A freshman is awake at two in the morning, the paper due at nine. On the screen in front of her is a machine that will write it better than she can, in under a minute, and no one will ever know.
Everyone wants to talk about this moment. Will she do it, how do we catch her if she does, what is the policy. The faculty meet about it, the software companies sell us tools to watch her, and we have decided the problem is honesty.
It isn’t.
The problem is that we no longer remember what the paper was for.
Not the grade, not the line on the transcript. The paper was supposed to do something to her. It was supposed to take a vague, cloudy thought and force it through the narrow door of a sentence until it came out clear. It was supposed to teach her patience with difficulty, the specific, unglamorous patience of staying with a hard thing until it yields. The paper was an instrument of formation wearing the costume of an assignment. The wrestling was the point, the essay only the residue.
The machine can take the residue. It cannot take the wrestling.
Unless she hands it over.
The Autopsy
This is the whole crisis of higher education, and it is sitting in one dorm room. It is not a crisis of cheating but a crisis of purpose. And artificial intelligence did not cause it. AI is not the murderer here; it is the autopsy. It has opened the body of the modern university and shown us what we had quietly allowed it to become: a machine for transferring information into people who would later be paid for holding it. The information was never the point, and we let it become the point. And now a cheaper machine holds the information, holds it better, holds it for free, and the whole arrangement comes apart in our hands.
Underneath all of it is a question we have been very careful not to ask out loud, and AI is forcing it anyway. The question is not what can machines do, but what is a human being for. Strip away every task a machine now does faster, all the writing and summarizing and calculating and remembering, and see what is left. Whatever is left is the human. We are about to find out, against our will, how much of that we still believe in.
You can already see the better instinct taking shape in a few places. Instead of collecting the finished paper and scanning it for the machine’s fingerprints, some teachers are starting to ask for the whole conversation, every prompt, every dead end, every place the student pushed back on the machine or simply let it carry them. The paper hides what happened. The transcript shows it: whether a real mind was at work, wrestling, or whether a mind had quietly stepped out of the room. We are learning, slowly, to grade the process instead of the product. It is a start. It is not the whole answer, because the whole answer is not about assessment at all.
A Person Becoming
There is a line in Genesis we read too quickly. God forms the man from the dust of the ground and breathes into him. Forms. Not manufactures, not informs. Forms the way a potter forms clay, with hands, slowly, in contact. We are made by being formed, and we have always known this. We built an entire civilization of apprenticeships and monasteries and long tables on the strength of knowing it. And then, for about a century, we forgot.
Here is the part no admissions brochure will print. College was never primarily about information. It was about a person becoming. The eighteen-year-old who arrives is not a finished adult who needs data. He is a half-made thing standing at the most volatile threshold of his life, and the years in front of him were meant to be the crucible in which the child finally becomes an adult. That is developmental work, not informational work. It happens through friction: with ideas, with other people, with one’s own limits, with authority, with the dark. It happens in arguments that run past midnight, at tables, in the slow and nearly invisible apprenticeship of watching adults you respect be adults in front of you.
We replaced that crucible with a content-delivery system. And then we wondered why the graduates came out informed, credentialed, anxious, and alone.
I have spent my working life across the room from people in pain, and lately a particular kind of pain keeps walking in the door. The young are not stupid and they are not weak. They are the most informed generation in human history and the loneliest. They were raised in a desert that calls itself connection. The feed did not give them community; it gave them a simulation of community precise enough to keep them from going to find the real thing. They are surrounded by faces on glass and starving for one unhurried hour at a table with someone who is actually there. Their anxiety is not only a disorder to be medicated out of them; a great deal of it is grief. They are grieving a belonging they were promised and never handed.
You can watch the same confusion play out at kitchen tables. Parents who have saved for eighteen years are hearing from people they trust that the degree may be worthless by the time their child would use it, that the whole enterprise is about to be automated away. So they do the natural thing. They open the machine and ask it whether college is still worth it, asking the very technology that is supposed to be ending college to tell them whether college has ended. They are not foolish for asking. They feel, before they can put words to it, that the thing they were saving for has changed underneath them, and no one will tell them what it changed into.
And we are about to give these same young people the most powerful tool ever built, a machine that will do the thinking, the writing, the wrestling on request, and call it progress.
What the Machine Cannot Touch
So let me say plainly what is about to become priceless, because the institutions that understand it first will be the ones still standing in twenty years.
Attention, the capacity to hold a mind on one thing, in a world engineered down to the millisecond to fracture it.
Desire rightly ordered, inside an economy that survives by keeping your desire disordered and selling it back to you at a markup.
Memory carried in the body, not the device.
Freedom, not the freedom to do whatever you want, which is only a longer leash, but the trained capacity to choose the good when the good is hard.
And presence. To be actually here, with actual people, with nothing between your face and theirs. Undefended.
These are not soft skills. In the world that is coming they are the only hard ones left. A graduate who has them is not competing with the machine; she is doing the one set of things the machine cannot touch. A graduate who lacks them has given the machine everything it asked for and kept nothing back for herself.
And here is the sentence a secular university is not able to say, though it will soon need someone to say it.
These capacities are not trained in a seminar. They are formed in a life.
Attention deepens in adoration, in the long quiet in front of the tabernacle where nothing happens and you stay anyway. Desire is reordered through fasting, through deliberately wanting less until you can finally want rightly. Presence is built at a table where the phones are face-down and the meal is long. Truthfulness is practiced, week after week, in the confessional, where you say the true thing about yourself out loud to another human being and are not destroyed by it.
A school that already lives this way is not behind the curve. It is holding, without entirely realizing it, the precise thing the age is about to discover it cannot live without.
So the task is not to build a university that can keep pace with artificial intelligence. We will lose that race, and we are meant to lose it.
The task is to build, or to remember, the one place that still knows how to make the thing the machine cannot make. A person. Formed and not merely informed, free in the costly sense, present in a world that has forgotten how, able to pick up the most powerful tools ever made and use them without being dissolved by them.
Not smarter than the machine.
More human than the moment requires.
That is not nostalgia. It is the most forward-looking wager in education. And the schools that make it will not be the ones that taught the machine best. They will be the ones who, while everyone around them was busy automating the human, quietly refused to.
If this resonated with you, it may explain why I’m building tools designed not to make us more efficient, but more human. Examen AI and its 30-Day Practice are an attempt to train the capacities this age is making both more fragile and more precious: attention, presence, discernment, agency, and rightly ordered desire.
Dr. Tobin,
I read this from the particular vantage point of a high school principal who spent the better part of 2026 trying to answer the same question one floor down, for a board of directors who needed to know what our school is actually for when the machine can produce the essay, solve the problem set, and synthesize the research in the time it takes a student to open a browser. Intelligence has officially been commoditized.
What I kept finding, the more I sat with it, was that the crisis you are naming at the university level has also fully arrived at the high school level, and that the answer is the same at both levels, though the texture is different. The university is asking what higher education is for. I am asking what education itself is for at the level where the habits of the soul are still forming, where the question is not yet which profession the student will enter but what kind of person they are becoming, and whether the institution is still doing anything that actually touches on that.
Here is the thread I keep returning to, which sits underneath your piece. The machine has commoditized the output, but it cannot commoditize the formation that arises from the struggle to produce it. Productive struggle, the genuine experience of not knowing, of having to hold a hard thing long enough that it begins to yield, forms perseverance, humility, and maturity in ways that a smooth and instant answer never can. When a student outsources the struggle, they outsource more than the homework. They outsource the part of the process that was making them into someone. The transcript accumulates. The person does not.
The word I keep gravitating towards is da'at (דַּעַת), the Hebraic knowing that is participatory and irreducibly relational, the knowing that requires the knower to be genuinely in contact with the thing known, to be altered by it, to carry some mark of the encounter forward. The machine produces information at a volume and quality that renders surface synthesis essentially valueless. But da'at cannot be produced by a tool that has never been changed by anything, that has never not known, that has never had to wait. You cannot download the knowing that leaves a mark. You can only acquire it by being in the room with a question that will not immediately resolve, long enough to be formed by the not-yet-knowing.
Your question is what college is for. From where I am sitting, one floor below, it was always for da'at. The machine has stripped away everything else, leaving us with only the real thing. That may be the hidden mercy in all of this.
Thank you for this one, Sean.
Ty