Two Suitcases

University of Wisconsin-Stout

Hello from Cracker Barrel,

It is a few hours late, but over the last couple days I pondered a small and mighty person, who would have been 97 years old yesterday. Lydia Louise Rutkowski was no ordinary person. She was focused, goal oriented, and particular in ways that many would have found excessive, but nonetheless, it served her well, both as a person and as a professor. I wish I had been able to see her in a classroom. I can imagine she had every minute of her classes planned and she knew exactly where she was going. By the time I met her, she had long since retired, but anytime one of her long-before -former students met her out and about, they would greet her. She would always be a bit shocked and would respond. Once they were out of ear-shot, she would exclaim, “I don’t know how they recognized me.” I would simply smile and shake my head.” There was not even an inkling of doubt as to why they would remember her. She left a life-long impression.

I still wonder what she must have thought and felt as a person in her late teens, being sent away by her parents to live with relatives in Vienna. She and thousands of others left the Sudetenland toward the end of the war, walking hundreds of kilometers through the mountains to be safe. Her parents were wise about the events on the horizon and sent her away, saving her life. This was not your average walk-about. Perhaps because it occurred immediately following the horrors of the Shoah, it was mostly ignored. Yet 12-14 million Germans across Europe were displaced – they were also tortured, raped, and murdered. Lydia, who had been sent to Austria, lost her parents in the immediate atrocities that characterized much of Central/Eastern Europe. After her arduous trek to Vienna, she would never see her parents again. Her recounting of their passing to me late in her own life was spine chilling. I am often mortified by the human ability to commit atrocities upon its own because of a political ideology or out of revenge. Lydia was able to speak Czech, but refused to speak that language the remainder of her life.

One of the things I need to work on is the time period between Lydia’s living in Austria and her move to London. It seems many refugees (those misplaced because of the changing political landscape) would find their way to London. Between 1946-1953, she would relocate to London, meet and marry a Polish man. Her husband was a n incredible story in his own rite. He was a member of the Polish resistance to Hitler; he was a political prisoner, incarcerated in Dachau, escaped, returned to Polish to fight Hitler yet again, and eventually also emigrated to London. They would live in London, and in 1953 would book tickets to sail to the states. This is no minor decision, but characterizes an entire group of people who made the decision to leave family, culture, and language behind, believing they had a brighter future in a new land. I am not sure it is much different for those trying to come here today. However, the America waiting for them is much different.

I realize the wave of people who came to our shores in the 1950s came to explore the possibility of a new life, but they gave up a great deal. Many of them left those European ports to begin a life unknown. They struggled with language, with customs, with culture, and with loneliness. They learned self-sufficiency, resilience, and adaptation. In their attempts to assimilate, they closed the door on their previous lives, often to the point they seldom talked of their homeland, and they worked hard to use only their new language. Some might believe this was the best way to become Americans, but I am not convinced. The loss of a language because of a conscious decision to no longer use it is tragic in a number of ways. Language explains a lot about those who speak it. Language is one of our most identifying traits, and I should probably reach out to my linguistic colleagues to substantiate my thoughts, but I believe our language inherently reveals how we think and what we value. From structure to sound, I believe our language provides much more than words and utterances. Just this morning (and it is now Saturday, the 14th) I was at an appointment and the RN assisting spoke Spanish as a first language. We noted the differences in her learning English at the age she was when coming to the States and her daughter who was pre-teen. We spoke about the way her usage is more standard or formal and how her daughter’s was more colloquial. Even our decision about language usage reveals things about us. I remember Lydia once noting that she took classes to try to eliminate her accent. It did not work and much to her chagrin, that accent was one of her endearing qualities. I also remember one of the last times I visited her (in the latter stages of her battle with dementia) it was much easier to speak with her in German than English. She spoke, and probably thought, in German more readily at that point.

What still inspires me about Lydia’s generation was their determination and work ethic. They were tenacious in their desire to succeed, and they were beyond purposeful or dedicated in their willingness to work hard and long to achieve their goals. They did not believe failure was an option. She talked of working two or three jobs before she would begin her education at Northwestern University. George took a different path, but one nonetheless laborious. He would work in Chicago with Frank Lloyd Wright disciples and become a painter and interior decorator. There was little in a house he could not do, or re-do. Lydia continued on to graduate school at the University of Illinois-Urbana, working through her Masters and toward a PhD in international economics. She once told me of George’s words about how they would purchase items for their house or their clothes. He said (with apologies for the grammar), “We are too poor to buy cheap.”

There was little doubt they lived their life maintaining that philosophy. When I met Lydia, almost two decades after George passed, she was quite the formidable two-digit midget, as I called her. She knew exactly what she wanted, what she thought, and she had quite the control of the entire little circle where she lived above Lake Menomin. At one point she owned about a third of the circle, got the city council to rezone it, and still had the incredible compassion to pay the overdue taxes for a neighbor to keep them from losing their family home. Along with that, she managed the upkeep of her three story home, was meticulous about her yard, and still managed to keep abreast of worldly economic issues. She read the Wall Street Journal daily and would forecast where the economy was going months before it happened. She really understood economics both micro and macro.

I still miss her wit, her spunk, and her voice. As much, I miss those moments her incredible heart shown through. I marvel at what she and George accomplished in their lives and am still humbled by their achievements and the faith they had in their own hard work, but also the faith they must have had in this country. I struggle when what I see now seems so different. We cannot seem to get along with each other, let alone “the other.” I continue to realize how blessed my life has been. I think often what it means to have been born in America during the boomer generation. Everything was focused on making our life better, but we also both into the concept of “the dream.” We believed with all our heart and mind it was available. Even though I was a blue-collar kid, even though college seemed out of reach, even though I did not get everything I wanted, I was fortunate to always have what I needed. Lydia and George came to the States believing in the same possibilities. Much like my father, who graduated at the height of the depression, they worked hard to make sure they could work their way up that ladder. Yet, they did it overcoming language and cultural barriers. They did it believing in the adage of hard work pays off.

Lydia never quit working. Until about 13 days before she passed, she was a bundle of energy and ready to let you know what she thought. I am still grateful to the amazing Comforts of Home staff who cared for her from the outset. Carissa treated her as if she were her own family. I could give a list that numbers into more than a couple dozen of wonderful individuals who were not paid nearly enough as they provided outstanding care. It is hard to believe it is six and a half years since she left us. She still wanders into my dreams and my thoughts. I can hear her voice as clearly as if she was still here. I miss you and happiest of what would be a 97th birthday, dear Lydia. The picture is almost looking out from her shoreline view of the campus where she worked 38 years.

Thanks for reading,

Dr. Martin

Learning Moments Rather than Regrets

Hello from the little cabin,

The past two days have been filled with laughter, memories, and enjoyment, but also a certain degree of wistfulness. How is it we continue on with our lives and things that had such importance get lost in our busy, scattered living of our lives? How is it that we can allow things that provided such happiness slip off the radar without even a notice? Those are the questions swirling in my head at the moment. From the infectious energy of the twins or the quiet contemplative (even serious) viewpoint of the now eldest; from the incredible insight, determination, and intelligence of the second youngest to profound gentleness of the youngest, the Pilgrim sisters cover the entire gamut of what you could expect from people (and most certainly in one family). I have smiled as I ponder how the husbands of these special women try to manage their collective power. The sisters’ intelligence, their profound love of family, or the appreciation for the earth will leave you in awe. They run lives that seem beyond anything manageable in a 24 hour day; yet, being their presence is wholeheartedly life giving.

During this time, they have gathered to inventory and share the voluminous writing of their mother. As they have read the droves of letters, there have been tears, laughter, surprise, and suspense, particularly as they read the primary sources of her mother’s journey to eventually fall in love with their father. We have laughed, and the looks of surprise on their faces as they have read are priceless. We have been pulled back into a time that was very different from our world today. Most of the letters read were written to their maternal grandparents, and it has been fascinating, at least to me, how thoughtful and caring she was (not that such abilities really surprise me). She certainly imparted that gift to her daughters. Perhaps the most interesting thing to me was how a timeframe of their parents life was created. I did not realize he had taught at Luther College before his PhD and received an NSF Grant to do his doctorate. And he finished it in two years. It was in the early 60s, when we would have been around him that he was in the throes of that degree. What I remember about Don and Virginia Pilgrim is quite varied, but there are two traits that stick with me most prominently. He was gentle, humble, and kind, but so incredibly brilliant. I always talk about the calculus problem story with him. She, on the other hand, was gracious and hospitable in the sort of way they could have been a television program in those days. She welcomed everyone with a smile, hug, and kiss on the cheek.

As they have read and I listened, things I remember about my own family come to the fore. I saw some pictures of my adopted mother as a child I have never seen. I saw picture of my adoptive parents in their earlier life before I was part of their family. However, back to the cousins and their parents. Growing up I was enamored with my beautiful cousins, but could not imagine six beautiful girls in my house. Two of them existed and then the twins came, all in the midst of their father was completing his doctoral degree. I realized this because the twins noted they were born in Madison. As I listened to them, the craziness of such a time made sense. I am even more in awe of this man (and the incredible work their mother did). Dang!! I could barely manage it all as. a single person, or as a newly married person. While there were certainly other issues, the PhD was certainly an element in the failure of my marriage. That takes an incredible commitment from all of them, but knowing them as I grew and seeing the amazing women they are now, all loving mothers, there is really no surprise for me. Certainly their roads to have been hit with detours, bumps, and bruises, but to watch the love and kindness among them has been so inspiring to witness. Their kindness in welcoming me back into their midst is an extraordinary gift. Each time I walk over to the house, my face breaks out into a smile because of the infectious love that covers ever molecule of Kim’s and Mike’s beautiful home.

Yesterday, I spend most of the day shopping or playing in the kitchen for them. With the help of Andres, the talented chef from La Malbec, I made cauliflower steaks with Harissa seasoning. I did a couple of different things, but I needed to put more moisture in the pan before I baked the cauliflower. All in all it turned out quite nicely, but it could have been better. But it was a labor of love for me to give back to them. We had a rather lovely dinner on their patio last night. This morning I got up and sat on the porch of the cabin with a small breakfast and merely relaxed. It might be the most content I have felt in months or years. That is a wonderful thing to be able to write. I have a book to begin reading and might even try to do that over the next couple of days. To be transparent, I have struggled with the national perception of my home state over the past few years because of some of their elected people in Congress to some things I have read about the current Governor, but when I sit on the porch of my little cabin, there is a simpleness to the fields and natural landscape around me. As I have walked with Kim through the yard, her thoughtful planting of trees, her garden, and the natural native garden planted for Suzanne, the eldest of the group, cannot help but connect you to their world (my extended world) of family.

Each time I sit with them, hear something else that gives me pause, but lifts my spirits and reminds me of how blessed I am to be part of this sagacious heritage. There was no inkling a year ago on the Fourth of July I would spend the next one in Decorah, but It has been a wonderful celebration. There were no fire works, but rather just spending time with family. It was laid back and relaxing. No schedule and no requirements. Seldom do I have such a day. It is a time to mark on the calendar, perhaps a new plan for the holidays of the future.

It is now the morning of the 5th. A leisurely breakfast after some grading and then to the local juicing/smoothie shop. It is in a co-op with a variety of small entrepreneurs. This bar is the work of Paula’s and Bobby’s son, Josey, who had returned home off season. Off season from what, might you ask? From his other position as a linebacker for the Denver Broncos. He seemed personable and down-to-earth, working diligently as you would expect from anyone in this incomparably wonderful family. Hannah, Kim’s and Mike’s daughter, and her husband have stopped by a couple times, and she proves the generations of Pilgrim women are alive and well. It makes me have hope. Mary’s youngest son, Murray, is a wonderful and brilliant young man. Everything I have witnessed demonstrates how incredible the sisters and their husbands are. I fills my soul with joy.

It would be easy to only regret the things I have missed and focus on what might have been, but that serves no good purpose. It is important to realize the consequences of one’s absence, but the past is the past. It is there to inform us; it is there as lessons to take forward. It is there to prompt a change as we’d move forward. Sometimes I feel like emotions are more problematic than helpful. I realize both the profundity and the difficulty with that statement. There are other areas in my life where I have been accused of being too academic, too metacognitive. I am wondering if my desire to keep all things logical has gone too far? I know I have feelings and I know sometimes I feel passionately. I know there is a part of me, for instance, that is a hopeless romantic, the person who tears up at points in a movie or television show (and often at times when others won’t). I know that when I watch an underdog person triumph I can be brought to tears much more easily than most would believe.

Many of my former students, too many to count, who are like surrogate children have made me tear up with their comments or their cards. I have learned to hold on to relationships and people for a long time, and it is generally difficult to let people go, though I have also learned at times it is best to do so. I am well aware of the two-edged reality of caring. And yet, I cannot bring myself to be an uncaring person, or a person who cares only when it is in their benefit. During this coming two weeks I will see people who are some of those people in my life. One is a student from my first year teaching at Stout. She was in a difficult situation during that time of her life, but she was smart and capable. She needed help and, even though I was a first year professor, I reached out to help her. It is still one of the best decisions I have ever made. She now has three amazing children, is married, and seems quite successful. The opportunity to see her in the next week after almost 20 years is a gift. Next week, I will see other family and friends, a couple that I am blessed to call friends now. Too many times, we miss opportunities to make a difference because we get too caught up in whatever occupies our attention at the time. At this point, I am trying to change that.

I realize life is fleeting; it is uncertain, and I have been pushed throughout my struggle with Crohn’s to come to terms with that uncertainty more than even I might realize at times. And yet, somehow in God’s providence, He deems me worthy of managing another day. And this should not be interpreted as I see God as capricious who decides the exact moment in which we should leave our human form. It is my way of saying somehow I am still here. I am reminded of my Dominican brother who reminds me that I am somehow Superman. Not that I feel like some action hero. I am simply a person trying to do the best he can (and I realize the third person singular in this). What I know as I am coming to the end of my time in Decorah is my spirit has been lifted. The time spent at Acorn Cabin and back where my sister attended college for a year, has made a profound change in my attitude, and perhaps even my outlook on life. Family is an amazing thing if we allow it to be so.

I am feeling beyond blessed.

Thanks for reading.

Michael

From Isolation to an Attempt at Normalcy

Hello from the One Acre to Many Acres,

As our lives inch their way back toward some sense of interactive process, I find myself questioning so many things I took for granted: teaching in a classroom, walking down the street and greeting entire faces, being next to someone at a distance of less than six feet in any space, seeing a cashier without plexiglass in front of them. What will our daily routines consist of as we move toward some sort of post-isolation existence. While there are places I have grown to feel more benefits than detriments during COVID-19, I also realize there are some places I was initially content in my isolation, I evolved in those opinions over the last 16 months. Isolation when desired is one thing, when it is required, it is something quite different. It seems I fluctuated in my degree of tolerance based on things that were most often outside of my control, which, of course, is not the best way to manage anything. However, I imagine I was not unique in that difficulty. This morning, I was out and ran into a former student and it was really quite wonderful to catch up and chat with them. I think the last few weeks have reminded me of some of the difficulties all of us have faced in this time. From family and friends to students and colleagues, the consequence of isolation and the requirement of managing our lives within our protective bubbles (the necessity of social distancing) has been arduous.

In a couple of weeks, I am going to take a bit of a trip, traveling on my own, but doing a bit of a take-two of a trip two years ago. However, this time I am connecting with family that I have not seen in almost 4 decades. That is a really difficult admission, particularly when they were so important to my childhood. There are another group of cousins I will catch up with later in that trip also. I was the youngest among the one family and a bit older than the other, but so much of life has gone by in the meanwhile. In my conversations, not surprisingly, we have all changed and life has thrown things our way that we could not have anticipated. What I find myself trying to discover is how the person I remember is still in there. The most endearing qualities are often their personality, their kindness, their foundational goodness as a person, and without exception it is there. Those traits are what binds us together. It is the thing that keeps some sense of identity, that continuous thread connecting us to our past.

Life as well as all the clichés that we attach to it is more profound, indeterminate, and yet simultaneously predictable, if we will take the time to examine it. And even when we do, it is difficult at best to understand the path it seems to take. If you seem confused that I seem to be arguing both sides at the same time, you are not confused at all. However, it is not life’s episodic nature that makes it so laborious or burdensome, so strenuous or incalculable. I believe it is our inability or unwillingness to examine ourselves and our choices in that journey. We are too often willing to play victim to our own decisions. We willingly blame the other for what happens. Our incredible propensity for pointing our fingers has seemed to multiply over the past two decades. My somewhat arbitrary date is an entirely different post, but suffice it to say I do believe our blaming actions have become more common and more problematic. This morning, in conversation with a local business owner, we lamented some issues, and then the conversation moved into the reality that businesses cannot even hire people right now. There is a new eating establishment ready to open and they cannot because they cannot hire enough people. What’s up with that?

This gets us back to the move from isolation to normalcy. While I do believe people need help, I am not okay with people sitting home and not looking for a job merely because they want to do nothing. If we are to get back to some degree of normalcy, we are all dependent on each other to create that new status quo together. What is the new normal? I have no idea, but a simple willingness to be less selfish might be a good beginning. If the past 16 months has revealed anything, at least to me, it is we have an impossibly inequitable world, and that is in every element of it. I struggle more and more with the concept of free market. During the past week, as I am now on the road and visiting relative, I was on Lake Geneva for the first time. I went on the mailboat run with a dear childhood friend. As I listened to the narrative of our hosts on the boat, the opulence, the wealth, and the ostentatious display of money that was around that lake boggles my head. I do not begrudge what those innovators, business people, and others have accomplished because many of those things were part of my everyday life. I can appreciate ingenuity and I am sure there was an incredible amount of hard work that went into their lives, but I struggle when I think about how many people worked for them at minimum wage and eked out a living as they grew wealthier and wealthier. I am reminded of my father working as a journeyman electrician, and for years working 7 days a week and 12 hours a day. Indeed, he made overtime, high-time (for working up in the air), and double-time, but he was never wealthy. And yet I think he believed himself to be successful, much as his son does at this point in his life, but my chances to have multi-millions or a lake house worth millions, where I might spend 3 months a year is not even a pipe dream. When is enough a enough is perhaps what I am asking? When does it become more display than something someone uses or even enjoys? Certainly their understanding of normalcy is a bit different than mine.

And yet, I am well aware of how fortunate I am. I have an incredible job, amazing colleagues and friends, and I am presently reminded of how beautiful my family is yet again. As I watched my cousins and listened to three of them last night, the love and care they have for each other is so apparent, but also so natural, so effortless. Kim, now the matriarch of the family is focused, dedicated, and has a beauty that radiates in all she does. As we walked around their beautiful property with the corn field in the distance, the Icelandic sheep in two pastures, and an bountiful garden (of which I was profoundly jealous, in a loving way), she noted other things in the yard (e.g. trees, native grass and flower garden) each planted in memory of a family member. She is so introspective, appreciative, and insightful. Then the twins asked us to join them to kayak and paddle-board a stretch of the Upper Iowa River. In the spirit of transparency, I had never been in a kayak, and I managed to roll it. Fortunately, it was not a deep spot and besides a scrap on my knee and getting a bit wet, no issues. However we transferred to a paddle board, which was a bit more stable and the rest of the paddle went without incident. What a wonderful evening! One of the most relaxing even though I was exercising for over two hours. Later today, Mary, the second youngest of the amazing sisters will be joining us. I am excited to meet her again. We are missing one for the visit. Martha, with appropriate caution, has decided to not travel, which is a reminder we are not quite back to normal. She is missed that is for sure. As I drove across the Wisconsin/Iowa border, there was a sense of serenity I have not felt in some time. I was going back to one of the things that offered normalcy. I was leaving the isolation from family that I am probably most responsible for creating. I am not sure that creation was a conscious thing, but it happened. That is something to ponder. As I look out of my Air BnB, quaintly dubbed as Acorn Cabin, I look out at a small pasture that is filling now with sheep. They are out for their morning graze and there are three little ones that are quite adorable. There is a cleanness to all of this. There is a reminder of my childhood and the state in which I grew up and began to form the person I am today. There is only a minuscule possibility that I could have expected where I am today from when I was that young boy in Iowa. Perhaps I should have my mathematics friend/colleague help me try to figure out that possibility. It is ironic that he actually interviewed here at Luther before he took the job at Bloomsburg. It is also ironic that Don, the father of these amazing cousins, was the head of that department at one point.

During the past month, like so many, we have poked out headed out of our Tortuga shells, trying to imagine like post pandemic. This trip is a move from isolation to normalcy on numerous levels. I have come home to the state I lived in from 2-18. And while I have been back at other times, this times seems different. It feels like I have realized the need to reconnect with what I knew so long ago. I have isolated myself from that past perhaps more than necessary. I have resuscitated a part of my life that seemed lifeless . . . I am not sure how I will feel at the end of the trip, but I know, perhaps, this rehabilitation of my childhood is essential for me to put all the pieces of who I am into some connective line.

My mind is filled with thoughts and conjecture and my heart is filled with gratitude for the ability to get back to an early sense of normalcy . . . spending time with a set of cousins, whose memories are all about happiness and joy. Last night was a wonderful reminder of the love and care they exude in all they do. I think I will remain for a few more days and soak it up with every pore of my being. I hope for all of you who read this, you are also finding an ability to move out from your isolation. May we all find some normalcy that brings us peace and comfort.

The past two days (even though it took me a month to get this posted) have been an incredible memory-provoking time. I am missing those who are not among us any longer. I hope they are watching us and realize how much we still love them too. I hope when they saw us yesterday reminiscing about our earlier lives they saw how much they are still here for us. There is so much that makes us who we are. Perhaps there is no isolation if we look beyond it. Perhaps it is just life and that is normal.

Thanks as always for reading.

Michael (the cousin, the brother, the son, the nephew)

I am Haunted by Humans

Hello from Manassas, Virginia,

It has been an incredibly taxing year on all involved in higher education. From students to faculty, from staff to administrators, the consequence of the pandemic has been felt by all. While that is perhaps an obvious statement, what is not as obvious is the degree to which it has affected the world of academe. This is in no way meant to underestimate the difficulties of the rest of society, but rather to focus on the world where I spend the majority of my time. I know too well that some of my former classmates believe being a professor is an easy, part-time, no-accountability, proselytizing venture where I am paid to do as little work as possible. I can assure those in that camp that this past year, more than any in the time I have taught, has been more demanding and laborious. It has been more overwhelming and frustrating, and more of a learning experience than any of my previous years spent in the classroom (and ironically, I was not in a classroom the entire year). The best way to describe asynchronous, remote learning is as a time I was never scheduled to be in class and simultaneously, unless I was sleeping, never out of class. It was like having 75 independent studies or more each semester.

Am I glad I experienced it? Yes, I learned an incredible amount about myself as well as about my students. Do I want to do it ever again? That is an emphatic “hell no!” While I might have worked harder than I ever have, I can tell you I felt more ineffective, more like a failure than anytime I have taught. I can also tell you I got more trashed (taken to task) by students than ever before . . . and some of their complaints and concerns were valid (but they had little willingness, it seemed, to see the other side of what happened.) I should note that it was not every student. Most certainly, there were students profoundly understanding. Bottom line seems to be I certainly failed to do the best job ever done in classes, and that is in spite of the extraordinary time spent trying to manage this asynchronous world. Am I frustrated by that? Without a doubt. Why? Simply – I take a lot of pride in what I do, and I do believe I owe students the best I can give them. On the other hand, pedagogically, it was evident that asynchronous remote learning is not the best delivery method for some classes, and that is for a variety of reasons. However, the world of education (and this goes back to our public school systems for starters) seems content to treat students as customers. This is not something to which I willingly subscribe. I cannot be convinced such a plan is helpful. Can I do the checks and balances of tuition and fees as well as state or federal support that make a university education financially solvent? Yes, I probably can. Yet, if we only see our students as dollar signs or retention objects as the be-all, end-all of what we do, what does it mean to profess, to learn, to reflect, to become a scholar? When students become the consumer (e.g. the boss) of their classes, I become a substitute, the purveyor of information. I become a person whose worth or value is determined by someone who brain is not fully developed. I am evaluated by the whims and preferences of someone’s attitudes versus what they have actually done or learned.

I was told recently (and by someone for whom I have incredible respect) that I am too metacognitive and that my students do not want to be pushed in that manner. There are two struggles with that statement. First, I believe the person who told me this is undoubtedly correct (I always want to know the why about the why). And second, and perhaps more importantly, to believe that education is a recipe card or a rubric, which is what this implies. Such an understanding is foundationally wrong. As one of my undergrad colleagues (who is now a professor as I am) reminded me, our advisor, the late Dr. John W. Nielsen once quoted the three word phrase from the Upanishads, “”Tat tvam asi.” Or to put it another way, “the essence are (and this grammatical difficulty is intentional) you.” It is about reflection and understanding who we are as well as the what we are; it is about understanding the manifestation of ourselves and how we (or it) is part of something so much larger (and I would add also important). If we can only see our students as some dollar sign, as having their value determined by the tuition they generate, we lose sight of our role as educators. As noted, I am as well aware of the business aspect of our system as anyone, but I would like to believe that my argument is about more than some idealistic belief in being the professor.

Allow me to put it in a different context, view it from a different perspective. As noted more than once, I am that first generation college student. My parents did not pay for my education, nor did they plan to do so, and the reason for that was simple. They could not afford to do so. When I first went to Iowa State University, I flunked out. When I eventually ended up at Dana College, I was petrified I was not smart enough to be there, Fortunately, with hard work, some wonderful classmates, and an incredible faculty, I learned that I could do the necessary work. Yet, during my first year, I did not know how to learn. I knew well how to jump through hoops. The Marine Corps had taught me this if nothing else. I remember an Introduction to Business Management course. We had multiple choice, take-home, open-book exams. Those exams were written so intricately, that it would take three of us, each working diligently through the book together more than an hour to manage the 25 multiple choice questions. However, we did it (and after notating our exams with where we found our answers) we generally received an A on the exam. However, that was not, nor is it education. I can say with no reservation that I remember nothing from that class. It was actually through my Humanities sequence, I learned the concept of integration and synthesis. Those three semesters and my interim in Europe reflecting on the works of Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Mann, my being in a cultural classroom 24/7 for a month with Dr. Nielsen compelled me to rethink everything. I finally understood what it meant to study or learn (theoretically, conceptually, and practically). It was soaking every drop up. It was looking beyond the obvious, and it was not by following a rubric or recipe card. The integration required to become a professional is not a dichotomous process, one separating classroom and experience. For too much of my schooling, especially back in own public school upbringing, we had two kinds of teachers. First, rote memorization was what we did. There was little difference from English to history, biology to geography. The difference was whether the teacher figured out how to keep me interested or made the process enjoyable. What that admission means is telling. We have been stymied by the process of learning most of our lives. We had (and perhaps still believe we need) to be mollified. I struggle when my students say, “I only want to read what I am interested in.” I balk at the idea that somehow I need to give them every element as if they are trained responders.

So what is the answer? I am not quite sure, but whatever it is, I am quite sure it is neither simple nor will some conceptual response manage it. Why? Because in the words of the feminist poet, Adrienne Rich, it is the students’ response-ability that matters. It is the agency we take as humans to be accountable, and through which we claim an education versus receive one. However, we are selfish. We want things on our own terms. As I write and ponder, I am intrigued by what it was our professors at Dana seemed to do so effortlessly, so seamlessly. If you speak with Dana alumni from education to science, from humanities to the arts, it seems there were outstanding faculty, those who inspired student to take charge of their education. That small college on the bluffs of the Missouri had already created the scholarly community Rich speaks of in her commencement address to Rutgers University (some 25 years later). This does not mean there were never shenanigans. What? No one ever drank on our dry campus, certainly not! Ha! I remember two characters on my floor when I was an RA, somehow believing that having half the campus on our floor and two 16 gallon kegs in their room would not be noticed. They were quite sad when I made them open the taps and pour the rest of the beer down the drain. I remember when one floor on campus decided to make a swimming pool out of the shower. When a faculty person’s daughter knocked the barrier down a flood ensued down the hallway, and, of course, they were not on the first floor. Oh, the memories. And yet we survived . . . all the time afforded an incredible education at that Danish Lutheran College. In spite of being known as the “Holy Dane” campus, there were certainly times when we put Luther’s quote of “if you are going to sin, sin boldly.” into action.

What does it mean to be educated? Yet again another difficult question, but at this point I believe it is about thinking, analyzing, and integrating. It is not memorization; it is not a recipe; it is, however, something different for each person. It is being honest with one’s self and knowing in their heart if they really did the best work possible. It is the wisdom of self reflection. I can still see Dr. Nielsen’s lecture on the “allegory of the cave.” As my floor-mate, and incredibly brilliant professor, Dr. Langholz noted, it is remembering the times we were pushed to ponder the complexities of our humanity by the likes of Drs. Nielsen and Jorgensen, be it philosophically or in light of our national history. Dana taught me to go beyond what was average. Dana taught be to listen and reflect, to ponder and imagine, to never be satisfied to merely complete an assignment. I miss that in some of my students. That is not to say all. I have some really good students; I have some who want to go beyond, but it is difficult for me when they merely want to know what to do without pondering the why they are doing it. For me, it is seldom enough to merely get something done. It is that very nature that is also sometimes to my own detriment. I realize I am seldom satisfied, even with my own work. I want it to be better. I want it to be more thorough; and I want it to be meaningful above all else. Perhaps that is why I am where I am.

In my last blog, I noted the passing of an incredible influence in my personal and academic development. Since that time, it has come to light that another classmate, and ironically a mutual traveler on that Interim trip also passed from our grasp. Lisa (Hansen) Madsen, who was a year ahead of me in terms of our time at Dana, passed, even more ironically, the same day as Dr. Nielsen. I note that because she was an incredibly kind and thoughtful person and an important part of our traveling group that winter term. I note it because her husband was my head resident and also a profoundly important part of my Dana experience. It is always stunning when we lose people we have known most of our lives. She had the most radiant smile and she brightened any room she entered. I am saddened beyond words to learn of her passing. Perhaps, in my own piety, she and Dr. Nielsen met at the gates and began yet another journey, this time as two humans beyond the grasp of our understanding.

Our lives are complex and more unpredictable than we often realize. Perhaps it my age; perhaps I am becoming the curmudgeonly Norman Thayer from the movie On Golden Pond. Perhaps I am realizing I have much less time left than what I have lived and I want to somehow make a difference. Sometimes I feel there is so much left to do. Sometimes I wish I knew what I knew now, except I had realized it half my life ago. As Markus Zusak wrote in his novel, The Book Thief, “I am haunted by humans.” I wonder about the reflection in the cave more often than not. As I post this, I cannot help but remember it was 48 years ago today I graduated as the first graduating class of West High School in Sioux City, Iowa. Amazing what I understood life to be then and now.

The glory days were well beyond then. Thanks for reading.

Dr. Martin

From a one-room Schoolhouse to Oxford: Learning from a Humble Giant

Hello from the coffee shop on a sunny morning,

There are other things I must do today, but I am a bit in shock this morning. Much like Grandparents or Parents, we see them as immortal as we do not know life without them. I am feeling much the same with another parallel occurrence yesterday. The professor who was my undergraduate advisor, the person who taught me more about learning, about Western Civilization or religion and the person I wish to emulate more than any in my own teaching has finished his mortal journey in this world. Dr. John Wolter Nielsen, fondly know to Dana students as “The Pope,” finished an incredible journey of over 95 years. The stories and memories, the tributes that continue to be written on the Dana Facebook page are numerous and I am sure will continue to multiply in the days to come.

As I told a Dana classmate, Dr. Nielsen epitomized the medieval idea of learning and the Greek/Roman understanding of citizenship. I could tell enough stories to create a book, and even that could never do justice to this intellectual giant who chose to spend his life at a college that came from his same ethnic roots. His appreciation for his Danish heritage was infectious. In my first trip abroad (January 1981), spending time with him in Copenhagen, Roskilde, Østerbro was almost magical. His eyes sparkled and his step, which was quick to begin with, quickened as he showed us around the city. A number of people have remembered his classroom lectures, the breathing of breath into Adam comes to mind. There was his love of books and his reminding us of certain books we needed to have on our bedside stand (table). I remember going to his house the first time and seeing his own library. I still wish I had written them all down. There are three things I hold particularly dear in our numerous conversations (and it is likely I have referred to them in previous blogs, but not as a sort of Papal trivium of life-changing statements). The first happened during that very trip to Europe. I was blessed to spend some time in the same first class railcar as we travelled from one location to another. He, as was is way, asked about my background and my family. I was recounting the story of losing a brother at the age of 26 (I was 21 when he passed) a few years prior. I told him about the night in the hospital when he had passed. I told him about my looking out the window as we found he was gone and uttering simply, but emotionally, “Fuck!” As my eyes filled with tears yet again, he calmed replied in his knowing way, “That might be the most profound prayer you have ever uttered.” I stared at him and nodded without really understanding. He continued, “How different is your vernacular plea out of desperation from the lament of the Psalmist? And then he recounted the 22nd Psalm. I have never looked at the F word in the same manner. The second occurence was when we were talking about his being a professor. I think we were sitting in Parnassus, the learning center for the Humanities program. We were talking about my future aspirations, which at that time were rather confined to being an eventual parish pastor. I asked him about being a teacher and his answer was profound. He said, I am not just a teacher, I am a professor. It is who I am; it is what I profess. It encompasses my entire being. It is what I do, I profess it; I live it.” This might not be word for word, but it is close. I walked away that day in awe of this incredible man, one who walked the same sidewalks, hills, and halls I did. The third, and equally profound statement was spoken in late February or early March of 1984, after I graduated. I had come back to Dana to visit someone, and I had lost signifiant weight because of what would eventually be diagnosed as Crohn’s. Back then, I weighed maybe 150 and I was down to about 125-130. I did not look great and when I saw him, he was more than willing to tell me so. He said, “Michael, you do not look well.” I told him a bit about what was happening. He paused, pondered, and then said, again knowingly and with care, “Michael, I am going to say this to you in a different way, but you will understand. Your theology of grace works fine for everyone but yourself.” The number of times I have struggled with my health, looked in the mirror, and stared at the gaunt or struggling person is more than I have fingers, and each time I can still hear his voice in my head. He pushed me that day, and still does now to accept God’s grace.

Dr. Nielsen was almost mystical, and he had a way of pulling people in and teaching them how to think. That is perhaps the most significant thing he did. He never told people what to think, but he was intent on teaching them how to think, analyze, and integrate life. This is the lesson I have taken from him. Any of my students reading this – they now know from where that came. As I read his obituary yesterday, these words came across louder than most any of the amazing things he did. He “implemented and directed an innovative humanities program involving experiential learning, centered in the Parnassus Room. Many Dana students were introduced to opera, theater, classical music, poetry and drama as well as national and international travel through this program (Facebook).” My commitment to experiential learning continues today. It is not easy to maintain that work, and it is not always appreciated. He knew this, and I know it today. Pushing people to think, analyze, and look beyond the obvious requires commitment. The fact that every student at Dana was required to take this course was not always appreciated, but that three semester sequence did more to prepare me for life, and now a life in the classroom than I could have ever imagined. Those Hum study guides are still in my office. Learning is experiential. We are not vessels merely to be filled and then pour out whatever was dumped in. Working with Dr. Nielsen in his RELIGION 342 Christian Thought class was still one of the most important classes I took in terms of understanding what it meant to be faithful. Little did I know that reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison would eventually come back as an essential element of my own dissertation. Certainly my work later with Dr. James Burtness, in seminary and his scholarship on Bonhoeffer would be also important. Then there was Dr. Dale Sullivan in my doctoral work, but it started with the Pope. As I write this and ponder, what I realize so much more clearly is even Bonhoeffer was an experientialist, if I can make that a word. It is in the actual doing that we learn. One of my students this semester wrote that they wanted the professor to teach them; they did not think experiential learning had any benefit. I was somewhat shocked by their admission, and even more alarmed when I considered their career path. Perhaps someday, they will see it differently.

This past year has been a year of adaptation. I think this is another thing Dr. Nielsen was incredibly adept at managing. Even as a person of profound principle, he always understood the circumstances of the world around him. His poetry, his Christmas messages, and his unparalleled brilliance at articulating his world were beyond insightful. What was it that made his mind so masterful of anything and everything? What was it that established such humility in spite of such ingenuity? His ability to gather such prodigious people around him as co-partners in the Humanities program is no small feat. I understand this more now that I am in the academy. The ability to get other faculty to co-teach is like creating harmony in a sandbox of four-year olds, but somehow he did it. The legacy and benefit of that program for 1000s cannot be overstated. As I read one of my favorite classmate’s comments about Hum, as we called it, I could not help by smile. My appreciation for art, music, architecture, politics, religion, poetry, philosophy, theatre, travel, opera, all of it, comes from that three semester sequence. And all of this comes from the brainchild of a person who began his education in a one-room Minnesota schoolhouse. It reminds me of much of the Laura Ingalls Wilder beginnings we learned about as children. He is a real-life version of that, a person whose insatiable thirst for knowledge and the willingness to share that passion changed generations of students. Seldom does one make such a difference at a small liberal arts college. Seldom is one content to remain in that same small Nebraska town.

There is so much more to write, and there are so many more feelings that well up within me as I write this. The Pope taught me more about life and goodness than he will ever know, or perhaps now he will. Whenever I spoke with him and complemented him for what he had done, he would respond along the lines of “how nice of you to say that.” I remember tromping through the snow with him in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. I realized how tall he was as I tried to almost hop from footstep to footstep in the waist-high snow. He was much taller and his long legs certainly outpaced this person who has never made it beyond 5’10”. As I attempt to write something faintly sufficient about this wonderful man, I know it is impossible to do so. I spoke with a former classmate from Dana who is at the Danish American Archives and Library this morning. After our wonderful conversation, she said, “Thanks, Pops,” which is what she called me when we were at Dana. It brought back such wonderful memories. Thank you, Jill. Dr. Nielsen epitomized that spirit at Dana. His scholarly influence, his pastoral care, and his principled life leave a legacy that he would always underplay. His bark might no longer be heard in the physical reality of our lives, but the incredible echo of that bark will remain in our lives until our own journey’s end. Well done good and faithful servant. I have a feeling that people like Plato, Aristotle, Niebuhr, and Bonhoeffer have a space at their table for you. Thank you for being that person in so many lives, but particularly to me. When I hear this song, I will forever remember you in yet another way.

KIRKEN DEN ER ET GAMMELT HUS.

Thanks for reading,

Dr. Martin

Another Year and Some New Thoughts

Bockperson Hall . . . as we called it

Hello from Panera Bread,

While I am usually writing from home, I am banned from my home and the Acre for a bit because the house is being shown. There has been some genuine interest this week, or so it seems. I am to an expert at these things, so I am depending on my realtor to help me navigate this world. It is always interesting how we depend on others around us. One of the things I tell my students is not a single person gets to where they are without some help along the way. I think of times when I was first starting out my life, whether it was my first time in college, my first time as a married person, my first time as a graduate student, my first time as a tenure-track professor, there was someone who helped me along the way. I think of when my mother passed away and we had to get back to Iowa from Minnesota, and we needed to fly . . . we did not have the extra money as I was a married seminary student and someone helped us financially. I remember when Susan, at the last minute, decided she wanted to go to Europe with my seminary class and my Great Aunt and Uncle helped us financially or again when they purchased my first computer for me as a senior seminary student.

But not all help is financial . . . Cristina Matthews, a former talented colleague here at Bloomsburg, did so much to make my navigating paperwork or finding the correct place to answer questions much easier my first year. Some of my professors/mentors at Michigan Tech are friends to this day because they helped this older non-traditional doctoral student manage the rigors and expectations of a doctoral program. Drs. Patty Sotirin, Elizabeth Flynn, or Victoria Bergvall have all continued to support me as a colleague in the academy and their care and support means more to me than they could ever know. Just this morning, I have the opportunity to speak with an incredible undergraduate colleague I met my first fall at Dana College. As I told her, I was frightened and unsure I had the ability to be a college student. I had already failed and dropped out once. Fortunately, Peter Bonde, a junior, was my roommate. He introduced to me a wonderful group of upper level students and they were my social support as much as my same year classmates were support in my classes. Earlier today I was inducted into a First Generation College Student Honor Society. That is still astounding to me that when I started college I had little support from my home. I know my father was proud of my path, but I remember him asking me what I could do with the 164 credits, two majors, and two minors I had earned as I walked to my commencement. I remember the look of shock on his face when I answered nothing, but go on to graduate school, which is what I did. I remember my mother telling me I lied when I told her what it cost me to attend college and I had to show the catalog to her to prove the veracity of my statement.

It is not uncommon for me to be questioned by my students about being a professor and they ask if I always knew this is what I would do. My answer is honest and simple. I tell them I had no idea this would be where I might be or what I might do. In fact, there are still times I must ask myself, “How did I get here?” As some of you know, I have a 2.8 as a GPA out of high school. What I know now is I was capable of much more, but I had little discipline or understanding of why doing better mattered. I grew up with the blue collar understanding the I neither had the brains nor the money to go to college. As I noted in a recent blog. People from Riverside, my section of Sioux City, seldom went to college. A few years ago, when back in town for a benefit for my best and closest childhood friend, I found myself at a table with my high school classmates. It was the first time I was with most of them in 40 years. After we figured out who each other was, one asked me what I did. I answered honestly, “I am a college professor.” His response took me back a bit, but knowing our backgrounds, there was some appropriate surprise. He said, “No fuckin’ shit?” I looked at him calmly, and answered, offering his terminology right back to him, “Yes; no fuckin’ shit.” He smiled and said, “Cool.” End of conversation.

This past year and a half, post-shutdown, has been a trial for most. Regardless your position in higher education, administrator, staff, faculty, or student, working through managing, supporting, teaching, or learning, little prepared us for the demands COVID has placed on all of us. What is profoundly apparent to me is we have all floundered at times. We have all risen to the occasion and did amazing work at times. However, the most important thing realized is this: we are so dependent on each other if we are to succeed in these times. That is always the case, as noted above, but for me the intentionality of that support and the importance of seeing others before myself has never been more apparent. This semester, I struggled in ways I do not generally struggle. To put it simply and honestly, I have been hanging on by my fingernails most of the semester. I have noted numerous times, they are not long, but they are strong. I am not sure that was even enough this spring. Fortunately, with some conversations and some retooling, with listening to my students and my chair, we are in a place I can feel better about things. Students are struggling because they have been placed in circumstances they do not always expect. Faculty are struggling because in spite of best intentions and plans, sometimes we fail. Staff keep plugging along and doing the best they can as the terrain shifts around them. And while we might like to point fingers at administrators, I do believe they are trying to manage the changing terrain, world, and demands from all of us and more the best they can. It moves us back to the place I began. We are dependent on each other. There is no way around that. We are trying to do the best we can with what we have and what we believe. I certainly do not mean that in some polyannish kumbyah sing and it will all be good way. This year as been a struggle. What happens on the other side is still uncertain. When do we actual get to the other side? What will that look like? What will be forever changed? None of these questions have answers at the moment, but I have to believe we are in it together.

As I noted with my chair last night, it was only a few days over 12 years ago that I interviewed at Bloomsburg. Little did I know what Bloomsburg as a professional stop would do for me, but I knew I wanted to do it well. Little did I know there would be so many profound changes in my life, but there should be no surprise in that. I did know this would hopefully be my last professional position. Of course, I have picked up a second one along the way, as an Adjunct Associate Professor of Medical Education. What I know is I could have not come to a better place than Bloomsburg. It was exactly what I needed, though I did not know that when I rode my Harley from Wisconsin to Pennsylvania by way of Tennessee and up through the Shenandoah Valley. My colleague, and now chair, Dr. Mark Decker gave me a simple statement of advice. He said, “Michael, be the plumber.” At the time, I stared blankly at him, mystified. He explained, “Plumbers are needed. Make yourself needed.” He would elucidate a bit more, but it was the best advice he could have offered. It is about being helpful. It is about being unselfish. From the beginning of my collegiate career, I have been blessed by selfless mentors: Drs. Nielsen (all of them), Jorgensen, Stone, or Bansen. In seminary, Drs. Tiede, Fretheim, Juel, Koester, Debner . . . and I have noted others earlier. Seldom do we realize their importance at the time. Someone once told me if you profoundly affect five people in your life, you can consider your life successful. Certainly there are two elements and questions to ponder about this statement. What does it mean to be successful, and, as importantly, how does one measure profundity? I do not believe either term is easily defined, for a variety of reasons. Too often we equate success materially; too often we understand the profound nature of something by its uniqueness or perhaps by the understanding it is unparalleled in our daily existence. If that is correct, we seldom realize such a person in our life until after they or we have moved beyond that time or space.

Perhaps I should note five people I believe profoundly affected my life, and I will focus on those outside my family. I should note this is not in any particular order. Dr. John W. Nielsen, one of my two undergraduate advisors. He might be one the most intelligent, mystical, and incredible people I have ever met. He is the truest example of a Renaissance person. Brilliant, principled, and influential beyond anything he would ever imagine because of his humility. Dr. Donald Juel, my New Testament professor at LNTS. He taught me as much about being a scholar and reaching for my potential as anyone. He pushed me and influenced my theology as much as anyone. I wish he would have lived longer. Sheldon (Bud) Reese, a church member and surrogate father to a young man afraid to grow up and take accountability. He had no idea how important he was at the time, but perhaps later, as I would stop to visit and check in with him every time I came home to Sioux City there was some inkling. He was, and would be, there at a moment’s notice – like when he bailed me out of jail one night at 3:00 a.m. The Reverend Fred Peters, my parish pastor, the father of one of my best friends as well as the father of the first girl I liked after coming home from the Marines. He is the person I chose to preach at my ordination. He was the man who taught me accountability like no other. He was an incredible pastor, the person who most influenced me to attend seminary and the man who was an amazing preacher, parish pastor, and surrogate father to me, even when I wasn’t ready for him. Lee and Judy Swenson, and yes, I realize there are two, but they are a couple, and my first host family during my year travels for Lutheran Youth Encounter. They are not old enough to be my parents, so they are the most like older siblings. They have been part of me for two-thirds of my life, and I am still blessed by them. They are simply the kindest, most supportive, and sort of perfect people you will ever meet. I could write a book about how important they have been in their support and love toward me for over four decades. None of these people might be aware of their incredible influence and the ways they influenced me to improve and strive to be better. There are more people who could be here and certainly should be here, but I promised to only do five (and even then I snuck in six). I could probably do different areas or groups.

Simply put, as I began, we do not get where we are without help. We do not accomplish much individually when it comes to who we become in the long term. I am continually humbled by the people around me. Their work, their brilliance, their dedication inspire me. Life is really an astounding opportunity if we will avail ourselves to it. Even in the midst of the crazy pandemic, in the divisiveness and mistrust, there is so much to be grateful for. As you go about your days, remember the people who have influenced your life. Give thanks for them. If they are still in your life, reach out to them and let them now how much they matter and how blessed you are for knowing them. You will make their day as well as your own. It is not rocket science as my friend has a habit of saying. It is simple gratitude. It is selflessness, and it makes us all better. To all who have reached out to me in various ways as I write these posts, thank you. To all of my students who make me a better person, thank you. There are so many songs that remind me of some of these times in my life, but remember when I first learned to play this song. I was so excited to share it. Amazing those times in Rasmussen Hall my senior year at Dana.

Thanks as always for reading . . . remember to thank those who made a difference.

Dr. Martin

Why Would Someone Adopt?

Good Morning on an early Thursday morning,

It is about 4:30 a.m. and I am at the computer working. I went to bed around 9:30 last evening and woke up around 3:00. I realized I had not finished up some thing in the kitchen last night and decided it is time to get up and manage those issues. Then after 15 minutes, being wide awake, it seemed more productive to stay up. Now after some work in BOLT (our University CMS) on a couple classes, it seemed that writing about my adopted father on the occasion of his birthday might be a reasonable tribute to the one man who has been a father to me. There are times, particularly as I continue to age, I am astounded that Harry and Bernice Martin, my adoptive parents decided to take on a 3 and 4 year old at the time they were almost old enough to be grandparents. My father was 45 as he started parenting that almost 5 year old boy (yes, that was me). I did not realize the age difference, and I did not think about the fact that when they might have gone to parent/teacher conferences they would have been older than most. Most times it did not occur to me that my cousins were what would have been my biological parents’ ages or that those I called cousins were actually second cousins. I merely saw them as cousins (and in my recent reconnecting with them, I still do).

What I am compelled to see is the Martins somehow decided to bring two preschoolers into their homes and be parents when they should have been preparing to allow their children to be adults. That is a pretty incredible task, a profound lifestyle change, to manage. Yes, there was another older adopted son (in fifth grade as I would be in kindergarten), and perhaps it was they did not want him to be an only child. It was at the height of the baby-boomer generation, and there was an expectation that you would be a parent; you would have a family. Perhaps it is some of all of that, and yet, I think this adoption and the choice of this Norwegian, English, Irish, German, Welsh middle-aged couple was much more complex than what meets the eye. As noted in other posts, I am not sure this was a willingly-joint decision. As noted in a recent blog post, I believe my adoptive mother would have been content with one child. It is possible she would have been content with no children. I do not believe parenting was something she enjoyed, but it was something societally expected. On the other hand, both of them as the youngest, perhaps, there was pressure from their older siblings to have a family. Additionally, I believe that Harry, my father actually liked being a father. It might be that being a parent offered a sense of purpose he might not have been able to create as a childless adult. There are also a number of other things that might have influenced his decision. While this was never a topic of conversation, there are two particular statements he made, both when I was an adult that provide some insight into his reflection on what his life choices had done.

When I graduated from Dana College (in 1983), I was ten years out of high school. While I was proud of that accomplishment, I felt very far behind where the world said I should be (and I realize the problems with that statement, but it is what it is). Between graduation and my leaving for Summer Greek, I was painting the trim on my cousin’s house. He would come up every day and spend hours just wanting to chat, almost to the point, it hampered my work. I was recently engaged, and I asked him about being married to my adoptive mother. This was a difficult question because I sensed that while they have been married over 40 years, there was not a lot of happiness or romance in their relationship. As someone newly engaged, I wondered how that worked. After some conversing, I asked, “If you had it to do over, would you marry her again?” He looked at me rather sadly, and stated quite succinctly, “No f-ing way.” He did not raise his voice, and it was the first (and maybe only time) I ever heard him use that word. He simply said it and then looked off into the distance. I had no answer. The second time was only a few months before he passed away. He was 81 and I was married to my second wife. She recounted this event to me, so I did not hear it, but as she told it. She told him as they were on a walk that he had raised quite a son. That was a nice thing for her to say. She told me that his response was something like “[h]e actually raised himself. I wish I would have been there to do more to help him.” She was a bit shocked by his answer and asked me what it meant. I told her that he had been away much of the time during. my elementary and middle school (as it is called now) years. I think it was his way of apologizing he had not been there more. I think it was his feelings of remorse and sadness that he was not around to protect us from the abuse we experienced at the hands of our mother. Ironically, it did not make me feel sad for myself, but for him.

These two incidences were indicative of how profoundly different my adoptive parents were. While there is nothing concrete I can point to, I believe my father might have told my mother in 1959-1960 that if she was not going to support our adoption he might have left. I think he so desperately wanted to have a family that he was willing to take on preschoolers in his 40s. I also do not believe he ever looked back and said it was a bad decision. I think my sister and I complicated their lives to be sure, but he always loved us as his own. That is a significant thing to say. I remember at his funeral saying never once did he treat me as an adopted child. He treated me as his own. More importantly, I think he wanted to defend us from the other side of that when our mother would tell us we did not deserve to be there. The distance between those two positions created a chasm that was difficult to navigate, particularly when he was away from home for much of the time.

Again, as I have blogged before, I understand all of this so much more now. Part of that understanding has occurred because of a lot of counseling. Some of that acceptance has come from my realizing the importance of forgiveness. Some of it has come as recently as through my own experience of hosting Anton a year ago and being the closest thing to a father (there was being a step father in my second marriage to a high schooler also) that I have really ever done. Parenting takes skill and a wellness to be vulnerable. It requires patience and selflessness. It demands an ability to admit when we are wrong, and the perseverance to pick one’s self up and try again. Unexpectedly, I think I learned most of this from being a professor. While I certainly am not signing on to be a parent to the last 11 years of students per se, there are more times than I have fingers and toes that students have come to me for advice outside of the realm of assignments. There are times where mentoring them in life to support their studies, it seems I am the surrogate parent. Perhaps I have adopted more sons and daughters than I could have ever been able to support. I remember one student in particular who received their Master’s degree. I had been their undergraduate advisor and they must have put up with me for 6 or 7 classes. At their graduate, the student’s father hugged me and said, “You are as much of a father to her and I am.” That statement caught me off guard and my eyes welled up in tears. It might be one of the most profound compliments I have ever received. I remember two times in particular my father cried, which seldom happened. The first was when I received my Masters of Divinity degree, and the second was when I got married.

As I have told parents and students alike, I work to treat anyone with the respect I would hope they might give my own son or daughter if I had ever had them. In just the last day, I asked a childhood friend if they ever regretted not having children and they noted yes. I imagine I am the same, but that regret was more real 25 years ago. Now I am content. Content to be a surrogate parent of sorts. What I realize now, almost 25 years after my adopted father’s passing, that he is still here with me in more ways than I often realize. There are those who will tell me from time to time, you are so much like your father. What a humbling compliment. He was selfless in many ways. He was hopeful and optimistic, in spite of the sadness he endured in other ways. He was generous and always had a smile on is face (and he had perfect teeth). I remember when I saw him in the casket and pondered why he did not look himself. It was because he was not smiling. If he was awake, he was smiling. I think he adopted because he wanted a family in that time of families. I think he adopted because he wanted to be a father. I think he adopted because he had an endless amount of love he needed to share. On this date, the day he would be 106, it seems appropriate that once again, I say simply. Thank you for adopting Kris and me. Thank you for being willing to take on two little people when there was little reason to begin your life as a mid-20-something when you were mid-40-something. Happy Birthday. I love you; I miss you; and I hope I have made you proud of the child you raised.

To all the rest of you, thank you for reading.

Michael

Imagining What He Would Say after 125 Years

Hello from my study on a Sunday night,

It has been a busy, hectic, productive, with too much yet to do, weekend. While I have met with a covey of students through Zoom, there is more to do. While I have gotten more things packed and staged, there is still more to do. While I have gotten most of a chapter revised for publication, there is still more to do. While I have gotten some of the paperwork for selling the house completed, there is still more to do. While I have both fertilized the yard and managed some other yard things, there is probably more to do. Do you see a pattern? When I feel overwhelmed or need to allow my brain a chance to regroup, as you who read here know, I write. It actually lowers my stress level, and it provides me an opportunity to consider things that need to be pondered.

As I changed the calendar this morning, I realized it is the birthday of my adopted father’s eldest brother-in-law, a man known to the entire neighborhood and beyond as Uncle Clare. If you ever met him, you would remember. He was colorful, opinionated, knowledgeable of all things our natural world, owned an arsenal, swore beyond what any service person should be able, and was the kindest curmudgeon you might ever met. Experiencing him as a child growing up, which occurred regularly because he both lived only about 8 houses down the street and he was our perpetual Sunday dinner guest, he taught me things, many which would cause my mother to cringe. Possibly the best example that is appropriate to share in this venue was the last time I saw him alive. To make a long story short, he had gotten into some fisticuffs with his roommate in the nursing home and he had injured his wrist and hand. As a 90 year old (yes, 90), his skin as frail and his wrist watch had caused some cuts because of his shenanigans. My father was his POA, and as such he was called. I happened to be visiting, so my father asked if I might go check on him.

As I arrived at the facility, I heard his voice before I had ever approached the door. His normal four-letter vocabulary was on 78 rpm speed. As I stood in the door watching for a moment, he turned to see me, asking “What the F&$* are you doing here?” To which I responded, “That is a good question.” Then I said, “You got in a fight with your roommate?” He nodded, while still swearing at the poor CNA there trying to help him, and retorted, “I knocked the c*&^!#!@er out!” Not good . . . I asked him to behave so the woman attending him could finish her work. He told me, “The bitch is trying to kill me.” And so it went until I convinced him to settle down. This was typical Uncle Clare. He had quit school in first grade and yet taught himself to read. He was a bugler in WWI, and in spite of being supposedly legally blind, there were regularly dead starlings around his Martin birdhouse, which he picked off with the pellet gun. Almost every family has that colorful character who has more stories than you can find in the Bible, well Clare was ours. Any yet, in spite of all his bluster, when you did something for him, he was genuinely grateful. He had a bottle of Ol’ Grandad on the top of his refrigerator and a 38 snub-nose pistol under his pillow, which was used one night when people tried to rob him in his late 80s. Indeed, he was like no other person. He had worked on an armored car in the 1920s, when Sioux City was known as little Chicago, and that Thompson sub-machine gun was still in his basement. I remember him one time telling me that Chester Gould, the cartoonist who created Dick Tracy, must have drank squirrel whiskey. I did not really know what that meant, but I never asked either.

What a remember most about him was his insatiable interest in plants, animals, flowers, and yes, guns. He could identify tracks, feathers, as well as name off almost any flora you would find in our state park. He had the most incredible asparagus and rhubarb garden in the world. He spent his days puttering in his yard, driving up to the grocery store, or listening to the television, which sat at the front end of his living room. It was on so loudly, you could hear it outside. There were elements of his house he never changed from 1960 until he moved out of that house in the late 1980s. His wife, Gladys, my father’s eldest sister had passed away tragically in the hospital in 1960. I do not remember her, though I was told I met her as a small child. She was quite eloquent from what I know, but as many in those days, she smoked, and that habit would lead to her death. Uncle Clare often said she was the best thing that ever happened to him. As someone who taught himself to read, he read voraciously, and he listened to the news. He was generally up on all things important and he had an opinion about most of it.

In his latter years, my cousins and my father, as well as myself, did what he needed to have done to make him as comfortable as possible. He loved to sit by the kitchen window and look at this flower garden and the asparagus and rhubarb patch, which he always gave away. It is also the same window from where he would assassinate unsuspecting starlings or any other varmint that got into his yard. He loved to read Field and Stream and National Geographic and when we came to visit he would tell us about his newest facts from whatever he had recently read. He was as pleased as anything as he relayed his handy facts. He was a rather short, stocky person, around 5’6″, and probably 180 pounds. He was bald, clean shaven, with small eyes covered by his horn-rimmed glasses and a noticeably large nose. He looked the same the thirty years I knew him and he never seemed to age. He remained by in large the same. He ate his breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same table. He played solitaire daily, and he drank his coffee out of the same cup. He was a creature of habit to be sure.

As he aged he worried less about appearance or cleanliness and both my cousin, Joanne and I would go to his house and clean and throw away food that would have killed him or washed linens and clothes so he would not seem homeless. This was not done with ease because he did not want people fussing over him, so we would sneak things out. At one point we had to buy a new coffee cup, but one that looked the same because the old one was simply too nasty. He had something to say about anything and everything, and on this day of his 125th birthday, it seems appropriate to imagine what he would say about our present day world. Much like I have noted about Lydia, I cannot even begin to imagine getting him to mask-up. Doubtful at best, and with much kicking, swearing, and gnashing of teeth. I think he was a Democrat, but I am not sure. However, I am pretty sure going through the Great Depression made many middle class people Democrats. I wonder what he thought of Germany in WWII as he was a German himself. Things we never spoke of, but I have no doubt he would have little patience for the gridlock and the bickering that characterizes Washington today. I think he would have more than strong words for our national politicians.

I have tried to think how I would describe his philosophy, but he was a someone self-made person. I think he worked the railroad for a number of years. He asked for nothing and he expected nothing from others. He did have a philanthropic bent to him because he was 32nd Degree Mason and a Shriner. The more I think about him, the more amazing he is to me. He was always willing to give and he was generous and appreciative at Christmas times. There have been moments when I have noted I might be more like him than I ever realized. He understood so much more than I believe most gave him credit for knowing. He was loyal and loved his family, but he stayed to himself. I remember a couple of times when I was struggling as I grew and he would offer encouragement to me. He always accepted me, regardless what I did. He was a conduit for me at times when I was distant because of my struggles with my mother. What I know as I write this about him this evening is I admired him more than I was ever conscious of. I know when my Grandmother struggled, I think he was there to help her. When we struggled with issues of simply growing up, he was always there to be supportive in whatever way possible. I once compared him to a penny that when one took the time to shine it would see his luster. I think he might be more valuable. He might be worth a bitcoin into today’s world. I would love to hear what he might say about today’s world on his 125th birthday.

Love you Uncle Clare. Thank you for all the things you taught me in a sort of osmotic manner. If you have that story-telling curmudgeon win your family. Let them know how much they mean.

Thank you to the rest of you for reading.

Dr. Martin

Facing Mental Illness with Compassion

Hello from a quiet table and pondering the struggle of so many,

This past week I have been confronted with two specific incidences where a person certainly struggles with some form of mental illness. Let me begin with two important facts. I am not a psychologist nor a psychiatrist, nor do I have an MSW. Furthermore, even though I was a parish pastor, I knew what was reasonable for the me to work with and I had no problem referring my parishioners to professionals. However, I am fascinated by the human brain and how it functions. Yet, I know very little about it from a clinical or medical viewpoint. All of that being said, it pains me when I see people who struggle in their lives because of some kind or mental or emotional malady. I try to understand why two people with similar experiences can come away from those events with a very different consequence.

As I have noted in many blogs, I know believe my adopted mother probably suffered some kind of mental illness. I know she had endured some traumatic things from early elementary school into her early twenties, things that would scar most anyone let alone a young child or first time mother. Perhaps more importantly, the early 20th century was not a time when people reached out to get help with their problems. I can still hear the phrase “you do not air out your dirty laundry in public.” For those unacquainted with this, today’s version might be “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” The point is, if there are issues at home you do not talk about it in public. This was certainly the case in my immediate family. Some of the things that would have had us in front of Children and Youth in our present world were not revealed . . . period. However, I digress. The point is my mother had profound struggles and I believe the traumatic experiences she endured changed her personality and her outlook. Those events caused her (and I realize this is merely an opinion) to believe and feel she had been cheated in this world and she was angry, and that anger devolved into bitterness, something much more insidious than anger. Bitterness destroys and hollows out a person. Many times I find myself trying to understand the actions or habits of another, wondering what happened in their past to create their propensity that action or habit.

I am a firm believer, again from my own experiences and actions, that most of our responses of fear or anger come from something in our past more than what is happening at the moment. I am not saying fear or anger is wrong, but I know my own fears are usually based on a feeling of failure, a feeling of unworthiness, or a feeling of what I call “I am going to be trouble.” Most often my anger comes from being hurt by someone, and mostly someone I care about. In the past couple of weeks, I had a meeting with a superior about some of the difficulties that are inherent with remote asynchronous teaching. There is also the fact that I have a tendency to over-extend. Those two things together created dilemmas for both my students and me, but it is important to consider the students first. That might seem a bit martyristic, if I can coin such a term, but what is apparent is this move toward teaching in a way that places such incredible responsibility on students has more often than not overwhelmed them. Being overwhelmed produces fear, and fear produces tension, and tension can create unexpected (and yet expected) responses. It is such a fine line (and the placement of that line changes from student to student) when it comes to how much you can push them to stand up and when you must hold them up.

This has been a tough thing for me because I am generally a person who expects people to stand up on their own. This is not to say that I do not offer a hand, and often more . . . but the number of people calling out or needing it without realizing it has increased exponentially. And like I tell my students, I now need to realize there is no recipe card to manage it all. There is no game plan. Not surprisingly, as faculty, we seem to fall into one of two camps: repent or you’re toast or let me do it for you. Certainly some of my colleagues will argue that is not true, but I believe fervently there is more truth to my view of our dichotomous response than many want to believe. I fall into it unwittingly at times. I believe we have societally failed to instill a sense of independence, a sense of accountability, or a sense of failure is not wrong into most Gen Z (and perhaps Millennials too) members. It would be easy to end there, but that would not circle me around the reason for this blog to begin with.

When people (and I believe this is true at any age) are confronted with their unpreparedness, the reaction is palpable, and understandably so. If you have not be given the requisite skills necessary to manage the daily expectations of life, the consequence is frightening. Both for the person missing the skills and for the individuals who have to work with them. I always struggle when students tell me life is so incredibly difficult, much more so, for them than it was for my generation or earlier in time. I think about that fact that many were married at 18-20 when they were my grandparents’ or even parents’ ages. I am not convinced that made life easier. Many were parents already and working a job, and all those adulting responsibilities were upon them. I spoke with a former student in the last couple days and they lamented how little they knew about financing their world or managing taxes, or even handling a checkbook. I did not know that stuff either, but I would find out . . . and often when I had to dig myself out of my failures. I remember having my father co-sign for something and then not managing it well. That was not a wise decision on my part. I was not given a get-out-of-jail-free card on that one. I had to catch it up, and I worked two jobs to make sure it happened. I was not offered either medication to manage my anxiety nor would I have imagined getting a support animal to make sure I could cope. This is not to say that people do not benefit from those possibilities, but it was such a different world. People in my own family have been on medication at times to deal with mental health problems, and I am an advocate of careful monitoring and the employment of a variety of therapeutic possibilities, but I am also a believer in the resilience of the human body and spirit.

We are profoundly complicated creatures. It is that simple (or complex). There is no single recipe to manage all the things thrown at us. I know of numerous people who have been pushed beyond their expected limits by this lockdown, distancing, and isolation. I know student who are overwhelmed by most anything that does not fit into their limited experiential purview as an adult student. And daily, I find it arduous to figure out the best way to manage all of it, but I soldier on. I honestly feel a lot of empathy and compassion for students who know no other college experience than the last three semesters. It was a topic of conversation in a meeting this past week of how will we prepare them for face-to-face learning again. It will be yet another stressful time for all, regardless which side of the blank stare you are on. I have learned yet again, placing the onus on either side is futile. As noted above, I have struggled mightily on my side of things too. I wanted to believe if I listened weekly and responded at that point versus having all the materials in before the semester started (and this was because I revised classes in light of my pandemic experience) that it would work better for everyone. Boy, was I mistaken. I worked well for as long as I could keep up, which was not nearly long enough. The consequence was a brutal last 10-14 days, but things are much better. Where I want? Not completely, but probably over 90 percent. And yet, in two days, there need to be much more. I am reminded of a previous administrator, who in front of a faculty committee, surprisingly stated we are only contracted for 17 hours a week. I was sitting next to her and almost feel off my chair in shock. Dang . . . not even close. Not a complaint, but there are days I put in that much time.

What I know is in my own immediate family there were two people who were mentally ill. One was diagnosed as such, the other was probably more fragile than the person diagnosed. I have written about that many times in this blog, but what I wish I could have understood is how devastating that lack of diagnosis was. It changed the lives of everyone around them. It made living with them difficult at best, and it made having compassion for them nearly impossible until long after they had passed on. I wish I could have realized their pain. I was too busy feeling and sometimes, allowing in my own. How unfair it all seems when I reflect on it now. All evidence seems to point to an incredible spike in people struggling with their well-being as a consequence of this pandemic. Isolation, disillusionment, loss of job, home, schooling, simply life as we knew it . . . all of these things serve as catalysts to a gigantic struggle to maintain happiness or some sense of safety or contentment. You might ask why Lincoln as my picture for the blog. As I have watched the series Lincoln: A Nation Divided, I have learned a number of things about this person we often hold us as a paragon of justice. Perhaps one of the most important things might be how he suffered with depression.

As I began, I am not a trained anything in terms of mental health, but I am a fellow human being. I am a person who can show compassion. That is what I hope I find myself doing for anyone who comes to me needing an ear, a modicum of support, or an extension on a paper or something. This past couple weeks I have worked harder than I usually do to see things from my students’ perspectives. Hopefully, that small change will make the difference they need.

Thanks as always for reading, and seriously, if you need something, please ask . . . you have the number.

Dr. Martin

Dreamers

Hello from my study on the Acre,

It is hard to believe that Spring is here (and today certainly felt Spring-like) and we are almost a quarter of the way through this year. It seems like only a few weeks ago the semester began and the Christmas holidays were still visible in the rear-view mirror. When I was small, Christmas was certainly a time for dreams, and I do not think it is much different for children today, but as we plow our way through this incredibly unpredictable time the ability to dream, to hope is essential. I remember being much more of a dreamer when I was small. I am not sure of all the reasons for that, but I think it had much to do with wishing things were different. Perhaps not all that different from where we are now. We wonder and imagine what’s on the other side.Dreaming for me was always about options, possibilities, and as noted above, about hope. Hope is something I have referred to in past blogs. Though generally optimistic, I do have a melancholy bent to me. Moreover, I think this past year has been a time when optimism has probably been in short supply, even for the most polyannish of us. Sometimes lying awake, I wonder what the future will bring, not so much for me as someone who has lived a significant part of their life, but rather for many of my students. In our world of division, of profound changes, in a world where our understanding of faith (or perhaps more accurately, our appropriate practice of that faith) is decided by the few and questioned by many, or, more problematically and blindly followed by even many more, we are headed into the most apparent time of the Christian Church year for many, the time where many struggle to understand a faith that is based in love, a love demonstrated by the death of the Son of the Creator (and I realize some see Jesus as little more than a prototypical prophet, and not both human and divine). If the Christian understanding of Jesus as both/and is correct, there is an irony that many of our actions seem to destroy the very love that is foundational to Christian faith. Easter is a time where we are called to understand a God who seem determined to work against our legalities, our divisiveness, our frailty and reach into our brokenness and demonstrate an all encompassing love we too often fail to understand. What can we do to demonstrate that love? Perhaps when we choose to establish justice, practice acceptance, and provide care that goes beyond even our most fervent attempts? This Palm Sunday, I listened to two services, to two amazing sermons, and some incredible music. I thought profoundly about the idea of justice and acceptance in a world that seems too intent on mistreating the other, claiming their ways of boxing God in is the appropriate ways to believe or be faithful, and behaves in a manner that seems inherently contrary to loving God with all our heart, soul, and mind, and ones neighbor as ones self.

This morning, in this little town of 12,000 or so, I witnessed first hand as two dear friends, one a colleague and their spouse, were subjected to a racist rant on our Main Street as someone literally came across the street toward where a group of us where sitting. He screamed Asian-centric vitriol at our group, but more specifically at my colleague and their spouse. After a couple asked him to leave, the offensive person stepped a few yards away and began again. At that point, I stood up and faced the person and asked them to leave. The disturbed, shocked, and hurt look on my colleague’s face is something I will not soon forget. I was embarrassed for them. It stuns me that people can be so juvenile, hateful, ludicrous, and while I am pretty sure the individual probably had some mental issues, that did not make the experience anymore acceptable. It seems that more and more the overpowering actuality of our divided, screw-you-if-you-are-not-white, discriminatory actions are now beyond commonplace, more apparent than I have ever realized. I dream of a world where we will accept others for their intelligence, their character, their goodness, and support them when they are hurting, struggling, or floundering. I dream of a world where the few do not hijack the Gospel realizing that the Jesus of the New Testament, the Jesus of the prophets, or the Jesus of the world oppressed by the Romans understood and preached a Gospel of humility, a Gospel of a loving, forgiving God, a Gospel that confronted and called out the inequities of society, healed those forgotten by society, and chose disciples who were not blessed with status or wealth. If one carefully considers the Jesus of the Gospels, that Jesus will make most of us uncomfortable. When we try to co-opt Jesus or the Gospel, as we are all too ready to do, the Grace of God is cheapened. There was nothing cheap or easy about the path Jesus was destined to follow. Taking on the powers of the day, be it the Romans, the Pharisees, the Sadducees, or even his own disciples at time, Jesus was constantly trying to get them (and us) to see a world that was something very different than what it was. There is little changed today.

When the more conservative Americans want to pray for those who invaded the Capitol and call them Patriots, they distort the Gospel. Why might I argue this? While there are a multitude of reasons, I will suffice it to say this. You might remember the story where the Jewish Leaders came to Jesus and asked him whether or not it was lawful to pay taxes to Caesar. Jesus asked them for a coin, and when the coin was produced, he asked whose image was on the coin? They noted, accurately, Caesar’s. He responded, “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God that which is God’s.” This is a pretty accurate quote of Matthew 22, though I did not look it up. Storming the Capitol and entering is not patriotic. It is breaking the law. For me, it is that simple. I realize there are others who disagree, but to claim God’s providence or support of that is an abomination of the Gospel, and I am willing to sit down and have coffee or something on my porch with anyone who wants to debate that, and I will fix the coffee free of charge. But come prepared, for I will probably be tough to convince of anything other. As I listened to the Reverend Heidi Peterson this morning, she noted this also, but took it ever further. If the greatest of the commandments is to love your neighbor, and this is my paraphrase of her preaching today, and it was spot on, then all the things we do to disenfranchise the other (be it voting, owning a house, walking down the street) is against this commandment. When we can decide who can love whom, when we believe those who identify differently then we do are somehow wrong or less of a person, we distort the Gospel. The Gospel is not a conservative cookie-cutter just-follow-this and you’re alright. The Gospel of Jesus was not cookie-cutter; in fact, it was precisely the opposite. The Gospel of Jesus (the Good News) was not always good news to those who believed they had it figured out. Jesus questioned the appropriateness of the religious scholars’ practice in worship. He questioned their interpretation of the law. He questioned their heart and how their practices disenfranchised others. Those who want to use Scripture as a yardstick misunderstand the basic message of that very Scripture. If you want to understand the Bible (Old Testament, Apocrypha, and New Testament) imagine it as an anthology that demonstrates an incredible love story between Creator and Created. What does it mean to love God with all your heart, soul, and mind? What does it mean to love one’s neighbor as themselves? It seems simple, but it is anything but. We find it so much harder to love than criticize. Our anger compels our emotional and physical response much more often than our love does. This is the truth. How many times does your love for the other (a caring or compassionate love), and one who is not a spouse, decide your actions? How often does your anger or frustration with the other (and you can include spouse or significant other here) decide your facial expression, your tone, your body language with some almost immediacy? If you are like most humans (and like me), we reveal our frustration and anger much more quickly than we respond out of love or care. When we do, we break this commandment. It is that straightforward.

Our own Protestant theology (for those who are not Roman or Orthodox) struggles with the idea of loving God with such totality. However that command to love God in such a way permeates the Old Testament. “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord, and therefore you shall love the Lord your God.” There is an all encompassing love that is necessary if you and God are to be one. It is a commitment that requires every ounce of who we are. Too often we forget the trinitarian aspect of this commandment. It requires both our mental and spiritual faculties be in the same place, and together this love cries out to our heart, our soul, and our mind. When they bind together in their own triune manner, we find out what it means to love and be loved. I dream of being such a loving person. As noted by Klaus Bockmuehl, a German theologian, too often we fail to understand the comprehensive requirement of such love. As he notes, the love we are affected by needs to be the love we have as an effect. It is both a verb and a noun. It is a state of being and a state of acting. Perhaps we too often (at least as Lutherans) believe in the grace of God, the forgiveness of God. But it reminds me of what I often asked by confirmation students once upon a time, or even my Bible as Literature students now. Do you do what you do so your parents will love you or because your parents love you? The same question could be asked, but instead of parent substitute the word God. We are dependent on the graciousness of God, but again, as Paul notes so well in Romans, we are also called to move beyond the evil we hate. We are to believe in the ideal that the love God gives is sufficient and we are called upon to love as God loves us. That does not mean it we are simply allowed to half-heartedly try, but instead we are called to love with all of our physical, mental, emotional, spiritual selves. That is much more work. And yet I dream of being that person.

Today’s experience with my friends, my colleagues, and with this sad, miserable, and, perhaps, mentally struggling person, reminded me of the pain that can occur when someone is treated in a manner that is discriminatory, a manner that is flat out hurtful, or a manner that demonstrates a profound lack of human respect. I wish that person no harm or ill will, but I am not sure I want to be in a position where I have to deal with that person again. I am grateful to my two female colleagues as well as one male colleague that asked him to leave. I am grateful for a call to the local police department and their response as they did find him down the street and probably had an interesting encounter of their own. I wish we could learn to be more accepting, more open, and simply try more intentionally to live that greatest of the commandments. I hope we can in this Holy Week try to be more intentionally holy, doing whatever that takes. I am reminded of the music of John Michael Talbot. I have used his work before, but I offer it again now. There are times I need to retreat to the quiet and think. There are times I need to believe in the possible. There are times I need to dream.

Thank you as always for reading and I wish you a blessed Holy Week. To my Jewish friends, chag kasher v’same’ach.

Dr. Martin