25-05-2025
Perspective: The renaissance that American universities need
Years ago, as a young academic, I found myself seated in an antebellum inn in Oxford, Mississippi. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, and across from me sat William F. Buckley Jr. — founder of National Review, author of 'God and Man at Yale,' and one of the great minds of our time.
As we spoke at length about the decay of higher education, Buckley lamented that Yale had abandoned its soul. 'They've kept the Latin,' he said with a wry smile, 'but they've lost the light.' He was, of course, speaking of Yale's motto: Lux et Veritas — Light and Truth.
I would add this: Yale's seal doesn't only include Latin. It also bears Hebrew script—Urim and Thummim— symbols drawn from biblical tradition, meaning 'lights and perfections.'
When a university abandons Lux et Veritas, it doesn't just lose tradition. It forfeits transcendence.
Buckley told me that universities were drifting not only from faith, but from intellectual seriousness, from moral purpose, from the courage to say some things are true and others are not. That night shaped me. It reminded me that ideas are not abstractions — they are anchors. And liberty requires more than license. It requires character.
This is one reason that, earlier this year, I sponsored a bill that seeks to restore civic education to our universities. This was not a nostalgic gesture, but a necessary course correction.
Why? Because I spent years in the classroom, and I've seen what's been lost. Students arrive equipped with slogans, not substance; credentials, but not conviction. They can quote grievance, but not Lincoln. They can deconstruct, but they cannot defend.
One critic asked me, 'Why fix something when you can reinvent a whole other concept?'
Here's why: Because what's broken is not just policy — it's purpose. And sometimes, reinvention is the most responsible form of repair.
My bill, SB334, doesn't dictate doctrine. It doesn't ban ideas. It revives balance, it renews foundations, and it reminds us all that our republic cannot endure if it forgets its roots.
And yet, for daring to suggest that students should engage with the Constitution, The Federalist Papers, and the great thinkers of our tradition — from Augustine to Du Bois — I have been accused of censorship, of cowardice, of control.
When I wrote earlier this year that Americans are sick of the 'neo-Marxist, nihilistic narcissism of the hard left,' it wasn't a rhetorical flourish. It was a cultural diagnosis — a warning drawn not from ideology, but from experience.
Neo-Marxism has infiltrated too many corners of the academy — not as one voice among many, but as a dominating lens through which all of history, literature, and society must be interpreted. It teaches that everything is about power — race, gender, class —forever locked in a binary of oppressor and oppressed.
Nihilism soon follows, replacing wonder with suspicion, and turning the quest for truth into a campaign of endless deconstruction. If nothing is true, then everything is permissible — and everything is politicized.
Narcissism completes the triangle, elevating personal identity above shared reality, feelings above facts, grievance above gratitude. It replaces moral formation with moral performance —and turns education into a pageant of self-righteousness.
This is not education. This is theater, not thought.
True education derives from virtue, and from liberty rooted in reason. It prizes self-rule, not mob rule. It knows that happiness is found not in the hedonism of the moment, but in a life anchored to virtue, ordered liberty, and moral purpose.
'Pleasure,' said Epicurus, 'is rather sober reasoning… banishing those beliefs that lead to the tumult of the soul.'
Justice Anthony Kennedy reminded us that to the Founders, 'Happiness meant that feeling of self-worth and dignity you acquire by contributing to your community and to its civic life.'
And then there is Alexis de Tocqueville, who saw far ahead— into our very moment:
'Tyranny in democratic republics does not proceed in the same way, however. It ignores the body and goes straight for the soul… You will remain among men, but you will forfeit your rights to humanity… Go in peace, I will not take your life, but the life I leave you with is worse than death.'
That is the tyranny that awaits when liberty is divorced from moral clarity, when freedom is severed from formation, when truth is replaced by technocracy and virtue by virtual applause.
Not long ago, I sat down with sculptor Sabin Howard, whose work on the National World War I Memorial has been called nothing short of a modern marvel. His bronzes don't just commemorate; they communicate. They teach. They remind us that art, at its best, does not flatter our vanities but elevates our virtues.
Howard and I spoke about something bigger than a statue —something deeper than nostalgia. We spoke about the need for a renaissance— not just of art, but of ideas. A revival of beauty, meaning and moral imagination. A return to excellence.
He told me about his next great vision: The Grand Liberty Arch, a monumental sculpture installation coming to Salt Lake City — a tribute to freedom, courage, sacrifice, and the enduring American spirit. Not just metal and stone, but a declaration in form: Liberty still lives here.
It is up to all of us to ensure that this remains true.
John D. Johnson is a Utah state senator and professor emeritus at Utah State University. This essay was adapted from a speech he delivered at the 2025 commencement ceremonies for Mount Liberty College.
