 Class of 2022, it is truly an honor to welcome you on behalf of the general faculty. Do you have a favorite book or story from your childhood? A tale that captivated your imagination. One of my favorites was The Voyage of the Dawn Treader from the Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis. In this book, Lucy and Edmund Pevensey, champions from the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe, returned to Narnia with their lonesome cousin, Eustace Scrub. They set sail on the Dawn Treader, and through their adventures, they encounter enchantments, a dragon, treasure. But that is not the magic of the story. The book's true potency are in the lessons and characters, are in the lessons these characters learn through their adventures. Lessons of growth and self-discovery, brokenness, and redemption, because the lesson, not the incantation, reveals how to transform a dragon into a human. Today, you embark on a similar journey. You begin your intellectual life at Fairfield University. Perhaps like Lucy, Edmund, and Eustace, you start this voyage with a mixture of elation, curiosity, and puzzlement. In the short time we have together today, I'd like to chart a course for your time at Fairfield, to put at ease some of your fears, to point out the rich rewards that lie ahead for those willing to stay the course and explain why this university exists. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, believed there are four islands of experience in the intellectual life. Longing, love, loss, and limitlessness. You've already begun reconnaissance of these islands through our common readings on quip. Frederick Bruckner invited us to name our deepest motivation. Robert Bringhurst's poem asked us what is authentic love? Christian Wyman's essay wrestled with loss, and Anthony D'Amello's short stories provided lessons to help us discern between limitless options. The intellectual life, much like sailing, is something you will cultivate over time as you navigate between these islands. The first thing you must know, however, is that the intellectual life at a Jesuit Catholic university is alive with imagination. Perhaps you could think of it as the water that connects these islands of experience. Imagination is what allowed C.S. Lewis to write about Narnia, J.R. Tolkien to create hobbits, and G.K. Chesterton to extol the ethics of Elf land. I teach organic chemistry, and that sentence alone can stop conversation at parties. But when someone asks about my research, I invite them to imagine an ecologist who's studying fish in a lake. The ecologist has to capture those fish, tag them in a way that doesn't affect their function, and then release those fish back into a lake. My research is analogous, but instead of tagging fish in a lake, my students and I design small chemical probes that can seek out proteins in cells, capture those proteins, tag them in a way that doesn't alter their native function, and then release them back into the cell. Because if you can put a fluorescent tag on a protein, just like you would put a neon green tag on a fish, you can track it. And now you have a powerful diagnostic tool for diseases in which that protein is misbehaving. Using an analogy like I just did is an example of analogical imagination. Have you ever wanted to improve the conditions of those around you? Have you hoped that things could be better than they are now? That's prophetic imagination. Have you fallen in love with a book, a play, a song, or been moved to silence by a stunning landscape? That's sacramental imagination, and sacramental imagination is the perfect current to ride to island number one, longing. I'd like to give you a definition of sacramental imagination. The things of this world can reveal a deeper insight into our existence. The things of this world can reveal a deeper insight into our existence. I came to understand sacramental imagination in a profound way as an undergraduate at Seattle University, one of our fellow Jesuit institutions. You should know, first off, that I'm not actually Catholic. I grew up as a closeted gay youth in a loving but conservative Protestant family. When I showed up as a first year student at Seattle University, I arrived on the island of longing with a deep yearning for self-acceptance. I might call this a longing of the heart. During an Ignatian silent retreat, my spiritual director asked me, can you see your sexual orientation as a gift? It was the first time someone asked me to reflect, to think critically about my identity. What started as a longing of my heart became a longing of my mind as well, a conversation between mind and heart. When I returned to campus, I wanted to know more. What did she mean by gift? What did this Catholic tradition have to say about my identity? So I started to read, and this is how I came to understand sacramental imagination. It is the lens through which we, as a Jesuit university, see the world. We believe that the entire world is called into existence out of love, and as a result, the world is stamped with that love. The word sacramental comes from the Greek word for mystery. Another way you could think of it is that the world is imprinted with this mystery, and a university is where we apply our minds to understand this mystery, to question it, to wrestle with it in an attempt to comprehend it, ultimately to gain truth. The individuals who grappled with the forces around a basketball trying to fly into that hoop founded the field of physics. When you model market forces, we call it economics. When you investigate the structures of human society, we call it sociology, because remember, we believe that everything in this world from nursing to neuroscience can be a conduit to truth, can reveal a deeper insight into our existence. The intellectual life is not a cold and sterile place, simply of equations and grammatical rules. The intellectual life is where you flourish and are made into a whole human being because it requires a union of heart and mind. And almost without noticing it, you will find yourself so captivated by this inquiry, so alive by these questions, you will have crossed over from island number one, longing to island number two. Love. Love is not only the stuff of Valentine's Day and Hallmark cards. To be clear, the love of friendship and family is a good and sacred thing, but there is a deeper love that allows us as an intellectual community to come together with mutual respect, to exchange ideas, to question them freely and to debate with one another. Remember, our tradition tells us this is a sacramental world called into existence out of love, which means every one of you is marked by that love. Human dignity is another word for this irreducible mark of love imprinted on every one of us. Our university rests on this irreducible human dignity of its members. This is why in a university every voice is heard from every first year student to a full professor to the provost. Every voice can enter into the exchange of ideas. No one is shut out. Do you see now how human dignity rooted in love is different from the love you may have for a friend? Disagreements with friends can spiral into estrangement, a breakdown in communication. The intellectual life can be a prophylactic against this polarization because the intellectual life begins by respecting your peers as dignified human beings, just as they are called to respect you. And this mutual respect, even between strangers, makes the exchange of ideas possible, whether you agree or disagree on a particular issue. This is why today you committed to the honor code, to uphold standards of academic honesty and integrity, principles which are rooted in human dignity and the university's commitment to pursue truth. Now, I'll be honest, the intellectual life is not always easy, and this brings us to island number three, loss. When I arrived at MIT as a graduate student, it was exhilarating. I moved into a residence hall named for Harold Edgerton, the MIT professor who invented strobe photography, and his pictures covered the building. You may have seen them in textbooks, a drop of milk splashing into a coronet or a bullet piercing an apple. In his spare time, he developed sonar. The first week there, one of my classmates claimed that the circumference of a cup's rim is always taller greater than the cup's height. And we spent the first week commandeering cups from every establishment we could go to trying to prove them wrong. I expected graduate school to be a grand time. And then came my first cumulative exam. At MIT, these don't count for a course, they count towards your candidacy. To complete your admission to the PhD program, you must pass six cumulative exams after a certain period of time. I failed the first one. But then came the second cumulative exam, another F. If I was serious about becoming a faculty member which required earning a PhD, I needed to study. I needed to commit to hard work. I want you to notice there is one word I have not used when describing the intellectual life. Smart. The intellectual life is not. I repeat not about being smart. It has nothing to do with your intelligence. The intellectual life has everything though to do with your ability to work hard, to persist, to ask questions, and to thoughtfully reflect on your learning. To this day, one of my most cherished possessions is that letter I received from the graduate committee saying I passed my sixth cumulative exam. Loss in the intellectual life is not simply feeling bad about yourself when you fall short of a goal. It's recognizing what you love so deeply. You're willing to work hard to achieve it the next time. I would encourage you to pay attention as you begin taking classes. What do you fall in love with? Is it something you love so much you would put in the extra time, the extra work to succeed? Thankfully at Fairfield, you are not alone when you encounter challenges. We, the faculty, can be your greatest ally. Reach out to us. Reach out early and reach out often. I know it can be intimidating, but remember, faculty love what they teach. We want to share it with you and we want you to be successful. And I have every expectation you will be successful. In 2022, I will be sitting with my faculty colleagues in the front row of Bellarmine Lawn and we will be watching you walk across the top stairs at commencement. And in that process, you will be stepping out onto the fourth island of limitlessness. This is an island of remarkable possibility and there will be many choices for you to make when you leave us in four years. What advanced degrees will you pursue? What job will you accept? What city will you move to? It may seem preposterous to consider events so distant in the future, but the ability to make thoughtful decisions is a virtue that can serve you right here today. We call this virtue discernment. Discernment involves your mind and heart in a thoughtful pattern of decision-making. Discernment looks at a buffet of good choices and is able to select the best option. This is a skill you can work to cultivate long before commencement because throughout your Fairfield career, you will make important life choices. Who should I room with next year? There are many good choices. What should my major be? Many good choices. Where should I study abroad? Many good choices. Discernment, like the intellectual life, takes time and repetition to home. One narrative, though, I would encourage you to reject is that university is a dress rehearsal for real life. You have always been living real life. Certainly, your time here at Fairfield will be unique, but it should not be a bubble. In fact, the intellectual life rebels against this kind of isolation. Remember, we believe the entire world is called into existence out of love. As a result, we carry an irreducible imprint of that love, our human dignity. As a Jesuit university, we further believe that our collective human dignity is linked. Perhaps this raises a question in you, the same question which the young child in Frederick Buchner's story, Message in the Stars, posed to the constellation. So what? What difference does that make? Here is the critical difference. Because our human dignity is linked, when your classmates' dignity is diminished, your own human dignity is diminished. Consequently, when a refugee fleeing famine or violence cannot find safety or shelter, the human dignity of the entire world is diminished. That is why we, as a Jesuit university, champion social justice. And we expect that as you consider your limitless options, you too will come to value social justice. Social justice begins with human dignity, recognizing the irreducible mystery of every human being and finds its fulfillment in the intellectual life. Through the intellectual life, we come to understand the systems and structures eroding human dignity. Poverty, war, discrimination, climate change, and then we partner with the vulnerable and marginalized to change these systems in order to restore our common human dignity. And this brings us full circle to where we started at the waters of imagination. I've mostly spoken about sacramental imagination, but remember there's also prophetic imagination, our ability to envision a more dignified and humane world. And we will need your prophetic imagination as we work for social justice. But to reach its fullest potential, that imagination must be coupled with your creative minds honed through the intellectual life to work out how that imagined future becomes a reality. A remarkable life of the mind lies ahead of you and through it you can discover your limitless worth and also the call to restore the dignity of others. It is a life that requires work but offers rich rewards. And through this life, you will develop discernment, a virtue that will help you select roommates now and how to spend your retirement later. You are not alone in this journey. You are joining a community of scholars, generations of students who have come before you and will come after you, as well as the faculty who are here with you right now. I know I speak for my colleagues when I say we are thrilled to undertake this journey with you. Again, welcome to Fairfield University, class of 2022.