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I stopped dead in my tracks. I had been enjoying an early-Autumn walk, crunching my way through fallen leaves, while listening to a Wabash Center podcast in which Dr. Nancy Lynne Westfield and Rev. Dr. Steed Davidson were discussing how to “Future Proof Your Career.” I stopped walking when I heard Dr. Westfield declare: “I guarantee you, you will not have the career your mentor had. That career is over.” Later she remarked, “We need to adapt.” I didn’t stop walking because I was angry about having to change my pedagogy. To be honest, I enjoy that sort of thing. Neither did I stop walking because I was shocked. I know that small private liberal arts institutions and seminaries are facing enrollment challenges now, perhaps more than ever. And, for this reason, new adaptions and academic-adjacent careers are a reality for those of us teaching theology and religion, especially those of us who are in the beginning or middle stages of our career trajectories. I stopped walking because I was stunned by the clear and honest way Dr. Westfield had articulated something I had been thinking about a lot—and to be honest, wrestling with—in a couple of different ways in my current institution. I teach in the Theology department at a fairly small, private Catholic institution. Most of the students we teach register for our courses to fulfill a General Education requirement in the Catholic Intellectual Tradition. This context is quite different from one in which I formerly taught, comprised of students pursuing a theology degree for professional ministry. My current colleagues and I have been reflecting on the purpose of our department and its course offerings within our institution; in doing so, we have discussed how we primarily serve the General Education curriculum, rather than a curriculum designed for theology majors. While we have several majors graduate from our program every year, we need to make sure we are serving not only them, but also the bulk of the students in our classes who are not theology majors. Of course, a curriculum designed for majors needs to cover a range of diverse areas of study within its discipline, equipping students with the knowledge and skills necessary to pursue a career or further studies in its area. Content is critical. Certain topics in the discipline must be covered. However, in a curriculum designed for students taking a couple of courses in theology as a general education requirement, specific areas of content are less critical. Instead, courses are meant to introduce students to a discipline—not by covering all of its topics in a preliminary way—but by teaching students how to use the approach of the discipline, or to think with its lens. For example, in a content approach, I construct a course around the question: “What do students need to know about Christianity?” I then choose a textbook that covers these areas of knowledge that I have deemed necessary. The methodological approach, instead, asks: “How will I teach students to think theologically?” Often, when the course is a requirement for their graduation, I have to ask the additional question: “How will I get students to understand that learning to think this way is relevant to their lives?” One way our department has done this is to revise the introductory theology courses we teach. Rather than asking our students to fulfill their first theology course in an introduction to Scripture or Systematics, we designed a course that introduces students to Christian scriptures and theological disciplines through the lens of justice. This change in focus made us adapt the way we teach. Rather than simply teaching only about our content areas of expertise, we are teaching in ways that engage the contemporary questions our students (most of whom may be categorized as Gen Z) find relevant. This change, in my experience, has increased student engagement. For example, not many of my students—especially those who are not majors or care much about Christianity—find a unit on creation in systematics very interesting, at least on a personal level. Their lives aren’t invested in the doctrine of creation ex-nihilo and learning about pantheism and panentheism. However, if I introduce them to Christian scriptures and theology on creation with a primary focus on global warming, they are engaged almost instantaneously. This focus addresses something the world needs right now. More than increased levels of engagement, though, this new approach introduces students to a practice of applying theology to contemporary concerns. My hope is that by the time they leave my class, when religious ideas and concerns show up in contemporary events, they know how to evaluate and analyze them. How is scripture being used at an anti-immigration protest, for example? What we have done in our department resonates with a point Dr. Davidson made in the podcast. He mentioned someone who wanted to research gazelles in antiquity. This person eventually became interested in contemporary animal rights movements and wanted to bring that into their work, but the individual’s dissertation committee advised against it. (Most likely because the committee didn’t know how to direct it in that way). The point is that the questions in which the dissertation committee members are interested are not the same questions that those with future careers will need be to ready to answer, in order to thrive. The other way I (and some of my departmental colleagues) have been thinking about this question is in our upper-level courses. I’ll be honest, I’m attached to mine. I have a 300-level course on “Medieval Women Mystics” that I love because I get to introduce students to my favorite area of research and expertise. I’m beginning to understand, however, that it’s probably time to contemporize this course as well. It’s time to reframe this course around important questions of our time. Stay tuned.

To listen to this blog, click here.  Those of us serving on faculties cannot escape the deep influence of the culture of the school upon our scholarship. Where you teach has as much to do with your scholarly formation as what you teach. The location of the doing of your scholarship will allow or deny your sense of belonging, rootedness, and contribution.  For this reason, we must develop a curiosity for our context and an imagination for elsewhere. Ask yourself: What is this place to me? What has this place been for those like me? Is there a healthier place for me and my work? In the early years of my career, participation in Wabash Center afforded me conversations on scholarly identity and formation for which my place of employment did not know how to provide. The lack of mentoring I received from my school was in no way unique. They were not neglectful. I have come to understand that few schools in higher education provide in-depth, intentional faculty formation. Wabash Center programming, then and now, fills a gap for networking and provides opportunities for critical reflection and planning. We provide exposure for faculty to the varieties of pedagogical approaches and dialogue for ways of achieving those approaches. These conversations are often life-giving and career-saving. Routinely, Wabash Center provides a space to prepare you for knowing your place. Faculty are taught the importance of learning to read the context in which they are employed. We dissuade colleagues from thinking that the performance of, and achievements in, scholarship can be thought of as being generic or universal. No two schools are the same. All schools have known procedures as well as unspoken expectations, whispered secrets, and under-tapped resources. I remember it clearly. It was an assignment that substantially impacted my career. The assignment given our cohort group in my first Wabash Center workshop was to: compile all the institutional documents to which you are privy (e.g. faculty handout, tenure process and procedure instructions, promotion process, school mission statement, organizational chart, statement of charter, history, accreditation report(s), etc.), read all the compiled documents and take notes as you read, consider your given context, and now create a map/plan of your (1) teaching, (2) service, and (3) scholarship for 1 year, 3 years, 5 years, 7 years. We were instructed to return to next summer’s gathering with a thoughtful plan for our own scholarship in our own contexts. I tell you confessionally, but not ashamedly, that if I had not been given this assignment at Wabash, I would not have made an intentional study of my location, nor would I have created a clear path for my scholarship. Fulfilling this assignment gave me insights that I did not know I needed.  When I compiled and read the university materials, I gained knowledge of the place that I had not previously known and that had not been made clear to me.  Creating my map lowered my anxiety about the tenure process. The exercise made me more articulate about who I was as a scholar, and what I wanted for myself in my scholarly pursuits. My aspirations became vivid. It was a kind of liberation. And so, more than twenty years later, I am instructing our Associate Directors to develop a map, a plan, a schedule that reflects and actualizes their aspirations and hopes for their own scholarship. They cannot, must not, wait for me to shape them into my image. Their scholarly identity must be in their own hands and hearts.  They will have to decide if rooting their work in the place of Wabash Center satisfies the need of their soul. Here are nine reflection questions I offered to them:   What does it mean to understand your work as scholarship? What, for you, is the production of new knowledge? What does it mean to see yourself as a scholar of religion? How does your family make sense of your profession? How does your community make sense of this profession? What do you imagine to be the advantages and disadvantages of your career for your loved ones? How will you keep connected to your family as you do this work? Thinking in metaphors or similes, what scholarly identity are you imagining and pursuing? Since scholarship is typically organized and judged in activities of teaching, service, and research/publication – how will you pursue each of these elements? Be specific. Are there other scholarly pursuits beyond these three elements that are of interest? What expressions of scholarship, or discrete projects, do you want to pursue in the next 2 years, 5 years, 10 years? How do these projects fit into the institutional narrative and mission? What are the obstacles to these pursuits? Who are your scholarly conversation partners? Who are your mentors? What is your scholarly niche, specialty, focus, expertise, and how does this specialty align with your institutional context? What will it take for your flourishing? What are the prerequisites for your healing? What are the needed habits and practices to support your scholarly aspirations and plans? How do you nurture your imagination, creativity, and artistry? Be mindful that a plan is meant to guide and not to constrain. Plans will change as new opportunities are recognized and as your context ebbs and flows. Be mindful that the place that prefers scholars who are indifferent or passive about their own formation will likely react to your exercise of agency and self-determination. Be mindful that few can call the academy home – so most are strangers in this strange land. Healthy formation in academic places requires forethought, provisions, anticipation, and time. We must have our own best interests at heart lest we be tossed and entangled by others’ agendas for our ideas, our labors, our souls.

I am currently on sabbatical. I am grateful for a little time to be excused from meetings and classes, to devote to my own rest and creative research. I recognize the privilege of teaching at an institution that has regular sabbaticals for all teaching faculty (thank you, Columbia Theological Seminary!), an increasingly rare situation in higher education, and one that is almost unheard of in other professions. It is an opportunity for pause that I wish for all working humans. During these past few months, I have rested and read, traveled to visit family, and embarked on a new research project close to my heart. It has been both deeply restful and oddly disorienting. Even as I have encountered the nourishment and the counter-cultural challenge of sabbatical, my colleagues at Columbia have been confronting similar themes as they engaged together the fine new book by my colleague Chanequa Walker-Barnes: Sacred Self-Care: Daily Practices for Nurturing Our Whole Selves. Dr. Chanequa has helped me name both the gift and the oddness of this sabbatical season, as a practice that is about “sacred self-care” as well as (and therefore) care for the wider community in which I live. Importantly, Dr. Chanequa encourages me/us to see self-care not as selfish, but as grateful response to God. As she says, “Our self . . . is God’s first and best gift to each one of us. How we care for ourselves is our response of gratitude for that gift” (16). In her discussion of sabbath as a necessary part of self-care, she reminds us, “Sabbath is a commandment right along with ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and ‘Thou shalt not steal’. . . . At its core, Sabbath is about ceasing from labor. . . . Sustaining self-care requires ceasing” (177). To make room for fresh ideas and fresh energy, I have to cease doing some things, at least for a season. With both this book and my own recent experience on my mind, here are the lessons that I am learning from sabbatical: Sabbatical is disorienting. This is especially true this time around, as I no longer have children living at home to organize my days, and I did not come into sabbatical with a specific project already laid out to structure my time. I am without all the factors that usually and formerly structured my time: teaching, meetings, active parenting. Who am I? Without academic and parental external demands, I gravitate toward other homely demands to provide a sense of accomplishment: laundry, groceries, walking the dog. This is not to dismiss the importance of tasks traditionally sidelined and undercompensated as “women’s work.” Indeed, I concur with Kathleen Norris that God dwells in such “quotidian mysteries.” But it does highlight my tendency to find worth in what I have accomplished in a given day, what I can check off the list and pronounce “done.” Sabbatical has forced and invited me to ask myself anew: What is it that I need to do—each day, in this season? Dr. Chanequa points out that “Many of us have been taught that productivity is a sign of blessedness.” Guilty as charged. She goes on, “One way to maintain appropriate boundaries is to get clear about what is actually our work. In other words, what is required, and what is desired? Whose requirement or desire is it?” (96). To answer this question, sabbatical has helped me practice clearing space in my schedule—and making this space visible to myself on my daily calendar. Too many little blocks on the calendar inhibit my creative work. At the same time, some regular embodied practices are necessary. Blocking out mornings for research and writing, for instance, has helped me focus, so that I can then turn to other tasks in the afternoon. The puzzle of just enough structure is one I am still working out. In particular, I have rediscovered the practice of free reflective writing every morning. Just two pages by hand, in a journal with good paper, before I turn on the computer. This practice enables me to ponder on paper, just for myself, without the omnipresent editor that lurks off the margin when I am typing. And it has helped me connect different facets of my life and work. For example, my reflections in my previous blog emerged from just such morning reflections, on a recent experience of being a guest and its surprising connection with my own research questions. What will I bring back to my teaching from this sabbatical time? I might encourage students to try this practice of writing for a few minutes every morning, separate from specific assignments. As it has done for me, it might help them integrate what they are reading and learning in the classroom with their lived experiences. As a byproduct, it may also therefore nourish the theological integration that is a major learning goal in our introductory theology classes. In the end, sabbatical leaves me with this ongoing question: How can I be a teacher who does not define my students by their work, but truly teaches and embodies the truth that our worth precedes our work? How can sabbatical and self-care strengthen my explicit recognition of students as already shining images of God in the world, before they ever put pen to paper?

In her series of blog posts, “What Ritual Does,” Itihari Y. Toure elucidates the potential of ritual for teaching – reminding us of how ritual engenders “communal learning,” “extends the depth of our imagination,” brings us “into a divine dance,” and functions as a “restorying” activism. I am a witness: ritual does all that Toure says and more. I am a believer: ritual is an essential teacher. I can testify: ritual opens us to surprising learning possibilities – and Toure brought the pedagogical power of ritual to life in new ways during a Wabash workshop for faculty of African descent. Building on some of the ritual lessons we learned with Toure in the workshop, I have been exploring water as a ritual conductor. Toure writes: “We imagine a portal, a doorway in liminal spaces and to our delight, the ritual affords the opportunity to be in liminality and create.” Water becomes a tangible portal of the intangible: receiving our gifts, our gratitude, our hopes, our intentions, and our manifestations. Through water we feel matter, we sense touch, we know wetness, we acclimate ourselves with temperature. Water, for me, is a substance through which I can know that the personal is pedagogical – and how. Water with Colleagues. In our workshop we were reminded of how water receives the vibrational patterns of our hearts’ desires expressed as spoken word, and that in its evaporation what we have spoken can be manifested. Does water manifest the desired and spoken outcome? Perhaps the answer to this question matters less than the vulnerability of speaking into water – open to this possibility – and (working and) watching to see what follows. When we considered this ritual potential of water together in a community of colleagues, one of the most extraordinary gifts of this collective contemplation was the mutual sharing this engendered. We pour water. We speak into water. We wash with water. We rinse with water. We drink water. We share water. We create with water. We pass through water. We transition in water. We are born of water. We learn water. We teach water. We are water. Water at Home. Toure’s invitation to speak intentions into water was not the first such invitation I had received. However, during our workshop I accepted her invitation. There I found that when I carried a practice introduced in the classroom space into my living space, the tone, tenor, quality, and content of what proceeded from my heart through my mouth into the water was different. I spoke of learning intentions – but also of personal intentions and how the two of these related to one another. I was engaging the learning space of the classroom at home – in the ritual spaces of my home. Home – and, specifically, the ritual spaces of my home – found a constructive return route to the classroom learning space. Perhaps, we might call this (wait for it) . . . homework. However, it is not the traditional homework of written, submittable, graded assignments. It is a holistic, somatic agreement that I take home what I have learned in class and apply it to (i.e., allow it to touch) the innermost parts of my being and I am prepared, when I return to class, to bear witness to what happens when I open myself in this way. For what it’s worth: I responded to this ritual invitation long after the close of the workshop – and much of what I have spoken into water has manifested. Water in Pedagogical Relationship. But how do our relationships carry water? I explored this – and an extension of the speaking-into-water ritual – in a small grant project with a pedagogical resource partner. (Our water rituals were but a small part of the work.) To the speaking-into-water ritual, we added morning and evening written and spoken expressions of gratitude, intentions, and manifestations. Together, we contemplated our distinct senses of the cultural significance of leaving water uncovered or covered; we marinated sacred texts in waters we then used to wash (i.e., a common practice among Senegalese Muslims known as safara, a Mouride water ritual); we drank from, drew out of, spoke into, and rinsed with contained and natural glacial bodies of water; we spoke common and distinct words. We found that our gratitude multiplied, our intentions were realized, and (so far) that which we hoped to manifest is coming to pass. So, while the efficacy of articulating goals in spoken and written forms (without water) has been formally studied, my experience reconvinces me of the power of water as a ritual conductor, a teacher of ritual, and a learning tool. What if more classes began with the relational exchange and homework of speaking-into-water rituals – rituals that included the speaking of learners’ own interpreted and adopted learning intentions? And, what if more learners carried water in this way?

“I see you!” is a trending colloquialism. It is prevalent on social media and tv commercials. Think Google Pixel commercials featuring Druski, Jason Tatum, Giannis, and other NBA and WNBA stars. “ I see you” says you are doing the do, handling your business. “I see you” is different from pejorative side-eyeing, nosy eyeballing, or shade. “I see you” is an optical-verbal pat on the back. I see your skills, your talent, and your moves. I see your humanity. I wonder, however, how do we see ourselves? Do we look in the mirror and offer the same affirmation? Or is our own internal self-talk lacking what we give to others? We will give a compliment while refusing to receive one. For some of us, there will always be something about ourselves we believe we can’t applaud. We have achieved, arrived, and accomplished, yet we are constantly looking over our shoulders waiting for “them” to “find us out.” Without question we have the title, desk, company computer, and business expense account. However, not a day goes by when you or I don’t hold our breath waiting for the ball to drop or the stuff to hit the fan. I see you. The ultimate question is how do we in the academy see ourselves?   Coined by Drs. Pauline Clance and Suzanne Imes in the 1970s, imposter syndrome is described as an “internal experience of intellectual phoniness in people who believe that they are not intelligent, capable, or creative despite high achievement.” It is the constant scrutiny, self-critique, position of doubt, posture of “I don’t belong,” and rewinding of being unsure and uncertain. Imposter syndrome evinces wherever a person feels they are not qualified notwithstanding credentials that testify otherwise. Yes, there was a lack of cultural competency and attention to race, class, and gender in the initial studies. However, since then many psychologists and researchers of African American, Asian, Latinx, and LGBTQ life and background have noted that imposterism can be found across existential realities. There are many series of external and systemic factors that contribute to the sense of fraud and “fake person” experience: work drama, email mayhem, blind copy bullying, a low grade in college when you were valedictorian in high school, coercion to turn on the Zoom camera, or a slight off-color comment. These are some of microaggressions that lead to macro-agitation, and maybe to macro-medication. Imposter syndrome is especially evident when discussing first-generation college students, women of color, people who are the first or only in a position, transgender siblings, and anyone who must thrive in contexts that are predominately white, cisgender, and male. A part of our duty as professors is to attend guild meetings. Such convening can be quite daunting for students who travel to present a paper for the first time or meet a “scholarly superstar” in person. Yet, I wonder how do we, as faculty, teach and sojourn with each other despite our own experiences of imposter syndrome? Our courses ought to help students see that their feelings of not being “good enough” do not rest solely on their shoulders. Classroom work should promote a pedagogy of decolonization which shuns imposter posturing and calls oppressive systems out for what they are. The greatest harm of imposter syndrome is how it causes professors and students to suffer, and this leads society to suffer as well. Our giftedness does not illuminate a dark, dank world when we doubt ourselves and dare not show up fully. “I see you,” says I see you—all of you.

I think we all have met them at one point in our educational lives. I call them “A” teachers because they hold certain qualities as educators. I saw it in Mrs. Akiyama, my second-grade teacher who, by some stroke of good fortune, I had as my third-grade teacher too. You could tell there was something different about her in the way she conducted class. Sure, I wouldn’t have articulated it then as I do now some fifty-eleven years later, but I sensed, even at that young age, a deep difference in how she held herself, formed her craft, and cared for her students. She exemplified the qualities I call the four “A’s” and I am convinced of their transferability and value for any field. Available: Do you make yourself available? We often hear people say they have availability on “these days” of the week and “at these times.” They put it on their syllabi; they tell person X to get in touch with their administrative assistant to set up a time to meet. Their schedule, my schedule, says that I have time to see you in these specific moments. Given the increasing responsibilities faculty persons wear now, a schedule perhaps is more gift than curse. It can keep us sane or at least ordered enough to move along. Of course, our schedule can feel like a curse in that it reminds us of how little time in our schedule we actually have. Approachable: Can I approach you? Availability was the bare minimum of what I saw in Mrs. Akiyama. We may have an open schedule, but what vibe do we give our students that communicates that we’re approachable enough that they would want to schedule a time to meet? The academy is filled with introverts. I’m one of them. And introverts are sometimes the best at exuding an approachable vibe. Approachability is not about availability. It is about being truly comfortable enough with oneself, with others, and with the vocation of teaching that you  can build a deep level of trust with students who can tell that you are for, and not against, their growth and wellbeing. We can be approachable even if our availability is limited. Accessible: Can you access yourself? Repeat with me, “I’m not a therapist,” “I’m not a therapist,” (unless of course, you are a therapist). But for the sake of this blog, I’m going to assume that most of us in theological higher education, as smart and as well-read as we are, (even if we like to dabble in junior psychology,) are not licensed therapists. I am not asking whether a teacher can psychoanalyze a student’s inner life. Rather, I am asking whether you, the person of the teacher, can access your own self? Do you know your limitations, your boundaries, your triggers, your personality, your emotions, how to self-regulate? Notice I did not ask if you know your theories, your interlocutors, or your content. This is about knowing yourself and in doing so, maybe knowing a little more about how you show up with others and in your teaching. Parker Palmer offers teachers good reflection material to help us do this work (start with The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life). Therapy is also a great way to get a better sense of one’s emotional landscape. I find that teachers who can access their own lives more readily seem less defensive and better able to handle imperfection in themselves and in their students. I think others sense this in them even if they do not know the terminology. Attunable: Are you attuned to others’ lives? Attunement is the idea that one (e.g., a parent) is keenly aware of another’s (e.g., a child) needs. This awareness goes beyond an apparent presenting need (e.g., a baby crying for food) to include those needs that a person has not yet articulated for themselves. Emphasizing again that although teachers are not therapists, really good teachers have a sense that the person in front of them is a ball of complex realities and experiences. They are attuned to the learning need for any given student. Don’t mistake this attunement for having poor boundaries or not offering feedback on poor performance. Somehow, attunable teachers know that there are many more things worth exploring about a student than gauging the student’s interest in their class or subject matter. I imagine you have had these kinds of teachers sometime in your educational life and I hope we can fashion some of these aspects in our own lives as teachers.

In addition to the general tips on teaching mysticism presented in the previous blog posts (part 1 & part 2), I would like to share some in-class and writing assignments I have used when teaching ʻAṭṭār’s The Conference of the Birds. One of the most successful in-class activities I have developed is a discussion of the birds’ excuses. I created a slideshow of the various birds discussed, both in flight and at rest, and we begin by looking at these images. I then ask my students write informally on the following questions: Which bird’s objections would match your own most closely, and why? Why do you think ʻAṭṭār selected this specific bird to represent this issue? (Look back to the hoopoe’s original description [if applicable] and look at the slideshow for images of each bird). What is the hoopoe’s response? Does it make you think more deeply about your own objection, or would you still decide not to go? After writing their responses, we discuss as many birds as time allows. This assignment allows for deep reflection as it asks students to consider their relationship to the poem as well as the success (or lack thereof) of the metaphor of birds. Students are able to reflect on how to represent human characteristics in animals. It also prompts consideration of whether the hoopoe is persuasive or not, and which types of rhetoric invite change versus types which cause people to double down on bad habits. The discussion of the hoopoe (as an allegory for a Sufi master) also allows for a conversation about whether or not a spiritual guide can have nefarious objectives, the potential danger of trusting someone else as much as the poem urges one to do, and why handing over control of one’s life is appealing to some people. The in-class activity of reflection on specific birds and their concerns can be extended to a formal paper assignment. I have asked students to argue which bird needs to go on the journey the most – which prompts them to consider what flaw they believe to be the worst and which personality types would most need the mystical path. My colleague Nancy Kelly asks her students to write a paper on this simple prompt: What excuse is missing? I have used this discussion question and find that it encourages students to think about the issues ʻAṭṭār may not have been able to foresee (such as distractions of technology) or that he simply overlooked or chose not to include (such as childcare, as Nora Jacobsen Ben Hammed observed in a 2021 AAR panel). Because students have found the valleys to be confusing, I developed a group activity to help them understand this difficult part of the text. I put students in small groups and assign each group a single valley. I then give them a worksheet with the following questions: What images does ʻAṭṭār use to describe this valley? Does this imagery fit intuitively with the valley? Why or why not? Why do you think ʻAṭṭār places this valley at this specific point of the journey? Do you think it would make more sense earlier or later in the trip? Based on his language, the images, and so forth, what do you think it would feel like to experience this valley? In other words, what emotions does it bring out for you, and why? Once the groups have finished working, we come together as a class and go through each valley one-by-one. This allows each group to feel more confident as they present a small section of the text, and when students hear the reports from other groups, they gain a new understanding of each valley. I mentioned emotions earlier, but I have found that students generally would feel anxious, scared, or unhappy. This activity prompts reflection on their anxieties around difficult situations and loss of control. In the past, I have turned this into a formal writing assignment by asking students what valley would be the most difficult for the bird they most related to. Their responses show engagement with the questions “Why are certain types of challenges harder for me? How can I prepare, or is it better to learn how to avoid these situations entirely?” Conclusion Mystical texts offer an excellent resource for encouraging deep self-reflection. It is my hope that readers of this series of blog posts (part 1 & part 2) will be inspired to incorporate The Conference of the Birds or another mystical text into a future course to facilitate such reflection with their students. Undoubtably, each reader will adapt these suggestions to the demands of their course, their teaching style, and institutional context. Though there are many other potential avenues for self-reflection through The Conference of the Birds, my experience and examples highlight how a mystical text can provoke insight on identity, whether taught by specialists or non-specialists. In the absence of an exhaustive account of how to teach a mystical text, I simply hope I have provided a glimpse of what the mystical makes possible in the classroom. Yet as ʻAṭṭār says at the end of his poem, “And I too cease: I have described the Way – Now, you must act – there is no more to say” (1984, 245). Notes & Bibliography ʻAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn, Dick Davis, and Afkham Darbandi. The Conference of the Birds. New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1984.

To listen to this blogpost, click here.  Gray. The fog, thick and dreary, descended in late December. In early January, the artic blast assaulted with negative temperatures prolonged over consecutive days. Unrelenting gray. Consuming gray. Days of gray have now turned into weeks of gray. Relief from ice and snow has come in the form of days of downpouring rains – with temperatures still below freezing. Today, the expected high is 36 degrees Fahrenheit, that feels like 32 degrees Fahrenheit, with continued dense fog and forecasted 80% chance of precipitation tomorrow. It has been a prolonged—too long—moment of melancholy—dull, grim, and bleak. Then it happened... A few days ago I received a text from a beloved friend that read, Hi Lynne, I accidentally had a book sent to your house. It’s called (title of book). I’ve read it before, a borrow from the library. It’s pretty … wild. But you may like it. Hope you like it. [Red Heart Emoji] Surprise! Suddenly, the gloom was challenged by a bit of intrigue. A surprise book, an accidental book, was coming to my door. I needed a surprise book, especially if it was “wild.” Sure enough, that day the Amazon delivery person dropped the book on my porch. Immediately, I started reading. Immediately, I discovered a new author. Immediately, my spirits lifted. There is something about surprise--when it is pleasant--that combats the dreariness of the season. A surprise can chase the blues away or at least make the blues melodic and survivable. Teaching in the dead of winter can sometimes mean teaching in prolonged frigid weather. Winter can be both real and metaphoric to describe our environments. We know that our bodies, minds, spirits react with and are affected by light, temperature, barometric pressure, and precipitations. Being mindful of your own mood and the moods of your students is part of classroom management and good teaching practices.  Consider, when the moods are gray, planning a surprise. Too often planned surprises in courses are punitive—like surprise quizzes or surprise tests. That is not what I am talking about. I am talking about surprises that delight, intrigue, and bring some welcome relief from the long, too long, winter. When I received the marvelous book surprise from my friend, I was reminded of the ways I would attend to my own blue moods while teaching. I recalled some of the ways I would make gestures to bolster my students’ moods in the middle of the winter. I would, for them and for me, change the tempo of the course, introduce something or someone unexpected, and nurture a lighter-hearted atmosphere. Somehow, and most times, these gestures of care shifted us for the better. Here are a few examples of ways I went about changing pace and surprising my students: Brought a basket of chocolate to class to be passed; enough chocolate for all to have much Planned a spontaneous change of venue - moved the class session to the library, to the gym, to a science lab, or to a lobby of the building to sit on couches Invited a surprise guest lecturer; lecturer was the author of the book being read, former student who had done well in the course, local celebrity, Dean, Provost or President to discuss the topic of the course Planned a potluck or moved to the refectory for class—shared a meal during the class On a few occasions I brought my collie dog named Max to class. He was a warm and gentle giant who, as students arrived in the room, happily greeted those who wanted to play, then Max laid down at the door and slept until break when he received more pets and cuddles. Max’s presence lifted many spirits of students, and their glee made me smile. On several occasions, I thought of a class session as being like the “Free Parking” space in a monopoly game. Rather than what was planned for that session, I invited students to gather up their thoughts, questions, concerns, and we discussed whatever they wanted to discuss. Anything that came up! My conversation prompt would be—where are you in this learning? What have you learned thus far? Or I would suspend the planned session and gather students around (change in seating pattern) and ask them so what? /now what? questions. I would ask, how do you make meaning of this newly glimpsed perspective or new concepts? How does this affect your thinking, being, doing? What does your community, family, tribe think of what we are discussing? Is any of this valuable to your community? Brought art supplies to class and invited students, rather than taking notes, to draw, color, sketch, or work with play dough throughout the lecture Shifted to a skill-based lesson. What skills have you noticed that students do not possess, but you need them to be able to do? For example, good student skills of reading comprehension, writing skills, questioning skills. Showed a film complete with popcorn, soda, and candies Read aloud children’s books, poetry, or short stories You get the idea. Please be mindful that I am not saying for you to do what I did. Your context is different than mine and your teaching landscape is not mine. My point is to encourage and invite you to be aware of your own wintertime mood and the wintertime mood of your students, then adjust, modify – meet your students where they are, as they are. In the wintertime, sometimes the gloominess is better survived with a change of pace, with a gesture of care and warmth, with an acknowledgement that we need to be with one another but in gentler ways.  If/when you can brighten the spirits of your students, your own spirit will be glad. Spring arrives on Tuesday, March 19, 2024, at 11:06 p.m. EDT. We teach in hope.

The idea of Art Theology raises the question(s): what is art and what is theology? We live within this incredible moment of decolonization where people are interrogating the ideas of the academy and its gatekeepers. Inspired by the decolonizing work so many are engaged in, Art Theology seeks to create something new.  There are wonderful conversations going on. Beyond what art is, who decides what “great art” is?  Who is a “great artist”? Where should “great art” be held?  And who is privileged to view it? The old gatekeepers of “art” were many of the same gatekeepers of the academy. The academy, built by free white men who created the method of research.  We teach college students to write research papers that argue a thesis.  If they want to succeed in the academy, they have to learn to write this way:      arguing      judging      defining      using propositions      being technical      always reaching for “objective truth” I wanted a method built on and towards connection rather than argument. I have learned that the first step is to remove judgement. Get rid of the word great and tell me what it is to make art. I often engage my students in peer reviews, whether they are writing a research paper or making art. Before they meet with their partners, I ask them to write out their feedback by first summarizing the piece, then describing strengths of the piece, and finally offering questions or suggestion, (they only offer suggestions if they are sure they have understood their peer's intent in the piece). The thing they have to be sure of—and that I review in their feedback before they share it with each other—is that they remove all judgement.  They struggle at first wanting to write, “I like your conclusion” or “This is great…” I invite them to remove like and great and say something more. This encourages them to go back and look more closely, read more closely, in order to reimagine the sentence to something like: “Your thesis is so clear from the very beginning of your paper through to the end. You keep returning to the thesis like a spiral throughout, it is this clear throughline reaching into the conclusion. When you restate your thesis in your conclusion it really it holds the paper in a very satisfying way.”  Removing judgement not only helps them read more closely, it removes the fear that they often feel going into peer review. Once judgement is removed, we are free to make new things.  Our focus shifts toward making art in order to engage in visual-thinking that creates new theological insights and understandings.  What is theology really?  The exploration of ideas and understandings of God? Knowledge of God? But, I do not just know things in my mind—I know them in my body. I also know them through making.  Art Theology uses visual-thinking, seeing, and making to explore questions and ideas about God.  In the abstracting grace series I created for the Wabash Center, I made my way into new questions and ideas about grace through painting and poetry. For example, in making, Is it like air? as I painted I somatically realized I had been unconsciously carrying an idea that grace was arbitrarily given. I didn’t know why Mary had been “full of grace” and I wasn’t.  I reviewed what the academy had taught me about grace and saw that it was all bound up with sin and the idea of gift. Which made me wonder, if it is a gift how is it given? As I dipped my paintbrush into the white acrylic and made a swooping line I thought, maybe it is like air…all around us, all the time, and it is us who decide how we breathe it in.  This insight had me revisiting Duns Scotus’ idea of the will and how it is the will that makes us human, not our intellect. Scotus said our will is where our capacity to love resides. This is the greatest gift we have been given, and it is all around us. We choose how mindfully we breathe. Through making art theology, a new rich understanding of grace came into being.  A new understanding that discursive reasoning alone could not, and had not, given me. 

As an educator, I seek to structure learning spaces that are caring, hospitable, and collaborative, nurturing a community of learners in search of truth under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Effective education involves concepts to be shared and critiqued (lectures, readings), cases to be solved (examples, case studies, supervised practice) and values-perspectives to be formed (dialogue, genuine conversations). We teach who we are, and a clear sense of identity in Christ is pivotal. My goal for the programs I lead is to equip pastors and educational leaders for teaching, discipleship, and missional church (Mt. 28: 18-20; Eph. 4: 11-16; Col. 1: 28).[1] Curriculum Theory & Teaching Implications “To teach is to have some content and a plan and some strategies and skills, to be sure. But to teach is also to make choices about how time and space are used, what interactions will take place, what rules and rhythms will govern them, what will be offered as nourishment and used to build shared imagination, and what patterns will be laid out for students to move among.” David I. Smith.[2] While many view curriculum as a predetermined list of subjects, Elliot Eisner defines it as a series of planned events with educational consequences.[3] Michael Connelly and Jean Clandinin emphasize the significance of "persons," "experience," and "situation" in curriculum. They consider the "teacher" as crucial because curriculum planning hinges on "teacher thinking" and "teacher doing." The teacher's role in orchestrating the interaction between learners and subject matter within a specific context is pivotal. For them, curriculum is something experienced in a particular situation (Fig. 1).[4] Allan Ornstein and Francis Hunkins view curriculum as comprising four common elements, which corresponds to Connelly and Clandinin. They are: (1) Objectives (outcomes); (2) Content (subject matter); (3) Learning experiences (dynamic interactions between teacher, learner, and subject matter); (4) Evaluation (quality of experience; achievement of outcomes). They emphasized that how these parts are arranged are never neutral.[5] Teaching as Structuring Learning Space and Developing Engaging Experiences Before I review the syllabus and requirements, I begin every course with a lecture, “Covenant, community and a culture of learning,” which outlines the values that structure my learning space, some basic educational theories, and need for active learning.[6] My values are as follows: (1) Care; (2) Hospitality; and (3) Community.[7] Care - Students begin by sharing their backgrounds, concerns, and hopes for the course. They use name cards for personalized interactions. [8] In online classes, students complete “our learning community" forum. I offer a personal welcome and use this information for weekly prayers for students. I also have a forum for prayer requests. Hospitality - Students are encouraged to be open to new ideas from readings, lectures, and group discussions. They are to listen to one another, promoting “genuine conversation.” [9] Community - I emphasize collaboration, not competition. I have invited each class to my home for a community meal since 2001 (until Covid-19 restrictions).[10] At the end of the course, students reflect on the values that structured their learning spaces and shaped their practices. My question is, are these educationally and theologically sound?[11] Learning as Participation in a Community of Truth “In its briefest form, the model asks teachers to consider how to see anew, choose engagement, and reshape practice” (author’s emphasis). David I. Smith.[12] “The hallmark of the community of truth is in its claim that reality is a web of communal relationships, and that we can know reality only by being in community with it” (author’s emphasis). Parker Palmer.[13] Mortimer Adler's Paideia Proposal consists of three key elements: didactic instruction for acquiring organized knowledge, coaching to develop critical thinking skills through problem-solving, and Socratic dialogue for deeper understanding through active discussions.[14] Parker Palmer critiques the "objectivist myth of knowing" and advocates for a "community of truth" where both experts and amateurs gather around a subject, guided by shared rules of observation and interpretation. Rather than absolutism or relativism, he encourages openness to transcendence with the practice of "educational virtues."[15] Some things I do in my classes: Introduce concepts through didactic instruction, with Socratic dialogue to illuminate the frameworks of understanding within which students operate. Jesus practiced both in his teaching ministry.[16] Facilitate and invite diverse viewpoints; encourage students to ‘embrace ambiguity.’ Often, the result is more questions than answers, but part of my work is to challenge the ‘objectivist myth of knowing.’[17] I adopt the “constructivist model” in teaching, which according to Mayes and Freitas, is most suited to seminary education (see endnote 15).[18] Case studies often spark good conversations, revealing the complexity of ministry. In INTD 0701: Internship, students present cases and we reflect biblically and theologically together in “ministry reflection seminars.” Assignments match learning outcomes, and encourage critical engagement with key texts and articles, with thoughtful applications. Carefully curate a “resource” section on Moodle for every course so students can explore related and updated research for further learning. Person of the Teacher & Teaching as Spiritual Act The goal of theological education is “the acquisition of a wisdom of God and the ways of God fashioned from intellectual, affective, and behavioral understanding and evidenced by spiritual and moral maturity, relational integrity, knowledge of the Scripture and tradition, and the capacity to exercise religious leadership.” Daniel Aleshire.[19] This book builds on a simple premise: good teaching cannot be reduced to technique; good teaching comes from the identity and integrity of the teacher (author’s emphasis). Parker Palmer.[20] Jesus condemned the religious teachers for their hypocrisy (Mt. 23: 1-36). In this context, Jesus cautioned against accepting undue accolades (v8) or putting teachers on “pedestals” (v9). God is our only Father; the Messiah is our only teacher (vs 9,10). James cautioned that not all should be teachers because teachers would face stricter judgment (Jas. 3:1-2). As I endeavor to form pastors and ministry leaders not just with the wisdom of God, but with spiritual, moral, and relational integrity, here are some things I emphasize: Each class begins with a short Bible meditation; the class responds with sharing and prayer. Convinced that transformation is ultimately the work of the Spirit, I pray for my students as I prepare for class each week. I have a lecture entitled: “The person of the teacher and teaching as a creative, spiritual act” in CHED 0552: Learning to Teach; Teaching to Disciple. Since curriculum planning rests largely on “teacher thinking” and “teacher doing,” students present their “teacher chronicles” in CHED 0652: Curriculum Design for Learning & Discipleship to better understand their education and discipleship values.[21] We are fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps. 139:13-16; Eph. 2:10). We should know our gifts (and limits), and the dangers of ministering out of a “false self.” I also emphasize the crucial role self-care holds in ministry.[22] Palmer notes: “Good teachers possess a capacity for connectedness. They are able to weave a complex web of connections among themselves, their subjects, and their students so that students can learn to weave a world for themselves.”[23] I am vulnerable to share both “joys and failures” in ministry, and constantly seek to “join self, and subject and students in the fabric of life.”[24]     Notes and Bibliography [1] Graham Cray notes that “… a church is a ‘future in advance’ community … modeling and ministering an imperfect foretaste of the new heaven and new earth.” Quoted in Alison Morgan, Following Jesus (2015), 159. Edie and Lamport provides a succinct vision for Christian Education: “… [T]he preeminent task of Christian educators is to assist persons with (re)establishing their relationship to divine love, to connect biblical truth to life, to participate intimately in a community of faith, to examine their cultural surroundings in light of kingdom values, to embrace the call to obedience and sacrifice, and to critically reflect about God in the world, and in doing … to discover blessing in ‘the tie that binds’ to God, neighbor, and creation.” Fred P. Edie and Mark A. Lamport, Nurturing Faith: A Practical Theology for Educating Christians (Eerdmans, 2021, p. 24) [2] David I. Smith, On Christian Teaching: Practicing Faith in the Classroom (Grand Rapids, MI.: Wm. E. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 2018), 19. [3] Elliott W. Eisner. The Educational Imagination: On the Design and Evaluating of School Programs, 3rd edition (Upper Saddle River, NJ.: Merrill Prentice Hall, 2002), p. 31. [4] F. Michael Connelly and D. Jean Clandinin, Teachers as Curriculum Planners: Narratives of Experience (Toronto/New York: OISE and Teachers College Press, 1988), 6-10. [5]Allan Ornstein and Francis Hunkins, Curriculum: Foundations, Principles, and Issues. 7th edition (Pearson Education, 2017), 161. For example, depending on teachers’ views of learners (“receptacles” or “critical inquirers”), teachers would adopt different teaching approaches. [6] Eisner speaks of three curricula: “explicit, implicit and null.” While the “explicit curriculum” is the conscious intentions in the syllabus, the “null” is what is left out in a course. The “implicit curriculum” is a teacher’s values that determine educational procedures and create distinct classroom cultures. Eisner notes that this is often overlooked, but impacts learning significantly. Eisner, Op. cit., chapter 4. [7] Yau Man Siew, “Fostering community and a culture of learning in seminary classrooms: a personal journey,” Christian Education Journal, 3,1 (2006), 79-91. Since this publication, I have revised my lecture “Learning Covenant, rev. 2023” with updated research. [8] Carol Holstead asked 80 students in an open-ended survey what made them feel that a professor was invested in them and in their academic success. The number 1 response was “when the professor learned their names.” Carol Holstead, “Want to Improve Your Teaching? Start With the Basics: Learn Students’ Names,” Chronicle of Higher Education, Sept. 11, 2019. It is interesting that these “softer elements” are gaining attention in higher education. See John P. Miller, Love and Compassion: Exploring Their Role in Education (University of Toronto, 2018). [9] David Tracy notes that theological study involves “genuine conversation,” and the “hard rules” of genuine conversation require us “to say only what you mean; say it as accurately as you can; listen to and respect what the other says, however different or other; be willing to correct or defend your opinions if challenged by the conversation partner; be willing to argue if necessary, to confront if demanded, to endure necessary conflict, to change your mind if the evidence suggests it.” David Tracy, Plurality & Ambiguity: Hermeneutics, Religion, Hope (Harper & Row, 1987), chapter 1. Stephen Brookfield highlights that because adult cognition involves embedded logic, dialectic thinking, and epistemic cognition, it is imperative to create safe and hospitable spaces for them to share their experience, engage in critical reflection and debate. For adult learners, difference is good, even desirable. Stephen D. Brookfield, The Skillful Teacher, 3rd edition (Jossey-Bass, 2015). [10] Since the church is the body of Christ, we practice “community” now. In Summer 2023, I taught an intensive, in-person course and invited 19 students home for a community meal. The impact on student dynamics was significant. David I. Smith notes: “I suspect that one of the most important Christian practices that might sustain Christian teaching and learning is intentional community, learning continually with others and from others how to live out our vocation to be the body of Christ.” David I. Smith, Op. cit., 158. [11] David K. A. Smith notes that “behind every pedagogy is a philosophical anthropology.” David K. A. Smith, Desiring the Kingdom (Grand Rapids, MI.: Baker Academic, 2009), 27-28. Also, David K. A. Smith, You Are What You Love (Grand Rapids, MI.: Brazos Press, 2016), 126-128. David I. Smith encourages us to reflect on “how our faith might shape pedagogy demands that we see our classrooms anew, letting a Christian imagination supplant mere devotion to technique” (author’s emphasis). David I. Smith, Op. cit., 149. [12] David I. Smith, Opt. cit., 82. Smith discuss these three aspects in detail, with many helpful examples in chapters 7-10. [13] Parker Palmer, The Courage to Teach, 20th anniversary edition (San Francisco, CA.: Jossey-Bass, 2017), 97. [14] Mortimer Adler, The Paideia Proposal (Touchstone, 1998). It is interesting that Adler’s Paideia has similarities to the three models proposed by Mayes and Freitas: The “associationist model” (learning as the gradual building of patterns of associations or skill components through memorization, drill and practice), the “situative model” (placing learners within “communities of practice” where experienced peers help novices acquire habits, values, attitudes and skills) and the “constructivist” model (teachers help learners construct a cognitive framework so they can evaluate competing claims to truth and defend their intellectual commitments). Mayes & S. de Freitas, “Technology enhanced learning: The role of theory” in Rethinking Pedagogy for a Digital Age, Editors. H. Beetham & R. Sharpe (Routledge, 2013), chapters 1, 13. [15] These virtues include welcoming diversity, embracing ambiguity, creative conflict, practice of honesty, humility, and freedom. Parker Palmer, The Courage to Teach, 20th anniversary edition (San Francisco, CA.: Jossey-Bass, 2017), 102-111. Paolo Freire calls the “banking” model oppressive and violent; instead, he calls for “problem-posing” education where instructor and learners are “co-investigators” engaged in critical thinking in a quest for mutual humanization. Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (New York: Continuum, 1970), 73. [16] While Jesus taught formally (Mt. 5:1-2; Lk. 7:28-29), his common method was informal with question & answer, dialogue, debate, observation, and reflection amid life. His parables were deliberately puzzling and opaque, demanding his hearers to make the mental effort to penetrate the surface to get deeper, spiritual meaning and find their place in the story. Keith Ferdinando, “Jesus, the Theological Educator,” Themelios 38, issue 3 (Nov. 2013). [17] Once at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, two NT professors debated “the place of women in the church.” They argued using the same passages but came to different conclusions. [18] While I adopt the “constructivist model,” I am eclectic in my educational philosophy. In a “Find your educational philosophy” test in David M. Sadker & Karen Zittleman, Teachers, Schools & Society, 5th edition (McGraw-Hill College, 2017), I scored high in “perennialism, essentialism, progressivism, social reconstructionism.” For a helpful overview of these philosophies, see Tables 1.1 and 1.2 in Allan C. Ornstein, Edward F. Pajak, and Stacey B. Ornstein, Contemporary Issues in Curriculum, 5th edition (Pearson, 2011), 6-7. In CHED 0551/CHRI 2213: Educational History & Philosophy and CHED 0652, I highlight strengths in each philosophy, critique them from a theological perspective, with implications for education in the church and academy. [19] Daniel Aleshire, Beyond Profession: The Next Future of Theological Education (Eerdmans, 2021), 73. [20] Palmer, Op. cit., 10. [21] Since the person of the teacher is most important in curriculum planning, Connelly and Clandinin encourage teachers to develop their “teacher chronicles,” narratives of key influences which shaped their teaching values. Connelly likely learned this from his doctoral mentor, Joseph Schwab at the University of Chicago. Cheryl Craig, "Joseph Schwab, self-study of teaching and teacher education practices proponent? A personal perspective," Teacher & Teacher Education 24 (2008), 1993-2001. [22] To better understand “false self vs. true self,” see James Martin, S.J., Becoming Who You Are (HiddenSpring, 2006). For self-care in ministry, see Matt Bloom, “Building Vibrant Ecologies for Pastoral Wellbeing,” Reflective Practice: Formation and Supervision in Ministry (May 2022), 7-20. [23] Palmer, Op. cit., 11. [24] Palmer, Op. cit., 11