Be wise about what you know

Socrates held that the only thing he knew was that he knew nothing. "There is a deep insight in this," comments A C Grayling, "for the one thing that is more dangerous than true ignorance is the illusion of knowledge and understanding"
       Two things strike me as the years roll by – how much there is that could be known and how little of it I know. Like most young men in their late teens or early twenties, I thought I knew pretty much everything required for a normal life. Confronting a prob­lem, I was confident that with a few minutes to check it out I would have the answer (and that was before Google search or the dozen or so rapid answer sites available on the Internet). Then I chose a profes­sion and began to learn a lot more in a specific area. My specialty was New Testament studies. I learned Koine Greek, understood the complementary infinitive, wrote a paper on Judas Maccabaeus, and after thirteen years of careful study, a critical commentary on John's Apocalypse. Now that took time. Had I pursued history, I would have learned an entirely different set of facts, or had I gone to medical school (as I had planned) I would now know a lot more about the human body. What strikes me is that competence in one area needs to be understood as part of a larger context. A genu­inely wise person will take what he knows in his specific area and relate it to the real world in which he finds himself.
       Someone said that academic research involves learning more and more about less and less until we know everything about noth­ing. I don't mean to discredit research in fields that are beneficial to society (e.g., cancer research, robotics, etc.), but the assumption that extensive knowledge in one narrow field provides expertise for knowledge in the broader sense is invalid. Most learned people, if they are also wise, recognize the vast extent of information that exists in an infinite number of fields. And if that is true of what is now known, think of all that will be known. The first cave man to learn how to make fire was the intellectual genius of his day. So what of today's intellectual giants? From the perspective of tomorrow's knowledge, they join the celebrated ranks of cavemen of yesterday. And that is not a put down, just a call for trans generational modesty.
       My grandmother taught school from the age of 17 until she arrived at 70. Nothing pleased her like learning. She was interested in everything. Her view of heaven was learning forever. Always wondered about that during my days in school, but now I am beginning to catch on how wise she really was.