Jesus Christ!

Rebels are we, though heavy our hearts shall always be
And no ball or chain, no prison shall keep
We’re the rebels of the sacred heart
         -Flogging Molly, “Rebels of the Sacred Heart”

Professionalism in the Service of Social Justice
         -Loyola University Chicago School of Education motto (ca. 2004)

“Carolyn,” the sweet middle-aged nun who taught my section of “Jesus Christ” had said, “there is no exclamation point in the name of this course. To include one, is to diminish our reverence for the lord.” She tapped the heading at the top of my paper and handed it back to me. As a studious but irreverent goth attending Loyola as a transfer student at the very start of the millennium, I was still adjusting to my new environment: small school, big city, and I hadn’t quite figured out how to adapt my sense of humor to meet the moment. 

I can’t remember her name, but twenty years ago, when I transferred to Loyola and needed a theology credit, I found myself divinely placed in Sister Something’s section of “Jesus Christ.” I had taken a chance with the exclamation point on the first assignment and I was wrong. But she didn’t shame or punish me; instead, she took an interest in me, and I’m a stronger scholar, writer, and human being as a result.

Typically the course consisted of a close reading of the four gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Her section, which met Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 8:00am, was different. On the first day, as she reviewed the densely packed syllabus, Sister Something informed us that we would be reading far more than the standard four. “If you love Jesus Christ like I do, then you’ll want to read everything anyone ever wrote about him, don’t you think?” Sister Something affirmed this truism with a puckish wink and half grin that put my rebellious heart immediately at ease -maybe that's what gave me such punctuational bravado on the first assignment. 

Now look, I do not think anyone -my mom, the pope, even the virgin Mary herself- could love Jesus as much as this sweet little nun, but her point stood. In a purely pedagogical light, the buy-in that resulted from her absolute dominance of logic was impressive even before considering that it was said in the context of doubling the readings for a 100-level required course. And while my affection for JC was luke-warm at best (pun absolutely intended), I did love God, so why wouldn’t I want to read what everyone had to say about his favorite kid?

Sister Something wanted us to appreciate the rhetorical genius of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and she did that by contextualizing the language and politics of their authors. More critically, she wanted us to discover the underpinnings of faith woven through not just the canonical four, but through the words of Mary Magdalene, Thomas, and others. She showed us that we could arrive at truth through critical thinking, relentless research, linguistic competency, and dedicated comparative analysis. I don’t know how she got away with such a significant variation from the typical curriculum, but I also can’t visualize anyone telling her that she couldn’t do something. 

It was that fearlessness that I appreciated most about Sister Something. That her faith was unwavering was a foregone conclusion evinced by her beige orthopedic oxfords and habit, but her faith in us, her faith in our faith?  That was really something. She trusted curiosity to see us through the increased workload. She trusted that the words of these often excluded gospels could reach us in new and personal ways, strengthening our relationship with Christ and building our critical thinking skills. And on more than one morning after a late Thursday night out, she trusted me to stay awake and hold down my corn flakes -at least until the end of class. 

I had done nothing to instill or earn her trust. It was still relatively early in the semester and we had just finished reading John -separate from Matthew, Mark, and Luke. I procrastinated on the essay so I could meet some friends to see The Dropkick Murphys at The Vic. But working through the wee hours, I managed to get the essay done, and miraculously, done quite well. I also managed to get to class on time to turn it in and take notes on the day’s lecture, albeit in sunglasses and absolutely inhaling a large black coffee, but I was there. 

Sister Something believed in grace. She gave even though I had shown that I was unworthy of the gift because, nun or teacher, that’s what we do. And I, in turn, kept showing up. Eight am, three times a week, front row, center seat, because I wanted to. 

When she handed out copies of the Gospel of Thomas, she tapped my desk “you’re going to like this one.” She was not wrong. I loved it. Initially I thought she had found out I dropped “The New Testament” the previous semester and that she was singling me out to keep me from dropping this class too. But no, as in Thomas verse 9, Sister Something was simply scattering seeds trusting that some would bear fruit. 

She won me over with the Gospel of Thomas. It was unlike anything I’d ever read, bridging the gap between traditional Christian truths that my mom eagerly pressed and a universally practical, eminently believable philosophy I could get behind. And while I know that the whole point of faith is to take a leap beyond what is believable, I just wasn’t ready. Fortunately, Sister Something wasn’t in a rush. 

As spring break approached with Easter on its heels, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday on a Sunday. All night. The next morning, as Sister Something dropped a freshly xeroxed copy of the Gospel of Mary Magdalene on my desk, I remembered her first day proclamation: “if you love Jesus, you’ll want to read this.” I don’t know how or when it happened, but somewhere along the line she convinced me that I loved Jesus and dammit I would be reading Mary. On the L, on the way to the Fireside Bowl -I don’t recall what band I was there to see but I didn’t really pay much attention to the show anyway. 

I’ve been thinking about Sister Something a lot this week as I’ve been navigating the onslaught of feedback about my last essay, “The Atlantic Did Me Dirty.” Specifically, I’ve thought about her strategic command of the long game. It was never a matter of either/ or for Sister Something; she had patience and time for everything. Instead she invested in if/ then. If she could open a door into the words of Christ, then perhaps the mess of a girl in the front row will walk through it. If her students see their own values reflected in the Gospel of Mary Magdalene, then maybe their hearts will open to the Holy Mother next. It’s impossible to know for certain if any of this is true, but she seemed comfortable with if/ then, even if “then” never came. I think it was because either way, she had given something. She didn’t try to break my rebellion; instead, she handed over every tool in her toolbox, one by one, so that I could kindle the fire of my own curiosity and values. 

Sometimes I feel like I’ve let Sister Something down. That my inability to love Jesus in the way she envisioned was a personal failure. But then I hit play on some Flogging Molly and get back to work, because the reality of the classroom, whether university or preschool, is far more complex than any magazine article, blog post, or comment section can represent. Our kids come to us with unimaginable burdens and untamable creativity; the only constant is that we have to start where they are at and help light a path forward. When a self-avowed non-reader in the fall is furiously cursing Friar Lawrence by springtime, it’s an obviously satisfying win. But I find it equally fulfilling if that same non-reader asks for a copy of “that elevator book by Jason Reynolds” to borrow. I take my students as far as I can, but I don’t panic if the sparks don’t catch. Eventually they will be ready -or they won’t. I suppose this is the closest I’ve been able to get to taking a leap of faith: trusting that my students will find the stories they need when they need them and in the meantime preparing them to be ready for the opportunity. My objective has never been to protect or destroy the canon, the canon exists because it stands on its own strength. My job is, as it has been since I first transferred to Loyola, to “go forth and set the world on fire.”

Though I will never be on Sister Something’s elite level of compassion and empathy, that won’t stop me from consciously choosing to extend grace to my students whenever I have the opportunity. Not because I’m duty bound to ecumenical vows, but because it’s the human thing to do. Because it’s right. Because Sister Something showed me that it’s what I wanted to do all along. 

Notes, because this week has taught me that people will decontextualize the smallest detail or turn of phrase:

-I spent a few hours this weekend in my basement digging up my old essays from Sister Something’s class. I know her name now, but I’m keeping that detail for myself (and hoping I forget soon) because I like her existing as “Sister Something” if for no other reason than her privacy.

-I don’t actually know if her classroom management approach was as intentional as I give her credit for, but this essay is about how I recall those experiences in hindsight. I know there are things I’ve misremembered. I’m not trying to be perfect, but memories exist how they exist and, accurate or not, they shape our reality. 

-To that end, I don’t know for a fact that it was a Dropkick Murphys show that night. Coulda been Flogging Molly or maybe Let Me Introduce You To The End. And it mighta been the Aragon or the Metro. I’m not a ticket-saver and the actual band is not as important to me as the overall feel and there was a lot of Irish folk punk going on for me at that time.

All my love to BWT and the many talented, compassionate educators I’ve priviledged to work with -in school and in professional organizations. Thank you for your support this week. And to RS for your advice for existing online.