Christ in the Back Row.
Teaching the Glory of God.
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Students roll into a fluorescent-lit building at 7:45am, still dreary from staying up late the night before. They get an hour of chemistry drilled into their head, and then an hour of geometry, and then maybe a study hall or some time in an elective. During lunch, they get some time with friends before an hour of English, and then they all walk to room 221.
It’s a small classroom with cool white walls, two windows, and more whiteboards than anyone knows what to do with. There’s a tangle of Christmas lights mirroring vines in some far-off rainforest strung across the ceiling, a picture collage showing genuinely far-off mountains, and a halfhearted attempt at blackboard art reading,
“The glory of God is a human being fully alive. -Irenaeus of Lyons”
As twenty-some odd students meander into this classroom, they take their seats at uncomfortable two-in-one chair desks, and hear a familiar refrain,
“Alright ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get started! If someone would, grab the door, and everyone else, let’s make sure we’ve got our masks on, covering our nose and our mouth, and let’s put our…oh! Ladies! Glad you could make it, please grab your seats! Everybody else, like I said, let’s put our phones completely away and off our desks, and then, take out something to write with, and something to write on, and then direct your attention to the powerpoint behind me where we’ll get started for the day!”
At the end of my daily introduction,
I find myself asking the same question. I know the answer, at least for that particular day, in the form of a lesson plan or a spiritual discipline or whatever, but there’s almost always a moment between the “something to write with & something to write on” and the “direct your attention to the powerpoint behind me,” where I take a second and look at these students.
“What must I do in the next fifty minutes so that these students would learn something about God?”
As I look back on my first semester of teaching, I find myself reviewing lesson plans; some good, some bad, and activities; some engaging, some obviously quite boring. Next semester, I’ve got grand plans for changing up the way my class works, towards hopefully improving it pretty significantly.
I think through how well I have done in answering that question, but despite all the time analyzing what I have done, I still find myself going back to that moment where I look my students in the eyes. As I do, the question itself changes; not “What must I do in the next fifty minutes…” but “How could I do anything in fifty minutes so that these students would learn something about God?”
My mind drifts from these students to what I’m meant to teach; the glory of God, and the goodness of His story, worked out in the very real events described in the Bible.
I teach the story of Jesus to sophomore’s at Lipscomb Academy, and I’m meant to cover the content of the four Gospels over the course of a year. That means going through the fullness life, ministry, teaching, death and resurrection of Jesus in the time between August and May.
As I compare those grand events to my puny lesson plans, I cannot help but think there is no way. The glory of God is too large for my small classroom; too beautiful for my clumsy words; too mysterious for my overgeneralizations. I am too young, and not wise or charismatic or intelligent enough to do anything resembling painting a picture of God for these students.
The students themselves are too multifaceted for any one lesson to work for them, too distracted by their hatred for their chemistry teacher (or maybe me), too exhausted by the stresses of school and COVID and snap streaks and being 16. It just cannot happen.
On my best day, I am an amateur imitating the ceiling of the Sistine chapel with crayons. That’s not for lack of theological education. It’s not for lack of effort. It’s not for lack of time, or bright students either. It’s just that I’m supposed to be talking about things too wonderful for me. How can a person such as myself make God revealed to these students?
I put the below quote next to my desk last week.
“An old pastor’s anxiety for his church is likewise a forgetfulness of the fact that Christ is Himself the pastor of His people and a faithful presence among them through all generations.” -Marilynne Robinson, Gilead.
Or, if I could take some liberty with those words;
“A young teacher’s anxiety for his students is likewise a forgetfulness of the fact that Christ is Himself the teacher of His people and a faithful presence among them through all generations.”
And when I hold those words in my mind while looking at my students, I almost can see Christ, the good shepherd, standing over them at the back of the room. He smiles at me.
Christ in the Back Row.
Vocationally, I see myself as a teacher, a writer, and a pastor, and I have often thought I’m halfway decent at all three. I’m pretty excited about what I plan to do next semester, but always, what comes out of that work will be God at work through me far before it is my own effort.
But when I look at these students, I know that no matter how good at my job I am, Christ Himself is the only teacher, pastor or writer that they will ever need. If I ever create something that halfway reveals God to these students, it is only a result of His free gift of sanctifying grace, given to me.
God insists on working out salvation in partnership with real people, just like me. That means He gives more than enough grace for my crayon scribblings to make known the “18 breadth and length and height and depth…19 the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that [they] may be filled with all the fullness of God.” As I seek to always improve the way I hold up my end of the bargain, I feel the need to remind myself that God is the one doing the heavy lifting. Thanks be to God.
