—Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, chapter 65; trans. Stephen Mitchell
“All that I know is that I know nothing.”
—attributed to Socrates.
It is easy to fall in to a trap in teaching, and that trap is thinking that we have to know everything. After all, education is part of the “knowledge economy.” Knowledge is what we have acquired in graduate school, through hours and hours of reading and research. Knowledge is what we disseminate through writing. Knowledge is what makes up the various “disciplines” in which we are nominally experts. And knowledge is a great deal of what we claim to impart to our students. In a less lofty vein, I’m reminded of some of the earliest advice I received as a graduate teaching assistant: “Oh, just stay a week or two ahead of the students in the readings.” In other words: stay ahead in knowledge.
It all easily adds up to the vision of the teacher as “the sage on the stage,” as the saying goes, the one holding forth and dispensing important content and/or analysis to an audience of the less informed. The work of teaching then becomes to organize all that knowledge in an easily-communicable way. And the work of preparation becomes amassing that knowledge, to be ready in case any questions come up. The sage on the stage – the expert – must know it all.
Except that Lao Tzu, was a sage, too. But he actively shunned stages, and, as above, advocated “not-knowing.” Likewise Socrates, who loved a good holding-forth to an audience as much as anyone, is famously said to have declared just how little he knew.
Perhaps these two are showing us another way.
What might it look like if we framed teaching as an exercise in not knowing?
I have written on this site before about the formative experience of having one of my graduate school mentors publicly not-know along with us his students: “I don’t know that,” he said when asked a question about a text. “Why don’t we find it out together?” I was floored and I was invigorated and I filed it away for future reference: a teacher can do that. And of course in the long view I realize I thought no less of him for that at the time – but rather have come to think more and more of him for it as I have moved through my own teaching career. On the most basic level, not-knowing in teaching is simply a matter of honesty; it is the courage to own up to our limits in front of our students. We cannot be ready for every question. We can never know it all. No one can. This in itself is a quality lesson.
On another level, however, not-knowing in teaching is the courage to own up to the limits of knowledge, period – and to own up to how much those limits inform what we do. I would suggest that if, as academics and instructors, we are experts in “lifelong learning” for ourselves and others, that what we are really experts in is not-knowing. I would suggest that the “disciplines” we learn can be understood as the practices of not-knowing constructively about the content they embrace. What is research driven by, after all, except for our not-knowing about something…and our desire to not know about it somewhat less?
There is an old story about a professor who visits a Zen master, and begins holding forth, glad to have found an astute dialogue partner. On and on he goes about how he has studied enlightenment in many faiths and is so happy to visit the master and hear his opinion, expert to expert. The master says nothing, but pours the scholar a cup of tea…and keeps on pouring, as the tea spills over the top and all over the table.
“Stop, stop!” cries the professor. “Are you crazy? What are you doing??”
“You, sir,” says the master, “are like this cup. Full to overflowing of what you know. How can I add any more to an overfilled cup?”
And the scholar shuts up.
The Zen master here reminds us that not-knowing is a matter of leaving space. And mental space is the drive behind curiosity. There are things we do not know. So we seek to know them. If we run out of the space created by not-knowing, like the talkative professor with his tea, we run out of the ability to learn.
What would it look like to tell our students that we are here to “kindly teach them to not-know?” I think a first result might be to relieve all of us of more than a little pressure. Perhaps none of us would feel as much drive to cram our heads with as much content as possible to head off questions, and instead we would consciously leave space exactly for questions. And a second, and related, result might be an awareness that the generation of questions is as valuable as the generation of answers. Can you imagine assignments based around demonstrating what you do not know, instead of what you do? What could that look like? How might you encourage your students to empty some space in their cups? How might you start a class by emptying some space in your own cup?
This is not to say that there will never be a time for holding forth and dispensing information or analysis. Even Zen masters and Taoist sages told stories and wrote poems and books. It is rather to say that there is something to be gained by turning the usual trope of amassing knowledge on its head. Mystics refer to this sort of thing as the apophatic path to the divine – getting closer to God by contemplating how little God can be known, often by cataloging things God is not. The point is to strip away a sense of false security – to empty one’s cup, as it were – and aim for a direct experience of the divine with an uncluttered mind. This path exists beside the cataphatic path – which contemplates instead all the things the divine is. Different mystics wrote about both; both have value and both lead practitioners closer to the Truth. We may not be aiming for any sort of mystical experience in our classrooms – but we can learn from the mystics that sometimes there is something divine about not-knowing.
Kenosis is a fancy Greek word for “emptying,” and it is used in the Christian tradition to denote the self-effacing act of Christ, the second person of the divine Trinity, in taking on human form (in Jesus of Nazareth). It is part and parcel of the Incarnation, which Christians view as key to Christ’s saving work. It is through embracing humanity’s imperfect nature, and suffering the worst that nature has to offer, that Christ brings salvation (there are many different explanations of how this works; that’s a whole thing for another time – just know that Christians as a whole believe it does work). The classic statement of kenosis is found in the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians, where he quotes what most scholars believe is an early Christian hymn:
Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form,
he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross.
Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name,
so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:5-11, NRSV)
Important things to note here are: 1) Christ, as Christ, has power and standing; 2) Christ best uses that power and standing by giving it up in taking on human form; 3) that form is described as a “slave,” serving others and putting them first; and 4) the giving up of power and standing ultimately leads to greater power and standing (to give up is, ultimately, to receive). Given this, I think a good way to define kenosis is as “a kind of giving humility.” It is not a false or self-deprecating humility, but a self-giving humility. It keeps the big picture in mind, and it keeps other people in mind. This is exemplified in Jesus’s own teachings:
…one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him.
‘Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?’
He said to him, ” “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’
This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matthew 22:35-40, NRSV)
The commandments Jesus highlights focus on a person’s relationship to the big picture (love and worship God) and their relationship to others (love and care for the neighbor as for the self). Which is to say that Christianity shows Jesus practicing what he preaches, and vice-versa: kenosis. Good things happen when we give, when we have a proper perspective, and when we keep others in mind. Power comes from service and not from ego. And, as the followers of Jesus see it, these patterns are the shape of God’s own interaction with humanity. To do as Jesus did and said is to become a part of the repair of the world and the human condition. This is not just good advice – it’s how the world works (when it works properly).
Now, what can we take from these teachings on kenosis to use in our teaching? What would it mean to take a concept of giving humility into the classroom? Again, it should not be taken as a call to false modesty. We should always model honesty and appropriate self-confidence to our students. And obviously “giving up” here means yielding and not despairing! It is worth noting, however, that we live surrounded by a rather ego-driven culture – especially in the academy – where personal accomplishments matter and there is pressure to stand out. One of the things teaching with kenosis in mind can do is challenge us to present a different model of accomplishment. What does it mean to not think of standing as something to be exploited, even for lines on a CV? What sort of big-picture values are we holding up as important? How do we serve our students and help them to serve each other? What are we willing to give up in the short term in order to gain more in the long term? These are some questions this Christian ideal challenges us to ask. What might it mean to teach with the “mind of Christ” that Paul describes?
Passion – I realize “passion” is another loaded term in Christianity. Here, though, I mean it as simply a sense of what matters. In terms of Jesus’s first commandment, it means loving something with all your heart, soul, and mind. Obviously students’ personal relationships with any (or no) higher power are not usually matters for classroom experience (though I have had them come up in office hours!). We can, however, use time in the classroom to let students express and reflect on what really does matter to them. I have often started lessons about myths or American culture or simply storytelling by asking students, “Why are you here? Not just in this class, but at college at all? Why is it important?” Answers of course vary, and there is no right one – it is an exercise in calling to mind what things they value, and thinking a little about where those values come from. Hopefully, questions like those also encourage students to see what they care about as connected to bigger things – their families, their culture, their time management, and also our class. One of the hardest things for me to get over as a young teacher was the belief that I had to compartmentalize myself, and keep all the non-school parts of my life out of teaching. Not true. Healthy boundaries are good, but I also learned that students respond to whole people. They like to know what I’m into. They laugh when I, an amateur actor and veteran bedtime-story-reader, sometimes use silly voices in lectures or when reading texts aloud. They’re surprised when I know the names of current musical acts. And so on. One of the best lessons we can give students is that it is OK to care – about family, about a career, about music, about plants, about pets, about voting rights, about vegetarianism, or anything else. What would you give everything up for? Again – I do not believe that we should teach particular answers to that question; I do believe that we should teach that you should have a particular answer, and provide tools to reflect on it.
Kindness – I always concluded the classroom behavior portion of my first-day routine by saying, “If nothing else, make the rest of us glad you’re here.” Teaching with kenosis in mind can help extend that sentiment. It encourages us to never forget that we are surrounded by, and thus affect and are affected by, other people. Class dynamic is a tricky thing to create and police. Often, it has to happen organically. But I try to do what I can to remind students that we are all in this together. I employ a lot of group work, and that can help. But I also try to encourage peer feedback and interaction on assignments, presentations, and so on. Students should not think of classmates as competition; the competition is with themselves and their own mastery of skills and material – and they should feel free to help one another with those (as long as credit is given where due! Kenosis, yes; stealing, no!). And as valuable as exposure to diversity is, it is also worth spending some time getting students to notice what they have in common – shared values, shared goals, shared experiences. They share this particular class meeting, if nothing else! It’s worth pondering how we might underline the fact that learning together is a common good. I think students have a stronger sense of this now, after COVID-19 forced many of them out of traditional classroom settings. If passion is about bringing your whole self to class, kindness is about the willingness to share that self with others, and to be shared with in return.
Self-checks and self-care – Jesus does say “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Teaching with that in mind is also a challenge to encourage and enable students to take care of themselves, both in and out of the classroom. In class, this may mean providing time to start or catch up on work or even building self-evaluations into assignments. We aren’t with students outside of class, but we can respect their experiences and offer the help we can with time management, access to resources, or just time to talk and reflect. One of the best things we can do is underline the “as yourself” for ourselves and let students see us model good self-care, healthy boundaries, and honest accountability in our own lives. We, too, must practice what we preach/teach.
Humility – This can be a hard one for teachers to learn – after all, we’re up in front there exactly because of our expertise, authority, and hard work. But. We must avoid the trap that we are there to pass on ourselves to our students rather than the skills or content at hand. Power and standing are not things to be exploited! I have always maintained that, as a teacher, I am in the weird business of making myself less necessary. I have, in fact, actually made yielding the class to students an end-of-the-semester exercise for all of us. “We’ve done this for a semester – so you get to lead the last three classes on [topic x]. I’ll revert to student mode.” It is an assignment – they have to work together and turn in written lesson plans – but it’s more than that. This is a valuable way for me to see if they have internalized concepts and methods, but it’s also a valuable vote of confidence and a valuable talk for all concerned to spend a while in others’ shoes. Yes, I always come in for some gentle ribbing as students crib my methods and exercises. The look of satisfaction of the leaders’ faces and the often impressed looks on their “students’” faces are worth it. And I have given my students an example of humility – of being willing to give up sole control of the class. Humility like this, I hope, builds empathy. I also hope it reinforces that the whole point of the course was not to make Dr. Craig happy, but to enable them to know and do things. “Humility,” wrote Thomas Merton, “is the surest sign of strength.” This is because a humble person knows the big picture. For Merton, a Christian monk, that was of course “the power of God.” But it can be anything. Real humility – not false modesty – is rooted in confidence. True giving humility recognizes an answer that passion question. What would you give it all up for? And then puts its money where its mouth is. It’s a powerful goal, and a powerful lesson.
A caution – Taken to a certain extreme, all this “giving up for others” talk can lead to martyrdom. Martyrs are an important part of the history of Christianity – but they are not what I aim to make in the classroom. No one wants to breed resentment or burnout. We should not create these things. We should try hard not to model these things. Giving is not the same as having no boundaries. Care for others should never replace care for the self. Love for others should be collaborative and not overwhelming. Be honest with yourself and your students about where you are, and what is expected.
Reflection Questions:
What are you passionate about? How do these passions influence your teaching?
Do you know what your students are passionate about? What opportunities do you give them in your courses to bring those passions to the table?
What values does your daily class practice promote? Have you ever thought about this? What do you think your students would say is important to you? Why?
Do you encourage students to work together? What would this encouragement look like as part of assignments? What would it look like as part of daily class experience?
Do you consciously model humility in your teaching? If so, how? If not, how might you try working that in?
What are some of the hardest aspects of teaching for you to “give up” control over? What are you afraid would happen if you did?
What can you do to help students care for each other and themselves? Don’t forget to respect your own comfort level here!
What do you feel confident about in your teaching? How do you lean into those factors? Do you think students can tell?
To go a little deeper:
The Merton quote is from his New Seeds of Contemplation. It is mostly about monastic and spiritual practices, but if you like this blog series’ theme of adapting such practices to teaching, you’ll find food for thought there.
Another interesting book on Christian community is Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Life Together. Bonhoeffer is someone whose Christian faith led him to martyrdom in a Nazi camp, and his life story is worth discussing.
One more figure you might base some reflection or discussion on is Fred Rogers, whose “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” combined literal neighborliness with educational emphases. Or, for that matter, “Sesame Street.” You might ask students why such “neighbor talk” is suited to educational programming…
Wu-wei is a concept essential to Taoism. It essentially means something like “acting without acting” or “non-action.” Please note at the outset that it is not to be confused with “inaction.” There is nothing especially Taoist about spending all day on the couch (there may be other good reasons to do that, but wu-wei is not one of them).
Instead, wu-wei is a way of approaching action. It means not forcing things, not acting hastily or unnecessarily, and not overthinking. You might also translate it for our times as “not trying so hard.” Again – do not confuse this with not trying at all! It is a matter of attention, focus, and attitude. Behind all this is the key idea of the Tao, the Taoist ultimate reality. “Tao” means “way,” both in the sense of a path (“Do you know the way to San Jose?”) and of a manner of behaving (“That’s the way we do things around here!”). The Tao is the basic force of life, and it constantly moves, like a vast current. Water is a very common image for the Tao:
The supreme good is like water,
which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain.
Thus, it is like the Tao.
(Tao Te Ching, Chapter 8, trans. Stephen Mitchell)
You can see the “not trying” right there. More importantly, though, notice the practical attention to water in motion: it flows down, and will seek the lowest point, if you let it and if that’s the best route. Water follows the path of least resistance. It does not judge; it simply keeps moving – maximum mobility with minimum effort. This is the Tao.
The Taoist ideal is to embody the Tao. This means following the Way in two senses: as a model, and as a path. The lines above describe the Tao, but also describe the proper attitude: be like that. Be like water, which does not judge, but does what is necessary and adapts to its surroundings. Likewise, since the Tao is itself like a flowing current, do not push against it. Let its movement move you. The Taoist confidence in “non-action” is rooted in the constant non-action of the Tao. Reality is in motion, pushing us along. It benefits us to go along with it. It causes us unnecessary strain to swim against the current. So why make things harder on yourself? To “act without acting” is to act in harmony with the Tao, and to let the motion of this ultimate Force help you on your way.
Therefore the Master
acts without doing anything
and teaches without saying anything.
Things arise and she lets them come;
things disappear and she lets them go.
She has, but doesn’t possess,
acts but doesn’t expect.
When her work is done, she forgets it.
That is why it lasts forever.
(Tao Te Ching, Chapter 2, trans. Stephen Mitchell)
Again, notice here that the emphasis is on attitude toward action more than a specific action itself. It does not say that the Master never acts at all. She acts, but in a certain way – without self-consciously “doing something” or expecting a certain result. She is not possessive of her time or of credit or of a certain hard-and-fast plan. She takes things as they come, and lets things go as they go.
So what might it mean to bring this idea of wu-wei into teaching? Clearly it is not a matter of just sitting at a desk at the front of the room doing nothing (although knowing when to get out of the way is a key part of wu-wei)! The verses quoted above do describe the Master partly in her teaching function. She “teaches without saying anything,” and we should always be aware of what we are non-verbally teaching through body language, demeanor, interaction styles, what we focus on in lessons, and so forth. Wu-wei as a teaching principle, however, is also a chance to reflect on our attitude toward the whole teaching enterprise. Are we willing to adapt? What sort of things do we walk into the classroom “possessing?” Are we willing to let those things go? Are we willing to have confidence in the bigger, unseen momentum of a class dynamic or of a semester? Are we willing to trust the “Tao,” the “way,” of our teaching, and of our students’ learning? If we embody wu-wei as instructors, what other values might it produce? What follows are some ideas.
Flexibility – Lesson plans take work. We all know this. And we all want our work to pay off. But a wu-wei approach to lessons means really understanding that our best laid plans may not work or may go off the rails or may get pre-empted by some unforeseen issue…and being okay with that. This may mean seeing a class session less like a script we are reading, with lines and motions to be dutifully followed, and more like a game, with certain rules set up that allow evolving combinations of “plays.” It means being open to whatever comes, which might be an equipment failure or a student issue or a really brilliant tangential comment or something else entirely, and being willing to make the best of it. In my graduate school days, I was once leading a discussion section when my students and I noticed that someone dressed as Spider-Man was climbing the rocky wall of the building next door. It was not, I should add, near Halloween. So we all paused, checked out the climber, had a good laugh, wished them well, and carried on. More to the point, writer (and teacher) Frederick Buechner tells the story of a winter day he walked to class and noticed a beautiful sunset happening, so he got to his west-facing classroom and suddenly turned off the lights. He and his whole class just stopped and watched the sun set for about 20 minutes. “What was great was the unbusy-ness of it,” he writes. “It was taking unlabeled, unallotted time to just look with maybe more than our eyes at what was wonderfully there to be looked at without any obligation to think constructive thoughts about it or turn it to any useful purpose later” (The Hungering Dark, p.75). It was simply an exercise in attention and appreciation. Obviously, giving over every class to sunset-gazing is a bad idea. But in that moment, it was a good idea. And it was good wu-wei.
Patience – Following on the above, this means patience with ourselves and with students. However, it can also mean remembering to see the long game. Maybe a class will need longer with certain skills or material. Maybe you need to slow yourself down, and put less in each period, plan, or lecture. Wu-wei is a reminder to keep the essentials in view. Eventually, that water will flow downhill. Public schools in suitable climates build snow days into their schedules. Wu-wei teaching might mean building some catch-up days or simply unscheduled available days in to a syllabus, with the idea that more time can be spent where it might need to be. It might also mean just showing grace when something doesn’t work the first time. Or becoming comfortable with the inevitable silences in discussions. Just as the Taoist master has confidence in the motion of the Tao, we might try having confidence that things are happening even if we (or students) can’t immediately see them. Patience is also a great thing to teach without words: students brought up in an instant-gratification culture will benefit from trying on a different attitude and seeing it at work.
Humility – This is a hard one, but it is the result of learning to be like water that does not disdain any route. There is a power dynamic in teaching, and we all try to cultivate some air of authority (to keep order, if nothing else). That said, more authority, I have found, comes from honesty than from trying to hard to be someone you are not. Wu-wei reminds us that we are a part of something greater, and that bigger and varying forces are at work around us. This does not even have to carry spiritual weight, if you’d prefer it not: our students’ attitudes and aptitudes, the larger academic culture of our schools, trends in our chosen disciplines, and even the weather are all acting all the time to shape our environment. We can only do so much. Even more practically, good teaching enables students without doing things for them, so we literally can only do so much – students must always do work themselves. As an instructor, I always find that both exciting (“look what I can help them do”) and humbling (“look how well they did all on their own…ooh, or didn’t!”). Considering wu-wei in teaching invites us to be honest about our capabilities, our personalities, and our environments, and, like water, to humbly flow through them. This, too, can be an invaluable wordless lesson. I still recall the day someone asked one of my grad school professors a question in class about a text…and he replied that he didn’t know the answer, “so let’s all see if we can find out together.” I was impressed, and I took that sensibility with me into my own teaching.
Reflection questions:
What does “maximum mobility with minimum effort” mean to you? Are there places in your life & work you already try to achieve this? What does it look like?
How much space do you build into your syllabi or lesson plans for unforeseen events or issues?
Do you ever catch students “trying too hard” and causing themselves stress? How do you help them if you do? Do you help yourself in similar ways?
How much time do you spend thinking about the “big picture” of a course or a semester? Do you try to communicate that picture to your students?
What aspects of your teaching are you comfortable giving up some control over? Which aspects do you definitely want to control? How realistic are these goals?
What would it look like to make confidence an outcome of your classes? Of your own professional development?
Where might it be useful to think of yourself as teaching a “way” along with specific content or skills? How would you describe the Tao of your discipline? Of your classroom? Of your teaching?
To Go a Little Deeper
Two accessible versions of classic Taoist texts are the Tao Te Ching translated by Stephen Mitchell (Harper Perennial, 2006), and The Way of Chuang Tzu translated by Thomas Merton (New Directions, 2010).
Buechner’s story can be found in The Hungering Dark (Harper Collins, 1985).
A useful take on teaching-without-words can be found in Teaching with Your Mouth Shut by Donald Finkel (Heinemann, 2000).
If “the Tao” reminds you of “the Force” from Star Wars, good catch – there is a lot of Taoist influence on the Jedi’s ideas, especially as explained by Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back. In fact, Stephen Mitchell originally planned his “Tao Te Ching” translation to be in Yoda’s voice! It’s a good pop-culture way to introduce Taoist ideas to classes. Students may also think of the catchphrase “This is the Way,” from “The Mandalorian,” although the Mandalorians’ Way is more Confucian than Taoist. But that’s for another time…
I have taught religion in an academic setting in some form or another for over 20 years.
But this is not a series about how to do that.
Instead, this blog series explores what it might look like to use insights or practices from major world religions as approaches to or guidelines for teaching.
Let me stress at the outset that this is purely practical. Adopting the principles or activities as teaching strategies no more means that you have to adopt them in any other part of your life than a football team embracing “West Coast offense” means they have to physically relocate to California. I am not advocating for (or against) the “truth” of any of these things; I am advocating for their usefulness, as spurs to pedagogical reflection, if nothing else.
One way to study religion, in fact, is to look at how useful it is – what it does (and asking for guesses at that is a common first-day activity when I do teach religion classes). One of the things religion does, or at the very least claims to do, is foster transformation. This is also something education does, or at the very least claims to do. So it could be productive to look at how approaches to transformation in both areas can overlap.
Take, for example, a common baseline example of something religions do: posit the existence of a special dimension called the sacred, which is “wholly other” than everyday, mundane reality. In religious practice, belief in the sacred, among other things, leads to marking boundaries. Certain places and times are sacred; others are not. Thus, behavior in or at these times and places is different. Conditions are different. Experience is more meaningful, or perhaps differently meaningful (consider sacred spaces, such as the interior of a cathedral or temple, or sacred times, such as the month of Ramadan).
Now, without going so far as to say they reveal ultimate reality as the sacred does, what might it mean to intentionally mark boundaries around educational spaces and times in a similar way? We already talk about classrooms being “safe spaces” for tossing around and critically examining ideas. Are there other ways we could mark our teaching times and spaces as set apart from the rest of day-to-day life? Are roles different there? Are outside rules suspended there? Do we use different vocabularies? What practices might mark or reinforce these boundaries? Or is such difference even desirable? What are the positives and negatives of marking off times and spaces from others? What messages does that send? How do we look at the world and ourselves differently if we do or don’t do that?
These are the kinds of questions I want to raise in these posts. To that end, each post will end with a series of reflection questions. I do not claim to have the answers. In fact, my answers and your answers might vary. I kind of hope they do.
A last note: this is in no way meant to be a comprehensive series. There are many, many more insights and aspects of the world’s religions than I can go into here. And each of the religions I turn to is much bigger and more complicated than the particular insight I will examine. The ensuing posts are only a starting place. I encourage you to go further on your own.
Reflection questions:
What does it mean to you to think of education as fostering transformation?
Do you find it useful to consider educational times and places (class sessions, lectures, classrooms, labs) as somehow different from other times and places?
How do you create boundaries between areas of your life? Would any of those practices translate to teaching? Would you want them to?
Do you mark the beginning and end of class time or of educational activities in certain ways? Why? What does this help you do?
What might happen if you reframed class rules in terms of personal transformation (e.g., “a fast from technology” rather than “no cell phone use in class!)?
Religions often use journey metaphors to describe their community’s experience. Have you ever used those terms to describe a lesson or a semester? Do you think it would be useful to do so?
To Go a Little Deeper:
The classic study of the sacred is Rudolf Otto’s The Idea of the Holy, though any religion textbook worth the name should give you a good overview of the concept.
The best place to encounter sacred spaces is in the myths and stories of the religions themselves, from Moses and the Burning Bush to Muhammad’s Night Journey to Odysseus and Orpheus taking trips to the Underworld to the “world centers” of indigenous mythologies, and so on. Read around a little, even online.
Brantley Craig 