He slips in the shower. November 13, 2024. The back of his head meets the edge of the tub, and the cord at the C3 and C4 vertebrae takes the blow. The man who spent fifty years telling Americans that the body must answer to something higher than the body learns what the body does when it stops answering. He cannot move below the shoulders. The diaphragm goes quiet. Later the doctors call his speech a miracle, because the nerves that drive the breath came near to silence and stopped short of it.
Hold that picture. A talking head on a still body. Dennis Prager (b. 1948) built his life as a voice. Now the voice is most of what remains under his command, and he uses it, from the wheelchair, to say thank you. Life is a tragedy as well as a glory, he tells an interviewer. Gratitude has sustained him. He files a malpractice suit against the hospitals. He publishes a new book, If There Is No God: The Battle Over Who Defines Good and Evil, and gives interviews to promote it, speaking slowly, speaking clearly.
Ernest Becker (1924–1974) has a name for what runs under all of this. Two terrors sit at the bottom of a man. He knows he will die, and he knows he is an animal that leaks and rots and falls in bathrooms. No other creature carries both facts at once. To live with them, a man builds what Becker calls a hero system, a project of the culture that lets him feel he counts beyond the grave, that he is more than meat. The hero system tells him what is sacred and what is base, what earns a place in the story and what gets swept out with the refuse. Every hero system runs on a few sacred words. And the same word funds different ledgers in different systems, which is why two honorable men can hear the same word and reach for their coats.
Prager’s sacred word is clarity. He says it himself. He prefers clarity to agreement. The line he draws there does more work than any single argument he has made. Clarity converts the terror of a universe with no Judge into a courtroom with one. If God exists, there are commands. If there are commands, there is a line between good and evil a man can read the way he reads a road sign. The new book makes the case against what he takes to be the great modern lie, that you can remove the Commander and keep the commands. Take away God, Prager says, and you do not keep an objective morality run by reason. You keep feelings, and feelings cannot bind anyone to anything. His radio method has the shape of a legal brief. State the point. Anticipate the objection. Return the verdict. The verdict is the product. A listener who cannot move below the shoulders can still know, with the certainty of a man reading a sign, that he sits on the right side of the line. You can see why the word holds him up. It was built to.
Now put a rabbi in the room while Prager talks, and watch the rabbi fail to find his own religion in it.
This is the strange part, and it deserves care, because the strangeness is honest and not a fraud. Prager grew up Orthodox. He went to yeshiva. He reads Hebrew. He wrote a multi-volume commentary on the Torah, The Rational Bible. By every external mark he is a learned Jew defending the faith of his fathers. And yet a rabbi listening to him hears a Judaism with the spine removed and a new one slid in. Prager leads with the question, do you believe in objective morality, do you believe good and evil are real and not taste. He leads with the God who guarantees the moral order of Western civilization. He does not lead with the things a rabbi leads with. He does not lead with the commandments as binding law on a particular people, with the covenant, with peoplehood, with the obligation that falls on a Jew because he is a Jew and not because the argument persuaded him. Most of all he does not lead with the argument that never ends.
Judaism keeps its arguments on the page. The Talmud preserves the losing opinion next to the winning one. These and these are the words of the living God. The holy thing in that tradition is the dispute itself, the machloykes that stays open, the two sages who never agree and both belong in the canon. A faith organized around the unresolved argument has clarity as a minor virtue at best and a temptation at worst. Prager organizes a faith around the resolved one. He wants the verdict. He wants the Judeo-Christian package, useful, exportable, the load-bearing wall of the West, a thing a Methodist in Tulsa and a lapsed Catholic in Phoenix can adopt and apply. To the rabbi this is the God of the philosophers wearing the clothes of the God of Abraham. A God recruited to hold up the values, more than the God who wrestles a man in the dark by the river and leaves him limping.
He has a near twin here in Jordan Peterson (b. 1962), who praises the Bible as the deep code of the West and stands a little outside the house he defends, admiring the architecture from the lawn. Both men love religion as a structure that holds civilization together. Both leave a religious man uncertain whether they are inside the building or guarding the door. The love is real. The location is hard to fix.
So the word clarity holds Prager up, and it makes him strange to his own. Walk the word through other hero systems and the strangeness stops being personal. It becomes the rule.
A jazz pianist in a basement on Vine works the same word and means its enemy. Clarity is where his music goes to die. The value lives in the bent note, the third that will not commit to major or minor, the beat landed late on purpose. A young player runs a line clean and bright, every note in its slot, and the older man stops him. “You played it right,” he says. “Now play it.” The right version is the dead one. His hero system gives him a place in a lineage of men who found the truth between the notes, and clarity is the amateur’s mistake, the sound of a man who has not yet learned what the music hides.
A hospice nurse on the night shift treats clarity as a cruelty she has the discipline to withhold. A dying man asks her how long. She has a number in her head and she does not give it to him. She sits in the fog with him because the fog is where he lives now, and a clear answer would be an eviction. Her hero system makes her good by the quality of her presence in the place where nothing resolves. The brief, the verdict, the line, these belong to people who get to leave the room. She does not leave the room. To her, the man who prefers clarity has never sat all night with someone he could not save.
An intelligence analyst across town holds clarity as the one sin her trade cannot forgive. She writes moderate confidence and she means moderate confidence, and the day she rounds it up to certainty is the day men move on her word and some of them do not come home. Her honor is the calibrated hedge, the refusal to give a commander the clean answer he wants. In her world a man who prefers clarity to agreement is a man who has not yet gotten anyone killed with a confident sentence.
A founder pitching on Sand Hill Road sells clarity as costume. The deck radiates certainty because doubt does not raise a round. He knows the model is held together with assumptions he cannot defend, and he says the number anyway, in a clean voice, because the voice is the asset. His hero system rewards the man who can perform conviction he does not feel. Clarity for him is a mask over the same dark the others are dodging, and he wears it well, and it pays.
A field biologist on a ridge in the Sierra finds that nature will not accept a brief. The two populations of bird in front of her interbreed at the margin and refuse the category she needs them to fill. Where one species ends and the next begins is a question the birds decline to answer. Her years have taught her that the cleanest line is the one drawn by a man who stopped looking too soon. Clarity, in her trade, is the mark of insufficient time in the field.
And then the hero system I know best, the one Becker would aim back at the narrator before letting him feel clever. The tribalist, the nationalist, the man of blood and soil. For him clarity means knowing your own. The line that counts is the one between us and them, and it gets drawn before any argument starts, by birth, by ancestry, by the dead buried in the same ground. From inside that system Prager reads strange in the opposite direction from the rabbi, and the symmetry is the whole point. The rabbi finds him too universal to be a proper Jew, a man who traded the particular covenant for an exportable creed. The nationalist finds him too universal to be a proper nationalist, a man who loves his country as a set of propositions any immigrant can sign rather than as a people any immigrant remains outside of. Prager’s clarity is a creed you can pass like a citizenship test. The tribalist wants a kinship you are born into and cannot test your way into. So Prager stands in a narrow place. More particular than the secular liberal, who wants no Commander at all and finds Prager’s Judge an embarrassment. More universal than the rabbi and the nationalist, who want a people first and a proposition second. The man who sells clarity is himself hard to place, and the difficulty is not an accident of his biography. It is the cost of the wall he built.
Becker says the hero system earns its keep when the body breaks, because that is the hour the system was built for and most of them buckle in it. The pianist will lose his hands. The nurse will be the one in the bed. The analyst will face a question her hedges cannot soften. The wall a man builds against creatureliness gets one true test, and it comes in a bathroom or a ward, not in a debate.
Prager’s wall held. He lost the body and kept the verdict, and the verdict told him to be grateful, and he was grateful, on the record, in a slow clear voice. You can call the system a denial of death and you are not wrong, and you can still watch it hold a man upright after the floor gave way beneath him, and that counts. Honesty asks the same question of my own wall. The tribe, the line drawn in blood, the dead in the shared ground. That wall would not have caught me in that bathroom. His caught him. A man should sit with that before he reaches for the deflation, because the frame that explains everyone explains the man holding the frame, and the tribe is a denial of death like any other, only mine.
Three coordinates locate him. The terror he answers is a universe with no Judge, where good and evil come down to taste and a man cannot say the murderer is wrong, only that he dislikes him. The value he makes sacred against it is clarity, the readable line, the brief that ends in a verdict, the certainty a paralyzed man can still possess when he can possess almost nothing else. The price he pays for the wall is a faith his own rabbi cannot place, too resolved for the argument that keeps Judaism alive, and a country he loves as a creed more than as a kin, which leaves him honored by millions and at home with a smaller number than his fame would suggest. He sits in the chair and says thank you, and the saying is the system doing the exact work it was built across fifty years to do.
Common Sense
A man drives the 405 south at six in the morning. He runs a small drywall crew. He did a year of junior college and quit. His daughter came home from State last Thanksgiving and corrected his grammar at the dinner table, and he has not forgotten the look on her face. The radio is on. The voice tells him to use his common sense. The voice tells him the brilliant men on Wall Street, the ones with the degrees, wrecked the economy, and that brains without wisdom come to nothing. The man’s hands settle on the wheel. He is not behind. He was never behind. The thing he carries, the thing his daughter’s professors lack, the plain good sense to tell a straight line from a crooked one, is the thing the whole world runs on. He turns the volume up. He feels like a soldier who has just learned the war is winnable and that he stands on the right side of it.
That feeling is the product. Dennis Prager sells many things, and the best of them is that feeling.
Prager’s sacred word is common sense, and he raises it higher than a preacher raises faith and higher than a professor raises evidence. His great heresy, he says, is that God has common sense, that religious men ascribe many things to God and forget to grant Him the plain good sense of a reasonable man. The rest follows from there. If God has common sense, and God made you, then the sense He set in you is a holy instrument, tuned at the factory, needing no upgrade from a graduate school. The average man is bright enough for his life. The rocket scientist might be a wreck. Brilliance runs narrow and gets overrated, and the men widely called brilliant turn out, often, to be dummies or worse. In The Rational Bible the road to God runs through a reason any plain man can walk. The gut becomes a sense organ for the moral order, and the moral order becomes readable to anyone willing to stop deferring to his betters.
You can see the gift. It hands the drywall man his dignity back. It tells the woman who never finished school that her read on people beats the binder. It tells a frightened citizen that the answers are not locked in a building he cannot enter, that he still outranks the clerk and the state that wants to shrink him. A man made to feel small all his life hears Prager and stands up straight. There is honor in handing that out.
The brand he built knows the formula to the dollar. A PragerU presenter introduces herself as a former professor at Princeton, slows on the word so the glow lands, then plants her real authority in the rural county she came from and the common sense it gave her. Carol Swain (b. 1954) does it in one breath, the credential and the rejection of credentials sold together. The diploma buys the entrance and the common touch buys the trust, and the man watching gets to keep his own dignity while borrowing hers.
The trouble starts at the seam. Stephen Law (b. 1960), in Believing Bullshit, describes the Intellectual Black Hole, a belief system built so that nothing reaches escape velocity. Drift too close and the pull takes you. Prager’s common sense has that build. When a study flatters the gut, he reaches for it. Saturated fat turns out to be fine after all, and he tells his listeners he attaches enormous importance to the new finding, that he wasted twenty-five years on skinless chicken. A study reports that societies that believe in hell carry less crime, and he cites it as common sense confirmed. When a study cuts the other way, he keeps a rule loaded. Whenever you hear the words studies show, outside the natural sciences, and the finding contradicts common sense, be skeptical. He does not recall a sound one that ever did. The authors of 50 Great Myths of Popular Psychology answer him by name. The studies that overturn common sense are often the right ones, they write, and the purpose of their book is to teach a reader to distrust his gut when he weighs a claim. Two men stand before the same shelf of research. One keeps what confirms him and throws back what does not, and calls both moves common sense.
The shield carries a second plate. The man who disagrees gets recoded. He is not a man with a point. He is a man whose ideology jammed his sense, whose buzzer goes off at a word, who lost the plain faculty God gave him. Disagreement stops working as evidence against Prager and starts working as evidence against the one who disagrees. A belief built this way cannot be argued with from outside, because every argument from outside proves the arguer corrupted. That is escape velocity. That is the black hole.
Here a man should slow down, because Prager has earned a hearing on this that his critics have not. He fell in his shower in November and the credentialed men took him in, and now he sits paralyzed and sues them for what they did and failed to do. The smartest men in the building dropped him. His own ruined body stands as the argument that brilliance fails and the experts are not gods. A man who has lived that has cause to trust the sense God gave him over the framed diplomas on the wall. Becker holds here. The wall a man builds is the wall that holds him up when the floor goes, and this one held.
Now carry the word out of the studio.
A finish carpenter hangs a door and the level reads plumb and his eye says the level lies. He trusts his eye. Forty years have built a knowing in his hands that no instrument carries, and the house stands because he trusts it. For him common sense is sacred and load-bearing, the knowledge of a trade that lives below words. He hears Prager and nods. The man with the clipboard who has never hung a door does not know what the hands know.
A woman who raised six children on a cannery wage hears the word the same way. She buried a husband and a son. She knows when a child lies and when a man drinks and when a marriage will not last, and she learned none of it from a book. Common sense to her is the sediment of a hard life, and she trusts it over the young caseworker with the binder who has lived through nothing.
Cross town a woman tracks disease, and she holds the word as her enemy. Common sense said the sun goes round the earth, that bad air carried plague, that washing a surgeon’s hands before he cut insulted him. Her whole trade exists because the gut fails at scale, because a thing can hold true for one man and false for a million, because intuition cannot count. In a plague year the common-sense answer kills people, and her job is to hold the cold number against a crowd that feels sure. To her the man who prefers his gut to the data has never watched a curve outrun a city.
A poker player in a back room treats his own intuition as a liar with good manners. He has trained for years to override the gut, to fold the hand that feels strong and bet the hand that feels weak, because the count says so and the feeling lies. His edge is the discipline of distrusting himself. He hears use your common sense and thinks, that is how the table eats you.
A man working a long con knows the word from the inside out. Common sense is what he sells the mark. He hands the mark a story that feels obvious, that confirms what the mark already suspected, and the feeling of obviousness is the hook that sets. To him common sense is a surface a skilled man plays. The mark who trusts his gut is the easiest money in the room.
Put the rabbi from before back in the room, listening to God has common sense, and watch him wince again, for a new reason. The Torah he keeps runs thick with law that offends common sense on purpose. The red heifer. The mixing of wool and linen. The statutes the tradition calls chukim, the commands with no reason a man can give, kept because God said so and not because they satisfy the gut. The chok sits at the heart of obedience, the place where a Jew does the thing because his gut objects. A God with common sense has no call to command the senseless, and a Judaism built on common sense deletes the commandment that marks a Jew as obedient rather than merely agreeable. Prager’s God reasons like a sensible American. The rabbi’s God binds a son to an altar, stops the knife at the last second, and explains nothing.
The tribe hears the word a third way, and Prager sits wrong with them too. For the man of blood and soil common sense is the wisdom of a people, the inherited feel for how the world works that a folk earns on its own ground across centuries, the thing the rootless intellectual lost and the peasant kept. It belongs to a people. Prager’s common sense is a human universal, the same gut in the Korean and the Swede and the Guatemalan because the same God set it in all of them. The nationalist wants the sense of his own and distrusts the sense of the stranger. Prager hands the stranger the same instrument and calls him a brother once he uses it well. More universal than the tribe again, more universal than the rabbi, a populist whose populism reaches past the very borders the populist means to hold.
By Becker’s reading every one of these men walls off the same dark. The carpenter’s hands, the grandmother’s sediment, the disease tracker’s curve, the player’s count, all of it answers the fear of being a small confused creature in a world too large to read. Common sense is the most democratic wall of all, because it costs nothing and every man already owns it. Prager hands it out free to men the world has made to feel dumb, and they love him for it, and the love is earned, and the wall is still a wall. The honest move turns it on my own. The tribe’s common sense, the folk wisdom of a people on its land, the thing I trust against the cosmopolitan expert, runs on the same fear and stands as the same wall, mine. It feels like truth from the inside whatever the studies say. That is how a wall feels. That is what makes it hard to leave.
Three coordinates locate him. The terror he answers is the dread of the ordinary man before the credentialed, the fear that the world belongs to the brilliant and that the plain man is a fool inside it. The value he raises against it is common sense, the God-given gut that makes every listener a knower and a soldier in a good war. The price he pays is a bubble with escape velocity, a sense that keeps the studies it likes and throws back the rest and reads every objection as the objector’s corruption, and a faith with the chok cut out, a God too reasonable to command the thing that makes obedience mean what it means. He sits in his chair, dropped by the experts, trusting the sense God gave him, and tells the man on the 405 that he was never the fool. For the man on the 405 it might be the kindest thing anyone has said to him all year.
Goodness
He poses the drowning question on the air. Your dog goes under on one side of the lake and a stranger goes under on the other, and you can reach only one. Which one do you swim for. He opens his new book, If There Is No God, with the same question, because it carries his whole argument in one breath.
A caller takes it. He says the dog. He has had the dog eleven years. He has never met the stranger. Prager presses him. Then your feelings have led you wrong, he says, and not by a little. The good man swims for the man. The love you carry for the dog is real, and it counts for nothing against a human life, and the day you let the love decide is the day you trade goodness for feeling and call the trade a virtue.
That question holds the whole of him. Goodness, for Dennis Prager, lives in the deed and answers to a standard outside the chest. Not the warmth you feel. Not the self you express. The act, weighed against a fixed good, by a Judge who keeps the books.
This is why he ranks goodness over the things other men chase, over smart, over holy, over authentic, over successful. A brilliant man might be a scoundrel. A pious man might be cruel. The good man, plain and disciplined and often dull, outranks them both at the only bar that lasts. Prager says it harder than most. It is harder to be a good man than a brilliant one, and the world rewards the brilliant and neglects the good, and that error sits near the root of what ails it.
He holds the hard half of the doctrine too. Man is not born good. The caller who swims for his dog shows it. The natural pull runs toward the self and its loves, and goodness runs against the pull, an achievement wrested from a nature that resists it. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778) taught the modern West that man comes into the world good and society spoils him, and Prager spends his life arguing the reverse. The child is no small saint waiting to be left alone. The child is raw material, and the first work a parent or a people can do is to make him good, because he will not arrive there on his own.
Take the doctrine seriously and you find something bracing in it. It refuses the easy exits. It will not let a man off because his heart sat in the right place. It tells him the test is what he did. For a listener tired of a culture that grades on feeling and intention, this lands as a cold drink. Be good. Not nice, not interesting, not true to yourself. Good. And good is a thing you do, today, for the man in front of you.
Bring the rabbi back, and once more he cannot find his own faith inside the praise. The trouble this time runs through the word holy. Prager makes goodness the whole point. Ethical monotheism, he calls it, the one God whose one demand is that you treat your fellow man well. A kind atheist beats a cruel believer, he says, and God prefers good conduct to ritual every time. The rabbi hears a faith with one of its two legs sawn off. The Torah commands a man to be good, and it also commands him to be holy, and holiness is not goodness. Holiness draws lines that have nothing to do with kindness. What you eat. What you wear. When you rest. What you keep apart from what. The whole order of the sacred and the common, the clean and the unclean, stands beside the ethics and not under it. A Jew is told you shall be holy, and the holiness includes a thousand acts that make no man’s life better and answer to no standard of decency, kept because they set a people apart and bind it to its God. Fold all of that into being good and you have an ethical culture with a Hebrew accent, a Judaism a decent Unitarian could sign without changing a habit. Prager’s God wants you to be good. The rabbi’s God wants you to be good and also wants you, on the seventh day, to put down the pen for reasons no ethics can supply.
Now carry the word out past the synagogue.
A Montessori teacher kneels on the floor of a bright room and watches a four-year-old work. She holds it as an article of faith that the child arrives good and that her one job is to keep from breaking him. Goodness, to her, shows when an adult stops interfering, the native kindness of a creature not yet taught to hoard and compete. She hears Prager’s raw material and his discipline and his fallen nature as a slander against the children she loves. For her the good already lives in there. You protect it. You do not install it.
A platoon sergeant in a country he will not name holds a different word entirely. A good man, to him, holds the line when holding it costs him, carries the wounded one out, never leaves his own. Mercy to the enemy across the wire is no virtue. It is a betrayal of the men beside him, paid for in their blood. His good runs as loyalty under fire, and it points inward, toward his own, and it can require him to kill without a flicker. He and Prager both scorn the man who lets feeling rule. They might come to blows over who the feeling is owed to.
An effective-altruist sits in a co-working space with a spreadsheet and computes the good to four decimal places. Goodness, to him, is a number, lives saved against dollars spent, the bed nets and the deworming pills, the cold sum of consequences with the sentiment stripped out. He shares Prager’s contempt for the warm feeling that does no work. He parts from him on the source. He needs no Commander and no world to come. The arithmetic commands him, and the arithmetic does not care whether God keeps a book.
A monk in a cold hall holds the strangest word of all. Goodness, to him, remains when the self that wants to be good lets go of the wanting. No ledger. No verdict. No achievement wrested from a fallen nature, because no fixed self stands there to do the wresting and no score waits to be kept. Prager’s good man, laboring to bank a balance against the grave, looks to the monk like a man clutching harder at the thing he should release. The good Prager builds toward, the monk empties toward.
The tribe weighs the word its own way, and Prager sits crosswise to it again. For the man of blood and soil a good man tends his own first, his kin, his town, his nation, and the duty thins as the circle widens until the stranger across the sea holds almost no claim on him at all. Goodness runs in rings, strongest at the center. Prager swims for the drowning stranger over the beloved dog, and the tribesman watches and thinks the principle, carried out, might have a man tend strangers while his own children want. The universal good looks to the tribe like a betrayal of the near. More universal than the tribe once more, more universal than the sergeant, a moralist whose circle has no edge.
By Becker’s account each of these men buys the same thing against the same dark. To count. To leave a mark the grave cannot erase. The teacher banks it in the children she did not break, the sergeant in the men he carried out, the donor in the lives his number saved, the monk by giving up the bank and calling the surrender the prize. Prager banks it in a book a Judge will read after he is gone. Here the man in the chair earns his hearing, because the doctrine meets its test in him. He fell, and the body that did the deeds went still, and the worldly account emptied in an afternoon on a bathroom floor. He says he is grateful. He asks whether all those years do not still count. By his own lights they count, because the ledger of goodness does not run through the spine. It runs through the deeds, and the deeds are done and banked and waiting on the verdict. The body fails and the account holds. The wall holds.
I have to turn it on my own. The tribe’s good, the loyalty to my own that I trust against the cold universal arithmetic, buys me the same thing, a sense that my life counted by the lights of my people and will be kept by them. That is a ledger too. It feels like duty from the inside and not like a fear of the dark. They all do.
Wisdom
He built a university and put his name on it and filled it with five-minute videos, and he did it while telling the country the universities had failed. Prager University grants no degree. It holds no campus. It hands a man the knowledge the real universities stopped teaching, in the time it takes to drink a coffee. The clever institutions turn out fools. His institution, which is no institution, turns out the wise.
Wisdom is the word that lets him do this, and he raises it above the thing the universities sell. Brains. Intelligence. The high test score. He says it plainly and often. Brains run narrow. A man can hold a towering IQ and wreck his life and the economy with it, and the men widely called brilliant did exactly that. Wisdom tells brains where to point, and a clever man without it is a loose tool in the dark. The schooled are often the most foolish, because school trains the cleverness and starves the wisdom, and sends a man into the world sharp and lost.
He means something older than common sense here. Common sense is the floor, the plain good sense every man already owns. Wisdom is the height, the knowledge of how to live, worked out long ago by people who watched human nature across thousands of years and wrote down what they saw. The Bible carries it. Proverbs carries it. The grandmother carries more of it than the dean. Wisdom does not ask what the universe is made of. It asks what a man should do on a Tuesday with his anger and his money and his son, and it holds that the answer came in before any of us arrived and waits on the shelf for anyone humble enough to take it down.
A man dreads getting his one life wrong, with no chance to run it again. Wisdom answers the dread. It promises the answers exist, that they are old and tested and proven on millions of lives, and that he need only receive them. To sit at the feet of the wise is shelter. To carry the wisdom forward is to stand in a line that does not die when the body does. PragerU hands the ordinary listener three thousand years of it for free and tells him the credentialed never found it. Shelter and flattery in one short film.
The rabbi has a teaching ready for this word. The sages drew a hard line between wisdom and Torah. If a man tells you there is wisdom among the nations, the old text says, believe him. If he tells you there is Torah among the nations, do not. Wisdom belongs to all mankind, to the Greek and the Egyptian and the Chinese, worked out by clever men watching life. Torah came down once at a mountain and belongs to Israel, and no amount of watching life arrives at it. Prager takes the Torah and files it under wisdom. He turns the Bible into a manual any reasonable man can read for guidance on living well, The Rational Bible, sensible, useful, shippable anywhere. The rabbi watches revelation get reclassified as sagacity and the covenant sold as good advice. And he has a second objection, about who gets to be wise. His tradition makes a man wise the slow way, on a bench, beside a master, inside an argument that runs for decades, certified by the chain he sits in. Prager broadcasts. The wisdom arrives in five minutes from a microphone, certified by no chain, addressed to everyone at once. To the rabbi that is not how the thing transmits.
Take the word out among other men and it comes apart in their hands.
A trial judge three months from retirement holds wisdom higher than Prager does and trusts it less in his keeping. Thirty years on the bench taught her the thing no statute holds, when the rule should bend, when the witness lies, what a frightened cornered man will do. She calls that wisdom and ranks it over every brilliant brief the young clerks carry in. She also knows it cannot be handed across a desk. It came to her one ruined defendant at a time, across years she cannot give to anyone. A man who sells wisdom in five-minute parcels is, to her, selling the one thing that does not ship.
A psychometrician in a basement lab holds that the word is mostly fog. He measures a thing he calls g, and g forecasts the grades and the wages and the years a man will live, and forecasts them better than any test of wisdom or character anyone has built. Judgment, common sense, the deep knowing Prager exalts, all of it mostly tracks the same engine the IQ test taps, dressed in kinder clothes. Prager says brains run narrow and the score does not decide a life. The psychometrician lays down his curves and says it decides more of a life than any man cares to hear.
An old man runs a seminar in the line of Socrates (c. 470–399 BC), and he holds that the wise man knows he does not know. He asks questions and withholds answers. The student who walks in with a maxim walks out with the maxim in pieces on the floor. The confident sage dispensing the wisdom of the ages is, to him, the figure Socrates spent his life undressing in the marketplace, the man so certain he is wise that he stopped looking. Wisdom keeps the question open. Prager closes questions for a living.
The founder of a longevity lab treats the wisdom of the ages as the enemy of the future. Every ancient certainty he can name got the body and the stars and the price of bread wrong. The graveyards lie packed with conventional wisdom. He builds by defying the wise, by doing the thing the elders called impossible or forbidden, and the world he hands his children runs on the defiance. Prager’s reverence for the old reads to him as the dead hand on the throat of what comes next. Wisdom faces backward. He has turned the other way.
The tribe weighs the word its own way. For the man of blood and soil wisdom is the inheritance of a people, the hard knowledge a folk earns on its own ground and hands down its own line, untranslatable, not for sale, gone the moment you offer it to strangers. Prager gathers the wisdom of his own and lays it before all mankind as the shared birthright of reasonable men, and builds a university to carry it everywhere. The tribesman watches his patrimony go out over the wire to people who never bled for it and thinks a wisdom handed to everyone belongs to no one.
I have to turn it on my own. The wisdom I trust, the inheritance of my people, the old knowing of my own that I set against the clever stranger, shelters me from the same dread, the fear of getting the one life wrong with no elder near enough to ask. I earned almost none of it. I received it and called the receiving merit. That move sits under every one of these men, mine included.
He records from the chair now. The body below the shoulders will not answer him, and the voice still answers, and the voice still teaches. He tells the people who write to him that gratitude has carried him, that a life runs as a tragedy and a glory both, that the years before the fall still count. The oldest shape of the wise man is this one, the sufferer who turns the suffering into a lesson and hands it down, Job at the close of the book, the broken elder on the mat who has lost the use of everything and speaks anyway. It is the most honorable form the whole project takes, and it is the project, running at full strength in the hour it was built to meet.
Happiness
He teaches the missing tile on the air. Picture a ceiling of tiles, he says, and one tile gone. Where does your eye go. Straight to the gap. Not the hundred tiles in place. The one hole. A man does this with his whole life. He has the health and the work and the wife and the roof, and his eye runs to the thing he lacks, the missing tile, and the gap eats the rest. Happiness starts when a man trains his eye off the hole and onto the tiles that are there.
That image carries his whole teaching on the word, and the teaching cuts against nearly everyone who uses it. For most men happiness is the payoff, the thing they are owed, the private reward at the end of the work. The country was founded on the right to chase it. Prager turns it around. Happiness, he says, is labor, and more than labor, it is a debt. You owe it to the people around you. The long face is a small selfishness. A man who carries his gloom into a room taxes everyone in it, and the tax is real, and a decent man pays it down by mastering his mood and showing the world a steadier face than he feels. His book says so in the title. Happiness Is a Serious Problem. Not a gift. A problem, to be worked like any other.
He splits happiness from fun and from feeling. Fun comes and goes and leaves nothing behind. Feeling rises and falls on its own, and a man who waits on it waits forever. Happiness sits deeper, in gratitude and in conduct, in the decision to be grateful for the tiles and to behave well whatever the weather inside the chest. Behave happy and the feeling can follow the behavior in. Wait for the feeling and you wait in the dark.
Becker’s reading sits under this one as it sat under the others. The missing tile, followed far enough, is the hole at the center of every life, the one nobody fills. Gratitude floods the eye with what a man holds so he does not stand staring into the gap. The duty seals it at the level of the group. A man going under in front of others pulls at the wall they have all agreed to keep up, and so the cheerful face becomes a service rendered, the morale of the room held against the dark. Prager makes the holding of morale a moral act. There is something true in it, and something the truth costs.
The offer lands, because it hands a suffering man a lever. You are not at the mercy of your mood. You can decide. You can train the eye, count the tiles, behave your way toward the thing you cannot feel. To a man flattened by his own weather that is a rope thrown down a well.
Set this in front of the rabbi and he reaches for the book of Job. His tradition does not treat the long face as a tax. It builds a fast day around grief and commands a man to sit low on the floor and mourn. It keeps a week of shiva, a year of the mourner’s prayer, a calendar studded with days for staring straight into the gap. Its Psalms howl. Its prophets complain to God’s face. Abraham argues with Him over a doomed city, Moses argues with Him in the desert, and Job, stripped of everything, refuses the counsel of the men who come to tell him to accept it, to stop his complaining, to grant that he earned his ruin somehow. At the end God turns on those men, the comforters, and vindicates the one who would not go quiet. The rabbi hears Prager telling the stricken to be grateful, to manage the face, to keep the gloom off the others, and he hears the comforters in it, not Job. He marks the irony with care, because the man in the chair lives the courage of Job and preaches the counsel of his friends.
Carry happiness into other lives and it changes shape.
A songwriter works a rented room past three in the morning, and for him the sadness is the seam where the true thing runs. The cheerful song is the lie he will not write. He builds from the crack, the loss, the ache that does not lift, because that register tells no falsehood and the bright one tells almost nothing else. Order him to be happy and to keep his gloom to himself and you have asked him to quit making the only thing he makes that holds up. Happiness, to him, is the enemy of the work and maybe of honesty.
A woman has carried depression since she was nineteen. She knows the inside of the well, and the rope does not hang where Prager says. For her the duty arrives as a verdict. Her illness turns into a failing. Her flat face at the table turns into a theft from people she loves and cannot help. The teaching that frees a man with an ordinary bad mood lands on her as one more proof that the weight is her fault and her presence a cost the others carry. She does not need to be told she owes the room her cheer. She has been paying that interest her whole life.
An organizer runs on the opposite debt. To her, happiness while the unjust sleep soundly is collaboration. The contented man at peace with a rotten order has made his peace with the rot. She owes the world her discontent, her refusal to settle, the gloom Prager tells her to file down. Her conscience is the missing tile, and she will not look away from it, and she calls the looking a duty too.
A chef who keeps a good cellar finds the whole accounting absurd. Happiness is the long table, the fat and the wine, the laughter that runs past midnight, the body saying yes. Split happiness off from fun and you have done a puritan’s arithmetic, subtracting the pleasure and calling the remainder the real thing. To him the missing tile is a man who cannot enjoy the tiles he has because he stays too busy grading them. Happiness is the meal. The rest is bookkeeping.
The tribe weighs the word its own way, and Prager’s version reads to it as thin. Happiness, to the man of blood and soil, is no discipline a man runs alone inside his head. It is belonging. His people around him, his children among their own, the land held under a line that does not break. A man set down grateful and steady in an apartment with none of his own near him has been handed a painkiller, not a life. The tribesman watches Prager teach the lonely a method for managing the gaze and calls it the medicine of the rootless, a way to feel well in the absence of the one thing that makes a man well, his own gathered close.
I have to turn it on my own. The happiness I trust, the warmth of my own around a table, the people and the line and the land, keeps the gap out of my eye as surely as Prager’s counting does. Belonging is a good place to stand and not look at the hole. I do not look. That is the comfort, and that is the trick.
Now the missing tile is most of his body. The largest gap a life can hold sits below his shoulders, and no counting takes it away. He trained his eye off the hole for fifty years, and the training holds. He looks at the voice he kept and the years he banked and the wife beside him and calls the life a glory, and means it. From outside no man can say whether Prager is the bravest figure in the room or the one looking hardest away from what no one in the room can stand to see. He cannot say, because there might be nothing between the two, because the courage and the looking-away might run as a single act under two names. The discipline that papers over the void is the same discipline that carries a man across it. He counts his tiles from the chair, and the counting keeps his gaze off the one hole that will not fill.
Truth
He says he has an erotic attraction to truth. He says it on the air in the same voice he uses for the weather, and the word lands hard, because no one expects eros aimed at an abstraction. He means it. He has spent fifty years describing himself as a man in love with the truth, faithful to it, drawn to it the way a man is drawn to a woman, willing to follow it anywhere and to give up whatever it asks. Other men love comfort, or their side, or the warm approval of the room. He loves the real, and he loves it with his whole body, and he has built a life on the romance.
This sits beside clarity in his heart and runs deeper. Clarity is how he holds a thing once he has it, the sharp line, the verdict with no fog on it. Truth is the thing held, the beloved, the one he courts. He holds her to be single and external and binding. Not your truth and my truth, which he treats as the great lie of the age, the relativist’s permission slip. One truth, outside all of us, the same for the professor and the plumber, and a man’s only honest task is to find her and to tell her plainly whatever she costs him.
In Becker’s terms the lover of truth is a hero, the man with the nerve to see what the cowards look away from and to say it when saying it costs him friends. The eros gives the rest away. A mortal man weds the one bride who does not age and does not die, and in the wedding he borrows a little of her permanence. To serve the eternal is to feel less perishable. The romance runs real, and the romance also stands a man close to the one thing the grave does not touch.
There is honor in it, and that should be said before anything else. A man who orders a life around not lying, who treats the comforting falsehood as poison and the hard fact as a duty, who tells his audience he would rather wound them with the truth than soothe them with a lie, holds a bracing standard, and he has paid for some of his truths in coin he did not want to spend. The love is no pose. He has said unpopular things and taken the heat and gone back the next day and said them again.
The trouble is the trouble with every lover. He cannot see the beloved plainly. Across these essays the same shape keeps surfacing. The common sense that keeps the studies it likes and throws back the rest. The goodness that runs universal and arrives in his coalition’s colors. The wisdom that is his own inheritance offered to mankind as mankind’s. A man with an erotic attachment to truth, who swears he follows her wherever she leads and never shades her for his side, is the same man whose truth turns out, year on year, to agree with his friends and to indict his enemies. This is no private failing of his. It is what eros does. The lover is the last man able to notice that his beloved has come to look exactly like his own reflection. The passion that hands him the courage to speak is the passion that hides from him where his wanting has shaped what he sees.
Say truth to the rabbi and he thinks first of the seal. The seal of the Holy One is truth, the tradition teaches, emet, the divine signature on the world, so the rabbi loves the word as much as Prager does. Then he keeps reading, and he finds his tradition doing a thing that would scandalize a pure lover of truth. It permits a man to bend the truth for the sake of peace. The Talmud says you may alter your words for shalom in the home, and it grounds the point in God Himself, who shaded Sarah’s laughter when He repeated it to Abraham, softening what she said about her old husband into a gentler thing about herself, to keep peace between a wife and a man. It holds up Aaron the priest, loved by the people above Moses, as the man who would tell each of two quarreling men that the other longed to reconcile, a holy lie that healed the rift. Truth is the seal of God, and peace outranks it in the house and the street, and the saint is sometimes the one who lies a little to mend men. The rabbi hears Prager’s erotic fidelity to truth above comfort, above kindness, above the peace of the room, and he hears a passion his own faith would temper. A man who will not shade the truth for peace has loved the seal more than the One who set peace above it.
The word splits the moment it leaves his mouth.
A diplomat at a long table holds truth as a thing you ration. The whole truth, set down at the wrong minute, kills the agreement that might have kept a border quiet and the men along it alive. She omits. She softens. She lets a falsehood stand because the falsehood buys a year of peace and the correction buys a war. To her the man erotically faithful to the whole truth always is a bomb she would never let through the door. Truth is a tool, and a tool you sometimes set down.
A therapist in a quiet office means the thing Prager calls rot, and she calls it the work. She listens to a man tell the story of his life and she knows the story is shaped, that the felt truth of it carries the healing whether or not it squares with the record. Your truth, the phrase he spits, is the phrase she lives by, because the thing that mends a man is the meaning he can hold and not the cold inventory of fact. She does not deny the world is real. The inside of a man has its own truth, she says, and you cannot heal him by reading him the transcript.
A mathematician at a chalkboard owns the one kind of truth that does what Prager wants all truth to do. It is eternal. It is certain. It comes out the same in every country and every century, proved and closed. For that reason he sees the romance as a confusion. His truths hold by proof inside their axioms, and they say nothing at all about how a man should live or whom he should pull from the lake. Prager wants the certainty of the theorem for claims no theorem can carry, the moral and the political and the historical, where the proof never closes. The man who holds the only eternal truths there are knows they are empty of everything Prager loads onto the word.
A historian in an archive holds truth as a thing always under revision and always shaped by the hand that kept the record. Every account came from someone, somewhere, with a stake. The truth about a man or a war is a verdict reopened by each generation that turns up a new letter in a box. He chases it and never closes his hand on it, and he trusts least the document that arrives clean and certain, because the clean certain account is the one a man built to be believed. To him a lover who thinks he possesses the truth has mistaken a long courtship for a marriage.
The tribe weighs the word its own way. For the man of blood and soil truth is the account his own people tell of themselves, the memory of the line, the story that binds the living to the dead. To trust your own and to doubt the stranger reads to him as no dishonesty. It is loyalty, the first duty, older than any neutral fact. Prager hands his truth to all comers and asks the Frenchman and the Nigerian to weigh it on the same scale he uses, as though truth floated free of blood. The tribesman watches and thinks a man with no people to be loyal to will call his disloyalty a love of truth and feel noble in the calling.
I will not pretend I stand outside this. The truth of my own people is a beloved I cannot see plainly either, and I call my devotion to her fidelity to the real, and from the inside fidelity is exactly what it feels like. Every man in this essay loves a truth that loves him back. That is the part none of us can catch ourselves doing.
He says it from the chair the way he said it at thirty. He has followed the truth wherever she led and never once bent her for comfort or for his own side. He believes this without a crack in it. A man in love believes this about his beloved to the last day. The eros that gave him the nerve to say the hard thing is the eros that hides from him where his love has shaped her face, and no instrument any of us owns can sort the faithful witness from the besotted one. He wed the bride who does not die, and the marriage holds him up in the chair when the body will not, and whether he ever saw her plainly or only his own face shining back off her is the one question the love was built to keep him from asking. He will not ask it. That is what the love is for.
Reason
He arrived at God by reason. He says it straight, and it is the proud center of him. He did not inherit his faith and keep it from habit. He did not feel his way to it in some warm private hour. He reasoned, the way a man reasons toward any conclusion, and the reasoning ended at God, and he holds that any honest mind that runs the argument lands where he landed. His commentary on the Torah carries the claim in its name, The Rational Bible, the scripture that answers to the mind and not to the mood. His new book runs an argument and not an altar call. Bring your reason, he tells the reader, and you need bring nothing else.
Reason, for Prager, is the faculty that should govern the rest and the road that carries a man to the truth he loves. Feelings rise and fall and lie. Reason holds steady and can be checked. So he hauls everything before it, God and good and evil and politics, and asks each to come forward and make its case. Nothing is exempt from the summons. The man who cannot give his reasons has only his feelings, and feelings are no argument.
There is something fine in this, and it should be said first. A man who hands you his reasons has paid you a respect. He has agreed to argue, to expose his thinking, to be refuted if you can manage it, instead of waving you off with his gut or his rank. Prager argues. He builds the case in the open and invites the rebuttal, and now and then he turns a mind with nothing but a chain of steps laid down in the light. A country that ran on reason the way he wants it to would be a more honest place than the one we have.
Becker stands behind this one too, named in the earlier essays and left there. Reason answers the oldest dread, that the world is a brute fact with no why at the bottom, that a man is thrown into being for no reason he can name and taken out of it the same way. Reason says no. It says the world hangs together, that reasons run under the reasons, down to a floor a good mind can reach, to God, the last reason, the answer that needs no further answer. To reason your way to God is to insist the abyss is no abyss at all but a fullness of order with a mind at the center. The insistence is brave, and the insistence is a wall.
The rabbi stops him at the mountain. When his people stood at Sinai to take the law, the text says, they answered in a strange order. We will do, and we will hear. The doing comes first and the understanding after. They bound themselves to the commands before they knew what the commands would ask or whether the reasons would satisfy them. Na’aseh v’nishma, the sages call it, and they treat it as the height of the thing, the deed before the comprehension, the yes given before the case is heard. Prager runs it backward. He hears first, weighs the reasons, satisfies the mind, and then, the argument won, consents to do. To the rabbi that is a different religion in the same clothes. A covenant you reason your way into is a covenant you can reason your way out of, the morning the arguments stop holding. It rests on Prager’s mind staying convinced. The covenant the rabbi keeps rests on no one’s mind staying convinced. It was sealed before the reasons came in, and it binds whether or not the case still persuades. The Jew is not reasonable because he obeys. He obeys, and the reasons arrive or they do not, and the obedience stands either way.
Reason does different work in other houses.
A believer in the line of Pascal (1623–1662) holds that reason carries a man to the edge of the holy and stops, because the edge is where reason was always going to stop. The heart reaches what the mind cannot, he says, and a God arrived at by argument is only an idea of God, a conclusion sitting where a Presence should be. Reason walks you to the door and hands you the key and cannot make you cross. The crossing is a leap, and the leap is the faith, and Prager, who reasons all the way in and calls the reasoning faith, has in this man’s eyes never left the porch.
A philosopher who follows arguments off cliffs holds the opposite worry. Reason, he says, does not stop where Prager stops. Run it without flinching and it carries you past every comfort, to conclusions about the drowning stranger and the dog and the worth of a life that would turn Prager white. Reason has no banister. It goes where the premises send it. Every man who reasons, Prager among them, bolts a rail at the spot his gut says far enough, and calls the rail reason too. The honest reasoner admits the rail was set there by something other than reason.
A speechwriter who has moved crowds for thirty years holds that reason is mostly the costume. He has watched the room. The argument that wins is the one that hands the listener what he already wanted to believe and dresses it as a conclusion he reached himself. The logic is sound and the steps are clean and none of it is why the man nods. He nods because the brief defends the verdict his gut returned before the first word. To the speechwriter, Prager persuades because he grants permission, and the chain of reasons is the show that lets a man take the permission and feel rigorous taking it.
A structural engineer on a windy deck reasons better than almost anyone alive and holds no opinion on God. Reason, to her, is the tool that tells you whether the thing stands, the loads and the moments and the steel, and it goes silent the instant you point it past its range. She runs it on the bridge and it answers. She runs it on the cosmos and it returns nothing, because the cosmos is no load case. Prager takes an instrument calibrated for forces and aims it at the first cause, and gets an answer, and she suspects the answer came out of him and not out of the instrument.
My own people hold reason at arm’s length, and they are not wrong to. To the man of blood and soil reason is the solvent that ate the old house. It is the acid the clever stranger poured on custom and kin until nothing was left that could not be dragged to a bar it would always lose. You do not reason your way to loving your mother. You do not reason your way to your country or your dead. The deepest goods come before reason and would not survive being made to argue for their lives. Prager hauls God and loyalty and value in front of the tribunal and lets them testify, and the tribe watches and thinks a loyalty that has to win an argument has already lost.
I should put my own reasoning in the dock while I am at it, because this whole frame is a piece of reasoning, and a convenient one. It dissolves every man’s certainty and leaves me standing over the wreckage, clear-eyed, the one who saw the wall for a wall. That is a flattering place to stand. Becker is my brief as surely as the rational case for God is his. I reasoned my way to a view that makes me the wisest man in every room I describe. Hume (1711–1776) had it cold. Reason serves the passions and poses as their master. He meant Prager. He meant me.
He slipped on a wet floor. There is no argument for it. No premise leads to a man’s foot going out from under him at that hour on that tile, no chain of reasons makes a broken neck intelligible, no brief explains why it was him and not the next man and why the body that carried his whole rational life should go still in a second over nothing. The one event that shaped the rest of his days came in with no reason at all. He met it the only way he knows. He reasoned. He reasoned that gratitude is the sane response to a life still partly his. He reasoned that a life runs as a tragedy and a glory at once and that the glory is real. From the chair he built, plank by plank, an argument for joy. Either reason has walked up to the thing it cannot touch and he is laying syllogisms over a pit with no floor, or reason has done the one thing it was ever for, which is to let a man stand up straight inside a world that owes him no explanation and never offered one. You cannot tell which from outside. He may not tell from inside. The floor was wet, and it meant nothing, and he has spent a life and now a ruin insisting that nothing is ever quite nothing, and the wet floor has no comment.
The Sovereign Individual
He will not let you hide in a group. A caller wants him to speak for the Jews, to carry a grievance on behalf of a people, and Prager declines the premise. There are no Jews in that sense, he says, no Blacks and no Whites and no women and no workers as blocks the age can sort a man into. There are men, one at a time, each weighed as himself, judged by his own conduct, never by the company his birth assigned him. To judge a man by his group is the old crime, the one that built the ghetto and the camp, and Prager, a Jew, knows that crime in his bones. The individual is his firewall, and he has reason to man it.
The single man is the unit of everything he holds. Worth sits in the person and not the collective. Rights belong to the man and never to the group, because a group is only men added up, and a sum has no soul. Responsibility lands on the one who acted and on no abstraction standing behind him. The bigger the government, he says, the smaller the citizen, because every power handed up to the collective is a power drained out of the man. The bonds he honors are the ones a free man walks into with open eyes. He may choose a wife, a faith, a country, a cause. What he may not do is inherit an identity that overrides his choosing and answers for him before he has said a word.
Becker named the engine in the earlier essays, so take it as read. The individual and the tribe run two rival bets against the same death. The tribesman buys his way past the grave by dissolving into something older and larger than himself, the blood, the people, the line that stood here before him and runs on after. The individualist refuses the dissolve. He bets the other way, on being a single irreplaceable soul whose story is his own and counts as his, not a cell in a body that will not miss him. Neither man outlives the grave. They deny it in opposite directions, and Prager has staked his whole life on the second.
There is grandeur in the bet, and a hard-won wisdom under it. The doctrine that each man stands as himself protects the odd one, the dissenter, the convert, the Jew, from the mob that would judge him by his kind and the state that would spend him for the herd. Prager did not reach it in a seminar. He reached it through a people the group-over-the-man logic hunted across centuries. When he says there are only individuals, he is raising a wall his grandparents needed and did not have.
Here the rabbi and my own people stand on the same side of him, which has not happened in these essays before. Judaism is no religion of the sovereign individual. The covenant was cut with a people and not with a man. The holiest prayers wait on a quorum, ten men, because the single soul cannot say them alone. On the Day of Atonement a Jew confesses in the plural, we have sinned, owning wrongs he never did because the people own them together. All Israel stands surety for one another, the saying runs, bound whether they chose the binding or not. The rabbi hears Prager melt the people into a club of consenting members, each picking up his Judaism the way a man picks up a coat, and he sees the end of Am Yisrael, a covenant with no one left to keep it as a covenant. And the tribesman, my tribesman, nods along, because he holds the same against Prager from the other gate. A people is not a sum of choosers. It is the thing you are born owing, the dead at your back and the unborn at your front, and a man who reasons his way out of every bond he did not pick will end with no bond at all. On the single man, the synagogue and the soil agree.
And Prager has an answer for the soil that the synagogue would not give, and it lands hard on me. Your blood and your soil, he says, are what came for mine. The tribe that holds the man as nothing but a node of the people is the tribe that drew the line my family stood on the wrong side of, and the line did not ask how each of them had lived. Every tribe is somebody’s pogrom. The firewall I man is the one your creed burns down. I have no clean reply. My hero system carries a body count, his carries another, and his charge against mine is true.
The single man means a different creature in every hand.
A public defender in a county court holds personal responsibility as a sentence passed before the trial. She watches the same three blocks send her the same boys, year on year, boys whose runway was cratered before they could walk, and she hears Prager tell them they are the authors of their lives and she wants to put his microphone through a wall. The individual who chooses, to her, is a man describing the view from the top of a ladder he was born halfway up. Choice is real, and it is rationed, and the ration was set by a hand the boy never saw. Tell a man he is responsible for the whole of a life that was three-quarters dealt and you have built a cruelty and called it dignity.
A mother holds the sovereign individual as a description of no one who has loved all the way. Half her heart walks around outside her body in a child she would die for without a thought, and the boundary Prager draws around the single self runs straight through her and does not hold. She is not one unit. She is one and a half, or two, or however many she has carried, and the arithmetic of separate souls with separate accounts is the arithmetic of a man who has not yet been split open by love. The individual, to her, is what you are before and after the people who undo you.
A man who left a busy solitary life to join a tight and total community holds the single self as a weight he set down with relief. The freedom Prager prizes was, to him, a long cold draft with no door to shut. He gave up the throne and got back a we, a place at a table that did not depend on his performance, and he does not miss the crown. The flight from the lonely individual carries no shame for him. It is the oldest human move, the one the cult and the flag and the fan club all sell, and he thinks the man who has never felt its pull is either strong past the common run or has never been alone on a Sunday.
An anthropologist back from years in the field holds the sovereign individual as the strange belief of one recent tribe, the modern West, mistaken by that tribe for the nature of man. Most people in most places have known themselves as a knot in a net of kin, named for a grandfather, answerable to a clan, unthinkable alone. The lone chooser weighing his options inside a self that owes nothing to anyone is no human default. It is a local invention, dressed by its inventors as a law of the species. Prager preaches a parish and calls it the world.
I have circled my own creed in each of these essays and named it a wall like his. Here I owe more, because here he and I are not two men describing a third. Here we are the two men, and one of us is right about the other. He is right that my tribe is a death-denial dressed as a duty. I am right that his individual is a death-denial dressed as a freedom. The only difference between us is which oblivion we cannot look at, the one that erases me from my people or the one that erases me as myself. We are each choosing our fear and calling the choice a philosophy.
He cannot lift a cup. The diaphragm that drives his breath answers to nerves the fall all but cut, and below the shoulders the body that ran his self-reliant life lies still, and other hands turn him and feed him and carry him through his days. The supreme individualist has become the most dependent of men. You could read it as the doctrine refuted, the cradle and the deathbed rising up to remind a man that the sovereign self was always a story about the middle years, the strong stretch between two long dependencies when a man could pretend he carried himself. We begin held and we end held, and the standing-alone in between is the slice we mistake for the whole. But watch who holds him. Not the people. Not the blood. Not the nation. His wife. The aide who learned his name. A few who love him one at a time, by his own light and not by his kind. The bond that carries the broken individualist is smaller than my tribe and larger than his sovereign self, and it has no home in either of our systems, and it may be the one thing in the room that is not a wall against the dark. He is grateful for it. So am I.
Masculinity
He teaches the male nature on the air, and he does not flinch at the parts that get a man canceled. The male drive runs strong and wide and does not fasten to one woman on its own, he says. A boy is no small gentleman waiting to bloom. He is an engine with no governor, and left alone he wrecks himself and the people near him. The oldest work a civilization does is to take that raw male force and harness it, to marriage, to fatherhood, to provision and protection and the long unglamorous labor of holding a roof over others. A man, in his telling, is what you get when you break the engine to the harness. The male is born. The man is made.
The masculine is a nature to him, fixed and given and good. Men and women differ down to the root, and the difference is no wound to be healed by pretending it away. The masculine virtues are real and he names them without apology. Strength held in reserve. Courage. The control of the face and the voice when everything inside is shaking. Provision, the man who earns and hands it over. Protection, the man who stands at the door so the others can sleep. He does not say a man may not weep. He says a man learns when, and that the learning is half of what makes him a man.
Becker stands behind this one as behind the rest. The masculine is an wall a man raises against the dark. The protector holds death off for others, and in the holding he feels larger than the death he holds. The warrior earns a place the grave cannot quite erase, in the line he sires and the deeds that outlast him. The male terror runs its own way. To be unmanned, shown soft, shown a coward, shown the one who failed at the door, is to a man a fate set below dying, which is why men have always died sooner than meet it. The hero system grows heavier than the life, and asks the life, and gets it.
There is honor in the harness, and it built more than it broke. The disciplined man who turns the wild drive to work and not to wreckage, who provides without thanks and protects without being seen, who eats his fear so the people behind him never taste it, is no villain of the age. He is half of why anything stands. Many a boy was saved from himself by being told there was a man he owed the world the trouble of becoming.
The rabbi has a question about who is mighty. His sages asked it and answered it against the grain of every warrior culture around them. Who is the strong man, the gibor. Not the one who throws another down. The one who throws down his own impulse, who conquers the yetzer, the drive, inside himself. For two thousand years in exile the Jewish man at the top of the ladder was no soldier and no smith. He was the scholar, pale from the study hall, bent over the page, whose strength showed in the mastery of a hard text and the mastery of his own want. The mind carried his manhood, and the will, while the body sat still over the book. When the modern age came and some Jews set out to build a muscle Jew, a farmer and a fighter to stand the body up straight at last, they knew they were reaching past their own tradition toward the Gentile’s, reaching for the masculine Prager prizes. Prager loves the harnessed male, the protector, the provider, the disciplined physical man at the door. The rabbi hears him and notes, as he has noted all along, that the manhood Prager praises sits closer to Athens and Rome than to the study hall, that the strong man of the fathers conquered no one but himself and did it sitting down.
The word changes shape in other hands.
An old movement coach teaches young actors to play a man, and he knows to the inch that the thing is a performance. He drills the walk, the weight dropped low and slow, the stillness, the voice that comes from the chest and not the throat, the trick of taking up room without seeming to try. He has watched soft boys put the man on like a coat and wear it until the audience believed it and then until they believed it themselves. To him there is no male nature under the gestures, only the gestures, learned young by most men and learnable late by anyone willing to drill them. Masculine is a part. He casts it every week.
A scholar who has spent her life on the question holds the masculine as a hierarchy and not a nature. The strength, the control, the protection, are to her the furniture of a house built to keep men on top, and the protector and the controller are the same man seen from two sides. The hand at the door that keeps the danger out is the hand that decides who leaves. She hears Prager describe the male protector with such warmth that the bars read as beams, and she trusts the gentleness of the telling least of all. The harness he praises is, to her, the training that files a boy into an instrument of the order.
A man who runs retreats in the woods loves the masculine as much as Prager and wants the opposite done with it. He gathers men around a fire to recover the wild thing the modern world drummed out of them. To him Prager has the prescription backward. The trouble with men is no shortage of harness. It is the surplus, a long domestication that left them tame and grieving and unable to find the old fierce ground under their feet. He wants the wild man up out of the basement, set loose in a field under watch until a man remembers what he is. Prager would harness the engine. This one would let it roar for a weekend so the man can hear it again.
A man who never wanted a wife holds the masculine clean apart from the road Prager paved through it. The drive in him runs strong and is no woman’s, and it never pointed at the marriage and the children that, in Prager’s telling, are the whole reason the drive gets harnessed at all. He provides and protects and carries himself with the control Prager would know on sight, and the channel in him runs nowhere near the family that, for Prager, is the channel’s only honest mouth. He is a man by every masculine measure but the one Prager bolted to the center, and he shows that the masculine and the wife and the cradle come apart, whatever the harness was built to join.
My own people want the male for the wall, and Prager spends him on the porch. To the man of blood and soil a man’s strength belongs first to the people. The warrior dies for the nation, the father breeds for it, the hard young men stand the line so the old and the small live another season. A masculine that runs to the household and stops there is, to the tribe, a strength turned inward and withheld, a provider where a soldier was wanted. Prager harnesses the male to his own family and calls the harnessing manhood, and the tribesman watches a civilization raise good fathers who will not fight, men who guard their own door and leave the gate of the city to whoever turns up, and he wonders who holds the wall when these gentle providers are all that remains.
The man my people want is hard for the tribe. The men I would make would also be men who cannot weep at their fathers’ graves, spent in wars the people needed and the man did not, their interiors sealed for the duration and never reopened. My masculine carries a body count. His ends at the family. Mine ends at the wall, with the men face down in front of it.
He cannot stand at the door now. He cannot lift a hand to keep anything from anyone. The drive he spent a life teaching men to harness runs through a body that will not answer, and the protector lies in a bed and is protected, and the provider is fed. Strip a man of the body and you strip him of every masculine thing Prager ever named but one. He cannot provide, protect, stand, shield, work, or hold the danger off. He can still hold his face. He meets the ruin without a complaint anyone can hear, grateful on the record, courteous to the hands that turn him, and that, the control of the face when everything inside is shaking, was the masculine virtue he ranked nearest the top. So watch what is left when the body goes. Either the manhood was never in the muscle, and the courage that outlives the muscle is the whole of it, the truest thing he ever taught, or the same iron that made him a man is now the thing forbidding him to show what the loss costs, and the silence is no courage at all, only the last performance of a part learned too well to drop. You cannot tell from outside. He was raised, and raised others, never to let you tell. He lies still and does not complain, and whether that is the bravest thing he has done or the saddest, it is, to the last, a man doing what he said a man does.
