Echoed Vocation IV: A Call to Wisdom

A series of posts about virtue, autism, vocation, and the teaching of history.

Teaching courage, my children echo a call to presence; teaching moderation, a call to self-examination; teaching justice, a call to persistent conversation. The call that is echoed to me by my autistic children with regard to wisdom is perhaps the most important of all.

IV: Wisdom

My children, Kathleen and Peter, and I have spent extended time in Ireland over the past three years in order to visit my in-laws, their grandparents. On numerous day trips, they have humored me by going to ancient and remote historical sites. I have a theory that the harder these sites are to reach, the better they will be. This summer my interest piqued when a guide at the Sligo Abbey mentioned a prehistoric burial ground that required a drive and a hike—“all this without signs.” The Carrowkeel Passage Tombs are one of the many megalithic sites around Sligo, and the hardest to access. I decided that we should go inspect Carrowkeel at around 5:30 p.m., knowing that the light would last until well after 11:00 p.m.

It was easy enough to get to the turnoff for Carrowkeel, and as it turns out, there were signs after all. The signs, however, required interpretation. First, we passed a marker for a donkey sanctuary. Then we came to a gate that Peter jumped out to open for us and closed again. (“Leave gate as found,” the sign instructed.) Another sign at this gate suggested that something was closed without specifying what. I might have had second thoughts at this stage, but instead, I thought, “This is even better than expected.” A bit farther along, the road became two gravel paths. Here, one sign cautioned, “The road to the cemetery is rough but traversable by car,” with another nearby that stated more directly, “no cars.” I latched onto “traversable by car,” and turned up the hill before us.

You may have spotted the incongruity in this piece already. As the paterfamilias in this tale, I appeared to be bereft of paternal wisdom. How can I write about wisdom when my story shows me to be such a nincompoop? What exactly am I teaching my students, if I make choices like this?

The virtue of wisdom can be more difficult to define than we think. Certainly, wisdom is required for living well. But is wisdom mostly practical, forged from experience, often associated with age? Or does it require extensive study, with knowledge as requisite for wise action? Can one be wise if she knows the best course of action but does not take it? Is wisdom essentially a matter of humility, asking others for guidance as we realize our own shortcomings?

In my Western Civilization survey courses, we often read Plato’s Apology. Socrates, having been told that he is the wisest of all people, objects: he knows he’s not the wisest. Through extensive questioning of others, he comes to see that his wisdom consists of knowing that he isn’t wise. There is a paradox here at the heart of wisdom, a dialectic of sorts with the virtue of humility. With wisdom comes a realization of our limits, and thus humility; humility, in turn, leads us to continue to seek wisdom, and thus become wiser.

However we may define wisdom, its connection to practical living and humility seems invariable. “Who is wise and understanding among you?” asks the epistle of James. “Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom” (James 3:13, NIV). Perhaps teaching wisdom is done best by example, whether in a car or in a classroom.  Which brings me back to the drive to Carrowkeel.

Kathleen and Peter expressed reservations about my interpretation of the signs, but I suggested with an airy nonchalance that ascending the hill was the right way. We began on gravel, bouncing as we moved in and out of deep drainage ruts, and then came to the ascent. Here the gravel almost disappeared, and the sheep hove into view. The necessity of confronting sheep is another indicator of a good historical site in Ireland. Seeing them, I felt good about our adventure.

“May the road rise up to meet you,” says the old Irish blessing. Well, this road rose right enough, but it became less of a road as it did so. We climbed, our little Vauxhall Meriva toiling bravely as we bobbed up and down on the rough surface. Kathleen and Peter suggested, gently enough, that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Peter pointed out our low fuel—did I mention that?—and Kathleen noted that we hadn’t eaten in a long time.

I responded brightly that we were making good progress. The fuel would last, and we’d have a hearty dinner later. The Carrowkeel Tombs—full of antique mystery and commanding views—called to me. We’d be fine, I told them.

I admit that my decision making at this stage was not wise at all. I’m the one with the experience and the learning, the practical and theoretical wisdom. I’m the one who has kept my children from disaster over and over. And I was the one heading up that hill with little gasoline in the car, no dinner in sight, and no idea where the road would end.

As I continued my maniacal quest, Kathleen and Peter made gentle suggestions. “We could come here another time,” said Kathleen. “Dad, I think we had better get gas,” suggested Peter. I drove on in the name of discovery, wild-eyed and determined. But then I came to a corner that looked like scree rather than road, and suddenly I paused and listened to wisdom. I listened to my children.

I stopped, and I told them they were right. And then I had the tricky task of turning the Vauxhall around on that narrow, narrow path, reflecting keenly on the fact that it wasn’t our Vauxhall at all. But we made the turn, and we made it to a gas station, and we made it to a magnificent Italian dinner at a restaurant of their choosing.

Wisdom and humility danced merrily together on the way to Carrowkeel. I was unwise; Kathleen and Peter were wise. I modeled wisdom back to them in a moment of humility, and in accepting their wisdom, I became wiser. Like every other virtue in this series, we don’t learn wisdom alone.

In a section on the folly of age in “Little Gidding,” T. S. Eliot writes, “The only wisdom we can hope to acquire / Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.” The echoed vocation I heard from Kathleen and Peter that day was humility, humility in accepting the wisdom of others.

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

T.S. Eliot, “Little Giddings”

It takes a lot to establish a level of trust at which a child can offer wisdom to the parent, or the pupil to the teacher. Kathleen and Peter taught me wisdom that day, and I’m grateful. I kept seeing signs for Carrowkeel over the following days, and each time I felt a pang. But each time I also gave thanks for Kathleen and Peter, who continue to shape me as we learn virtue together. Presence, self-examination, persistence, and humility: their echoed calls to me transform the four classical virtues from academic study to shared life, enhancing my love for them and my vocation to my students.

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Martin Holt Dotterweich serves as director of the King Institute for Faith and Culture at King University in Bristol, Tennessee, where he is also professor of history. He is a NetVUE Faculty Fellow, having been a member of the 2019 cohort of NetVUE’s Teaching Vocational Exploration seminar, and he contributed to the most recent Scholarly Resources volume Called Beyond Ourselves. His work calls him to an emphasis on vocation both in the classroom and the community; his children continue to shape his understanding of vocation. For other posts by Martin, click here.