Teaching in rural America, if boiled down, is rooted in tension rather than tradition: certainty and inquiry. While this is, of course, my view on the subject, I still believe it holds true in most contexts. This tension, for example, draws most strongly from pragmatism, particularly the work of John Dewey, alongside elements of humanism and reconstructionism. Dewey’s insistence that knowledge emerges from experience and reflection challenges the very static notion of truth[1], while humanist traditions emphasize the dignity and agency of the learner (Gibbons, 2019). Reconstructionism, meanwhile, presses education toward social responsibility, a rather relevant concern in rural America, where life is bound by community and often deeply engaged with identity and economic survival. 

However, these philosophical traditions exhibit a particular potency in rural contexts: Christianity, specifically evangelical Christianity, the dominant religion in rural America, is not treated as mere belief but as a structure of certainty. See, man often surrounds himself with what feels like common sense and comfort, preferring stability; choosing what is familiar and reassuring rather than exposing himself to ideas that might unsettle him or challenge what he assumes to be true.

In many rural communities, truth is not provisional: it is revealed. Revealed not for man, but by man. Which, by reduction, raises a philosophical question: what happens when education, which thrives on questioning, enters a space grounded in answers provided by platinum[2] men? Or more provocatively: If truth is already known, what is the purpose of learning?

Rather than rejecting religious certainty, my philosophy seeks to engage it critically while recognizing that certainty itself can be both grounding and limiting. If, as some traditions hold, God is ‘true,’ then one must ask whether that truth calls for intellectual stillness or intellectual pursuit. Would certainty, left unexamined, truly honor creation in all its complexity? Certainty itself is the believer’s worst nightmare. Would it not risk reducing it to something already fully known and therefore no longer questioned? These questions are, in fact, meant to destabilize belief, but to also treat inquiry not as opposition to faith but as a way of committing to it. In this sense, education is not positioned as a threat to belief, as many of this age do, but as a continued exploration of it, an unfolding conversation between what is believed, what is experienced in one’s life, and what remains to be understood.

Beliefs About Education and Learning

The human purpose for, and of, education is not the transmission of certainty, but instead the cultivation of its own understanding. This distinction matters. Clearly. Certainty closes; understanding opens. In education, especially in its rural context, where learners interact directly with living systems, such as, but not limited to, soil, animals, and weather, knowledge cannot remain abstract or fixed. Instead, man must test, revise, and then live. Learning, which, in this argument, is what is told true by platinum men, then, is an experiential and interpretive process. Individuals can finally acquire true knowledge through engagement with their environment, through failure as well as success, and through dialogue with others. Everything that man does, in some sense, reveals what is true to experience. While man may “feel” God, man cannot prove God in an empirical sense, but he can demonstrate what is true within lived existence—what is observable, experienced, and tested in the world. However, strong religious certainty complicates this process. Foolish Galatians.[3] If a learner believes that the ultimate truth is already known, inquiry is viewed as unnecessary—or even dangerous. Thus, can man genuinely inquire (i.e., fully learn) while believing the answer is already given? Is questioning an act of doubt, or an act of faith? Questions for you, not me. 

I argue that inquiry is not the enemy of certainty, but instead its testing ground. A belief that cannot withstand questioning is fragile, not strong. Thus, true education should not seek to dismantle certainty, but to refine it. In this sense, learning becomes an act of interpretation: not “What is true?” alone, but “How do we understand what we believe to be true?” Furthering my point, context is crucial. Rural education does not occur in a vacuum; it occurs within communities shaped by religion and often economic constraint. Therefore, learning must be situated and somehow connected to real problems, real land, and real lives. To teach is not simply to teach technique; it is to engage questions of stewardship and meaning.

Role of the Educator

Within this framework, the educator is neither an authority who imposes knowledge nor a passive facilitator who withdraws from guidance. Instead, the educator serves as a mediator between certainty and inquiry. While difficult, the educator(s), who most certainly do not have the aptitude or skills necessary to facilitate such things in the classroom, have to strike a delicate balance between the two. On the one hand, the educator must respect the deeply held beliefs of rural communities, including religious convictions that may seem questionable, if not stupid and ‘immoral.’ On the other hand, the educator must create space for questioning and tangible intellectual growth. Another difficult question arises: is it the educator’s role to challenge belief or to work within it? My position is that the educator should do both—but indirectly. Rather than confronting certainty head-on, the educator can introduce complexity through experience not known to the child. For example, in agricultural contexts, presenting real-world problems, such as climate variability and soil degradation, naturally invites inquiry. While biased inquiry is certainly the case, problems resist simple answers, even within a framework of faith.

The educator’s responsibility, then, is to design learning environments where questions emerge organically. This includes curriculum decisions that emphasize problem-solving, instruction that values dialogue over lecture, and engagement strategies that honor local knowledge (and examples) while introducing foreign perspectives. Ultimately, the educator must ask: Am I teaching students what to think, or how to think? And if I teach them how to think, where might that lead them? This uncertainty is not a weakness of education; it is its defining feature.

Implications for Practice

In practice, my philosophy leads to an inquiry-driven, context-sensitive, and philosophically reflective approach to education. First, I would prioritize experiential learning. Field-based activities and applied research allow learners to encounter complexity and its effects directly. In these settings, certainty is not denied; rather, it is tested against reality. A crop either grows or it does not; a method either works or it fails. These experiences naturally raise questions about one’s own faith and standing. Second, I would foster dialogue. In rural communities, knowledge is often communal rather than individual. Here, the goal is not to replace local knowledge but to expand it with something that prompts an individual to think about truth. Third, I would remain attentive to the role of belief. Rather than viewing Christianity as an obstacle, I would treat it as a lens through which learners interpret their world. Indeed, further questioning: if humans are stewards of creation, what does responsible agriculture look like? If truth is divine, how should we approach scientific discovery? These questions bridge faith and inquiry rather than separating them. Finally, my philosophy requires humility. Something, my writing proves to me, I am not good at. As an educator, I must accept that I do not control what learners ultimately believe or conclude. This raises perhaps the most fundamental question: What is the measure of successful teaching? Agreement, or growth? While this course sought to address such issues, I argue that growth—intellectual, practical, and reflective—is the true aim.

In rural America, where certainty is often as deep red as blood, education has a unique role. It does not erase belief, as many claim, nor should it. Instead, it invites individuals to live more thoughtfully and responsively within their beliefs. If certainty seeks answers, education seeks a sort of understanding. And perhaps the most faithful response to truth is not to declare it final, but to continue seeking it.

[1] The idea being that what we learn is treated as truth at a given moment, but new experiences reshape or even overturn what we previously understood as true.

[2] Platinum men (noun): adult males—such as fathers, guardians, or authority figures, who are perceived by a child as inherently correct. A “platinum man” is defined not by objective infallibility, but by the child’s attribution of certainty and authority, wherein the adult is assumed to embody reliable truth, guidance, and judgment without error (cf. Freud, The Ego and the Id, 1923, etc).

[3] Galatians 3:1.