Colleges fail. They close. "On average, five private 4-year
non-profit colleges and universities have closed per year over the last
ten years, with as many as 9 institutions closing in 2009" (Digest of Education Statistics, 2013).
They close because of low enrollment, small endowments, high debt, and
deferred maintenance. Among twenty indicators listed by Martin and
Samel in their 2009 book, Turnaround: Leading Stressed Colleges and Universities to Excellence, a college risks closure when:
o its enrollment is below 1000 students.
o it depends on tuition for more than 85% of its operating budget.
o more than 10% of its annual operating budget goes to servicing debt.
o the average annual alumni gift is less than $75.
o it can't develop an online program.
o it hasn't developed a new degree program for at least two years.
o the institution is on probation, warning, or financial watch with a regional accreditor.
Colleges
close for reasons only tangentially related to leadership style,
communication transparency, instructional quality, distinctive
facilities, faculty commitment, student loyalty, or alumni nostalgia.
While those factors feel most central to institutional identity and
constituent experience, none have the power to keep a failing college
above water.
Furthermore (and perhaps harder to
accept), loving Jesus exempts no business from the market forces that
closed Circuit City, Borders, Woolworth, and Blockbuster. In an April
2013 New York Times article, Jeffrey Selingo soberly quantifies
the likelihood of institutional persistence. "Only 500 or so of the
4,000-plus colleges and universities in the United States seem to have
stable enough finances to be truly safe. The remaining colleges… can no
longer hold off the technological, demographic and economic forces
quickly bearing down on them."
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| Idyllic Montreat College |
Part of that
is Montreat's own fault. As one example, the school's recruitment
strategy has historically privileged men's baseball over women's
soccer. To be blunt, baseball players often require significant tuition
discounts. Women's soccer players, by contrast, tend to come from the
lucrative demographic of families able to pay the full cost of college.
Additionally,
the school's selection of majors has long dumped graduates into
low-earning professions. Degrees in Music, Religion, and Outdoor
Education infrequently predict high-dollar philanthropy. The satisfying
but intangible nobility of those majors doesn't endow chairs or
renovate dorms.
Yes, other college alumni typically
have a place at the table. They help to steer the legacy of their
respective institutions. But they pay for the privilege.
We
might prefer that Montreat's leadership team explain the college
ledger, line by gruesome line, to those who imagine themselves
stakeholders. But if the board is trying to secure a merger, a
savior-donor, a new president, or even a larger student body, that's
probably not the wisest public relations maneuver. I'm not defending
silence or obfuscation – of which there has been much. But if I were
desperately attempting to increase the college's curb appeal, I wouldn't
simultaneously broadcast its every fiscal liability.
Instead,
I'd play my financial cards close to my chest, publicly committing to
no one option, yet investigating them all. Yep. That's what I'd do if I
held a hundred families in my palm. That's what I'd do if a word from
me could close a retirement account or end health coverage or send a
sophomore scrambling to continue her education elsewhere. I wouldn't
lie, but neither would I add to the fire of speculation. I wouldn't
injure or unduly panic any of my friends until no option remained.
That's how I'd play it if I feared Montreat would soon appear on a list of 130-odd closed or merged North Carolina colleges. That's
what I'd do if I owned the school. But I don't. The trustees do. As
much as we may wish they were beholden to stock owners, they are not.
They are proprietors of a privately held business obliged to balance the
books within the constraints of the law. They are Ernst & Young,
Publix Super Markets, Pilot Gas Stations.
I understand
the instinctive need to embrace dear memories, to defend precious
ideals. I, too, wooed a sweetheart on the shores of Lake Susan. I
cheered teams to victory from the bleachers of McAlister Gym. I slept
through French classes in Gaither Hall. I cried at the funeral of Professor
Bonnie Lundblad. And I surrender not one of these memories to
inflexible economic realities. I begrudge no man his conscience. I
encourage no one to abandon the struggle to keep Montreat alive and
kicking (though panic in the game's final seconds seems insincere when
the need for a new and winning strategy has been evident since
halftime).
Things end. Often without dignity. Seldom
timed to our liking. Many endings owe nothing to the Fall's corrosive
influence. They simply occur because God ordained time to work as a
one-way, forward flow from one event to another.
Things
end because the God of kindergarten is also the God of graduation. The
God of happy birthdays is the God of old age. The God of flight is the
God of gravity. The God of rainbows is the God of rain. Through
starting pistols and finish lines alike, our God speaks his will into
the world. Selective proof-texting too often confines God to the cage
of Alpha. We should not forget he also merits worship for being,
gloriously and authoritatively, the Omega.
