You won’t be surprised that religion comes up often in my courses.  It would be surprising if it didn’t, since they include topics like religion and politics in American thought (ending with the culture wars), the intellectual influences on the American Founding (which included a lot more theology than you might think), and Thomas Aquinas (the great medieval theologian and philosopher).

I encourage students to express their views, and even to be willing to disagree with me and with each other, so long as they are polite and give reasons for their views.

Some students believe in God.  I get that, though I may ask them how they arrived at their belief.

Some students think there isn’t any God.  I get that, though I may ask them what unconditional commitment, what ultimate concern, what “god” takes the place of God in their life.

Some students aren’t sure whether God exists.  I get that too, though I may ask them whether they are living as though He does exist or as though He doesn’t, and why.

But other students say they don’t think about it.  “I’m not religious.”

And I don’t get that.

You might think such students think plenty, but just don’t want to disclose what they’ve been thinking.  That would be plausible if I had put them on the spot, for example if I had asked shy Miss Pickerell, “What do you think about God?”  Usually, though, the statement “I’m not religious” is volunteered in general discussion, by people who would have been free to remain silent.

“I’m not religious” expresses neither belief, disbelief, nor uncertainty.  What then does it express?

Does it express lack of interest?  Suppose a large asteroid is on its way to earth, where it might wipe out all life upon impact.  You ask me, “What do you think?”, and I reply “I’m not very astronomical.”  It might be like that.

Does it express a taste?  Suppose I’ve accidentally ingested poison.  You offer me the antidote, which happens to be flavored, and I reply, “I don’t much care for cherry.”  It might be like that.

Does it express a preference?  Suppose I’ve been listening to Cardi B, and you’re getting ready to go to a Handel concert.  You ask, “Would you like to come along?”, and I reply “I prefer a different kind of music.”  It might be like that.

Or does it express a personality trait?  Suppose it’s flu season.  You ask, “Do you think we’ll catch it?”, and I answer, “According to the Myers-Briggs personality test, I’m INTP, so it’s not likely that I think so, is it?”  It might be like that.

But such responses would miss the point.  “God exists” is a truth claim.  What believers mean by God is that on which everything else depends, that for which everything else exists, that in which all other meaning originates:  That in Whom lies our sole chance of ultimate fulfillment.   He isn’t a hobby.  He isn’t a flavor.  You might not believe that the Most Important Thing is real – but how is it possible that you don’t care either way?

Maybe not caring isn’t possible.  The very first sentence of the pagan philosopher Aristotle’s Metaphysics declares, “All men by nature desire to know.”  Thomas Aquinas views the desire to seek the truth of things as baked into our being, right up there with the desire to share our lives with others in a way that makes sense.  Plants preserve themselves.  Male and female animals unite to carry on the species.   Human beings do those things too, but we are more.  We are rational animals.  We can’t not want to know what is true and what everything means, and the greatest truth is the truth about God.

If these thinkers are right, then the statement “I’m not religious” may reflect a sort of false consciousness.  The person who utters it experiences the same impulse to know the truth of things that we all do.  But he holds the urge down, seeks to divert it, tries not to think about it.

What sense does it make to hold down our most powerful desire, the desire to know the Most Important Thing, and guided by that knowledge, to possess the Greatest Good -- to repress the very desire which indelibly stamps our nature as human?

Even the strongest critics of the sweeping pardon of Hunter Biden are careful to praise the president for fatherly compassion.  Compassion is especially due toward those to whom we are closest.  But was the president truly compassionate?

The feeling of compassion is not the same as the virtue of compassion.  Feelings cannot steer themselves.  That’s virtue's job.

Some years ago, I caught a student cheating – hardly an unusual event.  What was unusual was that his father came to my office about it.  I wrote up a slightly fictionalized account of it for a webzine for college students, and it’s reproduced below.  The real conversation was a lot more awkward, and this version has a better ending than the real one did.  But maybe it will give some idea of what I think it means to love a gravely erring son.

+++++  +  +++++

"Professor Budziszewski?  How do you do?"  My visitor gave me his business card.

"How do you do?" I glanced at the unfamiliar company logo and put the card in my pocket.  "Are you a used textbook buyer?"

He was smiling, but he didn't seem happy.  "No, ah, the name's Hittite.  Ralph Hittite."  When I said nothing, he prompted "Father of Tom Hittite."

Memory snapped into place.  "Of course.  My student.  Please sit down, Mr. Hittite."  I offered him coffee, which he refused.

Again the ingratiating smile.  "I understand, Professor, that you and Tom had a little disagreement."

"There was no disagreement," I said pleasantly.  "He whined a little, but I caught him with the goods."

"The goods?"

"Two pages of his take-home exam were from a 'free term paper' website.  Another two had been copied from another student in the same course.  The conclusion was copied straight from the encyclopedia.  Without acknowledgement, of course."  I gestured toward my desk.  "Would you like to see the essay?"

Mr. Hittite shook his head.  "No, that won't be necessary."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"About his -- well, about his punishment."

"Good.  But he must have told you the university's arrangements.  Were you referring to your own?"

"My own?"

"I mean how you're going to punish him.  You do want what's good for him."

"Of course, but --"

"I thought so."

"I don't think you understand me, Professor.  I wanted to talk to you about your recommendation."

"Mine?"  I was taken aback.  It hardly seemed my place to tell him how to discipline his son.  I only knew that Tom Hittite lived at home and that he had cheated on my take-home exam.  Still, his father had asked for my advice, and the least I could do was advise him.

"Well, Mr. Hittite, if my son had been suspended for cheating, I'd tell him that the free ride was over.  Until he was readmitted, I'd expect him to get a job and pay room and board -- at market rates.  I'd also expect him to start contributing to the cost of his education.  If acquiring knowledge means so little to a young man that he's willing to plagiarize the work of others, he needs to pay a higher price to learn its worth."

"Professor -- I'm afraid I'm not making myself clear.  It's your recommendation to the dean that I'm trying to understand."

"Oh, I see," I replied.  "Didn't Tom tell you about that?  I recommended a one-semester suspension from the university.  Of course he also gets an F in the course, but I don't need the dean's okay for that."

Mr. Hittite shook his head.  "It just seems all wrong to me."

I nodded.  "It does to me, too.  Suspension for cheating should be automatic."

"That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean?"

"Really, Professor!  A one-semester suspension?  Isn't that ridiculous?"

"I agree with you," I replied.  "When the university was founded, students caught cheating were expelled.  That would never happen now.  I considered recommending a full-year suspension, but the dean would never go for it."

"Professor, are you telling me that my son's penalty should be even harsher than it is already?"

Suddenly this strange conversation came into focus for me.  "Mr. Hittite, are you telling me that his penalty should be even more lenient than it is already?"

"Lenient is hardly the word I would have chosen."

"What do you propose?  No suspension, just an F for the course?"

"Not even that."

I was amazed.  "An F for the exam but not the course?"

"Why should he receive an F at all?  Just have him write the essay over again.  Give him a chance to prove himself."

"He did have a chance to prove himself.  He proved himself to be dishonest."

"But the purpose of the exam is to find out how well he understands the material, isn't it?  And you still haven't found that out."

"That's right -- because instead of using his chance to show me, he cheated."

"Shouldn't a young man even have a second chance?"

"He does have a second chance."

"But you said --"

"Mr. Hittite, the second chance is that after Tom's suspension is up – if he is suspended, and there is no telling whether that will really happen[*] -- he'll be readmitted to the university on disciplinary probation.  He can still get his degree; it will just take him four months longer to earn it.  In the course of a whole life, four months is nothing.  Honesty is a gain worth many times four months."

Mr. Hittite didn't answer; he merely spread his hands in vexation.  I began to see the problem; he simply didn't believe that his son should be held accountable.  With such an upbringing, no wonder Tom cheated.

"May I ask what you do for a living, sir?"

"I'm a certified public accountant."

"What would happen if an accountant were caught stealing?"

"He'd lose his job.  Probably his license.  But Tom hasn't stolen."

"He has.  He stole credit for the intellectual labor of other people, and he tried to steal a grade."

"That's no big deal."

"I beg your pardon, but it is.  Intellectual dishonesty in my vocation is like financial dishonesty in yours.  Knowledge is a university's only reason for existence."

"But Tom is just a boy!"

"How old is he -- nineteen?"

"Twenty."

"That is pretty young, isn't it?  I suppose you pick out his clothes for him in the morning."

"Don't be absurd."

"Well, no, I guess you wouldn't do that.  But you choose his friends for him, don't you?  And you tell him when to go to bed and whether to eat all his peas."

"Of course not!"

"Why not?"

"For heaven's sake, he's an adult!"

I folded my hands and let what he had just said sink in.  He reddened slightly, but wasn't ready to quit.

"I mean he's becoming an adult."

"How does someone become an adult?" I asked.

"By making a lot of mistakes," he answered.  "That's what you don't seem to understand, Professor.  Didn't you make mistakes when you were young?"

"I certainly did," I smiled.  "I started early, too.  In childhood."

"There, you see?"

"You, too?"

"Of course!"

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.  "I can still remember my first crime.  When I was five years old, my parents took me to the grocery store and I stole a cherry.  I'll never forget what happened next."

"What happened?"

"When my Dad saw what I was chewing, he marched me up to the produce manager and made me confess my crime.  The two of them discussed in deep voices whether I should go to jail.  I didn’t go to jail, but my Dad sure made me pay a price."

I laughed.  Despite himself, so did Mr. Hittite.  It was a little tight, but it was a laugh.

"So you too pursued a life of crime?" I asked.

"Yes, but you got off easy," he said.  "When I was ten and my father caught me stealing apples from our neighbor's tree, he took me to the woodshed.  We still had woodsheds in my part of the country."  We laughed again.  "He said it would 'build character.'"

I chuckled.  "I guess it did."

"Indeed it did.  Yes, indeed."

We were silent for a moment.

"This is what I don't understand, Mr. Hittite.  Don't you want your son to have character too?"

He stiffened again.  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"But you do.  You told a wonderful story just now.  But the moral of your story was different than the moral you told me a few minutes earlier.  You said then that we become adults by making mistakes, but that's not how you and I became adults.  We became adults not through doing wrong, but through being held accountable when we did."

"As I told you," he said tautly, "I just want what's best for my son."

"What's best for him is what your Dad gave you."

"A twenty-year-old is too old to be taken to the woodshed, Professor."

"You're right.  But he's not too old for other treatment."

Mr. Hittite continued smoldering.  Why couldn't he see the point?

"Did you resent your father for punishing you?" I asked.

"Resent him!"  He was offended.  "I loved my old man."

"Are you now afraid that your son won't love you?"  It was just a shot in the dark.

He stared at me.  A full minute passed.

Still stiffly, he said "So you don't think I should get him off the hook."

"I think you should help keep him on it.  For the sake of your love for him."

Another few seconds passed.

"He doesn't know I came here today."

"Are you going to tell him?"

He looked at me, considering.  "Maybe not."

Perhaps I had got through to him after all.  I knew he'd never tell me.

He stood up abruptly and put out his hand.  "Well, thank you."

We shook hands formally, and he left.

_______

[*] As it turns out, the University didn’t accept my recommendation for even a one-semester suspension – and in fact, the University has never agreed to suspend any student whom I have ever caught cheating, regardless of the seriousness of the offense.  Apparently the disciplinary authorities agree with Mr. Hittite.  And Mr. Biden.

For generations, Americans took for granted that if you want a happy and virtuous nation, it will have to be a religious nation.  George Washington thought so:

Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity, religion and morality are indispensable supports.  In vain would that man claim the tribute of patriotism, who should labor to subvert these great pillars of human happiness, these firmest props of the duties of men and citizens.  The mere politician, equally with the pious man, ought to respect and to cherish them.  A volume could not trace all their connections with private and public felicity.  Let it simply be asked: Where is the security for property, for reputation, for life, if the sense of religious obligation desert the oaths which are the instruments of investigation in courts of justice?  And let us with caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion.  Whatever may be conceded to the influence of refined education on minds of peculiar structure, reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle.

He also thought religion necessary to self-government:

It is substantially true that virtue or morality is a necessary spring of popular government.  The rule, indeed, extends with more or less force to every species of free government.  Who that is a sincere friend to it can look with indifference upon attempts to shake the foundation of the fabric?

The idea that irreligion would shake the foundation of the fabric is very close to saying that it would bring on degeneracy, division, and culture war.

Some of my students find this claim plausible, and wonder whether we are in trouble.  Some of them push back:  “I’m not religious, and I think I’m pretty virtuous.”  Sometimes they are even offended:  “Where does anyone get the right to judge me?”

But that is beside the point, because judging people is not the issue.  There is only one important question:  Is what people like Washington believed true?  Does a nation’s virtue depend on its religion?

Interestingly, investigators consistently find that religious people differ significantly from non-religious people in self-reported moral behavior.   For example, religious people turn out to be much more likely to give to charitable causes.  Do they still differ if we subtract charitable giving to religious organizations from total charitable giving?  As it turns out, yes, they still do, very much.

Non-religious people also turn out to be more likely to excuse lying and adultery.  Of course it’s possible, say, that the religious people are lying about how much they lie.  Even so, wouldn’t people be more likely to do what they consider acceptable than what they don’t?

But if we want to understand the culture wars, we still haven’t reached the heart of the matter.  Sure, non-religious people report higher levels of such conduct as unfaithfulness to their marital vows.  But how exactly do they view the practice?  Maybe they aren’t falling below the standard, but using a different standard.

After all, even a religious person might fall into commit adultery, and if he does, he is likely to say “It’s very wrong, but I slipped and did it anyway."  Such a culprit isn’t challenging the principle that unfaithfulness is wrong.  He agrees that he has sinned.

Today, though, we also find people expressing very different attitudes.  Let’s list a few, ordering them on a scale from least hostile to most hostile to the norm of marital fidelity.

1.  "It's wrong, but it’s not very wrong."

2.  "Maybe sometimes it isn’t wrong."

3.  “Who can tell whether it’s wrong?  There are fifty shades of gray.”

4.  "Maybe it’s wrong for you, but right for me.”

5.  “What do you mean, ‘wrong,’ you bigot?  The whole idea of marital faithfulness is wrong and oppressive.  Up with fluidity!  Bring on polyamory!  Smash the patriarchy!”

Especially with that last attitude, we are well into culture war territory.  We are no longer talking about whether non-religious people have an easier or a harder time living up to a conceded standard.  Now we are talking about having a radically different standard.

Take another issue:  Abortion.  It’s one thing to say, “I had an abortion, and I wish that it had never happened,” or to say “I wonder if abortion might sometimes be excusable, but I’m not easy in my mind about it.”  A lot of people do say things like that.  But we’re not in Kansas any more, and haven’t been for some time.  The following views are nothing new:

•  Warren Hern holds that pregnancy is a disease, and the cure is to evacuate the uterus of its contents.

•  Eileen McDonagh agrees that taking innocent human life is wrong, but says that deadly force may be used against the living human in the womb because he isn’t innocent -- he “coerces” the woman “to be pregnant against her will.”

•  Ginette Paris writes that we need to “restore abortion to its sacred dimension,” calling it “a sacrifice to Artemis” and “a sacrament for the gift of life to remain pure.”

Here we really have crossed the DMZ.  When one writer thinks abortion is something like having a cavity drilled out, another that it’s something like executing a criminal, and another that it’s something like Holy Communion, we have passed into the realm of culture war proper.

Please notice that I’m not presently saying that such views are wrong, although it’s no secret that I think they are.  I’m only drawing attention to the fact that arguments like these aren’t about living up to traditional moral standards.  They are about profoundly rejecting them.

One of the things that makes the culture war so intense is that disagreements of the sorts which so roil us are also connected with social class.  The sociologist Peter Berger once quipped that if India is the most religious country in the world, and Sweden is the least religious country in the world, then American is a nation of Indians ruled by Swedes.  What he meant is that large numbers of ordinary Americans say that religion is important to them in their daily lives, but very small numbers of our ruling classes take that view.  In fact, although our elites may pay lip service to religion in order to string along the ordinary folk, actually they tend to be either indifferent toward religion or hostile to it.  Often they view it as irrational, divisive, and coercive, although of course they don’t view their own ideas as having such qualities.

But our ruling strata are alienated not only from religion, but also from the moral views traditionally associated with religion.  Take moral beliefs about cheating – in particular, political cheating.

Two widely publicized recent studies by the polling organization RMG Research defined elites as people with at least one postgraduate degree, earning more than $150,000 annually, living in ZIP codes where the population density exceeds 10,000 per square mile.  We’re talking about well-off urban professionals.  It isn’t surprising that the opinions of these people differed strongly from those of ordinary people over a wide range of topics.  The questions included whether respondents would rather cheat than lose a close election.  Only 7% of all voters said yes; 35% of elite voters said yes; and among those elite voters who talked about politics every day, a whopping 69% said yes.

Obviously, being willing to cheat to win a close election violates Jewish and Christian moral standards, according to which cheating is always wrong.  But again, although elite opinions fall short of these standards, I doubt that these elites view themselves as falling short.  It’s much more likely that they think the traditional standards are wrong.  They don’t believe in them.  Do I mean that they have they no moral standards?  Not necessarily.  My guess is that most of them are consequentialists.

A consequentialist is someone who says there are no such things as exceptionless moral rules, such as “Never cheat” or “Never lie to get your way.”  In fact, to a consequentialist, the traditional moral rules are at best just loose rules of thumb with lots and lots of big exceptions.  Why so many?  Because in the consequentialist view, the only thing that makes an action good is its results.  Biblical morality and the natural moral law agree that we must never do evil so that good will result.  But consequentialists think this is nonsense.  “What are you talking about?  If the consequences are good, then the act isn’t evil.”  There are some marriage counselors, for example, who say that a little adultery might be good for your marriage.

A former teacher of mine applied the consequentialist view to politics.  He thought that for political purposes, what he called “ruthlessness” is a virtue, and argued that doing wrong is merely a “moral cost” which has to be paid to get what you want, and that acting that way is praiseworthy.  Interestingly, although he taught for years at the university level, he quit to become a political advisor in one of our presidential administrations.

Now let’s take a step back.  If all this is true, then then what we have come to call the “culture wars” aren’t just a series of disagreements about isolated moral issues like abortion, prayer at the fifty-yard line, and biological men in women’s sports.  Why not?  Because the disputes aren’t isolated, but connected.

•  Beliefs about these things are connected with other moral beliefs.

•  They are connected with religious beliefs.

•  They are connected with social class and elite status.

•  They are connected with beliefs about other aspects of the world, such as American history.

•  Finally, they are connected with beliefs about reality itself.

Anyone who reads this blog knows that I’ve been studying, teaching, and writing about the natural law for years.  I used to be tempted to think that natural law thinking might provide a way to sidestep the culture wars, because a natural law argument doesn’t go “You should reach this conclusion because my religion says so.”  Instead it says “You should reach this conclusion for reasons which should be plausible to any man or woman of good will.”

Well, I still teach and write about natural law, and I still think natural law arguments are helpful and important.  But I no longer so optimistic about how far they help sidestep the culture wars.  They are involved in the culture wars.  The problem is that today, many non-religious people tend to disbelieve not only in divine revelation, as you would expect, but also the observable facts about human nature.  In fact, in the theologically liberal denominations, a lot of people disbelieve in these too.  They view themselves as having the liberty to redefine what it is to be a Jew or a Christian – largely because they view themselves as having the liberty to redefine everything.

Suppose a writer offers Aristotle’s definition of man as a rational animal – an embodied being which acts for reasons.  Today he is likely to be met with the response, “Who is to say what a human is?”

Suppose he alludes to what used to be the nearly universal consensus that a child needs a Mom and a Dad.  He is likely to be answered, “That’s just your biased view.”

Recently, in preparation to write a book I’ve just finished, I studied certain opinions in popular culture.  Among other things, I came across a math teacher who held that saying “Two plus two is four is a universal truth” upholds white supremacy.  You might think he’s an outlier, but it turns out that his view is actually rather common in educational bureaucracies and in schools which teach teachers how to teach.

Another fellow I discovered on one of the social media channels laughed, “Bro everything is arbitrary if we made it up and agreed upon it.”   What he meant was that words don’t refer to really existing things, because reality is just something we make up together.  He isn’t an outlier either.  That view is becoming common, even if not usually put so crudely.

G.K. Chesterton wrote that “There is a thought that stops thought.”  This, perhaps, is it.  For if there is no reality, then we can’t even disagree about it any more.  There is nothing for us to disagree about.  All we can do is spit, hiss, and arch our backs like cats.

“I think abortion is wrong.”  “That’s what you say.”

“I think abortion is right.”  “That’s what you say.”

So there is the lay of the land, at least as I see it.  And maybe you’ll want to answer me, “That’s what you say”!

But I hope not.

In October, Marianna Orlandi of the Austin Institute for the Study of Family and Culture did a podcast with me on “Natural Law – And Why It Is for Everyone.”  The podcast is posted here on the Listen to Talks page of this website, and the article which sparked it is posted here on the Read Articles page.

By the way, the Austin Institute is a wonderful organization.

And by the way, I hope you all have a wonderful, happy Thanksgiving!

Query:

I’m a very-early-career academic.  In my present situation, I don’t perceive any bias against Christian perspectives.  But I do see such bias in the academy at large, and fear that my chances to get hired at a good university will be hampered by having worked in the past at a Christian college, by being a man, and by being white-skinned.  If you have suggestions for how I could mitigate these biases against me in my applications, I would be interested to learn.

Reply:

As you point out, you’ve got three strikes against you.  Worse, the pernicious notion of “intersectionality” will move a lot of academics to hit you with an aggregate bias which is greater than the sum of its three parts.  In general, anyone facing such bias has to be triply good to receive equal treatment.  That’s just a fact of life.  So you will have to work very hard.

But you know that already – and maybe having to work hard isn’t a bad thing.  Let’s see if I can offer some practical suggestions.  First, a small one:

I see from your curriculum vitae that you’ve published a large number of book reviews.  This has advantages and disadvantages.  Reviews may bring your name to the attention of other scholars, especially the authors of the books you review.  They are also much easier to get published than articles in the same journals.  On the other hand, they carry a lot less cachet than articles, and a really good review essay can easily take just as much work to write as an article – sometimes even more.  Consider redirecting some of your energy toward articles and books.  Take this suggestion with a grain of salt, because whether it’s good advice or bad depends partly on your own work patterns.  For instance, I myself find writing book reviews much more onerous than writing articles, and I find getting articles published much more onerous than getting books published.  But you may not.

Now, as to broader strategies:

I see from your CV that you make a lot of presentations at conferences.  In your position, that’s very good, not just because of the exchange of ideas, but also because it gives you an opportunity to discover likeminded scholars at other institutions and make contact with them.  Do that aggressively.  The importance of networking can hardly be exaggerated.  By the way, when you present a paper, don’t depend on the presentation itself to make you known to other scholars.  Step up and introduce yourself personally.   Be frank about your professional goals.  When possible, find out about the background of the person to whom you are speaking ahead of time – after all, you want him to become interested in your work, so you should return the courtesy by being interested in his.

You would also do well to attend not only secular professional association meetings, but also explicitly Christian professional association meetings.  I don’t say that you necessarily list the Christian meetings on your curriculum vitae!  Such fellowship is encouraging in itself.  Moreover, a number of the Christians with whom you will come in contact at such meetings themselves work in secular institutions such as public universities, and may know of opportunities which would interest you.

To make contacts with congenial scholars at universities at which you might like to work, don't depend only on meeting them at conferences.  You can also write to attendees whose work interests you ahead of a conference, saying “I find what you’ve written interesting, and I see that you’re going to be presenting at the So-and-So-Conference.  So am I.  Would you care to have coffee together while we’re there?”  You can also make what salesmen consider “cold calls,” meaning that you write to other scholars without a pretext like an upcoming conference, just because of shared interests.  At a certain stage in correspondence, you can mention (if it would be true), “Say, I’m working on a paper on such and such, and I think you would be an ideal reader.  Would you be willing to glance at it and tell me what you think?”  Be prepared to return the favor.  If you are going to be passing through town, you can even get in touch ahead of time and ask whether it might be possible to get together for a cup of java, or even for lunch.

Your field is English literature.  Such is the corrupted condition of English literature scholarship these days that it may be virtually impossible to get a position in an English department at an institution which you would find interesting.  So what?  You can cast your net more broadly.  At a number of universities, new academic institutes are being organized, not inside of the “line” departments, but alongside them.  Commonly these institutes offer courses and talks about great books, social and political order, philosophy, and all sorts of things universities used to find important but have come to neglect – things which you may be qualified and even pleased to teach.  Occasionally – but this is rarer – it can also happen that a person trained in one discipline is able to capture a niche position in a department of another discipline.  For example, a historian might cross over to a classics department, or an English literature specialist might hybridize a history department.

Now let me elaborate on that idea of casting your net more broadly.  Perhaps I can rattle your thinking a little more.  I’m pirating some the following remarks from a much earlier blog post which most readers probably haven’t read.

When I was in grad school, young people interested in the liberal arts assumed that there was one main way to pursue the life of the mind:  To become an academic – to become a college or university professor.  For four reasons, the assumption is no longer a safe one.  The first two reasons are unhappy ones.  The third is mixed.  The fourth is very happy, so this little disquisition will have a good ending.  But stay with me.

First (an unhappy reason):  University colleges of liberal arts are becoming less and less hospitable to the kinds of scholarship which used to be their hallmark.  Officially, it’s a good thing to study the great literature and thought of the ages and try to extend its insights, and officially, it’s what we all try to do -- but the very phrase “Western civilization” makes many university faculty these days spit like cats.  Officially, the university adheres to no religion -- but the unofficial religion is practical atheism, meaning that you can believe what you want so long as you don’t act as though you believe it matters.  Officially, it enforces no moral code -- but it adheres strongly to what Benedict XVI called the dictatorship of relativism.  In the meantime, fewer and fewer students can read any more at what used to be called a university level.  College is like high school.  Susceptibility to nervousness is considered a reason to be excused from the test.  Academic standards are plummeting.  Teachers who buck the trend are punished with bad reviews, or even disciplinary action.  If you like that sort of thing, you will fit in quite well as a professor.  But if you don’t, you may find it difficult.

Second (another unhappy reason):  The university is hardly a “university” in the original sense any more, because few of its citizens and subjects still believe in the universal truths which tie together all fields of knowledge, and which are the universal calling of all intellects to try to find out.  Having discarded its original mission, the institution tries desperately to justify itself by taking on odd jobs instead.  Some of these odd jobs are worthwhile, but in each case someone else could do it much better or more cheaply.  For instance, granted the merit of football, why do we need a university to field a team?  Granted the merit of job training, why is a university needed to teach recreational administration?  Granted that a certificate of employability might be a good thing, what makes a university the best certifier, or even a good certifier?  Granted the need for military and industrial research, couldn’t it be done by the military and by industry?  And granted the need to prepare young people for adult responsibilities, is assembling them in vast numbers for four years, isolated from those very responsibilities, surrounded with temptations to party, really the best way to do it?  The answer in each case is obvious:  No.

Third (a mixed reason):  As the rest of society begins to catch on that there is no good reason to have a single institution perform all the odd jobs it has accumulated, other parties are peeling those odd jobs off and taking them over, one by one.  For this reason, it seems unlikely that the current state of affairs can long continue, especially because it is highly inefficient and increasingly expensive.  Universities have become like collections of unrelated objects tied together with thread, and the thread is coming loose.  On balance, I suppose this counts as a good thing rather than a bad one, because the thread ought to come loose.  But in the meantime, the unravelling it is going to cause a lot of pain.

Finally comes the unequivocally happy reason for changing how one thinks about a life of scholarship.  In fact, if one takes a long enough view of things, it is very happy indeed.  Just because the universities are abandoning their original mission, persons who do believe in that mission are seeking other ways to take it up.  Intellectual organizations of strange and diverse form are popping up in unexpected places.  Some have resident scholars, others don’t.  Some take students, others don’t.  Some are under the shelter of the Church, others aren’t.  There is no blueprint for this sort of thing.  It is all an experiment and adventure, with lots of disappointments and a few beautiful successes.  Figuring out how to make a living at it isn’t easy, but there are all sorts of ideas – and besides, it doesn’t have to be your day job!  Historically, most scholars haven’t worked in universities.

So although for now, most young people who are genuinely called to scholarship will continue to seek university employment, this will change.  You may consider intellectually serious work in another kind of institution.  Even if you remain within a traditional university, you will have to get sea legs, because you will have to keep your footing on a rolling deck.

Be imaginative.  Be entrepreneurial.  Try things.  Exchange ideas with others.  Have respect for the old gatekeepers, but look for ways to get around them too.  Find new ways to organize communities of serious thought.  After all, that’s how universities began in the first place.  Who knows?  Eventually, universities may even be reinvented, though I don’t expect that to happen in our time.

Head up!  Eyes ahead!  Forward!