How does “paying it forward” play out in academia?

I was recently asking a very talented former student about her experiences as a new instructor. She expressed how much she loved what she was doing, and parenthetically asked how I had known teaching would fit her calling. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her how evident her talents and gifts were, or to dispel the mysteries around my powers of observation. However, still enjoying the moment of grandiosity and humor, I was reminded that I had simply lived out a generational legacy.

When I was a junior in college, the head of the psychology department, Dr. Martha Shalitta, said to me, “You are going to teach college students one day:’ It was a remarkable thing to hear as a young African American man-the first generation of his family to attend a four-year college. At that time my highest aspiration was simply to graduate, so becoming a faculty member was not a real consideration. In fact, to this day I’m not sure what compelled her to say this, but it began a dream that God brought to fulfillment. I have been very fortunate throughout my academic career to have people invest themselves in my future, and speak inspiration into my life; moreover to offer dreams beyond my imagination, and wisdom beyond my life experiences.

I am convinced that mentoring is more than scholarly assistance or career coaching; but it is also helping students see their greater potential and then facilitating the possibilities.

This is the most inspiring and renewing aspect of my work. Consequently, of my three most rewarding duties, teaching/training, collaborative scholarship with faculty and students, and mentoring young professionals-mentoring is the most personally satisfying. It means that I sometimes allow students to disturb my scholarship moments, or occupy my research time and linger in conversations that go beyond a particular question to the larger questions of living wisely. I find that this allows me to hear a deeper narrative of their dreams and possible selves, but it also provides a chance to question their perceptions and distortions. Mostly, it gives me a chance to learn who they are and see how God is shaping and inspiring them.

Supporting students as they identify their calling and capacities has become as important to me as helping them determine the future questions that their generation must answer. For them to answer these challenges, they will need to be people of creative intellectual abilities, plus spiritual men and women of maturing qualities. Mentoring can help students avoid the pitfalls of becoming self-absorbed in aggrandizing ventures, or the experience of disillusionment from kindheartedness without discernment. Most importantly, mentoring can inspire them beyond their first dream.

—–
Dr. J. Derek McNeil, Associate Professor of Psychology, received his Ph.D. in counseling psychology from Northwestern and his M.Div. from Fuller. He teaches diversity; clinical interviewing skills; group, marital, and family therapy; and has traveled nationally and internationally presenting workshops and seminars. He has also published four articles and authored chapters in five books. (The above statement was included at the time of publication — Wheaton Magazine, Winter 2008)

When I was a graduate student, I received a letter from my father that I will never forget. A career military man, he wrote in his typically clipped prose: “Explain terminal objectives of the Ph.D. in English.”

The question is not as hostile as it sounds. My father just wanted to understand why I was willing to endure a five-year diet of Ramen noodles. But the assumptions behind his question struck me. How could I explain to him that the study of literature exists, in part, to remind us that life is more than what can be measured by “terminal objectives”?

This truth has become central to my research concerns in recent years. Technologically advanced nations dazzle their citizens with dreams of genetically engineering children, escaping into virtual reality, perfecting the body, and even attaining immortality. Anyone who has followed the biotech and nanotech revolutions knows that these goals are not the stuff of science fiction only. And technocratic futurists like Ray Kurzweil try to make the desirability of these goals a given. What could be wrong with wanting children who are born without a genetic predisposition to cancer, they ask? Why not pursue the science of perpetually renewing, wrinkle-free skin? And if life is good, shouldn’t we all want to live longer, healthier lives?

While some might say that our rapidly changing biotech culture proves that the study of literature can be only an ivory tower indulgence, I believe that problems like these prove that we cannot afford not to study literature. Literature trains the moral imagination—that faculty that is uniquely able to challenge culture’s cherished assumptions. The moral imagination sees more broadly. It sees motives. It sees into the future—and into the past. It sees the potential for unintended consequences. It cautions us.

For example, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s story “The Birth-Mark” teaches us that behind the desire for beauty there may lurk a narcissism that is disdainful of real people. Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World teaches us that a social utopian’s vision of the good life might be, in fact, quite ugly. Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake teaches us how our culture is shaping young people who, in the name of “progress,” see no problem with sacrificing humanity to attain it. Literary fiction can shock us into seeing the good, the bad, and the ugly—and the real difference between them. As Flannery O’Connor puts it, “I’m always highly irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.”

Why study literature? Because in some ways it has never been more important for us to know who we are-and where we are really going.

—–
Dr. Christina Bieber Lake, Associate Professor of English, received her Ph.D. in English from Emory University in Atlanta, and is associate professor of English, specializing in contemporary American literature. She is the author of The Incarnational Art of Flannery O’Connor, and is currently investigating American fiction’s engagement with posthumanism. She enjoys this excuse to watch Star Trek and to write about cyborgs, clones, and artificial life. Christina and her husband, Steve ’91, recently added their son, Donovan, to the family. All three eagerly await a Chicago Bears Super Bowl victory. (The above statement was included at the time of publication — Wheaton Magazine, Winter 2007)

Why what we say about this global disease matters.

A few years ago, I was traveling in Kenya and Rwanda, researching the rhetoric of the evangelical sexual abstinence movement. Although HIV prevalence rates in sub-Saharan Africa are some of the highest in the world, I was surprised to find that few young people mentioned the fear of AIDS as a motivation for abstinence.

A development worker responded matter-of-factly that African teenagers know all about AIDS, but figure they will die from malaria first, or even a car accident. I was stunned. In our country, talk about AIDS in Africa often sidesteps the thornier issues of poverty and oppression. The problem is much deeper and broader than a slogan on a T-shirt.

Is AIDS a symptom of global poverty or a gay disease? Is it a worldwide pandemic or a fashion statement?

For many of us, our only experience with something like AIDS is through the words and images that shape our understanding of its reality. This is the realm of rhetoric. In a political campaign season, we tend to associate “rhetoric” with bluster and pretension. Aristotle defined rhetoric as the art of persuasion. Current scholarship expands rhetoric to the study of symbols and their role in shaping meaning.

The new frontier in the struggle against HIV/AIDS is not medical or even political; it is cultural. New York Times Magazine reports that fear of stigma is preventing HIV-positive pregnant women in South Africa from taking an antiretroviral that reduces disease transmission to their babies (by rhonda). We have the medical technology to curb HIV; in some cases, it is cost effective and readily available. But what will persuade young mothers to swallow the pill?

Our words are powerful. Genesis tells us that God spoke the worlds into being. As co-creators with God, our words can build up or tear down.Through the power of the Holy Spirit speaking through us, we can give voice to the voiceless.

Our words influence our action. In the case of AIDS, framing the disease as a symptom of global poverty expands the scope of our care.

Our words also serve to constitute our character. Focusing only on AIDS in Africa ignores the scope of the crisis and portrays the church as hierarchical in its outreach, as if some people are more worthy of care than others.

Cultural critic Douglas Crimp has provocatively stated that “AIDS does not exist apart from the practices that conceptualize it, represent it, and respond to it.” The study of rhetoric at Wheaton is not just about “talk.” This isn’t ivory-tower theory. This is roll-up-your-sleeves theory in action. Issues like AIDS are matters of life and death. Our words can make the difference.

—–
Dr. Christine J. Gardner, Assistant Professor of Rhetoric and Culture, teaches a course on the rhetoric of AIDS, serves as chair of President Litfin’s Task Force on HIV/AIDS, and advises the Student Global AIDS Campaign. She received her Ph.D. from Northwestern University, and has worked professionally in radio broadcasting, public relations, and print journalism. Christy and her husband, Brian, who works in development for Wheaton, are both from the Pacific Northwest. (The above statement was included at the time of publication — Wheaton Magazine, Autumn 2007)

God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children. And because you are children, Cod has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” — Galatians 4:4-6

In the spring of 1998, shortly after Easter, my wife, Karen, and I traveled to Guatemala to meet our first child, Magdalena. We sat expectantly in our hotel room that morning, talking and praying, trying to quiet our hearts caught in the sway of so much emotion. At noon there was a knock; in walked our lawyer, our translator, and Maria, Magdalena’s foster mother.

Maria placed three-and-a-half-month- old Magdalena in Karen’s arms, and we both shed tears of joy and relief. Maria had dressed Magdalena up for the occasion and wrapped a white ribbon around her head. She was beautiful.

When we sat down to talk about things like bottles and diapers, Karen took notes while Maria sat next to me with Magdalena on her lap. Magdalena and I locked gazes and seemed to recognize each other immediately, father and daughter. She smiled. I was in love. “Go to your papa,” Maria said, presenting her to me.

This meeting heralded the end of a long wait. We had submitted our application at the beginning of Advent, making the anticipation of the Christ child very special that year. The story of Mary took on new meaning for me; she was a young woman who conceived a child out of wedlock.Joseph married her, never mind social stigma or scorn. He loved Jesus, and adopted him as his son. Our Savior was not born into ideal or fortunate circumstances. I understood this more deeply now.

Magdalena was born on New Year’s Day. We were notified shortly afterward. The wait until our spring meeting seemed interminable; we could hardly bear it.

But during that time a friend, also an adoptive father, said to me that our way of building a family mirrors the gospel. The Old Testament, he suggested, is about biology, who begat whom, the salvation of Israel and the Jewish people. The New Testament is about adoption, the grace of God extended to all of us as a free gift, regardless of the circumstances of our birth. God woos us to come, see His face, and find our true identity. We all can become God’s children.

We repeated the adoption process four years later when our son, Teodor, came to us and completed our family. When I look back, I see that as I anticipated my children’s homecomings, I might have had a small glimpse of God’s yearning for each of us.

Greg Halvorsen Schreck,Chair and Associate Professor of Art, has taught photography at Wheaton since 1989, in addition to accepting commissions as a fine art and portrait photographer He and his wife, Karen Halvorsen Schreck ’84, and their two children, Magdalena and Teodor, live in Wheaton. (Wheaton Magazine, Autumn 2006).