It’s the day before Thanksgiving break and my cup is full. Today – Tuesday – my final two classes come and go in a whirlwind of receptivity: eyes and ears open, Socratic exchanges, unexpected moments of grace and respect. You might say: isn’t that what a school is supposed to be? Maybe so. But at my school, on the last day before break, this kind of learning environment is something to celebrate. And I feel like celebrating.

The week had started out in a different tune. My final bell on Monday was ready for vacation – today! From the word go, I heard complaints from the peanut gallery:

“Why do we have to be in school today? My friends are off this whole week!”

As often happens often with a first year teacher, I’m caught off guard. I’m still learning how best to handle these sorts of mini revolts. On this day, I choose to barter – you might say I make the mistake of bartering. But in any event, I barter: their attention for a slightly longer break than usual – once we get through all the course material for the day. They agree. They dial into the class material and I start to feel good about myself. But when I release them for an end-of-class break, they erupt into a mini free for all.

It’s too much; they are on the way to being completely out of hand and I have to crack down. I sternly reprimand two students, these react negatively and I find myself feeling sad that things have to be this way: they pushing boundaries too far; me needing to crack down; they not liking it; me not liking to be the bad guy. I go home feeling down.

I figure Tuesday would be more of the same, if not worse, since Tuesday is the last day before break. I am kind of dreading it. But there is a difference: I will be wiser, I will be prepared. I now know they are itching for no boundaries – for a vocation, today! – but today I will not comply.

I must be calm, firm, cheerful, I tell myself, as I drive in to school. No matter what they say or do.

So there’s that. But there is also this curious thing.

I used to be a monk in a monastery where monks pray 7 hours a day. Even now, as a non monk, my days are mostly marked by 7 chunks of intentional prayer, totaling up to a good bit of time. These contemplative bursts can be hard to find as a teacher. I have learned to carve them out of the corners of my day: from drives to school, pockets of my lunch break, little mini breaks here and there, the drive home, before dinner, before bed. Longer times on the weekend. I’m always looking to grab 5-30 minute intervals of time to cry to heaven and breathe in the Holy Spirit. Call it the monk in me that never left me from my monastery days.

So today I’m driving to school. I have 30 minutes in the car. A cherished daily time for monastic hymns and memorized psalms and then, after that, for a text from Scripture that can center my prayer, orient it, elevate and concentrate it. On this day, my thoughts run to Psalm 137: 2 – “In the presence of angels I sing to you, I bow down before your holy temple.” I have prayed Psalm 137 nightly for longer than I can remember – dating back to my monastic days in the 90s – but for some reason this verse has taken on a new power since I started teaching.

Let’s admit: I teach Scripture to high school students who are not always brimming with enthusiasm to explore the depths of the Word of God. It can be challenging. So do I teach because of the interest of my students in this subject? Or is there some other reason?

Several weeks ago, I decided there is another reason. Or perhaps it is better to say, another reason impressed itself upon my soul as I taught. It struck me as I presented Psalm 137:2 to my class during a lecture on the Psalms.

“In the presence of angels I sing to you, I bow down before your holy temple.”

Imagine reading those words, prayerfully, before, during and after teaching them in class. Imagine these words hitting you, as though they are deeply true. As though they are a lens into the real. As though it is the heavenly court that bids you teach and the angels watch as you do so.

And so it was: I realized that I teach at Purcell Marian, in this 1930s stone building they call the Castle; in this square structure built, with windows open to the sun, around a courtyard like a monastery; yes, I realized that I teach here as though I were in a monastery. As though my purpose to teach here was received from heaven itself. As though here I can raise a song of God’s vineyard to the Holy Trinity. Here I can sing, in the presence of angels, a song of His love for each of my students and for every human being. A hymn recounting the great love story that has been trickling down through the centuries, since time immemorial; like a great waterfall, ever flowing, ever dancing in the sunlight.

It’s a song about God’s love for every man and woman. A song of the Trinity’s call that all might journey towards the fire of divine life; towards Theosis, even if, on that road, they must be burned before they are healed. It’s a song that includes Abraham and Isaac and Jacob; the fighting and then the reconciliation among Joseph and his brothers; a song that gathers up the life and mission of Moses; the movement of his people from slavery; through the mighty sea, then an arduous trek through the desert; then a settling into a plenteous land, guided by Joshua. It’s a song that continues, amid many battles, amid prophesies by Balaam, wonders by Elijah and Elisha, heroic feats and psalms by David, insights by Solomon, proverbs by Ecclesiastes, sufferings by Job and Tobit, prophecies by Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, Jonah and Hosea. And a handful of others.

This song I sing before a classroom of 15-year-olds who need not fully understand. It’s true whether they understand it or not. In fact, I sometimes address them in other languages for effect, just to show them that meaning may exist outside their capacity to understand. For whether I sing in English, French, Latin or Greek, the truth remains. It remains whether they get it or not.

It is this:

God loves them. He gives himself fully for them. He awaits their response. He invites them to participate in His divine nature. And He will keep waiting, for a time. A generous time.

So go my thoughts this morning. In the presence of angels, I sing. Here, in this Castle, I sing to the Holy Trinity. And that is enough. Whether my kids mutiny or not.

These reflections give me strength, they steady my spine as I finish my morning prayer and ease off I-71, on the last leg toward school.

But strangely today, Tuesday, they do not mutiny. Do they sense my new resoluteness? Or is there some particular grace in the air? Perhaps both. All I know is that Bell 4, a boisterous class that I was sure would be a handful today, settles down, upon arrival, to business as usual, like monks in training. We explore all the material I have prepared for the day – the 2nd and 3rd Servant Songs of Isaiah. We examine God’s formative action toward His Servant in the womb and the Servant’s account that each morning God opens his ear that he might hear as a disciple. This latter point is of particular interest because the act of hearing as a disciple is a recent topic of heightened focus for our class. We spend some time unpacking it before wrapping up for the day.

“Anyone want to close us in prayer?” I ask. “McKenzie, will you?”

I turn to McKenzie, Pastor McKenzie as we call her; she who surprised the class a few weeks back with her eloquent and sincere prayer during the class-led Scriptural exercise. She accepts my invitation, with her characteristic reserve; but this time with increased confidence. She clears her throat, sits up straight, and then delivers, without notes, a near-perfect summation of the day’s discussion in a prayer to God. Her prayer translates today’s themes into the language of a 15-year-old child. It is lovely and brings the day to a close as smoothly as a wave returning to the sea. We celebrated with what, to this date, was a rare in class photo (McKenzie on the left).

And to think that this was the difficult class I was dreading this morning.

The bell rings: my Bell 4 class rolls out and Bell 6 rolls in. I’m not worried about Bell 6. This class has a lot of spirit (I wrote about them in ‘Uncreated Wind’) but they always know how to saddle up and focus when the time comes. Today is no exception. The class knows about the car troubles I had last week and they begin with Hezekiah volunteering to lift up a prayer that I might successfully get the car towed out of West Virginia, repaired and back on the road. I bow my head as he prays, while the class respectfully falls silent. It is a beautiful moment, the first of its kind: my students thinking of me and praying for me. Community in action.

The first half of class goes without a hitch. At one point, Kajhari takes a bathroom break. He grabs my hall pass — a string of wooden prayer beads I commissioned for the purpose of reminding the kids to pray a Jesus prayer at least once a day. To the beads I affixed a rectangular metal tag with my name and room number on it, in case a student forgets them in the bathroom. As a child returns from the bathroom, that tag has the happy side benefit of clanking against the beads, making a sound like the chains of incense in Christian worship. I consider it a subtle auditory reminder to pray, and I say as much to the kids. On this day, Kajhari takes the cue. He returns to class, hangs the clanking beads and tag upon their resting place (a statue of St. Joseph) and then announces, as though I had prompted him, “I been praying the Jesus Prayer at least once a day, Mr. Tew!” It’s a sweet expression of devotion, the first time a student has ever said as much.

Class goes on. After 45 minutes, the bell rings and the kids hustle off to lunch, returning 25 minutes later for the last half of class. As they settle back into their seats after lunch, I tell them I have some news for them. They are curious. Part of teaching is the art of drama and, knowing what I am about to say, I allow for a little drama and suspense to be built up around this moment.

It works. They settle into their seat, all eyes turned towards me.

“It may surprise you,” I say, pausing for further effect . . . “But here it is: You are precious, you honored and I love you.”

I hadn’t planned to say this. It just bubbled up and seemed like the right thing to say. It was certainly true to say. It is a direct quote from a text we read in the first part of class: Isaiah 43:4. God speaks these words over Israel in one of the most tender expressions of His love for them in all of Scripture. Earlier I told the kids God is a little like a parent or grandparent who can be both really tough and demanding, but at the same time tender and affirming. Here, I tell them, we see His tenderness, which you must always place right next to any expression of His firmness. For even when he is firm, he remains tender.

“And for my part,” I tell them, “I feel the same way about you.”

I see smiles, I hear little rumblings of approval, and then Hezekiah speaks up:

“I love you, Mr. Tew!”  In the first person.

Not a ‘We love you, too,’ but an ‘I love you;’ looking right at me. It means all the more. It is a tender moment.

The rest of the class goes well. We work our way through Isaiah’s 3rd Servant Song. I walk them through that marvelous passage where he says: morning by morning God wakens my ear that I might hear as a disciple. I note that the path of discipleship begins by listening as a disciple but that, even before that, it begins by God’s action of awakening the disciple’s ear.

We talk about this. I draw their attention to this theme of discipleship which we have been considering for some time: from the movie we watched a month ago (The Forge), to now with Isaiah’s Servant Song. Also to the test we took last week on the Parable of the Sower and the Seed, where we saw the different attitudes of the crowd’s heart (the path, the rocky soil and the thorny soil) that are contrasted to the fruitful soil of a disciple’s heart.

I draw a distinction: between the way a member of the crowd listens to Jesus and the way a disciple listens. I spotlight the good soil of a disciple’s heart: one who hears the Word, questions Jesus about the Word and holds fast to the Word even if it is difficult.

And then I conclude my remarks with this question:

Do you listen to Jesus as a disciple or as a member of the crowd?

It’s basically the summative question of the entire semester, right there.

I let the question sit there, quivering in the air, like an arrow that has struck its target: securely lodged, yet with the shaft still wobbling because of the velocity with which the arrow traveled through the air.

I kind of wobble too. I feel a little shaken as I stand, in the presence of angels, before a classroom of 15-year-olds and sing my song. And find, to my delight, that my kids are singing along with me.