What Ralston College Did For Me
Education as the Guiding of the Soul
At some point in life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost. The vague flashes of inspiration that had sustained me before were gone, and I had barely anything of substance to fill the void in my life. The void, however, was undeniable — in many aspects of my life, but most importantly, dare I say, in my soul (though I would have foolishly dismissed the very notion of soul at the time).
My time at MIT was a culmination of a deconstruction of sorts. There I was, at the best university in the world,1 amongst all those opportunities — and so utterly disoriented and uninspired. The kaleidoscope of classes, events, clubs, various quirky things happening – all of it seemed exciting at first, but once the honeymoon phase ended, I began to feel deep unrest. “What was it all for” was the question I did not dare to ask myself explicitly, but of course, it lingered in the back of my mind. No coherent picture of the whole appeared to arise out of those flashy pieces; they did not point to any meaning deeper than either utility or short-term indulgence. Even the genuine striving for knowledge was largely obscured by worries about problem sets, career fairs, and an overall expectation to be a “high-achiever”; these were self-imposed, but not without the influence of the wider college culture.
To be clear, I am not trying to say that these things are bad in themselves: to study diligently, to care about finding a job, to work on realizing one’s potential — all of it is obviously good and important. The key question here is the ultimate end of those achievements. Surely, it has to be more than merely good grades, prestigious jobs, or material comforts. Of that end, I completely lost sight; and, judging by the prevalence of mental health issues among my fellow students, I was not alone in this. The responsibility for my failures is my own: had I had a firm spiritual foundation, had I known myself before coming to MIT, I could have made a much better use of my time there. MIT undoubtedly has many valuable opportunities for those who already have a sense of what they are looking for and why; it just does not help one build or maintain such a foundation. Since I lacked one, not only did I not enjoy my studies as much as I could have, but I also fell for some rather destructive parts of the culture on campus (some genuinely dark and disturbing things — but let that be a story for another time). All of this is to say: my state was quite wretched.
Of course, if you asked me at the time whether I had any foundational values, I would have come up with something. Freedom. Justice. Truth. But did I understand what any of those words meant? Were they mere labels that different people attached to different phenomena? Did we come up with these names just because they served some utilitarian purpose in the evolutionary process? Were we, then, doomed to always disagree on the precise meaning of such terms (since there was no such thing as their precise meaning anyway)? That is… was there any reality behind language at all, or was it merely a tool to manipulate?
No, I never became so cynical as to even contemplate an affirmative answer to such questions. Like any sane person, I did believe in the existence of objective truth; but this vague belief was in spite of my overall worldview, not in accordance with it. If I were to actually look for a place for concepts such as truth or freedom in my very materialistic picture of reality, I would not find it. Therefore, I avoided looking, and while this helped to preserve my sanity, it was not a particularly secure ground to stand on. Considering that words like “truth” or “justice” were thrown around in all sorts of contexts to the point of becoming meaningless buzzwords, it is no wonder that visible, tangible things around me would steal my focus again and again.
Thankfully, after getting close to rock bottom, I began to crawl out of darkness. I still longed for goodness and beauty; and I started examining my life, sensing that there had to be a proper way to orient myself, and that I, having free will, had to take full responsibility for my actions. And then I was shown real love, selfless and steady, patient and kind. Truly, I was being lifted above myself. Eventually, after much anguish and some serendipity, I came to Christianity, and even to Orthodoxy. I simply felt that if that was not somehow the truth, nothing else was; the latter could not be the case, for life itself, everything I really loved and held dear, testified otherwise. But I still had little understanding of most Christian doctrines. What was it exactly that I believed in? My faith — mostly blind, stemming from deep longing — felt so strange even to myself that I could barely whisper prayers, let alone talk about it to others. This is no wonder, considering how paradoxical Christianity is to its core (one need only think of the idea of the Trinity). I repeated the Nicene Creed, committed to it; but its very language seemed foreign.
It was good for me to be humbled. And then the unexpected happened: just as I allowed room for genuine mysteries, something about them began to be revealed to me. I know now that the word “mystery” itself does not mean something that cannot be known ever; on the contrary, it is something meant to be shown — but only to the eyes of those who have been initiated, usually through some process of preparation and cleansing.2 Flashes of inspiration returned, and I could occasionally grasp connections between patterns in nature (e.g. in physics or biology) and principles of human relationships; between my own experience and fundamental myths. I listened to Jonathan Pageau’s Symbolic World, finding it endlessly fascinating. I wanted to be able to think that way myself, but it seemed so far out of reach. My intellect and imagination were both hungry, and I had almost laid down the hopes of finding adequate nourishment for them. And then, from the aforementioned Symbolic World, I heard about Ralston College.
* * *
I was not looking to do a master’s program, much less one in the humanities — but Ralston found me. It captured my attention immediately, and to my own surprise, I could not stop thinking about it until I applied and was accepted. Interestingly, while I would have been an unlikely candidate for most other programs with similar titles, with Ralston I sensed that there would be a perfect match. It called to me; its promises resonated deeply within me. It was about to open up an entire new world for me — something I did not even understand at the time. All I knew was that I wanted that beauty, that adventure. Besides, I wanted to learn Ancient Greek. This idea had previously crossed my mind as I figured that it could be valuable to read the Bible the way it was originally written; I imagined that the process of getting there would be tedious and rather boring, but with Ralston, at least the beauty of Greece would compensate for this. I could not have been more wrong.
I suppose I could compare the so-called direct method (used at Ralston) to the more commonly utilized grammar–translation approach in terms of their effectiveness, but even that is not the most important point. The key difference between the prevalent ways of language learning and the way it unfolds at Ralston lies, I believe, in the understanding of what language fundamentally is. Crucially, it is not a set of rules, nor a bag of essentially random words3 — so while doing grammar exercises or learning vocabulary in isolation might be helpful (though I have my doubts about the latter), it does not constitute learning a language. For one thing, meaning requires context: a term from one language can almost never be translated into another in a single way without losing shades of meaning that are only evident in particular sentences, describing particular situations. But even then — if one took an entire corpus of a language, every word and sentence ever written, or even spoken in it, up until some point in time, and tried to use it mechanistically, say, by training an LLM on it — this still would not capture that language. While ChatGPT’s performance in many practical tasks is undeniably impressive, it does not speak the same language as we do — precisely because it does not speak. To begin to know a language as it really is, there must be an ongoing conversation involving living, breathing human beings. Like is recognized by like; the soul of a language can only be known through our souls, something that lifeless machines do not have.
What I am talking about here must sound peculiar to a modern mind; a few years ago, it certainly would have seemed strange to me. Even at that point, the enthusiasm I had about linguistics was grounded in this intuitive sense of depth inherent in languages, but I did not realize the extent of it. Now, however, I can say with deep conviction that there exists a fundamental reality beyond material objects, and that language is a way of mediation between us and that deepest reality. Through conversation, we can continually discover what it is like, as we partake in the Logos that is in common.4 This process is essentially a mystical initiation: sparks of mutual understanding suddenly highlight aspects of reality that might have been hidden before. We reflect upon our own lives, and we strive to name our experiences: we sense that while they are unique, they also point to a larger whole. And as we find common language with others, we are able to relate to their lives, too. Their understanding complements ours, and in this relationship true learning occurs. Thus, language reveals unity among differences, and ultimately helps uncover Truth itself.
From this follows that the chief end of language learning is not ordering coffee in a foreign country: one can easily get away with AI translators for that purpose, and even tourists who, in our age, still choose to learn a few common phrases usually do it for a different reason — namely, moments of connection with the person making that coffee. In the case of Ancient Greek, it is clear that immediate utility is not among good reasons to learn it; but neither is vain desire to show off one’s erudition. Instead, the goal is to enter into communion with people who have spoken it throughout the ages; in other words, to make friends with the ancients, as Dr Conlon says.5 Since he, and everyone else involved in teaching Greek at Ralston, know this very well, they also get the methods right. They do not just take us to Greece for us to have fleeting fun (though much fun is had, as my classmates would confirm); it is so that we actually partake in the fullness of life, which alone can reveal the fundamental character of a language. Language cannot be severed from the landscape, the history, the culture of the people who spoke it — not because such visible artifacts are all that exists and matters, but because invisible universal reality is revealed through them. As we breathe the same air, walk on the same land, taste the same things as did Pythagoras, Plato, or Saint John, we get a much better chance of understanding them. As we sail through those wine-dark seas, we no longer think that Homer was color-blind or just weird when he called them so. It is, of course, possible to remain entirely skeptical and close oneself off to what these ancients tried to say; but if we really see and love the same things that they did, their language becomes ours quite naturally.
This is not to say that there is no effort involved in learning Greek this way; after all, χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά — beautiful things are difficult. But this is a meaningful kind of difficult, as we feel, with childlike excitement, how it increases our vision and profoundly enriches our own lives. Much like when children acquire their first language, such a process makes one conscious of reality in new ways. “As many languages you know, as many times you are a human being,” I heard many times in my life (this quote is apparently attributed to Goethe).6 I should have understood what this meant: I have been bilingual from birth, became fluent in a third language as an adult, and studied some linguistics. Only while at Ralston, however, did I first feel this with such clarity.
And so, from the first days of the program, my classmates and I started to read, listen to, and speak Ancient Greek — clumsily at first, but with much love. While we did some exercises, we did not try to construct the language in our minds from grammar rules and definitions of words; instead, as much as it was possible, we were absorbing it as a living whole. “But isn’t Ancient Greek a dead language?” some might ask — well, not entirely. While we cannot converse with a native speaker, and its written corpus is relatively limited, it also lives on in many ways. There is continuity between it and Modern Greek — which, not incidentally, we also learned and spoke at Ralston. To a lesser degree, it has also influenced other languages — this is most noticeable with vocabulary, but sometimes with the language structure as well (for me, Old Church Slavonic came to mind, with its subsequent impact on the modern Slavic languages). Not as visibly, but no less importantly, Greek culture and philosophy lie at the foundation of the entire Western civilization — which, as I have emphasized above, is inextricably connected to language. Finally, Ancient Greek lives on because there is a handful of people in the world like Ralston’s Dr Joseph Conlon and Vivarium Novum’s Gerardo Guzmán, who loved it so much that, not being content with merely reading the classics, they became fluent speakers of it. There might not have been an unbroken line of teachers (or simply friends, relatives, elders) who would pass the language on to others in the fullness of live conversation; but there have been rare enthusiasts who essentially resurrected it. These people did the hardest work and became examples and guides for others, and I count myself extremely lucky to have learned from some of them.
While none of us is able to speak Homer or Plato directly, we can learn a lot from their written words, too, as long as we approach them in the proper spirit. It seems unfortunate that so much of the Ancient Greek heritage has been lost, or has never been written down; yet the works and fragments that survive are deeply significant — and, amazingly, imagination can often fill in the missing parts. This, I suppose, is what makes possible things like an Ancient Greek translation of Harry Potter;7 or like our textbook, Athenaze, for that matter. From the beginning, each of its chapters is in itself a whole — a self-contained story, funny and engaging, about a farmer named Dikaiopolis, his household, and their adventures in Athens and beyond, with Greek myths and history woven in. It is the opposite of boring; for me, it brought back fond memories of solving linguistic puzzles, something I did competitively back in high school.8 These texts are not meant to be wholly grasped on the first pass; they are a challenge to figure out, a way to discover the internal structure of the language instead of memorizing disjointed rules. And with the same spirit of adventure, trusting the process instead of fearing that which we did not immediately understand, we approached crucial works like Plato’s Phaedrus and the Gospel of Saint John. The rewards came quickly, and they were colossal.
* * *
So far, I have discussed one part of the Ralston curriculum, but I began by considering the nature of language in general. It is easy to see that the points that I have made do not only apply to Ancient Greek: no language is captured by dry definitions and rules, but is always a dynamic revelation. Most of us do not even realize that we grasp, at best, a tiny fraction of the actual meaning of the words we regularly use — even when speaking our native languages. This is dangerous, because if we think we know exactly what certain words mean, we can become utterly blind to higher and deeper levels of reality. For instance, so many nowadays look condescendingly at the story of creation in Genesis 1 — this is an astonishing arrogance that I was once guilty of, too. How come we are so sure of what heaven and earth mean there? Do we really think these words cannot possibly stand for anything beyond the sky we see and the ground we walk on?9 For another example, take the search for the first principle — ἀρχή — among the pre-Socratic philosophers: if we think that the full meaning of the words water, air, earth, and fire is limited to what typically comes to a modern mind, we will completely miss their insights. Thales, Anaximenes, Heraclitus, and others were not bad physicists. They viewed reality much more poetically, not drawing a sharp boundary between physical phenomena, such as heat transfer or the water cycle, and concepts that apply to humans and societies, such as love and strife, war and retribution. What if we gave them the benefit of the doubt, and imagined for a moment that the resemblances between the two kinds of phenomena are not merely superficial — that they are actually meant to point us to a larger whole?
I do not mean that we should conflate the physical and the ethical realms; pre-Socratic philosophy does, in fact, represent the childhood of humanity. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.10 We must make distinctions through reason, because while there are similarities in the kinds of phenomena I mentioned above, there are also important differences. We must not, however, throw away the less tangible ideas altogether; it is a fatal mistake to only keep our eyes on material things. Abstract concepts related to human ethics, such as justice or truth, are not arbitrary labels: they are rooted in metaphysics, a realm that is real and still more fundamental than that of physics. We cannot define these ideas not because they are an illusion, but precisely because they are larger than anything that fits into the limits of human thought;11 in other words, these are divine attributes. And here is something amazing: while these concepts infinitely exceed our current limited understanding, our senses and our reason are not entirely helpless when it comes to learning about them. We are meant to partake in these realities, and we have a promise: in due time, we will enter into full knowledge of them. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.12
All levels of reality are interconnected: the material is pointing us to the spiritual, and getting in touch with the spiritual also makes us understand and truly appreciate the material things for what they are. This is the symbolic view of the world that has fascinated me so much ever since I began listening to Jonathan Pageau; and Ralston College is the reason I can speak about it so confidently now. In addition to, and with the help of, Ancient Greek, Ralston has given me keys to the language of reality — the language of life itself.
This is the language we must keep learning, as individuals and as humanity. And just like with Ancient Greek, it is not something we can simply commit to memory; the only way to advance in its knowledge is to let it into our souls. We learn through a combination of personal experience and conversations with friends; and I mean friends in the broadest sense here — peers and teachers, but also all who share our orientation toward the ultimate Good, in the spirit of love and humility. Since the questions at stake are of cosmic scale and significance, it is crucial to not limit our circle of friends to our contemporaries: we must learn from the entire humanity, from “the best which has been thought and said.”13 This means reading great works of the past — and not treating them as dead letters on a page, but, as much as it is possible, bringing them to life. It is, again, imagination that becomes a bridge between us and the ancients: as we read literature, we learn a vocabulary of images, which then inspire us to embody the same ideas ourselves — in ways specific to our times, circumstances, and individual personalities. This way, we become unique images — icons — of the same transcendent forms.
Of course, this also requires great discernment, since not all images are equally good; we want to embody virtues, not vices. This is why Plato was suspicious of poets: he did not want people to justify their wrongdoings by referencing, for instance, the behavior of the gods in the Iliad.14 Imagination must be held in check by philosophy: through the use of reason, that which is hidden in images must be brought into light. Distinctions have to be made: light separated from darkness, virtue — from vice. The end goal of this is not to deconstruct everything into meaningless atomized pieces; it is to clear one’s vision to be able to see the ultimate unity of everything truly good and beautiful. This dialectical relationship of division and union is at the root of all thought — and all life (think about cell division leading to the formation of distinct organs and, ultimately, of one complex body).15 It is the essence of the Socratic method;16 and it is the key principle of the education at Ralston, too.
After coming back from Greece, over the course of three terms in Savannah, we studied a selection of great works of philosophy and literature — closely reading them, discussing them in the seminars, and writing weekly and term essays on the topics that resonated with us most. Our wonderful professors were our guides, channeling our attention and helping us not get lost; they sowed the seeds, and since the soil of our souls was unique to each of us, the shoots of learning that sprouted were distinct, too. At the same time, we were all in conversation with one another: unique voices in a beautiful harmony, jointly inquiring into questions of perennial importance. I have kept wondering how our professors managed to design the program so right — how did they know that, with all the individual freedom given to us, it would work in the end, producing growth in each of our souls. I see it clearly now when I look back: as true philosophers, they understood the nature of education. It is, in fact, the nature of the whole human life; like life itself, education cannot be reduced to a set of facts to memorize, or practical skills to master — it must be lived.
Practically everything about the Ralston’s program aligns with this holistic vision. For instance, I feel that the chronological ordering of our studies — focusing first on the ancient period, then the medieval, then the modern era — was not due to mere convention. Our own experience was fully meant to mirror the trajectory of humanity, its journey from infancy to maturity. By no means should we look down on childhood: our adult language is more sophisticated, but this makes it a double-edged sword. While it is more accurate in the distinctions it makes, it is also much further removed from its roots, which is evident in how easily we forget what words really mean. The vision of a child is more in touch with the wholeness of nature, and fairytale-like stories and images can often reveal much deeper truths about reality than the limited reason of adults. There is much to learn from the wisdom of children; and likewise, we must draw inspiration from the past if we are seeking to understand the present and not be helpless in the face of the future. Such a conversation — with our friends not only from the present, but also from the past — can actually bring forth entirely new revelation. I have pointed this out already, but it is worth repeating: the meaning of words (or stories, events, etc.) only becomes evident when we relate to others. This is the common language we are seeking; the language of reality we are all learning.
The way Ralston combines philosophy and literature in one course also makes great sense, since they reinforce each other. I have mentioned earlier that literature primarily corresponds to the domain of imagination, while philosophy — to that of reason; but this distinction is somewhat relative. We cannot help but think in images: Plato, for instance, keeps using poetry and myths to illustrate his points. Imagination is the spring that nourishes philosophy; revelation first comes out of the ground in poetic form before we filter it through reason (it is no coincidence that historically, poetry appeared before philosophy and prose). Ultimately, all language remains analogical, symbolic; it is just that philosophy makes it more precise, bringing clarity and discernment.
Crucially, Ralston proclaims to have four fundamental values: truth, freedom, beauty, and fellowship.17 These words are so commonly used that it is easy to skim past them in their mission statement (recall, for instance, “Veritas” — the motto of Harvard). Having experienced life and education at Ralston from the inside, I now know that there is one key difference between them and almost everyone else: they actually believe that these things are real. I cannot emphasize this enough: truth, freedom, beauty, and fellowship are not vague labels, and certainly not words to be used arbitrarily whenever this serves our worldly ends. They really exist; they are stronger than gravity and brighter than physical light. There is an infinite richness of everything that can be said about each of these four ideas, poetically and philosophically. As much as I love discussing them, I will refrain from beginning such an inquiry here; but I will once again point toward Ralston College. There, one will find a rare opportunity to not only study such ideas intellectually, but also to witness a living image of them.
* * *
I sincerely hope that what I have said so far sheds some light on the question like “What are you going to do with that?” (“that” being an MA in the Humanities from Ralston). If one requires a utilitarian answer to justify the fundamental worth of such an education, they have unfortunately missed the point. I know well how hard it is to not think in instrumental terms: I would not have been able to articulate a good case for Ralston before or even during the program, and I will be forever learning to express this love that I feel, the love that has guided me. As for my words now, too, I shall be believed by those whose ears are opened to me by charity.18
Practical benefits that this kind of education can bring are, in fact, plentiful — not only in the short term, but also over the course of one’s entire life. Gaining an insight into the true nature of things means understanding how the world works — and that usually helps to interact with it productively. But even if, due to bad luck or whatever reason, one turns out to be the least successful person in the world in material terms, it still will not matter much as long as his vision and his affections are oriented toward the eternal truth. For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?19
The greatest thing about Ralston is precisely its role in helping students find and keep their own souls. Job training is a good and valuable thing, but what Ralston does extends to a whole different dimension: it shapes the soul to see and love what is true, good, and beautiful. And I believe in the reality of truth, goodness, and beauty now not merely because of how scary the nihilist alternative is, but because I have actually seen them. My worldview is being continuously woven together into a rich tapestry; when I see new connections that highlight the harmony of creation, both visible and invisible things in it, I rejoice at its beauty. I shall never again be timid about my faith, and I have the strongest reasons to hope in the ultimate revelation; to look forward to the life of the age to come.
Being closer in touch with the actual meaning of words gives me more understanding and appreciation of the Word. The world that was created through Him is shining with meaning; one only needs to look for it sincerely and humbly. I tear up when I reflect on how blessed I have been to have friends who have shown me the way (and the truth, and the life). Their quotes in this text have ended up here not because I was looking for nice rhetorical tricks, and not because I was trying to brag about how well-read I am (truly, the more I read, the more I realize how little I know). It is because so much of their language, their thinking, their life have become my own. Κοινὰ γὰρ τὰ τῶν φίλων: for what friends have, they have in common.20
No amount of surface-level focus on “mental health” could have done for me what Ralston did; it simply could not compare to the consolation of philosophy. And I certainly got more of the sense of philosophy over less than a year at Ralston than I would have if I had spent multiple years at a typical college’s philosophy department. There is a clear reason for this: people at Ralston — faculty, students, and its entire community, as far as I could tell — actually know what love of wisdom (or friendship with wisdom) is, as they believe unapologetically that the words love and wisdom have real meaning. This belief — this faith — is the difference between the blind leading the blind, and the real education, which is the guiding of the soul toward the light. And I mean it with my whole heart when I say that to them, my teachers and friends, I will be eternally grateful.
At least according to QS World University Rankings; probably in many other rankings as well among universities focused on STEM, which I was pursuing at the time.
I will be speaking about natural languages here, and of language in general in the highest sense, as I understand it. Conlangs and programming languages are a different matter, though perhaps even these can reveal something about reality — more than even their creators are conscious of.
Consider Heraclitus, fragment D2.
Ἅρειος Ποτὴρ καὶ ἡ τοῦ φιλοσόφου λίθος, translated by Andrew Wilson.
See ioling.org. If you know anyone in high school, tell them to do it — it’s extremely fun. And if any of my old IOL friends are reading this, hi!
Book XIII of Saint Augustine’s Confessions can be an enlightening read for those who are ready to deepen their ways of seeing.
1 Corinthians 13:11, ESV.
See the meaning of the Latin definio: to set bounds to.
1 Corinthians 13:12, ESV.
A phrase from the Preface to Culture and Anarchy by Matthew Arnold.
See Book X of the Republic.
For those interested in learning more about this fundamental pattern, I highly recommend this lecture by Dr Iain McGilchrist’s (who has recently been appointed as Ralston’s new chancellor!).
See e.g. Phaedrus 266b: “Now, Phaedrus, I am myself a lover of these divisions and collections which enable me both to speak and think.” (Loeb edition, transl. by Chris Emlyn-Jones and William Preddy)
Saint Augustine’s Confessions, X.3, transl. by R. S. Pine-Coffin. Charity here, of course, means love, caritas.
Mark 8:36, ESV.
An Ancient Greek proverb used by Plato in his dialogues, notably, in Phaedrus, 279c.