Tag Archives: teaching

How I lost and still won.

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I didn’t win the contest.

The prize was a free online course about care of the soul. I had read from most of the course materials but, as I said in the email,

“I’m at a point of needing to be “encouraged” to go through the material in a structured way, though I’ve read from several of the contributors in the past. So if you choose me, you’ll get your money’s worth in promotion.”

They didn’t pick me.

As I thought about this “rejection”, I realized that my challenge at the moment is not about content. It’s about commitment, it’s about tiny steps in the right direction. As you can see in my email to them, I didn’t need the course materials. I needed the structure of the course. I needed deadlines. I needed external pressure.

As I was thinking this through, I remembered God’s words to Israel through Micah. God says,

He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

The essence of this requirement is simple. What I do, what I love, who I follow. Justice, mercy, humility, God.

If I’m honest with myself, I don’t need another course. WIth the deadlines and pressure, the stress on my soul would have been too much now. If I’m honest with myself, it would have been about the coolness of the class and the excuse it gives for six weeks of not doing what I already know.

I’m in favor of courses, of seminars, of workshops, of sermons, of lessons. It’s why I did my Bible course last fall. But often you and I don’t need another course. We need to do the homework already on our desks.

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How Cliff Schimmels changed my life. I think.

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Sometimes one conversation changes the course of your life for good. You are heading one direction and someone pours counsel and direction and affirmation into you. Suddenly, you are heading another direction. That happened to me sometime during the spring of 1980. I say “sometime” because I can’t remember the conversation.

I graduated from college in November 1979, a few months ahead of my class. I worked full-time in data processing. I remember thinking that I didn’t want to do that the rest of my life. By summer 1980, I was heading toward a college teaching career. During the summer I took history and philosophy of education, did an independent study in teaching higher education, and was accepted into a masters degree program for the fall.

But I don’t remember how it happened.

My sister thinks it was Cliff Schimmels. “He did that for a lot of people,” she said recently. I think she’s right. Since my summer courses were all with Cliff.

Cliff was unconventional. Cliff was an education prof at Wheaton College. He had taught history and Latin and coached high school football, then earned his PhD and taught education. He started writing and spent 6 weeks going back to high school as a student. When he preached or spoke in chapel, he gave one point sermons. As you were waiting for the second point, he walked to his chair. And you replayed his words over and over.

Our lives intersected at church. He taught the college-age Sunday school class at the church I was attending. I loved his teaching. I must have spent some time some day talking with him about my studies, my interests, my life.

I think that we work too hard to make our conversations memorable. Maybe we should work harder to help people be different.

So, who turned your life?

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An obituary
Cliff’s teaching tips

How 2 ordinary guys confounded religious scholars.

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Peter and John stood in front of the leaders of their tribe.

Imagine a random Catholic talking to the Pope and cardinals, an ordinary citizen in front of the Supreme Court or the President’s cabinet, a student in front of the university president and faculty, you in front of the people you grew up being taught to respect.

The formality of the setting is designed to remind you of the history of the tribe. Every person in the room is present because of intellect, scholarship, reputation, training.

Everyone but Peter and John.

Their families lived by the lake, but not in the resorts. They fished all night and then sold the fish to live. They didn’t have time to study, not beyond the basics that everyone learned.

Standing in this meeting room, Peter and John should have been tongue-tied, knock-kneed. They should have been silent when asked, “By what power or what name did you heal that man?” Instead, Peter reminded the leaders that they had killed Jesus, that God had brought Jesus back to life, and that the living Jesus was the name, the power, the authority they claimed when healing the lame man outside the temple.

These were gutsy words. This was the single most provocative thing to say to the people who had killed your rabbi because they were jealous of his power.

The leaders were astonished at the courage. They knew Peter and John were untrained, undereducated. The only remarkable thing about them, realized the leaders, is that Peter and John had been with Jesus.

Peter and John had spent three years listening to Jesus teach, watching Jesus challenge other teachers, seeing how Jesus healed. It wasn’t the same school as the authorities, but it was pretty solid training.

I think class is still in session.

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From Acts 4

workin’ on it.

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I walked down the hallway, heading to the car.  To my left, in the conference room, a math teacher was working equations on the white board. Two high school students were at a table, asking questions. It’s an after-school tutoring session. They want to understand, he wants to help.

To my right, from a classroom, came the sound of a piano. A student was picking out notes. In my mind, I could see the piano teacher, patiently listening, directing, correcting, approving. It happens over and over in that room, day after day, week after week.

I headed home. On the right, two little league fields. At the first one, a game. At the second one, one tall person tossing a baseball in the air, ten small people with huge gloves on their hands struggling to coordinate eyes looking up, arms held out, feet moving back.

On the left, coming toward me, seven motorcycles, all signaling a left turn with their left hand out. They may have been guys out for a ride, but there was a conformity of gesture that made me think that this was a practice ride of some sort.

Lots of people in lots of groups, all working to get better at basic skills. All getting coaching, having some people with more maturity helping those with less.

There isn’t pride among the coaches, the teachers, the mentors. In fact, there is a humility. They don’t need to review these basic skills for their own sake. They just understand that others won’t get it without help, without direction, without affirmation.

Solomon was clear about the value of learning:

Instruct a wise man and he will be wiser still;
teach a righteous man and he will add to his learning.

Am we humble enough to learn? Or to teach?

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the day after

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I teach every week in three settings, but I only preach a couple of times a year.

Yesterday I stitched together posts  about John 4, explored  ideas with our Saturday night small group, and preached. I’m grateful for the responses, grateful for what I learned while studying.

I don’t want to talk about the message here. I want to talk about the day after.

The day after I teach or preach is often a pretty numb day. I spend Sunday playing tapes in my head, identifying the “what I should have said” and “what I could have said” and “That was a dumb thing to say.” I know that these are not objective statements. I try to take a nap which has the effect of rebooting my brain.

I say this to let you know that if you teach or preach and this happens to you, you are not alone.

On Monday, I find thinking to be a difficult thing to do. There is often little creativity. There is often little patience. There is often little initiative. There is a tendency to argue with comments about the previous day’s performance, especially if those comments are positive. There is a tendency to think of the previous day as a performance.

I say this to let you know that if you teach or preach and this happens to you, you are not alone.

There is little desire to do what Jesus did in these situations, to go off by himself and spend time with his dad. There is little desire to let responsibility for what people do with the teaching rest with them and with God.

I say this to let you know that if you teach or preach and this happens to you, you are not alone.

I’m glad I’m not alone.