What happens when formation is lived for forty years?
The shelves still hold the recordings. The folders still hold the notes. The green engineering paper is still there. Not long ago, after listening to a recent interview with Scott Hahn and talking with my son Peter about it, I found myself walking back to those shelves. I was not looking for nostalgia. I was trying to understand what had actually happened over the last forty years.
The answer surprised me. I had assumed I was simply collecting resources and taking notes. Instead, a way of thinking was being formed and quietly handed on.
The recordings, notebooks, and binders were never the point. They were the evidence. For most of those years I never thought of myself as preserving a record of anything. I was simply studying. One lecture led to another. One course led to another. One question led naturally to the next. Looking back, however, I can see that something much larger was taking place. A particular way of thinking was being formed, and without realizing it, that way of thinking was also being handed on.
Ted and I never set out to create an intellectual culture within our family. We were simply trying to live our own Catholic lives faithfully. Looking back, I realize our children were learning from that ordinary fidelity every day.
The children were there for almost all of it. On the long drives between Maryland and Texas, six young children rode in the van while Scott Hahn’s cassette lectures played through the speakers. There were no tablets to keep everyone occupied, no streaming services, and no endless entertainment competing for attention. There were books, prayers, conversations, and long stretches of listening. I doubt the children understood most of the theology they were hearing. That was never really the point. What they witnessed was something much more important. They saw their parents treating the Catholic faith as worthy of serious attention. They saw us listening carefully, taking notes, and continuing the conversation after the tape stopped. They learned, almost without realizing it, that ideas matter and that truth deserves patient study.
Formation is often like that. Children usually remember far less of what we tell them than of what we consistently do. Today, when Peter says he would rather spend time listening to a thoughtful podcast than attend a lecture simply because the speaker is well known, I recognize something familiar. He is not rejecting serious learning. He is pursuing it in the way that best serves his own circumstances. John, too, values sustained thought and careful listening. The forms may differ from mine. The habits are remarkably similar. Neither disposition appeared overnight. Both grew quietly over many years.
The cassette tapes eventually gave way to other resources. The Augustine Institute became another important companion along the journey. The shelves gradually filled with the PHIL 500 and THEO 500 courses, the Symbolon series, the Lectio studies, and countless notebooks filled with references and observations. Yet the method never really changed. Primary sources still mattered. Careful attention still mattered. Listening before speaking still mattered. Understanding remained more important than merely accumulating information. When I look at those shelves today, I do not see keepsakes. I see working tools. Many of those recordings and notebooks remain useful because the questions they address never grow old. Scripture continues to reward careful reading. The Fathers continue to illuminate difficult passages. Theology continues to invite deeper reflection. Formation, I have discovered, is never truly finished.
Looking back across these three essays, I can see the providence of God more clearly than I could while living it. My parents gave me a faithful Catholic foundation. Engineering taught me disciplined habits of study. St. Mary’s awakened the realization that the Catholic faith deserved the very best intellectual effort I could give it. Faithful teachers such as Scott Hahn and Jeff Cavins provided trustworthy guides who deepened that formation. The Augustine Institute extended the journey still further. Each stage built upon the previous one. None replaced what had come before. That is how authentic formation usually works. It grows organically. It deepens patiently. It receives gratefully before handing on generously.
The greatest gift these teachers gave me was not simply what to think. They taught me how to think. That gift proved far more durable than any single lecture, book, or course. It found its way into our family life, into long conversations, into road trips, into shelves lined with books and recordings, and, by God’s grace, into the lives of our children.
The shelves remain. The notebooks remain. The green engineering paper remains. They quietly testify to a truth I understand far better now than I did forty years ago. The richest inheritance we pass to our children is not merely information. It is the formation of a mind that has learned to seek truth faithfully, patiently, and with confidence that faith and reason belong together. For that inheritance I remain deeply grateful. And that is why the work of fides et ratio continues. was trying to understand what had actually happened over the last forty years.
The answer surprised me. I had assumed I was simply collecting resources and taking notes. Instead, a way of thinking was being formed and quietly handed on.
The recordings, notebooks, and binders were never the point. They were the evidence. For most of those years I never thought of myself as preserving a record of anything. I was simply studying. One lecture led to another. One course led to another. One question led naturally to the next. Looking back, however, I can see that something much larger was taking place. A particular way of thinking was being formed, and without realizing it, that way of thinking was also being handed on.
Ted and I never set out to create an intellectual culture within our family. We were simply trying to live our own Catholic lives faithfully. Looking back, I realize our children were learning from that ordinary fidelity every day.
The children were there for almost all of it. On the long drives between Maryland and Texas, six young children rode in the van while Scott Hahn’s cassette lectures played through the speakers. There were no tablets to keep everyone occupied, no streaming services, and no endless entertainment competing for attention. There were books, prayers, conversations, and long stretches of listening. I doubt the children understood most of the theology they were hearing. That was never really the point. What they witnessed was something much more important. They saw their parents treating the Catholic faith as worthy of serious attention. They saw us listening carefully, taking notes, and continuing the conversation after the tape stopped. They learned, almost without realizing it, that ideas matter and that truth deserves patient study.
Formation is often like that. Children usually remember far less of what we tell them than of what we consistently do. Today, when Peter says he would rather spend time listening to a thoughtful podcast than attend a lecture simply because the speaker is well known, I recognize something familiar. He is not rejecting serious learning. He is pursuing it in the way that best serves his own circumstances. John, too, values sustained thought and careful listening. The forms may differ from mine. The habits are remarkably similar. Neither disposition appeared overnight. Both grew quietly over many years.
The cassette tapes eventually gave way to other resources. The Augustine Institute became another important companion along the journey. The shelves gradually filled with the PHIL 500 and THEO 500 courses, the Symbolon series, the Lectio studies, and countless notebooks filled with references and observations. Yet the method never really changed. Primary sources still mattered. Careful attention still mattered. Listening before speaking still mattered. Understanding remained more important than merely accumulating information. When I look at those shelves today I do not see keepsakes. I see working tools. Many of those recordings and notebooks remain useful because the questions they address never grow old. Scripture continues to reward careful reading. The Fathers continue to illuminate difficult passages. Theology continues to invite deeper reflection. Formation, I have discovered, is never truly finished.
Looking back across these three essays, I can see the providence of God more clearly than I could while living it. My parents gave me a faithful Catholic foundation. Engineering taught me disciplined habits of study. St. Mary’s awakened the realization that the Catholic faith deserved the very best intellectual effort I could give it. Faithful teachers such as Scott Hahn and Jeff Cavins provided trustworthy guides who deepened that formation. The Augustine Institute extended the journey still further. Each stage built upon the previous one. None replaced what had come before. That is how authentic formation usually works. It grows organically. It deepens patiently. It receives gratefully before handing on generously.
The greatest gift these teachers gave me was not simply what to think. They taught me how to think. That gift proved far more durable than any single lecture, book, or course. It found its way into our family life, into long conversations, into road trips, into shelves lined with books and recordings, and, by God’s grace, into the lives of our children.
The shelves remain. The notebooks remain. The green engineering paper remains. They quietly testify to a truth I understand far better now than I did forty years ago. The richest inheritance we pass to our children is not merely information. It is the formation of a mind that has learned to seek truth faithfully, patiently, and with confidence that faith and reason belong together. For that inheritance I remain deeply grateful. And that is why the work of fides et ratio continues.