Like many young Americans, I was introduced to Elie Wiesel in middle school by reading his harrowing Night. The deep darkness of the death camps, the permanent pain in survival, was seared into my consciousness. More than a decade later, I read his Hasidic Tales while living in Paris as a graduate student. I especially remember this story:

When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem-Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and misfortune averted.

Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayers.” And again the miracle would be accomplished.

Still later, Rabbi Moshe-Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: “I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished

Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and that must be sufficient.” And it was sufficient.

I met Elie Wiesel as a young professor in Claremont, California, and then had the pleasure of hosting a talk he gave at Wesleyan about six years ago. At dinner that night, our daughter Sophie asked him why he and other Jews didn’t flee from Nazi persecution. I was surprised (and maybe a little embarrassed) by her boldness. How many times must he have been asked this kind of question! Patiently, kindly, he told her “we had no idea, we could not even imagine what was to come.” I then told him that Sophie was to be bat mitzvahed later that spring. Taking her punim in his hands, he kissed her on the forehead as her eyes filled with tears. Mazel tov, mazel tov, he said.

That night, at his lecture Elie Wiesel told his story—as he did countless times over more than 60 years. He made every place he spoke that special place in the forest; he made every speech a kind of fire, maybe even a kind of prayer. I don’t know if his telling the story is sufficient, but I am so grateful to have heard him. May his memory be for a blessing.

Colleges and universities love to celebrate successful alumni. The most compelling stories about the value of the undergraduate years are built on the connections between what one studies on campus and success beyond the university. At Wesleyan, we do whatever we can to shine a bright light on the achievements of our graduates—in the sciences and in the public sphere, in sports, in the business world and in academia. A few years ago we had a field day when In The Heights won Tony Awards and thrust its star, Lin-Manuel Miranda ’02, into the spotlight. He had originally produced the show on campus as a student, and then with director and Wesleyan alumnus Tommy Kail ’99, and playwright Quiara Alegria Hudes (now on the Wesleyan faculty), made a sparkling Broadway debut.

Even after the great success of Heights, nobody was really prepared for the truly revolutionary musical Hamilton. But given the liberal education that Miranda and Kail received at Wesleyan, maybe we should have seen something like this coming. Steeped in history and uncannily responsive to contemporary culture, it is an extraordinary artistic achievement at once traditional and experimental. That’s the kind of synthesis that those of us working in liberal arts colleges are always hoping for: making the past come alive in ways that expand possibilities in the present. Hamilton’s source is a deep historical biography by Ron Chernow, which Miranda somehow transformed into a hip-hop opera that draws on Broadway traditions to make something profoundly original.

As we thought about the best way to honor this achievement, we decided to create a major prize to recognize creative potential in a student beginning her or his academic career at Wesleyan. This week we are announcing the Hamilton Prize: awarded to the incoming student (class of 2021) who has submitted (with the application for admission) a work of fiction, poetry, song, or creative nonfiction judged to best reflect originality, artistry and dynamism. The Hamilton Prize includes a full tuition scholarship at Wesleyan for four years. The winner of the prize will be selected by a panel of distinguished faculty and alumni.

Hamilton is a major event, and this is a major prize.  Wesleyan has had a strong history of great writing. From poet laureate Richard Wilbur back in the days when I was a student to novelist Amy Bloom, biographer Lisa Cohen and playwright Quiara Alegria Hudes today, dynamic writers have made our campus their home. The tension between the traditional and experimental continues to energize students here—from the graphic novelist finding new audiences to the slam poet or songwriter wowing fellow students, bold writing is often combined with performance on campus. With the Hamilton Prize, we mean to signal our pride in a diverse array of creative endeavors.

When Hamilton’s generation considered higher education, many believed it was crucial that students not think they already knew at the beginning of their studies where they would end up when it was time for graduation. For all those who have followed on this American path of liberal education, learning was all about exploration – and you would only make important discoveries if you were open to unexpected possibilities. W.E.B. Du Bois was on that path when he argued a century later that a broad education was a form of empowerment that must be open to those disenfranchised by the economy or by legacies of discrimination. Lin-Manuel Miranda was also on that path when he created a musical of revolution that shows how the proverbial “dead white men” can be re-imagined for our time.

As some schools succumb to fears of being left behind and choose vocational shortcuts for their curriculum, we who believe in the power of pragmatic liberal education must develop broad, contextual learning that enables our graduates to pursue meaningful work and lifelong learning. Yes, ours is a merciless economy characterized by deep economic inequality, but that inequality must not be accepted as a given; the skills of citizenship and the powers of creativity enhanced through liberal learning can be used to push back against it.

At a time when many worry about the fate of the creative humanities at American universities, Hamilton reminds us, at many levels, that education can help enlarge the power of engaged citizens to overcome traditional hierarchies. Wesleyan University has created the “Hamilton Prize” to reflect our commitment to educating young people who, after all, have the potential to revitalize our economy, animate our citizenry and energize a culture characterized by connectivity and creativity.

How awful it is to write messages that begin with “my heart goes out to…” This morning’s attack at a gay nightclub in Orlando is a repulsive act of hatred and terror, already embraced by ISIS. I learned of this atrocity when my plane landed in New York a short time ago. At moments like these we are reminded of our vulnerability, of the awful frequency of mass shootings. We should also be mindful of the crucial work of the struggle against terrorism and the protection of freedom.

As I make my way back to Middletown, I am also reminded of our solidarity, and of our shared commitment to creating a campus culture free of violence and hate. May we redouble our efforts to stand against enmity and cultivate a climate of equity and inclusion.

And may the memory of those massacred this morning in Orlando be a blessing to their friends, family, and all of us who struggle against hatred and violence.