I often hear people compare the institution of the university to a pressure cooker. Like an Instant Pot sitting on a kitchen counter, college introduces a new form of pressure on students, but not in the form of steam. Instead, it promotes an elusive, constant accumulation of “more”: more internships, more classes, more achievements. It enables an environment defined by unspoken competitions of busyness, where students quietly vie for the prizes of human praise, prestige, and LinkedIn marketability. In such a competitive space, where “success” becomes the North Star and nearly everyone appears to orbit around it, losing a sense of direction becomes disturbingly easy. One can spend years moving from application to application, from opportunity to opportunity, without ever stepping back to ask what all of it is ultimately for. Aspiration becomes a continuous motion, rather than intentional direction.
One of my favorite quotes comes from Martin Luther King Jr., who wrote in 1947, “Intelligence plus character—that is the goal of true education.” MLK identifies something essential that is often missing in the modern university: the formation of moral character alongside intellectual development. Intelligence alone is insufficient; without character, it becomes capable of serving almost any end. Hence, it must be directed toward a greater telos that gives purpose and coherence to the knowledge. Within many religious traditions, this telos is grounded in faith, which provides not only moral guidance but also a framework for understanding what human flourishing ultimately means. Recovering this dimension of character offers an exit from the quiet rat race of success for its own sake, and opens instead toward a more intentional form of life: one shaped not only by achievement, but by purpose. Yet in many modern educational environments, moral formation is treated as something private, individualized, or external to the academic mission itself. As a result, students are often left to construct their own framework for meaning without shared structures for reflection or formation.
Faith offers to fill this institutional vacuum; it extends a counterweight to the productivity-maximizing mindset of the market economy that universities operate within. Rather than asking “What did I accomplish?”, it asks a deeper question: “Who am I becoming?”
I once had a conversation with a senior citizen on an airplane back from Boston. I told him about my aspirations for my future and how I want to work in public service. He told me that I should seek to develop my character first before ever even aspiring to any position of power. Such positions are not inherently corrupt; in fact, they can be powerful instruments for good when guided by integrity. But without strong character, the natural impulse toward self-interest can turn power into something that masters the person who holds it rather than the other way around. As the proverbial saying goes, “the higher the climb, the harder the fall.” From this conversation, I learned that instead of wishing for what society deems as “good” (prestige, status, achievement), I should first seek what is truly good in itself, namely, becoming a “good” person who will be ready for a position in public service.
Faith is important because it teaches that humility, integrity, and internal motivations matter. 1 Samuel 16:7 states that, “the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” In this sense, faith challenges the logic of constant comparison that often defines student life. The practice of faith requires actions that resist the impulse to mindlessly compete with others. Meditation, prayer, and praise in private life train the heart to prioritize what is ultimately meaningful and to intentionally monitor the pace of one’s aspirations. They remind us that while achievements and recognition are good things, they are only that: things. They are not the ultimate good toward which human life should be directed. This creates a fundamental tension: Scripture calls for humility, while modern institutions reward ambition, competition, and recognition. Christ’s life resolves this tension not by rejecting excellence, but by redefining it. His self-humbling, marked by service and sacrifice, challenges the assumption that success is measured purely by status. Instead, it locates true greatness beyond comparison and achievement, revealing that fulfillment is not found in human recognition but in alignment with a higher, divine purpose.
The life of Christ Himself reflects the fact that we were not formed merely to chase success more efficiently; we were made to become people worth becoming.
