The paradox about teaching religion is this: what my students need most is the one thing I can’t give them. I can teach them about the articles of faith, but the gift of faith itself isn’t mine to give. I may teach a man to fish, but whether he catches anything is someone else’s concern. It’s humbling from the word go.
In the monastery, we used to say that the brothers are a mirror. This is true of all people, full stop. It means that the classroom, too, is self-revealing. And whether I’ve struck up relationships of discord or concord with the people around me, I’ve done so because of something they mirror, for good or ill, about myself. I teach because, from the class-clown to the quiet kid, from the weird kid to the perfectionist jock, all of my students are, to some degree, me. At my best, I want to learn about myself. Later, I’ll deal with the breakdown of these ideals—because they do, and must, deteriorate— but they’re a necessary beginning.
So when I walked into class this year, I was conscious of two things: first, that my primary responsibility was to empathize with everything students felt that wasn’t faith. Second, I knew that to divide pockets of talkers was to separate parts of myself, and I needed to treat my students, like the different parts of myself, clearly and with compassion.
So when I walked into class this year, I was conscious of two things: first, that my primary responsibility was to empathize with everything students felt that wasn’t faith. Second, I knew that to divide pockets of talkers was to separate parts of myself, and I needed to treat my students, like the different parts of myself, clearly and with compassion.
On day one, with classroom rules in place and the syllabus explained, I stood in front of my students. “The entire focus of this class is this—and you should write this down—By way of the Sacraments, we come out of isolation, into community.” As I said this, I stood in the corner that would come to be known as “isolation,” crisscrossing the room to the corner that would come to be known as “community.” We did this three times, until they could tell me the name of the corner I stood in, and how I got from one to the other.
“Excellent, y’all. Now, I’m about to ask some questions, and you won’t be asked to talk about specifics, ok? By a show of hands: is there anyone who, like me, feels a little anxious?” Three hands went up. “Thanks for that. Welcome to the club. We should make T-shirts. Is there anyone who, like me, has a few things they’re angry about?” Two hands went up. “Alright,” I said. “Me too. The only act I do better than ‘sad white guy’ is ‘mad white guy.’ If we ignore emotions, they’ll make growth in faith impossible. Officially, “Sacramentality” is the subject of this course, but ‘learning how to deal with ourselves’ is an unofficial learning goal as well.”
“Ok…” I looked out over the class. “Hey, Hilary Jones: where are you right now?”
Hillary Jones answered: “I’m in class.”
“Alright. How many people are, like me, wishing, with some small part of themselves, that they were elsewhere?” Two hands went up.
“How many people, while they’re in class, are secretly looking forward to the ice cream they’re gonna purchase at the Paleteria after school? Or maybe you’re just really craving a tamale? Tamales are gorgeous: I know I am. How many people?” 5 hands went up.
“So we can be confident that nothing we’re thinking about is something we’re thinking about alone. Let’s get into some of the meat and potatoes of the course. When I’m in Mr. Warner’s class thinking about Tamales, what am I not able to focus on?”
Cole Jensen’s raised a gregarious hand “You’re not focusing on class.”
“Right Cole,” I replied. “So even though we didn’t mean to, the things that we think can get in the way of ‘being where we are.’ Open your notebooks and Write that down: The things we think can get in the way of being where we are.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two students using a side conversation to avoid being where they are. I moved right next to them, and they desisted. “Let’s do an experiment. Cole—on a scale of 1 to ten, how loud is the noise in your head?”
Cole answered “three.”
I replied. “Three, ok. Now, everybody take just 3 minutes and sit in silence. Close your eyes if you have to.” The whole class shifted into that mode. After the three minutes was up, I called on Cole again “When your mouth was quiet, on a scale of 1 to 10, how loud was the noise in your head.”
Cole “It was a six.”
I pointed: “When your mouth gets quiet, your head gets loud. That’s why so many people have troubles with silence.” And turning to the rest of the class: “Does anybody really mean to be mentally absent, to be thinking about tamales or being elsewhere when they’re supposed to be here?”
There was a smattering of “well, sometimes.” Will Parks, sitting towards the back, said “not really.” I pointed at him. “Good Will, Good. The fact is, some thoughts come about on their own, without our helping them. Others are intentional. The ones that arise on their own are call “compulsive thoughts. Please write this down: There are two kinds of thought: Compulsive thought and deliberate thought. Compulsive thought comes about on its own. We cause “deliberate thought.
“Has anyone ever heard of comfort food?” I asked. In a general air of recognition, I continued “This is a caricature, but if a girl—lets call her Jane—gets stood up for prom, why do we often think that there will already be a spoon in the freezer’s carton of ice cream.”
When Fatima Garcia raised her hand even that small gesture betrayed her pervasive elegance. Confident, she said “She’s trying to eat her feelings.”
“Uno tristeza, per tienes cierto.” I said: It’s sad, but you’re right. Her eyes raised when I spoke Spanish. From then onward, between the two of us, we would speak it often. “She’s right, I said, addressing the class. “So “Compulsive thought begins as an uncomfortable emotion we don’t want to deal with. In your notebook, write ‘The 5 Steps of Compulsive thought.’ Write the number 1, and the words ‘uncomfortable emotion.’”
Our “note taking had begun in earnest. Amidst some grumbling, they scribbled away.
“Back to Jane!” I said. “After she felt sad about the rejection, what did she think about?”
“Ice cream” three students, in rapid succession.
“The Second Step of Compulsive thought is what gives it its name. We compulsively think about something, and it’s a source of comfort. By number 2, write ‘compulsive thought.’ It’s why most of us, when we don’t want to be in Mr. Warner’s class, think about tamales.”
“Someone raise your hand and tell me: After jane thinks about ice cream, what’s she gonna do?”
Ralph Cain raised his hand and said “She’s gonna destroy that tub of ice cream and get diabeetus.” He leaned into the joke. The class laughed.
I followed up speedily, attempting to reclaim the class from its giggles “Everyone write down ‘Compulsive action’ by number 3.” I gave them a minute. “Someone raise your hand and tell me: What Chemical in the ice cream helps people feel better?”
No one raised their hands. I called on Hillary. She fidgeted a bit, then said “Um, Sugar?”
To Hilary: “Absolutely. Look at you, knowing stuff about stuff. Well done.” Then, to everyone: “The sugar is like a drug. It gets you real excited—we call it a ‘sugar rush.’ What eventually happens though? People often experience this on the day after Halloween. Someone raise your hand and tell me.”
Cole Jensen, who had spent the class raising his hand every time I’d asked, raised it this time as well. I called on him. “You get depressed,” he said.
“Yessir…our friend Jane crashes and gets depressed again.” I said, following up with “When Jane depressed, what does she crave to get excited again?”
There was a chorus of “more sugar!” and “ice cream” responses.
“The Fourth step of Compulsive thinking is ‘Repetition.’ If Jane repeats it and it solves her sadness, what’s she gonna do, more and more frequently, when she’s sad?”
A few students reprised the chorus. I said “The fifth step of compulsive thought—everybody write this in your notebooks—is ‘habit or addiction.’”
“Given the number people whom addiction has caused to lose houses and families, is addiction good or bad?”
Fatima said “Bad” and I agreed. I followed with “Society doesn’t like people to do bad things…it declares them illegal. Is someone who is an addict gonna feel good about themselves, or ashamed?”
The class understood. He’d feel ashamed. “But wait a minute now. We’ve just seen that every one of us sometimes wants a tamale with a force that sometimes completely distracts us from what we’re supposed to be doing. We’re just like addicts. But how did y’all feel, earlier, when we surveyed the class, about admitting that stuff, and why?”
Without raising her hand, Fatima said, “It was ok, Mr. Warner. It’s natural, we’re all human.” She was right, and I was pointing at her.
“After step 5, write this down: Compulsive thought is a source of community to those who admit they’re part of it. It’s a source of judgment for those who think they aren’t.” I let them write. “We’ve just seen it: in this class, compulsive thought is something we all do. It’s my goal, and let’s make it our goal, to always focus on how that brings us together.”
And so we’d made a beginning. My students had looked squarely at the way they were mirrors of each other. And they’d used side-talking and joke-cracking less than I figured they would to cover the discomfort of it. Like Peter had, for an unrecognized Christ, my students had lowered empty nets in the heat of the day. Day today as I teach, I’m still just watching and waiting. Providence, as it wishes, will supply the rest.
what a great lesson by an amazing teacher
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