When Perception is Reality & Acceptance a Problem
(Photo courtesy of Jeff Lindstrom)
Every morning, at 4:30 AM, it wakes me. Like clockwork. It’s a high-pitched ringing in my left ear. The advertised dietary supplements don’t work & I’m terrible about using the high-tech wrist device that allegedly helps make it go away. Instead, I’ve learned to live with it. The cliches about our capacity to adjust to a “new normal” tend to be true. Still, I won’t lie, it’s bothersome – because I wouldn’t mind a quieter & later start to my day.
It turns out that tinnitus, the medical term for my condition, is typically the result of misfiring nerves. But, and here’s the essential point, even though I really do hear noise every morning, nobody else could, no matter how near to me they might be. Reason being, there is no actual or objective sound that would be audible to others. The ringing is just my mental perception, but it is nevertheless my lived reality.
This issue related to my physical health got me thinking about our societal health – specifically how the notions of perception as reality and resigned acceptance play out in other contexts, and how religion and education could help address these maladies.
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At a family dinner a few weeks ago, one of my brothers & I discussed a strange, sad feeling that each of us had recently experienced independently – helplessness: A sense that something very wrong was happening around us, but that trying to address it would be futile. Let me explain.
The Minnesota from my childhood is idyllic. As a little boy, I attended Camp Thunderbird in Bemidji – a tiny town on the headwaters of the Mississippi near the Canadian border. My memories include portaging canoes in cool, ankle-deep water; devouring delicious grilled cheese sandwiches accompanied by steaming-hot tomato soup; and singing by nighttime campfires while staring at the stars & northern lights. My time in that setting was filled with life’s simple goodness and the dream of endless possibilities ahead. That was then. The Minnesota of today, my middle age, seems very different.
To be clear, this isn’t a polemic on illegal immigration. And it’s not a partisan commentary on enforcement. Democrat Barack Obama deported more people than any president in U.S. history. Admittedly, it is an emotional reaction to watching heavily-armed, face-masked men chase and apprehend innocent children – something I never thought I’d see in our country – but it’s more than that. It’s the dismay and deep anger I felt after two U.S. citizens were killed by law enforcement and our government’s immediate response was to demonize the victims and fabricate a narrative, even in the face of video evidence that undermined their falsehoods. When our leaders lie, especially so brazenly, the perception of amoral lawlessness spawns a depressing new reality. The Epstein case feels similar.
Leaving aside the grotesque crimes Jeffrey Epstein himself committed, what is almost as astounding is the degree to which other people remained so close with him – even after his criminal conviction for underage sex trafficking. And by “other people,” I mean several of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world. Every day there is a new, documented revelation about someone else who blatantly lied about being connected with Epstein – and yet virtually no ramifications follow for most, as victims continue to watch and wait. (The sole exceptions are a woman who’s in prison & a man in another country.) Understandably, the growing sense among Americans not in gilded society is that wealth, power and privilege enable corruption and protect from accountability. An upsetting perception, a disheartening reality. As a citizen, this is a problem. As a parent and teacher, it’s worse.
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Last weekend, I travelled to Oxford, England for a friend’s 60th birthday who lives there. Interestingly, the famous university is actually comprised of several independent colleges each of which has a chapel – gorgeous spaces that are architecturally stunning, spiritually inspiring, and still regularly-used. So on Sunday evening, I attended a candle-light service in one. The choir, accompanied by an organist and comprised of students in the respective college, sang with a passion that echoed throughout the medieval building and arrested attention, regardless of one’s personal faith. Then the minister delivered a brief sermon; she talked about Lent, which just began – a period in which Christians engage in honest self-reflection and repentance, as they strive to improve ethically.
It’s a custom virtually identical to the Jewish practice of teshuva, which takes place during the fall high holidays. Lent is also a time of personal denial, in which many adherents refrain from things they otherwise desire. Here too, this is a practice found in Judaism – both during Yom Kippur, as well as during Passover. And it’s an idea the Rabbis addressed more generally.
Our sages say that each of us has a yetzer ha-tov – an inclination to do good – and a yetzer ha-rah – an inclination to do bad. The latter includes urges that may or may not be natural, but must be controlled. If they are not, there will be and there should be consequences. That’s why, according to Jewish tradition, King David was not allowed to build the first Temple – because not only did he commit adultery, but he also facilitated the death of his lover’s husband.
In sum, religion desperately wants people, and indeed the universe, to be operating along a moral trajectory – even if in practice that isn’t always the case. Education is no different. It’s not enough to convey subject matter content or instill academic skills, our job as teachers is to help open the heart, as well as the mind. In the end, I want my students not only to engage with others with the goal of learning (not winning), but to engage with the broken world with a sense of agency and action. Because tomorrow is more theirs than mine, so perhaps one day what we all want to see, will actually be.