In Memoriam
Thomas A. Schwandt
Thomas A. Schwandt was a teacher in the most profound sense of that word. When he died right before Christmas, at age 77, the news felt to me like the quiet closing of a chapter that began more than thirty years ago.
I received my Ph.D. from Indiana University in 1995, with Tom as my dissertation director. I learned last November, just after his birthday, that he was ill. Even with that knowledge, the report of his passing landed heavily.
In absolutely no uncertain terms, Tom was the center of my IU graduate-student experience.
Tom began his academic life in English literature before moving toward theology, philosophy, and ultimately evaluation. That trajectory makes perfect sense in retrospect. His work was always animated by questions of meaning and moral judgment. My own undergraduate training was in chemistry, a discipline that demands intellectual discipline, analytic precision, respect for evidence, and humility before complexity. Tom helped me see that those habits of mind need not be abandoned when one enters qualitative inquiry; they must simply be redirected. Under his guidance, rigor became not merely technical exactness, but careful thinking about values, human judgment, and what our conclusions require of us.
His courses in interpretive inquiry and evaluation were, without reservation, the most formative of my time at Indiana. He did not merely perform scholarship; he practiced it carefully and deliberately. His classroom was marked by deep, open-ended questions that slowed thinking down: What does it mean to know? What is the validity of this knowledge claim? What are the ethical and moral responsibilities when working with human subjects? He made it clear that evaluation is not a technical exercise conducted from a position of detached neutrality. It is a value-laden and political practice. The task of the researcher or evaluator is not to eliminate values but to expose them, examine them, and reason together about them honestly.
When he agreed to direct my dissertation, I felt incredibly fortunate as well as challenged. Drafts were returned with precise criticism and unmistakable encouragement. He expected clarity because he assumed I was capable of it. That kind of steady confidence alters a scholar’s sense of himself, whether he is twenty-five or in midlife, as I was.
My career moved toward higher education administration rather than the scholarly life Tom exemplified. Yet his questions accompanied me into leadership roles. From policy development and implementation, to budget deliberations, to the never-ending personnel conflicts, I often heard echoes of his voice: What does this mean? Whose voices are present or absent? Given what we know, what should we do now? What is the right and responsible way to proceed?
When Tom retired in 2015, we exchanged old-school, handwritten notes. In mine, I told him that, with four degrees earned across four different decades, I had experienced dozens, perhaps hundreds, of classroom leaders. Students remember their great teachers, try to forget the terrible ones, and grow hazy about most of the rest. “You,” I wrote, “were in a category by yourself. You were not only among the greats, you were simply the best. In the world of academia, I tell people I got to work with a rock star while doing my doctoral work at IU.”
His reply captured his character perfectly: “… it may make you feel good to know that I doubt I have ever failed to mention your Ph.D. thesis in every qualitative methodology class I have taught! … I have always felt that the real rock stars were the students that I had the great fortune to work with.”
That generosity, that instinct to redirect praise, was quintessential Tom. He saw teaching not as performance but as stewardship.
When I read his obituary, and later the tribute from the European Evaluation Society, with their descriptions of wisdom, integrity, faith, and service, I recognized immediately the same man I had known in front of classrooms decades ago.
Now, in retirement, as I concentrate on reading, writing, and reflection, I recognize how much of my intellectual architecture in later life was formed under his guidance. If there is any seriousness to my thinking, any respect for complexity and moral responsibility, it surely can be traced back to his mentorship.
In 1995, I acknowledged and thanked him as an incredible gentleman and scholar. Thirty some years later, I understand those words even more fully.
I remain deeply grateful that I had the privilege to be his student and colleague.
His questions remain with me. Still.
Soundtrack Suggestion
Across the morning sky,
All the bird are leaving,
Ah, how can they know it’s time for them to go?
Before the winter fire,
We’ll still be dreaming.
I do not count the time
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
(“Who Knows Where the Time Goes” – Sandy Denny)
Marking A Monk’s Milestone
