I Was on Academic Probation. Then I Earned a PhD

People who know me now are often surprised to find out that I spent much of my undergrad on academic probation. After all, I hold a PhD from a British university and have authored multiple books and articles at both scholarly and popular levels. And yet, it’s true. I was a terrible student early on. Perhaps my story is a bit atypical, perhaps not. Whatever the case, the journey from being an academic under-performer to attaining an advanced research degree in a classical discipline has taught me a few things. Here’s the story; and, at the end, I’ll share the most important lessons I learned.

I don’t recall exactly how many semesters I was on probation, and I was never suspended. For that to happen both my semester GPA and my cumulative GPA would’ve had to fall below a certain threshold, and I always managed to keep at least one of them just high enough to avoid expulsion. The problem really began in high school. I was the kid who could make A’s and B’s without much effort, and that’s exactly what I did. I went to school. I went to football practice after school. And I didn’t study much, which means I didn’t learn to study well. That may get you on the A/B honor roll in high school, but it doesn’t work in college. I visited my academic advisor a few times along the way, and each time he would pull out my file—yes, back then it was a physical file folder with actual paper in it. When I received a probation letter in the mail, I would read it and throw it away; my advisor had copies of them all, and they were attached to my file in a stack on the left side. It was quite striking to see them all there in a single (and rather significant) stack.

The first couple of years were the worst. Huge classes. New expectations. Difficult tests. Things improved somewhat as I got into my major classes. I was in the philosophy program with an emphasis on religious studies. I thought that would be the best major to prepare me for seminary. The classes were smaller, and the professors were deeply invested in us. It was a spectacular department of people who worked hard to form students into critical thinkers.

There was one other shift that taught me one very, very important lesson that I’ve carried with me ever since.

The shift from core classes to major classes came with a shift generally from tests to papers, at least for me. When you’re in a history class with 300 other students, you’re going to take a lot of multiple choice tests. And some of those teachers pride themselves on their ability to write very difficult multiple choice tests.

When I got into my major classes, I found myself writing more papers than I was taking tests. The faculty in the department required essays on the assigned texts—whether Plato or Descartes or someone else. And not only did they assign papers, I recall multiple professors insisting on taking time after I’d written the paper to talk about its strengths and weaknesses. They not only required me to articulate my thoughts in writing (a crucial skill), they also offered themselves to teach me when my writing (and thus my thinking) was clear and organized and when it was weak and jumbled. I recall one professor insisting that good writers were made, not born. He also insisted that if our writing was unclear, then so was our thinking. That same professor required us to come to office hours where he would grade our papers in front of us discussing our arguments (or lack of arguments) along the way. It was terrifying. But it was also deeply formative. I didn’t realize it at the time, but all of that was the work of a teacher who loved both the student and the subject. In general, my philosophy professors didn’t seem bothered by students who might take different views than them, as long as our views were thoughtful, grounded, and articulated well. Clear arguments—that’s what mattered.

That move—from large classes characterized by impersonal multiple choice tests to smaller classes focused on intellectual mentoring by means of discussing texts and writing papers—was crucial for me. I began to learn that I was more academically successful when I was writing rather than testing.

Before moving on, I want to be clear about one thing. I regret not being a better student in college. I deeply regret it. Sometimes I wonder how much better prepared I would be for the work I’m doing now had I been more disciplined and learned to study well earlier. How much more beneficial would my major classes have been had I become a better student before those courses rather than in them? I imagine that all the work I’m doing now would be better for it. That said, we can’t change the past, but we can learn from it. And upon my graduation from college, that’s what I set out to do.

I was committed to vocational ministry since my freshman year in college, which meant I’d go on to seminary upon the completion of my undergraduate work. But I realized very quickly after graduation that if I didn’t really learn to study, I wouldn’t be successful in grad school. If I wanted to do what I wanted to do—what I was called to do—I had to learn to study. And study well.

I took a year and half off between college and seminary. There were several reasons for that, but they aren’t part of this story. I did take that time to work on my study skills and habits, to work on my reading and my writing. I worked at a BBQ place all through college and during that year and half after graduation. When I got off work each day, I’d take one of my philosophy books from college—or some work of theology—and go to a coffee shop. I would take a notebook and a pen, and I would study. I wasn’t enrolled in any classes or a degree program. I was simply trying to learn what I needed to learn to be successful in my next academic program and to be faithful to my calling. And it worked. I found myself able to read for longer periods of time. My attention span lengthened. My recollection developed. My understanding of the concepts I was reading improved.

When I applied to seminary, they put me on a limited course load due to my poor performance in college. But the work I’d done between programs paid off, and I did well enough in my first two semesters to successfully petition the enrollment limit be removed early. It was. I thrived. My grades improved. My formation deepened. I was in my element.

That lesson I began to learn in undergrad stayed with me in grad school. When it was time to enroll for courses in the upcoming semester, I would take a look at older syllabi to find out whether the professors gave tests or papers. You can guess which courses I took. That’s right. I tried as much as possible to take classes in which I could write papers and avoid tests. With papers, I felt like I was in control. With tests, I did not. Papers allowed me to formulate my thoughts over the course of the class. They allowed me to begin learning the writer’s craft. I was able to test ideas and learn to say things in new ways. I didn’t always test well, but I found that my papers frequently earned high marks. I even had the opportunity to present a paper at a major academic conference before graduating from seminary. The evidence suggested that things had changed a great deal since those undergraduate days characterized by under-performance.

I would be remiss not to mention that several of my seminary professors devoted significant time outside of class to my intellectual development. They recognized the importance of this formative period and shepherded me along the way. From discussing papers over coffee to lunchtime Greek reading groups, they ensured I had every opportunity to succeed in my intellectual and spiritual formation.

After a year or so in seminary, I began to think I’d like to do a PhD. But can a person who did so poorly in so much of their undergraduate work even get into a PhD program? That’s the next part of the story.

Given my less than stellar college transcripts, I was very unsure about the prospect of even getting into a decent PhD program. I asked one of my seminary professors how to approach that problem. His recommendation was—wait for it—to simply be honest. He suggested I explain what happened in the past and tell the story of how I had developed. So that’s what I did. In my cover letter for doctoral program applications, I told a bit of the story you’re reading now: I was unprepared for undergraduate work, but I took it upon myself to improve as a student, and the evidence for that transformation was the significant improvement in my GPA from my undergraduate program to grad school. I also worked hard outside of the classroom and began writing book reviews for academic journals in addition to the conference paper mentioned above, which was later revised to become my first published academic article. All of that, with the recommendations of a few seminary profs, resulted in the opportunity to begin a PhD under the supervision of a leading scholar of the New Testament at a British university. Fast forward several years: I successfully defended my dissertation with no revisions required beyond a handful of typos and had the opportunity to publish with one of the leading academic publishers in my field. Our past doesn’t necessarily determine our future.

1. It’s of the utmost importance to learn your strengths. I’ve never tested very well. But I’ve learned that I can write a strong paper. Consequently, I was able to increase the likelihood of my academic success by leaning into that strength. I took classes with papers and avoided tests as much as possible. What’s the moral of the story? Figure out what you’re good at. Then do that thing. And chart your path—whether it’s in academics or something else—based on that strength or set of strengths.

2. Standardized tests are not necessarily a good predictor of intellectual capacity or academic success. This, of course, is unfortunate, because the American education system is obsessed with testing. I’ve taken a variety of standardized tests throughout my schooling, from the ACT in high school to the GRE later. My scores were average, never spectacular. Over time, I learned that did not mean I could not achieve academic success. I suspect I’m not the only one for whom these things are true.

3. Knowing your teachers and working closely with them matters. I remember sitting in an undergrad history class with 300 students; it was a nightmare. You can and (perhaps) should learn some things in that setting, but it really isn’t the best context for effective intellectual formation. In contrast, I recall going to lunch with profs in my major, having coffee with faculty members at my seminary, and being deeply formed through one-on-one conversations with my PhD supervisor. Education is formation. And it works the best when your teachers know you, and you know them. When I moved to attend seminary, I remember thinking of two profs in particular that I wanted to study with and hopefully get to know. I did. They both taught me so much, and both continue to be friends and mentors today.

4. Poor performance in the past does not rule out future success. It is possible to overcome academic probation in your undergrad and go on to do advanced academic work. It takes effort and hard work, but it is possible. So, if your story is anything like mine, be encouraged. Don’t give up.

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