“What do you think about Obamacare?” asked my work-study student when she came into the office. She was an international student studying at my institution and had been in a business management class where the subject had been discussed. As one of the many in this country frustrated by the continued efforts by conservatives and political pundits to discredit the expansion of health care coverage that is the law of the land, I responded with a great deal of emotion.
“It is the Affordable Care Act, not Obamacare, first of all,” I replied. “Even if President Obama was willing to acknowledge that term, I am not. I was not in favor of the law, not because I saw it as a problem, but because it does not fully address the problem of affordable health care. What we need is a single-payer system, not this giveaway to the insurance and pharmaceutical companies. But that was not going to happen, so the President chose to work through the current system in place. There are certainly flaws that need to be fixed, but the solution is not to dismantle the legislation—which Republicans even now are seeking to do—and start anew. That tactic will only continue our current, out-of-control health care system. It lines the pockets of CEOs, fills the coffers of politicians, and still fails to provide adequate health care for millions of people. Health care is a right, not a privilege! It is something that people should have because we care about one another, not something that depends upon one’s ability to pay!”
As I paused to take a breath, I saw the shock—dare I say terror—in her eyes. It dawned on me that what she really wanted to know was what this Obamacare thing was—not my opinion about it. She had heard about it since coming to this country but did not understand what it meant. Instead of hearing that question, I launched self-righteously into a one-sided moral argument. Was I hoping to educate another ill-informed student about a current ethical and political issue? Was I thinking that if I argued it forcefully, I could persuade her that my perspective was right? I’m not sure. What I am sure about is that this was no way to answer her question, or the questions of other students for that matter. Fortunately, we were able to talk about it afterward, and I was able to tell her why I argued the way I did. She never asked my opinion on an ethical issue again.
Over the many years since the incident, I have asked myself, “How often do I react this way to student inquiries?” I do believe that I try to be as objective as possible when students in the classroom ask important questions. I seek to probe the nature of their question, engaging them in a process of exploring all sides of a situation—even if it means playing devil’s advocate (and there is no shortage of devils out there when it comes to misinformation regarding the Affordable Care Act). I am often reluctant to voice my opinion because I worry that it will close off conversation and shut down their own inquiries into important subjects and ideas. “This is no way to educate,” I tell myself.
As a teacher of religious ethics, it is obvious to everyone in the class that the way I have structured the syllabus, the readings chosen, or even the content of the course itself communicates to some degree my approach to the subject. Yet students often ask where I stand on an issue or what my beliefs about a particular idea or doctrine are. At the beginning of each class, as we develop our ground rules for discussion—which I refer to as a learning covenant—I make sure that I raise that issue. I tell them that I am reluctant to share my views because I do not want to close off conversation or generate reluctance on their part to state their own. Usually, students suggest that after it is clear the student discussion has run its course, if they ask my view, they would like to know what it is. Perhaps that is the best path to take; I don’t know.
What I do know is that in the situation noted above, I should have asked what she wanted to know and why she was asking the question. This would have enabled me to get a better handle on the question at hand and certainly provide a better, even if partial, answer. Yet I am passionate about this and about other important ethical issues that call for clear moral reasoning rather than the expediency of the moment. Is it my job to hide my passion, to be objective (whatever that means), so that students can learn? Or does being passionate about an issue provide an opportunity for students to learn? For over thirty years, I have wrestled with these questions. I imagine that the struggle will continue.
About Fred Glennon
Fred Glennon’s field of teaching and research is in the areas of Religion, Social Ethics, and Society, particularly their interrelationship with public policies on welfare, poverty, and labor markets. His most recent book is Christian Social Ethics: Models, Cases, Controversies (Orbis Books, 2021). Fred also engages in the scholarship of teaching and learning, in which the classroom setting becomes a locus of sustained scholarly focus. His most read essays include, "Promoting Freedom, Responsibility, and Learning in the Classroom: The Learning Covenant a Decade Later," and “Experiential Learning and Social Justice Action: An Experiment in the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning,” both published in Teaching Theology and Religion (2008, 2004). He served as the Editor of Spotlight on Teaching (2013-2017). He received the AAR’s Excellence in Teaching Award (2008). At Le Moyne, he has been honored with the Kevin G. O’Connell, SJ Distinguished Teaching Professor in the Humanities (1999-2002), the Robert O’Brien, SJ Service Award (2014), and the Magis Award (2023).