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When emotion replaces inquiry, teaching falters. Fred Glennon reflects on passion, objectivity, and missed opportunities in ethical classroom dialogue.

Does anyone know the origin of the current sentiment of xenophobia prevalent in this day and age? As I have conversations with pastors, church members, and other people, national security is their main issue. Perhaps the aftermath of 9/11 elevated this issue to the forefront. September 11 reminded us of the delicate nature of democracy and the equally delicate peace enjoyed in the United States.[i] I traveled internationally during that time and I remember soldiers standing guard at several airports. However, xenophobia has risen since those days. Nativist sentiments post-9/11 turned against immigrants. I remember being home and receiving angry anonymous phone calls; “Get out of my country!” they shouted, as if I was to blame for the terrorist attacks. The perception was that the terrorists were immigrants, and that all immigrants were suspect. Somehow all immigrants, even those with proper documentation, were less than true Americans and posed a security threat no matter where they came from or how long they had lived in the United States. The issue was that the 9/11 hijackers had visas, entered, and remained legally in the United States. But the anti-immigrant sentiment became so strong that somehow we thought we could be all-powerful and secure the enormous porous borders of the United States – the southern border and then the northern border. Furthermore, everybody had to be screened and they somehow discovered the eleven million undocumented workers present in the Unites States. They were all a threat and had to be removed. I remember the strong anti-immigration proponents on television. And I remember how they pointed out that many Latinos were undocumented. People would come up to me and my Latino friends and ask point blank if we were legally present in the United States. It is like they assume that every Latino they see is undocumented.I am a Pentecostal and I attend church regularly. When these anti-immigrant sentiments peaked, I was deeply immersed in my Pentecostal Latino community of faith. In contrast to the society around us, my community of faith was not scared of the immigrants who happened to attend the church. We did not ask about people’s immigration status. The church regularly reached out to all people, and as far as I can remember no one asked about other people’s immigration status. We also had people who were Caucasian Americans who loved us and wanted to learn Spanish and immerse themselves in our cultures. Our community did not understand the fear and anger at the perception that some in our community may have been undocumented. When I became a pastor in New York, I had some members who confided in me that they entered the United States without documentation many years ago. However, they were given amnesty during Ronald Reagan’s presidency through the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act. Reagan was arguably the best friend to immigrant Latinos because of this opportunity. Politically, my experience is that there is no such thing as a “Latino vote.” Our communities come from diverse backgrounds: some lean left and others lean right but our values as a whole tend to be on the conservative side even among those who left oppressive countries like Cuba, Nicaragua, and Venezuela. When President Trump said he was going to deport many people, the community still decided to vote for him.Immigration is not easy to control. People come to the Unites States on visas, and some choose to overstay their visas. The US typically sees 75 to 77 million visitors per year. In 2024 the grand total was 72,390,321 visitors.[ii] These are the legally permitted visitors with visas. One wonders how the US can control the mass movement of millions of people. Furthermore, visitors can stay for 180 days on a tourist visa and then apply to prolong their stay. The US also resettles refugees. The restrictions on refugee resettlement fluctuate according to the current presidency and its immigration policies. Since 1980, the US has resettled three million refugees.[iii]Undocumented immigration is less easy to control. According to estimates by the CBS network, the cost to deport one person is $19,599.[iv] More conservative costs place it at $14,614 per person. If in the year 2025, the government wishes to deport an estimated 11 million undocumented persons, this means it will spend between $215 to $160 billion US dollars to do so. Perhaps this exorbitant cost is the reason many are being deported without due process. The government is trying to save fiscally. However, it is trampling due process and habeas corpus. People who are in court proceedings over immigration are being arrested at their hearings and deported. But there is something darker at work for the government to use the military, federal law enforcement, and local police departments to enforce deportation, even though it is fiscally unsustainable. It is a matter of human affections and how one perceives and thinks of the “other.” Relating to the immigrant has to do with deep human dispositions. In Pentecostal spirituality we discuss orthodoxy, orthopraxy, and orthopathy. This last term deals with the dispositions and the orientation of the heart. Many Americans think, “These people broke the law so deport them,” but theology is not merely a rational exercise. It is asking, Why did they transgress the border? Are they fleeing violence, poverty, and/or crime? Are they genuinely scared for their lives? Let us have the courage to understand before we make a judgment. In other words, let’s not be prejudiced or bigoted.  Notes & Bibliography[i] Department of Homeland Security, “September 11 Chronology,” https://www.dhs.gov/september-11-chronology (last accessed June 9, 2025).[ii] International Trade Administration, “International Visitors,” https://www.trade.gov/sites/default/files/2022-03/Annual-Arrivals-2000-to-Present%E2%80%93Country-of-Residence.xlsx (last accessed June 9, 2025). [iii] Migration Policy Institute, “U.S. Annual Refugee Resettlement Ceilings and Number of Refugees Admitted, 1980-Present,” https://www.migrationpolicy.org/programs/data-hub/charts/us-refugee-resettlement (Last accessed June 9, 2025).          [iv] Julia Ingram, “Trump’s plan to deport millions of immigrants would cost hundreds of billions, CBS News analysis shows,” October 17, 2024, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/trump-plan-deport-immigrants-cost/ (last accessed June 9, 2025).

Recently, I discovered “tea mindfulness,” the term I use for turning the time used in making and drinking tea into moments of meditation. While I have enjoyed tea mindfulness as a means of intentionally thinking and reflecting, I wanted to move beyond the personal practice and engage others in mindful conversation. I started imagining what tea mindfulness might look like in community. Making and sharing tea is an act of hospitality. I thought intently on how to be mindful, intentional, and hospitable while incorporating the practice of drinking tea with my students and colleagues. I considered my Human Diversity course where we encounter, engage, and explore difficult topics which sometimes lead to cognitive dissonance. In a nutshell, Human Diversity builds cultural competence by increasing student’s self-awareness and cross-cultural awareness. Modifying a tea mindfulness practice in the classroom by focusing on mindful conversation and group engagement seemed like a winning strategy for cultivating cultural competence. It would give us the opportunity to engage meaningfully while nurturing appreciation for each other. Thus, the beginning of “Tea, Connections, and Necessary Conversation.”As students entered the classroom, they would encounter a tea station with hot water, an assortment of teas, sweeteners, creamers, lemon wedges, and snacks. At each student’s seat I placed a menu highlighting the variety of teas available, along with an index card. Students moved toward their seats, wondering what was going to happen next. Once everyone had arrived and was seated, I welcomed them to participate in Tea, Connections, and Necessary Conversation, offered directions, and facilitated the process for each student to prepare their tea of choice. One by one they approached the tea station, requested their tea bag, doctored their drink, and engaged in small talk before returning to their seats. After everyone was served, the connections began. Present were: Daniel and DeAndre, twin brothers and basketball players from Metro-Detroit; Josephina, a business major from Grand Rapids; Carl, a thirty-five-year-old non-traditional student who serves as a resident assistant on campus; Abbie, a homeschooled freshman in her second semester; Aisha, an exceptional athlete, who is making her mark on the women’s basketball team; and Eli, a student from a homogenous rural community in Northern Michigan.[i] These are a few of my Human Diversity students whose differences brought them together at Kuyper College. My intention for Tea, Connections, and Necessary Conversation was to provide an opportunity for the students to link up, interface, and join together in dialogue to learn more than surface-level information through engaging, exploring, and experiencing an interchange of thoughts about their similarities, differences, and even points of cognitive dissonance.As students paired up I simulated a “speed dating” activity. I asked a series of questions, where students could enter into short conversations to compare and contrast their interests, insights, perspectives, and experiences. Following two to three minutes of interaction, students would find a new partner and begin a new conversation. The classroom buzzed with excitement, motivating the shyest students to share and dialogue in genuine ways. Questions/prompts included:Tell me about some traditions or rituals your family participates in? Are there new traditions or rituals you would like to introduce to your family?Identify three things you and your conversation partner have in common. Although you share these commonalities, how do you express them differently?What is one word in the English language that irritates you when you hear it? What is another word you could use to replace it?With each question, communication grew deeper, mutual respect increased, and opportunities for connection beyond the classroom became a possibility. The start of necessary conversations began with tea and connection and continued throughout the semester.Human Diversity is a challenging course; it encourages reflection on the difficult truth that we harbor bias and prejudice, engage in racist thinking, and use microaggressions in our daily lives. We spend time confronting these fallen parts of ourselves and identify ways to become our best selves with the Holy Spirit’s advocacy. By engaging and exploring the seven dimensions of diversity (gender, age, ability, religion, race/ethnicity, sexual orientation, class) and the oppression associated with each one, we covenant to love God, others, and ourselves, and seek liberation. This is not an easy task, but Marianne Williamson encourages us by saying – “As we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others” (A Return to Love [HarperCollins, 1996]).Necessary conversations are those dialogues that are initiated after the introduction of stories of hard history, culture, and personal experiences. Asking questions, actively listening, and sometimes agreeing to disagree, we grow in self-awareness and cross-cultural awareness and build our cultural competence. Tea, Conversation and Necessary Conversations intentionally provided opportunities for some students to speak to each other for the first time, hear each other’s stories, gain an understanding of one another, and have fun. In one student’s words, “While drinking Jasmine Green tea, relationships became deeper, joy came forth, friends were made.” Notes & Bibliography[i] Names of students changed to protect privacy. 

This is one of the nerdiest statements I will ever write: I was recently on a bus traveling from Istanbul to Iznik (ancient Nicaea) with a group of Wesleyan scholars on a tour of ancient Christian sites in Asia Minor for the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. Yes, we visited the ruins of the basilica where the Council of Nicaea was held on the anniversary—to the day—of the start of the council. If you understood even partly why this was exciting, congratulations! You’re a nerd too.Aside from seeing a bunch of old rocks (how my parents described the pictures I sent them), we gave talks during the long bus rides about various aspects of history and theology related to the ecumenical councils. As a participant, I got to observe a kind of wild teaching different from my own. I came home with ideas.People frequently ask about my use of technology if I’m going outside: “How do you show them videos or PowerPoints?!” I don’t. (Honestly, I don’t use them in my indoor classrooms either.) On the tour bus, though, I saw some teachers thinking about analog versions of the technology they would use in the classroom. The tour guide himself wanted to describe some geography of Turkey to us on the first day, and people struggled. In a classroom, he might have pulled up a map on the projector. Or if we’d been in my elementary classroom, he’d have pulled down the correct map from the roll screwed to the wall. Instead, he handed a large map to one of my colleagues and asked him to hold it up at the front of the bus—even walk down the aisle if people needed to see better. Later on the trip, one colleague tried to explain her conception of a Trinitarian doctrine and drew a large diagram on a piece of butcher paper for us, again walking closer to people as they needed.I was also fortunate to tour the necropolis under the Vatican and a set of catacombs in Rome, and there again I watched my guides give excellent presentations with analog visual aids. These two tour guides had a packet of images printed off, each laminated for longevity and bound with metal rings. They flipped through the packet at the proper times in their spiel to help us see what they described—an analog PowerPoint!All of this has me thinking more about one colleague’s thoughtful question: “I need to use the projector for showing some things, or I have maps I like to use. Help me think about making analog versions of digital aids so I can teach outside more.” I’ll bet we can be more creative. All of our digital realities had analog versions to begin with, right? My students don’t know that a “file” was a thing before computers—but it was. What is the digital thing replacing, and can we go back to the original?If we can go back to the original, there is still the question of whether we want to, which is partly a question of ease. Presumably, we’re using the digital version of a thing instead of the analog because it is easier or more efficient. Why would we go back? Well, I’ve been reading some Wendell Berry lately, so I’m wondering if there are situations when doing things the less efficient way is better for reasons other than productivity. Which leads me back to the question of why I take students outside in the first place. Are those reasons worth working through the challenges of this choice? Yes, for me they are. Need to show students a passage in Greek? Have them bring their NT and work through it together. Or make a handout. Yes, it will take a little more time, but perhaps that little more time is enough for some of them to figure it out because they’re holding something in their hands and tactilely working with the thing. Buy a big map if you use a lot of them. Or draw one. My students love when I draw because I am so bad at it.Are there technologies that might be hard to replicate? Yes. A reader recently got in touch to ask about hearing-impaired students—do I use a microphone? No, I don’t. We don’t even have that capability in our classrooms. But on this tour of Turkey, we used whispers—devices with headphones that each of us wore while our guide had the device with a microphone that transmitted to all of us. This is a great technological invention for hearing in spaces full of people or cars. Perhaps we could invest in a set for classroom use outdoors? For non-hearing-impaired students, is it more important to rely on each other to understand what’s happening—even if it’s less efficient—or do I value more the clarity they would gain from hearing me better the first time through?I realize I’ve asked more questions than given answers, but the question of how to teach outside the classroom—or even inside the classroom—is always going to ask us to consider our values. How we teach is an extension of why we teach. And the more aligned our how is with our why, the more our students will receive the formation we hope for them. 

I had planned to use this blog post to grumble about (antiquated, exclusionary, misguided) notions of “rigor” and how many of my colleagues seem to assume that if your students all get good grades, or if the average class GPA is “too high,” you must be too easy of a teacher, there must be grade inflation, you must be giving out easy A’s. I assigned a movie review paper in my upper-level Religion and Film course. I took many steps to help students prepare for writing a successful movie review, which is worth 10 percent of their final grade:Read the movie review assignment I created (which includes a detailed rubric of my criteria for evaluation) in class and ask any questions. Read a chapter on writing about movies for homework, which includes a description of movie reviews; discuss this genre in class.Watch a short YouTube video by a professional movie critic about movie reviews for homework; discuss this video in class.Read Anne Lamott’s “Shitty First Drafts” essay and discuss in class the importance of drafting and revising – and starting a paper early enough to provide time for that process.Find their own three examples of online movie reviews in class, take notes on what those reviews seem to have in common and what makes a strong movie review; discuss findings in class.Practice writing a short movie review in class; get feedback on it from the instructor.Listen to their peers read examples of those in-class movie reviews and note what they thought was good.Be constantly reminded about the purpose and content of a movie review by their instructor.I was all ready to write about how students did so well on this assignment … and then to wonder how anyone could label the process I put students through as NOT rigorous? There was so much scaffolding! So much prep! So much required just for this one paper – more than I think most people ask of their students, especially for a relatively short paper (2 pages minimum).Except the thing is: students didn’t do all that well on this assignment.The grade average was an 87 percent or B+. Now, this is a far cry, certainly, from averages in some classes that are, even when curved, still in the D-range. A B+ is a solidly respectable individual grade. But I would have expected most of these papers to be A’s, given all of the above. A few were, but not most.The movie reviews contained errors that the above activities should have (I would have assumed) prevented. For instance, many of the papers were more like critical analyses (another genre we discussed) rather than reviews. Their appraisal wasn’t obvious or consistent. They didn’t include details from the films to back up their assertions. They reviewed films that didn’t really relate to religion. They wrote about movies that were too old. They included tracked changes, misspellings, typos, and incomplete sentences.So my anticipated blog post went a bit sideways. What did student performance on this assignment, instead, teach me? I’m considering several possible (definitely not exclusive) lessons:It’s not enough to teach students the importance of, for instance, not turning in their shitty first drafts; I’ve got to actually build it in/require it as a part of the process – or it may not happen.It’s probably a good idea (ok, it is a good idea) to provide students with annotated examples, so they get exposed to a range of quality and the reasons for it.I could spend more time explicitly identifying common mistakes or pitfalls of movie reviews (e.g., too much analysis, not enough review) and either demonstrating or leading students in an activity where we explore how to fix those issues.I could give them class time for peer review and/or revision.I could build in an actual revision process, where they take my feedback and fix the issues for a new deadline (and a potentially better grade).I could assign multiple movie reviews, so they can take what they learned from this assignment and apply it to the next; my guess is that those grades would improve (this has happened in other classes when I gave the same type of assignment multiple times).There will always be a range of effort and performance on any given task?Instructor efforts cannot guarantee student success; there are limits to how much instructors can do to affect positive student outcomes.What else?Mostly, I think I should actually talk to my students to try to find out what went awry. Why or where were they confused? What got lost in translating the rubric to an actual paper? What roadblocks did they encounter? Where was I unclear? What, if anything, could I have done to help them better prepare? Maybe I’ll learn something to make the above prep list even better for next time.

In the family waiting room at Abington Hospital, a nurse delivered news to my father and me. She informed us that my mother’s second surgery in four days had been a success. After her announcement, the nurse seemed confused when my father did not react. My father’s mental condition was not evident to most people. His dementia did not allow him to react.  I thanked the nurse, patted my dad on his hand, then went out into the hallway. About three steps out of the room I collapsed against the wall.“Are you okay?” asked a stranger. I was leaning, dazed with eyes turned down at the floor, trying to decide if I was going to cry or keep holding back the tidal wave of tears. Without meeting the caring stranger’s eyes, I replied, “Yes.”Taking me at my word, the man dressed in blue scrubs and black sneakers continued down the corridor and disappeared through the double doors.“Are you okay?” I found it quite easy to lie. In the moment, I did not know what I needed, but I knew I was not okay. I knew I needed help, but I was the one who was the help provider, the caregiver, the only child. I was a kind of tired I had never been.During their last years, both of my parents experienced dramatic health issues. I cared for both, first in their home, then I moved them to my house. While caregiving, I experienced a kind of weariness that I had never before felt. I was on faculty trying to meet all the obligations of a tenured appointment while navigating the doctor appointments for two elderly people. I was tending to household chores for two homes, writing a second book, and accepting consultations to make extra money. I was worn-out. In retrospect, I am surprised exhaustion did not debilitate me into  my own sickness or death. When I was a child, I was raised to be helpful. In elementary school I was proud when my teacher reported to my parents how helpful I was in class to her or to other students. In our home, being helpful to our neighbors and church was a glad obligation. My brother and I were taught that helping would provide meaning and purpose to our lives. Mahlia Jackson, part of the soundtrack of our household, reinforced this faith stance with her rendition of “If I Could Help Somebody.” She sang, “…. then my living will not be in vain.” My parents made it quite clear that the strength and health of our church and neighborhood depended upon our interconnection, interdependence and the support provided by those who were able to help. Our family was a helping family – capable of being of service. Lending help was a bedrock value of our family’s life. This communal ethic of helpfulness was now stretched so thin it was harming me. By the time I was leaning against the wall in the hospital corridor, our family’s code of helpfulness had deteriorated into my collapse. In retrospect, I had befriended my fatigue. On the few days I did not feel tired I wondered why. As I write today, I thank the man in the hospital for inquiring about my state of being. I can only imagine what kind of help I might have received if I had answered truthfully and told him, “No, I am not okay.” Each summer Wabash Center hosts groups of colleagues. Most arrive exhausted. I suspect many colleagues are the kind of exhausted I was in the hospital corridor. Over the days we are convened, my staff and I watch as participants rest in clean beds, eat balanced meals, hydrate, distance themselves from agitations, and engage in heaping portions of play and fun. We witness the exhausted slow their pace and refocus. By day three or four we can see that clinched jaws have loosened, furrowed eyebrows have unstacked, and previously shallow breathing has deepened. The fatigue gives way to vitality.  People unfurl, unknot, unwind. We watch as colleagues who arrived vacant and mere shadows of themselves return to themselves. I am glad Wabash can provide a space for renewal and restoration – at least a little bit.My concern is that when colleagues return to their institutions they return to the patterns of overwork, grind, fatigue and exhaustion. They use the experience of our cohorts as an oasis then return to the desert journey of the academy. Exhaustion should not be the norm for faculty. I suspect that most colleagues have not taken the time to get to know the kind of tired they are living with and the ways their tired is limiting their teaching, dangerous for their health and welfare, potentially death dealing for themselves and their families. My concern is colleagues answer “I am okay”—even when they are not. ReflectionPlease take time to check in and ask yourself:Do you know the warning signs of burn out, depression, and high anxiety?How will you take advantage of the services of therapists, clergy, spiritual directors, or coaches?How will you create routines to help you manage your work, so fatigue is not standard, not normative?What help you will get for yourself? What help will you be to yourself?  What routines, rites, rituals, habits and practices will bring work/life balance?Are you okay?  

For the past several years, I’ve gotten obsessed with Orpah: Naomi’s other Moabite daughter-in-law in the biblical story of Ruth.[1] Often overshadowed by the story’s eponymous hero, Orpah can be read as Ruth’s opposite. When Ruth leaves everything to follow Naomi, Orpah returns to her people and her land. Ruth becomes an Israelite, Orpah remains a Moabite. I’ve been interested in Orpah ever since reading Laura Donaldson’s piece, “The Sign of Orpah: Reading Ruth through Native Eyes.”[2] Donaldson urges us to rethink this character’s often-maligned decision to remain a Moabite in light of contemporary assimilation pressures and erased cultures. What does it mean, she asks, to read Orpah’s choice as brave instead of bad? My course, The Bible and Ethics, encourages students to get curious about Orpah’s story, to relate to her point of view, and to understand her choice to return home as intelligible, even heroic. This encouragement is part of a larger effort to humanize biblical characters that are often ignored or disparaged either within a given biblical story or in the history of its interpretation. If we can get curious about people less visible in a powerful text, the theory goes, it might prime us to see humanity more acutely elsewhere. The idea is to notice beauty, complexity, and pain in individuals and communities we have learned to ignore. But this kind of reading and seeing is difficult. Getting curious about Orpah is particularly challenging both because we have learned to overlook her and because her biblical mentions are scant. Sometimes my students don’t see the point. Why consider the story of Orpah when we have the compelling duo of Ruth and Naomi? Why follow Michal when we can think about her captivating husband, David? Why imagine the perspective of Lot’s wife or of the children who die in the smoking ruins of Sodom and Jericho when Abraham, Lot himself, and Joshua are demanding our attention? The pull of the biblical authors’ own attention is strong. Following the stories of Orpah, Michal, Lot’s wife, or a child in Sodom is like sitting in a darkened theater and trying to keep track of a character who has left the stage. Maybe they never walked on stage to begin with. Either way, it would be easier to just keep watching the show. Fortunately, we have examples of scholars and poets who have taken up the challenge of reading for characters whose stories have been lost, erased, or never written. Saidiya Hartman’s “critical fabulation”[3] and Wilda Gafney’s “Womanist Midrash”[4] offer cues and strategies to grapple with absence and to shine a light on individuals – fictional and actual, ancient and modern – whose presence we ignore. I want to be clear that this way of reading rarely makes converts. And that’s not really the point. Students, by and large, remain committed to our biblical protagonists and find accessing curiosity and empathy for marginal characters quite difficult. Poetry helps. Poetic re-imaginings of biblical stories are some of the most potent teaching tools I have both because they are pithy enough to be experienced collectively during a class meeting and because they invite us to explore the emotional quality of this kind of reading. Natalie Diaz’s “Of Course She Looked Back”[5] is a great example. Diaz’s poem – affectingly unpacked by Pádraig Ó Tuama in his Poetry Unbound podcast episode[6] – witnesses the destruction of Sodom from the perspective of Lot’s wife. What I love about this poem is where it begins. Of course Lot’s wife looked back at the ruination of her adopted home, the poet declares. In fact, “you would have, too.” As she fades from the biblical story, together with the silenced screams of Sodom’s children, Lot’s wife asks us to imagine ourselves as among the forgotten.  Notes & Bibliography[1] https://www.sefaria.org/Ruth.1?lang=en[2] https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/9780470775080.ch10[3] https://muse.jhu.edu/article/241115[4] https://www.wjkbooks.com/Products/066423903X/womanist-midrash-volume-1.aspx[5] https://onbeing.org/poetry/of-course-she-looked-back/[6] https://onbeing.org/programs/natalie-diaz-of-course-she-looked-back/

My last first day of class – as a student – was fifteen years ago. But here I am again, somehow back for more.I could make this into one of those “how did I get here?” blogs, and that might be interesting. (The short version is that you should sign up for Wabash’s Breaking the Academic Mold writing workshop if you get the chance). But the how of it all is less interesting than the why. The why of this new first day of class, fifteen years after I thought I was finished, is that I discovered something I really wanted to learn, and I knew I couldn’t teach myself. Since you’ve found your way to a Wabash Center blog post, there’s a good chance you’re pretty great at teaching new things to yourself and to others, and there’s a good chance you’re a really accomplished learner, too. We probably have that in common. I’ve taught myself lots of things over the years, from Italian to citation formats to how to caption videos on the LMS to how to write a tenure dossier. We’ve all learned things without a teacher. But after spending a week in the Minnesota woods with the fantastic teachers Wabash brought to that writing workshop, I knew I needed to learn more, and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. That’s how I ended up here, on my first day of class in an MFA program in nonfiction. It’s my sabbatical year – a precious and rarifying privilege, to be sure—and I’m spending it trying to learn how to be a writer. I’ve written lots of stuff, of course, just like you have, but I want to learn the craft of writing. And for that I need teachers. It’s a wild and unexpected thing, if I’m being honest – the experience of having a teacher. I had forgotten, after a decade with my name on the syllabus, what it’s like to be a student. All the old anxieties showed up like the faces you’d hoped to avoid at your high school reunion. Will I be smart enough? Will I come across as too eager, or too entitled, or too much of something else, or—worst of all—will I come across as not enough? Does she really mean double-spaced with 12-point font? Do I really have to print a copy? What should I wear?But I don’t want to write about the anxieties; I don’t want to give those old faces the satisfaction. I want to write about the way euphoria took me by surprise. After all these years, I had forgotten what it means to show up to learn a thing and be greeted by someone ready to teach you. I had not remembered what it’s like to encounter an expert in a classroom, someone hand-picked and specially trained to help you learn. Even as someone in the education business, I had somehow lost track of the feeling of wanting to learn something and having someone appear, ready to teach it to me.I’m remembering now that having teachers is magical. It’s magical to learn from someone who has spent a lifetime preparing to teach you. It’s magical to place yourself in the care of someone who’s ready to help. It’s magical to have a guide, to meet a mentor, to learn in community. The experience of having a teacher again, after all these years, is reminding me that that’s who I am to my students. I suppose that after so many intro classes and so many seminars, I had slipped into thinking about my role in many other ways than magical. I’ve thought of myself as an institutional intermediary, as an enforcer of policies and offerer of services, as a facilitator or orchestra conductor, and even sometimes as a “sage on stage,” dispensing arcana on demand. But now, back on the other side of things and remembering what it’s like to trust someone with my own formation again, I’m noticing the ways my students have told me what I’ve meant to them. I’m noticing how they describe me—and my colleagues—as transformative and foundational figures in their lives. I have tended to aw-shucks these comments away, reminding students of their roles in their own formation. But now, having teachers again, I think I understand better what my students mean. It’s still just the first day of class. All the frustrating parts of having a teacher are still ahead, and I’m sure there will be plenty of opportunities for realizing and remembering the ways in which I can be a frustrating teacher, too. There will be time for all of that, and more that I can’t anticipate. But for now, I’m reveling—I’m exulting and I’m nearly vibrating with excitement—at the magic of having teachers. 

“What are you working on these days?” the President asked. The setting was a professional meeting. I was on the Board of Directors of my professional society, and I was at my first meeting. I discovered that we begin each meeting with this same question. Everyone went around the room to talk about the book, the essay, the project they were working on. Then, it was my turn. I changed the focus away from my own work to the work I did for our professional society. I was brief, and then the person next to me picked up the question.The others at the table didn’t know me; didn’t know the anxiety I was feeling. Given all the work that these professors had published, many I had read, a few I regarded as superstars, I wondered what I was doing in this room. How did I get on this board in the first place? I had no brilliant book that is a must-read for anyone in the field. I had not garnered a prestigious NEH grant worth thousands to my institution. I was just one of the worker bees – chairing a committee where people often ask, “What is it your committee does?”I am a poor kid from the projects who went to a small, little-known church-related college with an open admissions process, not Harvard (although I did live just up the street – a “townie” I am told, often with an air of condescension). My neighborhood was where the Harvard students would come when they wanted to “give back” to feel good about themselves; noblesse oblige I later learned. I was a charity case; I needed their help to succeed – at least that’s what I was told.Yet there I was, sitting with them steering the future of the academy, or at least our part in it. Who was I to be giving suggestions? What the hell did I know? So, at first, I didn’t say much for fear that I would be found out for the imposter I was.I remember completing coursework in grad school and having an obligatory meeting with my advisor. Apparently, the department had conversations about me and my performance to date. My Ivy-League-bred advisor began the conversation, “In truth, we were not too sure what we would be getting with you given your background. We decided to take a chance, and we have been pleased with your performance.” Did they really think that the preparation I received in my previous schools was that poor? I wondered if he had the same conversation with my peers, all of whom had graduated from prestigious schools, one of whom had already received a Fulbright. I knew I wasn’t as polished as they were. Did they think I even belonged in the program with them? Perhaps not.After I graduated, I was not sure I wanted to go into academia, into a profession where I felt –  where I was often made to feel – inferior. I had been working as a community organizer in public housing projects like the one I had grown up in. I felt at home there; I knew their struggles and they appreciated the work I was doing.I taught part-time jobs in prisons and in the historically black colleges in the area. Most of my students came from similar backgrounds to me and I found joy in teaching them, which was the reason I pursued a PhD in the first place.I ultimately decided to go on the academic job market and surprisingly landed a job as a “teacher-scholar” at a small, church-related college, much like the one I had attended. My department welcomed me, offered me help as I started my teaching career. This too felt like home, but I was still nervous. The research and publishing requirements were not overly burdensome, but research and writing were not my passion, at least not in a joyful sense; writing was torture save for those times when I could write on behalf of the poor, the unemployed, or about baseball.I poured myself into teaching. I spent countless hours researching and conversing with colleagues at the college and the academy about pedagogy and the best ways to engage students who were in my classes because they were required. I experimented with and developed some competence in active learning and nontraditional adult learning theories and practices even though I knew it limited time for other research. My students appreciated my efforts, nominating me for a teaching award. Had I “made it”? Did I now belong to the academy? My confidence was bolstered by invitations to write about my classroom experiences, to engage in what became the scholarship of teaching and learning. My peers welcomed my contributions at professional societies’ presentations and eventually through the nascent peer-reviewed publications that were emerging in the field. I added a teaching professorate, staff positions on faculty development programs, and several other teaching awards to my resume, including an academy-wide excellence-in-teaching award.The highest achievements in the profession, however, were still measured by and given to scholarship. I could work for my professional society but could never be nominated for its presidency. My contributions to my field of religious ethics have been much less successful. My rejections outnumber my acceptances three to one for both presentations and publications. Was I really a teacher “scholar”? I had earned a place at the teacher table. But I was still a stranger at the table of scholars who gathered at the board meeting. Would this ever change? Does it really matter?After thirty years, definitive answers to these questions elude me. The imposter syndrome still feeds on my soul, periodically eating away my confidence when a student writes he didn’t learn a thing in my class (even though he was only one of thirty-five), or my proposal or paper is rejected. But its meals are less frequent now: in part because I am a tenured full professor; mostly because I have embraced the imposter within. I have learned to use the angst it generates to propel me forward, to become the best teacher-scholar I can be, however limited – just like so many of my imposter colleagues, who I have discovered make up much of the professorate.I still feel uncomfortable at times sitting at the boardroom table, especially with the superstars of my field. But I am no longer quiet. My experiences, my insights into the world in which we work and the struggles most of us endure, are valuable, perhaps even the norm. Imposter or not, I would be irresponsible if I kept quiet. After all, most of the higher education world is filled with “townies” like me. 

In one of my teaching documents I claim that good professors motivate, prepare, and support their students to produce good work in their courses. I remain deeply committed to this view. But something has been happening over the past several years that has shaken my faith not only in my ability to teach well but in my perception of reality. I’ve started receiving assignments that feel off. I start reading, ready to comment on student work, and run into words, phrases, and ideas that don’t fit. Sometimes it is a peculiar use of language. Other times a paper references information that was not explored in a course and is not common knowledge.Worse, I’ve received uncannily similar assignments from multiple students. Not only is some of the outside information they use wrong in a similar way, the stock phrasing of basic material is identical. I find myself wondering if it’s more likely that multiple students decided to use a word like “tapestry” in their analysis due to some affinity for the term or if something else is afoot.I have begrudgingly accepted that my students are using artificial intelligence (AI) to write their assignments. A Google search for “what percentage of students are using AI?” suggests that at least half of them use it. It is unlikely that my students are an exception.I’ve had several uncomfortable meetings with students about suspected plagiarism using AI. On occasion they admit their work is AI-generated. Other times they acknowledge outside source usage but deny AI. Often they flatly deny anything, even as they struggle to explain the words they claim to have written.What does a good professor do in this situation? Do they give their students the benefit of the doubt? Do they follow the procedures for suspected plagiarism even as these are based on legal principles which often perpetuate social and racial inequality? Is it their fault they were unable to motivate students to do the work themselves? Was their course poorly planned given that it wasn’t AI-proof?Answering these requires addressing two additional questions: (1) Is plagiarizing using generative AI different from the plagiarism of old, where a student might clandestinely copy from an encyclopedia on a typewriter? and (2) Why is this so bad if AI, as administrators and technocrats often remind us, is here to stay?My class, often the only humanities class a student is taking, nurtures skills of reading, writing, and critical thinking that cannot be duplicated by a computer. One can produce passable work with AI. I’ve accepted that. But one cannot create and recognize good work without developing proper skills.I don’t want the sins of some previous students to dictate the way I treat my current and future students. In fact, I don’t want the ways I’ve been mistreated by friends, family, partners, or anyone else to dictate how I interact with new people. But it would be naïve to assume that others won’t ever act similarly. Still, I don’t want to approach student writing suspiciously because students have used AI in the past. I worry that I over-emphasize that AI is unacceptable. Sadly, this has not prevented me from occasionally experiencing the uncanny feeling that something is off in an assignment.Grading has begun to feel like gaslighting. Kate Abramson in On Gaslighting (Princeton University Press, 2024) characterizes gaslighting as a trusted person aiming to make another incapable of reasoning, perceiving, or reacting in ways that would allow them to form appropriate beliefs, perceptions, and emotions. My experience of grading has fundamentally shaken my confidence in my ability to make good judgments about reality – what my students learned, how they write, and if they would have the audacity to submit work that they didn’t write themselves despite my repeated warnings that it was unacceptable.I’ve gone from hoping that my students put effort into their assignments to merely hoping that they wrote it themselves. I now savor the occasional typo, misspelling, sentence fragment, or odd formatting, things that occur in student writing as they develop their skills.Something can be done. All is not lost. I’ve shifted multiple preplanned assignments from short at-home writing exercises to in-class assignments. For text papers, I require students to submit an annotated primary source reading.We are all teaching in a new reality, one that causes discomfort for many. Good teaching may look different going forward even if it falls short of our ideal. Nonetheless, the principles of good teaching remain the same even as the experience of teaching changes.