Agora, an interdisciplinary journal grounded in the humanities, is a project of the Luther College Paideia Program. The Luther College Paideia Program encompasses many activities and resources for students, faculty members, and the broader community. It includes an annual lecture series, library acquisitions, student writing services, a faculty development program that includes sabbatical grants and summer workshops, and Agora: The Liberal Arts at Luther College. All these activities receive financial support from the Paideia Endowment, originally established through National Endowment for the Humanities grants matched by friends of Luther College. The Paideia owl logo was designed by Professor of Art John Whelan.
The primary Agora contributors are Luther College faculty; writing is also solicited from other college community members and, occasionally, from outside writers. Agora was established in 1988 by Paideia Director Wilfred F. Bunge, Professor of Religion and Classics, who edited the journal from 1988-1998. Other editors include: Mark Z. Muggli, Professor of English, 1998-2004; Peter A. Scholl, Professor of English, 2004-2014; and Martin Klammer, Professor of English, editor since 2014. Agora is distributed to on-campus faculty and administrators as well as to off-campus friends of the college. Anyone wishing to be included on the print copy list or donate to Agora should contact us at (563) 387-1153 or email agora@luther.edu.
To see the current issue and archival issues online, go to https://www.luther.edu/offices/academicaffairs/paideia/agora SPRING
Introduction
by MARTIN KLAMMER, Professor of English, Editor of Agora
This issue of Agora highlights the 2024-2025 Paideia Texts and Issues Lecture series theme: “Collaboration for the Common Good.”
The call for proposals mentioned various collaborative partnerships, such as faculty members co-teaching a course or collaborating on research with colleagues from other institutions. But perhaps it is no surprise that all four of the collaborations presented in the lecture series were of faculty members collaborating with students in research or performance.
In the first lecture last fall, political science professor Orçun Selçuk and two students presented on collaborating in the research and editing of his book The Authoritarian Divide.
In this issue we feature two faculty-student collaborations presented at Paideia Text and Issues spring lectures.
Professor Jon Jensen (’89) of the philosophy and Environmental Studies departments presented with two students about study abroad courses in Tanzania and the Caribbean.
Music professor Nicholas Shaneyfelt shared his insights as a collaborative pianist, assisted by two students with whom he collaborated in learning and performance.
A third presentation was given by anthropology professor Anita Carrasco and two students on their collaboration in producing the forthcoming book: Invisible Battles of “Ordinary”Moms: Stories of Disability Advocacy in Iowa.
Beyond the classroom, music studio, and study abroad experience, this issue includes the unusual story of an alumnus collaborating with one of his former professors.
Christopher Cudworth (’79) writes about his collaboration with Professor Richard Simon Hanson almost fifty years after he was first inspired by him in a Freshman Studies class. Decades later Hanson shared with Cudworth a manuscript he had written but not published. Hanson gave Cudworth permission to develop a co-authored book out of the manuscript, which was published in 2022: Honest-To-Goodness: Why Christianity Needs a Reality Check and How to Make It Happen. “One of its primary topics is reconciling natural science with religion,” Cudworth writes in this issue, “a belief that Dr. Hanson and I both held deeply.”
That book, interestingly enough, was mentioned by Pastor Mike Wilker in his homily honoring Professor Hanson at a celebration honoring his life, held March 22 at Luther. Professor Hanson passed away on September 23, 2024, in Fitchburg, Wisconsin. In this issue we offer a tribute to Simon (his preferred name) with three contributions: Christopher Cudworth’s essay, Pastor Wilker’s homily, and one of Simon’s poems shared at the celebration.
Simon came to Luther in 1949 from rural Baldwin, Wisconsin, where he grew up on a dairy farm. One of his classmates was Professor Emeritus Wilfred Bunge, who spoke at the celebration of their remarkable 75-year friendship at Luther College, Luther Seminary, Harvard University, where they earned their doctorates, then back to Luther for their academic careers.
Richard Simon Hanson taught religion at Luther from 1963 to 1999. In retirement, he cared for his wife Rita who had Parkinson’s disease. When Rita died in 2009, Simon volunteered as “spiritual advisor” to people in hospice at Winneshiek Medical Center and as
chaplain at Aase Haugen. Our spring 2016 issue features “An Interview with Richard Simon Hanson on Death and Dying” [https://www.luther.edu/offices/ academic-affairs/paideia/agora].
Simon’s teaching was largely collaborative. One of my earliest memories at Luther was hearing his class dancing and singing the psalms in Hebrew on the lawn in front of Main. After Agora published the 2016 interview with Simon, a 1966 Luther graduate wrote to us:
I remember Professor Hanon’s gift for engaging students at a convocation where he had groups of us singing different orchestra instruments in a round. It seems his gift continued by getting people to tell their own stories. It broadened my awareness of how important it is to attend to the meaning others assign to their lives, especially at the end of life. Thank you, Professor Hanson, for a wonderful lesson!
Collaboration continues to play an important part in student learning and success at Luther. In one of the firstgeneration student essays in this issue, a student wrote:
I have been fortunate to meet faculty members who have been generous with their time, listening to my experiences and providing informal mentorship. Their encouragement and advice have helped guide me through the academic and personal challenges I face, giving me a sense of stability and direction. I have also connected with students who, while different from me, share stories of perseverance and resilience. Although our paths are not identical, their support has helped me feel less alone in this journey.
BY
On February 14, seven of his former students honored John Strauss, Professor Emeritus of Music, with a recital in honor of his 50 years of teaching and leadership. From left: Matthew Umphreys (’11), Jordan Buchholz (’13), Sarah May (’10), Charles Hoeft (’14), Nathan Eck (’22), Robert S. Ragoonanan (’14), Kyle Knoepfel (’04), and John Strauss.
A special kind of collaboration took place last February when seven former students of John Strauss, Professor Emeritus of Music, gave a retirement celebration recital in honor of his 50 years of teaching and mentorship. As the seven alumni warmly welcomed Professor Strauss to the stage, I grabbed my phone to get a picture of this memorable moment, but was too late. Fortunately, another audience member was ready. That photographer was Professor Du Huang, one of John Strauss’s colleagues. Du was happy to share this photo with Agora—an unexpected and appreciated collaboration.
PHOTO
HUANG,
The Dr. Reneé Watson First Generation Student Essay Contest
Editor’s Note:
In this issue we are happy to feature the winning essays from a writing contest initiated by Dr. Reneé Watson, Interim Dean for Student Engagement, who generously donated $500 for the first-place prize. The contest was organized by Jake Dyer, Director of Student Activities and Leadership Development.
Twenty-three students submitted essays on the theme of resiliance. I offered to judge the contest and publish the winning essay in this issue.
First-generation students compose just under one-fourth of the student body at Luther. I hope you enjoy and are inspired by these writings, as I was.
Winner: Geremiah Brown ’26
Growing up every day was a fight. I watched my mother fight to provide and take care of her six children on top of herself. Life would try to put her down, but she just put one foot in front of the other and overcame any challenge. That’s when I learned what it truly meant to be resilient. My biggest challenge thus far…college. I hope to inspire or help future first-generation college students through my experiences.
My journey first started at a junior college in California. I had to worry about balancing a job, sports, buying food, paying rent, traveling expenses, buying school supplies and maintaining good grades. Being a first-generation college student, I couldn’t ask family members how they dealt with my issues because they hadn’t experienced it. I began to think that college just wasn’t in the books for people like me. But how could I give up? What would that tell my younger siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins? Was the resilience that I learned from my mother all for naught? Eliminating the thought of quitting and
Contest
winner Geremiah Brown with Martin Klammer, Agora editor, and Dr. Reneé Watson, Interim Dean for Student Engagement
believing that I could reach my goals was the first step to success. That first year of college I learned many valuable life lessons which included: time management, budgeting, saving, how to find resources and how to accept help. I learned that when the going gets tough and you want to give up and quit, you are going to need a strong support system that you can fall back on. It is important to surround yourself with people who are going towards the same goals as you and who care about you. My experiences helped me to tighten my close circle. I knew that the people around me weren’t there to hold me back but were there to propel me forward. And forward I went.
I am actively conquering a challenge that I once deemed impossible.
I wouldn’t change any of my past experiences because they got me where I am today, a junior in college. I am actively conquering a challenge that I once deemed impossible. Moving one thousand miles away from home wasn’t an impossible task because I knew that I had acquired the resilience to fight through anything. I trusted my time management skills and found time to study more, and I am now on track to finish this semester with a 4.0. I budgeted the money that I earned over summer so that I could buy books and still have spending money for the school year. I found my on-campus resources, like TRIO, that could help me to be successful. I went from fearing college to embracing it. I went from not being sure if I could do college to being proof to others that it is possible. I went from searching for help to being that help for others. It all started because I didn’t run away from my challenges, but I was resilient and turned those hardships into
But
how could I give up? What would that tell my younger siblings? Was the resilience that I learned from my mother all for naught?
lessons. I learned from those lessons and developed the skills to get through not just the academics or college, but the difficulty of life that comes with it.
College isn’t easy; being a first-generation college student makes it that much harder, but turning any challenge that you face into a valuable life lesson will help you to build your resilience. And as I learned, a little bit of resilience goes a long way.
Honorable Mention Excerpts
Navigating college life as a first-generation Haitian student in the United States has been a profound journey of transition, identity, and resilience. While many assume that the biggest challenges international first-generation students face are financial or cultural, the mental burdens and emotional expectations are equally, if not more, significant. For me, the weight of carrying my family’s dreams across continents, combined with the solitude that comes from lacking mentors who understand my unique experience, has shaped my journey at Luther College in unexpected ways… Over time, I have started to overcome these challenges, discovering resilience and finding my own support network at Luther College. I sought out spaces where I could connect with people who, though they might not share my exact background, could offer guidance, encouragement, and understanding. I have been fortunate to meet faculty members who have been generous with their time, listening to my experiences and providing informal mentorship. Their encouragement and advice have helped guide me through the academic and personal challenges I face, giving me a sense of stability and direction. I have also connected with students who, while different from me, share stories of perseverance and resilience.
Although our paths are not identical, their support has helped me feel less alone in this journey. I have learned to embrace the strength that comes from independence. I am learning to navigate my own path with confidence and self-reliance. I now draw strength from knowing I am forging my own way, blending the pride my family holds for me with my own evolving sense of self.
Christ-Berly Derival ’26
I now draw strength from knowing I am forging my own way, blending the pride my family holds for me with my own evolving sense of self.
As I watched my grades plummet, my confidence and self-worth dropped along with them. I had never experienced such low mental health, and for the first time, I began to question my place here. By the end of my freshman year, I was seriously considering leaving Luther and transferring to River Falls for a fresh start. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and my family’s confusion about my academic struggles only amplified these feelings. To them, it looked like I was not trying hard enough, and I began to wonder if I was even capable of doing better. For a while, I even considered abandoning my undergraduate studies altogether. Then, in a crucial turning point, the Center for Academic Enrichment (CAE) reached out to me. I had never been one to ask for help, but I knew I had to take a step forward. With support from peer tutoring sessions and regular visits to my professors’ office hours, I gradually found my footing. I worked hard, guided by the structure and encouragement I had been missing, and over the course of one semester, I went from academic probation to the Dean’s List. Since then, my journey has still included ups and downs, but I have come to see these fluctuations as part of my growth. The lows have taught me to cherish the highs, and I feel a renewed sense of purpose and pride in my place at Luther College.
Kressin Hartl ’25
At times, I’ve felt lost and unsure of what to do. There are various little experiences that some of my peers have learned from their parents that I just don’t know about, and the difficulty comes in the fact that I don’t know what I don’t know. One example of this is financing. Nobody in my family was entirely sure how student loans work, and the process of paying for my schooling was foreign to me and my family. The lack of passed-down experience and wisdom has forced me to go out and learn things for myself, whether it was teaching myself as much as I could about student loans, or learning about all the on-campus resources available to me. Having to teach myself about new things and find my own help helped me develop my self-advocacy skills. I feel that I learned a lot about the importance of being vigilant with self-advocacy, especially when it comes to overcoming new challenges. Arif Seepersaud ’27
The lack of passed-down experience and wisdom has forced me to go out and learn things for myself.
A blank canvas is an exciting challenge, but it also taunts you. As if to say, “You know you can’t achieve perfection, so why bother.” What I’ve learned during my time at Luther as a first generation student is that you have to bother. To bother is proof that I do belong here, I should be here. Every new connection I make, every time I walk Trout Run Trail, every meal I cook for my friends, is a new and beautiful stroke of paint on the canvas that is me. I’m trying, I’m persisting, I’m practicing grace for myself. I am refusing to let myself fall into the cookie cutter version of myself that society has deemed I must be. I still struggle, I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. But that doesn’t mean that I must resign to a predetermined fate. Because I believe fate is what you make it.
Tyler Belanger
’25
I’m trying, I’m persisting, I’m practicing grace for myself.
My parents, being immigrants, always emphasized the importance of education, as they never had the opportunities that I do. Entering college, I felt a profound responsibility to set an example for my younger siblings. However, my college journey did not begin as smoothly as I had hoped. I made mistakes, struggled to adjust, and faced setbacks that made me question my path. These early difficulties, though, were crucial in pushing me to reassess my approach. Now, as a senior, I have embraced education with renewed seriousness, focusing on continuous self-improvement and development. Fernando Ruiz Vega ’25
Being the first in college has left me with a lot of people depending on me and hoping that I am always the best. In my parents’ eyes I am their future and even though my family has said that they will always love me, I know I can’t give up. As a daily routine, I wake up, eat really fast, go to classes while having intense migraines, go to a long work shift, go back to my dorm to study for hours, and then try to squeeze sleep in before doing it all over again. I have had people talk to me and ask, “Why don’t you work less or quit your job?” I always reply by saying, “It’s not that simple.” I have outlier school stuff to pay, gas to pay, home stuff to pay, daily necessities to pay, and I also strive to travel abroad in January. Quitting my job will make things worse and not better for myself overall. There are times that I may cry or curl up in a ball feeling frustrated, but I always get up everyday and work hard, again and again. Through my experience I have learned to have patience, to be strong, to take care of myself, and to never give up.
Summer Hogenson ‘26
Overall, my experience as a first-generation college student has been transformative. I have learned that resilience is not just about withstanding adversity; it is about embracing change. Although at times it is challenging to navigate
life, the challenges I have encountered have deepened my understanding of my place in the world, reminding me that “I can” at times where I might feel like I am not good or doing enough. Enocentia Matsebula ’27
Initially, the idea of being “first” felt isolating. I wasn’t sure what being first-generation meant in terms of my role or responsibilities. My parents, who had not attended college, didn’t understand the college process in a way that could offer any guidance. This lack of shared experience left me to figure things out on my own. But now, as I am on the path to being the first in my family to earn a bachelor’s degree, I see this identity not as a burden, but as a source of motivation. I am striving to create a future where the expectation of higher education becomes a possibility, even a norm, for the next generation in my family.
Carina Crouse
’26
In my parents’ eyes I am their future and even though my family has said that they will always love me, I know I can’t give up.
God’s Glory in the Fullness of the Earth
by MICHAEL WILKER, Pastor at First Lutheran Church, Decorah
Editor’s Note: This sermon was given at a celebration of the life of Richard Simon Hanson, held at Luther College on March 22, 2025.
Apprehend God in all things, for God is in all things. Every single creature is full of God and a book about God. Every creature is a word of God. If I spent enough time with the tiniest creature—even a caterpillar—I would never have to prepare a sermon. So full of God is every creature.
That quote is from Meister Eckhart, a thirteenth century priest, poet, philosopher, and mystic—a master of language and learning.
It could have been Meister Richard Simon Hanson!
Dear Rebecca, Rodney, and Randy, friends and family, colleagues and students, all who have gathered today to remember a remarkable life:
We come together to share our gratitude for knowing—and being loved and taught—by a man who understood what Meister Eckhart meant when he spoke of finding God in all things.
In the book of Isaiah there is a line that we sing at almost every Eucharist. Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Simon, though, translated the line from Isaiah 6 as “the fullness of the earth is the glory of the LORD.”
The fullness and abundance of creation is the glory of God, and God designs to infuse every part of it and to wear its abundance as the splendored robes. Seeing God’s glory in the fullness of the earth permeated Simon’s life as farmer’s son, scholar, teacher, poet, husband, father, artist, and chaplain.
One of Simon’s former students, Christopher Cudworth, published a book in 2022 called Honest to Goodness. Over the years since his graduation, Christopher and Simon had often corresponded. Maybe some of you had that same experience. Once a student of Richard Simon Hanson—always a student. Within Christopher’s own book, Simon gave permission to publish his own manuscript: Religion from the Earth.
In the book Simon writes: “No matter what my name or my particular cultural tradition, I am ultimately the Adam
who is made of the dust of the earth. The only way in which I can be a child of God is to be, as well, a child of the earth. My story begins there. That is where it shall end.”
This integrated identity—dust of earth and breath of God—shaped Simon’s understanding of Scripture and his approach to life. Like the author of Ecclesiastes, whom Simon so beautifully translated, he was preacher, teacher, poet, and counselor. He embodied Qoheleth’s wisdom, finding joy in life while acknowledging its toil.
Listen to the resonance of Simon’s translation from Ecclesiastes:
“There is nothing better for Adam than that he eat but also drink and see life as good through his labor. I have surely seen that this is from the hand of God.”
From his childhood on the dairy farm to his scholarly work at Luther College and beyond, from his archaeological expeditions to his care for Rita during her
Michael Wilker
Richard Simon Hanson at home, 2016
LUTHER COLLEGE AGORA PHOTO
illness, Simon understood the sacred nature of labor and found meaning in it.
His translation of Ecclesiastes speaks poignantly of companionship:
“Two are better than one. Two who have a reward, namely, good in their labor. If either should fall, the one can pick up his companion...
A braided rope is not easily broken.”
Simon lived these words through his 55-year marriage to Rita, especially during her battle with Parkinson’s disease. This understanding of sacred companionship extended beyond his marriage to his relationships with family, colleagues, students, and later, to those he served as hospice chaplain.
The grandfather said, “Well, my granddaughter and grandson can do that.
I’m good at hearing things, and they’re good at throwing stones!”
Simon had a gift for finding the sacred in the ordinary, for hearing divine harmony where others might hear only silence—not unlike the wisdom found in this ancient story he once told at a storytelling workshop in Spring Grove. Maybe he told this story to some of his grandchildren.
There was an elderly blind man who had once been a shepherd near Bethlehem. One night, when the other shepherds were heading to the hills, he wanted to join them.
“How will you go?” they asked.
“I have a young granddaughter and grandson,” he replied. “They’ll each hold one hand, and I’ll make it up real fine.”
So the grandson and granddaughter took their grandfather’s hands, and they went up to the hilltop.
The shepherds gathered the animals and made a small fire. Then a messenger came running, saying, “Hey! Over there! A little baby’s just been born. You’ve got to go see it!”
The other shepherds were eager to go, but wondered who would watch the sheep.
So while the shepherds went to see the baby, the grandfather and children remained, listening to the night.
After a while, the grandfather asked, “Can you hear it?”
“What?” the children asked.
“The stars are singing,” he said. “Really?”
“Yes, the stars are singing. Listen... They seem to be singing.
Do you know what they are singing?
‘Shalom, shalom, peace on earth.
Kavod, kavod. Glory in the highest. Peace on earth.’”
When the other shepherds returned, they had seen the baby. The old man and the children—they had heard the stars.
And if you go out at night, the stars are still singing that song.
Like that old shepherd he told about, Simon had the wisdom to listen deeply—to scripture, to creation, to the people around him. He heard the music that others might miss. Through his translations, teaching, and presence, he helped others hear it too.
The final passages of Ecclesiastes that Simon translated now speak directly to us:
“Sweet is the light! And good it is for the eyes to see the sun!
Indeed, if there be many years for a person, may that human rejoice in all of them. And remember the days of darkness, for they too become many.”
“So the dust returns to the earth as it was and the breath goes back to the God who gave it. How fleeting it is, how swiftly passing. Like a scent on the breeze.”
Simon lived this truth—our lives are brief, yet precious. As his obituary tells us, he was “always the performer,” entertaining his nine younger siblings, singing, playing instruments. He was passionate about storytelling, theater, music, art, poetry. He found delight in what Ecclesiastes calls “the days of your youth” even as he grew in wisdom through the years.
Simon reminds us that our greatest calling is to recognize our place in this sacred relationship—as children of earth and children of God—and to help others see this connection too. To hear the stars singing in the darkness. To find meaning in labor and joy in companionship.
As we commend Simon to the earth and to God, we give thanks for a life well-lived—a life that illuminated the sacred text of creation and helped us all to read it more clearly.
May we, in our own ways, continue Simon’s legacy of helping others hear the stars singing:
“Shalom, shalom. Kavod, Kavod. Peace on earth. Glory in the highest.” Amen.
Professor Emeritus Wilfred Bunge speaks at the celebration of life for Richard Simon Hanson.
“What if God is a Verb?”: Memories of Richard Simon Hanson
by CHRISTOPHER CUDWORTH ‘79
As a 1975 Luther freshman, I wrote home about a professor who made a big impression. “Dear family,” I related, “A good day of classes. One in particular really set my thoughts to rolling. In our Freshman Studies class, a religion professor gave ideas out on ecology in collaboration with Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. This guy was great, giving the truth about people’s preconception that the land they own is theirs to do with what they want, including destroying it. Also mentioning that many people do not feel that land is good unless it is developed.”
The visiting professor that day was Dr. Richard Simon Hanson. Back in 1975, I could not imagine that I’d one day collaborate with him on a book titled Honest-To-Goodness: Why Christianity Needs a Reality Check and How to Make It Happen. One of its primary topics is reconciling natural science with religion, a belief that Dr. Hanson and I both held deeply.
He read about my first theology book, The Genesis Fix, How Biblical Literalism Affects Politics, Culture, and the Environment in a Luther alumni art show biography. Soon after, I received a typewritten letter on Luther College stationery that read: “I was fascinated by your acrylic watercolor in the show that honors Prof. [Doug] Eckheart and even more fascinated by what you wrote about yourself in the booklet, especially by the title of your book.”
He said, “I haven’t read it yet, but I think I will like it. By chance, did you read my 1972 publication, The Serpent Was Wiser? I ask because I am wondering if it triggered your idea. If I had a copy, I would send it, but I am down to one, and I am keeping that for the family to have. It was an Augsburg publication and proved to be somewhat controversial––even engendering some hate mail from California! I am sure it was too anti-fundamental, even to the extent that a professor at Luther
The author’s 1975 letter home to family about a class with Professor Richard Simon Hanson
Christopher Cudworth
Seminary who had once taken a course from me wrote a ‘correct’ interpretation of that part of the Book of Genesis––also published by Augsburg at about the time they stopped publishing any of my contributions.” He closed with, “It was good to see you again.”
I was honored that Dr. Hanson bought and read my book. He filled his copy with comments and sent it to me. His insights confirmed much of what I observed about the conflicted nature of Christianity due to misleading literalistic interpretations of scripture. I compared these modern trends to the legalistic habits of the Pharisees and Scribes in Jesus’ day, and Dr. Hanson observed, “It was their tradition” leading them to create stumbling blocks to God.
Reading his observations was energizing. On one page of my book, he scrawled, “What if God is a verb?” I adored that idea because I wrote in The Genesis Fix that “grace appreciated” is a tandem call to accept grace eagerly and to actively grow it, as exemplified in many parables, including the Ten Talents (Luke 19:11-27), the Yeast in
the Dough (Matthew 13:33), and the Mustard Seed (Mark 4:30-32). A year or two after our initial correspondence and some social visits to his home in Decorah, I received a thick manila envelope from Dr. Hanson. It was a typewritten manuscript titled Religion From Earth. “I’m no longer going to publish,” he wrote in a note. “You can use any or all of this in a future book.”
When I read it, I loved that his writing leveraged a profound grasp of Judaic scripture balanced with anecdotes about teaching students about the relationship between earth and spirituality. His insights expanded on the scriptural use of metonymy I’d written about in The Genesis Fix: “a figure of speech consisting of the use of the name of one thing for that of another of which it is an attribute or with which it is associated.”
He cited many Old Testament texts, including excerpts from Proverbs, Psalms, and many others.
As Dr. Hanson and I got to know each other better, we’d relate stories about how our life experiences confirmed the instincts to reconcile ancient wisdom to modern experience. He discussed taking Luther students into the winter wilderness and how that experience clarified spirituality. As a lifelong birder, I felt similar wonder in wild places, noting that Jesus and John the Baptist turned to the wilderness for clarity. But life had its practical challenges as well. Dr. Hanson and I each experienced caregiving roles with dying spouses. After his wife Rita’s passing, he continued work in the hospice space. Meanwhile, I guided my late wife through eight years of cancer survivorship while serving as the principal caregiver for my late father, a stroke victim. I wrote a memoir about the value of vulnerability in a caregiving book titled The Right Kind of Pride
Over time, my visits with Dr. Hanson became a pilgrimage. I felt like a Hobbit visiting Gandalf for those doses of wisdom, a sensation heightened by the steep climb up his limestone steps to the front door. We’d meet in the living room, where his sculptures and artwork joined birds’ nests and rock collections as conversation points. Our talks covered many subjects but typically began with one of his gentle inquiries, such
as “What are you up to?” That question seems innocent enough but is also disarming because it makes you choose how much to reveal about yourself. Those spiritual and practical consultations proved meaningful in context with the emerging culture wars over conservative and liberal ideology in American society. I decided to expand on the theme of my first book by focusing on honesty about Christianity’s origins and history. I hired a friend to enter Dr. Hanson’s typewritten manuscript Religion From Earth into a Word document. I wrote the introduction as follows: “Getting Christianity back on the right path today is a difficult task because many believers refuse to admit that the Christian religion has ever been wrong about anything. That is why it is so hard to help folks comprehend that religion can cause real suffering in this world. The track record does not lie. Christianity has been used to block civil rights, brand love between two people sinful, and denigrate useful science.”
I researched Christianity’s boldest voices including Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who asked whether humanity’s increasing ability to cope with its problems without the hypothesis of God might
not indicate the obsolescence of the religious premise upon which Christianity had hitherto been based. He asserted that the Church ought to affirm man’s humanity in a “world come of age.” Bonhoeffer also pointedly challenged Hitler’s claim that Jesus’ principal cause was as a fighter against the Jews.
In seeking a parallel scholarship, I explored Martin Luther’s writings only to discover his late anti-Semitism, though earlier he confessed that Christians seeking to convert Jews did so in adverse ways: “If I had been a Jew and had seen such dolts and blockheads govern and teach the Christian faith, I would sooner have become a hog than a Christian.”1 Sadly, such confessions did little to assuage centuries of anti-Semitism, as Hitler maintained that he was doing to Jews what Christians had done for 1500 years.
Christianity’s literalistic and legalistic sins bleed through history’s veil, and the problem is not self-correcting. In 2025, fundamentalist apologetics fuel authoritarian theology in apparent defiance of Jesus’ ministry. This movement has taken on the form of Christian Nationalism, a clear breach of America’s Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Religion Department in 1979 Pioneer yearbook. From left, standing and seated: Wilfred Bunge, Bruce Wrightsman, Conrad Simonson (later Royksund), John Fairweather, Loyal Rue, Harris Kaasa, Paul Hjelle, Brad Hanson, and Richard Simon Hanson. Not pictured are Orlin Mandsager and John Sieber.
NOTES
1. Martin Luther, “That Jesus Christ was Born a Jew,” Trans. Walter I. Brandt, in Luther’s Works (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1962), pp. 200–201, 229.
WORKS CITED
Cudworth, Christopher, The Genesis Fix: How Biblical Literalism Affects Politics, Culture, and the Environment (Human Nature Publishing, 2007).
Cudworth, Christopher. The Right Kind of Pride: A Chronicle of Character, Caregiving and Community (2014).
These issues drove the subtitle of our book, Why Christianity Needs a Reality Check and How to Make It Happen. It is far past time to challenge the false authority of legalistic Christianity and its equally corrupt and unbiblical nationalistic intentions. We look at the historical context of religion’s flaws to propose fixes and solutions that Christians and non-Christians can agree upon and respect. Before passing away in 2024, Dr. Hanson shared that he was happy his treatise Religion From Earth would be published. He made sure I understood the subtitle he submitted: “Meditational Goals in Honor of Such Saints as Francis of Assisi and Chief Seattle,” a fitting description of how we need to draw from history to consider the times we’re in.
Cudworth, Christopher and Richard Simon Hanson. Honest-To-Goodness: Why Christianity Needs a Reality Check and How to Make It Happen (2022). Hanson, Richard Simon. The Serpent Was Wiser: A New Look at Genesis 1-11 (Augsburg Publishing House, 1972).
Christopher Cudworth freshman photo, 1976 Pioneer yearbook
What It Means to Die
by RICHARD SIMON HANSON, 1931-2024
Thereare some who fancy a future in a mythical place called Heaven, a place inaccessible to scientific probing but apparently obvious to folks of religious faith, an invisible satellite of earth designed for family folks and some folks’ favorite pets.
But, being realistic about what goes on when we finish: there are children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and good friends in a future we can see and hear and enjoy before finally closing our eyes to finish the doings of our lives; a future we helped to produce—bits of ourselves going on in the lives of others, here and there and truly real.
The Steinway Philharmonic Community From a Collaborative Pianist’s Perspective
by NICHOLAS SHANEYFELT, Associate Professor of Music
Thank you and good evening. I’m thankful to Paideia Director Kathy Reed for making “collaboration” the keyword of this year’s Paideia Text and Issues lectures. We’ve already seen two examples of faculty engaged in collaborative work with their students, and we’ll see another two weeks from now. I feel fortunate to be part of a campus community that places value and emphasis on the liberal arts, and to work and live in a town in which musical and artistic expression are alive and well, where they are produced at a high level and consumed enthusiastically by our students, colleagues, and members of the community. I’m happy to see a cross-section of our department and members of our community here representing that population. As Kathy mentioned earlier, there is a profound understanding of the work of a collaborative pianist baked into the culture here, and that’s thanks to the work of my colleagues and the groundwork that my predecessor Jessica Paul provided before I set foot on this campus. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that; it made coming into this role in 2016 effortless for me.
We learn to be chameleons of a sort, learning the interpersonal dynamics of each person or group that we work with.
Based on that cultural ethos, you probably know that collaborative pianists get to have their hands in a lot of cookie jars. We are called to play for recitalists, both vocal and instrumental, and for opera rehearsals, musicals, choral performances, seminar classes, concerto competitions, solo and ensemble competitions (which happened at the
high school this past weekend), voice lessons, etc. Because of these dynamics, we learn to be chameleons of a sort, learning the interpersonal dynamics of each person or group that we work with. We learn when to be a leader from the piano, to just be barely there, to interject our expertise; how to convey advice with encouragement, how to motivate; when to provide Kleenex. We build up our musical partners, encourage them backstage when they forget a word or phrase, and sometimes we hold their feet to the fire when they need that, too. We hold trusted information in confidence.
Many of you are nodding in agreement because you have been impacted in one of these ways, or because you are a collaborative pianist and have learned these lessons yourself. I apologize in advance if this presentation tells you something you already know, but I hope it will also reframe your prior knowledge and create new perspectives about being a collaborative musician. I, too, am still learning more about these aspects, and while I haven’t always been explicitly aware of this, tonight I would like to demonstrate how the human qualities of empathy, connection, and shared goals are central to my work and the work of any collaborative pianist and, more broadly, any collaborative musician. I’d also like to share how my work at Luther College has helped me become more aware of my role in shaping musical character and personality, helping to build community one collaboration at a time, and therefore contributing to this year’s theme of “collaboration for the common good.”
I can’t take credit for the title of this talk, “The Steinway Philharmonic.” It’s the title of a chapter in the book of my mentor and professor emeritus at the University of Michigan, Martin Katz. I believe Martin cannot take credit for that term, either. It was coined by one
Shaneyfelt
of his students, I believe, informally in studio class, and it took hold quickly. I love that term because it suggests that this instrument is a generator of timbre and color. When we play repertoire originally intended for an orchestra, whether concerto or operatic, we have to envision this instrument as an orchestra. That means we must know the instrumentation: when the strings are playing, when they are pizzicato; or when brass or percussion instruments are playing. This concept of the Steinway Philharmonic is also pertinent to solo piano playing. We think about composers like Scriabin who were obsessed with the idea of color. Scriabin, in fact, invented a color organ as a result of his synesthesia. Liszt, who brought piano arrangements of large-scale orchestral works into the salon, is another composer who comes to mind. I brought a small excerpt from the Gershwin Concerto in F to give you an idea of what we may have to accomplish. Here’s a short clip. [Music] In the span of five seconds, we have to make timpani, bass drum, snare drum, and cymbals make sense on the piano.
Nicholas
In one of my first lectures in my accompanying class, I love to talk about where we’ve been, where we’ve come from, and where we’re going. Here’s example number one. This is Heifetz playing a Brahms Hungarian Dance [Video clip] The pianist is nowhere to be found in this two minute clip! The next clip is another violinist, Oistrakh, playing the Kreisler Liebesleid. [Video clip] Ably assisted by a pianist, who is shrouded behind a decorative curtain. [Video clip] Now, if my teacher knew I was sharing this next clip with you, he would probably be angry with me, but here we go. Here’s another example of what we have to endure. Sometimes the music won’t stay on the desk. [Comic video clip of accompanist’s score fluttering off of the music rack.]
All joking aside, the first collegiate program in accompanying was established at the University of Southern California in the 1940s by a pianist named Gwendolyn Koldofsky, and the first doctoral degrees in collaborative piano were awarded in 1972. This idea of collaborative piano is, in the grand scheme of classical music, quite new, and still evolving. In fact, the first person to be awarded a degree in collaborative piano in this country was a professor by the name of Jean Barr, recently retired from the Eastman School of Music.
In my first accompanying class, I also introduce the term “accompanist” and how it has evolved. Many of us here know that today we use the terms “accompanist” and “collaborative pianist” interchangeably. However, I think “collaborative pianist” suggests that the pianist is on an equal plane with their partners. I don’t necessarily feel this way myself when I am referred to as an accompanist, but “accompanist” has the danger of suggesting a hierarchy in which the pianist is on the bottom rung of the ladder. I want to file that idea away.
Tonight, I ask, why do we delineate between what is collaborative and what is not, when collaboration is at the heart of so many musical performances? I’m looking at all of the musicians in this room, pianist or not, and everybody has been collaborative in nature at some point. I’ve often explained that the term
“collaborative piano” was necessary solely because of the amount of repertoire for solo piano alone. It would take multiple lifetimes to consume all of it. Add to that chamber music repertoire, opera, concerti, instrumental sonatas for strings, woodwinds, and brass, and art song, and collaborative repertoire alone will also keep you busy for many lifetimes. This certainly does not mean that solo pianists cannot also be successful collaborative pianists and vice versa. But I think there is more to the story than simply the amount of repertoire.
Of course, to be a successful collaborative pianist and to be a successful musician, you have to be at the top of your game musically. You must shape beautiful phrases, think on your feet, and play thousands of notes at a time correctly. But as a collaborative pianist, I believe you also have to be a supportive, encouraging, empathetic partner. I’d like to, at this moment, re-emphasize the importance of human connection and motivation toward a shared goal.
My first paradigm shift in terms of thinking of my role as a collaborative pianist and thinking about what I do came in 2017, after one year of college teaching here at Luther. I applied to and was accepted into the NATS [National Association for Teachers of Singing] intern program. This program brings together every summer voice teachers and
collaborative pianists at the beginning of their college teaching careers to share notes and learn from master teachers about good teaching techniques. You get to work with students and see colleagues work with students in a masterclass setting. I had the opportunity to work with another popular collaborative pianist named Warren Jones. I should preface this by saying that Martin Katz, my mentor and author of The Complete Collaborator: The Pianist as Partner, Warren, and I often bill ourselves as collaborative pianists and vocal coaches. Inherent in vocal coaching is knowledge of multiple languages, facility in diction, and the ability to discuss text, interpretation, style, and ensemble. On the difference between “coaching” and “rehearsing,” Warren told me, “I never coach somebody I’m going to perform with. I only rehearse with somebody I will be performing with.” I had never thought of that, even after multiple degrees and a year of teaching at Luther. That distinction is now very important to me. When a student walks into the room for a vocal coaching with me, there is an inherent student-teacher relationship at play, meaning the student is there to learn something from the teacher, and a transfer of knowledge is about to take place. Even though we teachers know that teaching is often as instructive for us as it is for the student, rehearsing is a different story. In
Nicholas Shaneyfelt collaborating with a Dorian Festival student violinist.
rehearsing, the exchange of information should go both ways, and we must exist on an equal plane. That doesn’t happen instantaneously. A student needs to feel agency in order to feel like an equal partner in the rehearsal. They need to be given power and agency to determine the things they want to work on, which areas of the music they want to isolate, which places they want to prioritize. I also want them to feel agency in making interpretive choices. We may try things that don’t work, and that’s okay. That’s part of the rehearsal process.
I have Lani Himegarner (’24) to thank for her perception and observation of this situation, out of which this lecture was born. Lani took collaborative piano lessons with me under the umbrella of vocal coaching, and she also engaged me to accompany her cello recital. After the process of rehearsing and performing the recital, she pointed out to me that the dynamic between us in rehearsals was markedly different from lessons. Historically, I’ve taken that distinction for granted, chiefly because I switch between those two modes constantly in my work here. Lani found that our musical collaboration transcended the teacher-student hierarchy that is so typical and yet so important to a student’s musical development. If paradigm shift #1 was about Warren Jones informing me about coaching versus rehearsal, then paradigm shift #2 is about the awareness of the student-teacher dynamic and how to work around that dynamic in a musical collaboration via our shared common goal of a performance.
Lani wrote: “One of the biggest themes surrounding collaborative piano and collaboration in general is the concept of equality in the partnership. As a collaborative pianist, you are not only responsible for knowledge and preparation of your own part but also an intricate understanding of the soloist’s line. That philosophy does not always extend to the soloist as they prepare, but it should. In my experience, knowing how I would approach a piece from either perspective was hugely helpful in my studies of the piece as a whole and made it easier for me to listen to each line and understand how they interact
with one another throughout the piece. Taking on a different role from piano student to soloist shifted the dynamic simply in the sense that it became more equal. In a teacher-student relationship, it is not that there is an unequal power dynamic, but each person is holding a different kind of role toward the same goal: improvement of the student. In collaborating, the performance becomes equally theirs, and each person is working on the performance of their individual parts towards the goal of the same performance. In this way, I felt like I had more agency over the performance and that I had the authority to make the decisions regarding the musicality and overall message. Especially with this recital being on my primary instrument, it made it easier to communicate musical ideas.”
Ideally, it would be great to recreate a mock rehearsal for you on stage, but as I planned this talk, I realized that no matter how hard I try, this setting–a performance venue–and the people in this room are never going to make it feel like a rehearsal. It would feel like a jumbled performance. Combined with our anxiety about trying to be spontaneous and letting our inhibitions go, it wouldn’t work well. So, I have to pivot to show you what I’m getting at.
what you want. This brings ideas about control to mind. Is the singer or instrumentalist in control? The pianist? How often does control exchange between parties? Is it possible for two people to have control at the same time? My first rehearsals with students I’ve never met or worked with before are about building trust and learning to trust each other. Particularly with instrumentalists, though also with singers, I want to learn how they breathe, cue, and gesture, and I want them to take notice of how I do that, too. This, for me, is the first step in giving a musician agency in their performance. Their nonverbal communication, gesture, and breath affirms that they already know what they want and who is in control.
Of his book, Martin Katz says, “If there’s one chapter that you read in this book, make it chapter two,” about breath and singing. Just because the title of the book has the word “pianist” in it, don’t let that deter you non-pianists from reading it. There’s a lot of useful information. He writes it in an approachable, fun, and enjoyable way, and he provides a number of musical examples. He believes breathing and singing is the first step in the collaborative process. When I arrived at Michigan in 2013, this was a hole in my technique that Martin worked with me to bring out: this idea of breathing with a collaborator and cueing as a second, gestural language. Even when your hands are occupied at the keyboard, you have the ability to breathe in a way that shows somebody
The most common places we rehearse are what I call the “seams,” like the seams in a jacket, places where a handoff occurs between soloist and accompanist—a tempo change, a ritardando, an immediate dynamic or color change. Here is one particular seam [FIG 1] I worked on with Kyle Pido (’25) in a recent collaboration. The second piano part represents the orchestra, and the first piano part is the soloist. This is another excerpt from the Gershwin Concerto in F. You’ll see that the orchestra plays two bars of material with a ritardando, and the pianist introduces new material in a different tempo, but the orchestra has to land the last chord with him. So, it’s important we work together to cue. Let’s take a look at a clip from early on in this process to see how this went in late November. [Video clip] A couple of factors are at play. First, the timing. There’s a bit of time where
Figure 1: Three measures of George Gershwin’s Concerto in F arranged for two pianos by the composer (New World Music Corp., 1927)
the cue hangs in the air. You don’t want the resulting downbeat to come too early from that cue. Second, the shared affirmation of the cue. As you look at later clips, notice what I initiate from the orchestra. I am cueing Kyle that his entrance is about to happen, and he responds in kind with another cue back to me to show me the tempo he wants. The onset of our cues is not exactly at the same time, but the arrival of the note on the downbeat is at the same time. A clip from a rehearsal in February reveals improvement. You can see how I give my cue first, Kyle responds with his cue, and then we land together. (I’m grateful that he recorded all of these, and that he let me share this publicly with everybody. This would be hard to recreate in person otherwise, and it’s also vulnerable.) Fast forward to the beginning of March. This was just before the concerto competition, and I would say this was the peak. You can hear how we land much more cleanly. This all culminated a week later in the concerto competition finals. I’m happy to say that Kyle was one of the winners of the concerto competition. [Applause]
I asked Kyle to share in writing what he experienced during that process: “Most of my cueing experience came from playing clarinet, where the actual motion of giving a cue felt a little more free and natural to me. I had to learn how to better use both my body and eye coordination. I had to consider [the static space a piano occupies versus a handheld instrument like the clarinet.] Additionally, the timing of my gesture in relation to when I strike the key was also a new concept for me. My gesture sometimes did not match the speed of what my hands played, causing the solo and orchestra part to misalign when beginning a new section of the piece. These clips and the end product were a culmination of nearly a year of private practice and months of rehearsals. In that time, I have learned not only to be a better ensemble player, but a stronger soloist with a better awareness of my body control and coordination. I’m beyond grateful for this learning opportunity and look forward to what comes next.” By the way, Kyle is a nursing major spending time in Rochester this year.
The next topic is a bit of a tangent, but I hope you’ll bear with me. This has been in the news a lot lately, and it’s here to stay. It’s AI. I will reiterate the reward of a career that prioritizes human connection and emotion. As we watch AI develop, we need to hold onto connection and emotion. AI is close to composing songs that sound convincing. My iPad can turn pages when I wink my eye. But, to my knowledge, a computer cannot yet intuit my musical thoughts, give a singer or instrumentalist the time they need to take a quality breath, or judge the quality of that breath and adjust the tempo of the phrase accordingly. Because of that, I’m still employed and employable, and I’m thankful for that.
Collaborative work is a way to affirm and to assert our humanity and what we can do that a machine cannot do.
In a recent magazine article, Bill Gates wrote: “Within 10 years, AI will replace many doctors and teachers.” That reminded me of his book from the mid90s, titled The Road Ahead. I remember checking this book out from the library as an elementary kid, not so much for the written content, but more for the interactive CD-ROM I could play in my computer. You can find the CD-ROM videos on YouTube, and I watched them a couple nights ago. You can read this book in its entirety online, and it’s eerily accurate how many of the predictions he made in 1995 about technology in the home, the workplace, and school have come to fruition. That gives me pause when I read an article like this. In The Road Ahead, Gates predicted our generation would never see AI reach a point of matching human intelligence. And in this article from last week, he walks that statement back. Things like that make me hold fast to this idea of human connection and emotion. I think it’s important to reiterate that collaboration and collaborative work is a way to affirm and to assert our humanity and what we can do that a machine cannot do.
The pandemic handed our music department many challenges. When students went home and still wanted to have lessons over Zoom, we had to make it work. One of the tools we used was an app called Appcompanist. People still use it, and there are many advantages. To demonstrate what you’re seeing on the screen, Appcompanist has an extensive library of songs (mostly vocal rep, as I understand it) available for download with a piano part to sing along with, whether in the practice room or in voice lessons. If the key doesn’t suit you, you can transpose. You can adjust the tempo via a slider. There’s a beloved fermata button if you want to hold a specific chord and lock into a pitch, and the ability to play the melody to help you learn your pitches. This slider dials in whatever blend you want: all melody? some of the accompaniment? Suddenly, our students have a featurerich practice app at their disposal. And most importantly, in the event that they do not have access to a live pianist (a hot commodity these days), they can bring something to their lesson so their voice teacher isn’t trapped behind the piano. Julia Weigle (’26) has been so kind as to offer Richard Strauss’s “Ich schwebe” with the help of Appcompanist. [Music]. [Applause]. Can I ask you, Julia, how did that feel?
Julia: “Um, slightly rushed.”
Admittedly, I’m not pushing any buttons for her, and I didn’t give her the ability to push the fermata or adjust the tempo on her own. In a perfect world, she would have the ability to do that without pushing buttons on a screen, with a musical partner who could read her gestures, listen to consonants, and place notes with her on vowels. I’m disadvantaging Appcompanist, but I did that to illustrate the cons. The adage “practice doesn’t make perfect, practice makes permanent” comes to mind. If I practice with the confines of this app not anticipating my breathing, and allow it to sabotage this perfectly human necessity to breathe, then I’m setting myself up for the music to proceed in a constant conveyor belt of motion. If I practice that over and over, I’m cementing it in my mind. It’s not unlike a person who practices with a recording
and carries the habits of that recording into their own performance–memory by rote. Harkening back to the first chapter of Martin Katz’s book, who is in control and how many people have a vested interest in it? Appcompanist is a catchy name, not only because of the play on words, but also because of the word “accompanist” and the perceived hierarchy. Ironically, with Appcompanist, the control belongs to the app and not the singer.
Now, from the piano, we will demonstrate a truly collaborative, shared goal of performing this wonderful song. [Music] [Applause] The musicians in the room can immediately appreciate the difference between these two performances. I don’t want to discredit the usefulness of an app like Appcompanist. It is wonderful, and it’s about having the right tool for the right job. If Appcompanist permits a singer or instrumentalist to walk into a first rehearsal and be more prepared than they would have been otherwise, then it is a perfect tool. It becomes a hindrance when it gets in the way of flexibility and breath.
You may have noticed Julia’s stunning high A-sharp. We lingered there because we want the audience to appreciate and enjoy it. This music is from late-19th/early-20th century Vienna, where Romanticism is busting wide open. We don’t want to hear [evenly] “one, two, three, one, two, three.” We want to hear [uneven emphasis on “one”] “one, two, three, one, two, three.” We want to hear whimsy. Musicians in the room already know and appreciate this, but I want to frame it against the idea and the issues that technology and AI bring into this conversation, which I think are important and will become more pertinent as we go forward.
We don’t have time to talk about text, which is the basis for subsequent chapters in Martin’s book and in my own experience of teaching. We would spend time with the original German and the translation, and that would be a jumping-off point for shared connection and common understanding about the music. If this were a two-hour lecture, we might be able to talk about that.
At the conclusion of his talk, Nicholas invited the audience to ask questions.
Q: You and I worked with young musicians at Decorah High School this weekend, and I was reminded that part of the process of our learning to listen to who we’re collaborating with goes along with the soloist learning to collaborate, listen, and hear what we’re doing. Even for a young musician who is just trying to get around the violin, it’s not just us following them, making their life easier, and trying to coach a beautiful musical phrase that breathes, but we hope to have them listening to us and seeing what we do with the third of a chord, for instance. It can be so subtle, but it’s so beautiful when it’s not just me running after them. I remember one rehearsal with a violinist where I pointed out a major 7th chord that gave me such delight, and I thought that was one isolated instant in the piece where I could show her what was happening underneath her, because I don’t think she had the time to notice that. But the collaboration works both ways, and it’s so beautiful when you see that happen. To add to all these marvelous things, our tone affects their tone, and it’s a conversation.
A: It’s the idea of not only shared connection and shared goals, but also shared joy when you arrive at that goal together and feel euphoria. To be able to do that in a small community like Decorah, that has a music program like it does in our high school, it’s so wonderful to slip in and work with students who are hungry for that.
It’s not only shared connection and shared goals, but also shared joy when you arrive at that goal together and feel euphoria.
Q: You opened with pictures of the invisible, shadowy accompanist, and the first PhD is 1972. Were there some pianists, say, after the turn of the century who were famous for doing what collaborative pianists actually now are trained to do?
A: Sure. I failed to mention the pianist Gerald Moore. Before Martin Katz
wrote The Complete Collaborator, Gerald Moore wrote multiple books about working with singers. An anecdote that comes to mind is a story he told about making early recordings, when the microphone technology was primitive, and they all had to be crammed up against the microphone to make a recording of any quality. I would say that Moore was one of the first people who helped to push the field forward in his books Am I Too Loud? and The Unashamed Accompanist. They’re worth checking out. Like Martin’s book, they’re wonderful for anybody, pianist or not, to read.
Q: I’m obviously not a musician, although I’m married to one. I was surprised that collaborators are actually teachers of vocal performers. Is it ever the case that they are preparing something with their teacher ahead of time, and then you’re also working with them? And is it ever the case, to put a cynical edge on it, that the teacher goes, “Well, thank you, Nicholas, for your interesting interpretation with my student that I disagree with?” What is that relationship between the collaborator and the vocal teacher?
A: That’s a great question, and that’s one of those dynamics that I don’t think about anymore because the machine is so well-oiled. I won’t put my coaching students on the spot, but any of them would be able to tell you this is the first thing we talk about in my coaching seminar at the beginning of each semester. In this delineation between vocal coach and voice teacher, as a coach, I do not talk about technique. I have no business talking about technique with singers. I will leave that for voice teachers to talk about. Can a voice teacher function as a voice coach? Of course, they have the ability and experience to coach style and interpretation and language out of a singer. There’s certainly crossover, and there are also pianist coaches who will cross the line the other way by giving technical advice. In my studio, it’s known that my work with a student as a coach is a supplement to what they receive in their work with their voice teacher. And there may be times where something I tell a student does not align with what their voice teacher has told them, and that’s
when we reach a compromise, much like we would have in the rehearsal process. There could be five or six good ways to do something like breathing in a phrase. One may be best in my mind because of ABC criteria, but another may be best in another person’s mind because of XYZ criteria. This is the dance that we play.
Q: You mentioned doomscrolling, which is notoriously bad for your mental health. So, I’m wondering how do you as a musician find hope for the future as the news continually seems to highlight that technology is stealing all of our jobs? How do you find hope in spite of all the negative?
A: As Kathy mentioned in her introduction, my undergrad degrees were in music and computer science. I think I come to it with a unique perspective. I’m always interested in technology, how it can advance our lives and make them more efficient. I take solace in the shared connection of working with somebody, working toward a shared goal, and that the joy you feel doing that can never be replaced by a machine. I always want to make music with another human. If the news is depressing or if I find myself getting down, I’m going to put my head in the sand, and I’m going to keep finding people I enjoy working with and whom I want to make music with.
Q: I’ve been thinking about Appcompanist. People my age and younger have grown up with programs like Finale or Digital Audio Workstations, where you can control the tempo. Usually, you set it, and it just goes. I wonder if that has affected the way we deal with printed acoustic music. You look at it and you don’t necessarily see the nuance that Strauss undoubtedly had in mind when he wrote it. He just assumed that people would take liberties in certain places. Now we’re so used to having MIDI playback, which is relentless. There’s something that can be riveting about that, too, like minimalist music, but what do you think about that?
A: That brings up many interesting questions beyond the scope of this lecture about musical notation and style. When you look at a score by Strauss or
even a score by Mozart, you move in certain places based on what you see, and based on the accumulated knowledge of the number of other songs and arias you have absorbed by those composers and their counterparts. I have often thought about modern-day composers who write in Finale and are tweaking their notation based on how the MIDI playback sounds, but aren’t necessarily thinking about how the notation would look if they printed out a copy and gave it to somebody. It’s an interesting issue, definitely.
I rehearsed with a student this morning, a violinist, for the first time. I’ve seen this student in the hallway, but I didn’t know him. Maybe he knew about me based on hearing me perform or based on what students say in the hallway. But we had a nice rehearsal this morning, and I emailed him this afternoon, asking if he would write a few words about what he thought about our rehearsal. I prompted him with the content of tonight’s talk. I appreciated what he wrote, not as a rah-rah Nicholas, but as a rah-rah collab piano and collaboration: “I recognize the difference in the dynamic between a rehearsal and a coaching session and the unique situation of two musicians working together for the first time. To that end, today’s rehearsal started off with pleasantries about spring break, but we quickly jumped into a run-through. I think those are both valuable ways to start a new collaboration. You have to get to know your collaborator as a human, but you also have to get to know their musicianship. I think it went so well today because of the way that you balance the role of professor and collaborator. I’m very aware that your experience dwarfs mine, so I was happy when you had recommendations for how to rehearse or phrase something. However, I also felt appreciated as a musician with a vision and my own more limited experience. Another thing that perhaps improves any dynamic is a high level of skill and/or preparation. I can imagine how different the rehearsal would have been had you or I not been adequately prepared. Finally, it just occurred to me that the difference in our instruments also plays a role. We discussed similar articulations on different instruments,
which creates a conversation as opposed to a lesson.”
If he wrote that in 10 minutes, I’m impressed and happy that it worked out that way. If we all can contribute to community in this way, one musician at a time, then I think we’re doing okay.
From Maasailand to the Caribbean: Community Collaboration in Luther Study Abroad
by JON JENSEN ‘89, Professor of Philosophy and Environmental Studies
Author’s note: This essay is based on a Paideia Texts and Issues lecture on March 11, 2025 that featured contributions by two students, Neil Grube and Nathaniel Dennis, who spoke about their study away experiences in Tanzania and Roatan, Honduras. What follows is a condensed and edited version of my framing comments that preceded the student presentations and closing reflections at the end.
What kind of traveler do you want to be? How can Luther study away programs collaborate with local communities to enhance student learning? These two questions are the framing for this evening’s presentation that is part travelogue and part reflection on the intersections between curriculum and community. I am joined by two students who recently returned from study away experiences in Tanzania and Roatan, Honduras, who will provide case studies of study abroad that shine light on the personal and pedagogical aspects of travel in the twenty-first century.
My role is mostly to raise questions for us as individuals as well as educational institutions like Luther—to help frame our virtual journeys to these fascinating places: the arid plains of Northern Tanzania, home to the Maasai people, and a humid, jungly island in the Caribbean: Roatan, Honduras. What do they have in common? Both are sites of ongoing Luther study away programs that collaborate closely with local communities, striving for reciprocity through community engaged learning.
While we are looking at study abroad for Luther, I hope to also make this personal, encouraging all of you to think about your own travel and the ways that we engage with other cultures and places, hence my framing question: What kind of traveler do you want to be? Americans often travel as collectors.
We have our bucket lists and often focus more on what we collect–souvenirs, photos and videos, likes on social media, and checklists of Top 10 sites we visited. What if, instead of being a collector, we traveled as a connector? Seeking ways to connect with the people of a place, bridging the cultural distance to be part of a local community, and engaging more deeply in the work and wonders of that local community.
What if, instead of being a collector, we traveled as a connector?
When we think about travel, about trips we might take, we usually ask: “Where and What?”
Where do I want to go and What do I want to see? What if instead we asked different questions: Who and Why? Who can we connect with while traveling and Why am I going? Why is this valuable for me and for the people in the communities I will visit?
These questions apply to us as individual travelers but also to Luther, at least for those of us who teach off campus and plan study away experiences. How can we ensure depth in our study away courses, working to move beyond being tourists to deeply engage with communities, striving for an impact that goes beyond economics to genuine reciprocity and relationship? This objective and the larger notion of community connection is behind two elements of Luther’s new general education curriculum: community-based learning and Experiential Learning. In addition, study away experiences are embedded in the Luther curriculum in a new way with the revised requirement for a total of three courses in Global Engagement.
There is probably a rule against talking about learning outcomes after 7:00 p.m., but I do want to highlight the incorporation of community-based learning as a requirement for all Paideia 450 courses. The Student Learning Outcomes for these courses include the following:
Students will demonstrate connections between course content and community-based learning experiences to articulate their own responsibilities as ethically engaged global citizens.
More specifically, the guidelines include a requirement for all Paideia 450 courses to “partner with community beyond the typical classroom” and “strive towards reciprocity . . . to develop in students a sense of responsibility in the context of the community-based learning experience and beyond.”
How can our study away courses, not just Paideia 450s but all courses, achieve these learning objectives? What might we learn from existing courses about travel if the goal is community engagement and, more generally, authentic connection with the people and places where we study?
Jon Jensen
We will return to these bigger questions at the end, but I want to zoom in now to two locations, case studies that allow us to look at these bigger questions in particular instances.
The arid plains of Northern Tanzania are the setting for one of Luther’s longest running study away destinations. Tanzania is a coastal nation on the Indian Ocean in East Africa with a population of roughly 65 million people. Like most of the African continent you can’t really understand its history aside from European colonialism. The diverse indigenous groups were colonized by the Germans and then the British, suffering under colonial rule for more than a century before gaining independence from Britain in the early 1960s. Tanganyika, the mainland portion, merged with the island of Zanzibar in 1964 to form a free and independent Tanzania. Julius Nyere, the first leader and a national hero, focused on integration through schools. I mention this history to tell you a couple of things that make this an attractive destination: being a former British colony, there are more people that speak English than in many places (take note that this is one of the things that also makes Roatan more accessible) and Nyere’s influence has led to a more peaceful country, that has experienced less violence than many of its neighbors.
Luther has a long history of study away connections in Tanzania, both semester and J-Term programs. I spent the Fall of 2016 with ten students on a program run through ACM, the Associated Colleges of the Midwest. We worked closely with local people and NGOs as part of the cooperative program with the University of Dar es Salaam. Later in this presentation, we will hear from Luther junior Neil Grube about his semester in Tanzania on a program through SIT, the School for International Training.
Luther has been doing a J-Term course in Tanzania for more than 20 years, thanks mostly to Lori Stanley, emerita professor of Anrthropology. Lori took students to Tanzania on her own many times and also has trained and co-led JTerm courses with eleven other Luther faculty. The most recent iteration of Luther’s J-Term course in Tanzania is
a Paideia 450 titled People and Parks: Pastoralism and Conservation in East Africa.
This course examines the intersections of the conservation of natural habitats and cultural identity through the lens of the Maasai people of northern Tanzania. One primary focus is how wildlife conservation efforts and ecotourism have impacted the relationship of the Maasai to their environment, in turn causing rapid cultural change such as shifts from herding to agropastoralism and wage labor. From bases near the city of Arusha and the small town of Monduli, we study “traditional” Maasai culture and examine the ways in which the Maasai of northern Tanzania are adapting to changing social, political, economic, and environmental conditions. The core of this course is students interacting with Maasai people in urban and rural marketplaces, in schools and places of worship, and at Maasai bomas (multi-family homesteads).
One key to the success of this course is the collaborative relationship that we have developed with Maasai individuals and communities. One particular individual, Musa Kamaika, is crucial to this story. Since his initial work with Lori and the Luther J-Term students in 2010, Musa has become the key connector to the Maasai and to the local
communities. For more than a decade, Musa has been a teacher and facilitator of this J-Term class. More importantly, he has been the primary connection point for hundreds of Luther students to the Maasai culture and specifically the Maasai community of Eluwai in Monduli.
This is not so much service as solidarity, interacting with people in the village, especially kids, being present and embedded.
In Eluwai, Luther students participate in Maasai cultural practices, engage in conversation with the Maasai people, and work with local schools, especially the Natopiwo pre-school in Eluwai. Students assist the preschool with distribution of uniforms as well as interacting with the kids. This is not so much service as solidarity, interacting with people in the village, especially kids, being present and embedded. Our students are engaged with the community, not to help them, but to establish cultural exchange and to build relationships.
Lori Stanley enjoying chai with Mama Musa, Eluwai village, Tanzania, 2013
While the connection between Luther students and Musa and the people of his village has been central, I want to note two other collaborations with this community. First, the Maasai medicine research project was a collaborative project between Luther students and staff and local Maasai communities from 2010-2012. Students worked with Maasai interpreters, healers, and the general public to catalog and protect the plants that the Maasai count on for their traditional medicines. The result of this collaboration was a book of native plants and their uses that was translated into Kiswahili and Maa, the traditional Maasai language.
Second, at the request of our collaborators in Tanzania, a group formed a US based, 501(c)3 non-profit, Natopiwo Partners, to support the work happening in Eluwai and more broadly in the Monduli region. Collaborative relationships facilitate the communication needed for our international partners to tell us what they need, rather than us assuming and providing assistance and service from our perspective. One thing that our Maasai friends need is financial support, and Natopiwo Partners was designed to facilitate the support that they need. This is how collaborative relationships work.
Our second case study is Roatan, Honduras. We transition to a different part
of the world, moving from Maasailand to the Caribbean–a totally different culture, climate and history, though some parts are very similar. Both places are former British colonies, both rely upon tourism as core to their economies, and both struggle with the challenges of poverty existing side by side with the wealth that accompanies foreign tourism.
Luther’s programs in Roatan are much more recent; Victoria Christman and I led the first J-Term in 2019. Except for a one year Covid interruption, J-Term groups have studied in Roatan every year since with a second J-Term course, Marine Biology, utilizing this unique location as a complement to the original International Studies course, Ethical Engagement in Postcolonial Roatan. In this presentation, we will hear from Luther sophomore, Nathaniel Dennis, about his J-Term in Roatan with a focus on his internship at the Bay Islands Conservation Association.
The story of Luther’s programs in Tanzania is a story of evolution, a program that evolved over time with the collaborative relationships that emerged and shaped the course. Roatan, on the other hand, is a tale of cultivation, intentionally building a program by cultivating community connections and the relationships necessary to make them thrive.
A team of faculty, under the leadership of Jon Lund, then Director of the Center for Global Learning, went looking for a location to develop a place-based and community engaged program in Latin America. Roatan quickly rose to the top of our prospects and has become another model of community collaboration in study way.
The international studies course in Roatan is built around the core idea of students working for and learning from local NGOs, non-governmental organizations, as a way to embed themselves in a place and learn from the locals. We developed partnerships with a number of NGOs, in particular Clinica Esperanza, the Roatan Marine Park, Bay Islands Conservation Association (BICA), and the Bay Islands International School.
The partnership with Clinica Esperanza and its founder, “Miss Peggy,” has been especially important for this community collaboration. Peggy Stranges is a local celebrity and helped us to make connections across the island, opening up new opportunities and relationships. One crucial outcome of the collaboration with Clinica Esperanza is the housing for our students at “The Refuge,” an apartment building for clinic volunteers. [Neil Grube and Nathaniel Dennis share their study away experiences in Tanzania and Roatan.]
How can we strive for genuine reciprocity and relationship?
Different programs on different continents with different foci, but they share many similarities from the impacts they have on students to the ways that they connect with and rely upon community connections. What are the lessons learned from looking at these case studies?
First, this approach requires intentionality and commitment. The community connections necessary to make this work do not happen by accident. It requires taking the time and going well beyond the typical tourist sites to seek
Jon Jensen presenting the Paideia Texts and Issues Lecture in March
LUTHER COLLEGE AGORA PHOTO
out NGOs, to follow leads and utilize networks, to find the individuals and organizations that can make this work. We cannot tell the story of Luther programs in Tanzania without highlighting the work of Lori Stanley. Lori’s focus and commitment built the program and nurtured the connections that have helped it thrive. Roatan is a newer program that has utilized a team of faculty from the beginning but the intentionality and commitment of these individuals is again key to the program’s success.
If I were to focus on one word as the key takeaway from this talk it would be relationships. The theme for this year’s lecture series is collaboration, I would argue that the key to collaboration is relationships. The two study away locations we are highlighting here depend on relationships, with individuals, organizations and communities. Our relationship with Musa Kamaika has provided unique opportunities and insights for our students and paved the way for collaborative activities with Maasai communities. Likewise in Roatan, our relationship with Peggy Stranges and Clinica Esperanza has provided a foundation and springboard for so many opportunities and additional internships. These relationships take time and energy, they require maintenance and intentionality, but they are the key to
the type of community based learning described here.
The final takeaway is the importance of reciprocity, both as a goal and as a grounding to make sure we are doing this right. It is very easy for travelers, even educational travelers, from wealthier countries like the US to have negative influences on the people, place, and cultures where we visit. We must strive to have our presence be positive for the locals and to achieve mutuality and genuine benefits to the local communities. We know that our presence is beneficial financially, and that’s important, but we should work to ensure other benefits through the relationships, conversation, and cultural exchange. With both Roatan and Tanzania, we have brought our community partners to the US and to Luther as one element of ensuring reciprocal relationships.
I want to end by returning to the questions where I began. For Luther, what do we want out of our study abroad programs? How can study away experiences enhance our commitments to experiential and community engaged learning? What opportunities exist for us to deepen student learning while also striving for reciprocity with the individuals, cultures, and communities we visit and study? For us as individuals,
how can we move from being collectors to traveling as a connector?
Hopefully this focus on Tanzania and Roatan gives all of us a little glimpse into the benefits and the ways that our experiences in other countries can help us to bridge cultural divides and appreciate the ways that community connections enhance learning and make the world a better place.
Nathaniel Dennis speaks about his internship in Roatan.
Created to Do
by BRIAN CATON, Associate Professor of History
How was your break?” I hate that question. One is supposed to return from break refreshed, recharged, ready to take on the new tasks of the week, the month, the academic term. An honest answer, like “I’m utterly exhausted” or “I can’t bear to think of the mountain of work I have to do this week,” ends up being “too much information.” So the question, “How was your break?” begs an insincere response of “fine,” and we remain satisfied with the insincerity. Back to work. And yet we have come to that magical moment of the fall semester. Our practices are done, our skills built through hours of work, we have warmed up and are taking in that big breath before we play. Yet if we pause, as breaks compel us to do, to examine at arm’s length the rat race, the hamster wheel, the whacka-mole that is our academic life, we inevitably end up at that singular question: What are we doing here?
This of course is the predicament of the mythical warrior-hero Arjuna at the opening of the philosophical text Bhagavad-Gita, composed in the first millennium BCE and inserted into the sprawling Sanskritic epic Mahabharata. Arjuna was the LeBron James of warriors in the mythical Indian past, and found himself arrayed with his brothers on one side of a battlefield, facing his numerous cousins and indeed his own beloved teachers on the other side. The prospect of engaging them left him breathless, the life draining from his limp limbs that had held so artfully the weapons of war. It was a great sin to kill one’s close relations, even greater to kill one’s teachers. Yet if he chose to avoid fighting, he would be failing to carry out the work that he was born and trained to do; according to the culture that produced the Gita, such a failure would
not only stain the individual transgressor but also threaten the ability of the universe to carry on functioning properly. Arjuna faced a choice not between competing goods, but between competing sins: quite literally damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t act. The Gita resolves this dilemma through the idea of devotion. By being totally committed to loving the god, by being so self-negating in the execution of the god’s will, the fruit of one’s actions attaches not to oneself but to the god. One acts not for the sake of the result of the action, but for the sake of acting itself.
We are created to be, but we are created to do. In chapel this term, we’ve been encouraged to understand that we are created to be brave, to be authentic, to be free, to be disruptive, to be disciples. We’ve been encouraged to understand that we have inherent value, inherent worth. But what is it to be brave, if one does not act bravely? What is it to be authentic, if one does not act authentically? The lesson of the Gita is that one’s skills, training, one’s being mean nothing if one does not bring them into the field of play that we otherwise call the world. One must do in order to live.
What if I fail? I have taught at Luther for over twenty years, and these four words have been the source of most of the academic trauma students experience. “What if everyone thinks my question is stupid? I’d rather not ask it.” “I turned in this sort of work for an A in high school, and now it gets a B? Or worse? I might as well not bother to turn in anything, if it won’t get an A.” In the creation story in the first chapter of Genesis, after God created all of the various parts of the universe, including humans, God saw that “it was very good.” Not perfect, but very good. Maybe an A-. So you are going
DECEMBER
4, 2024
to hold up your work to a standard that not even God’s creation of the universe measures up to? Do the thing. You have been working for this all semester. This is what you came for.
So what if I fail? What if I get a D on that math test? So what if I made my clarinet sound like a goose caught in the middle of being strangled? Then you have become successfully human. We are all broken, in ways that may be visible or invisible. Yes, we all want to do better, and yes we want to hide our errors and failures in order to avoid the appearance of weakness, so that we may not be crushed by the pitiless among us. But even if we fail, that is evidence of having acted—having taken all our skills and put them out on the field of play.
So now let’s get ready. Stand or sit tall, and take a deep breath in, and let that life–your life–out into the world. It’s what you were born to do.
Brian Caton
LUTHER COLLEGE PHOTO
The Acceptance of Doubt
by JIM ECKBLAD, Professor Emeritus of Biology
I’m going to begin with a familiar portion of scripture from the gospel of John, chapter 20.
24: But Thomas, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.
25: So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
26: A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”
27: Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”
28: Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”
29: Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet have come to believe.”
This brief encounter with Thomas has earned him the label “Doubting Thomas.” In both our personal and religious life we often celebrate Faith, Hope, and Love. But not so much about doubt. Yet it has often been doubt that has sparked the scientific revolution of the past three centuries. It has been doubt about previous explanations that has promoted the advancement of scientific understanding of our natural world. Thomas has been referred to as the patron saint of science.
On this very date, 216 years ago, two births are worth noting. One was born in rural Kentucky who rose to be our sixteenth president. He had serious doubt concerning whether our nation could survive a Civil War. The other birth occurred in England to a well-to-
do family. This individual grew up to doubt the current explanations for the origin of the variety of species on our planet. The first we know as Abraham Lincoln, and the second we know as Charles Darwin. As a biologist, I celebrate Darwin’s birthdate (February 12, 1809) for his concepts of nature selecting the favored traits in living organisms, which has resulted in the biodiversity of our planet. Darwin was one of those recent college graduates who had considerable doubt about what his career would be. At age 22 he took a position as an unpaid naturalist on the five-year voyage of the HMS Beagle During this time he collected about 5,400 specimens along with recording careful observations of many different natural populations of animals and plants. From this he concluded that species were not fixed by a creator but that species had evolved through a process of accruing small changes, some of which increased their chance of survival. His field notes include the direct quote: “One species does change into another.”
This view is central to all of modern biology, and today many biology departments around the world will celebrate his birthday.
Just as doubt is an important stimulus in science, it is often part of the reality in one’s religious experience. Sometimes we feel we shouldn’t admit our doubt, but if we’re being honest with ourselves, it’s often part of our reality. And it can lead to the question, “Can one have religious beliefs and still do science, where explanations of the natural world do not invoke supernatural powers?”
One prominent spokesman for science, Stephen J. Gould, was once asked this question and his response was very clear. He said although he personally didn’t hold religious beliefs, the empirical evidence suggests they must be compatible. He had many professional
FEBRUARY 12, 2025
colleagues that held strong religious beliefs and were also very active in doing good work in science.
Is faith a journey or a destination? In my experience it’s clearly a journey, and the acceptance of doubt has enriched and added reality to that journey. And I believe, for example, one can take seriously the value of religious stories without requiring a literal interpretation of those stories.
Let me conclude with Darwin’s final passage in his landmark book On the Origin of Species:
There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and wonderful have been, and are being evolved.
Jim Eckblad
The Day After the Election
by STACY NALEAN-CARLSON ’98, Administrative Assistant, Luther Counseling Service FEBRUARY 28, 2025
Ephesians 3:18-19
Ipray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God
The day after the presidential election, I sat at my dining room table googling the email address I had received from the transplant coordinator one week earlier. Because the kidney donation in which I participated was a paired donation, my kidney went not to my intended recipient (she received a kidney that was a better match for her), but to a stranger I did not know. That stranger had released their email address to me. I had released my email address to them. The transplant coordinator remarked, “Your kidney is staying in Minnesota” (the surgery took place at Mayo in Rochester). But that’s all I knew. Thus, my internet search.
What could I learn about the person in whom my kidney was taking up permanent residence? As it turns out, not much. Without a name, I’m not sure any of what I even stumbled upon was connected to the right person. I ended up shutting down my search before it had even really begun. Not because I was no longer curious, but because my curiosity was disturbing me.
On the day after the presidential election, with a new scar gracing my abdomen, and the old metaphorical scar on my heart ripped open the night before, I started to question what I had done. What if my kidney was giving a new lease on life to someone who helped to ensure what I understood to be a tragic election outcome?
The thought pained me far more than the surgery the week before. First, because I couldn’t stand the thought of
supporting the president-elect in any way. And second, because I couldn’t stand the thought that I was doing the very thing I abhorred in the incoming administration—vilifying and dehumanizing millions of people without really knowing a thing about them. For the first and only time in the nearly year-long process of deciding to be a living donor, I was doubting what I knew I had been called by God to do. I momentarily had strong misgivings, merely because there was a chance that my kidney now belonged to someone who voted differently than me.
It was one of those experiences—maybe you’ve experienced this too—where you realize just how human you are, how much you are NOT God, how far you’ve missed the mark in loving others as Jesus does. It was one of those experiences where I maybe got just a glimpse into the depth of God’s love for this beautiful and brutal world. Because Jesus gave a whole lot more than one little kidney. He gave his life—his entire self, his whole being—to embodying the vast, steadfast, foolish-by-any-measure love of God for the whole world. No exceptions.
Ironically, this is why the thought of my former kidney supporting what is now the current administration made me queasy. As Brandon Ambrosino wrote in a recent essay for The Christian Century, entitled, “Does God Want America to be Great?”: “I don’t care if the president is a Christian. But I care if a Christian is a Christian. And if a politician is going to be a Christian, and if he is going to talk about the Christian God, and if his supporters are going to claim that the Christian God is using said politician to make this country great, well then I have a very basic expectation of him and them—that they talk like people who follow (or are at the very least familiar with) Jesus.”
Stacy Nalean-Carlson
I know not everyone in this room is a Christian, and I’m exceedingly grateful for the diversity that is celebrated here. I do know that we are all a part, one way or another, of this Luther College community, a community that “prepares students to be compassionate, creative, and critical thinkers through academic excellence and a community of care.”
As we give generously of ourselves…
As we advocate and protest and vote…
As we show up and make our voices heard…
As we live in community with neighbors near and far…
…I hope we talk (and live!) like people who follow the way of divine love that Jesus embodied.
This divine love doesn’t lack accountability, doesn’t make excuses or bury its head in the sand. This love that Jesus embodied recognizes evil, calling out hate and harm. Love—divine love that surpasses knowledge—is powerful and
IMAGE
fierce, always at work for good, transforming hearts and minds. It lives in us and frees us to be instruments of God’s mission to save and to bless the whole world.
I hope they’ll know us by our love. Amen.
(The following hymn was sung after the chapel talk.) Birth to Birth, O Holy Midwife by Stacey Nalean-Carlson, 2019
Bring to birth, O holy midwife, spacious hearts to share your joy. Free our hands to serve our neighbors; free our minds to grace employ. Rooted, grounded in your love for us, make us one in eagerness To express your loving kindness, to embody gentleness.
Dwelling in our hearts, you call us to become your body here; May our prayers be your embrace and may our weeping be your tears. Let our footsteps mark your tenderness for those most in need of care. With our smiles, our songs, our offerings, we your boundless love declare.
When we look across divisions, let us see you standing there, Calling us to holy birthing of new hope beyond despair. Lift your labored, weary children to the life that’s really life To a living, daring trust that all we need is here in Christ.
Music: Repository of Sacred Music, Part Second, Harrisburg, 1813
Let Love Be Genuine: Listening in a Divided World
by ABBY RUSSETH ’25
Good morning everyone and happy spring! The days are getting longer, temperatures warmer, and there seems to be new life in the air and on the earth! As we enter this new season and anticipate the arrival of Easter, I would like to share with you some thoughts on this semester’s theme here in chapel, “Let Love Be Genuine.”
I’ll open with some lyrics from a song called “See the Love” by The Brilliance. I highly recommend you go check them out if you like contemporary Christian music! The song opens with this:
Everyday, we go to war again We assume, we know so much more than them
Before we hear what they have to say Headline breaks, we start to hate again Calling them names again We give our peace away.
These words feel painfully relevant right now. We are living in a time of intense division and hatred along political, social, and religious lines. It can feel increasingly difficult to love those we disagree with, especially when those disagreements feel deeper than just opinion, but impede on our moral values.
How do we love and live in genuine relationships with those who stand against our values?
Romans 12:9-18, the scripture grounding chapel this spring semester, gives us a challenge, I’m paraphrasing here, but some standout phrases in this passage include:
“Bless those who persecute you, live in harmony with one another, pursue hospitality to strangers, do not be arrogant or claim to be wiser than you are, do not repay evil for evil.”
But that’s hard, right? I’m supposed to just love and put aside justice, truth, real pain? How does one reconcile love with these things?
Here is where we turn to Jesus. He lived in a time not immune to political division, religious disagreements, and social strife, and it is important to note that he does not ignore injustice. He spoke the truth, fought for the oppressed, and called out sin. The one thing Jesus never did, though, was use hatred as a weapon. For instance, when Jesus encountered the woman caught in adultery, he didn’t ignore her sin, but he also didn’t let her accusers stone her. He told them, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.” He showed compassion but also stood firm in the truth of the situation.
It is important to recognize that we don’t know the full extent of every situation, we ourselves fall to sin daily, and we are not the ultimate judge. Leave that part to God and instead strive to model your actions and response to injustice the way Jesus did.
So how do we follow his example? How can we practice genuine love with those who feel difficult to love, maybe even those who have caused us pain?
First, we can start by listening. Just as the song I referenced earlier says, we often go into disagreements assuming that A, we know what they believe and why, and B, we know more than them. Often we enter conversation seeking to be heard, rather than seeking to understand. But what if we flipped this? Romans 12 tells us not to be arrogant or claim to be wiser than we are. What if, before our response or rebuttal, we simply stopped and listened? Sometimes real love is giving the other person a chance to express their feelings before immediately trying to “fix them” or respond with anger.
March 12, 2025
Second, genuine love means attempting to see the person behind the action. And this is hard. Love doesn’t mean excusing harmful behavior; it means refusing to respond to hatred with more hatred, making a deliberate choice to not perpetuate evil, rising above. In times of deep conflict, I often find myself asking God to let me see this individual through His eyes. How are they called as a loved child of God, even if their actions don’t align with my values?
Finally, loving someone and living in a relationship doesn’t always mean agreeing with them. And this is hard, too. We can see Jesus praying to God for his persecutors as he dies on the cross saying, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.” Love doesn’t mean we excuse harm and hate. Rise up, speak out, stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, but do not fight evil with evil.
Genuine love is not easy love. It’s not comfortable, it’s not always “fair,” and you may not ever understand it, at least
Abby Russeth
not in this lifetime. This is a topic I will continue to wrestle with today and tomorrow. I don’t have all the answers, I mess up and misspeak again and again, but I will continue to try my best to model my actions and love with how Jesus lived his life, and I encourage you all to do the same.
I’ll close us in prayer:
Dear Lord, We pray for peace, reconciliation, and bridge-building in our communities and in our world. Just as you have shown us love and grace when we were undeserving of it, help us to do the same for others. Let our love be genuine as we seek to build relationships of understanding with our neighbors, and when it feels impossible to love, give us the strength to see others as You see them. Fill us with Your peace, patience, and love, so we do not give it away to hate. Amen.
Pluralism in a Religiously Diverse America
by JACOB REISTER ’25
During my freshman year, the big question in Paideia was, “In a divided society, how do we live in community?” The year ended without a clear answer, no step-by-step guide on how to interact with those different from oneself. In the two years since, the world has only become more divided, making finding an answer to this question all the more important. I am not here today to answer the whole of that question, but rather to humbly share a recent personal experience that has helped me answer part of that question. This personal experience on the topic of interfaith interactions shows the importance of religious pluralism and interaction with and understanding of the not-so-distant religious other.
Last weekend, as a part of an interfaith class, a few of my classmates and I had the opportunity to visit various places of worship in Des Moines. We visited a Buddhist temple, a Hindu temple, a Muslim mosque, and a Sikh temple. This week, as I have told others of this experience, it is often met with surprise, surprise that Iowa has such diversity, that America has such diversity, and above all, surprise that these different religions can co-exist in one place.
And such differences there are. It is undeniable that the religions we visited are different; all religions are. They have different religious figures, different sacred texts, and even worship in different languages. These differences are not a problem, but rather are essential in the formation of a group identity, as a group that encompasses everyone has no meaning. Where problems arise is how religions approach the interfaith question of how to interact with those outside their religion.
The approach we took to the places of worship we visited was one of pluralism, the idea that other faiths are equally
valid paths to salvation as your own. Each faith community we visited had such a strong sense of community and self while also greeting us, their religious stranger, with overwhelming kindness, choosing to focus on what we have in common rather than our differences.
In every place of worship we visited, total strangers of that faith would approach us to make sure we felt welcomed and answer any questions we had. The explanations they shared about their faith weren’t used as a vehicle to demonstrate the truth of their religion or as a means of conversion, but simply as a desire for us to understand who they were and what they valued and to educate us so we wouldn’t fall victim to a lack of understanding.
A lack of understanding holds a real danger. At the Sikh temple, I talked with a man who told me how he cut his hair after 911 as his long hair and turban were mistaken as a symbol of Islamic extremism. He told me how he still downplays his faith outside of the temple, keeping his hair short out of fear of harm to himself and his family.
Those who push this singular view of America are burglars who would rob our country of the strength that is found in our diversity.
We find ourselves in a time in which loud voices claim America as a purely Christian country, a country against the idea of any religious diversity. That kind of view, that there should only be a singular belief system, is not consistent with the concept of democracy, which requires the free expression of many
April 11, 2025
beliefs, nor is it consistent with the teachings of the Bible. Those who push this singular view of America are burglars who would rob our country of the strength that is found in our diversity.
However, these voices are not only loud but also threatening. Other than the places of religious worship already mentioned, part of the reason for our class trip was to take part in the celebration of Islam in Iowa, an event hosted by Drake University and the Abdelkader Education Project. This part of the trip was abruptly changed from an in-person event to a virtual one due to threats of gun violence.
Even without an in-person Islam in Iowa event, this was a unique opportunity, an opportunity I am grateful for. But why should it be unique? Why do we live in a country where it is uncommon to explore the faith of your neighbor? In Des Moines, some of these religious places of worship were in
Jacob Reister
residential neighborhoods, surrounded by homes. Yet, when I asked each faith about their relationship with the surrounding homes, they said they had never interacted with them. While it’s good that their faith wasn’t the target of harassment, those nearby weren’t interacting and learning from the religious other in their literal backyard.
Would those who threatened Islam in Iowa have done the same if they had eaten dinner and participated in a call to prayer with the Muslims in Des Moines, as we did? I don’t think so.
I will end on a word of hope.
Every one of the places we visited on our interfaith trip was currently in the process of expanding their place of worship or had recently done so to accommodate their growing members. The question isn’t whether America should be religiously diverse, a divided society, but how to embrace these differences and work together.
Islamic and Cultural Center Bosniak and Es-Selam Mosque in Dallas County, Iowa
Love Without Fear, Faith Without Shame
by ERIN DANIEL ’25
Good morning. My name is Erin Daniel, and I’m a senior music education major. I’m here today to share a piece of my journey—one that has been shaped by my experiences growing up as a pastor’s daughter, where I wrestled with my faith and eventually found a place of love and belonging. As I reflect on the theme for this season, “Let Love Be Genuine,” I think about how my understanding of love—God’s love, love for others, and love for myself—has evolved through some of the most challenging and transformative moments of my life.
Growing up as a pastor’s daughter, I was taught that God is love. But as I sat in the pews and listened to my father preach, I often felt like there was no room in that love for someone like me. He would preach about how people who were gay, or even those who have ever questioned God, were destined for hell if they didn’t repent. Hearing those words from my own father was devastating. I loved him, but I also feared that if he truly knew me, knew the person I was becoming, knew that I was finding my sexuality, political beliefs, and overall identity, he might not love me in the same way. And I was taught to believe that God wouldn’t love me either. Because everything I identify with is something that God is supposed to hate and punish, right? I was horrified by who I am.
By the time I reached high school, the weight of that fear and guilt had just become too strong. I started pulling away from the church and from religion altogether, disassociating completely on Sundays when I was forced to go to church. I didn’t feel like I belonged in a place that condemned and hated who I am. When I came to Luther and began singing in chapel and church services for choir, I thought that maybe I could
reconnect with my faith. But instead, I found myself struggling all over again. Every service was a battle inside. The pastors would say, “All are welcome,” but it was so hard to believe those words when I had spent so many years being told the complete opposite. I would frequently have panic attacks and breakdowns after singing, overwhelmed by the guilt and shame I felt for simply being myself in this space. From simply existing. From not going up for communion after hearing my dad’s words play over and over and over again in my mind: “You shouldn’t get communion unless you are willing to repent your sins.”
Things started to change when I began working at First Lutheran Church and later became the choir director at Decorah Lutheran. For the first time in years, I felt like I had found a church that truly lived out the message of genuine love. At First Lutheran, I experienced moments that felt absolutely transformative. I could sit through a service without forcing myself to disassociate. I could hold my girlfriend’s hand during the sermon and not feel judged. The pastor even had a special children’s sermon during Decorah Pride that talked about the different colors of the pride flag. A pride flag in a church? This was something I could have never imagined. The sermons preached love, inclusion, and resistance to hate—not fear, discrimination, or hate itself. I was finally given the space to be able to begin rediscovering my faith.
I’m still on the journey of figuring out exactly what I believe. But I’ve come to understand that faith is not about fear. It’s about love. I’ve been reintroduced to the idea that God is love, and that love is a beautifully Christian thing that too many people take for granted or simply misrepresent.
April 23, 2025
I’ve heard so many stories from people in the queer community—friends, peers, even strangers—who have been told things like, “We love you, but our faith can’t support your lifestyle.” Those words are usually framed as compassion, but they carry so much harm. I’ve come to believe that any love tied to conditions, shame, or fear, is not genuine love. True love doesn’t ask people to hide who they are or apologize for who they have become. It welcomes people fully, without exception or hesitation.
Romans 12 says, “Let love be genuine; hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good…Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep.” That passage has taken on new meaning for me as I’ve found a community that lives out those words every single day. This very space has shown me that love can be genuine, healing, and inclusive.
I think a lot about Bishop Mariann Budde, who stood at Donald Trump’s inauguration service, and pleaded mercy for the oppressed. Her words are a reminder that love is not passive. It’s
Erin Daniel
active. Genuine love requires peacemaking, bridge building, and standing in solidarity with those who are marginalized.
How can we show this love then?
As we look at our current society, it’s hard to not feel alarmed by some of the things happening around us. There is a push to reshape our government and our country in ways that would silence so many marginalized voices. This plan threatens to undo important protections for LGBTQ+ individuals, women, and people of color. It might even tear down services and systems that help those who need them most. Unfortunately, we are already seeing these changes happen. It’s a vision that makes it so much harder for people to simply exist, let alone thrive. But even in the face of these threats, I believe that the love we have for each other is stronger than any political agenda. Love is not just a feeling. It’s something we act on. It’s about standing up for those who are being hurt, creating spaces for people to feel safe, and fighting for a world where love and inclusion are the expectation, not the exception.
That’s the kind of love I hope to live out in my own life and in my faith journey, and I invite you all to join me. It’s a love that challenges hate, heals brokenness, and welcomes everyone, no matter who you are, who you know yourself to be, or who you are becoming.
As I stand here today, I carry with me the weight of my past, and also the love of my present. I hope for a future where no one is excluded from God’s love no matter what.
Let love be genuine.
Let it guide us toward healing, reconciliation, and peace.
And let us not be afraid to preach love to everyone around us.
Thank you.
Hineni: Responding to God’s Call
by BRAD CHAMBERLAIN, President of Luther College
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’” (Isaiah 6:8)
It was a Sunday evening in late February 2024. My wife Julie and I were attending a session in a well-appointed yet nondescript conference room in a Hilton in downtown Atlanta. We were at one of the closing conversations of a year-long seminar on Presidential Vocation and Institutional Mission. Julie and I had applied, and had been accepted, to this seminar to help us discern as a couple whether or not we were open to the possibility of a college presidency. Leading the session that evening was Marjorie Hass, the president of the Council of Independent Colleges, the organization that created the program. Simply put, Marjorie is one of the wisest individuals I have met in my two decades in higher education. She previously served as a professor of philosophy, as a provost, and as the president of two liberal arts colleges. When Marjorie speaks, people listen—as well they should.
I entered the session that evening with little gas left in my tank. It had been a busy week in the days leading up to the session. My son Drew had just finished a good, but challenging, conference championship swim meet on campus. The Board of Regents had just concluded its multiple-day meeting. Those two events had overlapped, and I had not had a chance to catch my breath for days. After completing some late-night driving and a red-eye flight, I entered that session tired and likely to miss whatever Marjorie and the other facilitators had hoped for me that evening. Frankly, much of the session was a blur to me. But I did hear one word—and that word changed my view and understanding of calling and vocation. Hineni.
Marjorie identifies with the Jewish faith tradition. In her reflections that evening, Marjorie explained how hineni is a Hebrew word that translates to “Here am I.”
Hineni is a compound word, formed from two other Hebrew words: hineh (“here,” “behold—certainly, surely”) and ani (“I”).1
Marjorie explained that in the stories of calling found in what the Christian faith tradition calls the Old Testament, hineni was the consistent response of those who had been called.
When Abraham was called in Chapter 22 of the Book of Genesis, his response in Verse 1 was hineni. “Here am I.”
When Moses was called in Chapter 3 of the Book of Exodus, his response in Verse 4 was hineni. “Here am I.”
When Samuel was called in Chapter 3 of the First Book of Samuel, his response in Verse 4 was hineni. “Here am I.”
When Isaiah was called in Chapter 6 of the Book of Isaiah, his response in Verse 8 was hineni. “Here am I.”
Marjorie impressed upon us that hineni—“Here am I”—is not about a geographical location. It is a powerful declaration.
“When we utter ‘hineni,’ we make ourselves fully available to whatever it is God might ask of us.”
As author Avital Snow remarks, what makes hineni a powerful statement is that it is “an offer of complete availability, of total readiness to serve. When we utter ‘hineni’, we make ourselves fully
April 30, 2025
available to whatever it is God might ask of us. Even without knowing what that might be. The answer of ‘hineni’ is one of faith.”
Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah— each of them in turn—uttered hineni before knowing what would be asked of them. They agreed to serve before knowing precisely how they would be asked to serve. That is why, I think, that hineni is a response grounded in faith, a response that is grounded in courage.
Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah—each of them was not responding to a call in the sense that I had long conceived of it—a task, a role. Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and Isaiah—each of them was responding to a caller. And their faithful response, I would argue, was enabled in large part due to the faithfulness of the caller.
Recently, my wife Julie has been referencing a different Hebrew word in her messages to our congregation—hesed
Brad Chamberlain
Hesed translates to “loving kindness, steadfast love, or covenantal love.”2
Theologian Walter Brueggemann defines hesed as “tenacious solidarity.”3
Hesed speaks to God’s character, His steadfast love for humanity, and the actions that He takes in response.
Our hineni, I would argue, is made possible only by God’s hesed. Our hineni our faithful response to God, is in turn, answered by God, who Himself utters hineni.
Consider these words from Verse 9 of the 58th Chapter of the Book of Isaiah: “Then you will call, and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.” Hineni.
And even when we fail to utter hineni when our response is less than faithful, God’s response is faithful. A hineni that is grounded in hesed
Consider these words from Verse 1 of the 65th Chapter of the Book of Isaiah: “I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me; I was found by those who did not seek me. To a nation that did not call on my name, I said, ‘Here am I, here am I.’”
Recently, as a point of conversation, folks understandably ask me what my new role as president is like. They ask me how I discerned this calling. I often respond that it is a hineni moment. That it is a surrender to a caller, not to a particular call, role, or task. That while I surely know some of what I have agreed to do, I just as certainly do not know all that may be asked of me. And yet, I surrender all the same, based upon the faithfulness of the caller, based upon the hesed of the caller.
As we prepare to continue with the rest of our morning, as well as the closing weeks of the semester, there are three things I want you to know:
First—this recent hineni moment of mine does not feel particularly different to me than other hineni moments in my life. Saying hineni to serve as Luther’s president feels remarkably similar to me as when I said hineni to serve as a member of Luther’s faculty 24 years ago, or when I said hineni to serve as provost. The caller was the same throughout my journey. And so, too, is my response.
“Here am I.”
Second—my hineni moments are no more, or no less, special than your hineni moments. Those that you have had. Or those that you might yet have. Each of our callings is noble. Each of our callings come from the same caller. I have no more, or no less, courage than you. Like you, I am the product of a liberal arts education. And I am convinced that one of the hallmarks of a liberal arts education is that it cultivates a sense of focus upon others. It cultivates the ability to courageously serve the common good. The ability to say hineni
The storm clouds are here.
And yet, God’s hesed remains. God’s faithfulness remains.
Third—just as individuals have a calling, just as individuals have been called, I believe that institutions have a calling. I believe that institutions have been called. It is a particularly challenging moment to be in higher education. The storm clouds are not on the horizon— they are here. And yet, God’s hesed remains. God’s faithfulness remains. Our calling as Luther College remains. I pray that our response is hineni. “Here we are.”
Soli. Deo. Gloria.
NOTES
1. See https://firmisrael.org/learn/heream-i-the-hebrew-meaning-of-hineni/ for comments about the meaning of the word “hineni” and its implications for the scriptural passages referenced herein.
2. See https://firmisrael.org/learn/themeaning-of-hesed-hebrew-for-love/
3. See https://churchanew.org/brueggemann/psalm-fourth-sunday-in-lent
For Love of the Game
by MARTIN KLAMMER, Professor of English, Editor of Agora
During a graduate seminar on American literature at the University of Iowa almost forty years ago, a classmate slipped me a newspaper notice about a team looking for a few baseball players. She knew I loved baseball and thought I might be interested in trying out for the team, though I was in my 30s and working on my doctorate. This wasn’t just any team, though. It was the team that would play against the 1919 Chicago White Sox in the movie Field of Dreams
The thought—nay, the merest possibility—that I could be immortalized on screen playing the sport I loved overwhelmed any further thinking about Captain Ahab chasing the great whale.
I’d been in a movie before. While at the University of Oregon, I appeared briefly in the now famous (or infamous) movie Animal House. I put on a beanie as a freshman and pretended to chat in the background at a fraternity party. Then I stripped to my briefs (well, not my briefs actually—I borrowed a pair) and knelt with several other half-naked pledges near Kevin Bacon as he was spanked into initiation: “Sir yes sir, may I have another!”
So it wasn’t just the chance to appear in a Hollywood movie that excited me that day. It was the chance to appear in my second Hollywood movie.
That night I composed a letter to the local casting director, highlighting my role in Animal House and my high school batting average of .444 (omitting that it consisted of four total hits, two of which never left the infield). I included a photo of me in a throwback St. Louis Browns cap, looking wistfully into the past.
I received no word for a month and had just about given up when the phone rang. The local casting director said
she liked my “look” (Robert Redford? Lou Gehrig? Iowa farmboy?), but the coaches questioned my baseball experience. She said they had “a number of applicants with college or semi-pro experience.” I began to doubt the whole idea.
“I’m not that good,” I admitted.
“Well . . .” she paused.
“Just give me a shot!” I pleaded, as if already speaking a line from the movie.
And she did.
For the next few weeks I put myself on a rigorous training schedule, never mind I was a PhD student in English. I bought and read The Complete Instructional Baseball Manual. I wrote my sister a three-page analysis of my still evolving skill set, even though she hadn’t seen me play in years or heard from me since Christmas.
I had plans to lift weights, watch instructional videos, hit in the batting cage, and take some fly balls from a friend. After the initial burst of enthusiasm, though, I calmed down. I took a few fly balls on a dusty grade school diamond and fought off fastballs from a menacing pitching machine. But mostly I tried to keep things in perspective. “It’s just an interesting summer job,” I told myself.
Almost as soon as I got to the practice field in Dubuque, I felt like turning back. Broad-shouldered and welltanned young men were taking turns in batting practice, slashing line drives and booming fly balls deep into the outfield. “Oh great,” I thought, “these guys are the real White Sox.”
Two coaches stood near the third base dugout, clipboards in hand. One was fiftyish, muscular, and trim, like a drill sergeant. The other was older—maybe
in his 70s. This was Ron Dedeaux, legendary coach of the USC Trojans who won eleven national championships. He was keeping up a running commentary in his own baseball patois that he wore like an old shoe. After a batter chased a high pitch, he’d yell “High-ball hitter, high-ball drinker!”
As I watched, the less intimidated I felt. Some of the players looked heavy, or old—or both. Several of the hitters barely got a bat on the ball, whiffing at pitches or dinking weak grounders. On a pop up to second base, an older guy circled drunkenly under the ball, then threw his glove out at the last second. The force of the ball landing in his mitt almost knocked him down.
I tried out with 20 guys in the outfield. One of them looked like the second coming of Mickey Mantle, but the guy I played catch with said he was a male stripper from Chicago. He threw awkwardly like—well, like a male stripper from Chicago.
We were each hit six fly balls. “Don’t try to impress us with your throw,” Coach
Martin Klammer
The author’s first baseball glove, circa 1963. No ball was actually ever caught in the glove.
Dedeaux said. “Just take it easy. We’re looking at your form.” Counting on the likelihood that my competitors would do exactly as he said, I of course decided to give it everything I had. My throw sailed wildly out of play, sending movie personnel ducking for cover. There went the job, I thought.
Still, it was sort of fun trying out for a “pro” baseball team. A camaraderie emerged among us prospects, who in real life were teachers, farmers, businessmen, and students. We pulled for each other, applauded good plays, and let out collective groans when one of us muffed a groundball. We all knew what it meant to have our dream hinge on a bad hop.
Hitting consisted of getting half-adozen swings at balls thrown at Little League speed. When I first stood in, I realized I hadn’t seen an overhand pitch come at me in fourteen years. The first two pitches were inside and I dribbled them down the third-base line. The next pitch almost hit me. “Sorry,” I heard from the mound.
Then, on the next pitch, the ball came in fast and low, right over the plate.
I waited, waited, then swung, really stepping into it. The ball shot out of the infield on a line drive that kept rising until it was well out there between left and center field. I think I heard it hit the fence. And in that moment it all came back to me: the feeling of power that surges from hips and legs through arms and wrist; the delight in realizing I had propelled a ball that far; and the best memories of youth, seeing outfielders give chase to the ball disappearing in the distance. Suddenly I remembered why I loved baseball.
At the end of the tryout, the casting director explained that she would phone us that evening if we were to advance to the next stage. No call meant you didn’t make the cut. I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment, but did they see me hit?
I did not get a call. I was surprised how sad I was. For several nights I lay awake, thinking about the tryout, replaying in my mind what I could have done better—just as if I were a real athlete, not an English grad student.
But the tryout may have done something more for me than land a role in the movie. In the chance it gave me to again catch a baseball coming out of the sun or hit one farther than I thought I could, it brought back pleasures I thought had died and made me alive once more to the game I loved.
PHOTO COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
Find the current issue and back issues of Agora online
You can read the current issue of Agora online, and you can also find and search all back issues by going to our webpage: www. luther.edu/paideia/agora.
Changing your address? Want to stop receiving Agora? If you do, please email or write us. Contact Agora at agora@luther.edu or write Agora, Main 215, Luther College, 700 College Dr., Decorah, IA 52101.
The image at left illustrated early issues of Agora. The journal was established by the Paideia Program, and paideia translates as education. The image shows a teacher with his tablet on his lap and stylus in his hand.
THE LIBERAL ARTS AT LUTHER COLLEGE
Luther College, 700 College Drive, Decorah, Iowa 52101-1045
