The Abbot and the Teacher 4

In my last post, I described the strange “nature of the burden” my students and I carry throughout a given semester (cf. 64:7). There, I said that my weakest students — the ones who struggle to carry the burden of their education with me — are often my strongest teachers. I learn the most from them.

Today, writing this from an academic conference where I’m surrounded by friends and colleagues who love teaching and learning, I’m thinking of the quote attributed to Nikos Kazantzakis: “True teachers are those who use themselves as bridges over which they invite their students to cross; then, having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create their own.” It’s a disconcerting image. I hear the pounding of feet. I can almost feel them on my back.

After counseling the abbot of the monastery to be attentive to the burden of authority, Benedict reminds the abbot that he will “have to give an account of his stewardship” (64:7). Benedict is alluding to Jesus’ parables in which a master goes away and leaves a steward in charge of things. When the master returns, the steward has to explain why he did what he did with his responsibility.

In a Benedictine monastery, the abbot is God’s steward (cf. 2:2). His job is to care for the souls under his authority in this life (cf. 2:37-40). Ideally, under his guidance, the entire monastery will help every member run a good race in this life and enjoy beatitude in the next. The abbot, too, is a sort of bridge.

Unlike abbots, teachers do not occupy the position of authority in our students’ lives that abbots occupy in their monks’ lives. But we remain stewards of people who do not belong to us. And there’s more. Teachers can stand among the many possible bridges to truth, goodness, and beauty in this life. So, we are responsible for precious things.

If the abbot is responsible to God, to whom is the teacher responsible? In almost fifteen years of teaching college students, I have never had to explain myself to my students’ parents. Neither have I been called to account by my superiors. And though I value my students’ evaluations of my teaching, they often say more about my students than they do about me. So, to whom am I responsible? To whom will I have to give an account when I’m finished teaching? It seems that I’m answerable to no one. I know my discipline. Everyone seems to trust me to do my job. They even gave me tenure.

But in 64:8 Benedict says the abbot’s “goal must be profit for the monks, not preeminence for himself.” He directs the abbot to see his life in the larger world of others. A teacher must do this too. If Benedict and Kazantzakis are right, then I will have to give an account to God. I hope that account will be the story of pounding feet and many joyful collapses.