Catholic Studies For What? Pt.I
Last month Dr Don Briel died of acute leukaemia, one month after diagnosis. He was a man I barely knew, but whose example is greatly impressed in my mind. My memories of him are few but lasting: the enticing and encouraging introductory conversation I had with him during my prospective visit to Sitzmann Hall; the enlightening discussion on Newman over coffee we had a few months before my graduation from the MA program; and the many times in between that I saw him sitting quietly and contemplatively in the pew to the rear right of Church during daily mass, there before I'd arrive, and remaining after I'd leave. In my inconsistent attendance, he was always faithfully there in that pew whenever I found the time to show up. He was the founder of Catholic Studies, a Center and department within the University of St. Thomas, MN, where I gained my master’s degree. Indeed, those all-too-swift two years of graduate study contributed to my intellectual formation and growth in a way I did not know was possible. With the passing of this great man, of whom there has been written some moving articles over the past few weeks, I have felt compelled to share this reflective essay which has remained dormant and unfinished for a few years. Indeed, Dr Briel himself encouraged me to do so a week before he died, commenting that “it touches on essential aspects of contemporary higher education and culture.” I am indebted to the man’s legacy and feel thus obliged to do so. It will be released in three separate posts, beginning with this one. The opinions contained below are merely my own and are not intended to mimic any of those I have worked with or studied under. These are just the words of an alumnus reflecting on his education.
By far the most common question I was asked over the months concluding my Master of Arts program in Catholic Studies was “what are you going to do with that?” I was often met with a reaction of befuddlement after I explained the interdisciplinary nature of the degree—a sum of two years spent examining Christ’s impact on human culture. I had regrettably come to accept this commonplace ignorance, indicative of an implicitly instrumental interpretation of higher education held by many. My disguised frustration with the inquiry only increased with the frequency of its occurrence. During the occasional conversation with irreligious individuals, the consequent question irrevocably followed, despite the wedding band on my ring-finger: “are you going to priest-school?” I must express that I don’t doubt the sincerity of those questions, nor do I not appreciate the intentionality of those kind-hearted individuals who took a genuine interest in my future. And I also acknowledge that my irritation was probably due to the realization of my imminent leaving of academia and entering the working world, seemingly handicapped by my choice. I was asked similar questions at the conclusion of my Philosophy degree, to which then I was able to confidently utter the firm response of "graduate studies," if only temporarily.
The question also alludes to a certain conception of education that is of great concern to me, especially now as a teacher. With the implied necessity of the career-focused utility of university studies, the modern university has become a soulless mechanism for making specialized professionals. It appears to me that such ideology has been a catalyst for an increasing number of Catholic universities compromising their expressly religious identity for the sake of competing within an increasingly culturally diverse and instrumentalized academic “marketplace”. Now more than ever, in the industry of education, pluralism is a prized mark of prestige, and the competition is fierce. A strong Catholic identity can apparently compromise a university in this regard. But this epidemic is not only a threat to schools of a religious persuasion, but also to the secular academy as a whole, particularly as concerns the humanities, and financial incentives often marginalize the humanities, due to their comparatively minimal economic value or professional orientation.
I studied for a Bachelor of Arts degree in my home country, at a large British world-class research university. During my education at the secular institution, I volunteered as a student representative for my philosophy class of 2014. Attending student-staff liaison committees and school board meetings on behalf of around 200 fellow undergrads, it was in this internal capacity that I first encountered the tenuous and complicated relationship between university faculty and administrative staff. Targets were ceaselessly supplied and lines constantly drawn by the tyrannical overseers, serving the interests of the university budget, but at the apparent expense of the individual autonomy of the department. During one meeting, a Wittgensteinian scholar (of which there were several in the department) reacted defensively towards pressures being put upon philosophy faculty to embrace certain “innovative” technological changes. This was primarily a revision of the information technology and library systems utilized by the school, but of arguably minimal benefit both to students and staff of our discipline. “The university administration should be there to support the department faculty;” he bemoaned, “not the department conforming to the demands of the administration. It’s bureaucracy.”
I soon learnt that this lack of subsidiarity was not a theme merely restricted to philosophy, but was found recurring throughout all the arts and humanities at the university, with the exception of its flagship creative writing program. Programs must justify their existence in today's market economy, but if this is simply determined by the financial incentives of the university, there is a severe problem with the philosophy of education. It profits an institution nothing to gain the whole world and to lose its soul, but regrettably, many such places are willing to do exactly that. By the end of my first year, the School of Music was permanently dissolved on the grounds that its “future prospects [were] so challenging,” despite being ranked by The Guardian as the 8th best program of its kind in the country during the year of its announced closure—an action that, to this day, I still cannot fully get my head around. The following year after my graduation, the School of Philosophy was amalgamated into a larger department encompassing politics, language and communication studies. Cuts to the humanities; expansion in the STEM disciplines. This is not an anomaly in contemporary academia.
The structural changes that I witnessed were undoubtedly motivated by financial pressures. If such departments could be grouped together, or worse, disbanded, valuable assets could be redirected elsewhere—predominantly, towards income-generating professionally specialized degrees along with the research these schools produce. Such revisions are purportedly motivated by the need to protect the economic viability of the institution as a whole, but at what cost to the intellectual life of its students? In order to justify their existence, humanities departments often resort to specializing in an acute branch of a discipline, with departments touting strengths in some small sub-topic or thinker, almost becoming a pseudo-science in their approach to the study. But when my final year dissertation comprised of studying a minute detail of Tarskian semantic theory (don’t ask, I can’t remember), I realized the overspecialization of modern research-based academia led me down a rabbit burrow which left me feeling intellectually claustrophobic and academically suffocated. I won't deny that my ego was boosted in the process, feeling that, as a third-year undergrad, I was dealing with some pretty dense analytical stuff, but in all honesty, I didn't have a blooming clue what I was talking about.
I yearned to stretch and breathe, and the Promised Land beckoned. For a young practising Catholic in post-Christian Western Europe, America seemed as-such. Though it was not the hope to establish a new life in a land of unbridled prosperity, but rather the freedom and resources in which to cultivate a rational faith with proficiency and vitality. A crop struggles in arid soil but thrives in wet and fertile lands. I was spiritually and intellectually thirsty, and the United States gave me to drink.
The question also alludes to a certain conception of education that is of great concern to me, especially now as a teacher. With the implied necessity of the career-focused utility of university studies, the modern university has become a soulless mechanism for making specialized professionals. It appears to me that such ideology has been a catalyst for an increasing number of Catholic universities compromising their expressly religious identity for the sake of competing within an increasingly culturally diverse and instrumentalized academic “marketplace”. Now more than ever, in the industry of education, pluralism is a prized mark of prestige, and the competition is fierce. A strong Catholic identity can apparently compromise a university in this regard. But this epidemic is not only a threat to schools of a religious persuasion, but also to the secular academy as a whole, particularly as concerns the humanities, and financial incentives often marginalize the humanities, due to their comparatively minimal economic value or professional orientation.
I studied for a Bachelor of Arts degree in my home country, at a large British world-class research university. During my education at the secular institution, I volunteered as a student representative for my philosophy class of 2014. Attending student-staff liaison committees and school board meetings on behalf of around 200 fellow undergrads, it was in this internal capacity that I first encountered the tenuous and complicated relationship between university faculty and administrative staff. Targets were ceaselessly supplied and lines constantly drawn by the tyrannical overseers, serving the interests of the university budget, but at the apparent expense of the individual autonomy of the department. During one meeting, a Wittgensteinian scholar (of which there were several in the department) reacted defensively towards pressures being put upon philosophy faculty to embrace certain “innovative” technological changes. This was primarily a revision of the information technology and library systems utilized by the school, but of arguably minimal benefit both to students and staff of our discipline. “The university administration should be there to support the department faculty;” he bemoaned, “not the department conforming to the demands of the administration. It’s bureaucracy.”
I soon learnt that this lack of subsidiarity was not a theme merely restricted to philosophy, but was found recurring throughout all the arts and humanities at the university, with the exception of its flagship creative writing program. Programs must justify their existence in today's market economy, but if this is simply determined by the financial incentives of the university, there is a severe problem with the philosophy of education. It profits an institution nothing to gain the whole world and to lose its soul, but regrettably, many such places are willing to do exactly that. By the end of my first year, the School of Music was permanently dissolved on the grounds that its “future prospects [were] so challenging,” despite being ranked by The Guardian as the 8th best program of its kind in the country during the year of its announced closure—an action that, to this day, I still cannot fully get my head around. The following year after my graduation, the School of Philosophy was amalgamated into a larger department encompassing politics, language and communication studies. Cuts to the humanities; expansion in the STEM disciplines. This is not an anomaly in contemporary academia.
The structural changes that I witnessed were undoubtedly motivated by financial pressures. If such departments could be grouped together, or worse, disbanded, valuable assets could be redirected elsewhere—predominantly, towards income-generating professionally specialized degrees along with the research these schools produce. Such revisions are purportedly motivated by the need to protect the economic viability of the institution as a whole, but at what cost to the intellectual life of its students? In order to justify their existence, humanities departments often resort to specializing in an acute branch of a discipline, with departments touting strengths in some small sub-topic or thinker, almost becoming a pseudo-science in their approach to the study. But when my final year dissertation comprised of studying a minute detail of Tarskian semantic theory (don’t ask, I can’t remember), I realized the overspecialization of modern research-based academia led me down a rabbit burrow which left me feeling intellectually claustrophobic and academically suffocated. I won't deny that my ego was boosted in the process, feeling that, as a third-year undergrad, I was dealing with some pretty dense analytical stuff, but in all honesty, I didn't have a blooming clue what I was talking about.
I yearned to stretch and breathe, and the Promised Land beckoned. For a young practising Catholic in post-Christian Western Europe, America seemed as-such. Though it was not the hope to establish a new life in a land of unbridled prosperity, but rather the freedom and resources in which to cultivate a rational faith with proficiency and vitality. A crop struggles in arid soil but thrives in wet and fertile lands. I was spiritually and intellectually thirsty, and the United States gave me to drink.
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