From Academic Probation to Independent Investigation

Dear Friends,

Each week, as we walk this road together—part story, part search—it becomes clearer to me that the true work ahead is not just personal growth or institutional reform, but the forging of a new kind of learning: rigorous, spiritual, and deeply collaborative.

I’ve invited you into this series to recount lessons learned, to surface old wounds and new possibilities, and to extend a hand to anyone hungry for a more coherent—and communal—approach to truth.

Our very first episode features journalist and essayist Mehrtash Olson as guest, and together we’ll be asking: can journalism—and all learning—be rooted in spiritual principles as much as investigative rigor?

This week, I step back for a moment to share some of my own story—a winding path through academic failure, unexpected redemption, and the necessity of standing alone in truth. If, as I suspect, these stories echo your own—full of setbacks but also new starts—then consider this both a reflection and a personal invitation.

A Father’s Example: Hard Work, Not Scholarship

My father, for all his gifts—honesty, loyalty, a backbone of steel and an unwavering faith in God—was never a scholar. He was a welder: a practical man whose classroom was a world of molten metal and the “school of hard knocks.”

He provided for our family with sweat and sacrifice, but nurturing a child’s curiosity wasn’t in his toolbox; formal education, to him, was a necessary formality, not a gateway to wonder. He taught me about work, about integrity and submission to divine will. But as for books and schooling? That was, in many ways, left for me to figure out.

Like so many in his generation, rigor meant doing what had to be done, not necessarily questioning why it was done, or how we might do it better. I carry immense gratitude for what he gave me, but also a steady realization that knowing “how to live” does not always mean knowing “how to learn.”

The older I get, the more I see this tension everywhere—in families, communities, even whole cultures: the gap between honest labor and honest inquiry.

First Steps Toward Scholarship: A Lesson in Failure

I entered Ambassador College because I knew I was already beginning to fail at life.

I realized I had already wasted much of my God given potential, and when I was accepted to Ambassador it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning young man. The college was not simply about book learning—it was about marrying head and heart, under the banner: “The Word of God is the Foundation of Knowledge.”

But early on, my own academic footing was anything but firm.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was thrown into the deep end during my first semester. “Latin Literature in Translation,” was a senior-level class taught by the indomitable Dr. Kyriacos Stavrinidis, and for me it was a trial by academic fire. The classics, literary analysis, and Dr. Stav’s open discussion approach were all new territory, and I fumbled, struggled, and finally failed. Landing on academic probation was not just a blow to my GPA; it was a challenge to my sense of worth. I carried the weight of my father’s practicality (“make it through, do what you must”)—while inside, I was quietly asking: What if I’m just not cut out for this? Especially knowing that passing Dr. Stav’s Biblical Scholarship class was a requirement of all seniors for graduation.

Failure, it turns out, is its own kind of education. It certainly woke me up.

A Turning Point: Finding My Voice (and Earning an ‘A’)

Life—not unlike the best teachers—often gives us second chances.

Some time later, as I progressed through the first 3 years, I began to get a deeper appreciation for the “book learning” part of my education.

The stakes felt higher: not only my grades, but my sense of self as a seeker, even as a believer, were on the line. The anxiety was sharp, the memories of past failure fresh.

But something had changed in me. Call it maturity, or simply necessity—I applied myself with a new sense of purpose. I refused to be defined by my past performance or anyone else’s cynicism about my capabilities. I dug into the readings, challenged my own assumptions, and resolved to follow where the questions led, not just what was expected. When the exam came, I not only passed—I earned an “A.”

I wish I could say that was the end of the tests. In many ways, it was only a beginning.

Standing Alone in Colmar: Independent Investigation Put to the Test

Fast forward to 9 years later.

I was now ordained and attending the denomination’s ministerial conference in Colmar, France, and I found myself facing a very different kind of exam: not a paper or textbook, but the collective pressure of the leadership of the faith community.

The question before us: Would we, en masse, accept the doctrine of the Trinity—a teaching that, for me, had not withstood the scrutiny of serious investigation?

It would have been simple, even safer, to keep silent, to go along with the leaders. In moments like these, conformity is comfortable; conviction is lonely.

But in the spirit of independent investigation—a bedrock Baha’i principle, was the hard-earned fruit of my own life, including my academic scars— and these gave me the strength to stand apart.

I could not and would not affirm something I could not, in conscience, say was true. I wasn’t alone, but others struggled more trying to resist the inertia of groupthink. But through the experiences I believe God had given me I was able to raise my voice—respectfully, but firmly—refusing to surrender my responsibility to investigate truth for myself.

I remember feeling small—vulnerable, even scared. But looking back, these moments forged in me a deeper commitment to learning that is honest, humble, and, above all, independent.

And there were a few others who thanked me for standing in the gap.

Why This Story Matters—And Why I Want Your Voice

Why do I share these stories now?

Because the real test for all of us is not remembering our triumphs, but learning from our trials.

I believe that true education is not about collecting anyone else’s answers—or even avoiding our own failures—but about forging, through honest search and hard-won humility, the ability to think for ourselves.

What the Bahá’í Writings call the “independent investigation of truth” has never been more timely, or more needed:

“...see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor.”
—Bahá’u’lláh

When we hand over our capacity to search, to question, and to revisit what we think we know, we not only betray ourselves—we halt the progress of our communities, and perhaps even our world.

Action: Help Build the Conversation at the Intersection of Science & Revelation

That’s why I’m not content, this time around, just to tell stories—I want to build something new, together.

With our “Created in the Image of God” show, and this Substack series, we are assembling a growing circle of educators, students, and seekers who believe (as I now do) that the real discoveries happen at the intersection of Science and Revelation.

This is your invitation.

If you are an educator interested in these questions, a student wrestling with them, or a curious listener ready to explore, I want you to help shape this dialogue.

Suggest a topic—What intersection of science and spirituality keeps you up at night?
Volunteer as a guest—Do you have a story that fits, or a field of expertise to share?
Offer your thoughts—What do you wish someone would say out loud, or examine more honestly, about learning, faith, or independent search?
Join us behind the scenes—Are you an organizer, a moderator, a technical helper, or simply someone longing to belong? Your skills are needed.