In recent years, a number of online alternatives to colleges and universities have been established, of which the Lyceum is but one, even as these conventional institutions expand their own digital presence. Many reasons spur on these alternatives—cost, time, location, curriculum, and so on—but the principal reason (at the very least, for the Lyceum’s existence) appears to be that they provide for a need that, by and large, the contemporary institution of conventional higher education does not. Simply put: real education cannot be lifeless.
Higher Mechanization
The top floor of Beatty Hall—a squat concrete brutalist monstrosity of the 1960s, a small echo of Boston’s City Hall some three miles away, and the central hub of the Wentworth Institute of Technology—exemplifies the modern university. Divided between offices, classrooms, and both media and study rooms, and sitting above a two-story library, it seems a well-organized place for intellectual life, the kind of environment where one might really get things done. The building received an extensive high-tech renovation in the mid-2010s. Despite the brutalist exterior, they have managed to remove oppression from the interior feel of the building. “Solid bones,” one thinks, walking through the halls.
And yet, very little seemed to be happening—especially on that top floor, which housed the humanities department. Classes met, and professors worked in their offices. But what were they really doing? I could not tell you. A large common office space was set aside for adjunct professors (such being my own glorious title from 2016-17); and yet, despite the large number of adjuncts employed for teaching in the department, seldom was this office occupied by more than one or two persons. Usually these came in only to deposit belongings between classes or to print materials. Hush settled on the room—just as it did on the halls outside.
Aside from my interview and one or two complaints about a copier, not once did I have a conversation with another faculty member. Seldom did I hear them converse with one another. What I overheard from other adjuncts was mostly about needing to head to some other school to teach some other class. When I looked into the faces of the full-time faculty, I saw what looked as tiredness and disappointment. When they spoke amongst themselves, naught reached my ears but bureaucratic concerns.
During my relatively-brief time living in Boston, I spent many hours not only at Wentworth but also at Northeastern (right across the street and where I offered private tutoring); I walked and wandered often around the campuses of MIT and Harvard (and walked many times past and through the buildings of Suffolk without even realizing it was a university); I even once interviewed at Tufts (the loveliest campus in the area). While living in Houston, I studied for six years and taught for three at the University of St. Thomas. From each school, however long or brief the experience, I received and retain the same impression: each is organized, a body, with diverse parts performing distinct functions. But there is no life, because there is no soul. No heart. Not even a mind. Just a machine.
What appears as unity is artificial at best, and mostly illusory.
The Soul of Education
By contrast—and to be clear, my alma mater does have people preserving an intellectual life, but despite the structure of the institution rather than through it—there exist some institutions where the soul of education leaps out as soon as one steps onto campus. My own undergraduate, the ill-fated Southern Catholic College, possessed such a soul. It was a startup school, and, mind you, far from well-organized. Classes were held in a modular building, in the old ballroom of a conference center, in the guest rooms of a disused golf resort villa—many populated by rickety tables and folding chairs. Our library comprised only few more volumes than my personal collection today (and mostly books nobody would want to read anyway). No bookstore served us. The computers worked… begrudgingly. But there was a beating heart and a growing mind, a life.
The life was all too short; it died of criminal neglect and incompetence from its caretakers. But it lived. One can find this life at other colleges, too. When visiting schools some decades ago, I could see it at Thomas Aquinas College in California, and though perhaps not as vitally, at Christendom and Benedictine as well. From what I hear, life makes itself known at St. John’s. Assuredly there are others still. The soul that animates each and by which they commonly fulfill their purpose is the liberal arts. These arts order themselves and their students toward a transcendent end. We see this in faculty and students alike. It radiates from chapels and classrooms into stairwells and dining halls.
Soul turns to spirit in the air, ennobling life elevating each and all in conversation. Thinking inspires wonder. Poor instruments may fulfill noble aspirations. Living that transcendental order, students and faculty form meaningful relationships. True mentorships and friendships alike come into being.
“the conversation of all is a series of lectures to each, and they gain for themselves new ideas and views, fresh matter of thought, and distinct principles for judging and acting, day by day.”
John Henry Newman 1852: The Idea of a University
But it is notable that these schools all are structured around undergraduate education. No doubt, such remains important. But does the life of higher education end after four years? Do we not need continued intellectual vigor?
Purpose of the University
Thus I would like to propose several questions for our upcoming Philosophical Happy Hour:
- What is or was the purpose of the University as distinct from the undergraduate college?
- Can it still fulfill this purpose? If so, how? If not, why—and do we need alternatives?
- How are the liberal arts the soul of an educational institution, and how does this soul organize the parts of that institute?
- What else has caused the university to lose its way?
Philosophical Happy Hour
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Come join us for drinks (adult or otherwise) and a meaningful conversation. Open to the public! Held every Wednesday from 5:45–7:15pm ET.
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