14. In the Garden

"My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death." (Mt. 26:38)

"Through the prism of my tears I have seen a suffering God.  It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live.  I have always thought this meant that no one can see his splendor and live.  A friend said perhaps this meant that no one could see his sorrow and live.  Or perhaps his sorrow is his splendor."  (Nicholas Wolterstorff)

Did Judas see this face in the garden that night?  Not only did he see it, he kissed it.  But did he truly "see" it? That's a question that haunts me.  How could Judas live, gazing into the face of one overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.  Perhaps Judas saw the splendor of God--sorrow--and he could not live.  This, of course, doesn't justify Judas' actions.

I imagine that Peter, too, saw this sorrow when he caught Jesus' eye immediately after that cock crowed for the third time.  Did Jesus wear a splendorous sorrow on his face then--the sorrow over this denial? It is true that Peter can no longer live as he has to this point.  He dies, too.  And in dying, lives.

I want to acquaint myself with the the triumphant God, but I fear the way of triumph--for of course it means sorrow, defeat, death.  To know God, to see his face, is to acquaint myself with suffering, pain, and sorrow.  The only way to God is through Jesus in the garden.

 

13. On Visigoths (Part 2)

In blog entry #11, I commented on "Visigoths" and the visigothian idea of grades. See that entry here. http://robbyprenkert.blogspot.com/2012/01/11-on-visigoths.html

We asked the class whether they thought--considering their graduating class--the Athenians would outnumber the Visigoths. I suppose the value of a question like that isn't so much in the answer we get to the specific question, but to the discussion the question sparks and the perspectives it reveals.

I think it would be fair to say that most of them felt that the majority of their classmates were in the Visigoth camp, and seem to show few signs of relocating themselves.

Taking a bit longer view, I remain hopeful. My teaching partner and I think that seeds do get planted, and that sometimes--maybe even years later--students and former students slide on the scale and become a little less "V" and a little more "A."  Of course, the two categories are not Christian, but a robust faith will always push one toward the "A" and away from he "V."  t

Sadly, a superficial faith may very well slide a person deeper into visigothian territory.  But that's a thought for another time.

12. This is What It Feels Like to be a Teacher Sometimes

The first reading assignment in every class I teach is the syllabus. The first thing I do the second day of class is take questions students have about the course after they've (supposedly) read the syllabus.

Sometimes, I feel like the guy in the video. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But every once in a while.

Not necessarily this semester. :-)

11. On Visigoths

Here is, by far, the best insight from class on Tuesday.

We read Neil Postman's "My Graduation Speech" for class, a speach where he contrasts two groups that come to be metaphors for important ideas--the "Athenians" and  the "Visigoths."  It's a fantastic little piece and will only take you five minutes or so to read.  You should read it now if you never have.

http://www.ditext.com/postman/mgs.html

We asked the class think about their own (future) graduating class at Bethel, and then to speculate whether they thought the Athenians would outnumber the Visigoths.  One student suggested that a barrier to being an Athenian was actually "grades."  My teaching partner chimed up right away and said, "That's great!  Grades aren't a value of the Athenians--grades are a value of the Visigoths."

I was reminded of Phaedrus' proposed university without grades in Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  But that's an entry for another time.  (btw, You should read that book, too, but not right now.).

So grades are a visigothian idea--I like that. Some of our supposedly "best students" are Visigoths in their approach to education. And who do we have to thank for that?

It wasn't students who invented the idea of grades.  It took a group of Visigoths called "professional educators" to up with that one.

10. On Mondays

My Monday's are tough.  It's all relative, of course.  A high school teacher would look at my schedule and go, "big woop--I do that every day."  So I'm not complaining. 

I thought if I scheduled my Monday heavier, the rest of the week would be smooth sailing.  But there could be a downside to having four classes spread out over 12 hours, with a back-to-back-to-back from 3pm till 8pm.  Let me borrow a term from fitness: "recovery."  The rest of the week may be so much lighter and easier, but I'm so spent from the marathon Monday that I'm worthless for a few days.

Or maybe that's all just over-reacting, because yesterday was worse than most Mondays will be because somebody scheduled a two hour meeting in the middle of the day that ended up being emotionally exhausting.

I'm not worried.  But I will let you, my two readers, in on a little secret.  Listen: Usually I write my blog entry the day before I post it. I didn't have time yesterday to write today's.  So this is how bad I write "first draft." 

Speaking of a blog about "nothing"--eh?

9. On Psalm 6

She knocks at my office door, enters.  She is the student who shows up far too infrequently to class, and in what little writing she has submitted, she gives just a glimpse of a life teetering on the brink of chaos. 

"I wanted to recite psalm," she says. 

It is an assignment--memorize and recite ten psalms over the course of the semester.  This is her first--somewhere at the midpoint of the semester, and considering her lack of work and attendance thus far, and our recent interventions to encourage her to come to class and to do the homework, I take this as a positive sign that she is making an effort to turn her semester around. 

"Which one?"

"Psalm 6."  She is pretty and extremely bright.  But her eyes have an omnipresent, weary sadness about them.

I flip to Psalm 6 in our textbook--The Message--so I can follow along as she recites. 

^1-2 Please, God, no more yelling, no more trips to the woodshed.
Treat me nice for a change;
I'm so starved for affection.


^2-3 Can't you see I'm black-and-blue,
beat up badly in bones and soul?
God, how long will it take
for you to let up?


^4-5 Break in, God, and break up this fight;
if you love me at all, get me out of here.
I'm no good to you dead, am I?
I can't sing in your choir if I'm buried in some tomb!


^6-7 I'm tired of all this—so tired. My bed
has been floating forty days and nights
On the flood of my tears.
My mattress is soaked, soggy with tears.
The sockets of my eyes are black holes;
nearly blind, I squint and grope.


^8-9 Get out of here, you Devil's crew:
at last God has heard my sobs.
My requests have all been granted,
my prayers are answered.


¹⁰ Cowards, my enemies disappear.

Disgraced, they turn tail and run. 

She does not stumble.  She does not pause awkwardly searching for the right word.  She recites flawlessly, as if she has written the words on her soul, and allowed me for just a moment to peer into it.  It is beautiful.

"Wonderful!" I say, and she manages a half smile.  I pause.  "I like this psalm.  Why did you choose it."

The sad eyes mist over, she glances at the floor, and then quickly back up.

"Because it's exactly how I feel."

I take it she means especially the first seven verses.  Now I fight back tears.  "You keep praying that prayer," I say. Then, as if to set her free from what must feel like confinement--the office of her professor--I say, "Thank you, for this. I needed to hear this psalm." And she's gone.

She does not make it to the end of the semester at my college, and I do not know where she is now.  It wouldn't be all that hard to find out, for we live in a world with Facebook, a world where virtually no one disappears forever anymore. I have thought of that day from time to time since then, but I had forgotten the psalm until this morning when I read it again and remembered and wanted to say to the sad eyed one, "I remember you, I have thought of you, I will pray for you."


And "Thank you."

8.5. Wish

8. On Libraries

He slips out the backdoor of his office and into the movable stacks.  Most employees have but one way in and one way out of their offices.  His office, in the bowels of Bowen, has a second doorway out and directly into the literature section of the library--into a large room with the highest concentration of books of anywhere on campus.

Were he a poet there might be a metaphor to work here.  Sometimes he likes to shut the main door to his office and crack open the door into the library to let in its cooler air.  Perhaps in a magical realist story, more than just cool air would work its way into his modest, windowless office when he opens this door to another world. 

Libraries have always enchanted him.  He walks past a stack of books a hundred times without noticing, then the hundred and first time some book title captures his eye, and if he is not careful (and why should he be?), he finds himself standing for a half hour cracking open a book cover, inhaling its cooler air, transported to another world.

One day the library will likely claim the faculty offices in the northeast corner of its building, and the English department will be relocated elsewhere.  This will be a sad day for him--the day he loses his windowless office with its secret passageway into a world of worlds.