 2016

View More: http://ashleydawnphoto.pass.us/petrastaff — Ms. Ginny Owens teaches Humanities, Rhetoric, and Violin.

Can truth ever lead us to despair? In the second volume of his Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien, we encounter two critical characters: the king of Rohan, Théoden, and Gríma Wormtongue, his adviser. Rohan is a small but important kingdom opposed to the Dark Lord Sauron, yet relatively insignificant (or so it seems) in its ability to actually pose a viable threat to Sauron’s looming power as he attempts to enslave all of Middle Earth.

When we first meet Théoden, four of the book’s heroes (Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli) have arrived at his hall to appeal to the king for help. Here we discover that the king is an old man; we know already of the peril facing all of free Middle Earth as Sauron’s defeat rests on a small hope, a “fool’s hope,” as the good wizard Gandalf later puts it. Yet despite Rohan’s resistance against Sauron, Théoden’s reaction to the warriors and wizard is unexpectedly sour. Readers soon learn the reason: his adviser, Gríma Wormtongue, has poisoned the king’s mind against hope, wisdom, valor, and goodness. Tolkien uses Theoden’s despair to offer a profound lesson about the nature of truth.

Tolkien wants us to see that Wormtongue’s poison has come not in the guise of lies, as we might expect, but rather in the form of truth. Is it true that Théoden is old? Yes. Is it true that little hope of victory remains in the battle against Sauron? Yes. Is it true that Rohan is beset by growing darkness on all sides? Yes. And Wormtongue fills Théoden’s mind with these truths.

But, importantly, that is not all of the truth. Instead it is a one-sided truth, a truth shorn of goodness and of hope. And this is what Tolkien wants us to recognize: that truth can at times be bitter, but it does not stop short of sweetness.

Truth edifies, it builds up—it does not tear down or destroy. It might wound, but it offers healing as well. Yet in Gríma Wormtongue’s mouth, truth can only debilitate, crush, demolish. This deceptive handling of truth ultimately results in Théoden’s withdrawal from his kingly position and duties, his retreat from evil, and even his own inner lethargy. Though Tolkien does not use the term, Théoden in this episode illustrates depression. And importantly, it is truth—in some form—that has led him there.

However, Tolkien does not abandon the king, nor readers, in this predicament. Truth is not allowed to suffer forever in the hands of evil intent. Gandalf enters Théoden’s hall, and representing Light and Wisdom, awakens Théoden from his depressed withdrawal. And significantly he uses truth to do so—but this time it is truth in its full form, truth as it is meant to be: pointing forward to hope, goodness, and beauty. Gandalf is honest as he encourages Théoden, but that honesty opens the way to hope: “The enemy is strong beyond our reckoning, yet we have a hope at which he has not guessed.”

Readers are not told all that Gandalf relates to Théoden in their private conversation, but we do see the change that comes over Théoden: “but ever as he spoke the light shone brighter in Théoden’s eye, and at the last he rose from his seat to his full height.” Truth in Gandalf’s mouth has the power to give life, not take it; to recall to strength, not wither it. In this episode, Tolkien teaches us that truth will not lead us to despair—but, truth shorn of hope, an impostor truth, can lead us there.

What does this mean for us? There is a spiritual truth here, for God also uses truth to give life rather than abandon us to partial, crushing truths. Is it true that our hearts are wicked? Yes. Is it true that every day we fail, we envy, we lie, we fall to pride? Yes. And yet that is not all that is true, for thankfully it is also true that though are hearts are wicked, God promises to change them; though we sin against our neighbor and our God, He promises grace upon grace.

Paul’s letter to the Ephesians captures this double-edged truth: we were dead in our sins, enslaved to wrath and sinful desires, but God made us alive in Christ—not because we cleaned our hearts first or swept our sins away, but because of his rich mercy and great love. God’s truth certainly contains bitterness, for who loves being told he is a rebel deserving of death? Yet God’s truth does not stop there, but instead adds the sweetness of love and redemption. The Truth points us to goodness and beauty.

So why the Sour Patch Kids? We can thank my 8^th grade humanities class for this analogy. If you have ever enjoyed a Sour Patch kid, you know that it is both sour and sweet. And in that, this candy captures the essence of truth: it might cut to our very hearts (sour), but it will restore to life as well (sweet). Truth shorn of goodness and hope will lead us to despair, but real Truth will lead us to life and joy.