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None of the women in my motherline drove a car regularly before the 1970s. To get to where they were going next in their lives, when they left where they were born, they navigated saltwater roads. They moved house; whole villages, islands, and continents receding in their wake. They lived as the newly arrived outsiders in other Caribbean islands, the United States, England, and Canada as they gave birth to us, the next generation. Before she got on the boat that would cross the Atlantic to England, my mother walked her island world just up the road from the deep-water harbour. My work as a teacher, scholar, and writer focuses on the religious lives of everyday folk in communities in the African Diaspora in North America and the Caribbean. The oeuvre of anthropologist and writer Zora Neale Hurston (1891-1960) helped me hone some essential items in my toolkit. Key among these is Hurston’s recognition of the centrality of oral traditions in southern US black communities. Her brilliance as a scholar and writer is based on her keen observation as an anthropologist and on her self-reflexivity as a member of the communities with which she worked. Her stance was unusual for the 1930s and prescient of the call for research reflexivity in anthropological and other social sciences and humanities which emerged later in the twentieth century. Hurston was also a traveler. She journeyed throughout the US South and the Caribbean including Haiti, the Bahamas, and Jamaica, to record the stories, songs, and folklore of black communities. She drove a car on her trips through the rural US south conducting research. In a memorable episode recounted in her 1942 autobiography Dust Tracks on a Road, Hurston tells readers about her escape from a conflictual situation in a work camp by leaving late at night and driving away. She also wrote about a road trip and her drive across the Canada/US border from the state of Michigan into the city of Kitchener in southern Ontario. I was intrigued to learn that Zora Neale Hurston had driven through, or possibly even stayed, in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada. I teach at a university in what is now called Kitchener-Waterloo. For years, I have tried to retrace her steps in the Kitchener end of town imagining where she may have stopped for a meal or an overnight stay. Did she park her car on Duke Street in downtown Kitchener close to where Canada’s first black lawyer, Jamaican-born Robert Sutherland (1830-1878), operated a law practice decades earlier? Did she stay at any of the inns or on the outskirts in nearby smaller towns? Perhaps she rested in a rented room with a black family using the informal word-of-mouth shared information which helped black travelers navigate racially segregated landscapes. Hurston enigmatically notes in her observations that life on both sides of the border looked very similar from her vantage point. What did she mean exactly? I interpret Hurston’s comment as referring to social as well as geographical landscapes. It is a sly indication that de facto racial segregation existed across the border in 1930s Ontario. Racialized segregation shaped her experiences on both sides of the US and Canada border. Hurston’s strategies of navigation as a black woman driver and traveler would have been needed in both places. Indeed, the Canadian historical record supports Hurston’s assessment. After all, Herbert Green’s Green Book, a handbook for black motorists on road trips published from 1936 to 1966, provided references to safe places not only in the US, but also across the border in Canada, in the province of Ontario. My search for Zora in the local and regional African diaspora is not only through textual and visual records but also literal as I walk the streets of small towns and drive rural roads in my very old car trying to match place names from old maps and memoirs with current locations. Sometimes I meet an empty field or a church building now repurposed as a home but on occasion I have visited buildings which are still standing and church communities which are vibrant even though their locations have shifted. Surrounded by rural farmlands and smaller towns, Kitchener-Waterloo is located on the traditional unceded territory of the Haudensaunee, Anishnawbe, and Neutral Indigenous peoples. As a British-born black woman of Caribbean heritage living in Canada, I have thought about how my own complex identity has been shaped by forced and chosen migrations of previous generations. In courses that I have designed, I ask students to read, think, and write about the local in connection to regional, national, and international historical and contemporary contexts. In doing so, they are encouraged to consider studying religion and culture beyond static notions of historical dates and immobile structures and fixed figures. This approach challenges ideas of “history” and “religion” happening to abstract, far away actors while the current local context remains unexamined, safe, and uncomplicated. Citations: Hurston, Zora Neale. Dust Tracks on a Road. New York: Harper Perennial, 1991

writing about teaching means that i begin with thinking about teaching and why it has always been a part of my life. both of my parents were college professors, and the worlds of books and classrooms were a part of my life for as long as i can remember. some of my earliest tangible memories about teaching are walking from my grade school—fayetteville street elementary—to the biology building at north carolina college at durham for negroes (now north carolina central university) and sitting outside of my mother’s classroom and listening to her biology lectures. she had no idea that i was there until i talked about it in my installation address at union theological seminary when I was in my late 40s. i loved listening to her teach as she was in command of the material and the classroom, and her diction was impeccable. i knew a little about some of the topics she was teaching in those intro biology classes, but not always. and it was the not-always times that caused me to lean in more closely—what i now thing of as learning. writing about teaching means that i put myself into the classroom—either an imagined or tangible one—and think about why working with students in a teaching and learning environment is an honor and can be big fun. it’s also a challenge and i find that there are times when the pain or the joy that is being shared is also a time of both spiritual and pastoral prayer. logic and reason take somewhat of a back seat for a while as the humanity of the person(s) in front of me or seated around the table comes to the fore in visceral ways. writing about teaching helps me remember why i chose it as a profession and how, although i have been in administration since 2008, i never stopped teaching in its broadest sense as being a dean is, for me, about teaching as we learn together how to be a faculty, how we shape a curriculum, how we engage the worlds around us, how we must be as present as possible to the known and the unexpected, how we work with the churches and communities around us, how we hold ourselves together by tending to our spiritual as well as physical selves. and i am reminded, once again, that teaching is about caring and love.

Inspiration is a red balloon. My clear recollection of a film transporting me to another space and time occurred in the 2nd grade. I was a student at the George Washington Carver Elementary School in North Philadelphia. Our class, taught by Mrs. Cain, watched the short film The Red Balloon. Sitting at my desk, my 2nd grade-self was given over to the story, swept-up to another time and space, transported from Philadelphia to a life in Paris. While watching the film, I felt all the emotions, heard all the sounds, saw all the sights, and tasted all the smells. It was as if I was inside the story. Or it was as if the story was inside of me. In the 34-minutes, my life expanded. A red balloon in-spirit-ed me. During the film, I became the helium filled red balloon – beautiful and vibrant. I, while in the story as the balloon, possessed feelings, agency, will and awareness. The boy – kind, gentle and caring – was able to play and communicate with me. Together, we forged a deep friendship. Here is the plot of the film as my 2nd grade-self experienced it and as I still vividly remember it ... The boy and I wandered about the streets of Paris enjoying one another’s company. As we played, we drew attention from people – young and old. Adults were delighted at the sight of a red balloon following closely behind a boy. Other children were envious of our blitheful love. I was welcomed into the boy’s family. One Sunday, the boy’s mother asked me to remain at home while the family went to church. In their absence, I was very lonely. I found my way out of the apartment window, down the street and to the church. I entered through the opened front door and sat with my family.  In glaring meanness, a church usher nabbed me and threw me out of the sanctuary and onto the curb. My boy, in defense of me, left the church to comfort me. Then together we wandered around the neighborhood. My boy decided to purchase a treat from the neighborhood bakery. I willingly waited just outside the shop. A gang of older boys who were envious snatched me and ran with me – pulling violently hard on my string. With great effort, the boy got me back from the older boys but then the gang chased us through the allies. They were angry. We were terrified. The mob finally caught up to us. The gang pinned the boy on the ground as they shot me down with sling shots and sharp rocks. Then one of the brutes stomped me with the heel of his boot. I was destroyed. Just as it seemed as if my life was over, and all hope and love was lost – the boy looked up from his tears and devastation. All the other balloons in Paris had come to him. In celebration, the community of balloons formed a bunch and took my beloved boy on a joyful ride over the city. Teaching to inspire students can seem too lofty a goal until we remember the stories, people, and events who inspire(d) us. Our classrooms do not have to be boring with stale, flat moments where we tell students about life as if life happens away from learning. Engage students – mind, body, and spirit. Our challenge is to create learning experiences which immerse students into the lessons of life and of curriculum.   Our task is to help students make meaning with the tools of imagination, inspiration, and encounter. We know from our own lives that encounters with the arts, in many mediums, can be transporting and transformative. Recall a time when a story (through film, theatre, dance, poetry, painting, etc.) profoundly shifted your understanding of the world or of your place in the world. Recall a time when an offering of creativity (photography, sculpture, TV comedy, garden design, architecture, etc.) took you out of yourself or took your breath away or deeply moved you.  What was the last beautiful thing that moved you to tears, that inspired you to wonder, awe, or love? What has made you laugh to tears? What would it take to design courses which invoke and evoke these kinds of experiences for students? How might your introductory course be redesigned so your students experience being on the inside of the story? Invite students into new stories – they will be inspired. Take them on new adventures – they will be motivated to learn. Send them to foreign lands – they will rise to the challenge of exploration and discovery. Let the possibility of their learning be your inspiration for more imaginative teaching. Thank you, Mrs. Cain.

Early in the spring semester, I had another bout of feeling like an impostor in the classroom.  I cannot recall what exactly prompted it this time, but the feeling was familiar, the voice in my head saying, “you do not know what you are doing.  You are not the teacher these students need right now. They recognize your inadequacy, but they are just not telling you.” Later that same day, it came back with a vengeance in faculty meeting, where I felt surrounded by colleagues much smarter and more capable than I. An impostor is “a person who pretends to be someone else in order to deceive others, especially for fraudulent gain.” (Oxford Languages online) The older Oxford English Dictionary adds, “a fraud, a swindler, a cheat.” Since graduate school, I have recognized this feeling, popularly labeled “impostor syndrome.” One day during my doctoral work, I struggled to describe this feeling in the graduate student lounge with some friends, and I was startled to learn that many of my colleagues (most, though not all of them, women) had similar experiences. Many of us felt like we didn’t belong, like we are not enough. I began thinking about making a T-shirt: “We are all impostors!” There was healing in the recognition that this is a shared experience.  I am not alone in feeling like a fraud. While contemplating this idea a few months ago, I learned about this recent New Yorker article by Leslie Jamison. I learned that psychologist Pauline Clance and her colleague Suzanne Imes first published their research on “impostor phenomenon” in 1978. Sparked by their own experiences of self-doubt, they had interviewed over 150 “successful” women in academia, law, medicine, and social work, and discovered that they reported a common “’internal experience of intellectual phoniness,’ living in perpetual fear that ‘some significant person will discover that they are indeed intellectual impostors.’” This idea resonated with the experiences of many folks in the decades that followed (including my own group of friends in the graduate student lounge in the late 1990s). It is a relief to know that we are all impostors. And yet. There is a danger in this diagnosis, as a new wave of scholars have begun to point out. Jamison reports: “Lisa Factora-Borchers, a Filipinx American author and activist, told me, ‘Whenever I’d hear white friends talk about impostor syndrome, I’d wonder, How can you think you’re an impostor when every mold was made for you? When you see mirror reflections of yourself everywhere, and versions of what your success might look like?’” In other words, it is important not to confuse internal struggles with self-doubt and real external injustice that may cause one to feel out of place. So, I have begun to wonder: what is the good news and what is the bad news about the impostor phenomenon?  What can the feeling of being an impostor teach us, and what are its dangers?  The feeling of being an impostor can remind us of one important aspect of ourselves: we do mess up. We are not perfect. In an earlier blog, I used the term “impostor” to name my deep sense of not knowing enough or being good enough at what was needed in the classroom in a particular situation. This is part of the reality that we are complex creatures with multiple stories. This is not the only thing we need to know about ourselves, but it is one part of our truth. The truth is feeling like an impostor can open us to compassion for others who feel the same, and it can make us better teachers. Two Wabash blogs in the past two years offer good examples of this: Christy Cobb’s battle with impostor syndrome as a Southerner in academia, and the way it has made her a better teacher. Anna Lanstrom on feeling like an impostor teaching about race when she does not know enough, and learning to resist perfectionism. Knowing what it feels like not to belong can help us open doors to others who feel shut out. Identifying too much with being an impostor can obscure our ability to recognize truly harmful falsehoods, such as the structural obstacles that prevent colleagues from being fully valued. Samuel Perry, professor of religious studies at the University of Oklahoma, also warns of the genuine danger of “impostor Christianity” (see also Kristen du Mez’s helpful follow-up commentary on this piece). Focusing on an internal experience of “impostorhood” must not turn us away from naming external realities that unjustly make people feel like impostors. In the end, feeling like an impostor can be good news if it opens the door to greater compassion for others. However, it can be dangerous if it keeps us mired in self-doubt, failing to see and name the injustices that masquerade as gospel.

Part Three: Ritual Bring Us into a Divine Dance (the real-time, active participation in the transcendent, where the physical realm intercedes for the spiritual realm). A Divine Dance; ritual creates a divine dance between the guide and the participants, the teacher, and the learner. Ritual uses the spiritual nature of rhythm, coordinated actions and speech to invoke teaching and learning as a “divine dance.” A dance, between the life’s purpose and mission of both the teacher and the student is at the heart of the exchange. It goes beyond discrete knowledge or application of course content. Ritual, when it is intentional, steps into the spiritual realm to illuminate the lessons we came here to receive. Ritual recognizes that everyone of us comes into being to learn a set of lessons. The lessons that aid us in becoming (better) and in sharing our becoming with others so that we are all becoming (better) and belonging. Meaningfulness in learning is heightened when the learner can see and feel learning in alignment with purpose and the teacher sees and feels teaching as living-out purpose. Ritual not only pronounces this spirit work, but it also maintains this transcending dance while it seeks to intercede with earthly realities that would impede us from getting the lessons. Imagine this, a ritual lifting one’s life purpose and mission in ways that welcome, clarifiy, and situate the lessons as part of our Divine plan. Rituals create a Divine dance as expressions of wisdom and the gifts to be given as life’s mission are expressions of love. For both the student and the teacher, every teaching moment is an opportunity to learn a transcending lesson, or to give a gift.  What ritual does is enlist our active participation in the unseen as it negotiates what we can see, speak, feel, and touch.

On October 7, 1962, Robert H. Walkup preached from the book of Job at First Presbyterian Church in Starkville, Mississippi. Walkup graduated from Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary in 1941 and had been the pastor of this congregation for nine years. Before Walkup accepted the ministerial position in Starkville, Walkup made clear to the church officers that he had “a very tender conscience on the race question.” In the days prior to Sunday worship, there were riots ninety miles away in Oxford protesting the enrollment of the first African American student, James Meredith, at the University of Mississippi. More than two hundred Mississippi national guardsmen and U.S. army soldiers were injured, and two white civilians were killed, across three days of violent skirmishes on the college campus. Roughly three hundred white persons were arrested for their participation in these uprisings seeking to prevent Meredith’s enrollment. Walkup recognized the “widely shared opinion” that the wisest pathway for white ministers was to be silent on the increasing pressures of racial integration. It was an emotional issue and even the slightest mention of integration on a Sunday morning could inflame some congregants. Some clergy were concerned about the pervasive anxieties and simmering tensions that church members brought with them into worship services. And many preachers understood that it did not take much for some members to bemoan a sermon that made them uncomfortable and criticize a pastor for ushering disunity and division into their beloved congregation. Yet Walkup was convinced that silence was not an option. He had accompanied church members through times of joy and sorrow for nine years, and the task before him was to speak the truth in love. Walkup found in Job’s questioning of God, especially in Job’s confusion and anger about why he was experiencing such calamities, a message for the congregation he was leading. Walkup observed that white people throughout the southern states were also wondering why the push for integration was disrupting their lives. He then explained that divine providence is penal, educational, and redemptive. For far too long, white Americans had oppressed Black Americans in unjust systems of slavery and segregation. Walkup interpreted the riots at the University of Mississippi that resulted in two deaths as punishment from God for “the long years of our semi-quasi approval of lynching.” He encouraged his congregation to behold the unfolding civil rights movement as an opportunity to learn about the consequences of racism, repent for these sins, and pursue the redemptive purposes of God. Walkup’s sermon was published three years later in Donald W. Shriver Jr.’s first book, The Unsilent South: Prophetic Preaching in Racial Crisis. Shriver was educated at Union Presbyterian Seminary and pastored a congregation in Gastonia, North Carolina before entering the doctoral program at Harvard University. Shriver therefore witnessed firsthand both the possibilities and challenges toward racial justice in white congregations. In publishing a collection of sermons that white clergy such as Walkup had actually preached in southern pulpits, Shriver endeavored to highlight what was possible. Ten years after publishing this book, Shriver became the president of Union Theological Seminary in New York City and helped to steer the institution through severe financial obstacles and sustain a bold educational mission integrating faith and social justice. Progressive seminaries continue to educate pastors, chaplains, counselors, and faith leaders in myriad ministry contexts. There are certainly other theological schools, including evangelical seminaries, that are seeking to confront white supremacy and enact racial justice, but I find progressive seminaries are distinctive because they possess an intersectional commitment to persons of color, women, and LGBTQIA+ persons that is closer to embracing the fullness of God’s shalom, Christ’s love, and the Holy Spirit’s welcome. Progressive seminaries are flawed and imperfect (more on that in a moment), but I delight in the testimonies and transformations of students, staff, and faculty within these learning communities. In my seminary classroom, it was powerful to recently listen to one queer student share about their experience in a book club with queer and transgender friends. This student told us of how they often mentioned that they are in graduate school without divulging it is a seminary because of the harm and hate several in their group had encountered in churches and from self-professing Christians. After the student revealed they were in fact studying at a seminary, and found there a supportive and empowering environment, one friend expressed surprise but added that it was good to know that such a place actually existed. Some progressive seminaries, however, are in precarious situations. I teach at a denominational seminary (Columbia Theological Seminary) that has decreased from 428 students in 2003 to 247 students presently. Several other PC(USA) seminaries have had similar declines. In 2003, Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary had 280 students, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary had 193 students, McCormick Theological Seminary had 399 students, and Union Presbyterian Seminary had 384 students. The most recent data shows 173 students at Austin, 99 students at Louisville, 162 students at McCormick, and 181 students at Union. Beyond PC(USA) seminaries, two other examples are Brite Divinity School (281 students in 2003 to 109 presently) and Claremont School of Theology (480 students in 2003 to 201 students presently). At one level, I recognize that the lower enrollment at these seminaries reflects membership declines within several mainline denominations. And I believe nearly every theological educator has heard some version of the mantra that closures and consolidations are to be expected since the high number of historically mainline seminaries is an unsustainable vestige of a past era. Yet I lament the low morale and lack of vitality at some progressive seminaries. I am also concerned that some students seeking an in-person liberal theological education will perhaps have fewer local, or even regional, options. Finally, I am attentive to the potential loss of scholarly contributions with less faculty positions at progressive seminaries. Scholarly production is by no means confined to an academic post, but I am acutely aware of the institutional support that some faculty need to conduct painstaking research, write numerous drafts, and ultimately publish their work. At another level, I must include honest criticism alongside my affirmation. Progressive seminaries need to take a hard look at themselves and acknowledge their stumbles and failings. Evidences of institutional complacency are seen in outdated websites, limited social media presence, and an over-reliance on familiar yet insular networks for recruitment. Several progressive seminaries have also suffered from either choosing or not removing quickly enough the wrong administrative leaders. One sad irony is the dissonance between the radical lessons in the classroom and the conservative operations of the schools themselves in some progressive seminaries. Students are taught to apply all the subaltern wisdom, womanist vision, and liberation theology they learn from their seminaries, but the seminaries retain the same hierarchical structures and exclusionary silos that have long hampered collaborative processes and creative pathways. I am rooting for progressive seminaries, and I hope you are, too. I also want progressive seminaries to be as interested in dismantling oppressive systems in their own institutions as they are in the church and the world.

It’s common these days, you may have seen, on academic conference name tags or at the bottom of email signatures, to indicate one’s pronouns--not “preferred” pronouns, since this isn’t some kind of preference, but rather just an identity a person holds, like any other. It’s happening in other work spaces too. The public declaration of pronouns emerges out of a concern that we may incorrectly assume and use someone’s pronouns, thereby misgendering them, which can result in feelings of alienation, exclusion, exhaustion, invalidation, marginalization, invisibility, or worse. Articles, posts, and university websites (such as this one) will sometimes suggest that instructors ask students to go around in a circle (a “pronoun round” or a “pronoun go-around”) and indicate their pronouns in front of the whole group early on in the semester. The intentions of pronoun disclosure (like so many on-campus diversity and inclusion efforts) are, of course, good. It is intended as a form of inclusion. It is intended to foster a sense of belonging. It is intended to signal to members of the transgender community that such spaces, in the words of my campus, are a “safe zone” for those whose sex assigned or registered at birth may be different than their identified gender. Since research shows how “trans* students are forced to develop skills and strategies for navigating a collegiate environment that continues to be shaped without them in mind” (Nicolazzo, Trans* in College, 2016), asking about pronouns is thought to be one small practice that eases their way. There are concerns, however, with the exercise of going around the room (actual or virtual) and inviting people to share their pronouns. As one Harvard student wrote, this practice “can actually harm the community it’s intended to support.” For some, pronouns may be a private matter. Some students may be “out” as trans to their friends or family, but not ready to share this information with just anyone else—people like peers and professors they don’t necessarily know or trust. Some students may, of course, not be out to anyone at all! Some students may be in the process of a transition and not sure yet which pronouns they would like others to use. Some students may not actually identify as trans, even though others in the room might make such assumptions (based on limited notions of how different genders are supposed to look or behave). Some students may feel the exercise draws attention to them; they may feel spotlighted or singled out, which can be uncomfortable and stressful. Some students may not feel, despite the exercise being framed as an invitation, that they can really decline (since doing so may invite scrutiny and further assumptions). Whatever answer is given in the go-around may immediately place a person in a box, a box that inevitably fails to capture the full person and their complexity. There may not be a learning environment created yet in which it feels safe to disclose this kind of information. One common justification for the exercise is that “when only trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming people share pronouns, it makes it easy for them to be targeted and harrassed.” But, of course, if transgender people are going to be targeted and harassed, this could very easily (more easily?) happen once they’ve publicly revealed this information, whether or not others have too. This ritual has been called, by some trans critics, a “performance.” Paradoxically, it may privilege those for whom pronouns are “easy” or “settled”—cis folks whose gender and sex align—and further “other” trans folks. Like many other so-called acts of inclusion, it may simply make those of us in the dominant group feel like we’re being good allies, with the accompanying self-pats on the back, when we are simply not doing much to help at all. Think of the Instagram black squares in purported support of Black Lives Matter, whose “performative allyship” resulted in the “the memeification of social justice activism and no substantial progress toward diversity, equity, and inclusion.” Plenty of pieces, like this one, talk about actual needs (e.g., medical and economic) that the transgender community cares quite a bit about. Yet I still find myself not wanting to misgender my students! It seems like such a low-hanging fruit in terms of basic decency. Though I understand that, for many trans folks, someone accidentally using the wrong pronouns (when the intention is there and good) is not really a “disaster”—and can usually be remedied by a simple apology and changed future action—I still would like to proceed with care and a focus on forming good relationships from the get-go. So, what is there to do? One way I’ve solicited pronouns, while avoiding some of the problems of the circle strategy, is on a “getting to know you” questionnaire that I require students to fill out as their first assignment. They get full credit simply for completing it. The questionnaire asks many questions, mostly about why they chose my class, their prior experience studying religion, how their current position toward religion may help AND hinder their learning, and so on. This is an assignment they turn in to me only (though it seeds in-class activities), so there is no forced public disclosure. However, I do indicate on the form that I plan to use these pronouns to refer to students in class, so the pronouns would become public, if a student decided to disclose. That way, everyone can make the best decision for themselves about whether they want this information out there. This is actually an adjustment I made to the form, after learning that this intention wasn’t clear. Originally, I didn’t state why I wanted to know this information or how it would be used. That’s inclusive teaching for you. Always a learning process! And, even with this information, I have accidentally misgendered students before, so being equipped with the correct information isn’t any guarantee we won’t cause harm. But it does make it just a bit easier. Now, what else can we do, beyond the bare minimum, to ensure our classrooms and other learning environments are as inclusive and welcoming and caring as possible, for trans students and all others?

A summer joy is hosting workshop groups on our campus. The visits allow me conversations with participants over breakfast, or chats while visiting the local ice cream shop. A significant concern for our early career colleagues has to do with agency--or the lack thereof. Colleagues will recount an incident then ask, what to do when pressed upon by senior colleagues or administrators? What to say when overtaxed by committee assignments? What to say upon hire? What to do when bullied by colleagues? What to do when confused or disoriented about institutional protocols? What to say when the culture of the institution is not clearly defined or when the interpretation of the faculty handbook is unclear? WHAT TO DO? WHAT TO SAY? When I hear their stories and feel their anxiety, I encourage them that they need to have agency in their particular situation. In so many of the conversations with colleagues the best response I can provide to their concern is that they need to develop, nurture, practice and understand agency. Formulaic or recipe-ed advice would be foolish or ill-conceived. Without being part of the context and without having a clear vantage of the situation, I do not know the better/best answer to their contextual question. I do know, that in many of these situations what is needed by the colleague is a gesture of professional agency. In the world of academia, we must have agency for ourselves and for our own intellectual projects. Some of the conversations have revealed that colleagues are mis-defining or mis-characterizing agency. Demonstrating professional agency is not: asserting unmerited or unjust privilege being demanding, aggressive, or mean-spirited a gesture showing a lack of humility a request to squander institutional resources a wheedling of anger a stepping beyond rank or role being uppity and not knowing your place a lack of cooperation a lack of participation an inability to get along an admission of not belonging an admission of frailty or lack a showing of ill-preparedness   Simply put, habits and practices of agency are about knowing what you want and what you need for your own flourishing and for the benefit of your institution, then working toward those needs and wants. Gestures of agency are meant to increase the likelihood of communal respect, dignity, and career success. Exercising agency is engaging the wherewithal to pursue purposeful action and pursue goals free from the threat of violence, retribution, or retaliation. Acts of agency begin in the hiring process, continue while forging relationships with colleagues, and work to create healthy patterns of communication. We all need the skills of agency. Complex organizations have opportunities and challenges for which the exercise of agency is required to make full use of the opportunities and navigate the challenges.  All colleges, universities, and seminaries have their own organizational maze of complexity. Learning to read the context, adapt and understand the context requires agency, savvy, and wherewithal to be confident.   It is too easy to give your agency away. Nothing good comes to the employee or the institution when employees give agency away. Schools who are grappling with issues, habits and practices of diversity, equity, inclusion and belonging sometimes faulter when non-white colleagues exercise agency for themselves or for their own intellectual projects. BIPOC colleagues, often newly hired faculty in predominantly white institutions, struggle with the fear of retribution. We learn not to exercise agency for fear of being thought ungrateful for the job or being thought unfit for scholarship. We develop a kind of “go-along to get-along” mentality. This collegial stifling is detrimental to the faculty, administration, and students, alike. Negotiation is key to exercising agency. Abilities of negotiation takes self-knowledge; demands a professional plan; requires clarity about the role and responsibility you want now and in the future. You must read your context to understand how the institution functions formally and informally. Learning to read your context is as important as learning to have agency. Yes – there are dangers in some contexts. There are stories of retaliation and punishment for speaking up and for advocating for yourself. If you are working in a climate that would retaliate against an early career colleague for asking for professional development or for requesting support for research--perhaps that is not the post for you. You have options. When I was a tenure-track scholar, I began to have casual conversations with a senior colleague about the unmet curricular needs of African American students. Together, he and I began to imagine a new project to strengthen the curriculum. Mid-way through our dreaming, I abruptly interrupted our conversation. I said to my colleague that this project could not happen because he and I had no access to funding. He smirked. He assured me that funding would not be an issue.  What I did not know at the time was that my colleague had, at a time, been one of the school’s deans. He knew the school had several under-tapped, restricted funds, designated for student support. In a few weeks, he and I presented the Dean with a written proposal and accompanying budget. To my surprise and delight, the Dean funded our idea – using funds from restricted accounts. Our project ran for many years. I am not saying that all schools have under-tapped funds for projects or that deans will fund internal proposals. I am suggesting that new and needed ideas, with the agency of collaborating colleagues, can create projects which will benefit the students and assist with career goals and aspirations.  Learning to exercise agency, negotiate, read the context, and have clarity about professional aspirations and plans takes time and intention. In this case – experience is the best teacher. It also takes assistance from trusted colleagues. Consider creating an outline or map that shows your planned road to tenure, promotion, or contract renewal. Include in your map or outline those activities, accomplishments, work products and items in your portfolio which are required for your advancement. Add a timeline to your map. Decide if there are points of negotiation that would benefit you or the institution. Reflect upon and strategize about ways of strengthening the many aspects of your work, then ask what kind of agency is needed to fulfill that plan. Consider showing a colleague your map and talk about what is possible, in your context, to reinforce your work efforts. There are likely opportunities for which you are uninformed. Negotiate for what is needed to fulfill your plan. Do not be deterred or dissuaded if some negotiations do not reap what you request. Keep negotiating for what you need to become the scholar/teacher you aspire to be. 

When the mundane becomes formidable, it signals lack of access.[1] For a trans person, it is precisely the perfunctory mechanics of the classroom that frustrate teaching and learning. This begins with introductions. The trans professor and student immediately must negotiate whether to share their name in class. Is it safe to share that information at the outset, or do we need time to build trust? Are intake forms and classroom norms enough of a safeguard? Toilets pose another pragmatic concern. Trans teachers and students might feel pressure to map out gender-neutral or single-stall restrooms prior to class to avoid quizzical glances or worse. Depending upon the campus, these facilities might be few and far between, meaning a menstruating trans man might have to leave class for an extended period of time in order to refresh his sanitary products. Instructors and students might be caught off guard by blatant transphobia. It arises in verbal comments, required readings, and even student papers. Syllabus policies for the prevention of misgendering classroom participants and authors of required readings is a good starting place, but it is clear that much more is needed. What trans-informed changes to institutional email addresses, for example, prevent the use of deadnames? [2] All of these examples are especially charged when linked to religion. The landscape is brutal: “2023 marks the fourth consecutive record-breaking year for total number of anti-trans bills considered in the U.S.”[3] Student-athletes face discrimination inside and beyond locker rooms while faculty seek equal access to restrooms and parental leave. Educators are wondering how to respond ethically. But beware. The instrumentalization of trans embodiment as a wedge issue within political discourse, especially as linked to religion, further disenfranchises trans persons. We learned this lesson in the 1970’s when abortion was similarly leveraged as a smokescreen for racially segregating schools, subsequently polarizing American politics.[4] Anti-trans bills likewise pit one person against another, supposedly in the name of God. To focus on the bills is to walk into a carefully set trap, allowing embodiment to be confused with essentializing materiality and reduced to identity politics. We need to reorient the representation of trans persons beyond trans issues, in part by using resources such as the Trans Journalistic Association style guide.[5] Whatever the subject of the course, contemplating trans perspectives and reading trans scholarship is valuable. Be it ecology, the prison industrial complex, or housing access, trans persons have insightful contributions—to the study and practice of religion as much as medicine and economics. Importantly, the onus cannot fall squarely on the instructor, especially when the instructor is trans. Many of the obstacles we face are due to the built environment, which is beyond our control. I would like to invite readers to consider what collective action might entail. Here I propose personal and political ethical action that neither falls prey to strategic discourses of entrapment nor neglects the practicality of embodied teaching. My shorthand for this recommendation is compassionate curiosity. In place of hypothetical scenarios, like the trolley problem or lifeboat scenario that frequent ethical inquiry, compassionate curiosity bonds classroom communities through deep soul work intended for societal transformation.[6] Compassionate curiosity solicits us to communicate with one another and discern what is most pressing within the particularities of our contexts. There is no individual or action that can bear the weight of transphobia. We need one another. With students and colleagues, practice compassionate curiosity by considering: Are there trans leaders on campus and in course material? What policy changes on and off campus would be worth prioritizing? How can we establish trans mentoring networks in religious education? Let’s ask students what changes they would like to see on campus and how they might initiate those. Explore what is important to each particular classroom of students and also share the needs of instructors. If the challenges that we face are systemic, our responsibility is not for individuals to hustle harder. Improving the classroom environment requires collaboration. Practicing compassionate curiosity in community equips us for personal and political ethical action. From compassionate curiosity we learn to recognize that when the mundane becomes formidable, we are not alone; there are choruses of folks suffering particular inequity, and together we all benefit from advocating for institutional change.   [1] Access and inclusion are initial concerns, but equity is what many of us seek. [2] Hopefully these examples also resonate with people who lactate and require places to pump, fat folks in search of adequate classroom seating, BIPOC facing microaggressions in addition to overt racism, unaccommodated disabled persons, and many more. [3] https://translegislation.com/learn [4] Dorothy Roberts, Killing the Black Body: Race, Reproduction, and the Meaning of Liberty, (New York: Vintage Books, 1997); Radical Reproductive Justice: Foundation, Theory, Practice, Critique, eds. Loretta Ross, Lynn Roberts, et. al, (New York: The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2017); Mihee Kim-Kort, “Racialization Meets Purity Culture: Abortion and the Criminalization Cases Confirm That it’s About Controlling Women’s Bodies and the ‘Ideal’ American Family,” Religion Dispatches, June 29, 2022; Sue Halpern, “How Republicans Became Anti-Choice,” The New York Review, November 8, 2018; Randall Balmer, “The Real Origins of the Religious Right,” Politico Magazine, May 27, 2014. [5] https://transjournalists.org/style-guide/ [6] For more on ethical curiosity see Perry Zurn’s Curiosity and Power: The Politics of Inquiry, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2021). Concerning terms of engagement, see Marshall B. Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life, (Encinitas: PuddleDancer Press, 2015).

Besides screaming “Don’t do it!” or “Why in the (bleep) would you want to do that?” there are any number of tidbits people just don’t offer when it comes to moving from the classroom to administration. With any number of references to “going to the dark side” (of note: I take issue with any metaphorical use of “darkness” or “blackness” as pejorative), seldom does a professor stepping into administrative waters receive much of a verbal life jacket. After five years as Vice President of Academic Affairs/Academic Dean, I have decided to return to the classroom and “fully” dwell as a Full Professor of New Testament and Culture. After a handful of years and a pandemic, it is time. Yet, as I reflect on this transition, I want to share some tools, tidbits, and techniques that I discovered behind the dean’s desk. Perhaps these thoughts and (in some cases) lessons will prove beneficial to anyone considering an administrative role. I hope my meditations won’t deter any inclinations or cause too much fear and trepidation. Here are my ruminations: As dean there will be deluge of email. Some of the communication is important. Yes, you need to know if a professor can’t teach a class or if the registrar is out sick. You will be added to listserves simply based on your signature. Some of the notices give pause; others are quite questionable. Is it important that the dean provide input on the new hand sanitizer or toilet tissue distributer? You will need to (re)define classroom activity. The student-class engagement decreases. My first year as dean I did not teach so I could get acclimated to the shift in responsibility and learn the numerous accountability layers. As an administrator you will quickly discover that the Boardroom is now your classroom. The Leadership Team meeting is the lecture hall. Staff meetings are, yes, pedagogical sessions. There is the danger of demonizing students. The year of non-teaching was helpful in getting my sea legs under me. However, I soon began to see our wonderful students as plagiarizing pirates, hell-bent on circumventing class portals and graduation paths. Primary interactions with students were pejorative and positioned as “coming to the principal’s office.” Well, I was happy to return to teaching at least one class a term because our students deserved a better view from me. I knew they honored the institution by their enrollment. They were not the imps the “daunting dean” occasions always warranted. Yet, the nature of “go see or email the dean” was the bowl for such unfavorable engagement. On some days administrative work is purely gratifying. A letter of reference for a hardworking student or an on-the-rise staff member is food for the soul. Student award ceremonies give so much ebullience. Faculty promotions and publications are the stuff of good wine. Commencement is just filled with joy and jubilation. People don’t stay in administration long. I really didn’t know that, and yet it is very true. Administration is both arduous and awesome. However, some days I felt awful about what happened in a faculty meeting or with a staff member. Select meetings and email exchanges with students grieve me to this day. By the way, did I mention the excessive emails? Toilet tissue? Hand sanitizer? In the end: Do You! I had to learn to take care of myself, especially when the doctor told me my blood pressure was high. What the hell! There was so much I had internalized without realizing it. I thought my daily exercise regimen and morning devotion were enough. All of my efforts were off-balance and insufficient. I was taking in more than I was releasing. If the body keeps the score, my body was winning (the game of stress and anxiety) while my head and heart were losing mercilessly. I had to recall what my Granny said: “When you die, the church will roll on.” Institutions will say kind things to get you on board. Maybe a few folk will show up at your funeral, but in the end the train will keep rolling. And soon after your burial, a new dean will be sitting behind that desk or in that virtual space. At first I saw in a glass dimly, now I see clearly. You don’t have to tell me twice. Now that I know better, I owe it to myself and my sons to do better. In my five years as dean it was teaching students that really brought me back to my center. The one class a term reminded me of my vocational core. It was the mac to my cheese, the shrimp to my grits—I could go on. I dare not say I am done with administration nor that this work is not a part of my career calling. Ann Garrido’s work on the spiritual nature of administration proved quite helpful. I am finished, but not done. Nonetheless, there was—there is—something about preparing a syllabus, researching articles, planning course sessions, and inviting colleagues to share in my classroom via Zoom that gives me pedagogical pleasure. I need administrative work to stretch my manifold gifts and talents. I need to teach to get to the heart of the matter. I am grateful for these experiences and stand on the cusp of many more. May you continue to discern your teaching path and/or administrative portal.