by Andreya Jones
John Adams College students tend to share two things: a need for encouragement and high stress levels—both of which the books we read help alleviate. Behind these caps and gowns is a collection of snoozed alarms, cancelled plans, and moments where we honestly weren’t sure we’d make it. But here we are—and in reflecting on all of it, this journey has taught me what a real education entails—effort, commitment, and discipline.
As Socrates wisely said, “Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel”—a description that perfectly captures my time at John Adams College. I’ve learned that a real education makes you shamefully aware of how much you still don’t know, yet leaves you with an unquenchable thirst for more. More learning, more knowledge, more truth. I can’t recall leaving any class feeling adequately satisfied with our discussion of yet another philosophical dilemma we entangled ourselves in—the kind that frustratingly refused to have a conclusion. Our three-hour class limit saved us more than once—there is a fine line between pursuing a solution and the possibility of melting your brain. However, those mentally-taxing discussions changed the way I thought and inspired me to keep asking questions long after class ended . . . and it was marvelous. It changed not just what I thought, but how I thought.
Due to the extensive reading and rigorous study that is required of a student at John Adams College, you would think it impossible to not reform your mind. But it wasn’t necessarily the incomprehensible writings of Wittgenstein or the elegantly complex equations of Newton that changed the way I thought—it was the intentional choice I made, to let them do so. It is surprisingly possible to just read the countless pages that are assigned, yet gain nothing (I know from personal experience). I came to see that if I wanted an education that truly changed me, I could not remain as I was; I had to be willing to reform my mind. And as I continued to read and learn from so many extraordinary thinkers from history devoted to seeking truth, I was both humbled and greatly influenced. Confucius, Plato, Aristotle, Euclid, Apollonius, Marcus Aurelius, Augustine, Maimonides, Aquinas, Dante, Francis Bacon, Galileo, Descartes, Pascal, John Locke, Rousseau, Adam Smith, Kant, Edmund Burke, Tocqueville, Marx, Karl Popper, Thomas Sowell. . . . I could go on. I came to this school without fully understanding the significance of genuinely knowing truth, and although I have since grown to value it far more, I am still only beginning to grasp its depth. Through the extensive list of thinkers we study over our four years at John Adams College, each taught me something of truth. It was obvious that not one had all the answers, all the truth, or was always right; but remarkably, there was something to learn from every one of them. A significant difference between this education and others is that we read original sources rather than filtered compilations of someone else’s interpretation. The student is able to know and understand what each author is trying to articulate by reading what they themselves wrote.
At a conventional college, education gives students answers. But at John Adams, it gives us responsibility. A responsibility to wrestle with ideas, pursue truth, and let that truth influence and improve the world around us. Not everyone has access to this kind of education. Most institutions are built to prioritize efficiency, standardization, and credentialing, rather than deep intellectual formation. But what we learn here stays with us, and we can continue exploring it for the rest of our lives. It is our responsibility to take what we’ve learned and share it with others. Our lives are just beginning, and the opportunities are endless. And so, as we leave this place, I find myself wondering what it looks like to actually live this out. Because the world we’re walking into isn’t a great books seminar. Nobody is going to assign us Aristotle and ask us what we think. The questions will be louder, messier, and far less willing to wait three hours for an answer. But maybe that’s what all of this was really teaching us: that life isn’t clean or resolved. It’s full of conflict, sorrow, and temptation that come with being human. The authors we read and the literature we consumed don’t fix that—but they do help us try to make sense of it, put words to what we’re going through, and recognize that our experiences aren’t isolated.
Not everyone will care about the things we’ve come to care about. Not every conversation will go where we’d like it to. And that’s okay. But I do think there’s something quietly important about being the person who keeps trying anyway—who thinks carefully, listens well, and takes ideas seriously. Not because we have it figured out. We don’t. But we have learned that effort in how we think, listen, and act matters.
I can’t leave here without saying thank you. For the books, the late nights they demanded, and for every professor who made three hours feel like not quite enough.
Thank you to Mrs. Greenman, whose love for philosophy and literature was exciting, and inspired me every day I went to her class.
To Dr. Scott, who taught me to look closer . . . at the patterns, the structure, the ideas that aren’t obvious, and the meaning behind characters and stories.
To Mr. C, who encouraged ideas I wouldn’t have trusted myself to have—who made it feel not only possible but worthwhile to think further than I thought I could.
To Mrs. Briggs, who somehow convinced me that math and science weren’t beyond me—that if I slowed down and truly understood what I was doing, the logic was always within reach.
To Professor Knox, whose insight had a way of making the whole room lean in, who had a way of asking the one question nobody else thought to ask, and who I wish were still here teaching.
To Mrs. Rogers, who made history feel less like something that happened and more like something you could almost touch—who helped me understand what it would have actually been like to live through the moments we were studying.
To Dr. Rogers, who helped me discover a creativity I didn’t know I had, and then trusted me enough to run with it, find my own ideas, and believe they were worth something.
To Dr. Jensen, who helped me see what the authors were really after, even when the words made it hard to tell, whose steady support and genuine desire to see me succeed made all the difference when the hard days came. And they came.
And to Mr. Jones, who is no longer with us, but whose example stays with me. Learning was to him what breathing is to the rest of us . . . not a pursuit, just a way of life. His knowledge, his curiosity, and the way he carried both have shaped me immensely, and I know they will for the rest of my life.
And yet, as grateful as I am for every one of them, there is a greater gratitude still. And that is for Christ—without whom none of this would mean what it does. He is the source of all truth, and I’ve come to believe that every honest pursuit of truth is, in some way, a pursuit of Him. He gave me the desire to learn, and He carried me through every moment I wasn’t able to get through on my own.
I didn’t fully understand what I was signing up for when I came to John Adams College. I’m not sure either of us did. But somewhere between the snoozed alarms, the three-hour discussions, and the reading we were convinced would never end, something shifted—subtly. Not all at once, but it shifted nonetheless. And I think I’ll keep discovering just how much, for the rest of my life. That’s the thing about this kind of education—it doesn’t really have a graduation. The flame that was kindled here doesn’t care that we’ll never sit in that classroom again or present another final. If anything, it demands more of us now . . . because the structure is gone and nobody is making us do the reading anymore. That discipline of sitting with hard questions, of choosing to keep thinking when you could easily stop, and steadily pursuing truth—that has to become a choice. And that, I think, is where the education actually begins.