I thought I knew some stuff.
After all, I spent way too many years in school, talked to people from all over, and read a lot of books. I’ve even written a few books, but I can’t brag too much because their cumulative readership is just over 120 (and most of those are relatives).
Nevertheless, I thought I knew some stuff, until I read this one book this week.
A little back story.
As you know, I have been reading up on Christian Nationalism, starting with Facebook, the greatest scholarly platform I have ever encountered. That led me to TikTok, which is where people who don’t read go to talk and listen. Which I did.
Finally, a found a couple of books on the subject, ordered them, read them, and published my reviews of them in this very newsletter. I must tell you that, because most people who receive my newsletter don’t open it, and of those who open it, very few read the book reviews. That probably includes you, and because of that, I may have to delete your address. But I digress.
The issue here is me and how little I know. Which was brought home to me this week when I picked up yet another book about Christian Nationalism. All the Kingdoms of the World is the title (and my review is elsewhere in this week’s newsletter). The subtitle is On Radical Religious Alternatives to Liberalism.
The book is about a political theory known as integralism. I mean, it is known by somebody, somewhere, but not by me, not even after reading the book. I had never heard of the term and, after reading the book, am still not sure I know.
But it gets worse.
As I am wont to do, I turned to the back of the book and read through the bibliography. Fifteen pages of small print. I mean 10-point, or less. If I exclude all the famous and ancient authors, like Plato, Augustine, Erasmus, and John Henry Newman, what is left is page after page of people I have never heard of.
I did see the name John Esposito, whom I interviewed years ago on my radio show. And Rod Dreher, whose book The Benedict Option I reviewed. But these small things don’t mean I know something.
Then came the capstone to my ignorance.
I turned to the Acknowledgements section, also at the back of the book. It is the place where authors name people who helped them write the book, and normally the people named are department chairs who approved some time off, or secretaries who typed the manuscript, or family members who tolerated all the time away with little to show for it.
But Kevin Vallier went further. Further than any author has ever gone, in the entire history of publishing. He names more than 200 people. I think but I don’t know. I did not count them. I did read where he said it was “well over one hundred” but I think he was being modest.
I am surely not being modest when I say I did not recognize one single name. Well, only two: Yoram Hazony, whose book I read and reviewed last week but whose name was unknown to me before that; and Ross Douthat, who writes for the New York Times. I have actually read two or three of his pieces, being the literate and aware person I am, as you can see.
Otherwise, not a name among all these professors, scholars, authors, and authorities on some piece of what we call Christian Nationalism. Nothing. Zilch.
In other words, I don’t know Jack, taken either as a name or as a reference to some slice of knowledge. I don’t know Jack.
I make this confession before naming any element of the book’s content: like “open societies exhibit autocatalytic diversity” (155), and “integralism alone treats goodness symmetrically” (90), and “the umma must prioritize preserving moral unity above managing competition” (253). See what I mean? I’ll bet you don’t know jack, either!
“But you are above average,” my wife said to me when I confessed all this unknowingness. I think she meant it as a compliment, but I don’t even know that. I asked her for clarification, but she was also uncertain. Which says a lot, but I don’t know what.
Maybe only this: she assumes I raised in Lake Wobegon, where (you recall) “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” In a place where everybody is above average, I might be as well. Might be.
But I don’t know. I don’t know that, and I sure don’t know Jack. And neither does she.
See some obscure Seinfeld sitcom episode featuring Jon Lovitz, who says (sweeping his hand back across his right temple), “You don’t know jack.” But I am not even sure about that. If you find that episode, send me the link.
I thought I knew some stuff.
After all, I spent way too many years in school, talked to people from all over, and read a lot of books. I’ve even written a few books, but I can’t brag too much because their cumulative readership is just over 120 (and most of those are relatives).
Nevertheless, I thought I knew some stuff, until I read this one book this week.
A little back story.
As you know, I have been reading up on Christian Nationalism, starting with Facebook, the greatest scholarly platform I have ever encountered. That led me to TikTok, which is where people who don’t read go to talk and listen. Which I did.
Finally, a found a couple of books on the subject, ordered them, read them, and published my reviews of them in this very newsletter. I must tell you that, because most people who receive my newsletter don’t open it, and of those who open it, very few read the book reviews. That probably includes you, and because of that, I may have to delete your address. But I digress.
The issue here is me and how little I know. Which was brought home to me this week when I picked up yet another book about Christian Nationalism. All the Kingdoms of the World is the title (and my review is elsewhere in this week’s newsletter). The subtitle is On Radical Religious Alternatives to Liberalism.
The book is about a political theory known as integralism. I mean, it is known by somebody, somewhere, but not by me, not even after reading the book. I had never heard of the term and, after reading the book, am still not sure I know.
But it gets worse.
As I am wont to do, I turned to the back of the book and read through the bibliography. Fifteen pages of small print. I mean 10-point, or less. If I exclude all the famous and ancient authors, like Plato, Augustine, Erasmus, and John Henry Newman, what is left is page after page of people I have never heard of.
I did see the name John Esposito, whom I interviewed years ago on my radio show. And Rod Dreher, whose book The Benedict Option I reviewed. But these small things don’t mean I know something.
Then came the capstone to my ignorance.
I turned to the Acknowledgements section, also at the back of the book. It is the place where authors name people who helped them write the book, and normally the people named are department chairs who approved some time off, or secretaries who typed the manuscript, or family members who tolerated all the time away with little to show for it.
But Kevin Vallier went further. Further than any author has ever gone, in the entire history of publishing. He names more than 200 people. I think but I don’t know. I did not count them. I did read where he said it was “well over one hundred” but I think he was being modest.
I am surely not being modest when I say I did not recognize one single name. Well, only two: Yoram Hazony, whose book I read and reviewed last week but whose name was unknown to me before that; and Ross Douthat, who writes for the New York Times. I have actually read two or three of his pieces, being the literate and aware person I am, as you can see.
Otherwise, not a name among all these professors, scholars, authors, and authorities on some piece of what we call Christian Nationalism. Nothing. Zilch.
In other words, I don’t know Jack, taken either as a name or as a reference to some slice of knowledge. I don’t know Jack.
I make this confession before naming any element of the book’s content: like “open societies exhibit autocatalytic diversity” (155), and “integralism alone treats goodness symmetrically” (90), and “the umma must prioritize preserving moral unity above managing competition” (253). See what I mean? I’ll bet you don’t know jack, either!
“But you are above average,” my wife said to me when I confessed all this unknowingness. I think she meant it as a compliment, but I don’t even know that. I asked her for clarification, but she was also uncertain. Which says a lot, but I don’t know what.
Maybe only this: she assumes I raised in Lake Wobegon, where (you recall) “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” In a place where everybody is above average, I might be as well. Might be.
But I don’t know. I don’t know that, and I sure don’t know Jack. And neither does she.
See some obscure Seinfeld sitcom episode featuring Jon Lovitz, who says (sweeping his hand back across his right temple), “You don’t know jack.” But I am not even sure about that. If you find that episode, send me the link.
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