The then Governor of New York, Burnet, Son of Bishop Burnet, hearing from the Captain that a young Man, one of his Passengers, had a great many Books, desired he would bring me to see him….The Governor treated me with great Civility, show’d me his Library, which was a very large one, and we had a good deal of Conversation about Books and Authors.

My chief Acquaintances at this time were, Charles Osborne, Joseph Watson, and James Ralph; All Lovers of Reading.

—Benjamin Franklin, Autobiography

As I read Franklin’s Autobiography, I am struck by the great significance he places on books and reading. For example: a ship in which Franklin was traveling docked in New York. The ship’s captain told the state’s governor that he was carrying a passenger (Franklin) who owned “a great many Books” — and the governor immediately sent for Franklin and invited him to dinner. The two had never met before. Now, if Josiah (my editor here) was to tell me about a guy he knew who owned a lot of books, I’d be happy for the guy, but I wouldn’t be moved to meet him on the spot. Everyone has books today! But back then they didn’t, apparently, and they meant something much more than they do now. They meant something important enough to form an immediate bond between two strangers.

Books — and Reading — seem to have meant Education and Learning. And this was highly esteemed. Is it still esteemed today?

Among the educated, yes. Among the not-so-educated, perhaps not. This societal division existed in Franklin’s time: the fact the Captain was so eager to meet another man of learning indicates that there weren’t many around. Similarly, people today who are well-read tend to seek out like company. I guess there’s no great difference here between Franklin’s era and ours.

But try this: in Franklin’s day, perhaps, the not-so-educated cared about education more. They thought it important. They valued the quality of bettering oneself. Not universally, of course, but generally speaking, the American public valued self-improvement. This is the picture I pick up from another anecdote about Franklin’s father. If my father were to discover a series of letters in which I was debating an issue with a friend, he would be impressed by the discussion; the thought of critiquing my eloquence wouldn’t arise. But to Franklin’s father, eloquence was so important that he pulled his son aside for a parental lecture.

Americans in Franklin’s day saw the humanities as the greatest expression of their culture. Today, we see the sciences and technology as the greatest expression of a culture. Our metaphysic has changed, and our axiology has changed with it. If high-tech stuff is the most important thing in life, education isn’t as necessary as training is. “Why bother learning skills and ideas you’re never going to use?” You don’t need to read much to build a MacBook. Nor do you need to be particularly eloquent — unless you’re selling something. We’ve lost the idea that reading and eloquence should train us to delight in beauty and goodness; that education is ultimately for growing in wisdom; that truth is more than an owner’s manual.

I want to go back. I want to go back to the time when reading meant something — when having many books demonstrated one’s desire for knowledge. I want to go back to the time when poetry was esteemed, when the good life was more important than the comfortable one.

Who knows — perhaps God will work to change this culture even in my lifetime?