It's rare that a philosophy book can bring me to tears, but the first chapter of Radical Hope, in its description of the shattered souls of the Crow people in the wake of cultural devastation, was wincingly painful. Admittedly, Lear does not pretend that his description of cognitive disarray actually represents what the Crow endured; he acknowledges his inability and unwillingness to describe their true psychological states, instead choosing to perform a philosophical "thought experiment" based on their culturally embedded historical reality in order to contextualize his analysis. But his description rings true enough, and it is horrifying.
Though the book (somewhat disappointingly, but maybe necessarily) never answers this question within its pages, I find myself asking what would constitute a similar level of cultural devastation for us today. Drawing on anthropology, Lear writes that a "vibrant culture" is characterized by "established social roles," "standards of excellence associated with these roles," and "the possibility of constituting oneself as. . . one who embodies these ideals." By those standards, I think American civilization would fail the test of having a "vibrant culture." American culture could described as thin precisely because it is lacking in those shared cultural norms - yet the irony is that thick cultures are probably more prone to the sort of devastation Lear describes. (Indeed, Lear implies as such when he writes that, in the event a civilization should collapse, it would the most “flourishing” members – the ones most embedded in its value structures – that would be least able to cope.)
Indeed, I wonder if Western civilization has chosen, through its exaltation of relativism, tolerance, and diversity, to adopt cultural thinness (with its porous cultural boundaries and social fluidity) precisely to avoid such vulnerability. Lear writes that teaching people to conceive of the possibility of their culture’s demise is “counterproductive” as it undermines faith in the reality of one’s culture, but we Americans are actually very good at conceiving of our culture’s demise: just consider all the dystopian novels and films we produce. The irony is that, though we’re protecting ourselves from cultural vulnerability, we’re also somewhat deliberately (though perhaps unconsciously) thinning out our culture even more, introducing skepticism about its value and worth.
Some people consider may consider this a good thing – we are increasingly thinking of ourselves in global terms, as “human beings” and “individuals” rather than “Americans” or “Westerners,” and there are even questions among some about whether our civilization “deserves” to survive at all. But we do have to look at the effects such a thinning out of culture may have on those within it. Lear’s description of how some Crow lived and spoke of their experiences on the reservation remind me of how some commentators have described the mentalities of those who descend into opioid addition: without a telos, without a conception of the “good life,” without a sense that their life has any significance.
But of course, Lear’s book is entitled Radical Hope, and in his second chapter he grounds this hope in that which gives a culture both its stability and its openness: faith in transcendent goodness, what the Crow called Ah-badt-dadt-deah, what a Christian would call God, what a secular person might see as the potential for goodness that is still of this world though it transcends our current understanding. This goodness is what gives us hope for the possibility of a “dignified passage across the abyss” even if we don’t understand what that passage may entail. This hope in transcendent goodness is what remains firm both before and after the passage over the abyss and is what enables cultural continuity.
Lear rarely uses the word "religion," probably because the term “religion” is, sociologically speaking, such a slippery one, and because his project is a secular one. But insofar as "religion" encompasses the acts and beliefs (whether thematized or not) that orient us towards the transcendent, religion was deeply embedded and enmeshed into the ‘traditional’ society of the Crow (as it is in most ‘traditional’ societies). Of course, our relationship as Westernized Americans with religion is very different, and I think that the detangling of religion from the heart of our civilization is part of the “thinning out” of our culture. But it is still worth asking what “religion” we, as postmodern Americans, have to empower us – and I don’t mean religious faith in a denominational god. I mean, rather: do we even have a belief in transcendent goodness? Do we have acts and practices that help us access this faith? What place do we have in our culture for prophets, seers, “dreamers”? Where do we see our potential for cultural resurrection? And: if we have rejected any such faith, have we also rejected the very thing which might enable us to hope?
Asking these questions, I think, can help us make sense of the fear and anxiety driving a lot of politics today. On the far right, there’s an angry fear that American culture is on the verge of collapse, and among some there’s a worry that elimination of traditional religion from the public sphere has left us even more vulnerable to this demise. On the far left, there’s an increasing sense that Western civilization does not deserve to survive – that we should not only accept but propel ourselves across the abyss, come what may. Across the board, there’s increasingly hostile disagreement about what it means, if it out to mean anything, to be “American.” I see Lear as attempting to offer a way to and through the future that allows for a sense of continuity amid radical change – that allows us to reshape our cultural narrative in a way that treasures the past but opens us to the future.
Working out these questions must be done on both a communal and personal level. In asking how virtue can be preserved in the wake of radical civilizational upheaval, Lear recognizes that, on the one hand, virtue requires a culture and a community that can inculcate it into its members, and, on the other hand, virtue must become the personal inheritance of each member of that culture. The question becomes, then, whether the virtue of members of a culture can survive the destruction of the culture itself. In answering this question Lear himself strikes a virtuous balance: in order to endure, virtue must find the mean between relativism on the one hand (in which virtue has no meaning) and rigidity on the other (in which virtue is so embedded in a particular cultural scheme that it could never survive that scheme's collapse). Lear rejects relativism with his insistence that virtue is virtue - not merely a psychological coping strategy employed by individuals in times of distress to preserve their psychic integrity. But he resists rigidity by arguing that virtue is also open-ended - and indeed, for Lear, such open-endedness becomes constitutive of virtue itself.
This open-endedness means that we each face an existential choice when it comes to the practice of virtue. There may be no "right" answer. To his credit, Lear never claims that Plenty Coups's choices were the only way to manifest virtue in his particular situation - he seeks merely to defend them as a "plausible" way. And, to his credit, he wants to restore to the Crow - and indeed to all people in cultural crisis - a means of reclaiming agency. Plenty Coups was not enslaved to his psyche's efforts at self-preservation, nor was he enslaved to historical contingency. The "open-ended" nature of Lear's conception of virtue meant there was room for freedom to choose and to act. Plenty Coups' ability to hope - to believe in goodness beyond the horizon - is what empowered and emboldened this freedom.
This framework that puts Aristotle in conversation with Freud is enlightening, and may provide one way of fruitfully understanding the role of, for instance, prophets and visionaries in helping to usher a people through catastrophic change. But I'm still puzzling over how to apply these insights to our own historical and cultural milieu. Lear suggests ways in which our cultural framework differs from the Crow's, but he never tells us how those shifts might effect how we apply the lessons he's drawn from Plenty Coups. But perhaps, given the polarization and fragmentation of Western culture today, those are answers we'll each have to work out for ourselves.