The Enduring Questions Persist by Daniel McQuillan

The Enduring Questions Persist

by Daniel McQuillan

“Morning, Mr. McQuillan.”

I turn from the whiteboard. “Hey, good morning. How we doing?” “Good. Tired.”

Soaked from a winter’s rain, the young man settles into his seat. Despite his tiredness, he sounds happy to be here, happier than usual. “I did the reading.” I turn back again. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” he says, a smile peeping over his mask. “It was good.” “Good. I’m happy you liked it.” I prepare the day’s technology. Never in my life have I seen a classroom so outfitted with devices: a podcast microphone, Bluetooth headphones, a projector, a pull-down screen, an Apple TV, HDMI cables, MacBook adapters, an external webcam, my laptop, and a desktop computer. And, lest I forget, the whiteboard. The hybrid classroom, Portsmouth Abbey edition.

Students enter one at a time, then in pairs. Zoom notifies me that two people are in my waiting room. All students, those here and at home, hope for a “no-quiz day.” Not today. Not when we’re reading Milton.

I ask them to ready their quiz pads. “Your name, Book 10, Paradise Lost. Distance students, you know the drill.” Two of them nod. One signals with a thumbs-up. A few girls talk. It’s good to see humans conversing, unmediated by screens. The bell rings and two students arrive late. “Ok–Good morning, everyone. Let’s stand for prayer.” They all rise, even one of the distance learners. I wonder, more out of curiosity than anything else, who actually prays. For some, it seems to mean something; the others are kind enough to maintain a respectful silence. I wonder if, somehow, their silence joins with our prayers.

“Grant me, O Lord my God, a mind to know You...” One voice chimes in. They all know it, so why don’t they say it? I slow my pace. That, for some reason, calls the group into prayer. We finish, and I pray that St. Thomas Aquinas, that stout old Dominican, intercede on my behalf. How often he’s been invisibly present this year, God only knows.

We take our quiz, and, to their disappointment, I don’t give a “Random Bonus Question about Mr. McQuillan’s life.” Last week it was which Jonas brother did I once unknowingly stand next to for ten minutes in a restaurant. This week, I’ve got nothing. My life, I remind them, is only so interesting.

“Ok, limited time, so let’s get right into it.” I focus on a few things. First, the guardian angels’ worry when, after the fall of Adam and Eve, they make “righteous plea” about “their utmost vigilance” in the Garden of Eden. I am struck, once again, by God’s response. “Be not dismayed / Nor troubled at these tidings from Earth / Which your sincerest care could not prevent.” Indeed, a response we need to hear, one that urges us to recognize our pandemic anxiety and simultaneously think beyond it. Easier said than done.

God “colleagues” mercy and justice. “What do we think that means?” We discuss Milton’s use of that word. Some students offer their interpretation, noticing a kind of “mixing” tone. A few lines later, we read how mercy tempers justice. Mercy and justice. They are not separate in God, but one. Milton, the great monist.

Next, the great existential question. Where art thou, Adam? My theology hat is on. “Why do you think God asks this question? After all, it’s a useless question, at least from God’s perspective.” God knows exactly where they are and why they’re hiding. Adam needs to say it. Better yet, he needs to hear himself say it. Students reflect on this point. I notice one girl really start to think. She looks up, off to the right, then back at her book. I point out it’s not all dreary for the world’s first couple. From another perspective, Milton reminds us that God, the Divine Rescuer, comes to and searches for us. That’s grace. I think they’re getting it.

We look at Adam’s throwing Eve under the bus. “She did it,” says Adam. The original blame-game, the first finger-point, a pathetic attempt to shift guilt. If Adam was created to know God and be strong, why doesn’t he put that strength to use? “Why didn’t he wake up, grab that demonic viper, and throw it out of Eden?” Students speculate, some more than others. I’m just happy to see them thinking. I tell them we have to move on, but we’ll pick it back up during Friday’s plenary session, the weekly, student-led discussion.

“Ok, so what happens when Satan returns to hell, to Pandemonium?” Five hands shoot up. I expect this, partly because of

the reading-guide question I gave, but also because of the scene itself. I call on one young woman. “When he gets back, Satan turns into a serpent permanently.” Yes, I think, but I’m looking for more. “And what else?” “The other demons...” Her mask muffles her voice. “Sorry, can you repeat that?” “Sure. I said the other demons turn into serpents too.” Demons transformed into the image and likeness of their leader. I note this transformation, this becoming what they’ve chosen. “What does this remind you of?” One student says Dante’s Inferno, how the sinners suffer in death what they chose in life.

We look again at Milton’s language. After seven years of highschool teaching, I find that slow, careful reading goes two ways: either students get really into it, or they resist it. Those who can slow themselves down, shift away from the instant-click mindset, will unpack the meaning. I ask them to stretch their minds. “You got this. Think.” Milton writes that the demons are “accessories / To [Satan’s] bold riot.” I point out the legal tone of accessories. We look at a few more lines.

Two minutes left. “Ok, let’s stop there for today.” Papers ruffle; bags are zipped; quizzes are placed on my desk. “Who wants to be the spritzer for today?” No one. “Ok, Ben will spritz. Thank you, Ben.” Ben spritzes and the kids wipe down their chairs. Students in my next class shuffle in. Two students ask me if their responses for question two counts. A distance student tries to get my attention. Between the cleaning, the questions, the entering and the leaving, the classroom is a pandemonium of sorts. It’s February, and I’m still getting used to this.

I teach another class, attempting to mimic the good work we did in the first section. We end up focusing on different lines. I try to balance their interest and questions with my focal points. The conversation goes well, better than I at first think, but it wasn’t what I expected. No two classes are ever the same, especially in a pandemic.

Humanities, Portsmouth Abbey’s flagship liberal-arts course, looked different this year, but its aim remained the same: to introduce Fourth-Form students to the great thinkers of the Western tradition. We read from Augustine, Aquinas, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Joyce, Turgenev, Shelley, Descartes, Freud, and Marx–just to name a few. We asked the enduring questions: What does it mean to be human? Does God exist? What is truth, goodness, beauty? How am I to live well?

In seminars, we shared words in agreement and disagreement. Teachers directed students in the close reading of texts. Students refined their writing in small-group workshops. Plenary invited students to think out loud, make distinctions, and disagree without getting too emotional.

Despite the masks, the WiFi issues, the distanced desks, and the hybrid format, we managed to learn. Minds were opened. Assumptions got challenged. Alternative views were considered. Truth, goodness, and beauty were pursued.

How will next year look? Time will tell. One thing is for certain: this course and these books –and their power to transform the minds and hearts of young people–await a new crop of FourthFormers. I, for one, look forward to doing it all again.

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Daniel McQuillan earned his M.A. of Philosophy at Holy Apostles College and Seminary, with a concentration in Thomistic Studies. He teaches Humanities at Portsmouth Abbey School and coaches boys’ lacrosse.