“Media As Epistemology”: Chapter 2 of Amusing Ourselves to Death

This is the second installment of a dialogue I’m having with Neil Postman and his book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business. I’d love for you to join me; consider this your formal invitation. Here is the first part, which is a general introduction to this work. This is the summation and thoughts on the first chapter. I’d love for you keep coming back as journey into this modern classic.

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Epistemology is a complex and usually opaque subject matter concerned with the origins and nature of knowledge.” (p. 17) Now that you have a firm grasp on and a working definition of epistemology, let’s move on.

There are many examples in our world where truth is assumed to be lacking. We do not necessarily have solid answers as to why we don’t think statements, propositions, or people are true, but we deem them as such regardless. In many cases, it is that our bias is presupposed by the media-metaphors in which the content of a message is being carried.

For example, Postman details how in an oral culture, wronged persons would approach a judge – generally an elder of some sort – with the story of what occurred. Being print-less, this elder would preside over this debate not through a rummaging of legal notebooks and a history of prior judgments. Rather, he would “search through his vast repertoire of proverbs and sayings to find one that suits the situation and is equally satisfying to both complainants. That accomplished, all parties are agreed that justice has been done, that the truth has been served.” For the oral culture, proverbs and sayings are not the stuff of the periphery.

They are incessant. They form the substance of thought itself. Thought in any extended form is impossible without them, for it consists in them. – Walter Ong, quoted on p. 19

This, however, is not true in our print culture. In a modern day – or at least one back in 1985, the year of the book’s publishing – stories, proverbs, and general aphorisms do not fly as proper judgments brought down by those cloaked in black. It does pass for witness testimonial, but could you imagine a judge saying, “Let us render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s”? Jury, lawyers, and bailiff: snickers from all.

What separates us in the print-centric culture from the aforementioned tribal chief is a media-metaphor. Words have taken on a truer form in print over speech. The form of their presentation weighs heavily upon the contents’ veracity.

The point I am leading to by this and the previous examples is that the concept of truth is intimately linked to the biases of forms of expression. Truth does not, and never has, come unadorned. It must appear in its proper clothing or it is not acknowledged, which is a way of saying that the ‘truth’ is a kind of cultural prejudice. Each culture conceives of it as being most authentically expressed in certain symbolic forms that another culture may regard as trivial or irrelevant. (p. 22-23)

With the mirror clouded over by our cultural assumptions, it is easy to pick and choose media-metaphors that seem silly or antiquated. However, we all have these assumptions needing to be wiped away by a dose of humility and historicity. This is why it is essential to see our place on the world’s timeline and how as time marches on, so do our media-metaphors. The above quote is not an affirmation of epistemological relativism; it is a recognition of how we denote what is true and what is not. Furthermore, “Some ways of truth-telling are better than others, and therefore have healthier influence on the cultures that adopt them.” Again, Postman states

As a culture moves forward from orality to writing to printing to televising, its ideas of truth move with it…we might add that every epistemology is the epistemology of a stage of media development. Truth, like time itself, is a product of a conversation man has with himself about and through the techniques of communication he has invented.  (p. 24)

As the changing tides of epistemology shift with the sands of our media, so do our ways of deciphering intelligence. Once again, in a purely oral culture, intelligence manifests itself in being able to repeat stories of old. One who can memorize aurally is the one who has proper intelligence. To forget something is to be a communal outcast. Contrastingly, in a print culture, memory is not deemed necessary. And why would it be? When everything is written down, there is no need to engage the memory aurally. All is contained within a text, not a mind. The mobile library of the mind gets upstaged by the brick-and-mortar library.

“What a culture means by intelligence is derived from the character of its important forms of communication.” (p. 25) Essentially, this is what is happening. The member of the oral culture is demonstrating intelligence in being able to use the “important forms of communication” in proper ways.

Intelligence in a printed culture is whole different ball game. Here Postman brings clarity on what is (literally) right underneath our noses:

You are required, first of all, to remain more or less immobile for a fairly long time. If you cannot do this…our culture may label you as anything from hyperkinetic to undisciplined; in any case, as suffering from some sort of intellectual deficiency. The printing press makes rather stringent demands on our bodies as well as our minds. Controlling your body is, however, only a minimal requirement. You must also have learned to pay attention to the shapes of  the letters on the page. You must see through them, so to speak, so that you can do directly to the meanings of the words they form. If you are preoccupied with the shapes of the letters, you will be an intolerably inefficient reader, likely thought to be stupid. If you have learned how to get to meanings without aesthetic distraction, you are required to assume an attitude of detachment and objectivity…you must be able to tell from the tone of the language what is the author’s attitude toward the subject and toward the reader. You must, in other words, know the difference between a joke and an argument. And in judging the quality of an argument, you must be able to do several things at once, including delaying a verdict until the entire argument is finished, holding in mind questions until you have determined where, when or if the text answers them, and bringing to bear on the text all of your relevant experience as a counterargument to what is being proposed. You must also be able to withhold those parts of your knowledge and experience which, in fact, do not have a bearing on the argument. And in preparing yourself to do all of this, you must have divested yourself of the belief that words are magical and above all, have learned to negotiate the world of abstractions, for there are very few phrases and sentences in this book that require you to call forth concrete images…To be able to do all these things, and more, constitutes a primary definition of intelligence in a culture whose notions of truth are organized around the printed word. (p. 26-27)

Were you aware of all that going on at this very moment? Quite a bit, huh?

Postman’s main argument here is the manner by which truth is transmitted depends heavily upon its media-metaphors. As these shift, so does our understanding of truth itself. Culture is comprised of and constituted by conversations and as such, we must be aware of the form and content of these conversations.

So before we close this chapter out, Postman wants to make sure we don’t come to conclusions too swiftly. He gives us three admonitions to take heed of:

1. “…at no point do I care to claim that changes in media bring about changes in the structure of people’s minds of changes in their cognitive capacities.” (p. 27) Intellectually speaking, the tribal chief is not less developed than the television people. “My argument is limited to saying that a major new medium changes the structure of discourse; it does so by encouraging certain uses of the intellect, by favoring certain definitions of intelligence and wisdom, and by demanding a certain kind of content – in a phrase, by creating new forms of truth-telling.” (p. 27)

2. “…the epistemological shift I have intimated, and will describe in detail, has not yet included (and perhaps never will include) everyone and everything.” (p. 27) Shifts happen slowly and don’t always bring everything with them in their wake. It takes time and effort for things to become completely integrated and/or eradicated. People still read books in spite of the dominance of television. However, Postman declares, “They delude themselves who believe that television and print coexist, for existence implies parity. There is no parity here. Print is now merely a residual epistemology, and it will remain so, aided to some extent by the computer, and newspapers and magazines that are made to look like television screens.” (p. 28) Prophetic words, indeed.

3. “I am arguing that a television-based epistemology pollutes public communication and its surrounding landscape, not that it pollutes everything.” He is not arguing for television’s demise because it has indeed aided in some beneficial ways. For some, namely, the elderly, infirm, or motel-room frequenters, it is a source of pleasure and comfort. It can insight protest in positive ways. In many ways, he is not seeking for television to be taken lightly. We must, Postman encourages, keep an open mind to the future and any benefits unseen that television may potentially provide.

Yet amid these three warnings, Postman consistently comes back to his axiom: “I will try to demonstrate that as typography moves to the periphery of our culture and television takes its place at the center, the seriousness, clarity and, above all, value of public discourse dangerously declines.” (p. 29)

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Thoughts?

Come back again as we’ll dive further into this argument found in chapter 3: “Typographic America”.

Ordinary Time: A Prayer for the Fourth Sunday After Pentecost

Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love, that through your grace we may proclaim your truth with boldness, and minister your justice with compassion; for the sake of our Savior Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

“In the end, the lion is God.”

I recently received Leighton Ford’s The Attentive Life: Discerning God’s Presence in All Things. It’s been on my radar for awhile now, as I have been diving head first into resources geared towards the contemplative. I grew up in a world of faith bereft of the stillness and silence central to reflection and contemplation. In its place, individualistic devotions and missions trips comprised of agenda-driven questionnaires were dominant.

Nowadays, I find myself drawn towards activism. In a world driven by causes, I have become convinced in the strength moving into the neighborhood and finding where God is already at work. This means that activism takes on a very regular look, can seem humdrum and ordinary, and is a slow process. We don’t enter into situations and relationships as the ones bringing wisdom and learning; no, we enter in as ones who are in need of being taught as mutually live life together. Humility, vulnerability, and mystery lead the way as we devote ourselves to a place and a people, not merely a cause.

This also means a holistic approach is much needed. Activism without contemplation falls flat as we tend to move in our own strength while finding ourselves drawn to the flashy, big splash realities of what we think needs attending. Likewise, contemplation without activism gives us big ears full off of listening as we gorge ourselves on the whispers of God without doing anything about them.

I say this because I love the following story of missionary Vincent Donovan. He went to the Masai people of East Africa, a people I have spent a little time with myself. I love this story because it tells of a man who went into a place and a people expecting certain things and finds himself changed on the other end. He was honest with his own doubts and allowed “the High God” to teach him through the people he was supposed to be “reaching.”

I also love this simple story because of the lessons we can learn about God and God’s missional nature. God is a lion and I need to be reminded of that.

Once he [Donovan] told them how God has led the nomadic Abraham to see that he was the God of all peoples and not just of one tribe. Could it be, he asked, that they had worshiped this High God without knowing him – the truly unknown God?

There was silence. Then someone asked a question. ‘This story of Abraham – does it speak only to the Masai? Or does it speak also to you? Has your tribe found the High God? Have you known him?’

Donovan was stumped. He thought of how in France since the time of Joan of Arc, the French people has associated God with a quest for glory. He thought of fellow Americans who had always asked God to bless ‘our side’ in wars. After a long time he replied, ‘No, we have not found the High God. My tribe has not known him. For us, too, he is the unknown God. But we are searching for him. I have come a long, long distance to invite you to search for him. Let us search for him together.’

Months later, as he spoke with a Masai elder about his own struggle with belief and unbelief, the elder explained that his language had two words for faith. One simply meant to agree with something. That, said the elder, was like a white hunter shooting down an animal from a distance.

To speak of real belief, he said, took another word, a word that referred to a lion going after its prey, speeding to catch it, leaping at with a blow that kills, then enfolding it into its great arms to make it part of itself. That, said the elder, is faith.

Donovan listened in amazement. The elder continued.

“We did not seek you out, Padri. We did not even want you to come to us. You searched us out. You followed us away from your house into the bush…into our villages, our homes. You told us of the High God, how we must search for him, even leave our land and our people to find him. But we have not done this…We have not searched for him. He has searched for us. He has searched us out and found us. All the time we think we are the lion. In the end, the lion is God.”

In the end, the lion is God, the God who began to seek us even before we knew it, in the time before our time. – Leighton Ford, The Attentive Life, p 62-63.

Ordinary Time: A Prayer for the Second Sunday After Pentecost

O God, your never-failing providence sets in order all things both in heaven and earth: Put away from us, we entreat you, all hurtful things, and give us those things which are profitable for us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Trinity Sunday: A Prayer

Almighty and everlasting God, you have given to us your servants grace, by the confession of a true faith, to acknowledge the glory of the eternal Trinity, and in the power of your divine Majesty to worship the Unity: Keep us steadfast in this faith and worship, and bring us at last to see you in your one and eternal glory, O Father; who with the Son and the Holy Spirit live and reign, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

“A Day’s Journey into Nineveh” – How Theology is Rooted in Geography

Pastoral work is local: Nineveh. The difficulty in carrying it out is that we have a universal gospel but distressingly limited by time and space. We are under command to go into all the world to proclaim the gospel to every creature. We work under the large rubrics of heaven and hell. And now we find ourselves in a town of three thousand people on the far edge of Kansas, in which the library is underbudgeted, the radio station plays only country music, the high school football team provides all the celebrities the town can manage, and a covered-dish supper is the high point in congregational life.

It is hard for a person who has been schooled in the urgencies of apocalyptic and with an imagination furnished with saints and angels to live in this town very long and take part in its conversations without getting a little impatient, growing pretty bored, and wondering if it wasn’t an impulsive mistake to abandon that ship going to Tarshish.

We start dreaming of greener pastures. We preach BIG IDEA sermons. Our voices take on a certain stridency as our anger and disappointment at being stuck in this place begin to leak into our discourse.

Now is the time to rediscover the meaning of the local, and in terms of church, the parish. All churches are local. All pastoral work takes place geographically. ‘If you would do good,’ wrote William Blake, ‘you must do it in Minute Particulars.’ When Jonah began his proper work, he went a day’s journey into Nineveh. He didn’t stand at the edge and preach at them; he entered into the midst of their living – heard what they were saying, smelled the cooking, picked up the colloquialisms, lived ‘on the economy,’ not aloof from it, not superior to it.

The gospel is emphatically geographical. Place names – Sinai, Hebron, Machpelah, Shiloh, Nazareth, Jezreel, Samaria, Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Bethsaida – these are embedded in the gospel. All theology is rooted in geography.

Pilgrims to biblical lands find that the towns in which David camped and Jesus lived are no better or more beautiful or more exciting than their hometowns.

The reason we get restless with where we are and want, as we say, ‘more of a challenge’ or ‘a larger field of opportunity’ has nothing to do with prophetic zeal or priestly devotion; it is the product of spiritual sin. The sin is generated by the virus of gnosticism.

Gnosticism is the ancient but persistently contemporary perversion of the gospel that is contemptuous of place and matter. It holds forth that salvation consists in having the right ideas, and the fancier the better. It is impatient with restrictions of place and time and embarrassed by the garbage and disorder of everyday living. It constructs a gospel that majors in fine feelings embellished by sayings of Jesus. Gnosticism is also impatient with slow-witted people and plodding companions and so always ends up being highly selective, appealing to an elite group of people who are ‘spiritually deep,’ attuned to each other, and quoting a cabal of experts.

The gospel, on the other hand, is local intelligence, locally applied, and plunges with a great deal of zest into the flesh, into matter, into place – and accepts whoever happens to be on the premises as the people of God. One of the pastor’s continuous tasks is to make sure that these conditions are honored: this place just as it is, these people in their everyday clothes, ‘a particularizing love for local thing, rising out of local knowledge and local allegiance.’

Eugene Peterson, Under the Unpredictable Plant: An Exploration in Vocational Holiness, p. 128-130.