What is Classical Education Part I: Attitude
Escaping the Blob: Classical Education and the Recovery of Teleology.
Sometimes in analytic philosophy we distinguish between an attitude and a metaphysic. For example, one might be a naturalist in the sense that they think everything in reality is made up of physical bits (i.e., it can be completely characterized solely of things like mass, time, and space), or they might be a physicalist or naturalist by attitude. Meaning they think physics (or science generally) is the best or primary manner of investigating questions about what is real. For example, a lot of Christian scientists are controversially methodological naturalists meaning they act as if naturalism is true in their scientific experimentation and theorizing. These Christians are not metaphysically naturalists (or else they would not be Christians). When it comes to classical education, I think the attitude framework is helpful.
That is, it is going to be difficult to find sufficient or necessary conditions that constitute what makes classical education different from other education. However, classical education has a clearly different temperament or attitude.
David Diener, in his article “The Principles of Classical Education” (2024), lists ten principles that characterize classical christian education. Here is one of the ten, and I will quote in full:
Classical education recognizes that the principal question of any educational paradigm is not “How is it done?” but rather “What is it for?” Every approach to education has, whether they are explicit or implicit, goals toward which it is directed. These goals define the principal essence of the educational paradigm, and it is from the goals that methods are derived. Educational methodology, in other words, is always downstream of educational teleology, because you have to know where you are going before you can determine how to get there. To be clear, it is not that classical education is governed by a purpose while other educational paradigms are not. All approaches to education are teleological in nature. In our contemporary context, however, it is a distinctive mark of classical education that it is aware of and focused on the primacy of teleology. This stands in sharp contrast to much contemporary educational discourse which focuses almost exclusively on methodology. In contrast to millennia of educational tradition, contemporary educators often dwell on the technical aspects of how to do education instead of on the teleological question of what education is for. As Neil Postman quips in The End of Education, “There was a time when educators became famous for providing reasons for learning; now they become famous for inventing a method.” Jacques Maritain similarly writes in Education at the Crossroads that the “supremacy of means over end and the consequent collapse of all sure purpose and real efficiency seem to be the main reproach to contemporary education.” The primacy of teleology over methodology can be seen throughout the tradition as key thinkers begin with education’s purpose and then, grounded on their understanding of education’s teleology, develop methods to most effectively achieve those ends. Plato, for example, defines education in book 7 of the Republic as a process of conversion in which students turn their souls from the shadows of this world to the form of the good. On this view of education, the teacher’s role is to facilitate the conversion of students’ souls. Thus, according to Plato, the craft of education is “concerned with doing this very thing, this turning around, and with how the soul can most easily and effectively be made to do it.” The goal of education, in other words, is to reorient students’ souls toward the proper things. Only after explaining education’s teleology does Plato then consider the educational curriculum that best will accomplish education’s goal. He explicitly selects subjects based on their ability to turn the soul from darkness toward goodness and truth,9 thereby recognizing that the curricular subjects are educationally valuable insofar as they promote the realization of education’s ultimate goals. Similarly, in book 8 of the Politics Aristotle addresses the telos of education. He distinguishes between liberal and illiberal education in teleological terms, noting that “What one acts or learns for also makes a big difference.” While a branch of learning should be considered illiberal “if it renders the body or mind of free people useless for the practices and activities of virtue,” a liberal education is “what one does for one’s own sake, for the sake of friends, or on account of virtue.” Only after this discussion of the goals of education does Aristotle then examine what curricular subjects should be studied. As with Plato, Aristotle’s selections are grounded on the curricular subjects’ ability to help realize the final goals of education. Hugh of Saint Victor grounds his understanding of education in the Didascalicon on the primary purpose of human beings: “This is our entire task— the restoration of our nature and the removal of our deficiency. The integrity of human nature, however, is attained in two things—in knowledge and in virtue, and in these lies our sole likeness to the supernal and divine substances.” Within this teleological context, Hugh then develops his proposals for a system of education. He advocates for the study of the liberal arts and explains that the ancients settled on the seven liberal arts of the trivium and quadrivium because they were believed to be “the best instruments, the best rudiments, by which the way is prepared for the mind’s complete knowledge of philosophic truth.” In other words, the curriculum was selected on the basis of its efficacy in achieving education’s goals. These are but a few examples of many that could be given. Throughout the tradition, classical educators have understood that teleology is at the heart of their educational paradigm and that the primary distinction between classical education and other paradigms is one of purpose, not method. Certainly these thinkers advocate for specific educational methods (curricular sequences, pedagogical practices, etc.), but these methodological considerations are downstream from the fundamental question “What is education for?” Only after answering this teleological question does one have sufficient grounds for developing a set of educational practices.
I think this offers a helpful characterization of the attitudinal difference between classical and non-classical education. In non-classical contexts, for example, the sheer volume of research literature on differentiated learning methods is staggering. Advancement—especially into administrative roles—is often tied to credentials in areas like curriculum design and instructional methodology. In contrast, classical education tends to be more intentional in forming leaders and spokespersons who prioritize thinking about the telos of education and the cultivation of virtue, rather than merely technical proficiency.
Here, going to my academic research, I think about the connection between free will and the meaning of life a lot. When we think about the meaningful life, I have always liked the contrast that Susan Wolf (2014) gives between what she calls “the blob” and “mother teresa”:
For me, the idea of a meaningless life is most clearly and effectively embodied in the image of a person who spends day after day, or night after night, in front of a television set, drinking beer and watching situation comedies. Not that I have anything against television or beer. Still the image, understood as an image of a person whose life is lived in hazy passivity, a life lived at a not unpleasant level of consciousness, but unconnected to anyone or anything, going nowhere, achieving nothing—is, I submit, as strong an image of a meaningless life as there can be. Call this case The Blob.
Wolf (ibid) contrast “The Blob” with exemplars of meaningful lives:
If we step back, however, and ask ourselves, as observers, what lives strike us as especially meaningful, if we ask what sorts of lives exemplify meaningfulness, subjective criteria do not seem to be in the forefront. Who comes to mind? Perhaps Gandhi or Albert Schweitzer or Mother Teresa; perhaps Einstein or Jonas Salk. Cezanne or Manet, Beethoven or Charlie Parker…Alternatively, we can look to our neighbors, our colleagues, our relatives some of whom, it seems to me, live more meaningful lives than others. Some, indeed, of my acquaintance seem to me to live lives that are paradigms of meaning right up there with the famous names on the earlier lists; while others (perhaps despite their modicum of fame) would score quite low on the meaningfulness scale. If those in the latter category feel a lack of meaning in their lives—well, they are right to feel it, and it is a step in the right direction that they notice that there is something about their lives that they should try to change.
On Susan Wolf’s view, the key difference between “The Blob” and moral exemplars like Mother Teresa is not simply that the latter appear to lead valuable lives, but that they are actively and at least somewhat successfully engaged in projects that possess genuine, objective value (Wolf, 2014, p. 96). By “projects,” Wolf broadly refers to worthwhile pursuits—endeavors that contribute to something beyond the self. Importantly, the value in these projects is not merely subjective or a matter of personal satisfaction; it is grounded in objective worth. This raises an important philosophical question: What counts as a genuinely meaningful project? And further: How does one prepare for, recognize, or pursue such projects—especially when we’re uncertain about what is truly meaningful?
Here, classical education teaching with these questions at the forefront. Classical institutions should have leaders who are actively thinking and leading students to think about questions like this. If a classical institution’s teachers and admin is more experienced in methods of learning differentiation than researching on deep important questions, there is a mismatch in my mind.
These questions become even more pronounced in light of certain philosophical positions I’ve encountered in my academic work—particularly the claim that no person has free will. This belief often stems from a view that all our actions are determined by genetics, neurobiology, or environmental factors. But if we truly lack free will, what becomes of our capacity to make meaningful choices about life projects? (We also see this theme in multiple classic books and movies about fate and free will.)
To illustrate the tension, imagine Wolf’s character “The Blob” reflecting on his passive life—perhaps regretting a weekend lost to binge-watching television and wishing he had volunteered for a charity event instead. Now suppose he also firmly believes that no one has free will. From this perspective, he would conclude that all his choices were causally determined, that he could not have done otherwise, and thus his regret or guilt would seem irrational.
And yet, those very emotions—regret, shame, resolve—are often what catalyze moral growth and life transformation. Philosophers call these “reactive attitudes,” and they play a vital role in how we come to take responsibility, form intentions, and revise our lives. The Blob might still say, “I will never waste my time like that again!”—but under a belief in strict determinism, that statement becomes puzzling. Why feel guilt or resolve if he couldn’t have acted differently to begin with? Why think he will act differently?
While some defenders of free will impossibilism argue that rational deliberation is still possible even if our choices are determined, this position renders many ordinary moral practices as irrational or heavily in need or revision. We routinely deliberate, advise others, and form intentions in ways that presume alternative possibilities—precisely the kind of agency that robust accounts of free will aim to preserve.
This brings us back to Diener’s point: that classical education begins with a clear answer to the question of what education is for. Its aim is not merely to transmit information efficiently or to help students climb an economic ladder. Instead, it seeks to form students into people capable of recognizing, desiring, and pursuing what is truly good—what is objectively meaningful.
On this view, classical education is a long apprenticeship in loving the right things. It is not just about shaping minds but reorienting souls, as Plato and Hugh of Saint Victor both emphasize. This is why classical education prioritizes stories of moral exemplars, emphasizes virtuous habits, and builds curricula around the great works and enduring questions: it wants students to be able to see that certain kinds of projects are more meaningful than others—not just subjectively fulfilling, but objectively valuable.
In this way, classical education forms students to avoid the fate of "The Blob” and Blob-like figures who miss out on the meaning of life. It does not merely prepare students for work or college; it prepares them for life by inviting them into traditions of truth-seeking, self-giving, and moral seriousness. It assumes that students are not just passive information processors, but free and rational agents capable of choosing between triviality and transcendence. Even in a world where some doubt the existence of free will, classical education dares to presume it—because without it, the entire project of meaningful formation collapses.
So perhaps the greatest gift classical education can offer in our moment is not a new method or a higher test score, but a vision: a vision of life as a meaningful project. One that is not only possible but worth everything to pursue.
If you would like to learn more about classical education and this attitude, check out my book
