This brief essay comes from a longer paper read at Assumption University in a Lectio convened under the auspices of the Association for Core Text and Courses’ Liberal Arts Institute, October 26, 2024. The Lectio focused on The Confessions.

Our purpose in liberal arts, core text courses usually is not conversion to God or Deity. The vision of the world that Augustine has in the Confessions may not be the vision that any of our students would call “theirs,” but it is perceptible through this made book. Therefore, we shouldn’t pretend we aren’t converting them to see what our authors see, or, at the least, what our students reasonably see in our books. That is a truth to aim for.

Our students divide between those who believe books are worth reading and those who, usually, don’t. For those without faith to read, we almost act as if we are open books ourselves; that is, we turn to passages, hoping to catch the attention of those who think reading is a foolish pastime, though it is a miracle of our collective heritage. Once in a while, we convert. For those who have faith in reading, we are obliged to help them to see what writers accomplish, what, with all their human talent, they make possible for us. In that effort, we have to admit that our limits are not just of time, but rather that we cannot know whether our students will take this or that book to heart. We can, however, stir their powers to become “deeply inquisitive” (conf. 13.20.28; tr. Chadwick), so that on their own they strive to learn what they might produce – to improve, to become better, artfully. That is what Augustine is doing here in his book. In that active faith he, we, and our students might rest.

But joyfully. Late in book 13 Augustine examines God’s gifts through humans giving to each other: “in those who provide the food, the fruit lies not in what they give but the spirit with which they give it” (13.26.39). That spirit is one of “joy” – which is said to be Paul’s nourishment (13.26.40). Paul is filled with joy, because even as the Philippians were beleaguered, they had rallied to provide him comfort; he was moved not by the comfort, but by the rallying. In my teaching experience, now many years back, the rallying by oft-beleaguered students to try to read and think about our core texts because their companions were present and, frankly, because a teacher, I, was there. That is what still gives me joy. It was less the excellence of their work – the ‘A’ student and paper – and more their efforts that made me joyful. I think Augustine completed his book hoping for a similar joy to be given by him to his congregants and God.

I am a Protestant apostate. I grew up in a church which had three years of communion, for which I am grateful. Later in high school, at the Ecumenical Institute in Chicago, I had my first experience of the liberal arts, where with the focused help of ministers and priests, a number of us at age 16 read twentieth-century theologians, which resulted in an enlightenment unknown to me in high school. I never wanted to go back. Recently, I participated in a one-day seminar on Augustine’s Confessions, which was a true joy. I wanted to participate because I have remained unhappy with the way I approached this book in class many years ago with my students. The seminar represented a brief chance for better thought.

Religious institutions that foster one of my ultimate concerns – liberal arts education – have always welcomed me, and I have always felt easy in them. Yet, I suspect I have remained a bit like young Augustine – familiar with religious life and God and deeply influenced by Cicero and his concern for the artful making of civilization – but seeking a love of freedom for others that comes with possessing liberal arts. Without intention, perhaps we make way for the Lord by reading such works by encouraging our students to use what they learn to shape themselves as liberal artists. Beyond that, I cannot say.