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I think I’ve mentioned before in this blog series that all the most important things I learned about teaching I learned while working as a wilderness guide at a children’s camp in the Adirondack Mountains during seminary and grad school. This is one of the reasons teaching outside makes so much sense to me. It’s why I expend so much effort trying to create immersive outdoor classes. It’s the form of teaching I know best: teaching as guiding.We all have images of ourselves as teachers. I’ve heard colleagues talk about teaching as midwifery, coaching, even zookeeping (a middle school teacher friend). Guiding is a common image, of course, but my personal guiding experience influences how I think of my work: be infinitely flexible, handle challenging questions, inspire students to greater curiosity, provide boundaries for safety both physical and metaphorical, read a group, shape group dynamics, facilitate conversation, empower students to learn for themselves, love even the unlikeable students, and, perhaps most important of all, when it rains, let it, then go out and remember your baptism.This is what teaching outside has done for me. It has not just provided space for a good class session but shaped the very way I imagine myself as a teacher. Teaching outside is wilder, less tamed, less regimented and institutionally rule-bound than teaching in the classroom, at least to me. I hope to be a wilder, less predictable teacher. Not in the way that makes students anxious because they can’t figure out what’s being expected of them at any given moment or because they’ve never been given a syllabus (I have very detailed syllabi and provide much structure to curb anxiety), but in a “you can’t shock me” way. Just last week, on the second day of the semester, when I asked an undergraduate gen ed class “What do you think the Bible is?” a student looked at me a little sideways, testing, and said, “A book of ancient ideologies created to support the patriarchy.” I smiled wide and said, “Yes! Let’s talk about that!” And though the rest of the class wasn’t quite sure what to do or whether I was Christian enough to be teaching a Bible class, this one firecracker of a student found her place in a real conversation – encouraged and challenged both – because I received her in a way she wasn’t expecting. Then she really got to learn.Playfulness and saying yes as often as I can is part of my identity as outdoor-teacher-guide too. When students ask, “Can we have class outside?” thinking that they will be told no because their other teachers say no, I say, “Yes!” When a student asks if they can make a video for the in-class project instead of drawing on the board, I say, “I can’t wait to see it!” Students sometimes ask for things they feel are breaking the rules, or try to get away with something, but when I can say yes, they find they have some agency and can participate in their own learning. In fact, though I don’t often point it out to them lest it make them less willing, their participation makes them learn better and more deeply.Guiding and teaching outdoors has also made me curious. I once marveled at a pool of mud on a mountaintop in the pouring rain with a friend when we discovered that the mud shimmered and became different shades of yellow depending on where we stood. I hope my students develop that kind of curiosity – and find that kind of friend – for themselves. My posture of wonder and curiosity in the classroom ought to demonstrate for them: “Why do you think that?” “What kind of bug is that?” “Tell me more about your perspective.” “How could we solve this?” “What else could that mean?” Many of my former campers are now grown up. Not only have they served as wilderness guides themselves, but they have gone on to get “real” jobs. A few still write letters, and I love to hear from them. I love hearing how they are becoming fully themselves and leaders in their communities: wild, playful, curious people who get to form others. It’s a delight to learn that I am no longer needed. It is a deeper delight still that they allow me to glimpse their triumphs. They still sign their letters, “Your camper, Tim.” I still sign my letters, “Always your guide, Aunt Samantha.” Tim has suggested that I cover the name plate on my office door with a sign that reads, “Dr. Aunt Samantha.” Perhaps I should take this under consideration. It is who I most am. What environments have shaped your image of yourself as a teacher? What outside-the-classroom work has given you aspects of yourself that transfer into your posture as a teacher? What should your office door read?

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.