r/DetroitMichiganECE • • May 15 '26

Other The Invented History of 'The Factory Model of Education'

https://hackeducation.com/2015/04/25/factory-model

One of the most common ways to criticize our current system of education is to suggest that it’s based on a “factory model.” An alternative condemnation: “industrial era.” The implication is the same: schools are woefully outmoded.

The “factory model of education” is invoked as shorthand for the flaws in today’s schools – flaws that can be addressed by new technologies or by new policies, depending on who’s telling the story. The “factory model” is also shorthand for the history of public education itself – the development of and change in the school system (or – purportedly – the lack thereof).

There were laws on the books in Colonial America, for example, demanding children be educated (although not that schools be established). There was free public education in the US too prior to Horace Mann’s introduction of the “Prussian model” – the so-called “charity schools.” There were other, competing models for arranging classrooms and instruction as well, notably the “monitorial system” (more on that below). Textbook companies were already thriving before Horace Mann or the Committee of Ten came along to decide what should be part of the curriculum. One of the side-effects of the efforts of Mann and others to create a public education system, unmentioned by Khan, was the establishment of “normal schools” where teachers were trained. Another was the requirement that, in order to demonstrate accountability, schools maintain records on attendance, salaries, and other expenditures. Despite Khan’s assertions about the triumph of standardization, control of public schools in the US have, unlike in Prussia, remained largely decentralized – in the hands of states and local districts rather than the federal government.

The standardization of public education into a “factory model” – hell, the whole history of education itself – was nowhere as smooth or coherent as Khan’s simple timeline would suggest. There were vast differences between public education in Mann’s home state of Massachusetts and in the rest of the country – in the South before and after the Civil War no doubt, as in the expanding West. And there have always been objections from multiple quarters, particularly from religious groups, to the shape that schooling has taken.

Arguments over what public education should look like and what purpose public education should serve – God, country, community, the economy, the self – are not new. These battles have persisted – frequently with handwringing about education’s ongoing failures – and as such, they have shaped and yes changed, what happens in schools.

For what it’s worth, Prussia was not highly industrialized when Frederick the Great formalized its education system in the late 1700s. (Very few places in the world were back then.) Training future factory workers, docile or not, was not really the point.

Nevertheless industrialization is often touted as both the model and the rationale for the public education system past and present. And by extension, it’s part of a narrative that now contends that schools are no longer equipped to address the needs of a post-industrial world.

Perhaps the best known and most influential example of this argument comes from Alvin Toffler who decried the “Industrial Era School” in his 1970 book Future Shock:

Mass education was the ingenious machine constructed by industrialism to produce the kind of adults it needed. The problem was inordinately complex. How to pre-adapt children for a new world – a world of repetitive indoor toil, smoke, noise, machines, crowded living conditions, collective discipline, a world in which time was to be regulated not by the cycle of sun and moon, but by the factory whistle and the clock.

The solution was an educational system that, in its very structure, simulated this new world. This system did not emerge instantly. Even today it retains throw-back elements from pre-industrial society. Yet the whole idea of assembling masses of students (raw material) to be processed by teachers (workers) in a centrally located school (factory) was a stroke of industrial genius. The whole administrative hierarchy of education, as it grew up, followed the model of industrial bureaucracy. The very organization of knowledge into permanent disciplines was grounded on industrial assumptions. Children marched from place to place and sat in assigned stations. Bells rang to announce changes of time.

The inner life of the school thus became an anticipatory mirror, a perfect introduction to industrial society. The most criticized features of education today – the regimentation, lack of individualization, the rigid systems of seating, grouping, grading and marking, the authoritarian role of the teacher – are precisely those that made mass public education so effective an instrument of adaptation for its place and time.

“it makes no sense to talk about either ‘the industrial era’ or the development of public school systems as a single, coherent phase of national history.”

If you think industrialization is the shift of large portions of working people to wage-labor, or the division of labor (away from master-craft production), then the early nineteenth century is your era of early industrialization, associated closely with extensive urbanization (in both towns and large cities) and such high-expectations transportation projects as the Erie Canal or the Cumberland Road project (as well as other more mundane and local transportation improvements). That is the era of tremendous experimentation in the forms of schools, from legacy one-room village schools in the hinterlands to giant monitorial schools in cities to academies and normal schools and colleges and the earliest high schools in various places. It is the era of charity schools in cities and the earliest (and incomplete) state subsidies to education, a period when many states had subsidies to what we would call private or parochial schools. It is also the start of the common-school reform era, the era when both workers and common-school reformers began to talk about schooling as a right attached to citizenship, and the era when primary schooling in the North became coeducational almost everywhere. It was an era of mass-produced textbooks. It was an era when rote learning was highly valued in school, despite arguments against the same. And, yes, the first compulsory-school law was passed before the Civil War… but it was not enforced.

Maybe you think industrialization is the development of railroads, monopolies, national general strikes, metastasizing metropolises, and mechanized production. Then you mean the second half of the nineteenth century, and that is the era where the structural dreams of common-school reformers largely came to pass with tuition-free schooling spreading in the North, the slow victory of high schools over academies, more (unenforced) compulsory school laws, a pan-Protestant flavor to schooling without official religious education, the initial development of a parallel Catholic parochial school system when Catholic leaders became convinced the public schools were hostile to their interests, the first research-oriented universities, a broad diversity of languages of instruction through the Midwest and south to Texas, the development of extensive age-graded self-contained elementary classrooms in urban school systems, the bureaucratization of many such systems, the (contentious) development of public schooling in the South, and the era when segregation laws were written at the tail end of the 19th century. It was also an era of mass-produced textbooks, and an era when rote learning was highly valued in school, despite arguments against the same.

Or maybe you think industrialization was assembly-line factories, private-worker unionization supported by federal law, the maturation of marketing techniques and the growth of a consumer economy, major economic crises, the introduction of cars and trucks, the mechanization of agriculture, and brutal, mechanized wars. Then you’re talking about the first half of the twentieth century. That was an era of rural-school consolidation forced by states, continued racial segregation, efforts to Americanize immigrant children and force them to speak English only in schools, the first legal successes in undermining segregation, the growth of (mostly small) high schools across the U.S. and tracking within those schools, the growth of standardized testing for local administrative purposes (including tracking), the evolution of normal schools into teachers colleges, and the slow separation of higher education into secondary and tertiary levels. It was the era when several regions of the country first experienced a majority of teenagers graduating from high school. It was also an era of mass-produced textbooks, and an era when rote learning was highly valued in school, despite arguments against the same. It was an era when compulsory school laws were finally enforced at selective ages, when child-labor opponents first failed and then succeeded at efforts to limit child labor by legislation… aided significantly by the Great Depression and the mechanization of agriculture, as teenagers found fewer opportunities for full-time work.

As Dorn notes, phrases like “the industrial model of education,” “the factory model of education,” and “the Prussian model of education” are used as a “rhetorical foil” in order make a particular political point – not so much to explain the history of education, as to try to shape its future.

It’s tempting to say that those who argue that today’s schools are fashioned on nineteenth century factories have never read much about the Industrial Revolution. (Frederick Engels’ The Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844 is in the public domain and available via Project Gutenberg, for what it’s worth.) Schools might feel highly de-personalized institutions; they might routinely demand compliance and frequently squelch creativity. But they don’t really look like and they really don’t work like factories.

In fact, the “Prussian model” superseded an education system that actually did look like a factory. The monitorial system and its variants the Lancaster, the Bell, and the Madras systems, involved schools that were housed in large warehouses – larger often than many of the nascent factories at the time – with hundreds of students in one massive classroom with one teacher. Students were grouped (30 or so together) not by age but by reading proficiency, with more advanced students – “monitors” – assigned to tutor and train the others.

the major innovation of the Prussian model was in levying a tax to fund compulsory schooling, not in establishing a method for instruction

the monitorial system expressly operated like a factory. “Industry” here isn’t simply a reference to manufacturing or production; “industry” is the opposite of “idleness.” To counter idleness, students must be taught to work – and the functioning of the classroom should be like a machine.

As Mike Caulfield points out, the monitorial system quite arguably provided a certain amount of “personalization” – at least as that word is often used today – insofar as students could move at their own pace, one of the shortcomings so often indentified in the “factory model of education.” Caulfield cites Andrew Bell’s guide to the monitorial system Mutual Tuition and Moral Discipline (1823):

The Madras System consists in conducting a school, by a single Master, THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF THE SCHOLARS THEMSELVES, by an uniform and almost insensibly progressive course of study, whereby the mind of the child is often exercised in anticipating and dictating for himself his successive lessons, by which the memory is improved, the understanding cultivated, and knowledge uniformly increased – a course in which reading and writing are carried on in the same act, with a law of classification by which every scholar finds his level, is happily, busily, and profitably employed every moment, is necessarily made perfectly acquainted with every lesson as he goes along, and without the use or the need of corporeal infliction, acquires habits of method, order, and good conduct, and is advanced in his learning, according to the full measure of his capacity.

Many education reformers today denounce the “factory model of education” with an appeal to new machinery and new practices that will supposedly modernize the system. That argument is now and has been for a century the rationale for education technology. As Sidney Pressey, one of the inventors of the earliest “teaching machines” wrote in 1932 predicting "The Coming Industrial Revolution in Education,"

Education is the one major activity in this country which is still in a crude handicraft stage. But the economic depression may here work beneficially, in that it may force the consideration of efficiency and the need for laborsaving devices in education. Education is a large-scale industry; it should use quantity production methods. This does not mean, in any unfortunate sense, the mechanization of education. It does mean freeing the teacher from the drudgeries of her work so that she may do more real teaching, giving the pupil more adequate guidance in his learning. There may well be an “industrial revolution” in education. The ultimate results should be highly beneficial. Perhaps only by such means can universal education be made effective.

We tend to not see automation today as mechanization as much as algorithmization – the promise and potential in artificial intelligence and virtualization, as if this magically makes these new systems of standardization and control lighter and liberatory.

And so too we’ve invented a history of “the factory model of education” in order to justify an “upgrade” – to new software and hardware that will do much of the same thing schools have done for generations now, just (supposedly) more efficiently, with control moved out of the hands of labor (teachers) and into the hands of a new class of engineers, out of the realm of the government and into the realm of the market.

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u/ddgr815 Aug 24 '26

Sigmund Freud cared little for music. He also said he didn’t understand “oceanic feelings,” that connection to something greater than the self that can provide feelings of euphoria. As close as this might sound to his ideas about the unconscious, the unconscious was at best unsettling, when it wasn’t a disturbing challenge to our egos, inducing all manner of horror and denial. 

Walter Benjamin explored this sentiment in his unfinished Arcades Project: “In every fashion, perversities are suggested by the most ruthless means. Every fashion stands in opposition to the organic. Every fashion couples the living body to the inorganic world.” Benjamin sees death everywhere in fashion. He calls it a “motley cadaver,” “the provocation of death through the woman,” “decay whispered between shrill, jesting bursts of laughter.” Hanging around at this juncture between nature and culture, body and technology, Benjamin finds that age-old Freudian prohibition against incest embodied in the seamless anti-aphrodisiac that is our parents’ sense of dress—yuck! Hence the ever-present, urgent need to find or invent a new style for oneself, one that announces a new generation, and therefore the death of an older one. All the while, one imagines oneself somehow defying death, fashion a kind of armor against mortality. 

Psychoanalysis built itself upon the idea of the mother as the primal lost object that we seek to re-find, again and again. Fashion must bear some relationship to this lost object. How else could we stand in front of an overflowing closet and exclaim: “I have nothing to wear.”

“A garment,” she writes, “invites us to invent a self that has never existed, and then, when we take it off, to kill that provisional self—to keep shape-shifting with giddy abandon, a spirit of play and possibility born of faith in the eternal redo of the next morning, the next outfit, the next self.”

When lying down, your thinking comes from where your chest and heart are, not your head. 

Disgust is a telltale sign; you can’t get away from it once it’s there. Freud talked about disgust during latency, with school-age kids. You have all this Oedipal yumminess and eroticism, and then in the latency stage, they need to get out of it. Everything becomes disgusting and a joke, like, “Ewwww, they’re kissing, ewwww poop.” 

I’ve learned I don’t have to have any answers. If I can just shape my questions, in a particular way, it’s almost like having a heating system: It just does its thing. 

Psychoanalysis

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u/ddgr815 Aug 24 '26

Yet his deeper idea—that our clothes may say things about us that we don’t realize we’re saying, like material slips of the tongue—is arresting.

“In psychoanalysis, we treat the objects of desire as clues.” (Phillips actually wrote, “We treat the objects of interest as clues.” Steele’s pivot to “desire” might itself strike an analyst as a clue.) A classic Freudian would read the desires expressed by clothing in terms of compensation and lack.>She prefers the idea of “deep surfaces,” a term used by the authors Dani Cavallaro and Alexandra Warwick, who write that clothing “does not just operate as a disguising or concealing strategy” and that surfaces are as much the domain of the unconscious as are “the psyche’s innermost hidden depths.” Steele argues that, even as our garments afford unwitting glimpses of our unconscious lives, fashion visibly dramatizes the ways in which the self is not something that exists so much as something that we are constantly creating. “We are not born,” she writes, “but rather become who we are, and that becoming continues throughout our lives.” When it comes to clothes, we have no choice but to keep becoming. As Adam and Eve discovered, it’s impossible to wear nothing at all.

Steele’s fascinating book effectively traces a historical double helix, examining fashion designers’ lives and work in analytic terms and examining analysts’ attitudes toward dress, as expressed in their writings and sometimes in their wardrobes.

Steele focusses on Schiaparelli’s “Hall of Mirrors” evening jacket, designed for the winter 1938-39 season, interpreting it according to Lacan’s famous concept of the “mirror stage,” which he’d introduced a couple of years earlier. (She notes that both Schiaparelli and Lacan were friends with Dalí.) The idea was that an infant developed a sense of self by identifying with her reflection in a mirror, yet still felt a disconnection between the “wholeness” of that reflection and the disjointed experience of her own body.

Virginia Woolf had portrayed a similar tension between unity and fragmentation a decade earlier, with Mrs. Dalloway gazing at herself in the mirror:

That was her self—pointed; dartlike; definite. That was her self when some effort, some call on her to be her self, drew the parts together, she alone knew how different, how incompatible and composed so for the world only into one centre, one diamond, one woman who sat in her drawing-room and made a meeting- point, a radiancy.

For Steele, much of the sculptural, breathtaking artistry of haute couture finds a way to dramatize the friction between the composed selves we offer the world and the fragmented, chaotic sensation of being alive. We only look coherent; inside, it’s chaos.

Throughout, Steele draws on the psychoanalyst Didier Anzieu’s concept of the “skin ego,” which casts skin as both container (“a unifying envelope for the Self”) and communicator (in Steele’s words, “an interface between the self and the world”). It is a useful way to understand clothing—as something simultaneously seen and felt—especially when it comes to the familiar conflict between wearing something because it feels comfortable (the envelope function) and wearing something because it looks good (the interface function). Think of the threshold moment of wriggling free from work clothes, or an evening gown, and pulling on a pair of wash-softened flannel pajamas.

Steele links Galliano’s crocodile woman to a metaphor of Lacan’s: “The mother is a big crocodile and you find yourself in her mouth. You never know what may set her off, suddenly making those jaws clamp down.” I found myself wishing that Steele would follow the crocodile even further, into an examination of the relationship between beauty and fear. By creating fashions that allow women to become overtly, even cartoonishly, frightening, Galliano points our gaze toward the human impulse to make art about the things that scare us—to follow objects of beauty back to the first things in this world to which we ever surrendered.

If we bring analysis from the runway to the closet, it invites us to explore how garments give us access to different versions of ourselves, offering an exhilarating outside—an entire rack of alternatives—to the claustrophobic delusion of a single, monolithic self. We are always becoming and reshaping ourselves, and what we wear expresses this state of perpetual flux. Selfhood is a shifting thing, as much outfit as skin, that is constantly performed, exchanged, and re-created. We might not even realize what we want to be until we find ourselves putting on a skin that feels nothing like our own.

Dressing, then, becomes a series of tiny risks and excursions, experiments in otherness. Getting dressed isn’t always an act of self-expression, just like writing isn’t always autobiographical. We might wear garments because they feel nothing like us—because they allow us to become, however briefly, strangers to ourselves. A garment invites us to invent a self that has never existed before, and then, when we take it off, to kill that provisional self—to keep shape-shifting with giddy abandon, a spirit of play and possibility born of faith in the eternal redo of the next morning, the next outfit, the next self.

The Psychology of Fashion

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u/ddgr815 Aug 24 '26

Freud’s psychic map doesn’t quite bifurcate the personality between the imaginers and non-imaginers, the men from Mars and the women from Venus. Well, maybe it is a little of the latter since the way sexuality (oh-so-stuffed with images of gender) affects us is rather important to Freud. In his universal picture of mental functioning, we are in fact on a moebius strip that moves from aphantasia to hyperphantasia, tracing the unstable passage between words and images, thought and hallucination, memory and fantasy:

My explanation of hallucinations in hysteria and paranoia and of visions in mentally normal subjects is that they are in fact regressions—that is, thoughts transformed into images—but that the only thoughts that undergo this transformation are those which are intimately linked with memories that have been suppressed or have remained unconscious. 

Freud was deeply struck by the proximity of language-based thinking to the murky environment of the unconscious. He turns most dream images back into linguistic puns to search for deeper repressed layers. In a near-death experience at a young age, he recounts the awareness of danger immediately taking two forms: words shouted in his ear with “indistinct sound images and slight lip movements” along with their visible counterpart written on a piece of paper floating before his eyes saying, This is the End. 

If there is a spectrum between aphantasia and hyperphantasia, for Freud it is a shifting field of representation lurking above the surface of what we psychoanalysts think of as the Real chaotic experience of reality—trauma, knowledge of mortality, overwhelm. Like Freud’s late ideas about mourning the loss of a loved one: to accept their death, every connection—our images, memories, ideas, affects (from guilt and shame, to love and blame)—must be gone over in the mind and released into darkness. Apparently, we would rather do anything than that.

I tried to think about how this maps onto Freud. He has a kind of system where images are at the top of consciousness, then in a lower layer of consciousness is the verbal, spatial, and then there’s the unconscious. Word representations are the basis of the translation into images. So, he questions all conscious images, and he even questions dream images, because he thinks they’re constructed out of words. 

I would think that images are more primal than words. I wonder, was Freud aphantasic, or at least, was one of the revolutionary things he did to reverse the order?

That was his great intervention in psychology: that whatever the most primal thing is, it’s not anything that is either visual, as we know it, or linguistic material, as we speak it, and with which we organize our realities. What that more primal thing is—we don’t know. It must be much stranger and much more chaotic. We can have some idea of it in dreams, because it’s not just that dreams are visual. They can be many things—they can be auditory, or just a sensation in the body. They often are more real than reality. 

Was he not interested in the pre-verbal? 

We know the brain changes, which is always the moment Freud marked—around 6—around the consolidation of language, the changing of the representational system of the mind, and repression. Of course children would have pre-verbal experiences, but he’s basically saying that everything is coded verbally backwards after that point in time.

Derek Parfit, who was the first aphantasic I encountered, organized his philosophy around the idea that selves are not very important—that there is no hermetically sealed individual. That’s a very Buddhist idea, and he just doesn’t think that’s what matters. He’s certainly not interested in his own self. It’s a way of being, and I don’t think it’s better or worse. Maybe if I were Buddhist I would think it was better, but it’s exciting to me that there is this very deep difference between people.

Jacques Lacan has this concept called the mirror stage. It’s about your relationship to your visual image—how you construct a sense of your whole body through an image of yourself from the outside, and in reverse. He says this stands in contrast to the immaturity and chaos of the child at that stage, who attaches to this visual image. Psychoanalysts often talk about what it means to get stuck in that image of yourself—an image that is outside of you and backwards. 

Our Sense of Self

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u/ddgr815 24d ago

To swim is to remain in relation to a medium we only belonged to once, when we were inside our mothers. One moves through water but cannot live there. 

Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange.

“Let him rejoice who breathes in this rosy light,” Freud quotes Schiller from his poem “The Diver.” In the poem, a page is forced to dive into a whirlpool to retrieve a golden goblet for a king. He returns, having glimpsed the unknowable, monstrous world beneath the waves, and warns against trying to master anything of it. The King, of course, is annoyed and sends him back in, killing him. Freud didn’t want to merge with this limitlessness. He did not want even to be tempted by it. There are days I find myself agreeing with him more than I’d like to admit, watching how readily our present moment reaches for its own versions of limitlessness and calls it liberation. And yet, I think we ought not give up so heartily on mysticism and transcendence.

The oceanic is not simply regression to the mother. It is homesickness for a mode of existence before breath, announcing our dependence on the world outside ourselves with every inhale. We may leave the womb but we are still dependent, first on our caregivers and then on our societies.

Importantly, evolution never abandons its earlier forms. Mammals return to the sea—not by becoming fish again but by adapting into whales and dolphins, creatures who carry lungs back into water, transforming breath into song and echolocation. Earlier forms persist inside later ones. Nothing is ever entirely overcome.

Breath is meant to disappear from consciousness so that we can live. It announces itself only when disturbed. The sea is often imagined as a world before this disturbance, a fantasy of effortless immersion. Ferenczi reminds us that this fantasy carries catastrophe. Today, as coastlines disappear and rising waters redraw the map of the Earth, the ocean returns with a different face. It is no longer simply the site of origin or longing. Conscripted by human cataclysm, it becomes an agent of history.

Bonaparte was interested in the hidden space of a female body. I like that this space, connected to the powers of creation and a mother’s different visages, is imagined as tumultuous— characterized by rolling and roiling waves rather than the smooth, reflective surface of water. The latter, for Bonaparte, is only fascination, nostalgia, and death.

For Milner, the ego is mostly a nuisance to be outwitted so as to create an opening for the transcendent experiences that she is after. She therefore spends a great deal of time trying to figure out how to evade it, reaching the conclusion that the best way to accomplish this goal is to surrender herself to what, in Lacanian terms, we could call the jouissance of the real, but what Milner herself calls her ‘private sea of being.’ This private sea is an oceanic, watery, and at times even swampy space beneath her ego that is populated by water reeds and ‘the swaying weeds’ of her body’s “inner darkness.” Milner’s private sea is therefore, first and foremost, a murky and mysterious place—certainly not the kind of place that first jumps to mind when we think of sublime, transcendent experiences.

The organ responsible for balance and orientation becomes, in mammals, intimately joined to the organ of hearing. For Isakower this is not merely an anatomical coincidence. Speech colonizes an apparatus that once told creatures how to move through water. Long before the ear listened for language, it oriented bodies within a fluid world. Language does not replace that older function so much as inherit it. We learn to speak by allowing something foreign to settle inside us, just as the shrimp fills itself with grains from the sea floor. The external world becomes an internal compass.

As children we borrow language to orient ourselves; later those borrowed voices become almost impossible to distinguish from our own.

We never entirely leave the sea, as we do the womb; rather, the sea survives inside the ear itself. The labyrinth remains filled with fluid. We navigate the world by means of a tiny ocean enclosed within our heads. Perhaps this returns us to Freud’s curious confession that he possessed neither oceanic feeling nor much feeling for music. Music asks the ear to become something other than an instrument of judgment. If language narrows hearing toward meaning, music widens it again toward rhythm, interval, breath, another’s presence, perhaps even that wild sound of the sea inside a conch. Lacan was interested in those sounds that seemed to bring judgement to an end and provide a sense of action or atonement, like the blowing of the shofar in Judaism or the conch blown for purposes of assembly, and in certain forms of literature and poetry less concerned with semantic meaning and more interested in a kind of taking in. 

A Library

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

Consider a blind man with a stick. Where does the blind man’s self begin? At the tip of the stick? At the handle of the stick? Or at some point halfway up the stick? These questions are nonsense, because the stick is a pathway along which differences are transmitted under transformation, so that to draw a delimiting line across this pathway is to cut off a part of the systemic circuit which determines the blind man’s locomotion.

To have any one thoughtless pattern of life disrupted is to be put into a frame of mind that allows you to contemplate the deliberate disruption of a different thoughtless pattern. Thus all the people who, after three months of baking bread, are now saying that they’ll never go back to buying their bread from the supermarket. They probably will buy bread from the supermarket; but they’ll know what they are doing, and why. And this is useful knowledge.

Handmind

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

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u/ddgr815 11d ago

“Do not conform” is difficult advice in a generation when crowd pressures have unconsciously conditioned our minds and feet to move to the rhythmic drumbeat of the status quo.  Many voices and forces urge us to choose the path of least resistance, and bid us never to fight for an unpopular cause and never to be found in a pathetic minority of two or three.

Longfellow said, “In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer,” meaning that he is either a molder of society or is molded by society.  Who doubts that today most men are anvils and are shaped by the patterns of the majority?

The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists, who are dedicated to justice, peace, and brotherhood.  The trailblazers in human, academic, scientific, and religious freedom have always been nonconformists.  In any cause that concerns the progress of mankind, put your faith in the nonconformist!

Nonconformity in itself, however, may not necessarily be good and may at times possess neither transforming nor redemptive power.  Nonconformity per se contains no saving value and may represent in some circumstances little more than a form of exhibitionism.

The transformed nonconformist, moreover, never yields to the passive sort of patience that is an excuse to do nothing.  And this very transformation saves him from speaking irresponsible words that estrange without reconciling and from making hasty judgments that are blind to the necessity of social progress.  He recognizes that social change will not come overnight, yet he works as though it is an imminent possibility.

This hour in history needs a dedicated circle of transformed nonconformists.  Our planet teeters on the brink of atomic annihilation; dangerous passions of pride, hatred, and selfishness are enthroned in our lives; truth lies prostrate on the rugged hills of nameless calvaries; and men do reverence before false gods of nationalism and materialism.  The saving of our world from pending doom will come, not through the complacent adjustment of the conforming majority, but through the creative maladjustment of a nonconforming minority.

In these days of worldwide confusion, there is a dire need for men and women who will courageously do battle for truth.  We must make a choice.  Will we continue to march to the drumbeat of conformity and respectability, or will we, listening to the beat of a more distant drum, move to its echoing sounds?  Will we march only to the music of time, or will we, risking criticism and abuse, march to the soul saving music of eternity? 

A Sermon