We live in a world that is dominated by the language of science and objective rationality. Today, in our reaction to the worldwide pandemic, this becomes even more manifest. The contemporary discourse about education as described by Gert Biesta (2012) and Roger Standaert (2014) fits seamlessly into the language used during this crisis. Increasingly, this discourse is fixed on the ideas of measurability and evidence-based expertise. It predominantly uses words as “efficiency”, “control”, “learning outcomes”, “input-output”, “performativity”. This view on education resonates strongly with the prevailing image of what it means to be a human being nowadays, namely to be the competent manager of one’s own life and happiness.
Both Biesta and Standaert point out that there are limits to this educational ‘empiricism’ and ‘technocratic thinking’. The question is not whether this is an erratic way of speaking about education. The question is rather, is it the only way to talk about it? What remains unsighted and unsaid if we restrict ourselves to the diet of this dominant discourse?
Within pedagogical thinking itself, voices arise challenging this way of thinking. Not only Biesta (2015;2018), but also educational experts like Martha Nussbaum (2011), Geert Kelchtermans (2003/4), Maarten Simons and Jan Masschelein (2008;2012) claim that the essence of education must be found in entirely different terms. They use words such as “vulnerability", "ethos", "disruption", "attentiveness", "meditation", "trust"; “imagination”. A different image of mankind appears in their writings. Here, human beings are not experts in control, but vulnerable creatures. Pedagogical moments seem to happen upon us instead of us being able to make them happen. People and the world itself appear not so much as manageable projects but as fundamentally transcendent to us. Real connection is established in moments of interruption of our "selves” (our plans, preset goals, fixed judgments) and meditation is a way to bring harmony between what we say and do as teachers. The language they use seems to bear more likeliness to poetry and religion than to that of so-called objective science.
It triggers us to explore what happens when we use entirely other languages to talk and think about education. We do not intend to do research on this matter on an academical level. In that respect, we ‘stand on the shoulders of giants’. Many have seen parallels between the communicative and hermeneutical character of arts and education. We add biblical stories to the puzzle, insofar as they have their hermeneutical character in common with works of art. Our objective is to stick close to the here and now, to listen and look attentively to the very particular, real, bodily experience of teaching. We take up the challenge: is it possible to portray a particular teacher in a work of art andat the same time evoke something meaningful about the pedagogical dimension of teaching? Is it possible that in this portrait the pedagogical language converges with that of the arts (poetry, songs, paintings) and religion? How can artworks and biblical stories contribute to the conversation of mankind about education? Does the inclusion of the language of arts and religion enhance our pedagogical understanding and open up new perspectives? These are fascinating questions, which today are marginal to the educational debate and therefore all the more deserving of our attention, time and again.
Suddenly we find ourselves talking about the essence of education in the words of Kae Tempest in their poem Hold your own (2019, track 7):
'Ask your hands to know the things they hold.'
A different, disruptive, refreshing and at the same time century-old perspective to think about education unfolds.