Objectivity Isn't Enough

A challenge for our reading lives

Photo by Olga Volkovitskaia

Wonderful Reading Friends,

I hope the onset of fall is bringing hints of autumnal treasures wherever this letter finds you. Cooler weather is sporadically inching its way into Idaho, and I say—bring it on. I’m more than ready for my favorite season and all its cozy glory.

Fall’s arrival also means I have officially started my MFA program, and I’m elated to be back at it! Admittedly, I was not particularly enthusiastic about school settings as an adolescent and young adult, but life matures us. Somewhat wizened now (heavy on the somewhat), I have found these past few years to be incredibly enriching, and I’m grateful for the present opportunity.

That said, even if my early affections didn’t center on formal education, I have always treasured life-long learning. And now that I’ve finally embraced school, I have found there is something about the intentionality required of a degree program that is unique and exacting. Transparently, it has demanded more of me than I would have asked of myself, and I suppose, it is in the spirit of this challenge that I write this message.

A few weeks back, I was listening to someone share about the importance of reading objectively. For contextual purposes, the setting was an academic one. The person expressed how we are prone to filter everything through a personal lens and proposed that we need to grow in our capacity to read without immediately making it about ourselves. I agreed with the statement in light of the space we were in, but I’ve been mulling on it since.

In scholarship, it’s necessary to approach texts as objectively as possible. One begins with simply considering what the words actually say. Next, one asks things of the text: what was the speaker or writer’s context—their historical, cultural, and geographical setting? What ideas and thoughts did the writer wish to communicate? How did they hope to influence their readers? What were the consequences of this writer’s words upon the world in which they inhabited? Etc.

These are important questions that must be thoroughly answered, especially before one responds with an academic essay. And academia aside, all readers could benefit from applying these questions to their current read—whether that is a cozy mystery, a literary masterpiece, or a memoir.

However, what I’ve been pondering is if our pursuit of learning, even within academia, doesn’t penetrate objectivity—if it doesn’t cause us to better understand our own beliefs in light of others, or move us to greater understanding of our neighbor, or help us grow personally in some other capacity—what is its value?

In short, if learning does not change us—is it worth our time and effort?

I think the answer is no, at least on an overarching basis.

Realistically, I imagine most academics would agree with this basic sentiment. Education is, after all, meant to form—whether one agrees it is doing its job in our current climate seems to be up for debate—but most would not argue that human formation is the basic goal of education.

Which brings me to a question I think we should ask. What do we expect from ourselves as readers? Even if we aren’t currently in an academic setting, I think most of us want to continue on the path of growth.

Bibliophiles enjoy reading for the act itself—and I do believe there is merit in that. There is a place for the simple enjoyment of literature. But perhaps there is more we can ask of ourselves, too.

Are we reading intentionally? Are we asking how the books we read and enjoy shape us? If all we do is read for enjoyment or entertainment, to gain knowledge, or consume as an observer, perhaps we’ve missed the best of what reading offers us—especially with fiction. The former approach helps me understand why some Christians can’t see the virtue of literature. But almost every story has something to teach us if our hearts are tuned to listen.

One of the reasons I shifted my Substack content a few months ago was to make it more personal. With Faith & Fiction, I was focused on simply sharing good books: giving a general overview and maybe sharing a line or two about why I enjoyed them. But the more I thought about my intentions, the less comfortable I felt. There are plenty of places to find synopses and reviews of books.

It occurred to me, that what I love to hear from others is how a book moves them individually. Thus, while I still wanted to share good books with fellow readers, I also wanted to convey how those stories intertwined with both God’s story and my own. I wanted to move past the objective and make it personal. That is, after all, why I find reading powerful and valuable.

While I was chatting about the idea for this letter with my husband, we were talking about people who read the Bible cover to cover simply to gain knowledge about its teachings. At first glance, it’s a reasonable undertaking. After all, biblical literacy is profitable for a better understanding of history, literature, music, and art—particularly within Western civilization. When I began reading the Bible as a new believer, I was astounded by how much my understanding in these things grew.

But if one reads the Bible solely as an academic pursuit yet is never personally affected and formed by its overarching message, I’m afraid it is of little value in the grand scheme of the Bible’s purpose. Gaining biblical knowledge without moving toward the love of God seems, frankly, sorrowful. Knowledge puffs up, love edifies (1 Cor 8:1).

As I shared with my husband how readers of other kinds of literature should also move past objectivity, he jokingly mentioned we should use a tool we employ for studying Scripture at our church. It’s an acronym called S.T.O.R.Y. (ironically enough).

I laughed with him, but the more I’ve thought about it, it seems a great tool for readers of any piece of literature. While nothing comes close to shaping us like the Bible, we can certainly apply similar principles toward other written texts and gain from the discipline.

And so, I thought I would share it here, with slight altering, as a means of approaching a piece of literature, fictional in particular:

S: Setting—understand the context of the story

T: Text—seek to simply understand the story as it is written

O: Observation—observe the story from the different characters’ points of view

R: Realize—seek to understand the author’s main point

Y: You—How now will you live?

Another suggestion, and one I use to move from the objective to personal in my own reading life is by keeping a commonplace journal—simply recording quotes that I find meaningful and I want to consider more. This requires that I slow down and pull the best thoughts from a book.

My dear reading friends, I know everyone is not in a season of formal education, but we can all require more of ourselves as learners. I am convinced reading fiction is of infinite value, but how we read is part of the benefit equation.

And so, my challenge:

Enjoy good books! But don’t always stop there. Objective reading isn’t enough. At least not solely. As life-long learners and as people who want to grow in the love of God and the love of man—we can, and I think, must, learn from others in our reading. It is great to start objectively with a book, but we should also move toward the personal, letting the stories of others mature us.

In conclusion, I’d like to leave you with the following reading inspiration from C.S. Lewis:

“Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully realise the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors. We realise it best when we talk with an unliterary friend. He may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world. In it, we should be suffocated. The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Reading Life: The Joy of Seeing New Worlds Through Others' Eyes

Reading and growing with you,

Tiffany