Spring 2016 Agora

Agora

THE LIBERAL ARTS AT LUTHER COLLEGE

SPRING 2016

LUTHER COLLEGE, DECORAH, IOWA

Impermanence: Embracing Change

THE LIBERAL ARTS AT LUTHER COLLEGE

Martin Klammer, editor

SPRING 2016 VOLUME 28 NUMBER 2

Judy K. Boese, production editor

Agora, an interdisciplinary journal grounded in the humanities, is a project of the Luther College Paideia Program. Paideia consists of many activities and opportunities, including a three-course interdisciplinary core curriculum; performances and events, including an annual lecture series; library acquisitions; student writing services; networked computer classrooms; and a faculty development program that includes sabbatical grants and summer workshops. All these activities receive support from the Paideia Endowment, originally established through National Endowment for the Humanities grants matched by friends of Luther College. To see the current issue and archival issues on-line, go to <http://www. luther.edu/paideia/agora>.

The primary Agora contributors are Luther College faculty; writing is also solicited from other college community members and, occasionally, from outside writers. The journal was established in 1988 by then Paideia Director Wilfred F. Bunge, Professor of Religion and Classics. Mark Z. Muggli, Professor of English, was the editor from 1998-2004 and Peter A. Scholl, Professor of English, from 2004-2014.

Agora is distributed to five hundred on-campus faculty and administrators and to another five hundred off-campus friends of the college. Anyone wishing to be included on the mailing list should contact the editor. phone: (563) 387-2112 e-mail: klammerm@luther.edu

Contents Student Faculty Research Shoring up Crumbs Against Our Ruin: A Paideia Collaboration Andy Hageman............................................................................................................... 3

Impermanence and Embracing Change: Death and Dying

Interview with Richard Simon Hanson on Death and Dying Martin Klammer............................................................................................................ 4 Final EmBODYment Laura Proescholdt........................................................................................................... 9

Sabbatical Reports The Importance of Engaging with the Wider World During a Sabbatical Erin Flater................................................................................................................... 13 The Long and the Short of It: Sabbatical Adventures in Microfiction Lise Kildegaard............................................................................................................. 16

Photos “Little Author Portraits” Mark Hoffman............................................................................................................. 19

2015-16 Paideia Texts and Issues Lecture Series: Impermanence: Embracing Change Identity and the Academy: Embracing Change Brad Chamberlain and Britt Rhodes............................................................................. 22 Back to the Future: Understanding the Anthropocene Laura Peterson.............................................................................................................. 31

Reformation Preparing to Commemorate the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation Robert Christman......................................................................................................... 39

Chapel Eco-Reformation (April 20, 2016) Jim Martin-Schramm and Students from Religion 239................................................. 41 United in the Ever Flowing Waters (April 22, 2016) Makayla Marinack....................................................................................................... 44 Reflections of God (April 27, 2016) Kate Duffert................................................................................................................. 46 “The Goodness of the Lord” (May 4, 2016) Carter Johnson.............................................................................................................. 47

Cover: “Charles Darwin” and “Tortoise” from Mark Hoffman’s “Little Author Portraits” series.

Introduction

by MARTIN KLAMMER, Professor of English, Agora Editor

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his issue examines the theme of this year’s Paideia Text & Issues lecture series: “Impermanence: Embracing Change.” Our three lectures in 2015-16 addressed quite different forms of impermanence.

Last fall Anna Peterson (history) spoke on the ways in which Norwegian women almost a century ago struggled with unwanted pregnancies and sought abortions in light of dire economic circumstances. This semester Britt Rhodes (social work) and Brad Chamberlain (chemistry) explored questions of individual and communal identity in the academy and ways in which students, faculty, and staff at Luther College are responding to current changes and pressures within the academy (see pages 22-30). More globally—literally—Laura Peterson (Environmental Studies, chemistry) spoke on changes brought about by the new division of geologic time known as the Anthropocene in which our human impact on the environment has become so great that even earthquake activity is now thought to be influenced by humans.

One line from Peterson’s provocative talk and essay (see pages 31-38) struck me as especially sobering. She writes that “what happens during the Anthropocene matters far less to the Earth system than it does to humans.”

She notes that after previous “upheavals wrought by evolutionary innovations” in the Earth system “equilibrium” was nonetheless restored. It seems, from my layperson’s point of view, that the Earth has shown over vast amounts of time a great ability to heal or restore itself, and may well do so again no matter how badly and irresponsibly we foul the planet. But will we as a species survive?

And more to the point, will our survival matter?

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One hopes so. But of course none of us individually survives. Death is the ultimate impermanence: we’re born, we live, we die. Or, as senior Laura Proescholdt writes in her essay, planning ahead for what happens to our bodies when we die “helps us come to terms with the ultimate immutable, inevitable change—death—by which we leave the vessel that allow us to wander the earth over our lifetimes” (see page 9).

And so to lead off this issue we have two items that address this most “inevitable change.” I speak with Richard Simon Hanson, Professor Emeritus of Religion, about what he does to help people die as joyfully as possible and to help those who grieve honor the deceased with stories and memories. In Laura Proesholdt’s essay “Final EmBODYment,” she looks at the “post-mortem” choices people make about what will be happen with their bodies after they die—choices, she concludes, that often “reveal what is most important to them in life.”

These are not easy subjects, but Richard Simon and Laura help us think about what lies ahead. If this is all a bit too grave for Agora, I invite you to meditate on the wisdom and passion of the chapel talks, read a Square Story or two from Lise Kildegaard’s sabbatical essay, or simply take in the whimsy of Mark Hoffman’s “Little Author Portraits.”

After all, as Richard Simon reminds us, one way to enjoy the life we have is through humor, even “Learning to laugh at what isn’t funny.”

Shoring up Crumbs Against Our Ruin: A Paideia Collaboration

by ANDY HAGEMAN, Assistant Professor of English

Each spring semester, the students in my Paideia 112 section focus their sustained research projects on film history. Each student works on a significant film, exploring its production, distribution, and reception.

The students combine their research with historical and social frameworks of their film’s era as well as analytical interpretation of the film itself to build an argument about what we can learn from a work of art that also captures the ideologies and zeitgeist of the time and place in which it was made.

Since I participate in several science fiction research organizations and forums, last fall I noticed the emergence of excited buzz around an independent film called Crumbs that was just starting to screen on the circuit of film festivals.

Crumbs is set in Ethiopia and is part of a rise in science fiction produced in many African nations—a rise in production as well as in scholars around the world taking notice of these films, novels, and other works of art. More specifically, Crumbs depicts the life of a couple trying to maintain life and love in a decimated post-apocalyptic future

In spring 2015, Ashenafi Beyene focused his project on the Coen Brothers’ 1996 film Fargo. Ashenafi researched the scholarly conversations that already exist about Fargo and joined the stream of critics who discuss the ethical elements of the story, especially its diverse range of characters. His final paper Andy Hageman and Ashenafi Beyene demonstrated perceptive reading of the film, a firm grasp on what others had already that includes alien contact with Earth. argued about the film, and a concise and Striking landscapes, surreal narrative compelling argument about the moral twists, and suggestive repurposing orientation that Fargo ultimately seems of global entertainment media and to reinforce. In particular, Ashenafi commodities such as plastic toy swords emphasized the significance of the final and Michael Jordan posters infuse scene, when Officer Marge Gunderson the film with potent yet ambiguous (played by Frances McDormand) allegorical prospects that require delivers a moral pronouncement, as a attentive spectators to interpret. distinct contrast with the diverse amoral As Ashenafi’s home country is Ethiopia gestures throughout the film that some and he demonstrated such a keen other scholars have interpreted in more interest in working with films as cultural nihilistic ways.

artifacts, I asked if he’d be interested in watching it and discussing it since the film’s distributors were reaching out to scholars to promote Crumbs. The two of us watched the movie together and had a series of discussions in the days following as we continued to digest this very experimental and engaging movie. So rich were the discussions that we decided to collaborate on writing an analytical review essay of Crumbs, combining Ashenafi’s expertise in the Ethiopian setting and context, my expertise in the genre of science fiction films, and our mutual enthusiasm for thinking through the ethics and meanings of movies.

By collaborating, we were able to think and write about scenes, characters, music, and plot developments as triangulations of the religious, political, and historical context of Ethiopia and the genre conventions of science fiction.

LUTHER COLLEGE PHOTO BUREAU

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hat does the Paideia experience at Luther College have to do with an independent science fiction film set in an imagined post-apocalypse Ethiopia?

Our piece was published by a wellknown open-access science fiction studies journal, Deletion. As the link to their publication circulated through social media, we received encouraging feedback from scholars as well as the film’s director. Not only did the Paideia research project pave the way for our academic collaboration; it also created the opportunity for Ashenafi and me to contribute to a global discussion on how science fiction film can offer alternative perspectives on the futures we inhabitants of Earth might create.

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Interview with Richard Simon Hanson on Death and Dying

by MARTIN KLAMMER, Professor of English

RSH: It struck me when Rita was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, “I’m going to have to become a caretaker.” Well, I enjoyed it so much I became sort of a professional caregiver.

MK: What did you enjoy about it?

RSH: Rita and I got closer and closer. I had to go over there three times a day for five years to feed her. She couldn’t feed herself. And I’d linger. We had maybe the best years of our marriage in those last five years.

MK: Really. That’s quite a statement.

RSH: I took her over two weeks before our 50th wedding anniversary. So I decided to make a special thing out of that. She belonged to a group of ladies who met together for gathering and sewing and everything else. I told them I was going to celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary and they should all come over there. I had her wedding dress there. She couldn’t put it on. So I had it hanging there and we hadn’t worn our wedding rings for a while because our knuckles got too big, so I had the two wedding rings there. I 4

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MARTIN KLAMMER

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ichard Simon Hanson taught religion at Luther from 1963 to 1999 when he retired to care for his wife Rita, whose Parkinson’s disease worsened to the point she needed full time care. Over the next five years he continued to teach one or two courses a year, hiring Luther student nurses to care for Rita while he was on campus.

In 2004 Rita moved to Aase Haugen Home. She died October 3, 2009, age 81. His long-term care of Rita, who was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 1979, prepared him for his volunteer roles today as “spiritual advisor” to people in hospice at Winneshiek Medical Center and chaplain at Aase Haugen. We begin our conversation there. The names of all patients have been changed.

Richard Simon Hanson at home said to Rita, “The first time I said these words, I didn’t quite mean it because I wasn’t sure this would work. But now I mean it.” And I did the wedding vows.

It was a rewarding thing for me and for her. You know there’s a saying, “Now we’re really married after 50 years.”

And one of the things that occurred to me was that the suffering does as much good as the good times. Suffering draws you together. It either draws you together or sends you apart. But when you go through something and do it together, not just one person going through it, it forms bonds. The old Hebrew word for love is a word about bonding. It has nothing to do with feelings.

RSH: About ten years ago they asked me to come and volunteer as what they call a spiritual advisor in their hospice program. They have second man, a deacon from the Catholic Church.

He takes the Catholics, I take the Protestants. All volunteer work. I totally enjoy it. We meet every two weeks—the nurses, Dr. Locke, a social worker, and pharmacist, and we discuss medications and everything. Right now we have about 24 hospice people at any one time. Every once in a while I have to take over and do what a pastor would do because a person is unchurched. In fact I’ll interrupt with one funny story.

There’s more fun in this sort of work than you could ever imagine.

MK: How do you understand that then?

MK: It’s a bit hard to imagine, but go ahead.

RSH: With brothers and sisters, I don’t care how much you don’t like him.

He’s your brother. And that’s a bond.

And a good marriage is a bond. Even a marriage that ends has been a bond for a while. Bonding is bigger than feelings, but it can produce feelings. I’ve seen many beautiful examples of that.

MK: What do you do exactly at Winneshiek Medical Center?

RSH: There was a 52-year-old man dying of cancer that was growing in his throat fast. He had smoked. His family ran a junk business east of town so I knew his family somewhat. I’d go out every week to see him. I try to be kind but abrupt. I said, “George, feel ready to die?” He said in a low voice, “Who’s that ready to die?” He could hardly talk. That was all I needed to know. He lasted

much longer than we expected—four months—and he took a walk every day.

I found a poem—I often use poetry, and I write poetry having to do with these things—and the line was something like, “Now I am ready to die. But I don’t feel like doing it.” He reminded me of those lines. One of the things I learned from him and many others, and I had started earlier when Rita’s sister was dying of cancer, I’d asked her, “What’s it like to die?” “Well, you don’t want it to hurt. Hospice can take care of the pain.

But the hardest part is saying goodbye.”

And I thought, “That’s right.” The first one ready to say goodbye is the one who’s dying. That wasn’t easy.

I remember a lady at that time I was calling on from First Lutheran Church where I was volunteering because they needed an extra pastor for a year. She was going to move out of her apartment into something smaller. I said, “You’ve got these things here you want to give away, don’t you?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Why don’t you pick things out for your family and say, ‘I want you to have this.’”

The next week I came and she said “My son [is here and] he said he didn’t want anything.” I said to him, “You will take something!” And he did. (Laughs).

Because it’s so meaningful what you decide to give, and it’s so important to give. Giving is a powerful exercise.

Giving is very, very rewarding. When you can no longer give anything, that’s a sad moment. I often talk about that with my people: “What can you still give?”

That’s very important.

MK: How do you help people find a sense of peace in the final days?

RSH: I want to back up to an earlier time when I finished my bachelor’s degree in 1957 at Luther Seminary—we used to get just a bachelor’s degree. I had become so good at Hebrew that they hired me to stay on and teach three years of Hebrew and another course. I thought, “Why not use the extra time to get my master’s degree?”

So I took courses to get my master’s degree at the University of Minnesota in Ancient Near Eastern Studies, really Old Testament Studies. I also took a course in counseling from a marvelous professor. I learned a whole lot. He taught a course in non-direct

counseling where you don’t try to steer the conversation; you just try to get the other person to talk. And if they take a detour and you sense that it’s a detour, call them back. “Can you tell me more about that?”

Or refer to a picture. One of the first things I do when we get new people into the nursing home is to see what pictures are brought over, because every picture brought to the nursing home room is important. “Is that your home farm?” “Oh yeah.” Get them to talk. Just a simple technique of getting people to talk with minimal guidance because it’s for their sake, not your sake. I’m not a psychiatrist who can solve a problem.

There’s something you call closure.

When a person is near the end of life, it has to become a kind of a story that makes sense. So they have to feel good about life, no matter how many mistakes they made. I do this with everyone over there, because sooner or later they’re going to die. Some of the old ladies [at Aase Haugen]—we have six over 100 now—they never quit.

(Laughs) That is a very important part, to review the story—and nowadays with photographs you can do it so well—so that they can come to a point of closure.

So I get them to talk about things and listen to them resolve their own anxieties, because you’ve got to believe in people’s ability to cope with their own problems. When I’m talking with my children who are now grown up, I mostly listen. I love to hear them solving their own problems. The worst thing is to work with dependent people. If I sense that’s happening at the nursing home, I say, “Well, I better continue on my way now.” You’re supposed to solve their problem for them. The doctors and nurses can solve the problem of pain with medication, but when it’s the problem of making a big transition in life, only they can do it.

Two days ago I was with a family, this lady was pretty near the end and the family was gathered around. I said, “What you’re doing now”—and I helped them help her—“is ten times more important than a funeral.” I repeat that kind of message often. I’m in the business of helping people die.

MK: What do you do with someone who is angry or resistant about dying?

RSH: If they’re angry, I try to help resolve that. One of the lines I have is, “You know, when you start to think about the past there are things that are fun to remember and things you wish you could forget, but darn it, you can’t. You’re going to have to believe in forgiveness. You’re even going to have to forgive yourself.” That can be very important.

MK: Are people able to do that—find that resolution?

RSH: I’m never quite sure, because often times they get too sleepy. They’re fading out. (Laughs.) But less than three months ago I was called down to Calmar to work with a couple. I knew she’d go fairly fast—she went faster than I thought. I came in and started off like this, “How many children do you have?”

She named four. “Grandchildren?”

Eight. “Great-grandchildren?” “I’m not sure!” (Laughs) “Okay,” I said, “now that’s your future. When you die you go into the past.” Then I might quote scripture, “The breath of life goes back to God where it came from; the body goes into the earth.” And then I tried this, it often makes them grin at least: “If you want a quick trip, try cremation.

If you don’t want to disintegrate too fast, try an expensive coffin. It will keep you for a long time.” (Laughs) MK: How do people react when you say that?

RSH: They smile, and some of them say, “I already chose cremation.” And then I said to her husband, “Now, you have been doing a good job living with this woman.” He said, “Not always.” Okay, that was an important little line. She said something like, “Better than you think.” Little nuggets like that. I aim for those kind of things, but it has to come from them. It helps them deal with things that were hard to deal with.

After she died, hospice had a little gift for the family—a free massage treatment. The social worker asked the man, “If you like it, we’ll give you this.” He said, “No, send Pastor Hanson down here again.” He needed to unload. And for an hour and-a-half Spring 2016/Agora

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he complained about that “blanketyblank minister who doesn’t know how to show sympathy to anybody!” He got it off his chest. It was safe to tell me. He had to resolve that: his anger was mostly toward his church! In talking with her about the funeral she said, “I hope they don’t sing ‘Abide with Me.’ I can’t stand another round of ‘Abide with Me!’” (He sings first line.)

Now I’ll tell you a story that has an opposite ending. There was a lady in the hospital who was a lapsed Methodist.

So I went over there and the whole family was gathered around. It was two weeks before Christmas. When I caught on that she had been brought up a Methodist I said, “Let me sing some hymns. I know one.” I picked Wesley hymns and Christmas carols. I started in (sings), “Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie.” When I got to the second verse she, with her eyes closed, started to sing it with me by memory. Her daughter looked thunderstruck, and the whole family looked amazed. And she finished it. The daughter rushed over to give me a hug.

Four hours later the woman was dead.

I use a lot of music, sometimes just funny things. We have a lady in memory care. She knows all the old songs of the 50s. I’ll start singing and she sings a duet with me. It can be anything. It can be silly. This one has worked well for two weeks. [Sings] “Though April showers may come your way, They bring the flowers that bloom in May.” When she gets going they all love it.

I use all the tools I’ve got. My aim is to keep life as happy as possible as long as possible.

MK: Do you find the work joyous?

RSH: Oh yeah. At one recent funeral that I conducted, when the family sat down in the church I said, “In front of me and before me, you see the future of [the deceased]. “Let’s applaud the future.” Everybody did. And the tears just flowed from the faces of their kids. This is what’s important: life goes on. I let the preachers and the priests take care of the hereafter any way they want to.

One more funny one about that. I work with all denominations. We had a guy 6

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who was sort of mentally slow, died at age 64 over there and he was a real hero to the others, the Down’s syndrome people. This priest who didn’t know him came up to do the service. Well, he struggled to say things that weren’t working. It was a miserable sermon. At one point one of the Down’s syndrome people stood up and said, “And boy, could he eat pizza!” (Laughs) Even the priest had to smile. It was just glorious!

He was remembered for his ability to eat pizza! I’ve learned to expect surprises like this.

MK: Is your work related to a Christian ministry?

RSH: No. And frankly, my own understanding is far more Jewish than Christian when it comes to death, because in Jewish tradition, it’s remembering the dead. They don’t go somewhere else. And this thought that you’re going to live on in the memory of your children is comforting! Just two days ago, a daughter was sitting with her mother and I came in and there’s a Psalm that really works, the 139th Psalm. It’s about God knowing me better than I know myself. I said, “Let’s join hands and pray the Lord’s prayer,” because almost all people know that. The daughter looked remarkably much like her mother. She was holding her hand. I went over and held the daughter’s hand.

We made a circle with the part of the family that was there. I said to her, “You look remarkably much like your mother.”

She said, “People have told me that.” I said, “It’s true.” That was important for her. I think she kind of thought, “I carry a good bit of Mom in me, don’t I?” MK: You say you write poetry? Tell me about that.

RSH: Well, I have a lot of poems about grieving. I started doing this a long time ago as a way of coping with grief.

In fact, I tried to get them published and they said, “No, this is too personal.”

Poetry is choosing words carefully so they say what you really mean to say. I have a lot of little short poems I’ve done for people.

MK: So you write a poem for someone?

RSH: Oh, often. Almost always, though sometimes I write one for myself.

MK: For someone who is dying, or a member of the family?

RSH: Or even in the case of a divorce.

I wrote a poem for a former student of mine. When she was forced into a divorce by a husband who deserted her, I did a little poem—“I was telling the story, but half of my story left”—and then built on the grief of that. What do you do when half of the story is gone?

Or one lady was having trouble over there [at Aase Haugen] with this, “You know, I can’t do these things anymore.”

The theme of my poem was, “The things I can’t do any more are still part of my story. They’re still true. They were true, but they remain true in the story.” A story has chapters, episodes. Every human life is a story. And never does the story become untrue. The story stays true. So when people talk about what this guy used to do, that’s true! I felt the truth of this long ago, and I wrote three whole books. I nearly got one published by a big publisher in New York, but they decided it was too local. I wrote stories about my grandfather and my parents for my own children, so that they could go on, you know? People need to be remembered. So I wrote a couple of poems about this: everything that you used to do is still true.

MK: Is it the case that you’re inspired to write a poem after you talk with someone?

RSH: After I get well acquainted. I’ll think, “What does this person need to say?” And I put it in that person’s voice.

It’s a particular kind of a poem.

MK: And it’s a gift. It seems that you write poems as gifts.

RSH: Oh yes, always. And it’s so useful.

I don’t care if it gets published or not.

That’s not the purpose.

MK: I have to share with you that I saw my mother two months before she passed.

She dealt with cancer for a long time. She died at the age of 69. I’m not a poet, and yet I felt compelled to write her a poem that remembered all of the ways that she was Mom to us. And then I asked her, “May I read this at your funeral?” She said yes.

Sometimes we ask our students to write on, “What’s the most important thing you ever wrote?” I’ve published books like you have.

But I would say the poem to my mother

is probably the most important thing I’ve ever written.

But the other thing I find helpful is humor. Learning to laugh at what isn’t funny. I was inspired by a true story about my parents. My mother was severely diabetic and ended up after three amputations with just one leg and my dad had had brain surgery for a tumor. They weren’t well off and they were living by themselves out in the country and one night she had to go to the bathroom and dad had to help her to the bathroom in a little country farmhouse, and they fell down. In the morning my brother came up to check in on them. There they were on the floor laughing. (Laughs). Helpless and laughing! That clued me in.

Now here’s a cute story about a lady. I was calling on her for First Lutheran Church when they were short of pastors and I did home calls taking communion.

This lady, a single woman, lived south of town, and she took in feral cats and fed them, which of course took care of her problem with mice and rats! (Laughs).

I was calling on her and in the first visit I said, “How old are you Alice?” She said “Thirty-nine!” Oh. When she hit a birthday a couple of months later, I said, “Alice, are you going to be 49 or 94?”

She made a face and said “Ninety-four!”

Well, she showed up at Aase Haugen Home shortly after I started over there … Last year I heard she was going to have a birthday on September 2nd. I said, “How old are you going to be now, Alice?” She said, “Oh, I’m probably 96.”

“When were you born?” “September 2nd, 1915.” I said, “Alice, you’re going to be 100.” “Oh no!” (Laughs) When I come in to see her she’s always got complaints.

She lives on her complaints. “How are you feeling today?” “Oh, I feel terrible.”

I’ll say, “No wonder you look so awful!”

And she laughs. I’ll turn things around

MARTIN KLAMMER

RSH: I did this for my parents before they died, and in fact I got that pair of poems published in a couple places. One guy who does a lot of publishing for friends said, “This is the best poem you ever did.” Well it was the best because it was the truth. My sisters and brothers all said, “Yes, that’s just the way they were.” It was sort of on behalf of the family.

Remembering Rita through photographs like this, and the humor can get to be really rare.

MK: Is there ever a case where you are sad by someone’s passing?

RSH: Oh yes. We had a lady there who was slowly, basically starving to death.

She had been a beautiful woman but as she degenerated she had this wonderful skeletal structure. The daughter-in-law knew that it wasn’t long. Her husband would come in to meet with her once a week, every Saturday. The daughterin-law was there every day. When I saw there wasn’t much time left I said, “Look, you better get the boys and your fatherin-law to come here because we’re close to the end.” By this time I had really learned to love this woman. She was so quiet. She had to have some pain pills.

But she was accepting it so well. But of course her men weren’t. The daughterin-law was. When they all came to the room I said, “Now I’m going to do a little ceremony called anointing.” They were Lutherans, they weren’t Catholics. It would have made more sense if they were Catholics. I said, “Anointing is when you want to make somebody special. I have a little oil here, and I’m going to touch her forehead with the oil in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

I said, “Now I’m going to sing some hymns.” There are some nice hymns I sing. And then I said, “Let’s pray the Lord’s prayer together.” We joined hands.

And I said, “Now look. Can you see how beautiful she is?” Those men just crumbled, and daughter-in-law smiled.

Two hours later she was gone.

MK: Is that a sad story?

RSH: Well, it’s both. The sadness is in what they didn’t recognize, the daughter-in-law did.

MK: They couldn’t see the beauty.

RSH: This person used to be a goodlooking lady. But when you’re just a skeleton you’ve lost it. I was telling them, “No, it’s not gone.” You get invested in somebody, but then the moment of death is a genuine release.

You say, “Well, I did what I could do.” Yesterday I visited a widower. He would spend the whole night with his wife. He almost died six weeks ago, but she beat him. I said, “Henry, you did everything you could.” That’s all I said. His granddaughter was there and heard it. Death is a point where you say, “Well, I’m done. I did what I could.”

It’s important for the family to do what they can do. I often try to manage that like I did with this lady. It’s a job that needs to be done. Saying goodbye is an important job. And when you don’t get a chance to say goodbye, it’s terrible.

MK: Let me ask this, if I may. How do you feel about your own death?

RSH: Oh I’m ready! I went through it once. A little over three years ago I was at the hospice meeting at our hospital around the table with six or seven nurses, two student nurses, the doctor, the pharmacist, the social worker, and I guess I just kind of plopped over with my head on the table. I was told afterwards that the nurses thought I had fallen asleep. After all, I’m an old Spring 2016/Agora

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COURTESY OF RICHARD SIMON HANSON

Rita, age 12 man. But the nurse next to me knew something else. She slammed me on the floor, ripped my shirt off, and got my heart going.

MK: Your heart had quit beating?

RSH: Yes. If I’d have been at home I wouldn’t be alive. (Laughs) I woke up on the gurney and the whole troop was escorting me down to the emergency room—the doctor, a whole bunch of nurses, with two students behind. It was hilarious.

MK: How do you find that funny?

RSH: I made it, you see! That’s what’s so funny. They took me to Rochester and put the pacemaker in, and the next morning Will Bunge came to get me.

So I’ve gone through it.

MK: You say you are ready to go. Is there a point in your life where you became ready?

Because I don’t feel ready.

RSH: No, you shouldn’t. I guess partly retirement, and taking my wife through the doorway and several other people.

We don’t go into the future. We go into the past. We become part of the past.

Think of the people you remember— parents, grandparents. I keep pictures of my ancestors up around my desk. I knew some of them and I got to know the others through family histories. Life is part of the cycle, it goes on and on.

Remembering is what it’s about. How do you honor your father and mother?

Remembering them.

I’ve got to show you one of my favorite pictures of Rita from before I knew her.

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She was 12-years-old and I didn’t meet her until she was 26. [Shows picture] This is Rita as a 12-year-old on the little farm in northern Minnesota where they lived in a two room cabin, holding the calf. It’s her personality!

I’ve got to leave you with one beautiful story. I was talking about the theme of resurrection on Thursday during the weekly worship service at Aase Haugen. I had quite a few people—35 or 40, including a few relatives—and I was telling about the ways in which resurrection happens. I told the story from John’s gospel. I said John’s gospel is mystery. There are things here that people didn’t understand in the story. I said, “What are some of the things you don’t understand? Nature is full of stuff you don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wonder at it. Maybe that’s why children are better at this than grown-ups.” I said, “Think of the person next to you. Are there things about that person you haven’t discovered that are worth discovering?” And as I said it, a life-long bachelor sitting next to one of the other men reached over and put his arm around his shoulder. I said, “That a boy, Bill.” It was magic.

Final EmBODYment

by LAURA PROESCHOLDT, ’16

M

y family stood in a tight semi-circle around the garden, each of us clinging to the other. The lake spread out before us, sparkling in the August sunlight. My aunt held a small pitcher in her hands, glazed in the soft golds and blues my grandma favored. Inside the pitcher was a mixture of my grandpa and grandma’s cremains. When my grandma bought that pitcher I doubt she imagined that one day she and my grandpa would inhabit it for a moment, the dust of their bodies assuming the shape of the sloping clay sides. Yet there they were, their family about to sprinkle a little of each of them on the garden of the lake home my grandparents visited every summer before my grandma’s death in 2000. Death had allowed my grandparents to transform, to transcend the laws of space and time that governed the living, to become inanimate and mingle with clay pitchers and soil, water and air.

For my family, it was not easy getting my grandparents into that pitcher.

We were selling the lake home where my grandparents were about to be sprinkled and this spurred a renewed sense of grief in their children and grandchildren. My dad spent an entire day digging up perennials and hot black soil in the garden, seeking the metal box that contained my grandma’s ashes. His siblings figured he should get that box out of the garden before they sold the place. I can only imagine what my dad must have been thinking as he undertook the task, his shovel repeatedly breaking ground as he simultaneously dreaded and hoped for the moment when his dirty metal blade would find the steel containing his mother’s ashes.

As we stood at the lakeside the next week, I wondered if my dad was thinking of that day. When my aunt

began to speak, my attention turned to our family’s youngest member, Johnny.

The one-year-old was tired of being held, and his dad lowered him to the ground. As we said our final goodbye to my grandparents, Johnny’s presence was curiously comforting, and I watched him sway back and forth, his tiny hands enclosed in his dad’s large ones. My aunt finished her goodbye and we stood in silence, staring at the water, coming to terms with the fact that we were still there and the people who made that possible were not. As she began to sprinkle my grandparents’ fine white ashes from the pitcher, a gust of wind came up. Grandpa and grandma blew right into little Johnny’s wide blue eyes.

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Dead bodies, Mary Roach points out in Stiff, her peculiarly enlightening book about human cadavers, are “absurd.” No longer inhabited by a person, they are “floppy,” smelly, and strange (Roach 11).

Yet, most of us are curiously attached to what happens to our bodies after we die. We plan a future for our flesh in a casket, in the ground, in an urn, or sprinkled in the gardens of our lake homes. This plan helps us come to terms with the ultimate immutable, inevitable change—death—by which we leave the vessel that allowed us to wander the earth over our lifetimes. Though we cannot choose how we die, we can, at least, try to tell our loved ones what we want them to do with what remains.

As I face a major change in my life— graduation from college—I’ve become fascinated with this, the ultimate change, and how we choose what should happen to what’s left of us after we die. Today we have more options than ever before. An investigation of strange corners of the internet revealed that one day my ashes could be made into a gem, tattoo ink, a record (upon which

I could record a personal message), a tree, or—my personal favorite—a set of pencils that includes a special sharpener box to catch the shavings (Green). Most commonly, however, people choose to be embalmed and buried, cremated, donated to science, or a combination of these. I began my foray into the world of post-mortem choices certain I wanted to be cremated like my grandparents.1 To me, the idea of turning into cadaver Barbie was absolutely horrifying. I didn’t want to be seen after death, and I certainly didn’t want, through make-up and primping, to be turned into something I never was during my life.

Most of us are curiously attached to what happens to our bodies after we die. We plan a future for our flesh in the ground, in an urn, or sprinkled in the gardens of our homes.

As it turns out, I’m not the only one with these feelings. More and more Americans are choosing cremation.

According to a report on cremation and burial by the National Funeral Directors Association (NFDA), about 50% of Americans select this option.

The NFDA predicts that by 2030, this number will reach nearly 71% (“The NFDA Cremation and Burial Report” 2). This is a gigantic cultural shift, considering that the first cremation (which happened to be a sheep) didn’t occur in the U.S. until the late 1800s (“History of Cremation”). The third, chronicled by a reporter from the New York Times, was one Mrs. Jane Spring 2016/Agora

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Pitman on February 15, 1878. The language used by the reporter makes it clear that, at the time, cremation was seen as an oddity chosen only by eccentrics. He described every detail of her journey from the morgue to the fires of the crematorium. “Not a prayer was uttered; not a sigh was heard; not a tear-drop moistened the windingsheet of the woman who for 30 years had been the beloved wife of Mr. Ben Pitman,” the reporter wrote. Mrs. Pitman, however, saw no difference between burial and cremation. In her journal she wrote, “In the end it comes to the same thing—a little dust in the coffin, or a little dust in the crematory.” Her dust ended up beneath a rosebush in her husband’s garden (“An Unceremonious Rite”).

That portions of my ashes could end up under a rosebush, along my favorite prairie path, or in my annual vacation spot is an appealing aspect of cremation.

For the first time during my tenure on this earth, I could actually be in several places at once. “I think it’s good to be spread around the places you loved in your life,” my eighteen-year-old cousin, Sam, told me. She hasn’t decided where she wants to go—she figures that will become clearer down the road—but she’s sure she doesn’t want her loved ones to keep her on a shelf or in a box underground. My friend, Harv, a retired 70-something anthropology professor, shares her feelings. Over peppermint tea (me) and hot chocolate (Harv), he told me he wants his ashes to be spread in Iowa, Texas, and the Czech Republic— three places where family ties are strongest. Harv also likes that cremation bypasses the rotting part of being dead.

“I don’t want to be buried because I don’t like the idea of decaying,” he said.

“I’d much rather go up in flames and be ashes.”

There are other ways, however, to avoid decaying. The practice of embalming has been around for thousands of years. Desert dwellers of Peru were some of the earliest to embalm around 5000—6000 B.C. The Ancient Egyptians expanded upon the practice, moving from purely natural embalming (through means such as dry desert heat) to complex processes involving 10

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herbs, resins, and oils. The Persians embalmed bodies, including Alexander the Great’s, by submersing them in honey. Ancient Nigerians used alcohol, potash, African basil, and kernel oil (Brenner 317). Modern chemistry has changed embalming somewhat. Today, embalming usually involves injecting a cocktail of fluids such as formaldehyde or magnesium chloride into a cadaver at strategic points while blood drains from the arteries (Brenner 320, 322). The fluids slow decay and prevent the spread of disease, giving families more time to hold a funeral and get their loved one in the ground.

I never saw my grandma or grandpa before they made their way into that small blue and gold pitcher. Had that stunted my grieving process? I didn’t think so. All that time I knew the pitcher, the garden, and the lake were what they wanted.

Scott Fjelstul, a funeral director in Decorah, Iowa, embalms bodies for a living. Scott grew up around dead bodies, but the first time he saw one “it was creepy,” he admitted. After graduating from high school, Scott decided to join the family business and become a funeral director. Like his father, grandfather, and greatgrandfather before him, he attended mortuary school in Chicago. Scott takes pride in getting the deceased “all dressed up for the ultimate party.” He told me that many people are surprised and thankful about how good their loved one looks after embalming. “Lipstick on, hair all done, dress on. People comment that their grandma looks better in the casket than she had toward the end of her life,” he said.

Mid-way through my conversation with Scott, two women came to the door to thank him for a funeral he had recently helped arrange. I was left alone in the parlor of Fjelstul Funeral home. As I sat with a picture of Jesus,

an American flag, and the portraits of three generations of Fjelstul men, clean-shaven and wearing somber suits, I thought about why we wanted to make the dead look good, why we wanted them to appear as if they were only sleeping. I couldn’t help but feel that our attempts to make cadavers look alive failed to acknowledge that an immutable change had occurred. To be frank, I’d always been uncomfortable with embalming. My initial aversion to embalming stemmed from a feeling that embalming is a sort of euphemism created to cushion the stark reality of death, but I couldn’t help but wonder: Is cremation any less of a euphemism?

It seems inauthentic to put make-up on someone who is no longer alive, yes. But somehow, it seems just as inauthentic to encourage the sense that that person simply disappeared into nothingness.

But what is authentic? In the case of my grandparents, I never saw my grandma or grandpa before they made their way into that small blue and gold pitcher.

Had that stunted my grieving process? I didn’t think so. All that time I knew the pitcher, the garden, and the lake were what they wanted.

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Funerals are expensive. According to Homegoings, a documentary that appeared on PBS’s Point of View series, the U.S. funeral industry generates $20.7 billion in revenue each year.

A traditional funeral with all the trimmings costs, on average, between $8,000 and $10,000. Most of that figure is in the cost of the casket ($2,300), the funeral director’s fee ($1,500), grave space ($2,000), and the headstone ($2,000) (“Economics of the Funeral Industry”). During my visit with Scott, he showed me the casket room in the basement. I could see how caskets had gotten so expensive. The choices were endless—coffins made of different varieties of wood, metal caskets in every color, shiny silk lining that could be embroidered with forest scenes. The nearest to me was bright pink with small white ovals on the corners. Each oval contained tiny painted roses that reminded me of little china saucers.

“This would be a grandma coffin,” Scott said.

The commercial aspect of a traditional funeral bothered me. My inner cynic grew suspicious at the thought of having to pay so much just to get put in the ground. But my conversations with Scott revealed something important. Post-mortem choices are highly personal. The burial practices of ancient peoples of Peru and Egypt reflected important aspects of the culture, ritualizing death and helping loved ones to move on. Lipstick on a loved one may be another kind of ritual. It’s up to the individual and the family to decide how to best say goodbye.

Speaking with a person about what they want in death often reveals what is most important to them in life.

As I investigated post-mortem choices, I sensed a general unwillingness to discuss the subject. When I brought up the subject to my dad—twice—he definitively changed the topic each time. My cousin, Sam, identified the reason for this easily. “People are afraid of dying,” she said. My friend Harv pointed out that people don’t want to consider the possibility that their time on Earth may be the only time they get.

“Even though people have been taught all these various stories, and have come to claim to believe them,” Harv told me, “underneath it all, they’re fearful that there’s nothing there beyond this, and it’s much better, rather than to confront it, just to pretend it will go away.” How can we truly live, though, if we don’t confront death? I wondered.

The conversations I had with people on this topic were some of the most meaningful, and frankly, some of the most interesting, I’ve had in my twentytwo years. Speaking with a person about what they want in death often reveals what is most important to them in life. Harv had a tradition of asking his anthropology students what they would like to do with their bodies after they died. He thought it was the best way to get at what they loved most. “I haven’t

found anyone who wants to be buried in a shopping mall,” Harv said.

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I’d never seen a dead body before. Not until I met Bea, Roger, and Jean. These were the names given to three cadavers dissected by my friend Anne’s human anatomy class last fall at Luther College.

Anne, dressed in a long blue apron and blue plastic gloves, introduced me to each one in turn. We began with Roger, who lay on a steel gurney covered in a white plastic shroud. Before removing the plastic, Anne explained that Roger had been a laborer who died at age 78.

Anne carefully removed the shroud. I held my breath as Roger’s form came into view. I couldn’t stop staring at his feet, which were discernible through two translucent plastic bags. She gently peeled back a layer of clear plastic to reveal a pile of lumpy towels, which enwrapped individual organs the class had removed from Roger’s body. Anne showed me Roger’s small, dark potatosized kidney, his rather large heart, and his chest plate. I examined each of Roger’s ribs, his sternum, and the surrounding muscles. When she pulled back the towel covering Roger’s chest, I saw the skin had been removed to reveal his muscles and inner organs.

His pectoral muscles resembled pulled pork, and his skin was hot pink and leathery from the preservative fluids.

The stench of formaldehyde met my nostrils in a sickening burst. I could see where his liver and lungs once fit.

The beauty of the intestines, a delicate scalloped mass that wound around and around in the lower abdomen, caught me by surprise. After I’d looked my fill, my friend gently replaced the towel that had covered Roger’s chest. We moved on to Jean. Jean was a secretary, and lived to be 98 years old. A visiting heart and lung specialist had told the class her heart was the best he’d ever seen. Jean was considerably smaller than Roger.

When I saw her shoulder, I couldn’t help but imagine cardigan sweaters she might have worn each day to work.

The first bundle Anne unwrapped was Jean’s brain, a compact tan mass that sat in a portion of skull that had been removed from the top of Jean’s head.

Anne handed it to me. My only thought

was that this small spongy organ makes a person. “It’s amazing,” she said. “You’re holding her entire life in your hands.”

The people whose cadavers eventually became Bea, Roger, and Jean chose to donate their bodies “to science,” to lend their earthly shell to the expansion of human knowledge—and sometimes, profit. According to an article in Medical Daily, donors do not necessarily have a choice in how their bodies will be used (Scutti). My body, for example, could be used as a plastic surgery practice pad, a murder victim substitute, or a crash test dummy (Roach 24, 61, 87). Donating to a university increases the chances a cadaver will be used for educational purposes, but even then, it can be hard to wrap one’s mind around being cut apart (Scutti). At the initial stages of the human dissection course, which involved a good deal of slicing, sawing, and fat scraping, Anne was positive she did not want to donate her body to science. Cutting cadavers apart felt, to her, like mutilation. Several months later, however, she feels thankful for all that Bea, Roger, and Jean have taught her. “They’ve given us all a gift,” she told me.

A few months after I met Bea, Roger, and Jean, I sat down with Wendy Stevens, a retired anatomy professor who started the cadaver lab at Luther in 1997. Stevens learned to dissect cadavers alongside her students. She’d had experience dissecting breasts and the neck and jaw area, but never an entire body before she taught her first human dissection class. Stevens and her husband plan to donate their bodies to the University of Iowa and have already arranged the paperwork—Stevens’ 1999 class signed their documents as witnesses. “I want to keep teaching after I die,” Stevens said. “Students know that. In fact, they know that maybe someday they’ll unzip [the body bag] and … ‘My God, there she is again! I can’t get away from this woman!’” she laughed. Stevens said she is passionate about human dissection because she feels that it gives students a new appreciation for all that is inside of them, for how each organ, muscle, tendon, and bone fits together. At the end of each course, Stevens and her Spring 2016/Agora

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class held a memorial service for the cadavers, honoring them through tuba and violin solos, poetry, and handmade pottery urns. Some students simply thanked each cadaver for what they had taught them. One student swore that her cadaver, the body of a woman, had watched over her shoulder as she dissected, a guiding presence. “There’s a very spiritual aspect to [dissection],” Stevens explained. “I mean, I’m not particularly religious, but if that spiritual sense wasn’t there, it would have felt empty because there’s no way you can do that and not really start to think about, where is this person? I tell [my students] as far as I know, the people are here.”

At the end of each course, Stevens and her class held a memorial service for the cadavers, honoring them through tuba and violin solos, poetry, and handmade pottery urns.

in strange places is what I like to do best.

As I revisit this writing a few months later, it suddenly seems obvious why a 22-year-old about to embark on her adult life became entranced by postmortem choices. What I choose to do with my body will reflect what was most important to me in my life. Wendy Stevens made a choice that reflects her life’s passion and her vocation— teaching. Harv wants to honor the places and people he loved most in life.

I have yet to live as much life as Harv or Professor Stevens, but what’s important to me at this very moment is learning.

As a writer and a human, I like to find ways to prompt people to see things with new eyes. As far as I can tell, donating my body to science seems like the perfect way to do that.

Notes 1. The phrase “post-mortem choices” is English Professor Nancy Barry’s, in whose class “Creative Non-Fiction” this essay was first composed.

Works Cited

After speaking with Stevens and visiting Bea, Roger, and Jean, I understand the appeal of full-body donation. What final embodiment could be more authentic than revealing my insides to students? I used to feel strange about people seeing my body after death—but that was when I thought I had to be a made-up cadaver in a shiny casket.

I want my post-mortem choices to reflect what mattered to me most in life.

By donating my body to a university, I could give someone the chance to understand what, at the most basic level, makes us alive. Maybe that student, by seeing my heart, will be able to imagine their own, steadfastly beating inside their chest. Maybe, like me, they’ll see my gorgeous intestines and suddenly have appreciation for their own. Maybe they’ll hold my brain in their hands and feel awe and wonder at the fact that so many emotions, thoughts, memories, comments, jokes, and lies can come out of a squishy tan lump. To me, that’s beautiful, and helping others find beauty 12

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Anne. Personal Interview. 10 Dec. 2015.

“An Unceremonious Rite; Cremation of Mrs. Ben Pitman.” The New York Times.

15 Feb. 1878. PDF. 10 Dec. 2015. <http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archivefree/pdf ?res=9E07EEDA113FE6 3BBC4E52DFB4668383669FDE>

Brenner, Erich. “Human Body Preservation– Old and New Techniques.” Journal of Anatomy 224.3 (2014): 316–344. Wiley Online Library. Web. <http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/joa.12160/ abstract> “Economics of the Funeral Industry.” POV: American Documentary, Inc. n.d. Web. 10 Dec. 2015. <http://www.pbs.org/ pov/homegoings/economics-of-thefuneral-industry> Fjelstul, Scott. Personal Interview. 2 Dec. 2015.

Green, Amanda. “10 Amazing Things Your Ashes Can Do After You Die.” Mental Floss: Mental Floss, Inc. 26 Jul. 2013.

Web. 10 Dec. 2015. <http://mentalfloss. com/article/51905/10-amazing-thingsyour-ashes-can-do-after-you-die>

“History of Cremation.” Cremation Association of North America. 2015. Web. 14

Dec. 2015. <http://www.cremationassociation.org/page/HistoryOfCremation>

Harv. Personal Interview. 1 Dec. 2015.

Karen. Personal Interview. 30 Nov. 2015.

Roach, Mary. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. 1st ed. W. W. Norton & Company, 2004. Print.

Stevens, Wendy. Personal Interview. 30 March 2016.

Scutti, Susan. “What Does It Mean To Donate Your Body To Science?” Medical Daily 20 Mar. 2015. Web. 10 Dec. 2015. <http://www.medicaldaily.com/greatestgift-what-happens-when-you-donateyour-body-science-326358> Sam. Personal Interview. 26 Nov. 2015.

“The NFDA Cremation and Burial Report: Research, Statistics and Projections.”

National Funeral Directors Association.

Sept. 2014. PDF. 10 Dec. 2015.

The Importance of Engaging with the Wider World During a Sabbatical

by ERIN FLATER, Associate Professor of Physics

The intersection of my goals and the goals of a prominent national laboratory

Some of the most valuable experiences during my sabbatical occurred during visits to the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) in Boulder, Colorado. I designed my sabbatical so that I could keep my home base in Decorah, but allow myself the opportunity to periodically interact face-to-face with researchers at NIST during my sabbatical year. I took three two-week-long visits to NIST to learn from and collaborate with scientists in the Nanoscale Reliability group.

I knew relatively little about NIST before starting my sabbatical. One of the interesting things I learned during my first visit is that NIST’s stated mission is “to promote U.S. innovation and industrial competitiveness by advancing measurement science, standards, and technology in ways that enhance economic security and improve our quality of life.” The goals of my sabbatical project fit nicely into this broader mission.

The main goal of my sabbatical project was to learn about a precise methodology developed at NIST called “contact resonance.” I wanted to learn how to perform this technique but also wanted to acquire the equipment to

ERIN FLATER

O

n the face of it, sabbatical might seem like a solitary activity. On his or her own, a faculty member leaps the hurdles necessary to earn a sabbatical, makes a plan for a sabbatical, and then does it.

While it’s true that some faculty use the time for solitary contemplation, I found that the real power of my sabbatical was having time to engage with other professionals—in my case, other scientists.

Figure 1. Schematic of Contact Resonance experimental apparatus perform it at Luther with my research students. Contact resonance is one of many research-grade techniques developed at NIST that require large financial investment and/or technical experts who can construct the apparatus.

Since the NIST organization as a whole is dedicated to dissemination of their techniques to the larger scientific and technological community, my colleague Dr. Jason Killgore at NIST suggested that we use our collaboration to develop a relatively low-cost, simple-toconstruct apparatus that could perform contact resonance. That way, researchers with relatively small research budgets (like me at Luther) could quickly and easily implement contact resonance at their institution.

What is contact resonance and why does it matter?

Contact resonance is a quantitative measurement technique developed at NIST over the last couple decades.

Contact resonance is performed by vibrating a sharp probe in contact with a material surface, as shown schematically in Figure 1. The vibration is produced either by oscillating the surface or by oscillating the base of the cantilever.

This oscillation, whose frequency is typically in the range of thousands of cycles per second (kHz) and is controlled by a function generator,

causes the laser reflection from the end of the cantilever to oscillate on the photodetector. The variation of signal on the photodetector is interpreted by a lock-in amplifier. This “lock-in”, as it is typically called, compares the signal from the photodetector to the original oscillation from the function generator, and indicates changes in frequency that may have occurred. These changes in frequency can be used to determine the local stiffness or local damping properties of the surface underneath the tip.

Contact resonance provides scientists with an additional tool in their arsenal to better understand and control the properties of materials. This high precision tool can be used in both dry and wet conditions, so that it can be used to help scientists and engineers better understand the mechanical properties of surfaces under various circumstances. As scientists and engineers discover what factors impact surface mechanical properties, that understanding can be used to improve real-world designs. For example, contact resonance can be used to better understand materials involved in biofuel processing,1 to help engineer cartilage replacement materials,2 and to aid in the design of better solar panel materials.

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Currently, there are two major ways to implement contact resonance: 1) have an electronics expert build you the equipment from scratch, or 2) purchase a dedicated instrument that can readily perform contact resonance. Option 1 obviously is not a scalable option because many researchers don’t have access to an electronics expert to build the necessary equipment. Option 2 requires less expertise but more money.

Instrumentation that can perform basic contact resonance “out of the box” can cost $200k or more.

My colleague Jason Killgore developed an alternative method to implement contact resonance,3 but it requires a lock-in amplifier that can measure a vibration response at many different frequencies at the same time. This kind of instrument is called a multifrequency lock-in amplifier. Is it possible to purchase a multifrequency lock-in amplifier to perform contact resonance?

Yes, but it might cost $40k or more.

That’s still a lot of money for someone with a small research budget.

So Jason and I came up with a plan to construct a multifrequency lock-in amplifier system for about a fourth of the cost of a commercial multifrequency lock-in, about $10k. This sticker price is in a more reasonable range for the researcher at a liberal arts college. So a good part of my sabbatical was spent on working to construct this low-cost lock-in. Our approach for constructing a lock-in was to use a programmable integrated circuit chip called a Field Programmable Gate Array (FPGA).

My sabbatical task was to learn how to program the FPGA to transform it into a multifrequency lock-in.

and watching online tutorial videos in order to teach myself the basics of FPGA programming. Those guides unfortunately assumed background knowledge in electrical engineering, so the learning curve was very steep. By January I had enough knowledge to start designing, but I needed to keep reading and using online tutorials as I worked through issues I had. It turns out it’s not trivial to take the blank slate of this integrated circuit chip and create a functional device! In retrospect, I might have expected the task being more difficult. But perhaps it is human nature to expect to be more productive than you really can be.

After those slow initial months, the design process gathered speed. From January to August 2015, I developed and refined an initial design for a single-frequency lock-in amplifier and have been using that design on the FPGA hardware we purchased to make it function the way we would like. Although my sabbatical work concluded in August 2015, I have been able to make progress on the project during the 2015-2016 school year. To make sure we complete this project in a timely manner, Jason Killgore and I have been meeting over Google Hangout every other week. We also asked Luther senior Jesse Hitz Graff to tackle one of the key aspects of the design—to program a graphical user interface (GUI) for our lock-in—to free me up to focus on the challenges of the FPGA design. By January 2016, I successfully implemented an FPGA

design in hardware, so that signals can be sent from the FPGA and then those signals can be received and processed by the FPGA. Jesse’s work on the GUI is also almost completed. The final major step in completing our lock-in design is to send the processed signals from the FPGA to a host computer using Ethernet. My hope is that we can conclude our design work by this summer, and then we can focus on publishing our results.

Why my time spent at NIST was so valuable

My weeks at NIST were quite valuable for many of the reasons you might expect. I was able to focus all of my attention on our collaborative project and ask questions of colleagues when things got difficult. I also benefitted from the staff expertise at NIST. For example, during one visit we realized that we were missing a series of 10 resistors on our main circuit board.

These circuit elements are the size of two grains of salt placed next to each other. While I can do some soldering work, I did not have the skills to melt and position liquid metal solder precisely enough to attach such small resistors. Fortunately an electrical engineering colleague, Tony Kos, did have the expertise and the equipment to be able to perform this delicate “surgery” on a $1000 circuit board. The task was still quite difficult for him, but he got it done (see Figure 2).

The most valuable aspect of my time at NIST was being immersed in a

What was accomplished during my sabbatical Like most research endeavors, the goal to construct a multifrequency lock-in amplifier was more challenging than I expected it to be. Learning how to program an FPGA involved learning a lot of technical information from the field of electrical engineering. I spent a good part of my fall reading 14

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Figure 2: (Left) An image showing the small resistors installed by NIST colleague Tony Kos. The width of a single resistor is the width of two grains of table salt placed next to each other.

(Right) A zoomed-in image of one of ten resistors installed by Tony. The shiny metallic points are where Tony made soldered electrical connections to either end of the resistor. The resistor is a black rectangle between the two shiny points of solder.

ERIN FLATER

How to transform contact resonance into a technique that any researcher can do?

research environment, surrounded by knowledgeable experts. One particular experience comes to mind that represents the power of a research environment like this. I was observing one of the postdoctoral researchers who was trying to measure the mechanical properties of different plastics using contact resonance technique. She was having some difficulty with the measurements because the raw data she was gathering had an unexpected characteristic to them. As a good scientist, she tried to determine why she was getting such odd results: she checked her procedures were not modifying the data inadvertently; she asked her labmates for their ideas; she read what other scientists had written about the kind of data she was seeing.

Along the way she found a paper whose authors came up with a reason for what she was seeing. But as she explained to those of us in the research group, she wasn’t really satisfied with the explanation that these authors gave. A few days later, a scientist interviewing for a NIST position came by the lab, and this postdoctoral researcher told the interviewee the difficulty she had been having. He very quickly responded that he had seen the same thing, and it was simply an issue with the instrument.

He indicated that all you needed to do was shield your detector with a piece of metal, and the odd results would go away. And sure enough, they did.

This was a powerful experience for me, because it reminded me that research happens at a rapid pace at a place like NIST simply because you have so many well-educated, experienced scientists constantly bouncing ideas off of each other. This allows researchers at NIST to work through problems in a timely productive manner. In other words, there is power in community.

Even when I was physically absent from NIST, I was still engaged in the scientific community. I was engaged in the ‘virtual’ interaction between colleagues through their publications. The complicated network of publications and citations is like a community, in that you can listen in on the conversation between scientists about their discoveries and their implications. It was quite beneficial

for me to have time to listen to that conversation again. Also, reading articles always gives me new insights into my own work, often because others are doing similar work and I can apply what they’ve learned to my work.

Reflecting on the experience

Even before my sabbatical ended, people were asking me if I had finished my sabbatical project. There is a part of me that wishes I could have wrapped up my project neatly with a bow, but as I talk with other scientists, I am reminded that science tends to be more complicated than that. Scientists often experience unexpected challenges, so therefore we need to learn new techniques and strategies to face those challenges, and then we move forward. So even though my sabbatical project is not yet finished, I have been using the momentum and accountability relationships I developed during my sabbatical in order to continue to make progress. And slowly, slowly, I will make progress.

My sabbatical year was valuable because it allowed me to develop new connections within the research community. I feel more in touch with the larger scientific community than I did before my sabbatical. From this I’ve regained a broader perspective of the larger work of scientists in US. My sabbatical invigorated me and helped me to infuse my courses with the energy and ideas I gained from my time away.

And most of all, my sabbatical has made me grateful for community.

Notes 1. Churnside, A.B., R.C. Tung, and J.P. Killgore, “Quantitative Contact Resonance Force Microscopy for Viscoelastic Measurement of Soft Materials at the Solid-Liquid Interface.” Langmuir, 2015. 31: p. 1114311149.

2. Hurley, D.C. and J.P. Killgore, “Dynamic contact AFM methods for nanomechanical properties” in SPM in Industrial Applications: Nanomechanical Characterization, D.G. Yablon, Editor 2013, John Wiley & Sons.

3. Killgore, J.P. and D.C. Hurley, “Pulsed contact resonance for atomic force microscopy nanomechanical measurements.”

Applied Physics Letters, 2012. 100: p. 053104.

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The Long and Short of It: Sabbatical Adventures in Microfiction

by LISE KILDEGAARD, Professor of English

In Short

D

uring my sabbatical year, 2014-15, I continued my work as a translator of the Danish author Louis Jensen’s Square Stories. I translated about two hundred stories, and I polished drafts of many more.

And then I worked to bring them out into the world. I visited six schools as an artist-in-residence, sharing the stories in classrooms ranging from second graders to university students (more than 300 students all told). I wrote articles about Jensen, I wrote up curriculum based on the stories, and I collaborated with a former student to write a play for elementary students. And, after years of wishing someone would create a Wikipedia page in English for Jensen, I sat down and wrote one myself.

The Danes have a word, formidler, which isn’t easily translated into English. It literally means “a person in between”—a negotiator or an intermediary. It’s the word they use for a person who brings information or knowledge or culture to a new audience. The root of the word also suggests “value” or “resources” or even “riches,” because these intermediaries have something valuable to share and promote. Librarians, ambassadors, and evangelists are formidlere. And so are teachers. I am a translator, and I am also a formidler of Louis Jensen’s stories.

Why go short?

In general, when it comes to the arts, I’m a big fan of the long form. I love epic poems, Homer and Milton, and 19th century novels that are so thick they’re hard to hold up when you’re reading in bed. I love “Leaves of Grass” and Moby Dick, Shakespeare on stage, long-form improv and Marc Maron interviews. A single copy of the New Yorker can keep me happy for a week.

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When I teach 18th century literature, I teach the “long 18th century”—the one that started in 1660 and ended sometime around 1832.

But recently, I’ve been finding great literary pleasures in short stuff—in flash fiction, microfiction, and prose poetry. These highly abbreviated literary forms are not new. Lots of ancient poets wrote short lyrics—think Pindar and Sappho and the psalms, haiku and ghazals. Short fiction also has a storied history: the fables told

by Aesop and the parables told by Jesus, for example, are models of condensed narrative. And jokes are an ancient form; isn’t a joke a kind of microfiction? But while experiments in brevity are as old as literature itself, such work has been attracting much attention recently. Masters of short short fiction, like Lydia Davis, are celebrated in the latest literary journals, and new anthologies of flash fiction and new web sites devoted to microfiction and other short works are cropping up every month. Short fiction is now an international trend, with notable authors producing new work on every continent.

The reason for the current popularity of short fiction is a matter of some debate.

Critics and reviewers often link flash fiction to the changes in media and social media that allow readers to access information and entertainment in small doses. They attribute the rise of short fiction to our media-saturated short attention spans. I find this argument interesting but not fully persuasive.

While short fiction is, of course, quick to read, it requires close and concentrated attention from the reader.

The reading experience is actually a contrast to the distracting, multi-tasking reading that often accompanies surfing on the internet.

“Louis Jensen” portrait by Mark Hoffman Rather than blaming our modern distractions for the surge in short fiction, I give the credit to the quality of the works being produced. Not all of it—there’s plenty of flash fiction out there now that seems weak and predictable to me. But the best short works offer a concentrated experience that is rich and deep. They unfold new space in the reader’s head. The brilliance of the best short fiction is captured by the Argentinian writer Luisa Valenzuela: “I usually compare the novel to a mammal, be it wild as a tiger or tame as a cow; the short story to a bird or a fish; the microstory to an insect (iridescent in the best cases)” (Shapard 20).

Louis Jensen in Short

The iridescent insects I study, translate, and admire spring from the busy pen (and pencil and keyboard) of Louis Jensen. Since 1992, Jensen has been working to publish 1001 of the quirky, poetic microfictions he calls Square Stories. His tenth volume of 100 stories comes out Spring 2016, and then he will

publish one last book with one last story.

While Jensen is an incredibly prolific author, with over 70 books published for children and adults, including poetry, novels, and memoir, his square story project is the work Danish literary critics have called “one of the most radical literary projects in all Danish literature” (Finderup 61). The Square Stories are his life work, and I am convinced they will someday become the cornerstone of his international reputation.

I discovered Jensen’s Square Stories in 2007, in the library at the Center for Children’s Literature in Copenhagen, and I started translating them that very same day. I was captivated by their wild variety: they are by turns lyrical, silly, and profound. And I was struck by how good they are. With great economy and precision, Jensen’s stories deliver little flashes of literary beauty, insight, and hilarity. And if you don’t like one of them, no problem, the next one pops right up on the very next page.

Here, for example, is a funny square story: A two hundred and thirty eighth time there was a queen. Every time she spoke, letters fell out of her mouth and down onto the carpet.

Then the letters got up and began to sing and dance with each other, until they finally became real things.

For example, a duck or a goose, or a toy car, or a piece of plastic.

But the queen just pretended nothing was happening, and that’s what everyone else had to do, too.

This little story shares several of the signature qualities of Jensen’s imaginative world. It begins in familiar fairy tale territory, with a queen. Then things go amok, but the silliness has a kind of inner logic. The letters fall from the queen’s lips, just as words would emerge from her mouth. The letters create things, just as letters create words.

The created objects are quotidian things, nothing particularly fantastic. The queen retains control, and everyone follows protocol. Even in this surprising world of animate, embodied alphabet letters, much is familiar to us.

Another story with inner logic has an unlikely protagonist:

A seventh time there was an old black frying pan. It was the boss of a big kitchen that was out in the Baltic Sea, but it didn’t want to be the boss any longer. So it sailed away, and sank to the bottom of the sea, and came at last to Bornholm, where it married a smoked herring.

This story seems entirely nonsensical— unless you grant that a frying pan can be a hero. Then it begins to seem more plausible that a big frying pan could be the boss of a kitchen, and even more reasonable that if it sailed away, it would sink. And, as it turns out, you can only get to the island of Bornholm by crossing the Baltic Sea, and, as a matter of fact, Bornholm is famous for its smoked herring.

The frying pan’s adventure also makes sense because it recapitulates the main plot points of a familiar story. The frying pan quits an onerous job, goes on a journey, and gets married. That’s exactly what happens in the thousands of novels, stories, and movies that are patterned after the prototypical bildungsroman written by Goethe in the 18th century, The Apprenticeship of Wilhelm Meister.

One of the surprises in Jensen’s seventh story is that what Wilhelm Meister takes 400+ pages to do, the frying pan manages to accomplish in three sentences. In fact, all the action takes place in the last two sentences alone.

Many of Jensen’s Square Stories combine realistic details with fantasy elements. In this story, an ordinary man encounters an extraordinary world: A two hundred and twenty ninth time there was a man who got lost, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t find his way home again. At last he came to a place where there were only numbers.

All possible numbers, big and little numbers, quarter and half numbers, and so he pretended to be a number 7, because he was wearing a big cap, and there he remained the rest of his days, among the numbers, and he ate like a number 7, slept like a number 7, and spoke like a number 7.

Again, the story begins in a familiar world, with a familiar problem: a lost

traveler cannot return home. Like the harried wanderer Odysseus, or like Dante’s pilgrim in the Divine Comedy, who finds that the straight path is lost, the man of this story must navigate his way through a strange and unpredictable universe. The man enters the infinite realm of numbers, including half and quarter numbers.

But luckily, his big cap allows him to fit into this new world. A simple, familiar object becomes the key to his ability to adjust to and survive. This story suggests the journey through life may lead to unexpected and maybe inexplicable places. It suggests that the world may be a lot bigger and weirder than we think. But it also suggests that our simple resources will equip us for the adventure, and that we can find our own specific and settled place within the infinite strangeness of the world.

A Short Sabbatical

In my sabbatical year, I spent days in this astonishing, lyrical, and hilarious world of Louis Jensen’s Square Stories.

I continued my translating efforts: I’m now up to the six hundreds, so I am still trailing behind, but I’m gaining ground.

The art of translating has been transformed since I began working on Jensen’s stories in 2007. Now the internet includes several excellent lexical tools, including the entire Ordbog Over Det Danske Sprog, an incomparable dictionary resource for word definitions, usage, and origins. Google Translate, while often hilariously wrong, offers an instantaneous “take” on any passage.

And Google image gives a visual of almost any object, which helps me figure out if I have precisely the right thing in my mind’s eye. Is the story about a nail or a spike? An adze or an axe? A minnow or a guppy? Nothing has replaced the print resources I use, and nothing will ever replace the panel of Danish friends who help me discover the rich layers of meaning and literary allusions that are difficult for a non-native speaker to catch. But the internet has made it a great time to be a translator.

While on sabbatical, I was invited to share the Square Stories with students in several classrooms, including Spring 2016/Agora

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an urban high school in St. Paul, a university in Minnesota, and private schools in Minneapolis, Chicago, and Albuquerque. I taught lessons in language arts, drama, and creative writing, to little kids and to college students. During these residencies, I discovered Louis Jensen appeals equally to college students and second graders.

I also got a fair amount of writing done. I published an article (“At Home in an Astonishing World: The Square Stories of Louis Jensen”) in the journal The Bridge; I gave a talk to the Modern Languages students and faculty at the University of Minnesota, Morris on How to Swear Like a Viking: An Evening of Translation Puzzles and Colorful Language; and I worked with Kate (Klacan) Schilling (’06) to adapt the Square Stories into a play. However, my main authorial effort was to create and publish an extensive Wikipedia page in English on the work of Louis Jensen. The Danish web pages that feature Louis Jensen were not much help—both the Danish Wikipedia page and the page hosted by Jensen’s Danish publisher are out of date and badly organized. So I set about learning how to create a good Wikipedia page and researching all the information I wanted this page to share. I’ve never done anything quite like this before, and figuring out the Wikipedia standards and protocols and coding tricks was quite an adventure into the open source community (thank you for your help, Huon and I Dream of Horses, whoever you are!). I am proud of the results, and confident that the page will help publicize Jensen’s work to an English reading audience.

Formidler Returns

Adventures in square stories and microfiction and other small and abbreviated forms of artistic expression have continued this year as I’m back on campus. In my last year now as the Dennis M. Jones Distinguished Professor in the Humanities, I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to host, sponsor, and participate in several programs and projects that connect to my Jones Professor theme of “short shorts.” Among several other formidling events, Square Stories are 18

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now appearing in the Preus Library gallery, in an exhibit that puts the stories into conversation with small artworks from the Luther College Fine Arts Collection. A visiting printmaker and book artist is collaborating with students to produce a chapbook of square stories, including student artwork. A second grade teacher in River Falls has consulted with me and Kate as she prepares her students for a performance of the “Square Stories” play. Students in my senior seminar class, “The Short Form,” are reading Jensen alongside many other authors who ask us to stop and pay attention to a small, concentrated story or poem.

One thing I know for sure—the class, the performance, the art display, the Jones Professorship, will all be over too soon.

Closure

Here’s a story about how to behave when beautiful things draw to an end: A three hundred and seventy fourth time I swam in the eye of a fish. His name was Garf. And I flew on the wings of a bird, whose name was Grif, and I danced in the legs of a dancer, sang in the throat of a singer, cried in a tear, laughed in a laugh, but in the end, when the night came with the white moon, I walked home inside the foot’s step.

Works Cited Finderup, Rikke and Max Ibsen. “1001 Firkanter—om Louis Jensens firkantede historier.” Passage: tidskrift for litteratur og kritik, Nr. 52 (2005): 61-74. Print.

Shapard, Robert, James Thomas, and Ray Gonzalez, eds., Sudden Fiction Latino: Short-Short Stories from the United States and Latin America. New York: W. W. Norton, 2010. Print.

Square stories by Louis Jensen are from: Hundrede Historier (Gyldendal) 1992 Hundrede Splinternye Historier (Gyldendal) 2000 Hundrede Firkantede Historier (Gyldendal) 2002

All translations are my own.

“Little Author Portraits”

by MARK HOFFMAN

In these witty and engaging little portraits, Mark Hoffman gathers a wide-ranging assortment of famous authors and portrays them with humor and sympathy. The portraits are small, like postcards or paperback novels, and may call to mind comics. Each author is paired with an iconic object that connects to his or her written work. For example, on the Agora cover, Charles Darwin is paired with an image of a Galapagos tortoise which he observed on the Galapagos Islands in 1835, contributing to the development of his theory of evolution.

The authors depicted here were read by students in Paideia 111-112: Darwin’s Origin of Species, Cristina Henriquez’s The Book of Unknown Americans, Frederick Douglass’s Narrative, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Karel Capek’s drama RUR, William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, and Chimamanda Adichie’s short story collection The Thing Around Your Neck.

Professor of English Lise Kildegaard worked with Gallery Coordinator David Kamm to curate the gallery around her Jones Distinguished Teaching Professorship theme of enjoying and learning from “Short Shorts” in literature, film, and art. When contacted by Kamm, Hoffman said his small portraits were almost all sold, but he offered to paint the authors in the Paideia 111-112 curriculum. The portraits are being purchased for the college’s fine arts collection.

Mark Hoffman is an award-winning illustrator, painter, and animator. Raised in Minnesota, he earned his BFA from Rhode Island School of Design and MFA from University of Massachusetts-Dartmouth. He currently lives in Salem, New Hampshire.

MK

“Cristina Henriquez”

“Panama”

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“Frederick Douglass”

“Shackles”

“Mary Shelley”

“The Creature”

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“Karel Capek”

“Robot”

“Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie”

“Purple Hibiscus” Spring 2016/Agora

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Identity and the Academy: Embracing Change

by BRAD CHAMBERLAIN, Professor of Chemistry and BRITT RHODES, Associate Professor of Social Work

I

n his 2001 book, Crossing the Unknown Sea, David Whyte uses William Blake’s phrase a firm persuasion to describe the sense of dedication and the feeling that what we do is right for ourselves and for the world at exactly the same time.

William Blake used this phrase at the end of the 18th century when our Western ideas about work were shifting dramatically. Yet Blake maintained the idea that, regardless of the work being done, individuals needed a felt sense of belonging, a sense of felt participation, and a sense of spiritual fulfillment.

Whyte suggests that to have a firm persuasion is to “make a pilgrimage of our labors, to understand that the consummation of work lies not only in what we have done, but who we have become while accomplishing a task.

To see life and work as a pilgrimage is not a strategy for increased production; it does not mean that we can lay out our careers in precise stages, clearly and concisely, as to when, where and how everything should happen” (6). To imagine this pilgrimage is increasingly challenging in a context of rising student debt which persuades or dissuades students from following specific majors or career paths.

Undoubtedly, questions about earning potential influence questions about major. Although these are important questions, they must be in conversation with questions about the relationship between life and work. How do my gifts and talents meet the world’s needs?

This talk summarizes our semesterlong dialog about cultivating a firm persuasion—how a chemist and a social worker examine questions of identity and how the examination of the self unfolds in community, particularly in the academy. We both have noticed the ways in which this context has 22

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shaped how we see ourselves as teachers, scholars and practitioners.

We are also noticing promising ways in which the creativity of the past and current constellations of students, faculty and staff are responding to the environmental pressures of higher education with resiliency, flexibility, and creativity.

As we embarked on a semesterlong discussion about identity and its formation, we found ourselves repeatedly thinking and reading not only about individual identity, but also about institutional identity. Like individuals, perhaps institutions have an identity that may evolve in response

both of individuals and institutions, mostly fixed or malleable? If fixed, how do institutions reconcile a comparatively static identity in an impermanent and changing environment? If malleable, is there nonetheless a core element of identity that remains constant during processes of change?

We know we aren’t the first to ask these questions and certainly not the first to engage in dialogue about them over coffee. In fact during the 1996-1997 academic year the Paideia Governing board chose the theme, The Future of Liberal Arts Education at Luther College, to spark dialogue about how Luther College would plan for

Wordle of 1883 Luther College Mission Statement. The “wordles” on this and following pages represent by size the most frequently occurring words in the Mission Statements of Luther College from 1883 to 2007. We think they can help us to reflect upon what we value as an institution—at least what we value enough to emphasize in our mission statements—and that they help us recognize the emphases that have changed over time and those that have remained the same. to demands and changes in the external environment. We also wondered to what extent are personal and institutional identities bound up in one another? To what extent does institutional identity reflect the individual narratives found in the community? Further, are identities,

the next century. Nancy Barry framed this conversation by stating that the fall lecture series would focus on “our assumptions, questions, quarrels and future vision of the liberal arts curriculum at Luther College and particularly its expression through our

general education requirements” (Agora, Fall 1996-Spring 1997, 59). This series included four lectures: •Will Bunge, Mary Hull Mohr, and Paul Gardner talked about the past and future of Luther College; •Loyal Rue, Marian Kaehler, and Nick Gomersall engaged questions about what knowledge is most essential for students at Luther College in the 21st century; •Nancy Barry, David Ranum, and Sally Oakes Edman spoke about the essential skills and abilities necessary for 21st century liberal education at Luther College; and

We do not have time here to fully describe or resolve the changes occurring across all of higher education, but we would like to consider what change means for us at Luther College.

A proliferation of recent publications has documented the rising costs of higher education, the changing demographics of incoming students, the importance of assessing outcomes, the role of the academy in moral education, and the place of spirituality and faith in communities of learning. How do these broader pressures impact our students, faculty, and staff ? Our institutional identity and practices? What is it exactly

landscape of higher education. In her essay, former President of Swarthmore College Rebecca Chopp writes: Contemporary residential liberal arts colleges not only offer “community” as the environment for learning, but they do so by creating bold cultural experiments, some utopian in nature, of how to live out democracy and educate leaders. Our liberal arts residential communities serve as incubators or pilots of new ways to link knowledge, freedom

•Jim Martin-Schramm, Donna Kubesh, and Lawrence Williams spoke to the values in the liberal arts curriculum.

In 1998-1999 the Paideia lecture series focused on the Mission of Luther College and, more recently, Storm Bailey revisited some of these questions with his lecture, Service and Academic Mission in the fall of 2010. These conversations provide an important backdrop for the essential components of our curriculum today—giving us a context to help us see why we are doing what we are doing in our classrooms each day and allowing us to stitch together an understanding of the larger institutional priorities and goals. We will not re-visit each of these forums but rather say that this conversation, and many others like it across campus, emerges from the important work that our colleagues have done over several decades to create an institutional context that makes such conversations a priority.

The theme of this year’s Paideia Text & Issues Series, Impermanence: Embracing Change, suggests that everything is impermanent, that things are always changing. How does the concept of impermanence apply to higher education? Some would argue that higher education is presently in a period of disruptive change. Some would go further and state that higher education is in the midst of an identity crisis. David Tiede, our recent interim president, often referred to these times as an “inflection point.”

Wordle of 1938 Luther College Mission Statement. that we are trying to do here and how well are we doing it?

We will begin by describing what we see changing in our disciplines and our students, with special attention to issues of identity. We will then describe what changes we see in our institution as whole. Finally, we will reflect on how liberal arts colleges can respond to external demands to prepare students for jobs while maintaining their historic mission of supporting the development of the individual and cultivating leaders for the common good. And, like any good class, we hope we will raise more questions than answers.

Changes in Our Disciplines, Our Students and Our Teaching

In a 2014 collection of essays titled, Remaking College: Innovation and The Liberal Arts, a number of leading scholars in the liberal arts discuss ways to embrace the historic mission of the liberal arts within the changing

and democracy on the global stage. These colleges express the tradition of residential education through the ongoing reinterpretation of critical thinking, community living and working to improve the world.

And it is this current expression of the tradition, as much as the history and the philosophy that we must use to make our case for the liberal arts (18).

Chopp asks us to consider how we will “emphasize the value of what we have always done well to guide us through naturally occurring changes in structure, cultures and practices” (18).

This seems to be a direct call to each of us in our respective disciplines to expand our definition of critical thinking to emphasize interdisciplinary thinking and proudly proclaim our campuses as intentional communities within the broader public. The twin Spring 2016/Agora

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goals of supporting the development of the individual while cultivating the common good has historically been represented in the liberal arts emphasis on critical thinking, the cultivation of a moral and civic character, and using knowledge and virtue to improve the world. These anchors of the liberal arts provide us with strength and resilience as we adapt to the pressures of 21st century higher education.

Social Work Education

For a moment, I [Britt] want to imagine what this means for the discipline of Social Work. In some ways it seems paradoxical that a faculty member in a pre-professional program would doubt the value of job training and skill-based education. Social Work, in fact, depends on skill-based training in the curriculum.

Over the last 150 years, social work evolved to meet the needs of individuals, families, and communities as agents of social control and social reform.

Social work education has followed a parallel path in preparing practitioners to serve in these roles. Early pioneers and intellectuals in the field engaged in contentious debates about the causes of poverty, disease, and other social problems. Naturally, a tension emerged between social work as a cause and social work as an academic discipline.

This perennial tension still exists in our conversations about the relationship between pre-professional training and the liberal arts. But I would argue these don’t need to be mutually exclusive.

Take for example a 2007 report by the National Association of Scholars titled, The Scandal of Social Work. After reviewing accreditation standards and policies from a small sample of social work programs in the United States, they conclude: We do not presume to prescribe an ideal curriculum for schools of social work, but we do, as supporters of liberal education, also strongly urge that universities ensure that social work programs pay attention to intellectual foundations. A social worker that is largely ignorant of American history faces an intellectually blinkered 24

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professional life in which there will be strong temptation to respond to problems according to the stereotypes and shibboleths of the moment. A social worker who is largely ignorant of political theory is unarmed against the appeals of demagogues who offer simplistic and sometimes unconstitutional remedies to complex problems. A social worker with no grounding in philosophy likewise is ill equipped to tell the difference between cogent reasoning and ideology, which superficially can look alike. A social worker not conversant with economics will be in a poor position to evaluate different approaches to the alleviation of poverty (25).

While this represents the perception of just one body of scholars, it most certainly illuminates many tensions that have cycled throughout the history of social work and social work education.

I, for one, do not find it an unreasonable criticism and, in fact, find it supportive of situating social work and other preprofessional programs within the liberal

because of the constellation of students: first-year through seniors, potential majors, those rounding out a major in another discipline, etc. This combination means that students bring a lot from their other classes to bear on the questions we consider in our class about the social welfare system in the United States and the current and historic role of social workers.

We grapple with questions that many students have some sort of opinion about before the course begins: Why are people poor? Is our criminal justice system fair and adequate? How should we distribute limited resources through social welfare programs? One of the questions we always grapple with is: Is the foster care system in the United States functioning or fractured? Most everyone comes with some sort of a provisional answer to this question based on personal experience or popular media representations. We work to gather evidence that would help us engage this question more fully: tools of anthropologists who help us engage individual narratives of those closest to the system (professionals, parents, children) and data on social and health

Wordle of 1964 Luther College Mission Statement arts. I couldn’t agree more that history, English, biology, anthropology, and many other disciplines help cultivate a broad knowledge base and critical thinking essential for ethical social work practice.

Let me situate this philosophy of teaching in the context of one particular course. I often confess to my students and colleagues that “Introduction to Social Work and Social Welfare” is one of my favorite courses to teach—partly

outcomes for children and families often collected by sociologists. We also examine this country’s history of out-of-home placement which leads us to discussions of Mary Ellen Wilson, Charles Loring Brace and the Orphan Train Movement, the establishment of the Children’s Bureau, and speeches delivered by politicians, pastors, and social activists at the National Conference of Charities and Corrections in the latter part of the 19th century.

But at the end of the class or the semester the answer doesn’t matter much. The point was to struggle with the question and dig deep enough to discern the fundamental questions at hand. So, what was the question in this case? Was it just about foster care or is there a more fundamental question at stake? This “digging” demands our attention to the central questions that framed our semester-long class discussions: How do we respond to human need? What does it mean to be human? Can we answer the question about how to respond to human need (in this case, the needs of children in foster care) without also grappling with the question of what it means to be human? Aren’t the arguments for and against out-of-home placement connected to what we think it means to be able to develop to one’s full potential and the conditions suitable for that development? Does any one discipline claim to be able to answer these questions independent of other disciplines? Social workers are often asked to make recommendations in such cases but it requires a strong sense of social responsibility and razor sharp intellectual and practical skills to resolve the complex moral and ethical dilemmas.

So, in class, we use the tools of the discipline and evidence we have to answer the question as best we can right now. As social workers, we examine our current and historical views on the “deserving” and “undeserving” and we grapple with moral and ethical dilemmas that force us to see tensions between the safety of the child and the rights of the parents. We consider the implications of removal in tension with what we have learned about attachment and early childhood brain development from our colleagues in psychology and the sciences who provide empirical evidence in these areas. Grappling with the questions on the surface as well as those that are deeply embedded from multiple perspectives is what a liberal arts education is about. We don’t have to get it right, yet. As William Deresiewicz articulated in his book Excellent Sheep, “College, after all, as those who like to denigrate it often say, is ‘not the real world.’ But that is precisely its

strength. College is an opportunity to stand outside the world for a few years, between the orthodoxy of your family and the exigencies of career, and contemplate things from a distance” (42).

The feedback we get from others in the community helps us see the gaps in our argument, the lack of clarity in our thinking, or the precision with which we use evidence to support our points. College provides us a temporary opportunity to exercise the mind in this way.

Deresiewicz isn’t the first to make this point. In John Moeller’s 2006 convocation address titled, “Something There is that Loves A Bubble,” he suggested that it is the “bubble that allows us to test ideas and engage in a genuine colloquy without fear of economic humiliation and hardship.”

Indeed, this is the beauty of college. We all know that someday these students will be in jobs where the answers to these questions will be reflected in the decisions they make that do bear on real people’s lives. It may be in the courtroom making a recommendation about the placement of a child—a placement that has risks that must be carefully weighed. Intellectual agility of this sort is cultivated in community when we use the classroom to try on ideas, gather evidence, and make arguments and propose solutions. The feedback we get from others in the community helps us see the gaps in our argument, the lack of clarity in our thinking, or the precision with which we use evidence to support our points. College provides us a temporary opportunity to exercise the mind in this way.

Chemistry

While the discipline of chemistry is located both historically and

contemporaneously in the liberal arts, I [Brad] would argue that most of the students in my chemistry courses also consider themselves as part of a preprofessional program. We don’t have a formal “pre-medical” or “pre-dental” or “pre-veterinary” program at Luther, yet I contend that many if not most chemistry and biology majors at Luther identify themselves as a future member of one of these type of professions. And it is in my classroom, especially, when these identities become challenged.

Why? In part, because I teach organic chemistry. Organic chemistry has a notorious street reputation. Some students see organic chemistry as a barrier to their professional dreams.

For them, organic chemistry is to be endured or conquered. It is a gate through which they must pass. And I am often viewed as the gatekeeper. I resist that identity. For other students, organic chemistry is that first moment in their academic careers when they struggle with a course that is viewed as foundational to their aspirations. And when that happens, I often see students question not only their abilities but also their identities. “Maybe I’m not a good student after all. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to be a physician.

I’ve spent so much of my life thinking that this is who I am or this is what I was going to be—now what?” I increasingly see students in my classes wrestle with these anxieties, especially as the economic realities of student debt and competitive job markets emerge in their consciousness. With these students, I spend as much time in my office discussing chemistry as I do talking about who they are, what they are passionate about, and what defines them as individuals. I encourage them to not let one course (or even one exam) define who they are or what they can do.

We talk about their struggles in organic chemistry as a path towards rather than a path away from their goals.

These are the moments that I relish as a teacher—discussions about identity and vocation, of the intersections between professional training and liberal education. Aside from teaching chemistry, I think that these conversations are largely what I am paid to do. I think that these moments are Spring 2016/Agora

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what drew me to a career at a liberal arts college. I especially appreciate those moments when students realize that organic chemistry is neither a challenge to their identity nor an absolute referendum on their abilities, but rather a system of knowledge that organizes the infinite number of seemingly unrelated reactions in nature into a series of reactivity patterns. And that’s what I want my students to learn. After learning it, after believing it, they gain the confidence to approach unfamiliar situations, whether in chemistry or in any other part of their lives. They gain the ability to look for patterns and the confidence to extend their existing knowledge to these new challenges. I do not care whether my students remember a particular chemical reaction twenty years after taking my courses. I care deeply that they can think on their feet and that they can navigate uncharted waters, because that is where the frontiers are and that is where they say they want to spend their professional lives.

Institutional Change

We have argued so far that our identities, as well as those of our students and disciplines, are determined in part by our context in this place we call Luther College—that place and context matters both in identity formation and in vocational discernment. But does Luther College itself have an identity? A vocation? We would argue that the answer to both is yes. Consider, for instance, that the ELCA facilitates an annual conference for faculty and staff at its affiliated colleges entitled Vocation of a Lutheran College. Both of us have attended this conference. So, we want to consider not only that individual identities are influenced by institutional identity, but also that the identity of the institution itself is influenced by the individual narratives of the members that constitute it.

In his text The Fifth-Discipline: the Art and Practice of the Learning Organization, Peter Senge argues that “western languages, with their subject-verb-object structure” bias users towards fragmented and linear thinking, that we look for linear cause-and-effect chains rather than 26

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system-wide interrelationships (73).

When it comes to issues of identity, this bias may tempt us to think that the identity of an institution is influenced by the individual identities of its members in a causal relationship.

Or, conversely, that the identity of the institution influences the identities of its members in a causal relationship.

Senge asserts that instead of looking for lines we should instead be looking for circles or systems. In this particular system, institutional identity may be considered to influence the identities of individuals, who in turn influence the identity of the institution.

I do not care whether my students remember a particular chemical reaction twenty years after taking my courses. I care deeply that they can think on their feet and that they can navigate uncharted waters, because that is where the frontiers are and that is where they say they want to spend their professional lives.

Consider how this could play out at Luther College. The values that we communicate as an institution to external audiences determine whom we will attract to the college, whether as students, faculty, or staff. The values that we encourage as an institution, whether through grades or tenure and review processes, determine who will stay in contact with the college for long periods of time. And those who stay in contact will ultimately shape the future processes of communicating our values.

As we considered this mutually reinforcing cycle of identity, we imagined a continual process of evolution, such that the identity of Luther College may not be as fixed as many might think. If this evolution has occurred (or not), where would we find the evidence? We could have looked at many places; in the end we focused on

the mission statements of the college.

Why the mission statements? As we see it, the mission statement of the college represents what Senge refers to as a “shared vision.” According to Senge, A shared vision is not an idea.

It is not even an important idea such as freedom. It is, rather, a force in people’s hearts, a force of impressive power. It may be inspired by an idea, but once it goes further—if it is compelling enough to acquire the support of more than one person—then it is no longer an abstraction. It is palpable. People begin to see it as if it exists. Few, if any, forces in human affairs are as powerful as shared vision. At its simplest level, a shared vision is the answer to the question, ‘What do we want to create?’ Just as personal visions are pictures or images people carry in their heads and hearts, so too are shared visions pictures that people throughout an organization carry. They create a sense of commonality that permeates the organization and gives coherence to diverse activities (192).

Senge asserts that a shared vision creates a common identity. A shared vision is the horizon of our ambitions as an institution.

External Pressures and College Mission

The final point of our discussion and reflection together focused on how liberal arts colleges can respond to external demands to prepare students for jobs while maintaining their historic mission of supporting the development of the individual and cultivating leaders for the common good. In his book, The Road to Character, David Brooks provides a provocative way to think about moral ecology. Brooks defines a moral ecology as “a set of norms, assumptions, beliefs, and habits of behavior and an institutionalized set of moral demands that emerge organically.” He goes on to argue: Our moral ecology encourages us to be a certain sort of person.

When you behave consistently

with your society’s moral ecology, people smile at you, and you are encouraged to continue acting in that way. The moral ecology of a given moment is never unanimous; there are always rebels, critics, and outsiders. But each moral climate is a collective response to the problems of the moment and it shapes the people who live within it” (261).

Is Luther College a moral ecology for our students, faculty, and staff ? We hope so. Further, we contend that as an institution we should be concerned if it were not or if we did not think that it should be. Brooks argues that the most important questions are, “Toward what should I orient my life? Who am I and what is my nature? How do I mold my nature to make it gradually better day by day? What virtues are the most important to cultivate and what weaknesses should I fear the most?”

(261).

We have found that the fabric of this community is stitched together by exemplars living out their vocations in ways that we find admirable and courageous and that somehow encourage us to be the best we can be in this place.

Is sustained reflection upon these type of questions peripheral to the education that we provide at Luther?

Or is it central? We would argue the latter. Consider our distinctive Paideia program with its bookend emphases on enduring questions, ethical reflection, and integrative understanding.

Consider our Center for Ethics and Public Life and our Center for Sustainable Communities, both which call us toward a more action-oriented curriculum requiring self-knowledge and awareness. Or the Luther students, faculty and staff leading the Just Action group formed to engage different community perspectives on race, class,

place, and policing, and to look together at how these things intersect.

We often talk about the importance of students finding mentors—which indeed is an important part of negotiating young adulthood. But don’t we all need mentors throughout our lives as we move through periods of uncertainty and change? Finding mentors isn’t just something we hope will happen for students but rather for each of us. We have found that the fabric of this community is stitched together by exemplars living out their vocations in ways that we find admirable and courageous and

of higher education? Is college a path to a job or is its primary purpose selfimprovement in preparation for a life of work and service? Is it, as Anthony Kronman suggests, a way to discern answers to the most fundamental existential questions of human life?

Can it be both a path to a job and a way to discern answers to the most fundamental existential questions of human life? Can higher education serve multiple purposes? If so, liberal arts colleges like Luther must have answers to the provocative questions raised by Ronald Barnett and Kelly Coate: “How does one articulate the importance of self-knowledge, orientation and relation

Wordle of 1987 Luther College Mission Statement. that somehow encourage us to be the best we can be in this place. We examine personal identity and social responsibility at Luther College. And we do it well.

Yet this type of sustained reflection increasingly appears counter-cultural, at least in broader society. Luther College itself exists within a broader moral ecology. Brooks argues that as a society “we have built a moral ecology around the Big Me … [and that] has led to a rise in narcissism and selfaggrandizement” (261). This “Big Me” moral ecology has created demands if not mandates from some governments, citizens, students, and families for an education that resembles little more than a path to a job. And liberal arts colleges are both feeling and suffering from the effect of these pressures. Sweet Briar. Concordia-Moorhead. College of Saint Rose. Mount Saint Mary’s. You have likely heard their names in recent months; if so, you know their struggles.

Should we concede to these demands at Luther College? What is the purpose

to the world to a future employer? How might a human being be developed so that it is adequate to a changing and uncertain world?” (108). How can we reconcile the moral ecology that is Luther College within the broader ecology in which it exists? If in fact there is a reciprocal relationship between the identity of Luther College and those who study and work here, then this broader moral ecology will certainly influence our institutional identity as well.

Rebecca Chopp suggests that responding to external demands while remaining committed to the residential liberal arts model will require flexibility and creativity. The American Association of Colleges and Universities summarizes some of the changes in liberal education in the 21st century, although AAC&U broadly defines liberal education so that it can be applied to various forms and levels of education. Taking into consideration the AAC&U’s definition of 21st century liberal education, we think there are at least four categories Spring 2016/Agora

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that will be help us emphasize intellectual and personal development, accessibility, and informed citizenship: 1. continuing to recruit a diverse student body and reinforcing the importance of residential living as a pilot for exercising knowledge, freedom and democracy; 2. the conscientious and judicious use of technology; 3. continued commitment to civic engagement and; 4. a renewed commitment to educating the whole person.

What questions can we apply to each of these categories at Luther to help us fully live out our college’s moral ecology? Here are some suggestions.

Student Body and Residential Living.

What students in this era are attracted to a residential liberal arts experience at a church-connected institution?

Whom do we want to attract? During the series of on-campus listening posts facilitated by President Carlson last year, we heard an interesting exchange on this topic. Some argued that Luther’s future viability depends upon increasing our academic reputation so that we will attract a greater number of students from families with the financial means (and willingness) to pay our rising comprehensive fees. Yet others argued that such a strategy could threaten our historic institutional identity—that we were founded as a college to educate immigrants, that we have remained throughout our history an institution that seeks and welcomes students from all backgrounds, and that we will nurture towards success all students who join our community. We must achieve greater consensus on these questions, and we must thoughtfully consider how financial aid and student services influence our answers to them.

Furthermore, we must make explicit the benefits of residential living as an experiment in exercising knowledge, freedom, and democracy and take examples from some intentional communities already in place on campus.

Technology. In 1997, Professor Paul Gardner predicted that although the 28

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television and radio didn’t have dramatic implications for the platforms of our teaching, the internet would. He was right. How can we continue to utilize technology to enhance rather than replace the traditional educational experience at Luther College? Adam Falk, President of Williams College, contends that we should “fiercely resist the reflexive conclusion that because our students come to [college] with different modes of encountering and absorbing information (multitasking, multimedia, instant access, short attention spans) we must become like them if we are to reach and educate them” (96). Rather, he suggests, we must carefully consider the advantages and disadvantages that this world of continuous information flow provides us, and we must use the brief time the students have on our campuses to reinforce the capacity for “slow, reflective and difficult engagement with ideas” (97). There are countless examples of students who talk about technology fasts during lent or spending time at Holden Village or remote off campus destinations during J-term, and who

fragmentation of knowledge, and emphasis on technical mastery and neutrality. Her solution at Bennington College was to make political and social challenges the center of an actionoriented curriculum in ways that would redefine and reinvigorate the liberal arts at her small liberal arts college in southeastern Vermont. Establishing the Center for Sustainable Communities and the Center for Ethics and Public Life at Luther College represent this commitment to civic engagement at Luther College and represent both flexibility and integrity in embracing the liberal arts and liberal education in the 21st century.

Cultivation of the Whole Person. Steven Glazer, former chair and legislative director of the California State Students Association writes, “Education can serve as the core of a lifelong journey towards wholeness, rather than merely an accumulation of facts, figures or skill” (9). While much has been written about assessment of outcomes, specifically those related to knowledge and skills,

Wordle of 2007 Luther College Mission Statement long for the ability to disconnect, to be in community with the people here, and to engage in slow and thoughtful discussions about ideas. We must continue to work together to make the conscientious and judicious use of technology the norm at Luther College.

Civic Engagement. In 2009, Bennington College President Liz Coleman lamented that a liberal arts education no longer exits in the United States.

As evidence for her thesis she identified four changes in higher education that are at odds with the liberal arts: oversimplification of civic engagement, idealization of the expert,

much less has been written about cultivating a way of being that allows one to actualize the mission of the college in service for the common good.

How do we educate students at Luther for an examined life and not just a job?

And how will we know when we have accomplished that goal?

Mission and Student Learning

We acknowledge the challenges (and perhaps even objections) to setting institutional goals to cultivate whole persons. Storm Bailey explored the tension between academic mission and moral mission in depth in his 2010 lecture. Some critics of higher

education, Storm noted, argue that moral transformation is not the job of higher education, that setting moral transformation as an institutional goal risks compromising the academic mission of a college or university. Storm contended, at least as we understood his points, that an academic mission and a moral mission can be compatible under certain conditions: as long as all of an institution’s goals are consistent with its primary educational task; as long as an institution is thoughtful about how broadly or narrowly it sets its goals for moral transformation; as long as pedagogy is at the heart of the process; as long as sustained reflection, the seeking of understanding and the discovery of answers rather than receiving or assuming them, is the emphasis; and as long as we clearly communicate to students and other audiences (both internal and external) that possessing a shared set of values is a desired outcome for graduates.

What are those shared values? We are not arguing for doctrine or dogma.

But we are arguing that sustained dialogue about these values is needed, especially when we revise a mission statement or generate a strategic plan.

And we agree with Storm’s call for clear communication. As Storm notes, such communication “will increase the chances that, through selection, [students, faculty, and staff ] will come in with those values already in place to be deepened—and even if they don’t [already have those values in place], they’ll come in with their eyes open to the prevailing assumptions” (Agora Fall 2010, 20).

We would argue that clear communication applies not just to our admissions materials but also to our mission statements and our curriculum.

In their book Education and Identity, Arthur Chickering and Laura Reisser assert the following: Faculty and staff seldom ask whether the activities and experiences offered by the college environment actually facilitate academic and personal development.… Consciousness of purpose has given way to deference to tradition and

authority or uncritical acceptance of current practice. Innovation and experimentation, if they occur at all, are often undertaken or borrowed with no apparent thought to institutional objectives.… Scrambling for students and driven by marketplace demands, many undergraduate colleges have lost their sense of mission. They are confused about their mission and how to impart shared values on which the vitality of both higher education and society depends. The disciplines have

Conclusion

In his 1963 inaugural address, Luther College President Farwell cited Alfred North Whitehead’s conviction that “the art of progress is to preserve order amid change, and change amid order” ( Jordahl and Kaasa, 55). Whitehead’s charge is no less relevant today as we consider the social, economic, demographic, and technological changes pressing on liberal education in the United States.

A systems perspective that takes into account the social, political, economic and cultural climate leads us to new ways of understanding the contemporary challenges faced by both institutions

Combined Wordle of Luther College Mission Statements fragmented themselves into smaller and smaller pieces, and undergraduates find it difficult to see patterns in their courses or to relate what they learn to life (283-284).

Are we confused about our mission?

We don’t think so. But do we possess clear and consistent educational objectives that are communicated to and understood by all stakeholders?

Does our mission statement map onto our learning goals? Do our learning goals translate directly into elements of our curriculum? Are these connections explicit and compelling?

We have both served on the Academic Planning Committee. We have both been involved in curriculum review and revision. In many cases, we think that the answers to these questions are “Yes.” Even so, we contend that more intentional and sustained reflection, especially about the connections between our mission statement, our learning goals, and our curriculum, would benefit our institutional identity, clarity, and commitment.

and individuals, specifically students, in higher education. The liberal arts colleges that remain vibrant in the years ahead will be those that can capitalize on the unique features of what it means to be a residential and liberal arts college while responding to the needs of 21st century students. What is the moral ecology of Luther College? What will it become? How will this constellation of students, faculty, staff, alumni, and community members not only be transformed by the institution but also shape and change the institution? We think that we have more to hope than to fear. The residential liberal arts will endure, but we will have to consider how we remain rooted by our core purpose while equipping our students with knowledge, skills and ways of being to meet the needs of the world. In the words of former President of Wellesley college Diana Chapman Walsh, “Can we be the leaders we want our students to become?”

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References Association of American Colleges and Universities. College Learning for the New Global Century. Retrieved from <https:// secure2.aacu.org/AACU/PDF/GlobalCentury_ExecSum_3.pdf>, 2008.

Bailey, S. “Service and the Academic Mission,” Agora Fall 2010, 2008.

Barnett, R. and Coate, K. Engaging the Curriculum in Higher Education. Berkshire England: Open University Press, 2005.

Brooks, D. The Road to Character. New York, NY: Random House, 2015.

Chapman Walsh, D. Trustworthy Leadership: Can We Be the Leaders We Want Our Students to become? Fetzer Institute, 2006.

Chickering, A. and Reisser, L. Education and Identity, 2nd ed. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, 1993.

Chopp, R. “Remaking, renewing, reimagining: The liberal arts college takes advantage of change” in R. Chopp, S. Frost and D.H. Weiss (Eds.), Remaking College: Innovation and the Liberal Arts. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014.

Coleman, L. Liz Coleman: A call to reinvent liberal arts education [Video file].

Retrieved from <http://www.ted.com/ talks/liz_coleman_s_call_to_reinvent_ liberal_arts_education?language=en>, 2009, February.

Deresiewicz, W. Excellent Sheep: The Miseducation of the American Elite. New York, NY: Free Press, 2014.

Falk, A.F. “Technology in education: Revolution or evolution” in R. Chopp, S. Frost and D.H. Weiss (Eds.), Remaking College: Innovation and the Liberal Arts. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014.

Glazer, S. The Heart of Learning: Spirituality in Education. New York, NY: Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 1999.

Jordahl, L.D. and Kassa, H.E. Stability and Change: Luther College in its Second Century. Decorah, IA: Luther College Press, 1986.

Kronman, A. Education’s End: Why our Colleges and Universities Have Given Up on the Meaning of Life. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008.

Moeller, J. “Something There Is That Loves a Bubble.” Agora Fall 2006, 8-11.

National Association of Scholars. The Scandal of Social Work. Retrieved online <http://www.nas.org/images/documents/TheScandalofSocialWorkEducation.pdf>, 2007.

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Senge, P. The Fifth Discipline: The Art and Practice of a Learning Organization. New York, NY: Doubleday, 1990.

Whyte, D. Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity. New York, NY: Riverhead Books, 2001.

Back to the Future: Understanding the Anthropocene

by LAURA PETERSON, Associate Professor of Environmental Studies/Chemistry

Y

Now a group of geologists is proposing that the interval of time that we live in is likewise distinct in geologic history—in this case marked by the presence and influence of a very specific type of organism: us. The name for this new division in geologic time is the Anthropocene, and, if approved by the International Commission on Stratigraphy (yes, there is such a thing), the Anthropocene Epoch would become the newest addition to the official geologic timescale. Although on some level, the questions surrounding the codification of the Anthropocene as a formal unit of geologic time lie purely within the domain of geologists, the very term itself has taken on powerful symbolic meaning, forcing us to reconsider not merely the makeup of the geologic timescale but, more fundamentally, the nature of the relationship between people and the planet we live on.

I’d like to start by providing some context on the geologic timescale and the calls to recognize a new Anthropocene Epoch. I will then explore what an Anthropocene future means from two different angles—one stemming from my own research, which provides constraints on future climate change, and one taking the long view of planetary history, asking

PERMISSION OF ROBYN WOOLSTON (WWW.ROBYNWOOLSTON.COM/)

ou are probably familiar with some of the different periods in geologic history—perhaps you’ve heard of the Cretaceous, for example, or the more recent Holocene, or even the ancient Archean. These names of periods in Earth history conjure up distinct worlds in the minds of geologists—the warm, swampy, dinosaur-inhabited world of the Cretaceous, or the frigid, ice-covered world of the Pleistocene, roamed by the likes of wooly mammoths and saber tooth cats.

“Habitus” (2013) by Robyn Woolston what perspective we can gain when thinking about the relationship between humans and planet Earth within this context. Ultimately, I’d like to address what it means for us, as humans, to embrace our own era of geologic time.

The Anthropocene represents an era of planetary change, to be sure, but I will suggest that the most significant change we must embrace is one of mindset, adjusting our view with respect to both our status as agents within a planetary system and the relevance of geologic time.

First, an orientation to the geologic timescale, which has been constructed over centuries on the basis of significant changes in the character of the Earth system. Boundaries in geologic time at first were delineated by changes in the fossil organisms preserved in rocks, easily visible to 18th and 19th century geologists working with nothing more sophisticated than rock hammers and their own naked eyes. A major division in geologic time was drawn to separate, for example, the age of

complex, multi-cellular life from all the time that preceded it, a boundary now understood to correspond in absolute time to approximately 540 million years ago, although when this fundamental division in the rock record was first recognized, working geologists had no idea of the actual number of years that separated this point in Earth’s deep history from the present day. Further sub-divisions in geologic time were drawn at times of major turnover in fossil species, for example the disappearance of trilobites (extinct marine arthropods) marking the end of the Paleozoic and the well-known demise of the dinosaurs marking the Cretaceous-Tertiary boundary, about 65 million years ago.

Thus geologists have parsed out the long eons of Earth history on the basis of the evolution of the lifeforms that have inhabited the planet at various stages along the way. Because the continuous changes in species reflect in part the environments in which these organisms lived, divisions in geologic time are Spring 2016/Agora

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often also correlated with changes in the character of the Earth system—the Cretaceous, for example, while formally delineated on the basis of the arrival and disappearance of particular fossil species, is also distinct in geologic time for its warm climate state, which is what enabled the success of coldblooded species during this interval.

Environmental changes over Earth history occurred thanks to complicated interactions between the movement of tectonic plates, the arrangement of the continents, the locations and heights of mountain ranges, and living organisms themselves, which, as we shall see, did not just react passively to changing environmental conditions but have also been key drivers of planetary change.

The most significant change we must embrace is one of mindset, adjusting our view with respect to both our status as agents within a planetary system and the relevance of geologic time.

Until now, the very top of the geologic timescale has been the Holocene Epoch. This interval represents the last 12,000 years, and corresponds, geologically, with the period of time since the melting of the last big glaciers that covered northern North America, Siberia, and northern Europe.

Culturally, the Holocene also happens to correspond with the development of human civilization, beginning with the domestication of plants and animals and leading all the way to developed agricultural systems, urban lifestyles, space shuttles and iPhones. (If you’re wondering, Homo sapiens has been around for about 200,000 years but maintained a hunter-gatherer lifestyle until the most recent warming and stabilization of the climate during the Holocene.)

There are many who do not find it mere coincidence that human civilization got its start in the Holocene, a warm, stable interval in recent climate history. In this 32

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context then, the idea that the Earth has now left the Holocene and entered a new era—the Anthropocene—is particularly alarming. But what exactly is intended by this term, Anthropocene?

On one level, references by some Earth scientists to a new Anthropocene Epoch are intended to call our attention to the fact that the sum of human impact on Earth is of a magnitude on par with planetary processes.

Consider, for example, that through mining, construction and agricultural activities, humans are now responsible for moving a far greater volume of material on an annual basis than natural processes of weathering and erosion.

On a similar scale, we hold back the flow of rivers and floodwaters with dams and levees and even manage to constrain the course of the mighty Mississippi to its current channel, despite the river’s inherent tendency to do otherwise. In the biosphere, humans act as a selective force on par with natural selection, whether through advertent domestication of crop and livestock species or by inadvertent selective pressure on other species through habitat degradation and loss.

The composition of the atmosphere is increasingly a product of human influence, whether through the wellknown accumulation of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere or the destruction of stratospheric ozone (now, fortunately, on the rebound). Once thought to be the ultimate of Earth forces, even earthquake activity is now recognized to be influenced by humans.

If the planetary scale of human impact comes as a surprise to you, you are not alone. Scientific discoveries since the Renaissance have continually diminished the special stature of humankind: we learned from Copernicus that the Earth is not the center of the universe, from Darwin that the human species evolved like any other, and ironically, from geologists, that the whole of human history occupies no more than a tiny sliver of geologic time. Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, this long history led us, at first, to reject almost a priori the notion that human impacts on Earth system processes could

ever achieve planetary significance.

The growing call to recognize a new Anthropocene epoch, however, in many ways represents a paradigm shift and marks our increasing understanding that although humanity does not occupy a special position in cosmic space, on the tree of life, or in geologic time, we can and do exert a large influence on planetary processes and by extension, the character of the very world we inhabit.

To say that humans are altering planetary processes implies that we will leave our corresponding mark in the geologic record. And if conceptually the Anthropocene represents a period during which humans have acted as geologic agents on a planetary scale (a contention which is not in dispute), in a more formal sense—that is to say as a potential codified epoch on the official geologic time scale—the term requires an actual recognizable stratigraphic marker of that moment, something that geologists of the future will readily observe in the rock record and recognize as the start of a new stage in Earth history. By extension, this marker will also define a precise boundary moment in time—the watershed division that separates the pre-Anthropocene world from the Anthropocene.

Once thought to be the ultimate of Earth forces, even earthquake activity is now recognized to be influenced by humans.

The Anthropocene could be recognized by future geologists in a number of ways —atmospheric carbon dioxide levels are recorded in the bubbles of air entrapped in polar ice sheets, for example, and fallout from nuclear weapons testing already creates a chemically distinct horizon in recent sediments. The fossilized remains of other organisms that have often accompanied humans in their spread across the globe­—rats and ragweed, among others, offer other potential sedimentary signals of human

influence, as does the mass extinction event that appears to be underway.

As a final example, the recognition that the remnants of synthetic plastic compounds are dispersed globally and will likely accumulate in the geologic record has even led some to propose the “Plasticene” as an alternate name for the Anthropocene.

Concern over the exact geologic marker of the Anthropocene may seem arcane, and to some extent the questions raised over the stratigraphic expression of the Anthropocene do revolve around purely scientific disputes regarding the conventions and norms that surround the designation of geologic periods. Yet opposition (amongst some geologists and also within the public sphere) not just to particular start dates but instead to the very recognition of an Anthropocene hints that more is at stake here than the geologic timescale.

The controversy surrounding its designation reveals that the way in which the Anthropocene is defined (if it is indeed recognized) can have fundamentally different impacts on our perception of the relationship between humans and the Earth.

An overview of the candidate ‘start dates’ for the Anthropocene illustrates this point. Did the new epoch begin as soon as hunter-gatherers started using fire to manipulate landscapes and manage their food supply? Perhaps agriculture, representing new levels of human control and management of the environment, is the key development separating Holocene humans from dwellers in the Anthropocene. Still others have proposed that the invention of the steam engine marks the transition by setting into motion the Industrial Revolution and shifting our reliance on perpetually renewed energy sources (ultimately solar, wind, and wood) to the use of coal, oil, and natural gas, and simultaneously triggering one of the more fundamental impacts of humans on the Earth system: global anthropogenic (human-caused) climate change resulting from the accumulation of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.

Finally, some favor an even more recent start date for the Anthropocene, suggesting that it was not until the

so-called “Great Acceleration” following World War II that population growth, escalating economic growth rates and the global spread of economic development, still continuing today, combined to create a magnitude of human impact reaching truly global proportions.

Each of these potential start dates for the Anthropocene points, or at least seems to point, to a different culprit—agriculture? fossil fuel burning? population size? humanity itself ? The Anthropocene, however it is defined, cannot be neutral, and some objectors have gone so far as to say that the Anthropocene as a concept was never a scientific question at all but is instead a political statement representing at best a misstep by geologists, caught trespassing the boundary between the world of science and the public sphere, and at worst an explicit attempt by activist scientists to advance an environmentalist agenda.

The fate of the Anthropocene as a unit of geologic time will ultimately be settled by the International Commission on Stratigraphy, possibly as early as this year, when the Anthropocene Working Group, an international team of around 30 Earth scientists, submits its report on the subject. It is anticipated that the Working Group will propose formal adoption of the new epoch, with its beginning coincident with the start of the Industrial Revolution, though it is unknown whether the full Commission is likely to approve the proposal.

Although the Anthropocene is the first potential new division in geologic time to be based on human impacts, it will not be the first to stir up controversy within the Commission, known for its conservative nature and history of bitter debate over seemingly benign timescale revisions.

With or without official recognition of the Anthropocene Epoch, Earth scientists have brought our attention to the impact people have on planetary processes. At the same time, it is work

by Earth scientists to understand both earth’s future and earth’s past that helps put this notion into context. So, what can we know about the Anthropocene, assuming we’re in it? From here,

I’ll try to answer this question from two angles, looking first at scientific research that allows us to understand somewhat more concretely what exactly an Anthropocene future might have in store for us, particularly with regards to the climate system. I will then move on to look deep into geologic history to see what we can gain from considering the Anthropocene as just one of the most recent developments in the long term co-evolution of life and the Earth.

Here, although lessons from the past reveal interesting parallels with the Anthropocene, the evolution of human intelligence represents a fundamental schism that separates Earth system processes from the timescales of human culture, posing a challenge that is unique to Earth history yet simultaneously offering us a pathway to a sustainable Anthropocene.

Some objectors have gone so far as to say that the Anthropocene as a concept was never a scientific question at all but is instead a political statement.

So first, to our future, though as I am an Earth scientist, you will quickly see that looking into the future amounts to looking into the past. One of the major endeavors of climate science in recent decades has been to make projections of the future temperature changes that we can reasonably expect to result from different greenhouse gas emissions scenarios. One approach to this endeavor is to use advanced computer models of the climate system, in which physical aspects of the Earth system—parameters like evaporation rates, ocean salinity patterns, and cloud formation processes, are represented through mathematical equations that attempt to integrate all of the effects that a given change in the concentration of atmospheric greenhouse gases will have on the temperature of the Earth. A second, and complementary approach— and one that I use—is to look back into the Earth’s past for time periods in which analogous greenhouse gas Spring 2016/Agora

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concentrations existed and to examine the climate patterns and behaviors that accompanied these greenhouse gas levels.

Such an analogous period in Earth history existed during the Pliocene Epoch. The Pliocene spans the interval of geologic time from approximately 3 to 5 million years ago (what to a geologist is the fairly recent past) and immediately precedes the Pleistocene epoch of repeated large scale continental glaciations, the most recent of which gave way to the warm and stable Holocene and the advent of advanced human civilization, as we saw earlier.

Some vital statistics for the Pliocene: global temperatures were around 2 to 3°C warmer than today (see above)—a temperature difference we are on track to experience by the end of this century short of drastic measures to reduce greenhouse gas emissions—(the recently signed international Paris Agreement seeks to contain anthropogenic warming to below +1.5°C). As a consequence of the warmer temperatures of the Pliocene, ice sheets were smaller and sea level was correspondingly higher by about 20 meters, an amount that implies ice free conditions on both Greenland and West Antarctica, and an East Antarctic ice sheet that was somewhat smaller than it is at present.

Atmospheric carbon dioxide levels for the Pliocene were likely no more than 400 ppm, in other words quite similar to the amount of carbon dioxide that is currently in the atmosphere (403 ppm as of April 2016 and climbing).

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Because Pliocene climate so closely resembles plausible conditions for the Anthropocene, researchers have turned to this interval as a potential analogue for future climate and have focused on reconstructing multiple aspects of Earth system behavior during this time. The synoptic ‘vital statistics’ just mentioned, of course, only paint a partial picture of the Pliocene. In considering future climate conditions, we are interested not just in knowing the average global temperature but in understanding how this average global temperature translates into the workings of the climate system to impact processes like ocean and atmospheric circulation— which together distribute heat and moisture across the globe and dictate, for example—regional seasonal temperature cycles and precipitation patterns.

To that end, my research entails the reconstruction and analysis of sea surface temperature change in various regions of the world ocean, spanning the time from the Pliocene to the present. To do this, I obtain sediment samples retrieved from the seafloor by internationally-coordinated scientific ocean drilling operations. These ocean sediments, which archive a variety of information about ocean and climate conditions at the time they formed, are stored and maintained in a number of core repositories across the world and are available to researchers upon request.

To generate records of past sea surface temperature, I extract and analyze a particular class of organic

compounds from marine sediment.

These compounds, called alkenones, are synthesized by photosynthetic algae in a way that is sensitive to the water temperature in which the algae are growing; when the organisms die, these compounds make their way to the seafloor and are eventually buried as sediment, thus providing a faithful recorder of past climate conditions on the surface ocean. As any of the students who has worked in my lab can attest, the process of extracting and analyzing these compounds is actually quite straightforward, given the right instrumentation, and can relatively rapidly lead to the generation of long and highly resolved sea surface temperature records that give us insight into climate system behavior in a particular region of the ocean.

The record we have most recently been working on documents temperature change in the southwest Pacific Ocean (a few hundred miles east of New Zealand) from the Pliocene to the present and represents the first temperature record spanning this time interval from the entire southern half of the open Pacific Ocean. We can gain a variety of insights from this record, but I will focus here on results that are relative to our understanding of Pliocene climate. As I suggested, a better understanding of regional climate patterns during the Pliocene is ultimately needed in order to understand with any clarity what the climate conditions of the Anthropocene may entail.

An important piece of the Pliocene climate puzzle that has emerged through the reconstruction of sea surface temperature patterns is the existence of permanent El Niño-like conditions in the equatorial Pacific Ocean. As you may be aware, the warmer winter we experienced this year is part of the El Niño weather pattern, as were the heavy rainfall events in the western US and recent severe flooding in Peru. Although its impacts extend globally, an El Niño event itself is defined by a change in sea surface temperature pattern across the equatorial Pacific Ocean: during an El Niño event, water temperatures

are warmer than average in the east, whereas “normal” years are characterized by eastern waters that are much cooler than the waters of the western Pacific warm pool. As such, another way of defining an El Niño event is by the existence of a very reduced temperature contrast between the east and west Pacific, whereas non-El Niño years are marked by an increased temperature difference.

Researchers have reconstructed sea surface temperatures for the eastern and western equatorial Pacific during the Pliocene, and found a startling result: during the Pliocene, the temperature contrast across the equatorial Pacific was dramatically reduced. In other words, the average climate state of the equatorial Pacific exactly resembled the conditions of a modern El Niño event, suggesting that during the Pliocene, El Niño conditions were the norm, rather than an occasional occurrence.

Are future generations of Anthropocene humans destined to live in an El Niño world?

Not only this, but our recent work has helped paint a broader picture of Pliocene temperature patterns by demonstrating that the sea surface temperature contrast across the equatorial Pacific is strongly linked to the temperature contrast between the equator and the sub-tropics. What we were surprised to find is how tightly locked our record is with records of sea surface temperature change in the eastern equatorial Pacific, suggesting that the permanent El Niño conditions of the Pliocene were tied to the warmth of the mid-latitude regions. Our record provides evidence that there is a fundamental constraint linking mid-latitude temperatures with the dynamics of the equatorial Pacific Ocean, and taken together, these findings provide the sober warning that gradually warming temperatures do not necessarily translate into a warmer but still functionally identical world but rather, a world characterized by

fundamentally different climate patterns and behaviors.

Such a finding is provocative—are future generations of Anthropocene humans destined to live in an El Niño world? Will the warming of mid-latitude ocean waters, already underway, translate to more frequent and more sustained El Niño events?

Of course, part of the answer to these questions depends on how radically the world is able to reduce anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions over the coming decades, and I personally am hopeful that we will not try to answer these questions with a real life experiment! Yet additional scientific questions also remain, and it is a matter for future research to explore whether or not continued greenhouse gas emissions could ultimately lead the world climate system back to the permanent El Niño conditions of the Pliocene.

Research by Earth scientists is not only critical in helping the world to see forward into the Anthropocene with greater clarity, but can also, by looking into the Earth’s deep past, offer new context for thinking about the relationship between people and the planet and perhaps offer new narratives for a sustainable Anthropocene. We live on a changing planet—a fact made even more apparent by calls to name a new geologic epoch defined by the rapid changes of the here and now—but in fact, this circumstance is nothing new. Yet you may be surprised that not all of the changes undergone by the Earth have their root causes in purely geologic factors—the motions of tectonic plates, for example, or meteor impacts. Quite the contrary, some of the most dramatic changes the planet has witnessed have been caused by life itself, and we are far from the first organisms to fundamentally and even irreversibly alter the appearance and behavior of the Earth system. This assertion is meant to make you feel better, yes, but to feel better and react appropriately we need to take a closer look at how the Earth system has solved the challenges raised by previous evolutionary innovations, and also to think carefully about whether there are critical differences we must account for this time around.

Again to help you into the mindset of an Earth scientist, let’s look first at the timeline of major evolutionary innovations in life’s history. Some of the important events along this timeline include the origin of life itself, the evolution of oxygen-producing photosynthesizers, the progressive evolution of life on land, and the origins of our own lineage—the arrival in the geologic record of complex, multicellular animals.

Life’s origins seem to date back at least 3.5 billion years and perhaps more—it is notoriously difficult to unequivocally detect the signatures of the oldest microbial life in the rock record. Little is known about the influence of these earliest lifeforms on planetary processes, but without a doubt life was behind one of the most fundamental revolutions in ancient Earth history: the oxygenation of the atmosphere, which occurred around 2.4 billion years ago. Though it seems (and is) so fundamental to our own existence today, oxygen has not always been present in our atmosphere and would not exist at all without the presence of life itself—specifically photosynthetic plants, algae, and originally, bacteria that produce free oxygen gas as a waste product in the process of converting light into living energy.

We are far from the first organisms to fundamentally and even irreversibly alter the appearance and behavior of the Earth system.

This brings us to the first evolutionary innovation: oxygen-producing photosynthesis. Through chance mutations, a set of organisms evolved that could make use of an abundant and cheap energy source. The waste product accumulated in and fundamentally altered the chemical composition of the atmosphere. Sound familiar? In many ways, humans’ pursuit of fossil fuels as an energy source, and the ensuing emissions of carbon dioxide to Spring 2016/Agora

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the atmosphere, are just the same. By some measures, the oxygen-producing photosynthesizers outdid even humans in their impact on their surrounding environment, since their waste product was acutely toxic to most other extant lifeforms at the time; having evolved in an oxygen-free environment, other species either went extinct or retreated to low-oxygen pockets of the deep ocean in response to the appearance of oxygen-producing photosynthesizers.

Furthermore, it’s likely that these oxygen-producing organisms caused a climate crisis as well, as newly released oxygen reacted with then abundant atmospheric methane, stripping the Earth of its warming greenhouse ‘blanket’ and leading to a severe glaciation. Though the direction of the temperature change is reversed in modern times, there is plenty of precedent in Earth history for life’s involvement in major climate change.

Thus in their quest to derive energy, early photosynthetic organisms enacted one of the first major revolutions in the Earth system by permanently oxygenating the atmosphere and by temporarily plunging the Earth into a deep freeze. Additional upheavals occurred as life devised new ways to access nutrients for growth.

Most notably for this narrative, the progressive colonization of the land surface—most likely first by 36

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lichens, followed by mosses, shrubs, and eventually deep-rooted trees— represents successive innovations in mining the essential nutrient phosphorous from the solid Earth. A limiting nutrient in most ecosystems and available to life only from the rocks of the continental crust, phosphorus today is quickly recycled in most natural ecosystems, with very little escaping through run-off and eventually making its way to the sea. This was not always, the case, however. Evidence suggests that dramatic environmental upheavals were a corollary to the evolution of new orders of plants on land, as plant life became increasingly effective in tapping the vast phosphorus resources stored in the rocks. For example, the evolution of trees has been implicated with a high flux of phosphorus to the oceans, triggering algal blooms and oxygen depletion that would have made the oceanic dead zone at the mouth of today’s Mississippi River look trivial by comparison; some researchers have argued that the evolution of trees was a significant contributor to the major mass extinction event that occurred during this time.

Here again, the parallels to human impacts on the Earth system are easy to draw: organisms tap a new nutrient source: for early life on land, the key nutrient was the phosphorus stored in continental rocks; for humans, the

LAURA PETERSON

Energy innovations a long, long time ago and today

resource is atmospheric nitrogen, converted by industrial processes into agricultural fertilizer. In both cases, excess liberation of the nutrient overwhelms the uptake capacity of local ecosystems, leading to leakage of phosphorus or nitrogen to the ocean, where both trigger reactions that lead to oxygen depletion and major challenges for marine ecosystems.

Without going into all of the details, I’d also like to point out that an even earlier evolutionary innovation—the advent of the very first life on land— may have been implicated with major environmental upheavals in the form of global glaciations called “Snowball Earth” episodes. These episodes in turn have been linked to the final step in the oxygenation of the atmosphere and the evolution of our first complex, multicellular animal ancestors.

What lessons can we draw from these examples of previous Earth system upheavals wrought by evolutionary innovations? It is first of all instructive to examine how equilibrium was restored in their wake. Here we find some common threads: though shadowed by major environmental change, previous disruptions were eventually followed by a restored balance as life discovered the means to close loops and become more efficient in recycling waste and reusing nutrients.

In the case of the pollution of the atmosphere with oxygen, this ‘pollutant’ eventually became the principal raw material for a new type of metabolism, that of aerobic respiration, currently being performed around the clock by you, yourself. Likewise, ecosystems on land evolved to utilize phosphorus more efficiently, thus moderating the amount of phosphorus reaching the sea and enabling a new equilibrium between supply and demand. Notably, overall biological productivity on the planet was actually much higher in the aftermath of these upheavals, despite the initial threats that each innovation posed.

What does this mean for our own time? Can the planet survive the human evolutionary innovation—that of intelligence? If the Earth’s past is any guide, our planetary history clearly

Nutrient innovations a long, long time ago and today demonstrates the need to adapt our energy and nutrient systems to closed looped systems, where inputs and outputs are closely balanced. We can start by getting our minds around the fact that we need not just reductions in anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions, but net-zero emissions, by the end of the century. To be sure, this is no easy task, especially considering that human justice would demand that the world reduces greenhouse gas emissions while simultaneously vastly increasing energy access for the 2 billion people who today live in energy poverty. Yet surely the first step toward progress lies in recognizing net-zero anthropogenic emissions as the non-negotiable end goal, imposed by the fundamental laws that govern the Earth’s carbon cycle.

Similarly, Earth’s history teaches us of the need to establish closed-loop recycling systems for the nutrients that fuel our lives—whether biological nutrients in the classical sense, like the nitrogen and phosphorus that fertilize the food we eat, or increasingly, the additional mineral resources that fuel our “industrial” metabolisms, such as the lithium in rechargeable batteries and the indium used to make touch screens.

“Cradle-to-cradle” and industrial ecology approaches—where perpetual reclamation of raw materials and

zero-waste generation are the guiding principles of product and system design—offer a way of thinking that aligns with Earth system sustainability and the lessons provided by the Earth’s past.

We need not just reductions in anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions, but net-zero emissions, by the end of the century. To be sure, this is no easy task.

We may find some comfort in the fact that it’s nothing new that life on Earth exploits its environment for the energy and nutrients that fuel growth, and that those species that stumble upon new and successful ways of doing so thrive in their altered environments at the expense of other species and, at least temporarily, at the expense of planetary equilibrium. Despite the parallels with evolutionary innovations of the past, however, which offer us promises of a pathway to restored equilibrium, there is a critical difference between previous evolutionary innovations and

LAURA PETERSON

the evolution of human intelligence.

This brings us back to the questions surrounding humanity and the geologic timescale that the Anthropocene concept forces us to confront.

Human intelligence is many things, of course, but from an Earth systems perspective, our intelligence—and the culture that goes along with it—represents a communications shortcut that allows innovations to be transmitted not only throughout a single generation but also across the entirety of the globe. As an evolutionary innovation, what then sets human intelligence apart is that it severs us from the very timescales that have governed the co-evolution of life and Earth up until this point.

Earth system feedbacks and the process of evolution by natural selection have one major factor in common: they operate on very long timescales—from tens of thousands to millions of years.

Depending on your preferred starting point for the Anthropocene, humans have achieved planetary significance in a matter of mere millennia, centuries, or even decades. Environmental feedbacks aren’t fast enough to provide real-time checks on our impacts, leveraging us into a threatening disequilibrium between our actions and planetary processes.

At the same time—and though a position on the geologic timescale may seem to suggest the contrary—what happens during the Anthropocene matters far less to the Earth system than it does to humans. While human impacts on the Earth system may be permanently recorded in the rock record, these impacts themselves are transient. As in previous instances of dramatic environmental change, stabilizing forces in the Earth system will eventually restore equilibrium, in this case as the ocean and ultimately the rock cycle work to soak up excess atmospheric carbon dioxide. This response will occur on a timescale of tens to hundreds of thousands of years, however, which is not exactly relevant to the timeframe of human planning. In the meantime, shorterterm environmental feedbacks will increasingly catch up with us and Spring 2016/Agora

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potentially even escalate as climate system behavior changes in response to rising temperatures. These changes pose challenges not to the long-term stability of the Earth system but instead to our own social structures and ways of life, which are adapted to Holocene, rather than Anthropocene, conditions.

The very notion of the Anthropocene forces us to recognize human intelligence as a part of the Earth system, no less than the photosynthetic production of oxygen or the phosphorus-tapping roots of trees.

Yet recognition of the Anthropocene may be an important first step towards embracing our own era of geologic time and ensuring a sustainable human future. To my mind, the very notion of the Anthropocene forces us to recognize human intelligence as a part of the Earth system, no less than the photosynthetic production of oxygen or the phosphorus-tapping roots of trees.

It is not hard to see that for humans to ensure long term success in the Anthropocene, we’ll have to wield that intelligence to better understand Earth system processes and to reestablish the balance and equilibrium within which our existence is embedded. Our influence on Earth system processes may be here to stay, but if we take to heart the lessons from planetary history, we can become better at choosing the form of this influence, rather than treating it as an unavoidable or even insignificant by product of our behaviors. This, I think, is the lesson of the Anthropocene.

Meanwhile, the second facet to the Anthropocene, which inserts humans back into the framework of geologic time, holds a lesson of its own. I’ve been thinking a lot about this aspect of the Anthropocene during my sabbatical, as I’ve been reading up—perhaps ironically—on the discovery of the 38

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Earth’s deep past. What happened to peoples’ thinking as geologists gradually came to recognize the immense duration of Earth history?

One surprise is that this discovery did not challenge existing paradigms so much for the vast age of the Earth as for the startling revelation that so much of Earth’s history had taken place before humans. In our time, the idea of an Anthropocene prompts us to look not into the Earth’s past but instead to look forward in time, and in doing so we are confronted with a vision of the future in which humans seem once again to figure prominently. Just as earlier scientific breakthroughs called upon humans to see ourselves as minute, we must now rethink ourselves again, with neither the hubris of an outmoded anthropocentric worldview nor with the false comfort of planetary or cosmic insignificance, but instead with the ability to see our lives as both defined by and giving definition to the planet we live on.

Acknowledgments: My research collaborator on Pliocene sea surface temperature reconstruction is Kira Lawrence, Lafayette College.

A number of Luther students have been part of my research over the past several years, and I thank them all for their help: Jamison Ash, Jordan Burkhart, Robbie Helgason, Luci Holte, Travis Houle, Devon Hovey, Katherine Huska, Shaun O’Neill, Noelia Pereira, Matt Peterson, Chris Schaupp, and Jane Wilson. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the National Science Foundation and the Luther College Dean’s Office for funding my work on the Pliocene research discussed here.

Recommended further reading: Revolutions that Made the Earth, by Tim Lenton & Andrew Watson (Oxford University Press, 2011).

The Anthropocene: The Human Era and How It Shapes Our Planet, by Christian Schwägerl (Synergetic Press, 2014).

Cradle to Cradle, by Michael Braungart and William McDonough (North Point Press, 2002).

Preparing to Commemorate the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation

by ROBERT CHRISTMAN, Associate Professor of History

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n 2017, the world will mark American patriotism, and perhaps At the center of the Reformation stands the 500th anniversary of the distance itself from the Reformation’s Martin Luther’s rediscovery of the Reformation, an event that “Germanness.”

Gospel message: human beings do not tradition tells us began on Oct. 31, earn salvation by doing good works, Each generation, it seems, must find its 1517, when Martin Luther nailed his but rather God freely offers it to all own meaning in the Reformation. And 95 theses to the door of the Castle who believe in his son, Jesus, as Savior. while the purpose of recounting the Church in Wittenberg, Germany. In To some of us, this deeply theological nature of past commemorations here the past, commemorations of important message may express a profound truth is not to impugn the motives of their Reformation anniversaries have each that animates all of life; to others it may organizers, these examples do raise the found their own emphases. Some were seem insignificant or irrelevant. But to question: how do we find significance characterized by a sort of confessional Martin Luther, it provided humanity in the Reformation that is relevant to triumphalism, an opportunity to with a burst of freedom—freedom our times, but without twisting it in demonize other denominations. Others from the condemnation of God’s law, spiritually and academically dishonest drew a dubious line from this 16thfreedom from what Luther saw as ways? At first glance this might seem century revolt against the church the humanly instituted and deeply like a difficult task. What meaning directly to modern Western-style open oppressive regulations of the medieval could a movement that fractured democracy. When Luther College church, and freedom from the constant commemorated necessity of the Reformation’s striving to do 400th anniversary good works for in 1917, it was the sake of one’s faced with a own salvation. particularly Such liberty not difficult dilemma: only released its how, in the adherents from middle of World oppression, it War I, to observe freed them to the anniversary engage in all kinds of an event that of new activities. at its core was Chief among deeply German. them was living The answer, it a life of service turns out, was to others, service through music. performed not The college’s out of fear or band took part necessity or selfin a two-day interest, but out Reformation of thankfulness to commemoration God for the gift in Milwaukee, of grace and out Wisconsin, where The Martin Luther statue and base near Larsen Hall, restored by the Midwest Art of truly altruistic Conservation Center and Moore Drywall and Plastering LLC it performed love and concern limited content for one’s neighbor.

by German composers, lots of music religious unity, initiated internecine This “liberating power of faith” argued from the Norwegian, Edvard Grieg, and conflict, and upset social and political Luther, freed Christians “to care for ended with the “Star Spangled Banner,” orders have for Luther College in the all of God’s people” and “to serve with the audience singing along. Clearly the 21st century? As it turns out, quite a distinction for the common good” as we intent was to celebrate the college’s lot. put it in the college’s mission statement.

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What is more, claimed the Reformer, all God-given talents were intended to be used in such lives of service to others, a divine expectation he referred to as “vocation” that likewise finds echo in the college’s mission statement, which declares “we challenge one another ... to discern our callings.” Clearly there is a deeply communal and inclusive aspect to Martin Luther’s view of service, one that sees as its objective the welfare of all people, and one that has been translated into the ethos of the college named in his honor.

To truly employ talents in lives of service, however, requires expanding, deepening and honing those talents, and this is where education enters the conversation. For Martin Luther, education had two purposes: it was a means by which to better understand God and God’s message to humanity; and it was the means by which to prepare those talents in the service of others. And, in fact, the Reformation unleashed a torrent of activity in the arts and sciences, inspiring the founding of new universities, new scientific discoveries, and new musical, literary and artistic forms. What is more, the Reformation institutionalized liberal arts education at the university level, an approach that focused not primarily on the prospect of economic gain, but on moving students “beyond immediate interests and present knowledge into a larger world,” an approach intended to “discipline minds and develop whole persons,” as our college mission statement puts it. And although environmentalism in its modern sense would have been foreign to Martin Luther and his adherents, if they were alive today they would most certainly agree that such an education designed for service to all of humanity should include “joyful stewardship of resources that surround us”—as our mission statement declares.

But if many of the impulses that inspire our work at Luther College today trace their origins back to Martin Luther’s understandings of faith, freedom, service, vocation, community and education, the Reformation as an historical movement further informs our endeavors. This watershed in Western 40

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history intentionally or inadvertently bequeathed to the world a variety of concepts that many of us examine in our classes and hold dear in our private lives: plurality in society; freedom of religion, conscience and thought; toleration; individualism; the equality of all human beings; institutionalized poor relief; literacy and universal education; and the importance of public discourse.

And clearly its impact on music and the arts finds expression all over the curriculum and in the choral and artistic traditions of the college. Certainly the Reformation had a dark side, one that fostered suspicion and conflict between confessions, but out of this crucible the modern Western world was born. To the degree that the West subsequently impacted the entire planet, so, too, can the Reformation legitimately be considered a movement of worldwide significance.

Clearly there is a deeply communal and inclusive aspect to Martin Luther’s view of service, one that sees as its objective the welfare of all people, and one that has been translated into the ethos of the college named in his honor.

It seems, then, that with regard to central ideas of the Reformation and their workings out in history this event still speaks to us in the 21st century. As Luther College grapples with questions of identity in the changing world of higher education, the Reformation offers a wealth of ideas, concepts, and approaches that can ground us in our past, inspire us as we face the future, and at the same time not constrict or limit us. Broad engagement with it can help us better understand ourselves and more cogently articulate the ethos of Luther College. For all of these reasons, we will spend 2017 revisiting the Reformation.

Planning for the precise forms that this commemoration will take is already underway and may be viewed on the following website: https://www.luther.

edu/reformation-2017/. We hope that you will consider joining us.

Editor’s note: This article appeared in slightly different form on the college website as an “Ideas and Creations” blog.

Eco-Reformation

April 20, 2016

by JIM MARTIN-SCHRAMM, Professor of Religion, and STUDENTS FROM RELIGION 239

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ood morning. We begin with an excerpt from a poem by e.e.

Cummings:

i thank you God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes.1

Protestants in general, and Lutherans in particular, are gearing up to celebrate the 500th anniversary of the Reformation in 2017. Certainly Luther College has a whole series of events planned for next year.

In the midst of these preparations, a growing number of pastors, laity, theologians, teachers, authors, and activists around the world believe our Reformation commemorations need to focus on the critical need today for an Eco-Reformation.

I am teaching a Religion course this semester on this theme and some of the students in the course have graciously offered to help lead our chapel service this morning. What we want to do is share with you some of the insights we have gleaned from our readings this semester.

We begin with some extended remarks from David Rhoads, Emeritus Professor of New Testament at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago: Lutherans have always considered “perpetual reformation” to be an important dimension of our ecclesial tradition. It has been one of our great strengths that we have been able to re-form ourselves in times of great challenges through the centuries. The ongoing

reformation we need now is something quite radical. We are facing unprecedented changes in our life on Earth. To address the ecological crises, and the social justice issues related to them, a foundational transformation of our church needs to take place.…

•We need to turn from being human-centered to being creation-centered; •We need to turn from focusing on God’s relationship with humans alone to focusing on God’s relationship with all of creation; •We need to turn from fostering the extreme individualism of our culture to fostering the common good of the planet.

•We humans need to see ourselves embedded in the rest of nature and find our proper place and role in it.

•We need to end the selfcenteredness by which we are curved in upon ourselves and with which we have treated the rest of nature as an unlimited resource available for our unrestrained use and abuse.

•We need to find the commitment to care for the rest of nature as if our life depended on it, because it does!

For most of us, such an EcoReformation is as mind-bending a change in perception as the first Reformation was for people of its time. It will require metanoia (repentance) in the true sense of the word, a mind change and a behavior change—both individually and collectively. To make this shift as a church, we

need theologies and practices that are Earth-friendly and creation-centered.

In this new Reformation, we are not in conflict with the rest of the Church. Rather, this reformation is a confessing movement for the world carried out along with the whole church of Christ. This is a reformation that unites rather than divides.

As such, this reformation is ecumenical. For example, we join with Pope Francis and the Roman Catholic Church along with other Christian traditions in seeking justice for all Earth community.2 And we join with other religions, for all have salient traditions and resources that contribute to an eco-ethics for Earth. Christians, Unitarian Universalists, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Sikhs, Taoists, indigenous religions, and secular organizations together can find common ground (Earth!) in our collective calling to Earth-care.3 We are all in this together, and it will take all of us working together to address our situation.4 Let us hear now from some of the diverse religious voices we have been reading this semester. We begin with Pope Francis and some excerpts from his watershed encyclical issued last summer: 1. “LAUDATO SI’, mi’ Signore”— “Praise be to you, my Lord.” In the words of this beautiful canticle, Saint Francis of Assisi reminds us that our common home is like a sister with whom we share our life and a beautiful mother who opens her arms to embrace us. “Praise be to you, my Lord, Spring 2016/Agora

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through our Sister, Mother Earth, who sustains and governs us, and who produces various fruit with colored flowers and herbs.”

2. This sister now cries out to us because of the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed her. We have come to see ourselves as her lords and masters, entitled to plunder her at will. The violence present in our hearts, wounded by sin, is also reflected in the symptoms of sickness evident in the soil, in the water, in the air, and in all forms of life. This is why the earth herself, burdened and laid waste, is among the most abandoned and maltreated of our poor; she “groans in travail” (Rom 8:22). We have forgotten that we ourselves are dust of the earth (cf. Gen 2:7); our very bodies are made up of her elements, we breathe her air and we receive life and refreshment from her waters.…

48-49. The human environment and the natural environment deteriorate together; we cannot adequately combat environmental degradation unless we attend to causes related to human and social degradation. In fact, the deterioration of the environment and of society affects the most vulnerable people on the planet: “Both everyday experience and scientific research show that the gravest effects of all attacks on the environment are suffered by the poorest.…” Today, however, we have to realize that a true ecological approach always becomes a social approach; it must integrate questions of justice in debates on the environment, so as to hear both the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor.…

63. Given the complexity of the ecological crisis and its multiple causes, we need to realize that the solutions will not emerge 42

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from just one way of interpreting and transforming reality. Respect must also be shown for the various cultural riches of different peoples, their art and poetry, their interior life and spirituality. If we are truly concerned to develop an ecology capable of remedying the damage we have done, no branch of the sciences and no form of wisdom can be left out, and that includes religion and the language particular to it.

Here are two examples of the diverse religious voices Pope Francis has in mind.

We hear first a brief excerpt from “The Bells of Mindfulness” written by the Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh: The bells of mindfulness are sounding. All over the Earth, we are experience floods, droughts, and massive wildfires. Sea ice is melting in the Arctic and hurricanes and heat waves are killing thousands. The forests are fast disappearing, the deserts are growing, species are becoming extinct every day, and yet we continue to consume ignoring the ringing bells.… Whether we can wake up or not depends on whether we can walk mindfully on our Mother Earth.5 (LVL 25) These insights are complemented by the Indian activist and Jain monk, Satish Kumar, in the following excerpt from his essay: “Three Dimensions of Ecology: Soil, Soul and Society”: Making peace with ourselves is a prerequisite for making peace with the earth. And making peace with ourselves means realizing our true nature and being who we are.

In Sanskrit the word for the individual soul is atman, the intimate being, and the word for the universal soul is paramatman, the ultimate being or god.

Similarly the Sanskrit word for the human individual is nar and for the universal being (or god) is Narayan. In Arabic we

find a similar formulation—the individual person is called khud and the divine being, god, is Khuda—just by adding an “a” the individual is released from his or her narrow identity or ego and is transformed into divine consciousness and united with god.

The way to such an enlightened state is through self-knowledge, selfless service, and the surrender of the ego in favor of the understanding that “I am part of the world”: I am an organ of the earth body; I am a member of the earth community.6 (LVL 136) This brings us back to some closing insights again by David Rhoads: How can we find the spiritual resources to care for creation?

What will motivate us for this labor of love? What will sustain us for the duration? Will we be motivated by fear? We have reason to be afraid, but fear will not sustain us for long, and it certainly will not motivate others.

Will we be motivated by guilt or shame? These emotions might lead us to realize our culpability and make some changes, but, again, these will not sustain us for the long haul. We certainly may be motivated by anger and outrage at how much wanton destruction is happening and how little is being done about it, especially at the corporate and governmental levels. But anger will exhaust us before long and throw us into bitterness and resentment. What about grief at the loss of life as we have known it? Again, this is an appropriate response but certainly not lifesustaining. We may see all these emotions as alarm systems—fear, guilt, shame, anger, grief—all as appropriate signals in a warning system that alerts us that something is very wrong. But they are not adequate grounds for making wise decisions or for providing the nurture needed to sustain us.

In the end, we discover the answer with the very God of creation who impels our personal vocation and our communal mission. What can sustain us is the presence of the Spirit of God in, with, and under all of life, the very grace present in Jesus Christ now to be discerned everywhere.

Gerard Manley Hopkins referred to this presence as the “dearest freshness deep down things.”7 Wendell Berry names it as “that fund of grace by which alone we live.”8 This reservoir of God’s presence and grace, God’s love for all creation, does not quit.

It only generates more love and more grace. This is the stream of life that empowers and sustains us for a new Eco-Reformation.

We want to close our chapel service this morning by singing together the “Canticle of the Turning.” This musical version of Mary’s Magnificat, set to a wonderful Irish tune, proclaims a message of hope. The world is not about to end. Rather: the world is about to turn.

and Ecology at www.emergingearthcommunity.org.

4. Remarks excerpted from David Rhoads, “A Theology of Creation: Foundations for an Eco-Reformation,” in EcoReformation: Grace and Hope for a Planet in Peril, edited by James B. Martin-Schramm and Lisa E. Dahill, and scheduled to be published by Wipf and Stock in November 2016.

5. Thich Nhat Hanh, “The Bells of Mindfulness,” in Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth, Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee, ed., (Point Reyes, CA: The Golden Sufi Center), 2013, 25.

6. Satish Kumar, “Three Dimensions of Ecology: Soil, Soul, and Society,” in Spiritual Ecology: The Cry of the Earth, 136.

7. Gerard Manley Hopkins, “God’s Grandeur,” in The Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), 66.

8. Wendell Berry, “Original Sin,” in Given, (Berkeley: Counterpoint, 2006), 35.

9. Rory Cooney, “Canticle of the Turning,” 1980 GIA Publications; Hymn #723, Evangelical Lutheran Worship.

My heart shall sing of the day you bring.

Let the fires of your justice burn.

Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, And the world is about to turn!9 Thanks to Aaron Shouse and some of his colleagues from Cathedral Choir for leading us in this wonderful hymn.

Notes 1. e.e. Comings, “i thank You God for most this amazing,” https://thepoetryplace. wordpress.com/2009/06/01/i-thank-yougod-for-most-this-amazing/.

2. Pope Francis, Laudato Si,’ mi’ Signore,” http://w2.vatican.va/content/ francesco/en/encyclicals/documents/ papa-francesco_20150524_enciclicalaudato-si.html.

3. For an in-depth analysis of different religions and their contribution to Earth-care, see Tucker and Grim, editors, the Religions of the World Ecology series. Visit the Forum on Religion Spring 2016/Agora

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United in the Ever Flowing Waters

April 22, 2016

by MAKAYLA MARINACK, ’16

The child grew, and was weaned; and Abraham made a great feast on the day that Isaac was weaned. But Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, playing with her son Isaac. So she said to Abraham, “Cast out this slave woman with her son; for the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.” The matter was very distressing to Abraham on account of his son. But God said to Abraham, “Do not be distressed because of the boy and because of your slave woman; whatever Sarah says to you, do as she tells you, for it is through Isaac that offspring shall be named for you. As for the son of the slave woman, I will make a nation of him also, because he is your offspring.”

So Abraham rose early in the morning, and took bread and a skin of water, and gave it to Hagar, putting it on her shoulder, along with the child, and sent her away. And she departed, and wandered about in the wilderness of Beer-sheba.

When the water in the skin was gone, she cast the child under one of the bushes. Then she went and sat down opposite him a good way off, about the distance of a bowshot; for she said, “Do not let me look on the death of the child.” And as she sat opposite him, she lifted up her voice and wept. And God heard the voice of the boy; and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven, and said to her, “What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid; for God has heard the voice of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold him fast with your hand, for I will make a great nation of him.” Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. She went, and filled the skin with water, and gave the boy a drink.

God was with the boy, and he grew up; he lived in the wilderness, and became an expert with the bow. He lived in the wilderness of Paran; and his mother got a wife for him from the land of Egypt.

Genesis 21:8-21

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oday on this fine Earth Day we hear in our reading the abundance God provides through creation. Many people express how they often encounter the divine out in nature. As a seasoned Lutheran summer camp staff member I know the joys of venturing out into the wilderness. Sometimes journeys into the wilderness are indeed “wild” as the word wilderness suggests. During my first summer working at Crossway’s Waypost camp, in Hatley, Wisconsin, I was the lead counselor guiding a group of 11 campers on a bike ride back to our main site. It had been drizzling through the whole trip and when we were only about five miles from our destination, it started to thunder, lightning, and downpour. We ditched the bikes in a cornfield and ran towards a barn, but were intercepted by a car that was driving to a house right near us. We got everyone safely into the garage and called our site director. After the rain stopped we had the campers and bikes picked up and headed back to camp safe and sound.

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A few days later I was leading a canoe trip with the same group of campers. It again rained through most of our trip and the campers were miserable. Finally the sun started to shine just before it would set. The little bit of sunshine brought up the group’s spirits so we decided to canoe one more leg of the river. We ended our trip in complete darkness about an hour after sunset. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see the headlights of the camp van waiting for us at the take out. The next summer I was working the same program and one night while we started to set up our campsite under the biggest sky with the brightest stars I have ever seen, we realized we didn’t have any matches. The forested areas were about as dark as that last year’s canoe trip and I was feeling a bit lost in the vast expanse of the woods.

But my amazing teammate and cocounselors simply called our host church for the supplies we forgot.

In all of these wild and terrifying experiences with nature, I had all the necessary supplies I would need. I had

extra support and back-up to the backup. My experiences with wilderness do not even compare to Hagar’s experience.

Hagar went through a true “wilderness experience.” Delores S. Williams writes in her book Sisters in the Wilderness about how African-American women understand Hagar’s story. These women express that a “wilderness experience meant standing utterly alone, in the midst of serious trouble, with only God’s support to rely upon” (109).

Hagar was given one water skin and completely abandoned without any support, and to top it all off, she had her son with her. How was she to take care of him alone in the vast nothingness of desert when the water would run out?

Hagar’s story is not just a tale of long ago; it is the reality for millions of people today. This is not something that happens over there across the sea. A few weeks ago at the screening of the documentary Salam Neighbor sponsored

by College Ministries, the Focus Vision Team, and the Muslim Student Association and Allies, we learned

that some of our very own Luther students, our classmates, our friends, know what it is like to be cast out into the wilderness to fend for themselves.

They know what it is like to be labeled “Refugee” and have nowhere to go.

your lifetime if you are able. While on hajj, one ritual consists of running back and forth between the hills seven times and drinking from the Zam Zam well as a reminder of Hajar’s struggle and how God provided.

But God heard the cries of the child and opened the eyes of Hagar to see the well of water. The well was already there but she was not able to see. God used the vast and terrifying wilderness to provide for Hagar and the child. The child grew up living in the wilderness and thriving off of God’s creation.

The creation took care of him just as creation provides for us. Today is Earth Day. We are reminded of our responsibility to live in partnership with creation. It is not an easy task but I have hope that we can unite through many different communities to work towards taking better care of our planet. As we learned in chapel on Wednesday from Professor Jim Martin-Schramm and his students, taking care of our planet is an ecumenical and interfaith endeavor (see chapel talk, pages 41-43).

Hagar’s story is shared by people of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian faiths.

A tradition that developed out of the biblical interpretations is that Isaac becomes the ancestor of the Israelites and the Jewish/Christian line of Abraham and Ishmael becomes the ancestor of the Arabs and Muslim line of Abraham. John Kaltner points out in his book Ishmael Instructs Isaac: An Introduction to the Qur’an for Bible Readers that this distinction of a creation of two separate religious and ethnic groups is not warranted by the Qur’an and the brothers are instead united in their common faith in one God and their family ties to Abraham.

(121-122). This story should not be used to divide us, but to unite us in our faith in God and our responsibility to live in partnership with creation.

Through learning about different faith traditions, engaging in interfaith activities and conferences, and making relationships with friends on campus, especially those in the Muslim Student Association and Allies, I have learned that interfaith cooperation can be the hope for a brighter future. While discussing the Genesis 21 passage with a friend, he informed me that Islam has many traditions built around a version of this story of Hagar, whose name in Arabic is Hajar. Traditions elaborate that Abraham took his family out into the desert where Mecca would be today and left them there. Hajar was desperately trying to find water for her dying son. She ran back and forth between two hills seven times when finally God sent the angel Gabriel. He started digging in the dirt, and water burst forth like a huge geyser. Hajar and her son had to say “Zam Zam” meaning “stop flowing!” The waters were so abundant they had to command them to stop. Today this story is remembered

by Muslims as they journey to Mecca on the “hajj” or pilgrimage. One of the five pillars of Islam is to make a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once in

God’s abundance is ever flowing in the creation God provides for us. We need to take care of all of God’s creation. We are all united in the ever flowing waters of wells, springs, and rivers. We are also all united in the tears of the child crying out in the wilderness. We must respond together. May God open our eyes, our hearts, and our arms to show welcome to those who are in the midst of a wilderness experience. Let us care for each other and all of creation with a love flowing as abundantly as the waters in the Zam Zam well.

Soli Deo Gloria

Sources Kaltner, John. Ishmael Instructs Isaac: An Introduction to the Qur’an for Bible Readers. Michael Glazier Books, 1999.

Williams, Delores S. Sisters in the Wilderness: The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk.

Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Press, 2013.

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Reflections of God

April 27, 2016

by KATE DUFFERT, Assistant Director of Annual Giving

Heaven is declaring God’s glory; the sky is proclaiming his handiwork. One day gushes the news to the next, and one night informs another what needs to be known. Of course, there’s no speech, no words–their voices can’t be heard—but their sound extends throughout the world; their words reach the ends of the earth.

Psalm 19: 1-4a

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n my sophomore year at Luther, I had the joy of participating in a staged production of Square Stories. Written by the Danish author Louis Jensen and translated by Luther professor Lise Kildegaard, Square Stories are small pieces of writing that walk the line between bizarrely whimsical and distinctly profound. In our production, nine student actors told a series of stories over the course of an hour. Some of these stories featured monkeys with buckets on their heads or a piano cutting loose and rolling across the countryside. But of all the stories I told during that weekend of performances, one has stuck with me in the eight years since. The story goes as follows: A three hundred and sixty-second time the clouds were God ’s messages. When God wanted to say something, he wrote it on the heavens with the clouds.

The clouds were very proud, and they made a great effort to look beautiful when God wrote with them. God uses them still.

The clouds know all about it, but the people have forgotten.

Now, I don’t know if Louis Jensen had been reading Psalm 19 when he wrote this story, but the story fits beautifully with the opening lines of the psalm.

“Heaven is declaring God’s glory; the sky is proclaiming his handiwork,” 46

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the psalmist says. This first section of the psalm expresses an idea that we in Decorah are all too familiar with. Just a few weeks ago I saw a post from the Luther College instagram account with the caption “God’s Country.” The photo featured a purple sunset cascading over the bluffs, leaving a silhouette of the wind turbine in the distance and a lowhanging mist covering lower campus. It was indeed beautiful and, as the caption implied, an example of the work of God. But how often do we stop to parse through the noise and hurriedness of our lives? Have we, as the Square Story suggests, forgotten the messages from God that are around us? Just the other night I was sitting at home excitedly watching the HBO release of Beyonce’s Lemonade. I was enthralled by the artistry of the filmmaking and music. The poetry was riveting. And yet, I instinctively pulled my phone out to begin reading articles about the very video that I was watching. How many times has something similar happened to you? One of the most exciting things about living in this highly connected world is the abundance of information and the ability to reach others at any time and place. But if we ask ourselves, truly, when is the last time we completely dropped into the moment and were fully and wholly present in what we were doing? Was it all that recent? When was the last time before that? It is hard with responsibilities at school and home and work to ignore the list of to-dos and conversations we don’t want to forget. But perhaps we are missing some of these moments to look at God’s Country and God’s world.

And this is important work. Not just for our own sanity or to slow down and catch up with ourselves for a moment, but to better see the messages God is leaving in our midst. The first step to being able to discern the work and

service that God is calling each of us to do requires listening. The great call stories of the Bible center around these moments in which people stopped what they were doing to hear what God was saying—and it is the same with us today. Although we may not have visions in dreams and only happen upon burning bushes during the controlled prairie burn, we are surrounded by messages from God. In fact we, like Louis Jensen’s clouds, can be messages of God ourselves.

The psalmist later uses the metaphor of the sun to express God’s presence, stating, “Nothing escapes its heat.” It’s a bit of a Lion King moment. “Everything the light touches” is a reflection of God, but unlike Mufasa’s speech there are no dark elephant graveyards to worry about. The sun and God reach everything. In this way, Psalm 19 not only reminds us to pause and consider, but also gives us guidance for what we are to see. If God is reflected in all things on earth, then we must be open to how that changes the way we relate to the world around us. If the prairie and river reflect God, then should we not care for and protect them? If people you have never met and the people sitting next to you reflect God, then how should we treat them? If all races, genders, sexualities, and religions reflect God, then how do we embrace and show love to all? If you reflect God, then how do you live into that calling?

I invite you to take a moment as we sing our next hymn with the Jazz Band and try to be fully present. Put other concerns away and spend this time here in the moment. As you listen to this music, perhaps you will experience a “cloud moment” and see the messages of God.

“The Goodness of the Lord”

May 4, 2016

by CARTER JOHNSON, ’16

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eloved members of the body of Christ, healing and strength be upon you this beautiful morning in the name of our living Triune God. Amen.

I chose this text for my Senior Chapel because of the transformative promise of the thirteenth verse, “I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living,” and it is still that ending stanza that draws me to Psalm 27. As I began to sit with this text, however, letting myself sink into its larger message, I couldn’t shake the persistent references to fear that permeate the psalm. It was then that I remembered my connection to this text. It was my freshman year, never a great time in a young adult’s life, but I was experiencing particular difficulty adjusting to life at Luther. I had begun regularly attending the Holden Evening Prayer services on Wednesday night and it became a place for me to take pause and dwell in silence from an already overbooked schedule. During a time for silent reflection one night, I opened up one of the Bibles sitting out and happened to find Psalm 27. The beautiful prose, rich imagery, and call to the promise of the new kingdom to come on Earth immediately drew me in.

But I was missing the true reason why this text spoke to me so much. I missed that the psalmist was speaking to the fears that I was already developing: fears of failure, of inadequacy, of being in a new place with no real friends or family as a support network.

This fear would deepen as I continued on my career here. Irrational thoughts about my academic performance began to be my status quo. A pretty “normal” reaction anytime I perceived a shortcoming in my work was a mental chain reaction of consequences that would result in me convincing myself that I would not be able succeed. I

internalized these thoughts of failures and they became reflections on the very nature of my character and self-worth; this shook my confidence to its core.

Luckily, I had found an amazing group of friends and with the unconditional love and support of my family back home I was able to maintain somewhat of a balanced life. Now as I get a chance to reflect on my time at Luther, I see how this fear ultimately undermined my capacity to be attentive to God’s call in my life. I also understand that, unfortunately, this is an experience that many students face on college campuses across the country.

But as the psalmist invokes these repeated images of fear, amidst my own struggles and concerns, I now find myself asking what are we, as Americans, as Christians, as people of this world really afraid of ? Fear of the future seems to be a narrative that spans generations; fear to recognize our own brokenness and limitations—as I stand here there are aspects of myself I do not have the courage to address—keeps us from listening to the ways God is calling us to a life of empathy and humility. We even fear our own inability to love our neighbor as ourselves.

But the psalm becomes particularly informative when we consider the fear of the Other. Too often the rhetoric has been to dehumanize those we don’t understand, to turn them away, to portray them as a threat to the values we hold close. These fears are translated into policy decisions that serve to further oppress and harm those already at the margins of society—policies like North Carolina’s recent law HB2 that preys on the ungrounded fears about transgendered individuals so that a person may no longer use a bathroom that corresponds to the gender they identify with; policies that allow for banks and mortgage companies to

discriminate against people of color in their offering of loans and finance options; policies that would require all Muslims to be listed on a national registry and allow for increased surveillance of community organizations that serve the needs of Arab and Muslim people.

These are not just esoteric categories and theoretical propositions, but real sentiments that pose genuine threats against the people we see and live with everyday. Grounded in pervasive fear, this divisive system that fosters an “us” versus “them” mentality causes lines to be drawn between who is “in” and who is “out.” We are in desperate need of the transformation that comes when we open up and listen to God’s call. Whenever these divisions are constructed, we always see Jesus on the other side, the sides of our enemy, calling us to cast aside our fears and to be reconciled in community with those we do not know. Indeed the very image of the cross reminds us of Christ’s reconciling intentions: the vertical beam, recalling our connection to God and the horizontal beam, the emphasizing outstretched arms of the faithful ready to serve the neighbor out of love. Without the cross the two realities become disconnected.

Fear is a force that infiltrates our life in subtle and paralyzing ways. But the psalmist calls us to see the new light, the light that overcomes the darkness of fear, through faith in our restorative God. The psalmist shows us that we must have faith that God is walking with us, accompanying us in our brokenness and suffering. God’s intimate connection to our pain allows us to feel God’s presence in a new way, to search for the new light that will illuminate our path out of our fear.

God is not calling out to us from a distance, telling us to slap a smile on Spring 2016/Agora

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our face and to carry on as if nothing is wrong. But as Jesus came to bear the full experience of humanity, to feel the pain and to celebrate the joys, we see that God moves within us, within our brokenness, to lift us up on our journey.

The gospel, as revealed to us through the life of Jesus Christ, is to be shared with all people; and because of this radical call for inclusivity, we see the gospel giving preferential option for those who are broken and suffering, for those who are oppressed and kept down. As the Church moves into the future, we must engage with God’s larger call of reconciling God’s people together, to stand with our brothers and sisters who have been and are continuing to be marginalized in our society, who suffer from mental illness, and who need to know the power of compassion.

The psalmist tells us that we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living, but this will not come easily. Indeed the writer tells us that we will need to be strong and let our hearts take courage. This cannot be a passive transformation, but rather is an active journey in community. We must act with love toward those we disagree with and seek to lift up the broken, the hurting, the outcast, and the stranger, and this in itself can be scary.

But through our faith in Jesus Christ and the creator God, we are lifted from this fear. As Christians we have been charged with the call to go forth and be Christ to our neighbor, to live our life in gratitude for the grace that has been freely given to all people. We must go into the world and proclaim to our neighbor and opponent, invoking the words of a fellow Collegiate Chorale singer, “You are worthy of love and compassion because you were born.”

The Lord is calling me to a new journey, ripe with fear and excitement.

I have decided to do the wonderfully irresponsible thing and put my life on hold for a year. After accepting a position in the rural health program at the University of Wisconsin-Madison medical school, I decided to defer my admission. Instead, I will be spending the next year accompanying and serving the people of Jerusalem/West Bank 48

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through the ELCA program Young Adults in Global Mission.

Beyond my plans for the coming years, Luther and its incredible ministry team has helped me discern a call to a life of service to broken people: to see their love and share their pain. My call is to bring the ministry of this place—its fierce witness to inclusion and love of all of God’s people, of our neighbors who identify within the gender and sexual minority community, of our brothers and sisters who wear a hijab, or a yamaka, or bindi, and of our friends who do not subscribe to a faith tradition.

Only then will we be able to see the goodness of the Lord here on the land of the living.

Find the current issue and back issues of Agora online

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ou can read the current issue of Agora online and you can also find and search all back issues by first going to our webpage: search “Agora” on the Luther College homepage. The current issue can be viewed right on that page. For back issues, click on the link that takes you to the webpage titled “Luther College Publications Archive.” Enter and then “select publication,” to search either Agora or The College Chips—the complete files of both Agora and the campus newspaper are available. You can search using names, words or phrases, and dates. You can read online or download as a PDF.

Changing your address? Want to stop receiving Agora?

If you do, please email or write us. Contact Agora, c/o boesejud@luther. edu, or write Agora, Main 126, Luther College, 700 College Dr., Decorah, IA 52101.

The image above 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.