Scholars and critics often point out that the Great Learning wears its Confucian crown a little too proudly, propping up hierarchies that feel more “by birth” than merit-based. By insisting that personal moral cultivation begins at the family altar and radiates outward to the state, it can come across as a top-down blueprint, where individual rights take a back seat to social harmony. In today’s world, where personal autonomy and pluralism are prized, that emphasis on collective order sometimes seems out of step.

The text presupposes a patriarchal household structure, with gender roles cemented by tradition. Modern voices—particularly feminist scholars—argue this leaves women boxed into prescribed duties, rather than celebrating equal moral agency. Back in the Warring States era, Legalists and Mohists had their own beef with Confucian moralizing: they thought lofty virtue-talk distracted rulers from more practical safeguards like laws or social welfare.

Fast-forward to 2025, and echoes of the Great Learning surface in China’s moral-education campaigns and even the social-credit system, provoking fresh debate. Some see these moves as a genuine revival of ethical governance; others decry them as a thin veneer for tightening social control, using ancient wisdom to justify surveillance and conformity. It’s like polishing an old family heirloom to gloss over the cracks.

Finally, there’s the charge of rigidity. The Great Learning lays out a clear nine-step path—“investigate things, extend knowledge, make the will sincere,” and so on—but rigidity breeds brittleness. In an age defined by disruptive innovation and cultural mash-ups, a one-size-fits-all moral recipe risks feeling like painting by numbers: neat, predictable, but lacking in color or fresh perspective.