One of my favorite professors was an unassuming middle aged man, but the man was a real philosopher. Most days during this particular spring quarter, he wore a faded Under Armor pullover hoodie, awful sandal-shoes, and cargo shorts. And regrettably, I enrolled for only one of his lecture series on empiricism, namely the works of Locke, Hume, and Berkeley. I thought to myself, "Are one of those men right? Will I call myself an empiricist after this course?" As the philosopher lectured one day, I felt the sense that I had stepped into a beautiful gothic cathedral. And with every argument he made, a new hall or wing would come into view. His lecturing would reveal the general shape and contours of the architecture. And with each question that was asked and then answered, a small hidden corner would be illuminated where there would be intricate carvings, latticework, or paintings. It was a beautiful place to visit—a place to worship (a) greater being. I studied the intricac