Concordia University, in Portland, Oregon, founded in 1905 as a Lutheran academy and grown into the largest university of the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod in the United States, announced on February 10, 2020 that it would close at the end of that spring semester. By the following graduation, on April 25, the institution that had taught pastors, schoolteachers, nurses, and — through a vast online arm — tens of thousands of working educators across the country would simply cease to exist. More than five thousand students and roughly 1,500 employees were told, with little warning and fewer answers, that the place issuing their degrees and signing their paychecks had run out of time.
The institution that closed was, in a real sense, two institutions wearing one name. There was the small residential campus in the Concordia neighborhood of northeast Portland — perhaps five hundred undergraduates, a Lutheran liberal-arts college of the ordinary kind. And there was the online machine: a Master of Education program so large that Concordia awarded more such degrees than any other nonprofit in the country, built and marketed in partnership with a Silicon Valley company called HotChalk. The online business had lifted total enrollment past 7,400 at its 2014 peak and made Concordia Oregon’s largest private nonprofit university. It had also bound the university’s finances to a contract it could not, in the end, survive.
The closure was abrupt, but the decline was not. Revenue had fallen nearly 40 percent in four years; the university had defaulted on bond covenants; the Church Extension Fund and the Synod itself had become creditors and, finally, reluctant ones. When the Board of Regents voted to close, it did so quickly and quietly, and — on the same day, HotChalk would later allege — moved the Portland campus into the hands of a Lutheran entity, out of reach of the creditor that promptly sued for $302 million. The law school Concordia had opened in Boise in 2012, by then fully accredited and posting a perfect bar-passage rate, was orphaned overnight; the University of Idaho would eventually take in its students and its building. What was lost in Portland was not a struggling diploma mill but a 115-year-old church university, dissolved by a single vote, that told the people who depended on it last.
Concordia College Alabama, a small historically Black college in Selma, Alabama, founded in 1922 and the only historically Black college of the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod, announced in February 2018 that it would close at the end of that spring semester. On April 28, 2018, it graduated a final class of 147 students and ceased to exist after ninety-six years. It was the only one of the ten campuses of the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod’s Concordia University System founded to serve Black students, and its closing erased a singular institution: the place where the denomination’s commitment to Black education in the Deep South had taken physical form for nearly a century.
The college began as the dream of one woman. Rosa J. Young, an African American educator remembered as “the mother of Black Lutheranism,” opened a school for Black children in rural Alabama, sought help from Booker T. Washington, and was directed by him to the Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod when Tuskegee could not assist. The Synod sent a missionary, and in November 1922 the institution that became Concordia opened in Selma with fewer than ten students. Over the following decades it grew from a teacher-and-minister training school into a junior college and, finally, a four-year, accredited, baccalaureate-granting college — a steady, unglamorous engine of Black advancement in a city that would become a crucible of the civil-rights movement.
It was never large or rich. At its height in the 1960s it enrolled roughly 650 students; by the fall of 2017 it counted about 445, more than 90 percent of them Black and more than 90 percent eligible for federal Pell Grants — which is to say, drawn almost entirely from low-income families for whom Concordia was an affordable door into a degree. The college had been propped up for years by the Synod, which by its own account had directed more than 44 percent of its entire ten-campus subsidy to Concordia Alabama since 2006. When the denomination concluded that the figures would not come right and that its limited resources had to be spread across “so many worthy mission-and-ministry opportunities,” the subsidy that had kept the lights on in Selma ended. The board filed a teach-out plan with its accreditor and closed. What was lost was not a struggling diploma mill but a 96-year-old HBCU in Selma, a piece of Black Lutheran history, and the largest concrete expression of a denomination’s promise to a community.
Saint Joseph’s College, a Catholic liberal-arts college in Rensselaer, Indiana, founded in 1889 by the Missionaries of the Precious Blood, announced on February 3, 2017 that it would suspend operations at the end of that spring semester. It graduated its final traditional class, and after 128 years the residential college on the prairie halfway between Chicago and Indianapolis went dark. Roughly 900 to 1,100 students were enrolled when the board voted; about 200 employees lost their jobs; and a town of some five thousand people lost the institution that had, in large part, defined it.
The cause was not a sudden scandal or a single bad year. It was a slow accumulation of liabilities that finally exceeded any plausible rescue. By the college’s own accounting, it needed roughly $100 million to continue: about $27 million to retire its debt, about $35 million in deferred maintenance and infrastructure repairs to a long-neglected campus, and another $38 million to “re-engineer” the institution into something that could survive. In November 2016 the Higher Learning Commission placed Saint Joseph’s on probation, finding that its resource base no longer supported its programs. The college told its community that it needed roughly $20 million by June simply to open in the fall. The money did not come, and the board concluded the college “cannot continue in its current form.”
What makes Saint Joseph’s distinct in the closure wave is the shape of its killer: not the demographic enrollment cliff alone, but decades of deferred maintenance — the bills a tuition-dependent college defers, year after year, to balance the budget, until the deferred total becomes a number no one can pay. The college called its shutdown a “suspension” rather than a closure, and held out the hope of revival; a teach-out moved students to other Catholic and regional colleges, and a small two-year college bearing the Saint Joseph’s name later opened in partnership with Marian University in Indianapolis. But the residential, four-year liberal-arts college in Rensselaer — the one that had graduated tens of thousands over 128 years — did not come back. What survives on the campus today is certificate programs and trades training, not the college that closed.
Saint Paul’s College, a historically Black college in Lawrenceville, Virginia, founded in 1888 by an Episcopal priest, lost its regional accreditation in 2012 and closed on June 30, 2013, after 125 years. Its accreditor, the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools, stripped its accreditation over financial instability and a cascade of institutional failures; a planned rescue by a fellow Episcopal HBCU collapsed; and with no accreditation and no merger partner, the board concluded it had no path forward. When it closed, enrollment had fallen to roughly 150 students — down from a peak near 1,000 — and the institution that James Solomon Russell had built into one of Virginia’s six historically Black colleges simply stopped.
Russell’s school began in September 1888 as the Saint Paul Normal and Industrial School, founded by Russell — a formerly enslaved man who became an Episcopal priest — to train African American teachers and prepare Black Virginians for agricultural and industrial work in a state that offered them almost nothing else. It grew across the twentieth century into a four-year liberal-arts and teacher-education college, the Saint Paul’s College of 1957, and a fixture of Black life in rural Southside Virginia. Like most HBCUs, it served a population denied the wealth that endows colleges, and it ran on thin margins for its entire existence.
In its final years those margins gave way. The college accumulated debt and deficits it could not close, cut its athletic programs in 2011 to save money, and fell into the kind of financial and governance turmoil that draws an accreditor’s scrutiny. In June 2012 SACS stripped its accreditation. The college sued and won a temporary injunction that briefly restored a probationary status, but accreditation is the precondition for federal student aid, and without it a college serving an overwhelmingly Pell-dependent student body cannot enroll. Supporters pinned their hopes on a merger with Saint Augustine’s University, a kindred Episcopal HBCU in Raleigh; when that deal was abandoned in May 2013, the end was a formality. The board announced the closure on June 3, 2013, and the college shut on June 30. The campus, taken over by the federal pension agency after the college defaulted on its obligations, was eventually sold for $2.5 million. A 125-year-old HBCU — one of only six in Virginia — was gone.
Atlantic Union College, a Seventh-day Adventist institution in the village of South Lancaster, Massachusetts, founded in 1882, closed for good in February 2018 — the second time it had closed in seven years, and this time without the accreditation that had once made it a college at all. It was the oldest campus in the worldwide Adventist educational system, a small liberal-arts college that for most of its life trained teachers, nurses, and ministers for the church that owned it. By the end it enrolled a few dozen students in two unaccredited bachelor’s programs and a handful of certificates, and it was costing the regional church roughly $4.3 million a year to keep the lights on. On February 21, 2018, the Atlantic Union Conference voted to stop.
The decisive wound was accreditation, lost slowly and then permanently. The New England Association of Schools and Colleges placed the college on probation in 2008 over its finances, and in February 2011 announced that it would withdraw accreditation that July. The college laid off its staff and shut its doors. It reopened in 2015 with new leadership and a fervent hope of winning accreditation back — but a college without accreditation cannot offer federal financial aid, and a college that cannot offer federal aid cannot attract the students whose tuition would fund the climb back to accreditation. The trap closed on itself. After three years of running an unaccredited program on church subsidy, an independent feasibility study concluded the institution was not sustainable, and the conference’s executive committee voted to close it.
What was lost was less a student body — by 2018 there was barely one — than an institution and an idea. For 136 years the college had been the academic anchor of the Adventist community that had clustered around it in South Lancaster, and the symbolic flagship of a denomination that built its life around education. The closure stranded few students because few were left, which is its own kind of elegy: a college does not always die in a single shocking announcement to thousands. Sometimes it dies the way Atlantic Union did — slowly, in public, over a decade, with everyone watching and no one able to stop it.
Marylhurst University, a Catholic institution on a wooded campus south of Portland, Oregon, chartered in 1893 by the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, announced in May 2018 that it would close at the end of the year. It was Oregon’s oldest Catholic university and the first liberal-arts college for women in the Pacific Northwest, and it had spent the last half of its life as something rarer still: a pioneer of adult and online education, built for the working student returning to finish a degree. The board of trustees voted unanimously to close on May 17, 2018, ending a 125-year history and dispersing its remaining students, the great majority of them well past traditional college age.
The cause was enrollment, and the irony is that Marylhurst was undone by the very market it had helped invent. Having reoriented itself in 1974 toward adult learners — older students, online and evening classes, flexible terms — it had been decades ahead of an idea that the rest of higher education eventually seized. When the recession of 2008 sent working adults back to school in search of credentials, Marylhurst’s enrollment swelled toward 2,000. When the economy recovered, those students stopped coming, and the larger, richer universities that had finally embraced online education arrived with marketing budgets Marylhurst could not match. Its president put it plainly: everyone caught up to us. Enrollment fell from 1,409 in the fall of 2013 to 743 four years later — nearly cut in half — and the board concluded the institution could not be rescued.
The closure was, by the standards of this family, comparatively gentle. The university counted just over 400 students at the end; some 81 could graduate that summer, and the institution committed to helping the remaining few hundred transfer. The 50-acre campus reverted to the Sisters of the Holy Names, the religious order that had founded the college and could now decide its future. What Marylhurst lost was not, mostly, stranded undergraduates, but an institutional identity: a small Catholic university that had bet its second century on a model the giants of higher education would eventually take, scale, and dominate.
Notre Dame College, a Catholic institution in South Euclid, Ohio, founded in 1922 by the Sisters of Notre Dame, announced on February 29, 2024 that it would close at the end of that spring semester, ending a 102-year history. (It is no relation to the University of Notre Dame in Indiana; the shared name is coincidence, and the confusion is one small indignity of its closing.) The college had grown from a women’s college into a coeducational institution that doubled its enrollment in the 2000s, then watched that enrollment fall by more than a third in a decade. By the end it carried significant debt it could not refinance, and a last-ditch effort to merge with nearby Cleveland State University failed. On May 2, 2024, the college closed for good.
The diagnosis the board offered was a familiar one for a small Catholic college in the 2020s: declining enrollment, a shrinking pool of college-aged students, rising costs, and a heavy debt load. Total fall enrollment had peaked around 2,300 in 2014 and slid to roughly 1,440 by 2022 — a decline of nearly 37 percent — while the costs of running a residential campus stayed fixed. The Sisters of Notre Dame, whose own dwindling numbers had made it impossible to sustain their leadership, had ended their sponsorship of the college in 2023, removing the founding order from the institution it had built. When fundraising, refinancing, and federal pandemic relief all proved insufficient to satisfy the college’s debt obligations, and the Cleveland State merger collapsed, the board concluded there was no path forward.
Unlike the era’s most brutal closures, Notre Dame did not strand its students without recourse. It arranged teach-out and transfer agreements with nine other institutions, guaranteeing admission and comparable tuition for students who had completed enough credits, and held a partner-college fair to help them move. Still, roughly 1,400 students had to leave the college they had chosen, some 370 employees lost their jobs, and a Division II athletics program — including a football team that had just signed its 2024 recruiting class three weeks before the announcement — was dissolved overnight. The campus that the Sisters built in suburban Cleveland would later go to auction, the final page of a century-old Catholic college undone by the arithmetic of debt and demography.
Holy Family College, a small Catholic college in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, founded in 1885 by the Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity, announced in May 2020 that it would cease operations at the end of that summer term, closing for good on August 29, 2020. It had carried the Holy Family name for less than a year. For most of its modern life the institution had been known as Silver Lake College of the Holy Family, the name it took in 1972; in September 2019 it had returned, with some ceremony, to its founding identity — a restoration meant to signal renewal. Eight months later it was gone.
The college was always small and always tuition-dependent. It had begun as an academy and a teacher-training school for the Franciscan sisters, opened its doors to lay women in 1957, became coeducational in 1969, and settled into the role of a regional Catholic college on a 36-acre campus serving roughly 350 to 450 students across about two dozen undergraduate and a few graduate programs. By the spring of 2020 it enrolled around 360 students, the kind of figure that leaves no room for a bad year. The decline in traditional-age students across the upper Midwest had been pressing on it for a decade; the institution survived on the margin, year to year, with little endowment to absorb a shock.
The shock came in the form of a pandemic. The Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity Sponsored Ministries, which governed the college, cited rising operating costs, persistent enrollment and fundraising difficulties, and — decisively — the effects of COVID-19 on its already fragile recruiting. Sister Natalie Binversie acknowledged that the president had made progress on the older financial problems, but that the tough challenges had been made tougher by the outbreak. The college arranged a teach-out: Lakeland University in nearby Sheboygan County signed an agreement to admit students entering their final year and to take transfers from the rest, at the same cost or less. What closed in Manitowoc was not a scandal or a collapse but a 135-year-old community institution that ran out of the one thing it had never had a cushion of — students — at the exact moment a virus made students harder to find.
Cardinal Stritch University, a Catholic institution in the Milwaukee suburbs of Fox Point and Glendale, founded in 1937 by the Sisters of St. Francis of Assisi, announced on April 10, 2023 that it would close at the end of that spring semester, winding down on May 22 after a final commencement the day before. It was, at its height, one of the largest Franciscan universities in the United States — a regional powerhouse in teacher education and adult degree completion that had enrolled more than 5,000 students at its 2011 peak. Twelve years later it enrolled barely a quarter of that, and the arithmetic that had carried it for 86 years no longer closed.
The institution had begun as St. Clare College, a teacher-training school founded by the Franciscan sisters to educate members of their own order. It was renamed in 1946 for Cardinal Samuel Stritch, the Archbishop of Milwaukee, became coeducational, and grew steadily into a comprehensive university — granted university status in 1997 — with a national reputation in education and a large, lucrative adult and graduate market. That market was its strength and, in the end, its exposure. When enrollment in education programs and adult degree completion softened across the 2010s, Cardinal Stritch had built its scale on exactly the segment that was contracting fastest. Enrollment fell from more than 5,000 in 2011 to 2,345 in 2019–20 and to 1,365 by the fall of 2021 — a decline of roughly three-quarters in a decade.
President Dan Scholz, announcing the closure, called it a “no-win situation,” citing fiscal realities, downward enrollment, the pandemic, the need for more resources, and mounting operational and facility costs. The Sisters of St. Francis of Assisi, who had founded the university and still sponsored it, accepted the board’s recommendation to close. Cardinal Stritch arranged a robust set of teach-out agreements — with Alverno, Mount Mary, Carroll, Marquette, and others — that guaranteed admission and full credit transfer so students could finish on time and at comparable cost. What ended was not a small struggling college but the flagship of Franciscan higher education in the upper Midwest, hollowed out so quickly that its closure came as a shock to a city that had assumed it too big to fail.
Iowa Wesleyan University, in Mount Pleasant, Iowa, chartered in 1842 as the Mount Pleasant Literary Institute and grown into a United Methodist university — one of the oldest institutions of higher learning west of the Mississippi River and Iowa’s first coeducational one — announced on March 28, 2023 that it would close at the end of that academic year, ceasing operations in May after 181 years. Its board of trustees voted unanimously. The decisive fact was financial: the university owed roughly $26 million on a U.S. Department of Agriculture-backed loan secured in 2016, with its 60-acre campus as collateral, and the loan could be called as early as November 2023. A last appeal to the state for help had just been refused.
The university had a history out of proportion to its size. It claimed to be the oldest coeducational institution west of the Mississippi; its alumni included James Van Allen, the physicist who discovered the radiation belts that bear his name, and Belle Babb Mansfield, the first woman admitted to the bar in the United States. By 2023 it enrolled roughly 600 full-time students and employed about 110 people, 35 of them faculty, and it was a genuine economic engine for its rural southeast-Iowa town — an estimated $55 million in annual economic impact. But it had spent years carrying losses, and its own auditor had flagged “substantial doubt” about its ability to continue as a going concern.
The endgame turned on a request and its denial. Iowa Wesleyan asked Governor Kim Reynolds for $12 million in federal American Rescue Plan Act funds, money the state controlled, framing the appeal around the governor’s own rural-Iowa initiative. Reynolds commissioned an independent accounting review, which concluded that one-time federal dollars would not solve the university’s systemic financial problems, and she declined. With the USDA debt looming and no rescue forthcoming, the trustees closed the institution. Teach-out agreements with four Iowa universities — William Penn, Upper Iowa, Dubuque, and Culver-Stockton — gave students a path to finish. What closed was a 181-year-old Methodist university older than the state of Iowa itself, and a rural town’s largest cultural and economic anchor, undone by a debt it could not carry and a bailout the state judged it could not justify.
Fontbonne University, a Catholic institution in Clayton, just west of St. Louis, Missouri, chartered in 1917 and opened to its first students as Fontbonne College in 1923, announced on March 11, 2024 that its board of trustees had declared financial exigency and would close the university after the summer 2025 term. It was the kind of closure higher education had, by 2024, learned to recognize on sight: a small, tuition-dependent, lightly endowed religious college, founded to serve a region and a faith, ground down over fifteen years by a shrinking pool of students and a deficit that would not close. The institution had run in the red for roughly a decade. It celebrated its centennial in 2023 and announced its own ending a few months later.
Fontbonne was founded by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet, a congregation with roots in St. Louis since 1836, and it carried their mission in its bones — service, access, and a particular care for students the larger universities overlooked. It built strengths in special education and, notably, in deaf education, a partnership with the St. Joseph Institute for the Deaf that made it one of the few places in the country preparing teachers for deaf and hard-of-hearing children. At its 2011 peak it enrolled roughly 2,293 students. By the autumn of 2023 it counted 874, against a deficit reported at $5.2 million, and a board that had spent years cutting costs, launching programs, and adding athletics found none of it had moved the line.
The closure was declared with more than a year’s runway, which made it kinder than many. Fontbonne admitted no freshman class for fall 2024 and taught its remaining students through the summer of 2025, drawing roughly $9 million from its endowment to fund scholarships so current undergraduates could finish. Washington University in St. Louis agreed to buy the 16-acre Clayton campus and leased it back to Fontbonne for the final year. What ended was not a scandal but a century of diverse Catholic education in St. Louis — a college that had taught generations of the city’s first-generation students, special educators, and dietitians, dissolving on schedule because the arithmetic of small religious colleges had finally caught it.
Holy Names University, perched in the Oakland hills of California and founded in 1868 by the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, announced on December 19, 2022 that it would close at the end of the spring 2023 semester, ending 154 years of continuous operation. It was among the oldest institutions in the East Bay and one of the most diverse — a Catholic university that had become, by its final decades, a college of first-generation students, of Hispanic and Black and immigrant Oakland, of the working adults and aspiring teachers the region’s larger universities priced out or passed over. It closed not because of scandal or fraud but because the numbers no longer worked: declining enrollment, a deepening operating deficit, and a debt load that made survival impossible.
The institution that closed was small and getting smaller. Founded by a teaching order of sisters from Quebec, Holy Names had spent a century and a half preparing teachers and serving the East Bay, and it remained, to the end, defined by its mission to under-resourced students. In the fall of 2022 it enrolled roughly 943 students — about 520 undergraduates and 423 in graduate programs — but only 449 registered for spring 2023 as students, sensing the end, drifted toward the exits. Beneath the enrollment lay the real weight: roughly $49 million in debt secured on the property, and a 65-year-old campus whose deferred maintenance and compliance upgrades the board estimated could exceed $200 million. No partner could be found to absorb a college carrying that.
The closure came with a teach-out rather than a cliff. Dominican University of California, a fellow Catholic institution in San Rafael, agreed to take in Holy Names students and to import several of its academic programs, so that students could continue toward the degrees they had begun. Still, the loss was real and specific. When Holy Names closed, the East Bay lost one of its principal pipelines of teachers, and a population of first-generation students lost the small, mission-driven college that had been built precisely for them. The COVID-19 pandemic, the board said, had accelerated and exacerbated challenges that fell hardest on exactly those students — and on the institution that existed to serve them.
Marymount California University, a small Catholic institution overlooking the Pacific from the bluffs of Rancho Palos Verdes, California, founded in 1968 by the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary, announced on April 22, 2022 that it would close permanently at the end of that summer, with the summer 2022 term its last instruction. The decision came two days after a long-planned merger with Florida’s Saint Leo University collapsed — and it left students, faculty, and staff weeks from a fall semester that would never come. After fifty-four years of teaching, much of it as a two-year college and only the last decade as a four-year university, Marymount ended not with a teach-out year but with an August closing line and a scramble to relocate everyone before the term began.
Marymount was, by the standards of this encyclopedia, young and small. It opened in 1968 as a Catholic junior college, operated for decades as a two-year institution, and only became a four-year university with graduate programs in the 2010s, adopting the name Marymount California University in 2013. Its enrollment had crested around 1,179 students in 2014–15 — just as it completed the transition — then fell by more than half, to roughly 500 full-time students by its final year. Rising costs, the pandemic, and a tuition-dependent budget with no cushion did the rest. The survival plan had been the merger; when the merger failed, there was no plan B except closure.
The timing drew criticism, and the criticism was fair. An April announcement of an August close gave students one summer to find a new college for the fall — not the six-weeks’-notice cruelty of the worst closures, but far short of the orderly multi-year teach-out that protects degrees. Marymount said it had chosen the most compassionate path available and brokered transfer agreements with more than five dozen institutions; critics noted that a college which had spent a year betting everything on a single merger had left itself, and its students, nowhere to land when the bet failed. The oceanfront campus was bought within months by UCLA for $80 million. The students were dispersed across dozens of schools by September.
Urbana University, in the small city of Urbana, Ohio, founded in 1850 by followers of the Swedish theologian Emanuel Swedenborg, announced in April 2020 that it would cease operations at the end of that spring semester. It was 170 years old. It did not close as an independent institution making its own last decision; it closed as a line item — a branch campus of Franklin University, a Columbus institution that had acquired Urbana’s assets in 2014 and folded it into its own accreditation as a branch campus in 2017. When Franklin’s leadership looked at a campus that had been losing money and students for years and then watched the coronavirus pandemic arrive, the math resolved itself, and the oldest Swedenborgian college in America was switched off by a board that sat seventy miles away.
The institution that closed had begun as one of the more unusual experiments in nineteenth-century American higher education. The New Church — the Swedenborgian denomination, also called the Church of the New Jerusalem — chartered Urbana College in 1850 to build a school around Swedenborg’s theology and philosophy, and it became, after Oberlin, the second institution of higher learning in Ohio to admit women alongside men. Its founding folklore is the kind most colleges would invent if they could: the land was secured with the help of John Chapman, the Swedenborgian missionary the country remembers as Johnny Appleseed, who persuaded a friend to donate the acreage southwest of town. The college suspended operations during the Civil War, reopened, ran for a century as a small junior college, became a four-year institution in 1968, and took the name Urbana University in 1975.
By the time it closed, the religious mission was a heritage line in the catalog rather than a living subsidy, and the college was simply a small, tuition-dependent institution in a part of the country with too many of them. Of the roughly 1,254 students enrolled at the end, only about a quarter — some 350 residential and commuter students — were the traditional undergraduates a campus closure most disrupts; the majority were in off-site and online programs that Franklin could continue without the Urbana campus at all. That fact is the whole diagnosis. A college whose remaining value to its owner lived in programs that did not require the campus did not need the campus. About 111 employees lost their jobs.
Marygrove College, a Catholic institution on the northwest side of Detroit, founded in 1905 by the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary and rooted on its Detroit campus since 1927, announced on June 12, 2019 that it would close at the end of that fall semester. It had served the city for 92 years. The closure was the second act of a slow withdrawal: in 2017 the college had already eliminated all 35 of its undergraduate programs in a last attempt at survival, betting that a leaner graduate-only institution could endure. By June 2019 that bet had failed — only 305 students remained across seven graduate programs, and just two new students had enrolled for the coming fall — and the IHM Sisters and the board concluded that there was no path to the roughly 700 students the college would have needed to sustain itself.
What distinguishes Marygrove from the rest of the closure roster is not how it died but what its campus was already becoming as it died. Marygrove had a particular place in Detroit’s history. It admitted its first African American student in 1938 and, in 1968, in the aftermath of the city’s upheaval, launched a “68 for ’68” campaign that brought 68 Black students onto campus; for generations it was a place where Black Detroiters, many of them the first in their families, earned degrees. As the college failed, the IHM Sisters chose to plant something in its place rather than simply sell the grounds. In 2018 the Kresge Foundation committed $50 million to convert the 53-acre site into a “P-20” campus — cradle-to-career education in one place — and the Sisters deeded the property to a new entity, the Marygrove Conservancy, established to steward it.
So the institution closed, but the educational vocation of the ground did not. The University of Michigan, Detroit Public Schools, the Kresge Foundation, and the City of Detroit built a continuum on the campus: an early-childhood center, The School at Marygrove (a public high school, later K–12), and a U-M teacher-residency program modeled on medical residencies. Marygrove College, a 92-year-old Catholic college that educated Detroit’s underserved, ran out of students and money in 2019 — and is the rare entry on this roster whose campus was not emptied but re-consecrated to teaching the moment the degrees stopped.