Resources

It happened again this semester. I had planned a new class for this term called “Religion, Imagination, and Facing the Future.” While the class technically fulfills a first-year seminar curricular function of teaching graduate level reading, research, and writing, I can pick the theme. I chose it in light of the chaos in the United States right now and the fascinating conversations arising amongst scholars and organizers I admire about how to imagine a different future than the late-stage capitalist, wealth inequality laden, earth-destroying, violent social world we currently live in. I collected readings hoping to explore imagination as a key quality for religious leaders facing scary and death-dealing situations in their communities. We started with Ruha Benjamin’s Imagination: A Manifesto and moved into Octavia Butler’s The Parable of the Sower, with later readings from so many friends and colleagues I respect… Willie James Jennings, Sarah Farmer, Yara González-Justiniano. I created assignments and built a rhythm for the course with great care and excitement for the students I would encounter. I read and re-read the texts I had chosen, creating discussion prompts for the students to engage. The course was built out in Canvas, the students had been populated into it by the registrar, and it was time to hit the button to “publish” the course. I hesitated. I re-read the course description and its now seemingly impossible claims about what we would be exploring during the term. And then I sat there with the deep feelings of inadequacy that flooded my body. Who was I to be teaching such a course? I was achingly aware of the privilege of my social position, of my work as a professor rather than an organizer, of my lack of experience working in institutions that didn’t allow space for my vocation to emerge and be expressed. In those days I was watching former students and professional colleagues involved in organizing resistance to the ICE occupation in Minneapolis, living into the mutual aid, love for neighbor, solidarity, and bold witness that I have taught about for years. Deep in my bones and my gut, my intuition told me that I was inadequate to the task of teaching this course that I had put together. What did I do? I pushed the button and published the course anyway.Why? Because in my deeper wisdom, I know these are the questions and the struggles that my students need to wrestle with, whether or not I feel up to the task. They need to learn more than I can teach in this moment. That moment of profound humility before the work of teaching is absolutely the place to begin, at least for me. It marks a moment of letting go of the control of the learning environment and leaning in to trust that the students will show up. Together we might begin a journey that won’t be fruitless. They will learn things that I intend to teach them, and they will learn things that I never imagined or don’t yet understand myself. They will teach me what they know from the work they engage where they are, from the mentors who have guided them, from the challenges they have already survived, from the faith they have when I am lacking. Together, we are good enough to engage these questions that they are already responsible to in their lives well beyond my classroom. If I only taught the things I feel expertise and skill in teaching, I would fail to provide the education they need in this moment. It takes courage and vulnerability to recognize my limits and to still take necessary risks for significant learning anyway.

Coming back from a semester of AI-generated slop assignment submissions isn’t easy. I left last term feeling more disheartened than I usually do, despite some wonderful final projects and great learning, in part because the world I teach in is changing and I can’t predict where it will go next.With that in mind, it’s been helpful for me to focus on the best and most exciting parts of a new semester, in hopes that these joys carry me into the first weeks of class with interest and ambition—and maybe those things will rub off on students as well!I’m about to meet some of my new favorite peopleEvery semester I see new names on my rosters (and usually plenty of familiar ones—I teach at a small college). Part of me is intimidated by knowing I’m going to have to memorize another round of who is a Hayley and who is a Kaylee, but I’m also so curious about who, of these new-to-me students, are going to be just the BEST people. There are always a few! Sometimes I can pick them out on the first day of class, but usually I don’t. I have 15 weeks to get to know these learners, and some of them—honestly, most of them—are going to have incredible “spark” moments when we read or discuss a topic that they connect to deeply. I’m always on the hunt for new Theology minors, but I’ve also had students for just one semester that I tremendously admire and keep track of after graduation. The possibilities are endless, but for sure I’m about to say hello for the first time to several strangers who will blow my mind and make me proud mere months after meeting.I have a captive audience, and I get to help them love the field I loveI never cease to be floored by the idea that I am getting paid to geek out about topics that I found so interesting that I needed multiple advanced degrees to enjoy them thoroughly. My students are literally paying for the privilege of hearing me go on and on about what I enjoy the most. It is, truly, a dream come true.But better than me getting to yammer about theology for hours each day, I have the chance to see if my enthusiasm is contagious. I have students who, mostly, would never have taken a Theology course if it weren’t required. What that means for me is that on day one I get to start breaking expectations and turning their anxiety and trepidation into interest. (For the many students who are fearful that academic Theology is just Sunday School Guilt Redux, it turns out that having purple hair and using the occasional swear word goes a long way.) I get to tell them that I want this class to be useful, and a break from the rote memorization that characterizes so much of their introductory courses in other disciplines. A nervous audience is very willing to be convinced that things won’t be so bad, and I get to come in with a big smile and a reassurance that this is going to be great. It always is.Everything old is new againLike many professors, I mostly teach a rotation of a few courses. While occasionally I’ll do a big overhaul to integrate new information or adapt to new assessments, mostly my courses feel like old songs—I know the rhythm and the lyrics by heart, and stepping back into the music feels a little like coming home. What keeps it fresh is that the students in my classroom have never heard this little ditty before, and I get to hear their first, halting attempts to join in.I love seeing the fascination on unfamiliar faces while I go through my usual spiel about how our program prioritizes the voices of women and people of color. I still get chills when explaining the idea of human dignity—the idea that people are fundamentally valuable and deeply loved—to learners who have spent so much of their lives scrabbling to be useful and relevant. I even get to tell the same terrible jokes and hear the obligatory pity laughs! The beat goes on, and I get to keep singing, but everything feels fresher with these new harmonies.What are your favorite parts of a new term?