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It happened again this semester. I had planned a new class for this term called “Religion, Imagination, and Facing the Future.” While the class technically fulfills a first-year seminar curricular function of teaching graduate level reading, research, and writing, I can pick the theme. I chose it in light of the chaos in the United States right now and the fascinating conversations arising amongst scholars and organizers I admire about how to imagine a different future than the late-stage capitalist, wealth inequality laden, earth-destroying, violent social world we currently live in. I collected readings hoping to explore imagination as a key quality for religious leaders facing scary and death-dealing situations in their communities. We started with Ruha Benjamin’s Imagination: A Manifesto and moved into Octavia Butler’s The Parable of the Sower, with later readings from so many friends and colleagues I respect… Willie James Jennings, Sarah Farmer, Yara González-Justiniano. I created assignments and built a rhythm for the course with great care and excitement for the students I would encounter. I read and re-read the texts I had chosen, creating discussion prompts for the students to engage. The course was built out in Canvas, the students had been populated into it by the registrar, and it was time to hit the button to “publish” the course. I hesitated. I re-read the course description and its now seemingly impossible claims about what we would be exploring during the term. And then I sat there with the deep feelings of inadequacy that flooded my body. Who was I to be teaching such a course? I was achingly aware of the privilege of my social position, of my work as a professor rather than an organizer, of my lack of experience working in institutions that didn’t allow space for my vocation to emerge and be expressed. In those days I was watching former students and professional colleagues involved in organizing resistance to the ICE occupation in Minneapolis, living into the mutual aid, love for neighbor, solidarity, and bold witness that I have taught about for years. Deep in my bones and my gut, my intuition told me that I was inadequate to the task of teaching this course that I had put together. What did I do? I pushed the button and published the course anyway.Why? Because in my deeper wisdom, I know these are the questions and the struggles that my students need to wrestle with, whether or not I feel up to the task. They need to learn more than I can teach in this moment. That moment of profound humility before the work of teaching is absolutely the place to begin, at least for me. It marks a moment of letting go of the control of the learning environment and leaning in to trust that the students will show up. Together we might begin a journey that won’t be fruitless. They will learn things that I intend to teach them, and they will learn things that I never imagined or don’t yet understand myself. They will teach me what they know from the work they engage where they are, from the mentors who have guided them, from the challenges they have already survived, from the faith they have when I am lacking. Together, we are good enough to engage these questions that they are already responsible to in their lives well beyond my classroom. If I only taught the things I feel expertise and skill in teaching, I would fail to provide the education they need in this moment. It takes courage and vulnerability to recognize my limits and to still take necessary risks for significant learning anyway.

Part 2: “Love”I will admit that it’s much easier for me to write about the downsides of being a teacher-administrator than the upsides.And I wouldn’t say that I love being a teacher-administrator any more than I would say that I hate being a teacher-administrator. There are gives and takes on both ends.As much as I loathe to admit this in the midst of an incredibly satisfying sabbatical, there is deep joy in getting to know and work with students in spaces beyond the classroom. Theological field education—which exists in the form of internships or specialized chaplaincy training (called Clinical Pastoral Education or CPE)—serves as a kind of in-between educational space. There might be a class component where students meet regularly with an instructor, but in my role I mostly engage with students through the processes surrounding the classroom and the field site. In this more liminal space, I really get to know them—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Sure, some personalities might arise in the context of the classroom. Faculty generally know the students who collectively engender the most joy and the most challenge throughout their courses and the degree program or school as a whole. Some individuals, however, try to model particular behaviors in a course because they know they are being evaluated. The rest of us who work with students beyond that space often have a little bit more insight into how those individuals show up differently when they aren’t being evaluated formally, and we often have more chances to engage in personal conversations about students’ lives and experiences that may not be surfaced in the context of a graded course. Sometimes, I’d rather not know a few of the more personal details that I have learned over time. Other times, I’ve developed lasting relationships with individuals over our shared experiences or affinities (especially guinea pigs, who are the greatest pets a human could have). In some instances, I’ve held my tongue in faculty meetings where a majority of my colleagues want to award a particular individual with the title of Student of the Year because they displayed exemplary intellectual skill or agreeable behavior in classes, yet I have encountered them as completely different (i.e., less agreeable) persons in the field education process. In other settings, I’ve marveled at the deep wisdom and maturity with which students have navigated very difficult internship or CPE situations, yet my colleagues would consider them to be fairly average students intellectually or otherwise. I suppose we all know different aspects of students, in the same ways that they know different parts of us as educators. I would argue, however, that my knowing individuals both within (as a teacher) and beyond (as an administrator) the classroom space grants a level of joy that I wish more faculty could experience. Not joy in the sense of ephemeral happiness or elation but, rather, as a process of both knowing and being known. This itself cultivates a profound sense of fulfillment, constituting education as relationship rather than content or container. Relationship is certainly messier and more frustrating; it results in more meetings and more emails than I care to count. As an introvert who would rather spend every waking moment either reading or writing books, I am easily depleted by the continual interactions required for relationships. Some students treat our exchanges as merely transactional and, many days, so do I. They want me to fix their problems or change some policy, and the technicalism of it all can be wearing.But if I hold on to the capacity for dynamic knowing, if I dare to open myself up to what might unfold in the in-betweenness of our vocational conversations and at the edges of the paperwork needing to be completed, I might actually love being a teacher-administrator. It’s not for the faint of heart and requires some true grit, as my teacher-administrator (especially field educator) colleagues know. Also, I can say with confidence that it is more work than that of my faculty colleagues with no administrative responsibilities. It is hybrid, holy work. And I feel honored to be doing it.

Pope Leo XIV has just released his first encyclical, focused on artificial intelligence and the future of human society. The timing could not be more urgent for theological institutions. Prior to the encyclical, Pope Leo already has stressed that emerging technologies place a particular mandate on Catholic educators: “Catholic education can be a beacon: not a nostalgic refuge, but a laboratory of discernment, pedagogical innovation and prophetic witness. Drawing new maps of hope: this is the urgency of the mandate.”Pope Leo’s call to “draw new maps of hope,” echoes his predecessor, Pope Francis, who urged Catholic universities to “Be present as great laboratories of hope at this crossroads of history.” There is just one glaring problem with this captivating vision: hope is in short supply right now in higher education.Long before ChatGPT answered its first query, changes in demographics, pandemic-era disruptions in student preparation, and a political climate that seeks to undermine the value of critical reasoning had already dramatically decreased the level of hope in these intellectual “laboratories.” Reading student reflections that have been quite obviously written by robots is depressing; even more depressing are the despondent attitudes of students struggling to find value in classroom learning itself.Like most educators and administrators, I have wrestled with how to prepare our community for inevitable technological transformation. Last summer, I co-led a group of faculty at our private Catholic R1 university to discuss how we might prepare for inevitable technological transformation. These conversations renewed our confidence in a liberal arts education as the critical tool we will need to face the future.This era requires thought leaders who are trained to ask better questions, who know the value of human reason and creativity, and who can critically and ethically evaluate rapidly changing technologies and their applications. Liberal arts colleges and universities are designed to prepare precisely this kind of leader, and that should be the reason for our hope.Our curriculum does not teach students to find answers to arbitrary questions; it enlivens their creative capacity to refine their questions in order to build a more just world. At a moment when large language models promise instant answers at unprecedented speed, universities have a different responsibility. We must prepare students who know how to evaluate knowledge critically, recognize the limits of technological systems, and ask difficult moral and intellectual questions about the societies those systems are shaping. ‘Education in the round’Many institutions of higher education are grounded in an educational tradition that is vitally important for this historical moment. The Greco-Roman tradition of encyclios paideia, or “education in the round,” was a technology of the empire that worked by ensuring a common language and training, but also by educating the whole person. This circular, or complete, education was thought to advance society by forming the human soul through a set of shared educational habits, habits that shaped the ways humans would think, behave, and dialogue with each other to produce knowledge.The Catholic intellectual tradition is full to the brim with thinkers who leaned into inquiry in the face of dramatic change. Pope Leo underscores that “dynamic history” tracing it from the Desert Fathers to women educational reformers of the 19th and 20th centuries who led the way in educating the marginalized.Catholic higher education is part of a living tradition, and there are a few key features that I have observed as a historian working at a Catholic university that strike me as particularly valuable for this historical moment. First and foremost is that we continue to prioritize the dignity of the human person in the process of advancing knowledge. This means that the utility and profitability of discovery is not the sole telos of our research — the human metacognitive and dialogic processes by which we arrive at those discoveries in community are just as important. The human researcher is essential for the successful evaluation, interpretation, and integration of knowledge. New discoveries are not possible without human reason and verification in a community of researchers who are held accountable for their work. LLMs do not possess these essential human faculties, and when they are wrong, they bear no accountability.The ethical questions we face in this technological age are more complex than the citation or fabrication of sources; they strike at the foundations of human interdependence and its centrality for the advancement of human knowledge. LLMs promise to provide answers to human questions at an unprecedented rate, but they attempt to do so by indiscriminately pulling from available sources in ways that obscure the contexts and relationships between those sources, limit the perspectives considered, and reinforce inequalities. University education prepares students not just to examine the sources and evidence they can readily see, but to ask critical questions about the evidence itself. This is the intellectual scaffolding that meets the changing needs of our students and our world.Pope Leo reminds us, “education does not measure its value only on the axis of efficiency: it measures it according to dignity, justice, the capacity to serve the common good. This integral anthropological vision must remain the cornerstone of Catholic pedagogy." This does not mean we educate students on every injustice in our current world, but that we teach them discernment so they can “recognize and name both justice and oppression” in an ever-changing world.  In Magnifica Humanitas, Pope Leo places particular emphasis on community and human relationships for achieving this learning: “Schools are not called to follow the pace of the digital world, but to offer that which the digital sphere  by itself cannot provide, namely a shared time for learning and developing trustworthy relationships.” As AI threatens the biodiversity of human knowledge, university education “in the round” will be vitally important for protecting human innovation and its roots in the human community. We know as educators that we cannot possibly provide our students with all of the knowledge they will need ten or twenty years from now. Our hope is grounded in knowing that a student who graduates with the humility to recognize the limits of their knowledge, the curiosity to ask a different question, and the moral courage to ask a difficult question will be prepared for the uncertainty of a changing world. In the era of AI, the ability to stay curious and center human flourishing will distinguish the leaders from the users.