The Perilous Spectacle of Wisdom
Wisdom is rightly spectacular. The danger is we rest content with the spectacle and miss the point.
Can you remember the last time you were blown away by something you had read? A time when you were forced to put your book down to marvel at the writer’s wisdom and insight? Times like this are special —the pinnacle of the reading experience — when a new philosophy comes into sharp focus, when an insight helps unlock a mystery, and when something you never thought of before now seems as obvious as the noonday sun. Many of us read for these moments — we read to be awed.
As being in awe of something is one of the most powerful and intense emotions that we can experience, exposure to wisdom can also be immensely pleasurable. And this is good and fitting. It proves the dulling disease of triviality hasn’t yet conquered our hearts and a hungering and a thirsting after wisdom abides within us. The pleasure we wisdom-seekers experience when a writer provides us with wisdom-filled feast is part of our due reward.
But a danger lurks within the pleasure. It is a danger especially prevalent and potent in this digital age where a glut of articles claiming to contain wisdom lie at our fingertips, embellished, as they are, by glowing pixels.
The danger is we become addicted to the ‘spectacle of wisdom’.
Wisdom, especially profound wisdom that answers some of life’s deepest questions, is rightly regarded as spectacular. And like a magnificent symphony that gives us goosebumps or a stunning landscape that takes our breath away, the cognitive spectacle produced by wisdom is not to be outdone in the pleasures and awe it induces.
This is not necessarily troubling. Something would be deeply amiss within us if all that wisdom elicited was a stoically impassive nod of the head. The danger lies, however, when we shift from seeking wisdom for wisdom’s sake to consuming it for the spectacle’s sake; when we begin to seek out wisdom not primarily for the new insights, nor for the way it impels us to change our lives and our thinking, but for the cognitive hits and highs and the ability to show off how “wise” and well-read we are.
I am well aquatinted with this danger. I readily perceive its futile fruit in my own heart. I know how just how easy it is to read Wendell Berry, Paul Kingsnorth, or any other of my favourite agrarian thinkers and enjoy the spectacle of being confronted with marvellous insight after insight without really taking in what they are saying. All too rarely do I dwell upon what I have just read deeply enough for it to become part of my being, thinking, and actions. I am loathe to admit that my instinctive reaction is to add quote after quote to my commonplace book — a book I often forget to review — and then quickly move on to their next essay, seeking after further spectacles of sublime sentences and profound insights.
In merely enjoying their wisdom, I miss the point of why they wrote what they did.1 My ego is boosted, pleasure has been gained… and I put down the book the exact same man as I was before. Wisdom has turned into vanity.
I fear I am not alone. In our modern, digital era we are confronted with a glut of readily accessible wisdom. Online essays and think pieces multiply at exponential rates and many homes contain a library greater than that of an ancient king. This means the temptation to chase after the spectacle of wisdom is more acute than ever before. And in an age where entertainment takes the highest seat of honour in many of our hearts, our engagement with wisdom too easily succumbs to merely being that of a spectator. A spectator who says “Ah!”, “Wow!”, and “Amazing!”. A spectator who then follows the conditioned habit of “Like, Retweet, Share”. And a spectator who quickly moves on to the next article on their reading list.
I am convinced that most of us, and certainly me, need to read less2 and dwell more. Dwell until we have mastered what we are reading. Dwell until we have let wisdom sink deep within us to the domains of our being where our impulses, desires, and worldviews reside. Dwell until the fruits of virtue begin to grow. Dwell until we have moved towards the good and the true with our actions.
Reading wisdom without these inner motions is all but worthless. Jesus knew and preached this. Crowds marvelled at his wisdom, but most were satisfied with being only hearers and spectators. Only a few became doers and disciples. Ultimately, it was only those doers and disciples who benefited from hearing the wisdom that came from Wisdom Himself. Enjoying the spectacle was worthless; comprehending and following the eternal truth was priceless.
If I read Wendell Berry and marvel in awe at the profundity of his thought, share it widely online, and then go into my garden and spray weedkiller all over the place what am I but a foolish hypocrite. You can quite rightly say to me, “Did you even read what he wrote?” If I read Jesus’ words, give my hearty assent to His wisdom, and then go out and live a life of hatred towards my neighbour, rightly will Jesus say to me “I never knew you.”
Let us not then rest content with the mere spectacle of wisdom.
This is not to disparage the effect exposure to wisdom can have on us subliminally, or to neglect the fact that exposure to wisdom over the long haul can nudge us incrementally to change our behaviours. Nor am I suggesting that every time we read a profound bit of wisdom in an essay or book that we should stop and ponder. If that was the case, reading a long essay by Wendell Berry would take days to complete!
And that most certainly includes Substacks; this Substack that I write, even. That is why I am committing to writing less frequently on Susbtack but hopefully of greater quality.
Well said! If my own experience is any indicator, Substack can become dopamine-feeding black hole for thinkers like me. I’m still figuring out what to do about that.
This is, notably, full of wisdom. You articulated for me why I have such a reluctant appreciation for Substack — I know I am so prone to this! Thank you for writing and sharing this.