On our desire for answers, pride, and the illusion of arrival

If you are visiting a new mall and trying to navigate to Auntie Anne’s Pretzels for a quick snack, you could (besides following your nose) consult one of those large maps posted in the main traffic areas. By locating the helpful “you are here” marker, you can orient yourself and chart a path toward the enjoyment of a delicious hot pretzel.

It would be a foolish idea to remain standing in front of that map if your aim were to get to Auntie Anne’s, or anywhere else beyond the place where you already are. To get anywhere at all, as I wrote about here, we must know both where we are and where we are going.

This feels obvious in the everyday world of malls and pretzels. Yet in the life of the mind, we are often tempted into a far more dangerous posture, what I call monumental thinking. That is, a posture of thinking which assumes that one has already arrived at the intended destination when, in reality, they are merely standing in front of the map, mistaking their position or status for understanding. The satisfaction that comes from having “arrived” may feel genuine, but it is a form of pseudo-thinking, one that subtly lures us away from the pursuit of truth.

Alasdair MacIntyre helps clarify this danger in his essay, The ends of life, the ends of philosophical writing, where he distinguishes between two kinds of philosophical writing.

The first reflects what MacIntyre calls the world of the author. In this mode of writing, readers are invited to inhabit the author’s conceptual world. They must speak the author’s language, accept the author’s terms, and see reality as the author presents it. This kind of writing exemplifies the single reference point of monumental thinking: “you are here.”

The second kind of philosophical writing, by contrast, sends us back out of the text and into renewed encounter with the world the text speaks about. This is writing that resists premature arrival. It awakens our deepest creaturely questions and presses us toward judgment, deliberation, and responsible action. It does not allow us to remain comfortably camped out at “you are here,” but insists that true philosophical thinking helps us find our way to live exemplary philosophical lives, which is what MacIntyre suggests might just be the whole point of “doing philosophy.”

Characteristics of Monumental Thinking

As I have reflected on this concept, I believe there are three characteristics that get at the heart of monumental thinking.

1. The Lust for Answers

When the temptation of monumental thinking pops up in my own life, I find that an early symptom is an impatient lust for the “right answer.” Rather than taking the difficult route of contemplation and patience, I grab for the closest answer I can find that soothes the uncomfortable feeling of unanswered questions.

In my students, I see this in the way they approach their classes: What is the minimum word count? Will this be on the tests? What is the right answer? What do I need to say, or communicate, or do to satisfy the requirements and get a good grade? As an aside, I think that it is this particular anxiety to have the right answers that is primarily fueling the current crisis of Ai use and misuse among students.

In academic and scholarly life, this might take the form of echoing the answers and positions most accepted and celebrated by the journals, hiring departments, and publishers.

You are here. Here are the answers. No need to think further.

2. Excessive Pride

Excessive pride is one of the defining characteristics of the thinker who assumes that their essential questions have already been answered and all that remains is simply the preservation and defense of those answers.

Reflecting on my own thinking, this temptation arises when I feel challenges and critiques to my own philosophical or theological systems. My impulse is to plant my feet and double down. Yet, genuine philosophical thinking requires an opposite posture. It calls for a willingness to question my assumptions, to acknowledge fallibility, and to remain open to the possibility of error. Philosophical thinking is a way of life where one never presumes to have arrived at the answers to their deepest questions. We must keep asking the questions and seeking answers.

Monumental thinking assumes that the hard intellectual work has already been done, that the essential questions have been settled, and can now be commemorated rather than continually examined. Like the statue of Rousseau (pictured above), the monumental figure stands as the victorious liberator of the child whose chains are safe in hands of the philosopher. All of the answers figured out, commemorated, and carved in stone.

3. Itching Ears

Another defining characteristic of monumental thinking is what the Apostle Paul describes as “itching ears.” That is, a longing for affirmation that reassures our too-easily gathered answers and prideful postures.

The itching ears of monumental thinking no longer seek to hear the voice of truth, but only that which satisfies and affirms the self. In this way, thinking no longer asks, Is this true? But instead, Does this sound right to me? Does this fit the story I already believe?

Reflecting again on my own habits of mind, I notice how easily I gravitate toward voices that articulate my positions more confidently than I can myself. I become quick to avoid constructive criticism and eager to seek after the approval of those whom I am confident will celebrate my work.

Because monumental thinking seeks thinking that has already “arrived,” the itching ears for praise and affirmation close off all possibility for correction and challenge. The whole reference point for deliberation and disputation becomes singular, that of the monument. The monument of our well formulated positions speaks for us, so that we no longer have to listen carefully or risk being unsettled by the challenge of what we hear. In this way, itching ears exchange the difficult work of truth-seeking for the pseudo-comfort of intellectual security.

Conclusion

All of this serves to render the heart and mind of the thinker as hard as monument stones. Monumental thinking is the kind of thinking that can no longer love. It is un-neighborly and unphilosophical. It might look impressive, but it is ultimately unsatisfactory.

Yet, monumental thinking remains deeply alluring. There is a strange comfort in intellectual security, a sense of safety in standing upon fixed ground rather than walking uncertain paths with others. In my next post, I will examine this allure more closely, particularly the way monumental thinking promises security at the cost of friendship, and how the recovery of intellectual friendship and conversation may be the most powerful defense against the allure of monumental thinking.