So, in the Fall, i.e., in about 17 days, I’ll be teaching a course called “Introduction to Christian Heritage”, which is effectively all of Christian history and theology in one semester, fifty minutes a shot. After looking over several syllabi, I’m quickly realizing that this is an impossible task, an exercise in utter futility. I’m reminded of the Ani Difranco song where she describes having to flee a burning building, but only having arms enough to carry one of your children at a time. What do you leave behind? What do you let go?
Do I teach Irenaeus or Tertullian? Calvin or Luther? How can I not talk about the mystics? How can I leave out St. Francis? Very quickly, the bus fills up, and there are too many folks left at the stop, carrying their sack lunches, trying to get back to the monastery. I slam the door, pull my driver’s cap down, and speed through the yellow light. Immediately, I regret having picked up Schleiermacher, with Catherine of Siena still on the corner looking so frail and waif-like. Schleiermacher is forever kicking the back of my seat, while Catherine would always sit politely, scribbling in her notebook.
In two weeks, I’ve got to figure this out. I’ve got to have made my decisions as to how this story goes, the story of the church and the world, the tale of the pilgrim people of God in the dark. Is it a comedy? A tragedy? A thriller? At times, a slasher flick, and at times, a dramedy. The plot keeps changing, the cast of characters keep shifting–just as soon as you like one character, they wander off screen to be replaced by another lookalike who doesn’t seem to know that they’re supposed to imitate the ticks of the previous one–it makes the plot easier to follow.
But the characters keep changing things up and losing their lines and improvising brilliantly, and so this is a really hard story to tell. But it’s a good story, and one I’ll enjoy figuring out how to tell. In the Spring, I’ll tell it again, for a different group who haven’t heard this one before. It never gets old, and I imagine, I’ll never stop crapping my pants at the thought of telling it wrong.
August One: never a friend.
It speaks of deadlines, and nights
Measured in worry, not love.
