Over the last week, at least four faculty members have greeted me with the salutation: “Happy New Year!” And I was delighted with the reminder that we have begun a new cycle in our academic lives—one that most people acknowledge as “happy.” So let me add my felicitations to all of you.
Although the first week of the academic year was a short one, it was full of the events that welcome people back to campus and hail the arrival of those who are new to our community. I’d like to take a few moments to thank all of you for the enthusiasm with which you have entered into the new year and to reflect on the enterprise we share.
I’m reading a great new book by our colleague Chet Raymo, Emeritus Professor of Physics, and that reading frames—to some extent—these thoughts. The book—When God is Gone, Everything is Holy: The Making of a Religious Naturalist—is a compelling narrative of Chet’s own “long strange journey” through the Catholic sacramental tradition into which he was born toward the agnostic “attention, reverence, thanksgiving, and praise” that characterize his current encounters with the natural world.
What interests me most (at this moment in my reading) are Chet’s thoughts about the importance of being able to say “I don’t know”: “those three little words—‘I don’t know’—may be science’s most important contribution to human civilization. Yes, we have learned an astonishing amount about how the world works, but of equal significance is our growing awareness of how much we don’t know.”
Chet’s musings cover the history of scientific inquiry, but reading them in this first week of the academic year, I couldn’t help but think that “a growing awareness of how much we don’t know” pretty much describes the life of a faculty member.
In fact, some aspects of the new faculty orientation, led by Stacy Grooters and Joe Favazza, focused on the challenges of moving (as many new faculty members do) from immersion in specialized research to uncertainty about what content to include in an undergraduate syllabus and what methodology will best engage students in active learning. And at a small liberal arts college like Stonehill, most faculty members teach a range of courses that stretch their expertise well beyond their graduate research. New faculty members quickly learn just how helpful it is to be able to say, “I don’t know.”
Whether we are telling a student that we will have to get back to her with an answer or telling a colleague that we are unsure about how to handle a classroom situation, saying “I don’t know” liberates us from the burden of “authority” and places us in the position of being learners—along with our students and our colleagues. It reinforces our place in a learning community.
I was again reminded of how teachers remain learners at academic convocation, when Prof. Robert Peabody was honored with the Louise Hegarty Award for Excellence in Teaching. Bob is an outstanding choice for the award, and I noted that several of his
nominations implied Bob’s willingness to say “I don’t know.” A student wrote about Bob’s inspired teaching and research and about his enthusiasm for working with students in the SURE program. To collaborate in research with others—and particularly with undergraduates—indicates a spirit of inquiry and an openness to new ideas that define Bob Peabody and that I would say—by extrapolation—define a successful teacher.
A faculty nominator also celebrated Bob’s willingness to embrace the communal character of teaching and research in the sciences She wrote: “Bob’s collegiality is unparalleled . . . . One of the criteria for excellence as a scientist, according to André Cournard, is communal spirit: the ability to recognize your debt to those who came before you and the willingness to share your own insights with others in the current scientific community. I know of no scientist who exemplifies this better than Bob.”
The first recipient of the Hegarty Award was another scientist: Chet Raymo. But since 1988, the award has been given to faculty members in numerous fields across the college curriculum. I believe that the “communal” criterion for excellence is shared by teacher-scholars across all disciplines. It requires us all to live in medias res, recognizing the work of our predecessors, but unsure about exactly how our own work lays the foundation for future efforts. It requires generosity—and a little humility—in the face of uncertainty.
Chet Raymo cites French philosopher Blaise Pascal, who insisted that a certain kind of ignorance is, in fact, “an intellectual achievement.” Reflecting on three centuries of scientific investigation since Pascal, Chet suggests that “the purpose of science—and indeed of all learning—is to arrive at a state of ignorance, but an ignorance that is aware of itself.”
So as we begin this happy new year, I hope we can be a community that asks questions and seeks answers—a community that, in poet Mary Oliver’s words, knows “how to pay attention.” But let’s also take a page out of Chet's book and remember the value of those three little words, “I don’t know.”
Best regards,
Katie
Although the first week of the academic year was a short one, it was full of the events that welcome people back to campus and hail the arrival of those who are new to our community. I’d like to take a few moments to thank all of you for the enthusiasm with which you have entered into the new year and to reflect on the enterprise we share.
I’m reading a great new book by our colleague Chet Raymo, Emeritus Professor of Physics, and that reading frames—to some extent—these thoughts. The book—When God is Gone, Everything is Holy: The Making of a Religious Naturalist—is a compelling narrative of Chet’s own “long strange journey” through the Catholic sacramental tradition into which he was born toward the agnostic “attention, reverence, thanksgiving, and praise” that characterize his current encounters with the natural world.
What interests me most (at this moment in my reading) are Chet’s thoughts about the importance of being able to say “I don’t know”: “those three little words—‘I don’t know’—may be science’s most important contribution to human civilization. Yes, we have learned an astonishing amount about how the world works, but of equal significance is our growing awareness of how much we don’t know.”
Chet’s musings cover the history of scientific inquiry, but reading them in this first week of the academic year, I couldn’t help but think that “a growing awareness of how much we don’t know” pretty much describes the life of a faculty member.
In fact, some aspects of the new faculty orientation, led by Stacy Grooters and Joe Favazza, focused on the challenges of moving (as many new faculty members do) from immersion in specialized research to uncertainty about what content to include in an undergraduate syllabus and what methodology will best engage students in active learning. And at a small liberal arts college like Stonehill, most faculty members teach a range of courses that stretch their expertise well beyond their graduate research. New faculty members quickly learn just how helpful it is to be able to say, “I don’t know.”
Whether we are telling a student that we will have to get back to her with an answer or telling a colleague that we are unsure about how to handle a classroom situation, saying “I don’t know” liberates us from the burden of “authority” and places us in the position of being learners—along with our students and our colleagues. It reinforces our place in a learning community.
I was again reminded of how teachers remain learners at academic convocation, when Prof. Robert Peabody was honored with the Louise Hegarty Award for Excellence in Teaching. Bob is an outstanding choice for the award, and I noted that several of his
nominations implied Bob’s willingness to say “I don’t know.” A student wrote about Bob’s inspired teaching and research and about his enthusiasm for working with students in the SURE program. To collaborate in research with others—and particularly with undergraduates—indicates a spirit of inquiry and an openness to new ideas that define Bob Peabody and that I would say—by extrapolation—define a successful teacher.A faculty nominator also celebrated Bob’s willingness to embrace the communal character of teaching and research in the sciences She wrote: “Bob’s collegiality is unparalleled . . . . One of the criteria for excellence as a scientist, according to André Cournard, is communal spirit: the ability to recognize your debt to those who came before you and the willingness to share your own insights with others in the current scientific community. I know of no scientist who exemplifies this better than Bob.”
The first recipient of the Hegarty Award was another scientist: Chet Raymo. But since 1988, the award has been given to faculty members in numerous fields across the college curriculum. I believe that the “communal” criterion for excellence is shared by teacher-scholars across all disciplines. It requires us all to live in medias res, recognizing the work of our predecessors, but unsure about exactly how our own work lays the foundation for future efforts. It requires generosity—and a little humility—in the face of uncertainty.
Chet Raymo cites French philosopher Blaise Pascal, who insisted that a certain kind of ignorance is, in fact, “an intellectual achievement.” Reflecting on three centuries of scientific investigation since Pascal, Chet suggests that “the purpose of science—and indeed of all learning—is to arrive at a state of ignorance, but an ignorance that is aware of itself.”
So as we begin this happy new year, I hope we can be a community that asks questions and seeks answers—a community that, in poet Mary Oliver’s words, knows “how to pay attention.” But let’s also take a page out of Chet's book and remember the value of those three little words, “I don’t know.”
Best regards,
Katie
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