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We know that students are most motivated to learn when they’re genuinely excited and curious about the material, when they can connect the material to their personal interests, and when they can perceive the relevance between course content and their own lives, both current and future. (This is one way of establishing “value”—a primary driver of student motivation.)I have tried to motivate my students this way for many years, convinced by the goodness of the approach. In class discussions, I frequently ask students to think of examples from their own lives to illustrate course concepts: “What is a time in your own life where you felt misunderstood based on an identity that you held?” or “If you were a Hindu, which god would you worship and why?” I frequently teach skills and orientations that I explicitly state can be used outside of my course: “I suggest this note-taking strategy for all of your classes” or “I encourage you to ask ‘why’ about everything you do.” On weekly quizzes, I prompt students: “Describe a connection between something from our course this week and your life outside of class.” For their final projects, I allow students to choose their own topics; my instructions read, “Ideally, I’d like for you to pick a topic that is relevant or applicable to your own life, something that interests or excites you.”I DO think this attunement to relevance and connection helps students to learn. They do seem excited by the material; they do seem to understand difficult concepts better with personalization; they do seem to realize and appreciate the applicability of course material more than if I simply lectured at them about course content only. It’s been rewarding to witness.AND I am becoming worried about this approach.In both public and private spheres, I am perceiving the (increasing?) pervasiveness of:Disinterest (or worse) in people who are “not like us” (out-group bias);“Cancel culture” and going “No Contact” from those (even parents) who may hold opinions, values, or beliefs different than our own; Villainization and pathologization of people who we reduce to just one thing (an identity, a behavior, a religion); Psychological labels such as “toxic,” “narcissistic,” or “triggering” applied to those individuals whose behavior we don’t like (a great book on why this is a problem); Compulsory “pick-a-side”-ism (this video even contains a warning!); Refusal to admit—or even to consider—the inevitable limitations of one’s own position;Valorization and unqualified support for any “one of us” (even in the face of obvious concerns or problems); And more.I am bothered by this all.When I insist on relevance as a guiding principle in my presentation of course content, am I implying to students that anything that doesn’t personally interest or benefit them is not worth their time? Am I positioning whatever is outside of their (very very limited) spheres as inherently insignificant and irrelevant? Am I encouraging an individualism (that often lapses into self-centeredness) that Americans are already known for? Am I fostering growth, exploration, discomfort—or am I basically fitting the horses I lead with better and better blinders?My daughter loves reading graphic novels. (I get that any reading is still reading, but some of these books are terrible.) And they’re mostly representative of the life that she leads. The protagonists are all young characters whose lives are consumed by crushes and drama and makeup and annoying teachers. Yes, it’s all very familiar. But the best literature can transport us to different worlds. It exposes us to experiences and situations that we may never encounter. We get to inhabit characters who may be unlike us in every way possible—and grow to care about them deeply. (I cried over a gorilla in The One and Only Bob.) This is how literature builds empathy; this is what “Theory of Mind” is all about. So, once in a while, I force my kid to read old books, books from my childhood, books where the characters don’t talk like her or act like her or have the same stuff as her. She doesn’t like it one bit.I think we could all do with getting out of our comfort zones a bit more. I think we could all do with a bit more exposure to ideas, people, and worlds that are disconnected from our own. Otherwise, we’re all just operating in our own little insular echo chambers. How else will we discover new interests? How else will we change our minds? How else will we build empathy? Lots of things are going to be irrelevant or foreign for students AND still be important for them to learn. In fact, maybe these are the most important things to learn? So the question I’m trying to mull over now is: How can we motivate students while also de-centering them and pushing them to engage with difference, strangeness, otherness, irrelevance—learning for the mere sake of learning?

a·syn·chron·ous·definition: “not existing or happening at the same time” I recently surprised a professor friend with the “news” that I taught almost exclusively in an asynchronous format and have been doing so for the past dozen years. A colleague on staff at my school recently said about this format: “Don’t you just set up the class and they are left to learn on their own?” Another professor in my field when responding to my comment in a writing workshop that I do a lot of my writing in comments on Canvas posts said: “Isn’t that mostly cut-and-paste?” I have been surprised to realize that many people in my inner circle don’t think of asynchronous online teaching as real teaching work. I beg to differ.Recently, I found myself in the worst of it. I was writing discussion prompts for week six while responding to late posts from students meant for week one while two-thirds of my students were talking with each other somewhere in week three. Others had turned in an assignment not due for two more weeks. All this teaching in multiple weeks in my course in one two-hour block while sitting at my kid’s desk on my laptop. He left for college a few weeks ago. We are all in different times, different places, but somehow still connected.Asynchronous teaching is the stuff of sci-fi and fantasy. I engage in time travel on the daily. If only I was a Time Lord with a Tardis to travel in! Or Hermione Grainger with a magical Time Turner on a necklace so I could stop the other times to focus on the one in which I found myself. Instead, I just have a learning management system, where I click to the next item in Speed Grader and jump ahead or behind a couple of weeks to material that has since slipped from my leaky brain. I try to remember what the student would and wouldn’t have encountered at that point in the class as I respond to their work.This morning, I found myself lying in bed and thinking about the clunkiness of the word asynchronous. What would be the word for being in a different place than your learners? A-syn-loc-ous? Oh, yeah. We just call that “distance learning.” Easy peasy. Everyone does that. But when we are in different times, we have a word that specifically marks the absence of togetherness: asynchronous. Out of time with one another.In fact, this is not a new reality. John Dewey called it the greatest pedagogical fallacy, the assumption that students are learning what we are teaching when we are teaching it. I can remember sitting in the now-demolished stadium-seating lecture hall in seminary and watching some of the great professors of my era lecturing. Sitting near the back, I would amuse myself by watching my classmates reach the point when they gave up taking notes, hopelessly lost in the verbiage of our professors. A few at a time, their pens would go down in defeat, and they would sit back in the wooden theater chairs and stare blankly at the speaker, folding their arms defensively. Nowadays, they would pick up their phones or click over to another tab on their computers to check the news, less obvious means of abandoning the effort to follow along. Where the students were, in time, was some light years away from where the professor was teaching. They remained closer to the energetic start of the universe that the professor was now hurtling along the furthest edges of. Teaching involves many moments like these. Planning a syllabus and having to post it a month before the class starts, or having to propose it to a committee a year in advance. In either case, never having met the learners before devising a plan for their learning. Teaching students who have just been exposed to the material alongside those who have wrestled with it for a term or even for years. Teaching people ruminating on yesterday’s political assassination about something that happened a thousand years ago. Sometimes it feels like a miracle when we end up in the same time with the same focus.All of this jumping to the location of students in time and space takes an enormous amount of imagination, energy, and nimbleness, whether online or working in person. But sure, why wouldn’t you put twenty-five or thirty-five students in my asynchronous class, since all I do is post the information and they learn it on their own in their own time? Turns out, asynchronous teaching makes me into an unwilling time lord without a sonic screwdriver in sight. But it also illuminates what Dewey named so long ago: meeting students where they are is no easy challenge, no matter the teaching modality. Teaching online and asynchronously just places this experience in vivid contrast so we recognize it more quickly and are forced to bear the weight of its reality. 

A student in my intro Religions of the World class recently asked—well, more like desperately pleaded—to be able to use a 3x5 notecard on the final exam. I said “maybe,” but it was the kind of “maybe” that parents say when they want to get kids off their back and hope the kids forget about it later. I was, to put it mildly, pretty resistant to the idea. I worried it would mean that students wouldn’t study as hard, offloading what should be stored in their brains onto a piece of paper that would just be discarded. Isn’t notecard usage basically just a professor-sanctioned form of cheating–or, at least, a professor-sanctioned form of “don’t worry about learning anything”? Are students just trying to find any and all shortcuts to the actual difficult labor of learning? What is this world coming to?? (I’ve officially turned old and “kids-these-days”-y.)But I had promised to consider her request and I didn’t really want to be the person who my daughter always accuses me of being—the person whose “maybe” really just always means “no.”One morning, after waking up at 3:20am and not being able to fall back asleep (WHY), I decided to actually look up research on notecard usage. Why I didn’t think to do this before forming my opinion about the usage of notecards is beyond me. As you might expect, if you’re familiar with research on education and pedagogy, research is mixed.Some studies have shown that students using notecards outperform peers who don’t. But even studies in which performance isn’t obviously better do show that the use of notecards can alleviate student anxiety and may reduce the temptation to cheat. For me, the bit about alleviating stress was actually the most important. I’m trying to instill in students a love, maybe even an appreciation, of the subject matter–not permanently repel them from the study of religion. Anxiety was certainly what was leading my student to make the request in the first place. She was overwhelmed by the amount of material in a 101 survey course and not at all feeling confident about her ability to do well on the final exam. If I could help ease her mind a bit, why not?But also: the articles I reviewed brought up a good point, which is that the creation of the notecards is itself a form of studying or a good study habit. That is, students have to gather, review, and synthesize a bunch of different information to discern what ultimately goes into the notecard. That the actual making of the notecard helps them to learn the material. Okay, sold.So, I went in the next day and told my students they could use notecards for the final exam. We’ll see how it goes. 

This past summer, Beyoncé was on tour again. Her Cowboy Carter shows were filling stadiums, winning awards, and generating the kind of buzz only Queen B can. And every time I saw a headline about her latest performance, I was reminded of the time I found myself in a packed stadium, earplugs in place, swept up in the ecstatic roar of 80,000 fans – all because my students told me to go.Sometimes co-learning means trusting your students. Sometimes it means doing the homework they assign – even if that homework is attending a Beyoncé concert. From Early Polyphony to Pop IconsYears before, I’d taken a different class to hear the world-class ensemble New York Polyphony perform Renaissance Marian music. The students were mesmerized. Five unaccompanied voices wove harmonies so rich and unexpected that one student turned to me, stunned, and said, “I didn’t know the human voice could sound like that.”The texts were sacred, the music deeply devotional, and yet what struck the students most wasn’t the sixteenth-century solemnity but the encore: a playful barbershop version of Rosie the Riveter. Somehow, that moment – a bridge between sacred history and cultural familiarity – made the entire evening resonate. The music stopped feeling like an artifact and became a living conversation between past and present.That night stayed with me, a reminder that context matters. And a few years later, when I wrapped up a course on religion and popular culture, I asked my students a question I have always asked since:“What should I explore to better understand the worlds you inhabit?”Their response came quickly: “Go to an arena concert. And not just any concert – Beyoncé, Drake, or Kanye.” Enter the BeyhiveSo, in the summer of 2018, I booked a ticket, crossed the border from Canada, and joined 80,000 members of the Beyhive in Ohio Stadium for the On the Run II tour with Beyoncé and Jay-Z.From the first moment – when the Carters descended from above, dressed in white, declaring their enduring love – it was clear this was not just entertainment. This was ritual.The show unfolded as a narrative arc of love, betrayal, repentance, and redemption. Paradise gave way to heartbreak, scenes of confession and prayer played out in a candlelit chapel, and a climactic celebration of forgiveness transformed the stadium into something resembling a cathedral.And the crowd? They weren’t passive observers. They sang every lyric, moved in unison, and cried openly. It felt like full, conscious, active participation – the kind of embodied engagement we often hope for in sacred spaces but rarely see. When Beyoncé Became an Icon – LiterallyWhat stayed with me most was the imagery. Midway through the concert, Beyoncé appeared in shimmering purple and gold, styled unmistakably as an Orthodox Pantocrator – an icon of Christ enthroned. She even raised two fingers, echoing the gesture indicating divine and human natures.In that moment, the conversation between Christianity and contemporary culture could not have been clearer. Here was a global superstar, embodying centuries-old sacred iconography in a performance consumed by millions. Fashion, music, and religious symbolism were colliding to create something profoundly resonant, and my students had sent me there to see it for myself. Shifting My PerspectiveI returned to the classroom that Fall with fresh eyes. Co-learning had always been central to my pedagogy, but stepping fully into my students’ cultural world shifted something.I began paying closer attention to themes of celebrity, cultural authority, and the theological undercurrents embedded in popular culture. I started inviting students to share more of their own frameworks and interpretations, realizing that they weren’t just consumers of culture but skilled analysts of its meanings.The experience also expanded my understanding of how religion permeates the spaces we often call “secular.” The concert was not just a performance; it was a pilgrimage – complete with shared anticipation, communal solidarity, and a sense of collective transformation. And, like pilgrimage traditions past, it was also monetized: tickets, merchandise, exclusivity all wrapped into a deeply spiritual-yet-commercial exchange. The Power of Reciprocal LearningToday, when I teach courses on religion and culture – or on pilgrimage, as I did this past academic year – I think about that night in the stadium. The walk toward the venue with thousands of others felt uncannily like the approach to a sacred site. The sense of communitas – a shared, egalitarian solidarity – buzzed in the air, reminding me that cultural experiences can be as spiritually charged as traditional rituals.Students directing the narrative of their own engagement, I’ve realized, is the real power of co-learning. I don’t hand them neat interpretations of the world; instead, we create frames together. Their insights push me to reimagine my own assumptions, and in return, they see their cultural knowledge valued as part of the academic conversation.For me, that Beyoncé concert wasn’t just a field trip. It was a lesson in humility, curiosity, and the unexpected ways learning happens when we let students lead.And as I watched news of Cowboy Carter lighting up stadiums this summer, I was reminded to keep asking my students: “What should I see next?” Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the richest pedagogical journeys often begin when we’re willing to follow.

NOTE: As I write this last blog from Pasadena, CA, several months after my last segment, I recognize that many are only beginning to face the long road to recovery in the aftermath of the LA Firestorms, ICE raids, and loss of federal funding, while others are navigating a whole host of concerns that result from these events. This is on top of the social and political dynamics we have faced this year, both personally and communally. In many ways life is already messy, and many are trying to find ways to sustain themselves, teach, lead, and care for others in the midst of their own mess and ours. I wanted to write this note to say: I see you. You are not alone. Friends, we have reached the end of our journey with Miss Frizzle! And though we may be sad to see her leave us (for now), I think we’ve saved the best lesson for last. For those of you who are true fans of the series, you know that this last part often changes, depending on the circumstances that Miss Frizzle and the kids are in. But the “get messy!” aspect is always present, and for that, we dive deep into the mess to see what we can learn. First, let’s talk about getting messy. Now, I won’t speak for everyone else, but I can say that personally, I don’t like it. Getting messy is inconvenient, gross, and often requires that I do things I don’t like to do. I only do it as a means to an end. I thought I meant this only physically (doing dirty dishes, washing floors, and all the other “messes” you are thinking of right now), but several years ago, I realized I also thought this way spiritually. Allow me to explain. As a young adult, I had several spiritual teachers who taught a neat spirituality. They advocated for a kind of spiritual life that didn’t include the messiness of our lives, or if they did, we didn’t talk about it. Besides, any mess we have or would encounter was already handled in the person of Jesus. Jesus died (in ways we will not describe) so that we wouldn’t have to handle our mess. This always bothered me, mostly because (like most young adults) my life was very messy, and I didn’t have the tools to handle it or sweep it under the spiritual rug. While they attempted to teach me to “give my mess over to god” by ignoring it, I became drawn to it. I realized that messiness did not scare me. It became a catalyst for my art making, and a starting point for the kind of spirituality that led me to get a PhD.  Teaching From the MessNow I know I’ve said mess a lot, but I have not defined it. What exactly do I mean by mess? One definition that I love is “a situation or state of affairs that is confused and full of difficulties.” That sounds about right. Mess is often confusing and difficult, and if no one wants to be either of those things, why does Miss Frizzle encourage it? Because everything begins once we accept the mess. If we can accept that things are confusing and difficult, we can begin the process of moving toward new possibilities, both of which require taking chances and making mistakes. This is of the utmost importance for theological educators. Everything that we teach begins with mess. Part of the problem, in my humble opinion, is that we approach the mess with a rigidity and sterility that requires us to replace the messiness of our lives and theologies with systems and ideas that seek to eradicate and ignore and not engage. We cannot create rigid classrooms that seek to engage mess. We have to get messy.How do we do that? Well, I’m glad you asked. Let’s go back to our first lesson: bending, keeping, and breaking rules. That lesson asks us to get to the root of what the rule is doing for us. Our pedagogy doesn’t just become rigid; it is often the result of trying to create consistency, ritual, or repetition in our classes. As we are sorting through things that are confusing and difficult, we often seek to create safety by bringing in the opposites of what we are facing. If something is confusing, we offer clarity. If it’s difficult, we try to break it down to be more palatable. We create a routine so our students can have continued practice. None of this is bad or wrong. But the rigidity comes in when we don’t follow the second rule, making mistakes. Often, we use a pedagogical tool over and over again in the name of consistency, not realizing that it no longer works. Making mistakes is about first realizing the mistake. How do you know you’ve moved from consistency to rigidity? Ask your students! Engage ways of continued feedback (beyond surveys) that show that your students are getting what they need. Switch up your assignments to think through how students are showing improvement and integration. Do the work to create a pedagogical toolbox that gives you multiple ways to teach and engage content. I Don’t Know! One part of my toolbox that I have used most often consists of three powerful words: “I don’t know.” Starting out, I was afraid to admit this to anyone. Saying I don’t know is like admitting you are an imposter. But pretending to know everything (when I obviously didn’t) hindered my teaching. And of course my students could always tell. The reason I was afraid was because I adhered to the idea that, as the professor, I was supposed to know everything about what I was teaching. That there was no question I shouldn’t be able to answer. I hope you hear how ridiculous that sounds. It wasn’t until a student asked some off-the-wall question that I had no clue how to answer that I just said, “I don’t know.” And the world did not implode. I did not die from embarrassment. The PhD police did not come and take my degree away. I wasn’t fired. I admitted my mistake. Then I took a chance. I said, “But I know someone who does.” The next class period, I brought in a friend who just so happened to be an expert on the topic of the question asked. In fifteen minutes, he was able to do what I could not, and the class was blown away. How cool was it to have an expert on the topic of a random question you had just show up in your class? The students felt seen and heard, my friend was praised for their brilliance, and I looked cool. Win-win-win!  Learning to Adapt“I don’t know” is now one of my favorite things to say in a classroom. It allows me to lean into everything Miss Frizzle has taught me. Make the mistake. Take a chance. Enter the mess. Because of this, I have brought countless friends into the classroom to answer what I could not. It has taught me that one of the best tools we have in our pedagogical toolbox is adaptation. Even though our syllabi, readings, and assignments may stay the same, our students do not. Our contexts in the world do not. We do not. And, as the world would have it, most change is messy. I hope that Miss Frizzle’s lessons encourage you to do something different. Go back to that radical pedagogy that understands the root but is never tied to one branch. Allow your “I don’t know” to become a portal into a network of brilliance you bring into the classroom. Be consistent without being rigid. Take chances. Make mistakes. Get Messy! Till next time friends!

Several years ago, I decided to create a bucket list as a way to examine who I am and identify significant things I would like to explore and experience during the remainder of my life. One of the items on my list is to visit all 107 Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCU). This is my way to celebrate the Black College Experience and its impact on the lives HBCU’s have shaped. During the past three Spring Breaks and summers I have visited HBCUs and engaged with students, faculty, and staff. I’ve even purchased campus paraphernalia to remember my visits – hoodies, T-shirts, and refrigerator magnets. To date, I have visited thirty-two campuses in ten states. Historically Black Colleges and Universities have existed since 1837, when Cheyney State University was established. Prior to the Civil War the education of Blacks was forbidden in most Southern states and dissuaded in Northern states. The majority of HBCUs were founded between 1865–1900 by free Blacks, philanthropists, religious organizations, or the federal government.The purpose of the HBCU in the United States is to provide undergraduate and graduate-level educational opportunities to people of African descent. At an HBCU, you will find African Diasporic Cultural Identity, rich history, and rigorous academic programs. Key trends for HBCUs in 2025 include record breaking applications, increased new student enrollment, growing selectivity, and affirming environments. Given the political climate and polarization within the United States, Black students are migrating to these institutions of higher learning to experience a culturally relevant academic experience, affordability, and higher graduation rates. In other words, Black students want to succeed.One of the HBCUs I’ve visited is LeMoyne Owen College in Memphis, Tennessee. Upon entering the campus I saw a sign saying “A Source of Black Excellence.” What is Black Excellence? It has been defined as a high level of achievement, success, or ability demonstrated by an individual Black person or Black people. It is also used to refer to an aspiration or goal to be achieved. #blackexcellence.Reflecting on my thirty-two HBCU visits I was inspired to create my own definition of black excellence. Black excellence is victory, achievement, and greatness exemplified by Black people individually and collectively. It is a perspective that originates in the mind and is embodied through fortitude and flourishing. Black excellence is the manifestation of our ancestors’ dreams and prayers.HBCUs produce some of the greatest scholars, doctors, lawyers, educators, and entertainers in the United States while receiving less funding than predominately white colleges and universities. HBCUs promote living and learning environments that encourage student leadership, support, and research that is second to none. However, HBCUs are committed to teaching more than academics – they form students in character. William R. Harvey, who served as an administrative leader at Fisk and Tuskegee University and forty-four years as the President of Hampton University, shares twelve principles of success that will assist any educator who desires to help their students obtain success.Harvey’s Principles (paraphrased) include: Never compromise honesty, integrity, respect, trust, and responsible personal behavior. There is no substitute for hard work. Be of service to others. Have a moral compass. Set your goals high and don’t dream small dreams. Never give up. Say NO to distractions. Make positive things happen in your life. You can’t finish a race if you don’t start it. Don’t allow anyone to steal your joy. Be significant in everything you undertake. Believe in yourself.During my visits to the various HBCUs I witnessed Black Excellence. However, the traditional coursework and assignments were not the only strategies for supporting student growth and achievement. I also witnessed across all thirty-two campuses a commitment to producing thriving humans by teaching character development, positive values, perseverance, and strategies for success in their classrooms and in life. This wholistic approach to education – not just focusing on external achievement but on the whole person flourishing from the inside out – is what Black Excellence in education is all about.

Like so many of us, I’ve watched my standard assessments crumble under the assault of AI.I’d been doing a low-stakes writing assignment for years, asking students to very informally summarize and reflect on the reading.  It’s been a great assignment, helping me ensure that most students work through the reading before class and come in to class prepared with ideas and questions, and students have generally liked it.  But I’m starting to see AI-generated summaries (duh) and I’m sure more are coming.  I’m also noticing that my more anxious students treat the assignment as something high stakes, obsessing about the end product in an assignment designed to focus on process.  Bad for their stress levels, plus it tempts them to turn to AI which is bad for my stress levels.I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what to do instead.  I tried just dropping the assignment, but then my students didn’t do the reading.  I don’t want in-class quizzes because they shift the focus to memorization and performance under pressure.  I don’t want online quizzes because they seem even less AI-resistant than my current assignment.  Some of my colleagues are switching to cold-calling, interrogating students in ways that remind me of law school pedagogy from the movies.  I don’t want to cold-call because I have equity concerns and because I don’t want to put my students on the spot.  I don’t particularly like it when it’s done to me, and I’m much less anxious than they are. And I don’t care for the atmosphere it creates in the classroom.Instead, I decided to come up with an assignment that supports what I do want:I want my students to read deeply, slowly and carefully, listening to the text as though it was a person they respected but had trouble understanding.I want my students to feel safe in my class, willing to speak honestly and to listen and think deeply.I want the assignment to be a tool that helps them do the reading, not an extra hoop for them to jump through.To get started, I had a long conversation with my first-year honors students early this semester, asking them to describe how they read.  The conversation made me very happy.  They responded with a wealth of detail.  They annotate the book, underlining and writing in the margins (or on sticky notes or in a separate notebook).  They mark key passages and put things in their own words.  Several had elabrate, and personalized, systems. Some color code with highlighters and different color tabs, others insist on pencil only.  In other words, my stronger students already know how to read actively in the way I want them to.  And at least some of the time, they read that way for class.  Knowing that, I decided to develop an assignment that has them read that way in a more intentional, structured, and consistent way.  What I came up with is much like the “show the work” journal that Emily Gravett describes in her blog about teaching Religion and Film.My writing assignment is entirely analog.  My students use a paper book, a notebook, and a pen.  And the assignment takes them through the process that we know works: marking up the text, taking notes, jotting down questions, turning pages.Here are the instructions:You’ll submit pics of your work on Canvas for every reading assignment.  These will be graded credit/no credit.Twice a semester, you’ll submit all the materials as a portfolio and that will be graded.  This means you’ll hand in Your book (which will have your notes in it)Your notebook (the notes/reflections that didn’t fit in the margins of the book)I prefer that you write notes directly in the book and that you write by hand in the notebook.  If you want to type or don’t want to write in the book, let’s talk about it and make a plan, OK?  I’m interested in the process here (seeing your mind and heart at work!) and not in a clean and neat end product.  That means that it is ok if your materials look messy.  You’re allowed and encouraged to go back and add or revise materials after class.  If you do that, don’t erase the original, just cross it out and add the new ideas afterwards.Feel free to use different colors, draw diagrams, cross things out, draw arrows, and so on.  Make it work for you!This does not need to be formal writing.  Play with it, swear if you need to, and feel free to complain about annoying ideas and confusing writing.  Don’t worry about Writing complete sentences – bulleted lists are fine!Writing neatly (but I do need to be able to read most of it)Being rightWhen I grade the portfolio, I’ll be looking for evidence of strong engagement with the text.  You should be Summarizing: Mark important points and put them in your own words, identify the thesis, draw diagrams if they help, note confusing areasReflecting: ask questions, articulate issues for the class to discuss, reflect on how the reading connects to your life or to other readingsWe’re 7 weeks in now and it’s going very well.  We had to set aside some time for figuring out how to submit pics on Canvas.  And some of them still don’t believe me when I say it doesn’t have to be neat.  But they are doing good work.  They come to class with their books and plenty of notes, they can find the passages that defeated them, and they ask about them.  And – oh glory! – they have done the reading and thought about it and as a result they have interesting things to say.I’ll try it with my regular classes in the spring.  Fingers crossed!For more visit: “Is This the End of the Take-Home Essay?”

“Is collaboration always empowering – or might it sometimes be quietly exhausting?”I often invite students to see our classrooms as spaces where “we co-create learning together.” Theological education is, after all, about formation rather than just information. Yet, I’ve started to wonder if our hopeful ideas about mutual empowerment and flattened hierarchies might sometimes hide deeper tensions – particularly for those teaching and learning from marginalized social locations.The more I reflect on collaborative pedagogies, the more complicated the picture becomes. I find myself wrestling with difficult questions: What tensions remain unseen or unspoken? Who truly bears the emotional and practical burdens of collaboration, particularly among marginalized educators and students? Are flattened hierarchies genuinely equal, or do they quietly demand extra emotional labor from those already burdened by systemic inequalities?I don’t offer easy answers here. Instead, I invite you into critical reflection about the real demands of collaboration – and the hidden costs it may entail. Lie #1: We pretend collaborative pedagogy naturally leads to equal participation.Last semester, my teaching assistant emailed me with an unsettling dilemma: “I’m a little uncertain how to grade this. According to my records, two international students spoke significantly less than others, but subtracting points feels like punishing them for cultural differences.” Her task seemed straightforward – evaluate classroom participation – but it quickly exposed troubling contradictions. Should international students be penalized for speaking thoughtfully yet hesitantly due to language barriers? Conversely, should students who confidently dominated discussions – often without genuinely engaging the readings – receive higher marks simply because they spoke frequently and assertively?Her email revealed how participation in collaborative spaces is often influenced by invisible power dynamics and cultural assumptions. If I continue grading participation based solely on who speaks and how often, my “collaborative” pedagogy inadvertently reinforces rather than disrupts existing inequalities. It risks obscuring the real barriers marginalized students face in making their voices heard.Not every voice holds equal power. Some students speak freely, confident their contributions will be valued. Others – particularly students of color, LGBTQ+ students, disabled students, international students, or those from working-class backgrounds – may speak cautiously, code-switch, or fear judgment. True collaborative pedagogy demands careful attention to these social and cultural realities. It also requires us to rethink how we evaluate classroom participation with genuine cultural sensitivity, always aware of the underlying power dynamics. Lie #2: We pretend collaboration equally distributes risks and rewards.As a transnational educator, I’ve personally navigated these tensions, often weighing the risks before speaking. Throughout my academic journey, both as student and educator, I’ve experienced firsthand how silence or selective verbal participation can be misread as flaws needing correction or a lack of confidence. Quiet reflection, thoughtful pauses, or cautious engagement were often interpreted negatively, pressuring me to challenge my thoughtful silence and reshape how I claimed authority in classroom dynamics.Each semester, I enthusiastically embrace collaborative methods – co-designing syllabi, fostering open dialogue, and inviting student-led sessions. Initially, these approaches feel refreshing and energizing. Yet inevitably, sometime during the course tensions arise: awkward silences, confusion about roles, and blurred boundaries. For marginalized educators, these methods often invite scrutiny of authority, competence, and intent, inadvertently reinforcing existing power imbalances rather than dismantling them.Perhaps we’ve too quickly assumed that collaboration automatically empowers everyone, overlooking persistent power imbalances deeply embedded in our classrooms. Are we genuinely ready to support students and educators as they navigate these unequal risks, or have we conveniently assumed collaboration to be inherently equitable? Please, don’t pretend…I fully acknowledge the significant benefits collaborative pedagogies bring, such as vibrant learning environments and mutual empowerment. I always integrate collaboration with my course pedagogy. However, I want to explore the ways in which collaborative methods can disproportionately burden marginalized participants.These “lies” push us to reimagine what a truly collaborative classroom might look like – not simply as a pedagogical trend, but as ethical, pastoral, and cultural commitments. We must critically reassess classroom dynamics: Who defines collaboration? Whose participation genuinely counts? Who determines what matters? Collaborative pedagogy demands ongoing attention to power dynamics, attentive inclusivity, and cultural sensitivity. It invites vulnerability and complexity, necessitating continuous ethical reflection and pastoral attentiveness. Flattening hierarchies alone isn’t sufficient; we must recognize and navigate subtle, persistent power realities.So, let’s stop pretending that fully collaborative pedagogies emerge naturally. They require intentional cultivation, careful attention, and relational sensitivity – bringing both meaningful opportunities and hidden burdens. As we dream about collaboration in our learning journeys, perhaps it’s time to pause and honestly ask ourselves: What exactly are we co-creating, and who silently shoulders its emotional costs?

Perhaps, selfishly, my journey away from authoritarian teaching came from confronting bad teaching evaluations in my first two years of teaching. While my early education was decidedly not authoritarian – I was homeschooled by a mother inspired by unschooling, Waldorf, and Montessori – I often fell into the trap of confusing being rigorous with being an authoritarian. My first few years of teaching, I threw my hands up in frustration, wondering why my students didn’t take pleasure in learning. My thinking remained unproductive until I began to reflect on a difficult question: what energy was I bringing to the classroom? The conclusions weren’t pleasant: I thought that to earn respect, I had to be tough. Being tough meant being inflexible with deadlines (what am I, a pushover?), having an intense, aloof demeanor in the classroom (how else would they take things seriously?), and having rigorous, high standards for grading that were given in an unfeeling manner (no A for effort, kids). As a young woman, I felt like I had a lot to prove and it showed. My teaching evaluations were abysmal. And while yes, there is a lot to be said for gender (and, though it does not negatively impact my evaluations personally, racial) biases in evaluations, I do think that students were picking up on my general insecurity and responding to their own feelings of powerlessness. Put more simply, it is hard to be invested in a class in which you feel you have no control over, and it is easy to assume that everything you don’t like is the fault of your professor. At first, my move into more student involvement was rooted almost solely in improving my evaluations. But after major shifts in teaching practice, I’ve noticed that the more I’ve levelled my authority and engaged in more collaborative teaching with my students, not only do my students enjoy my classes more, but they also learn a lot more too. They also seem to feel much more invested in the material and take ownership of their work and role in shaping the classroom environment. As a professor in a required first-year seminar program, I teach St. Augustine’s Confessionsoften. I am always struck by Augustine’s reflections on the distinct experiences of learning from authoritarian teachers at school. Discussing learning Greek, he writes that “the threat of savage, terrifying punishments was used to make me learn.” He contrasts this to the ease with which he learned Latin, under the gentle tutelage of his childhood caretakers, “without any fear or pain at all.” Augustine concludes that “It is evident that the free play of curiosity is a more powerful spur to learning these things than is fear-ridden coercion.”[i] Inspired by Augustine (along with feminist thinkers such as bell hooks and anti-carceral pedagogy inspired by Mariame Kaba and others), I have sought to create an environment of genuine freedom and joy to explore ideas and improve my students’ critical abilities.In the next entries in this blog series, I will share some of the specific practices I use to create a more collaborative learning environment (such as students creating discussion expectations, collaborating on course policies, changes in how I offer grading feedback, and more). I will also discuss how I maintain rigor in such a classroom. For now, I invite readers to consider a series of questions: am I unwilling to be more collaborative out of fear that I won’t be taken seriously? How can my vulnerability inspire the same in students? How can this shared learning space enrich all who enter it? Notes & Bibliography[i] Augustine, Confessions, translated by Maria Boulding (New York: Vintage Spiritual Classics, 1997), I.14,23.

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