Learning to live with doubt: Kierkegaard,Freire,and critical pedagogy

Abstract

What role does doubt play in education? This article addresses this question, initially via an examination of Søren Kierkegaard’s Philosophical Fragments. Kierkegaard, through his pseudonym Johannes Climacus, draws attention to the potentially debilitating and destructive effects of doubt on both teachers and learners. The work of Paulo Freire is helpful in responding to the problems posed by Kierkegaard’s account. It is argued that in Freire’s pedagogical theory and practice, doubt has both epistemological and ethical significance. It is linked with other key Freirean virtues such as humility and openness, and it forms part of the process of learning how to question. It is also related, through the Freirean idea of being ‘less certain of one’s certainties’, to the ethical priorities we determine, the political commitments we have, and the actions we take as we negotiate our way in the world.

In his work, Discourse on Method, first published anonymously in 1637, René Descartes stipulated that he would ‘accept nothing as true which I did not clearly recognise to be so’; he would reject as false anything that might have the least ground for doubt (Descartes, 1911: 92, 101). Descartes’ method was to subject everything to doubt, and to see if anything remained that could be taken as entirely certain. The one proposition he arrived at that appeared to withstand this critical scrutiny was the claim, ‘I think, therefore I am’ (p.101) and this formed the first principle of Descartes’ philosophy. This single, short statement has become among the best known of all philosophical utterances, and has, over the centuries, generated an extensive body of critical scholarship. Rather less attention has been paid, in popular discourse at least, to the intellectual orientation that gave rise to Descartes’ claim: the notion that we should begin with doubt. This starting point is arguably a matter of great educational importance, for it goes to the heart of what many in the West see as a key pedagogical aim: the development of our capacity to question received wisdom.

This paper considers the nature and consequences of doubt from a philosophical and educational perspective, initially via the work of the Danish thinker Søren Kierkegaard. Close attention is paid to one publication in particular, Philosophical Fragments (Kierkegaard, 1985), where the theme of doubt figures prominently. At the time of its publication in 1844, Philosophical Fragments ‘remained unnoticed, un-reviewed, unmentioned anywhere’ (Kierkegaard, 2009: 4). That is not the case today, with interest in the work growing substantially over the last two decades (see, e.g., Carreño, 2007; Cockayne, 2015; Evans, 2004; Hale, 2002; Harrison, 1997; Howland, 2006; Kim, 2012; Malesic, 2007; Mercer, 2001; Nowachek, 2014). Philosophical Fragments concerns itself not so much with Descartes specifically but more with what Kierkegaard refers to, somewhat vaguely, as ‘philosophy’ and ‘modern philosophy’. It is clear, however, that Descartes, along with Hegel, is one of Kierkegaard’s key targets. Philosophical Fragments is, in keeping with Kierkegaard’s practice in several other works, written under a pseudonym: Johannes Climacus. It is important to note that Climacus is among the more sceptical of Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous philosophical figures; he is less willing than Kierkegaard himself to take a leap of faith (see Hannay, 1989: 15). Climacus, as a doubting presence in Kierkegaard’s corpus, is well placed to ask some searching questions of doubt itself.

Philosophical Fragments contains two works in one; it is the second, titled ‘Johannes Climacus, or De Omnibus Dubitandum Est: A Narrative’, that provides our focus here. As the title suggests, the work is set out in the form of a story, but one that explores philosophical questions in detail. The central ‘character’ (that term applies only loosely here) is Climacus himself. Apart from one other figure – Climacus’s father – others in the narrative make only vague appearances, with few details to distinguish them as characters. For all intents and purposes, then, this is a depiction of the thinking and experiences of one fictional individual, who is partly a representation of Kierkegaard’s own views but not an exact match for them. Fittingly perhaps, in this book at least, Kierkegaard leaves the reader in some doubt as to his precise position on doubt. Indeed, part of the ongoing appeal of Kierkegaard’s work lies in his ability to seduce the reader through humour, irony, and deception (cf. Berthold, 2011; McCreary, 2011; Saeverot, 2011, 2013; Sharpe, 2016; Williams, 2012; Zook, 2008), while at the same time having something serious to say in addressing philosophical questions (Evans, 2004: 67).

There are many different theoretical approaches that can be taken in exploring the implications of Kierkegaard’s thought for education (Hill, 1966; Kwak, 2001; McKnight, 2004; McPherson, 2001; Roberts, 2016; Saeverot, 2011; Tubbs, 2005; Wivestad, 2011), but in examining Philosophical Fragments the work of Paulo Freire is particularly helpful. At first glance, Kierkegaard and Freire might appear to have little in common. They lived in different centuries in different parts of the world. One is best known for his philosophical and theological concerns; the other for his contributions as an educationist. They seem to have had very different personalities and purposes as authors, with quite distinct audiences. Yet, there are also some surprising connections that can be made. Kierkegaard is more concerned with pedagogical matters than the titles of his books might suggest, and Freire’s approach to education is underpinned by a robust philosophical framework. Neither wanted to reduce the question of doubt to a form of methodological scepticism. Both refused to separate matters of epistemology from ontological and ethical concerns. Both employed writing as a means for working through ideas, often revisiting key themes again and again in their books. And to judge by the number of publications devoted to their work over recent years, both seem to have much to offer 21st-century readers.

In Philosophical Fragments there is an implied theory of doubt as a pivotal aspect of educational experience, evident in the thoughts, words, deeds, and relationships that structure Climacus’s tale. Kierkegaard allows the reader to see how doubt is cultivated, how it is taught and learned. He also draws attention to the potentially debilitating and destructive effects of doubt on both teachers and learners. In Freire’s pedagogical theory and practice, doubt is linked with virtues such as humility and openness, and it forms part of the process of learning how to question. But it is also related, through the Freirean idea of being ‘less certain of one’s certainties’, to the ethical priorities we determine, the political commitments we have, and the actions we take as we negotiate our way in the world. A key problem posed by Kierkegaard’s narrative is the question of whether the discomfort and distress created by doubt can be justified. Freire does not offer an easy, quick-fix ‘solution’ to this problem, but he does help us to appreciate why the cultivation of doubt should not be separated from other elements of our educational formation. By placing individual subjective experience in its wider contexts, he also reminds us that doubting is a shared, social process. Both Kierkegaard and Freire show that whether we are comfortable with the consequences of doubt or not, once we go down the path of critical education, there is no going back. We keep developing and changing but we cannot completely or permanently ‘switch off’ the voice of doubt. Instead, we must learn to live with the prompting of a critical consciousness, albeit in different ways in different contexts. The first section outlines Climacus’s experience of doubt as depicted in Philosophical Fragments; the second section addresses some of the key educational problems posed by Kierkegaard’s account in the light of Freire’s ideas.

Learning to doubt

Climacus learns about doubting by watching others. We are introduced to him as a young, introverted student in his 21st year. Preferring a life of seclusion to one of outward success or prominence, Climacus is in love not with a woman but with thinking. He experiences great joy when he is able to form coherent, higher thoughts; he feels despondent and oppressed when his thinking pushes back against the coherence he desires. The movement of thought, he discovers, is imperfect, and this distresses him. An explanation for Climacus’s apparently unusual conduct – he appears as a ‘stranger in the world’ (Kierkegaard, 1985: 119) – can be found in his earlier life. His father, we are informed, was a strict man, and Climacus was granted few opportunities to become distracted with matters beyond the home. At times, his father would offer him the chance for a walk, which Climacus accepted. The walk was not outside but up and down the floor within the house. What might have been perceived as an inadequate imitation of the ‘real thing’ became for Climacus an exercise in the development of the faculty of imagination – a quality his father possessed in abundance. Climacus’s school experiences complemented the informal education he received from his father at home, with Greek grammar proving particularly productive in transporting his mind to more distant open spaces. In tandem with the development of his growing imagination, Climacus also acquired a sense for that which is sudden or surprising. Here too his father was his principal teacher, demonstrating through arguments with others the power of listening carefully, allowing others to say all they wanted to first, and then dismantling everything that had been said with just a few carefully chosen words.

Returning to the present, we learn that Climacus, now at university, is still quiet and withdrawn but nonetheless willing to seek out like-minded others. It is philosophers with whom he connects. He is attentive when others speak, and he reflects carefully on what they have to say. He feels he is not yet sufficiently profound to become a philosopher, but he is determined to continue with his thinking. When he runs into difficulties in thinking through a problem, he wills himself to see it through and experiences great pride when he is successful in doing so. His travels, not lacking in adventure, have all been in his mind; all he needed to venture anywhere in the world was a room and a window. He dwells in the realm of ideas but he is disturbed by his father’s growing depression. Having gradually come to the view that his father is extraordinary, Climacus is also troubled by his lack of jest, his ‘gloomy earnestness’ (p.125). His father’s skill in dialectical reasoning and argument, his ability to reduce an opponent to speechlessness, leaves Climacus feeling uneasy: ‘His formative influence was not a man who knew how to propound his knowledge as valuable but was instead one who knew how to render it as unimportant and valueless as possible’ (p.125).

As more of Climacus’s tale is told, we learn that despite being a student, he finds reading uncomfortable and does little of it. When he is tempted to pick up a book, he often discovers that his thoughts become disrupted and matters are left undecided in his search for answers. He finds the authorial practice of outlining and refuting the views of others tedious and irritating, and misses ‘the wonderful sport of dialectic, its puzzling surprises’ (p.130). He eventually gives up reading, blaming not the books themselves but his upbringing for making him different from others. He retains his capacity for listening and pays special attention to the idea that ‘Everything must be doubted’ (p.131). Climacus sees this thesis as his central task if he is to become a philosopher. In listening to others, he formulates three main claims regarding the connection between this thesis and philosophy: ‘(1) philosophy begins with doubt; (2) in order to philosophize, one must have doubted; (3) modern philosophy begins with doubt’ (p.132). He does not address these in order, beginning instead with the last claim.

With insufficient reading or training to investigate further, Climacus accepts the last premise as true. The next question then becomes: was it by accident or by necessity that modern philosophy began with doubt? After much deliberation, he finds he cannot answer that question adequately, and this pains him. He cannot decide whether the third thesis is identical with the first one. He does not find any help in the company of others, noting that in conversations different people would use different theses but believe that they were ‘saying the same thing’ (p.139). Others are not bothered by their lack of precision in testing these ideas, but Climacus is unable to adopt such an attitude himself. He remains ‘restless and troubled’ (p.140).

Climacus tries to let his thoughts work on him with all their weight, distinguishing the ‘laboriousness of thinking’ from ‘the weight of the thought’ (p.141). He makes a determined effort to bear the weight of an historical thought, but is overwhelmed by it and faints. When he regains consciousness, he can barely turn his attention to the thought. He sees that unless one has very strong nerves, this kind of thinking could lead to madness (p.141). He sinks into discouragement but as he does so, he finds, almost against his will, that a kind of clarity emerges. This too, however, proves fleeting. He wants to declare that the third thesis is an impossibility but he does not have the courage to do so; his investigation has cost him much ‘time and hard work’ and he has been ‘poorly rewarded for his troubles’ (p.143).

Turning his attention to the first thesis, Climacus notes that if philosophy begins with doubt, it begins with a negative principle. An alternative approach was exhibited by the Greeks, who taught that philosophy begins not with doubt but with wonder. Wonder, Climacus observes, is an ‘immediate category and involves no reflection upon itself’; doubt, by contrast, is a ‘reflection-category’ (p.145). Those who begin with wonder establish a continuity with the Greeks; but when the starting point for philosophy is doubt, this continuity is broken, for ‘doubt is precisely a polemic against what went before’ (p.145). Climacus also points to a problem that arises when one person states the first thesis in the company of another. If the other agrees with the claim, he or she is simultaneously expressing disagreement with it, for to agree that philosophy begins with doubt is not to doubt at least that proposition. Climacus’s state of mind is such that he cannot adhere to philosophical principles merely for the sake of consistency. He has other questions that demand answers.

Following his deliberations, Climacus is unsure whether doubting is a form of preparation. The process of investigating doubt has left him feeling old before his time, the innocence of youth having been taken away from him. He concludes that he must do everything on his own, taking full responsibility as he continues to pursue the second thesis. Having taken on this task, he first allows the thesis to work on him, deep within, surrendering to the thoughts and moods that go along with this. Aware of the profoundly individual nature of his searching, he is still curious to find out how others have fared in setting out on the same task. He is distressed to discover that among other philosophers little seems to be said about the fate that awaits those who attempt to doubt everything (p.164). The few comments he does pick up from philosophers prove woefully inadequate. Dejected, he decides to leave philosophers behind forever, and to follow a method of making everything as simple as possible.

Living with doubt: the unsettling process of education

Kierkegaard did not construct Philosophical Fragments as an overtly educational text. This is not, on the face of it, a book ‘about’ education; nor, so far as we can determine, were Kierkegaard’s motives in telling Climacus’s tale explicitly or exclusively pedagogical. Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous authorship and use of irony should dissuade us from seeing Philosophical Fragments as a didactic work. This does not mean, however, that nothing of value for educational theory can be taken from the text. Climacus’s tale raises questions about the process of learning, the nature of knowledge, and the roles of teachers and students in pedagogical situations. These questions arise as Climacus ponders the central theme of doubt. Kierkegaard leaves the reader ‘hanging’ in searching for definitive answers to these questions, and that is, in part, why reference to others can be helpful. Paulo Freire was one of the most influential figures in the development of critical pedagogy and his work continues to be widely read today. Freire places a premium on the value of ‘learning to question’ (Freire and Faundez, 1989), and questioning is often prompted by the existence of doubt. Doubt for Descartes is a methodological matter, but for Freire, as for Kierkegaard and other thinkers such as Miguel de Unamuno (see Evans, 2013; Sartwell, 1991; Unamuno, 1972), it has much deeper ontological and ethical significance. Freire does not ‘solve’ the pedagogical problems introduced by Climacus’s account, but he does offer some educational ideas that are helpful in continuing the conversation started by Kierkegaard. His distinction between ‘authority’ and ‘authoritarianism’ is particularly important in this respect, as will be argued later in this section. First, though, attention must be paid to the place of doubt in Freire’s work, and this requires some reference to the social and political conditions that prompted him to speak out on these matters.

In his later years, Freire frequently conveyed the view that we should not be too certain of our certainties (Escobar et al., 1994; Freire, 1994, 1997a). His development of this idea was, in part, a response to what he saw as the excessive certainties of neo-liberalism, where it was assumed that there was only one reasonable, realistic approach to social and economic organisation. Neo-liberals, Freire felt, were too closed and too fatalistic in their thinking (Freire, 1998a). They were unable, given their zealous adherence to the ideology of the free market, to imagine, let alone develop and pursue, alternative modes of social and economic life. They were anti-utopian and could not conceive of ‘better worlds’ beyond a narrowly circumscribed set of possibilities (Freire, 2004, 2007; Roberts and Freeman-Moir, 2013). Being less certain of one’s certainties entails the adoption of a posture of greater openness – openness to other ideas, other perspectives, other ways of understanding human beings, other ways of living in the world. Doubt is often viewed in a negative light, as something to be avoided, but when understood in relation to the principle of openness it takes on a different character. An expression of doubt can be an indication of integrity – an honest admission that one does not know. Admitting to doubts can also signal a willingness to examine one’s own views critically and to change.

Questioning may not only be prompted by doubt; it can also lead to further doubts. The ‘treadmill’ of perpetual doubt (Langer, 1929), with the process of doubting giving rise to further doubts, is a well-established phenomenon. From one perspective, this endless cycle of one doubt leading to another can be seen as an impediment to the pursuit of knowledge. It might be said that we are always in doubt about the epistemological ground on which we stand. This can be unsettling and destabilising; it can also undermine our ability to justify claims made or actions undertaken. But the Freirean notion of being less certain of one’s certainties is not the same as saying we are totally uncertain. To be less certain can imply that, were it not for a posture of openness and a willingness to entertain doubts, we might be more certain. The terms ‘less’ and ‘more’ in this context are not intended to suggest that certainty is something that can measured or quantified; determining how certain we are about something is more a matter of making a qualitative judgement. Such judgements are subject to change. We may recognise within ourselves a tendency toward greater certainty in some domains of knowledge, or in some situations, or at some times, than others. From a Freirean perspective, there is neither absolute certainty nor complete uncertainty. In practice, we take some things as given in order to form judgements, make decisions, and move on. Questioning one idea presupposes acceptance of other ideas. The doubt that arises from questioning need not be debilitating. We can accept the fact that we will be less certain than we would like to be, and we can learn to live with the discomfort that arises from this.

But while we may learn as individuals to accommodate the intrusions of doubt into our thinking, those who are teachers must also consider the consequences of doubting and questioning for the students with whom they work. A critical, questioning consciousness, once developed, cannot simply be ‘switched off’. If teachers plant seeds of doubt in what may hitherto have been unquestioned views among students, and encourage the posing of problems (cf. Freire, 1972a, 1987, 1998b), over time the critical habits of mind formed through classroom experiences become cemented as a mode of being in the world. One may try to ignore the voice of critical doubt but it is still there, making its presence felt in the myriad moments of everyday life. Students may find they can no longer enjoy some forms of entertainment as they once did; they may question their motivations and goals; they may experience considerable distress as they renegotiate their views of themselves, others, and the wider world. They may feel frustrated at their inability to adequately address the injustices they now perceive. A generally happy disposition may give way to a more sombre outlook on life. There is no ‘going back’ in critical education, understood in these terms, and this poses serious ethical questions for teachers (Roberts, 2016; Roberts and Saeverot, 2018). In teaching others how to doubt, as Climacus’s father does with his son, we must, if we care about those with whom we work, be able to justify the longer-term consequences of our actions on other lives.

Freire’s ‘answer’ to this ethical dilemma for teachers is more implicit than explicit and can best be gleaned from a holistic reading of his work. He would have been quick to point out that while we may be guided by a set of ethical principles in our teaching, and have some idea of what may follow from the development of a more questioning frame of mind, we can never be certain of the consequences of our actions for others. Education is an unpredictable process, and attempts to make it less so can sometimes denude it of its value. Indeed, he would have argued that the goal of trying to establish direct ‘cause and effect’ connections between teacher ‘inputs’ and student ‘outcomes’ rests on an impoverished, technocratic view of education that is dehumanising for both teachers and students (cf. Freire, 1987, 1997b, 1998a; Freire and Shor, 1987). Nonetheless, even if it is granted that students will respond in different ways to the prompting of doubt and that educational ‘outcomes’ cannot be predicted with certainty, this does not mean teachers should simply step back and let the process of critical transformation unfold. To the contrary, they have an important role to play in preparing and supporting students as they change. Indeed, it is not, of course, only the students who change; the teacher is also transformed through the act of posing problems and working with the students. Moreover, while there may be no ‘going back’ with critical education, this should not be taken to mean there is a simple, single, momentous step from one state of consciousness to another. Nor is it a matter of progressing through a series of fixed, sequential, linear, hierarchical stages (Roberts, 1996a). Freire stressed that we are unfinished beings, always in a state of becoming, and the development of a critical orientation to the world is a gradual, ongoing process (Freire, 1972a, 1998a).

The idea of not being able to ‘go back’ was pivotal in Kierkegaard’s conception of Philosophical Fragments. His plan was that Climacus would learn how to doubt, experience some distress in exercising his doubting consciousness, and discover to his horror that he could not return to his pre-doubting self. Doubt would become a primary source of despair. In other writings, Kierkegaard explored faith-based responses to despair (see Kierkegaard, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1998, 2009), but in Philosophical Fragments he is more ambiguous and remains ambivalent in the answers he provides to the problems he poses. While Kierkegaard does not cast his narrative in precisely these terms, the experiences Climacus undergoes can be seen as a form of critical education. Climacus learns how to doubt through his experiences at home, in school, and at university. He learns through observation, reflection, and action. His unusually ‘sheltered’ upbringing, with much of his time as a child being spent inside his home, means the range of activities in which he participates is rather limited, but he does not seem to resent or regret this. His concerns about the value of doubting are evident from an early age, yet doubt appears to play an important role in his scholarly development. His father’s increasingly depressed countenance is particularly worrying for him, and the inference we can draw from Kierkegaard’s narrative is that this may be closely related to the nature and significance of doubt in his father’s life. But having been raised in an environment built on the principles of doubting, questioning, and dismantling, Climacus finds he cannot, as concerns arise, step outside the parameters imposed by these experiences.

Climacus’s approach, when confronted with the uncomfortable psychological and emotional consequences of doubt, is to tacitly reinforce the inner tendencies that trouble him. Unable to ‘walk away’ from doubt, he undertakes a philosophical examination of it. Climacus is uneasy, uncomfortable, and unhappy with the forms of doubt he sees being expressed and displayed by others and with those he experiences himself. Yet, all he can do is reaffirm the central place of doubt in his life by making it the starting point for disciplined inquiry. He cannot break out of a cycle of doubt, and even the prompt for wanting to do so – his doubts about the value of doubt – is itself based on the principle of doubting. Climacus may declare that he wishes to adopt a method of making everything as simple as possible, but Kierkegaard allows the reader to see that he is unlikely to be successful in his pursuit of this goal. There is no ‘going back’ for Climacus, and while he may be able to make some things simpler in his life, he will be doing so, readers are led to believe, on the basis of a more complex understanding of himself and the world.

Kierkegaard draws our attention to another pedagogical feature of doubt. Climacus is intrigued by a comment from a philosopher that his first thesis is from ‘the eternal philosophy’ and must, therefore, be embraced by anyone who becomes committed to philosophy. His initial thought that the reference to being ‘eternal’ may mean a fully abstract approach to philosophy, unconcerned with time, is quickly refuted by his recollection that the thesis refers to a beginning. For Climacus, the beginning in this thesis is subjective, not objective; doubt is experienced not in the abstract but by a particular individual. When one individual is viewed in relation to another, however, the essentially tragic nature of doubt is revealed. Climacus recounts an old tale of a knight and troll to illustrate what is at stake here. The knight receives from the troll a special sword that craves blood the moment it is drawn. The knight cannot resist drawing the sword, and the troll’s fate is sealed. The same consequences seem to await those who embrace the ‘philosophy begins with doubt’ thesis: ‘when one person said it to another, it became in the latter’s hand a sword that was obliged to slay the former, however painful it was for the latter to reward his benefactor in that way’ (Kierkegaard, 1985: 155). To teach another about the thesis, then, is, in a certain sense, to sacrifice oneself as a teacher. It involves being prepared to be ‘slayed’ by those whom one teaches by that which is being taught. The absurdity of this process, whereby an otherwise mild-mannered thinker becomes a ‘bloodthirsty Bluebeard’ cutting down immortal philosophers, brings both smiles and tears for Climacus (p.156).

A clue to addressing the ethical problems posed by the cultivation of doubt through teaching lies in Climacus’s response to the second of his theses. This thesis, it will be recalled, is that ‘in order to philosophize, one must have doubted’ (p.157). Here Climacus begins with a recognition that in earlier times, some form of preparation for philosophy had always been necessary, whether this was in the form of silence, or obedience, or asceticism. He has little difficulty accepting this principle, believing that anything worth obtaining requires difficulty and hardship. Humility, he suggests to himself, is necessary in preparing to be a philosopher. This seems to pose a problem when considering ‘teachers’ and ‘learners’ in philosophy, for ‘[h]e who doubts elevates himself above the person from whom he learns, and thus there is no frame of mind less appreciated by a teacher in his pupil than doubt’ (p.158). He tries to see this from a different point of view, asking whether in encouraging their pupils in this way, teachers actually encourage greater reliance upon themselves. Students, in doubting, can come to grief and learn from this, just as a child might be taught to respect fire by being permitted to burn his or her hand. But Climacus is not satisfied with this ‘learning from experience’ explanation. He wonders, as an alternative, whether in positively ordering the student to do something (even if this involves questioning one’s own views), the teacher is committing a noble act. The teacher assumes responsibility, and the student ‘thereby becomes a less perfect being, one who has his life in another person’ (p.158). Climacus responds to his own musings by noting that by ‘imposing something negative, the teacher emancipates the follower from himself, makes him just as important as himself’ (p.159). This cancels the relation between teacher and student, and this appears to be of concern to Climacus.

A key term in the above paragraph is humility. In his pedagogical theory, and in the way he conducted himself as a human being, Paulo Freire consistently demonstrated the importance of humility as an epistemological and ethical virtue (see Kirylo, 2011; Roberts, 2010; Schugurensky, 2011). For Freire, a posture of humility is consistent with a commitment to other virtues such as care, respect, attentiveness, reflectiveness, and openness. It was noted earlier that Climacus’s father listens carefully to others when they speak, and this ability is, from a Freirean perspective, an essential attribute of both teachers and students. But for Climacus’s father, listening does not seem to be coupled with humility; it is a means for grasping what is being said in order to ‘knock it down’. Philosophy in contemporary contexts is sometimes like this. It can become a kind of quiet (or noisy) battleground, with each participant seeking to gain an advantage over others in a war of ideas. The object is more to ‘win’ than to learn, or to teach. Climacus’s father might claim that he is displaying care and respect for his interlocutors through the very act of dismantling their arguments; he shows through his actions that his opponents’ ideas are worthy of engagement. Freire would not have disagreed with this, but he would have added that without humility, neither participant in this form of philosophical exchange will reap its full educational value.

Humility is important in avoiding the blindness that can accompany excessive certainty about the correctness of one’s own position. Humility does not ‘create’ doubts; rather, it allows doubts that are already there to be perceived and acknowledged. Freire spoke repeatedly against dogmatic, defensive, and reactionary stances in addressing complex social, cultural, and political questions (see, e.g., Escobar et al., 1994; Freire, 1972a, 1985, 1993, 1994, 1996, 1998c, 2004; Freire and Shor, 1987). He had observed these tendencies not only among those on the political Right but also, at times, in groups on the Left. The latter he found all the more distressing, given his open support for democratic socialism. It concerned him too that while different groups on the Right could often forge a pragmatic unity in the face of opposition, those on the Left would often end up fighting over their differences, losing sight of what they had in common (cf. Freire, 1997a, 1998a, 1998c). The Right, already substantially advantaged in the resources at its disposal, would, in the face of a heavily divided Left, find it that much easier to push through reforms that further strengthened their dominant economic position. A dogmatist is convinced of the correctness of his or her position and will not be persuaded otherwise. There is a closure, generated in part by a lack of humility, to the possibility of seeing the world otherwise. Evidence and argument will often be insufficient to dislodge the dogmatist from his or her views. For the dogmatist, doubt represents a sign of weakness and must be eliminated.

Climacus considers several different positions on the relationship between teachers and students. In the knight and troll example, the teacher sacrifices him- or herself to the student by revealing the ‘philosophy begins with doubt’ thesis. In later reflections, Climacus wrestles with what we might see as questions of pedagogical authority. He does not reach a definitive conclusion, instead leaving the reader to wonder whether certain forms of compulsion are necessary and justifiable given the good they will ultimately bring for students. Freire would not have denied that sacrifices are necessary in committing wholeheartedly to the process of teaching. He was conscious of the fact that teaching demands long hours, often with woefully inadequate wages, and is intellectually, emotionally, and physically exhausting (cf. Freire, 1998b). He would have been happy to say that teaching involves a form of service to others, but he would have wanted to probe the Kierkegaardian notion of sacrifice a little further. A teacher, Freire argued, can and should exercise authority, but not be authoritarian (see Freire and Shor, 1987; Horton and Freire, 1990). This distinction is important in understanding why Freire insisted on calling himself a teacher and not a facilitator (Freire and Macedo, 1995).

From a Freirean perspective, teachers should have a certain authority in their command of their subject matter; they should know their specialist areas well and will continue to deepen and extend their knowledge through further study and reflection. They will also possess a thorough understanding of different approaches to teaching. They will exercise authority by intervening in educational conversations where necessary to ensure all have opportunities to participate. Teachers facilitate dialogue and discussion but they are not merely facilitators. They have an important role to play in recommending helpful reading, in posing problems for students, and in fostering the exploration of social and economic alternatives. They provide structure, rigour, and direction in learning and investigation (Roberts, 1996b). A teacher cannot be neutral and will always favour some ethical ideals over others; education in this sense, among others, is a political process (see, further, Freire, 1985, 1987, 1998c; Mayo, 1999; Shor, 1993). At the same time, the teacher should not impose his or her views on the students. The possibility of questioning what the teacher says, or how he or she acts, must always be there. An authoritarian teacher does not wish to be challenged and will often actively suppress views contrary to his or her own. Inwardly, an authoritarian teacher may, from time to time, experience doubts; outwardly, however, he or she will refuse to waver.

For Freire, learning how to question is also a matter of learning how to demonstrate humility and respect. The authority of a teacher can be strengthened rather than undermined when he or she allows doubts to form and be expressed among the students with whom he or she works. There is a sacrificial element to the pedagogical process, as Climacus signals, but what exactly is being ‘given up’? A teacher committed to Freirean principles willingly sacrifices the possibility of exercising some forms of power (e.g. the power to dominate, or to manipulate, or to control), but in doing so, opens up other possibilities. Respect is generated not by attempting to crush the spirit of the other, but by giving respect. Exhibiting a certain form of ‘weakness’ by allowing students to see that teachers too can have doubts is also a sign of strength. Being prepared to put one’s views to the test in the company of others can allow positions to be held with greater conviction. A Freirean teacher gives up something of his or her ego, but this allows him or her to pay attention to the student, and to the object of study, in ways that would otherwise not be possible.

Climacus is concerned that the teacher–student relation may be cancelled out if the student becomes ‘just as important’ as the teacher (Kierkegaard, 1985: 159). It is true that Freire talked in Pedagogy of the Oppressed about the resolution of the teacher–student contradiction as one of the underlying ideas in problem-posing education (see Freire, 1972a). But this was in the context of a critique of ‘banking education’, where an authoritarian relationship between teachers and students was taken as given. Freire’s point was that teachers, if they bring to their craft an appropriate sense of humility, openness, and respect, also learn from students through the act of teaching. Students in this sense can teach their teachers. This doesn’t mean, however, that there are no meaningful differences between teachers and students. As Freire stressed in later work (e.g. Freire, 1987, 1996, 1998a, 1998b; Freire and Shor, 1987; Horton and Freire, 1990), teachers and students have certain distinctive characteristics and responsibilities, even if they also share much in common. It is not unreasonable, for example, to expect teachers to have greater breadth and depth in their understanding of the subject being taught than the students; the years of study in preparing to become a teacher should count for something in this respect. But, as Freire was fond of saying, no one is ignorant of everything just as no one knows everything (see Freire, 1976); there is always more to learn, even in the subject areas with which we are most familiar, and teaching is one of the best ways to sharpen and sustain that learning process.

Conclusion

Both Kierkegaard and Freire responded through their work, in their own distinct ways, to the specific concerns of their time and their circumstances. But they can also speak to us today. In a ‘post-truth’ era, with excessive certainties often based on blatant lies, the importance of doubt – of being prepared to question, despite the risks this brings – is arguably more important than ever before. Kierkegaard may have adopted what might be seen today as a ‘conservative’ stance in response to the questions he posed, ultimately embracing a Christian view of the world. But his distinctive approach to matters of faith was unorthodox in his time and he suffered considerable scorn and ridicule for his manner of working, his gait and his physical appearance, and his idiosyncratic philosophical and religious views. Kierkegaard found a faith-based answer to his doubts but this was no easy, straightforward ‘conversion’; it was a risky, deeply reflective leap of faith. Freire too faced significant risks in taking the task of doubting and questioning seriously. His pedagogy emerged from his practice as an educator in contexts that were demonstrably oppressive (see Freire, 1972a, 1972b, 1976, 1985). He worked with adults who were severely impoverished, exploited by capitalists in urban areas and by landowners in rural communities. The students in the literacy programmes he initiated would often have had few opportunities for education in their earlier lives. Malnutrition, ill health, and high rates of infant mortality were common. Freire was aware of the risks for him, and for the participants, in opening up the door of doubt through such programmes.

Doubting, both Kierkegaard and Freire show, is not a mere methodological game. It can sometimes be literally a matter of life and death. Freire did not tell the adult learners in literacy programmes what to think, or how to think. Political orientations were neither prescribed nor proscribed. But Freire knew there was no ‘innocent’ way to encounter potentially challenging ideas through education. His approach was seen as inspiring by many, but it was also deeply unsettling. It was highly effective in enabling adults to learn to read and write, but it was also concerned with more than the acquisition of skills and content. With the military coup in Brazil in 1964, Freire found himself targeted as a subversive and was forced into exile. Doubt, he discovered, could be ‘dangerous’ – not just for students but for teachers as well. The term ‘subversive’ is often employed in a pejorative sense, as a kind of stick to beat down competing political views. A teacher who is subversive is cast as someone who is unusual, extreme, not to be trusted. Yet, from a Freirean perspective, all education should, in some senses, be subversive. It should enable the foundations on which a society stands to be questioned. It should make us feel uncomfortable, slightly on edge. Education exposes us to emotional, intellectual, and (sometimes) physical risks, but without these forms of exposure, others forms of risk come into play.

Perhaps the greatest sacrifice, from an existential standpoint, made by both teachers and students, is the loss of ‘innocence’ that comes as doubts are raised and addressed. For Kierkegaard’s Climacus, this loss of innocence is experienced as a sense of unease, a disturbing feeling that all is not well. The underlying anxiety that is created through the cultivation and expression of doubt can be made all the worse by the feeling of not being able to go back. Freire had to consider whether the risk of allowing participants in his literacy programmes to consider their social circumstances in a fresh light could be justified. He was satisfied that this was a risk worth taking, but he did not form this view lightly. Both Freire and Kierkegaard help us to see that even if we decide that the dangers of doubting are too great, risks remain. We risk the decay and stagnation that can come from ignorance, closed-mindedness, or indifference. Both Kierkegaard and Freire railed against indifference, albeit in very different ways. Both were passionate in the pursuit of their ideals, and in the way they lived their lives there are some abiding lessons for other educators.

Neither Freire nor Kierkegaard would want to suggest that the teacher’s task is one of ‘converting’ students. The integrity of the student as a knowing, doubting, questioning being must be honoured. Teachers do have a role to play, however, in fostering a sense of care and commitment among students. Indifference may be feigned, but it can also be tacitly encouraged. Education can assist us in identifying and analysing how and why this might be so. Through education, ideas and ideals should come to matter for students. This makes life more complicated and difficult for students, but it is also part of what gives educational experience its sense of excitement and promise. Coming to care about ideas and ideals connects students with others, ancient and contemporary, who have (as Climacus observes) wondered about themselves and the world around them. ‘Wonder’ does not limit itself to that which is beautiful; it can be experienced in the midst of social ‘ugliness’ (the oppression to which Freire referred), pain, and despair. Doubt of the Freirean kind can enhance rather than impede the development of a sense of wonder. Wonder, as the early Greeks understood it and as Freire affirmed through his work, presupposes an openness that authoritarian modes of social life deny. Doubt, as a partner with wonder, can play a crucial role in our formation of educational beings.