It’s Wednesday and a student in my final class of the afternoon just hit me with a startling question.

“Mr. Tew do you see yourself as a prophet?”

The question came from the middle of the room. Kajhari’s hand was raised, but he hadn’t waited on me to call him. I was taken aback by the question. No one has ever asked me that before. Certainly not a student – certainly not right in the middle of class.

I gave an answer, but it was something of a stumble. Here I’m going to give a more considered response.

Honestly, I would say no – and I did say no to Kajhari – I don’t see myself as a prophet. That is to say, I don’t look at the prophets and then look at myself and say: I am one of them.

That seems to me to be a healthy thing.

But, on the other hand, there’s this: to be a prophet is no big deal. To be a prophet is what God wishes for all of his children. For a prophet is simply one who acts and speaks under the inspiration of God. And show me a human being on earth that God would not wish to breathe His life into; to inspire his speech; to prompt his actions?

Moses said it best long ago: would that every human being were a prophet!

Let’s consider the scene of that declaration. Numbers, Chapter 11. A moment has come where Moses has prepared 70 elders to receive the Holy Spirit so they could share in his responsibility of leading the people. These 70 were to gather with Moses near the tent of encounter and there the spirit would descend upon them. The problem: only 68 showed up; 2 had remained in the camp.

Nevertheless, the Spirit fell upon these two anyway: Eldad and Medad. They were away in the camp, the Spirit fell upon them and straightaway they set about prophesying to the people around them. Which is to say: they were speaking with the wisdom of the Holy Spirit. Joshua, Moses assistant, was scandalized by this; he reported the scene to Moses. Eldad and Medad were not with us during the religious ceremony! They must be stopped!

Moses sees it differently. Do not stop them, he says to Joshua. “If only all the people of the Lord were prophets” (Num 11:29)! If only the Lord would bestow his Spirit on everyone!

If only all the people of the Lord were prophets . . .

As I revisit Kajhari’s question, I find myself agreeing with Moses’ view. Everyone is a prophet in potential, me as much as the next person.

For a human being to be a prophet is not much different than for a watch to tell the correct time. It’s what the thing is made for. A prophet is nothing more nor less than a child of God. He rises each morning, his ear wakened by God to hear as a disciple. He takes in the Word of God as light for the intelligence, as a compass for his actions. He turns down the volume on the desires of his human appetites and listens intently to the quiet inspirations of the Spirit. He looks to the leading lights of Israel – the Abrahams, the Jacobs, the Josephs, the Davids, the Elijahs, the Isaiahs and Ezekiels – as models for his life and actions. He spends time daily letting the light of Jesus, his words and actions, impress themselves upon his soul – like light upon a photographic film. He calls daily upon the Holy Spirit to tabernacle in his heart, to animate his steps. And, over time, he ceases to be surprised that this happens on a routine basis.

Such things are normal, are they not? They are the call and destiny of every child of God. Would that everyone (as Moses would say) might live in this manner!

If I happen to do so, what of it?

Besides, I had plenty of work to do today – for it was a morning that started with fireworks. The student population at our school is a pretty normative sampling of today’s youth. They have absorbed the main currents of contemporary culture. They are children of the age of technology and social media. When classes are not in session, they walk the halls with headphones on their heads and eyes directed toward handheld screens. They congregate in groups, phones out; they share photos and videos; they make tik toks. Phone culture courses through their veins like digital oxygen.

So it sent a sort of tremor through the bowels of our school yesterday (Tuesday afternoon) when the Dean of Students announced on the PA that the school would be more strenuously enforcing our no screen, no headphone policy throughout the school day. This is a policy I agree with but lacked the courage to enforce in my classroom. There are teachers who don’t enforce the policy and I was hesitant to do so unless I was sure I was in the majority. I am a young teacher and I knew that the day I did enforce it I’d be facing a mutiny. I don’t like mutinies and it is only little by little that I am developing deep teacherly wisdom and a sense of my authority. So I had been waiting for a muscular school-wide statement on the policy before I took action to enforce it in my classroom. Tuesday was that day. I heard the Dean of Students re-state firmly the school’s policy and I knew tomorrow would be the day I would back it up in my classroom.

I checked in with a few trusted colleagues Tuesday night. They agreed it was time for the school to take this kind of action; they too were planning to enforce the policy. I spent some time at night game planning my announcement to my students the next day, anticipating objections, coming up with succinct replies. I rose, energized, an hour early the next day. I stitched up my reasoning into tight statements of principle, working hard to express the school decision as a discipline toward the good, not a punishment; not some form of administrative opposition to the just and fitting appetites of youth.

And then I drove into school and headed to Homeroom where a stern challenge awaited me. My homeroom class lasts 18 minutes. From 7:50 to 8:08 am. It’s basically a study hall but it’s up to the kids whether they use the time to study or not. My Homeroom is dominated by about 8 kids who don’t like to study first thing in the morning. They like to “vegg-out:” phones out, headphones on, loud banter back and forth across the room. In homeroom, there are no grades so there I don’t carry the stick of being able to ding a child’s gradebook. My only motivating tools are demerit forms – but these are usually reserved for egregious behavior. How do you define egregious in a morning study hall? There’s a lot of grey area – so you can see my dilemma.

The problem is: these phones are the walking stick of today’s unsteady minds. The thought process of contemporary youth can scarcely ambulate without the digital aid of a cell phone to strengthen the step. Where, without my phone, shall my mind explore and probe? What shall I say to my peers without digitized suggestions ready at hand? Who am I without this digital veil to cast before my face?

So go the unspoken musings of today’s adolescents. Such is the band-aid that today I ventured to tear off.

I tell them right after morning announcements. They revolt – as expected. Explosive, simultaneous, vituperative objections: I take incoming fire from every corner of the room. Even from one of my normally quiet students.  But this time, more so than any time in the previous 3 ½ months, I am ready. I tell them I expect the phones and headphones to be put away and silenced when they are in my room. They are outraged. Outraged! They tell me: what if my Mom is in an accident and she needs to reach me? It is an expert objection, offered with deep emotion. One which I don’t have an immediate answer for (though I quickly find one: she can call the front desk and they will call my room phone). It goes on. It’s not pretty. A lesser teacher would have abandoned ship at this point. But on this day I am not a lesser teacher.

Then there’s this: an insight born on the battlefront. I tell them:

“This policy is not a punishment; it’s an intentional effort to help you build a strong habit of mind.”

This was a prepared response. But then I add – and this was not prepared; it simply came to me:

“Imagine this: imagine if you stepped into these four walls each day and only two things happened: learning and time with friends. Learning in class, reading, responding, writing; or spending time, person to person, talking and exchanging with friends. These are two valuable things. And, as your teachers, we are determined to create a place in your lives reserved for these to happen. It’s not a bad thing.”

I don’t remember how this thought popped into my head. I’m going to call it inspiration. What I do remember is the moment after I said it. If the tension and opposition and heat of the room were a balloon, these words were a tiny pin prick. The hostility balloon suddenly stopped expanding. It began to soften and shrink. The tension receded, the wave retreated it, the onward rush of opposition ceased.

“Maybe deep down, they want this kind of space too,” a friend commented during a conversation afterwards. Maybe deep down they recognize there is a value in learning without distractions and in time with friends apart from phones. Maybe they could also sense the firmness and the reasonableness of my conviction; that it is was not mean-spirited; that it was not lightly considered; that there was even some kindness in it.

So they acquiesce. The objections die down. The rush of the incoming surf dissipates and the waves retreat from the shore. There is a momentary calm.

It is short lived. For during this exchange, I get an email from our Assistant Principal informing me that in my next bell – what was for me a free bell – I would need to substitute for Government Class, across the building on the second floor. The teacher had called in sick this morning and notice of it came to me late. I didn’t have time to learn the assignments so I just had to wing it.

When the bell rings, I hustle downstairs, to the other side of the building and head to Government Class. The kids have largely beat me there. They know their teacher is out sick. Their spirits are high! They rise higher still when I inform them we will be following the school’s phone and headphone policy. Now the scene turns into a well-pitched battle. They start strategically pushing every button permissible, while I am firm but careful to pick my battles. It’s the kind of situation that, in my early months, pushed me into corners and made me lose my cool. But this time, I stand my ground. I set reasonable expectations and enforce them by sending a few kids down to the Dean of Students’ office. I keep a sense of humor.

Though it’s an unpleasant experience, I consider it a victory. I avoid a descent into classroom mayhem, I keep my head and, above all, I maintain the school’s policy toward phones and headphones in a tense environment. I left the 90 minute class a bit wearied but, strangely, with a kind of smile on my face.

Things changed for the better when I move from the Sub classroom to my classes. The word had gotten out that I was taking the technology policy seriously. “Mr. Tew be all strict!” was a comment I heard in the halls. They seemed ready to accept the idea that fighting with me over it would not work. There was a little opposition in my Bell 4 class, but it petered out rather uneventfully. One of my tougher critics in that class even voiced her opinion that, well, it makes sense for a new teacher to follow the rules of the school. This nearly blew me away. The voice of reason from an unexpected quarter!

What I want to zero in on is Bell 6, one of my classes where the learning environment is marked by a certain warmth and interest, a curiosity and humor. In this class, there is no irritation whatsoever when I share that we will be following the new policy. They receive it with trust and grace and we move on. Classes unfolds as normal.

We are talking about Jeremiah. I am skimming over chapter 1 as background, as we will be focusing on two different chapters today. In no time, we come upon this fascinating moment where Jeremiah resists God’s call to be a prophet. He says he’s too young; says he doesn’t have the gift of eloquent speech. God chastens him, bids him cast aside his fear. And then he reaches out, touches Jeremiah’s mouth with his hand, and says:

“See I place my words in your mouth.”  (Jer: 1:9)

We marvel over this moment. God touching Jeremiah’s mouth with his hand. What on earth would that have been like? What is God’s hand like? We ponder this question. We figure: if God’s throne in Jeremiah is essentially a fire (as it is in Daniel and Isaiah), then perhaps God’s hand is more like fire than a human hand. And perhaps what Jeremiah experienced here is being touched by fire, and then calling it God’s hand.

Then we remember that this was exactly what happened to Isaiah: when he too felt unworthy in the face of his call, an angel picks up an ember from God’s throne and touches Isaiah’s mouth with it, saying now that this has touched you, you are pure (Cf. Is 6:7).

“And what is an ember?” I ask the class.

“It’s kind of like a piece of fire,” Jager replies. A stunning reply coming from this dear young man who seldom chimes in like this.

“And what is God,” I ask them?

“God is fire,” comes the response from the middle of the room, echoing Ex. 24:17 and Heb. 12:29. I can’t even remember who said it. But I am stunned by the beauty and the depth of this exchange.

I carry on, down Jeremiah 1, paraphrasing the line where God assures Jeremiah that He will fortify him for his mission:

“For I am the one who today makes you a fortified city, a pillar of iron, a wall of bronze, against the whole land. . .” (Jer 1:18).

I zero on this image: a “pillar of iron.” I discuss how Jeremiah moves, in this passage, from feeling he is too young to be God’s prophet, from feeling afraid of how the people will react to the unpleasant aspects of his teaching to something like assurance. Here in this text, we can see that God does something in Jeremiah’s soul. Makes him pillar-of-iron-like in strength. Makes him immovable. For some reason, in this class, this phrase really strikes me. I remember feeling animated as I express it to the kids. Like this image is inside me, bubbling out.

And we aren’t done. In the final section of the class, I switch (as I usually do) from lecture mode to live-mode, where kids participate 100% in the discussion and unpacking of content. I display the given text we are discussing on my screen and we unpack it live, in teacher – student exchanges. And then there is this moment, in Jeremiah 31, where God says he will restore Israel after the exile and people will again use the greeting:

“May the Lord bless you, Tent of Justice, Holy Mountain!”

I had not deeply pondered this particular verse in my class prep; had not fully registered that Tent of Justice and Holy Mountain are descriptors of Israel here. Israel is the Tent of Justice; Israel is the Holy Mountain. This people, battered in spirit after their infidelity and long exile, now return to their native land. They are now slow to think they may bear a divine vocation. Yet here these magnificent names are spoken of her. Tent of Justice. She is like the tent where God’s presence abides, where the cloud of the Spirit hovers, where God was known to come and speak face to face with Moses. Holy Mountain: she is like a high place, set apart, close to heaven; like God’s chosen place of self-revelation in the book of Exodus. Both these terms are here applied to the redeemed Israel. She will be a place on earth that reveals the glory and the presence of God.

And I thought of my monastery, nestled high atop a mountain in the Umbria region of Italy. I think of the day I got permission to go and photograph her from atop a neighboring mountain, after Vespers. I looked at saw: this monastery is the perfect image of Israel. A tent of justice where God’s glory descends and is revealed. A holy mountain that draws the eye of the people on the plains and beckons them ascend toward an encounter with the Holy Trinity.

All of this I unpack, with no small amount of enthusiasm, and the kids take it in. It is one of the rarest moments of curiosity and openness to real-time learning that I can recall. Among the sea of faces, I remember one, in particular, as I looked out: two eyes dancing with interest and wonder. It is the kind of moment – soul to soul – I always hoped teaching would elicit.

The bell rings. The kids go home and I am left with my thoughts from this most varied of days. The phrase “pillar of iron” suddenly rings in my inner ear, as though a harbinger of some message from the day. The word strikes me, resonates within, like the reverberations of a mighty church bell that had been ringing throughout the day, her echo still audible. I ponder this word.

And suddenly it occurs to me that the entire day has thrust me into a series of tests, moments that required a teacher’s deepened resolve. I met them – I had to! – for the only other option was to retreat; and a retreat would have meant missing an opportunity to strengthen the learning culture of my classroom. So I met those tests and found unexpected daylight at the end of them: first gradual – the slow dissipation of darkness – then unmistakeable; the emerging and growing, by degrees, of something luminous. And now here I stand, at day’s end, firm and smiling, a pillar of iron amid the brisk winds of an American high school. I feel like the Word and the day’s events have instilled in me some new inner strength; some inspiration, carried on the wings of the Word and etched in the demands of the day to day.

If to be a prophet is to be in-spired by the Word of God; if it is for the Word to breathe-into you and mold you; if this breath comes from the written Word but is also echoed through external events; if the net of these things is that you are changed by God into something that you were not before: then maybe I am a prophet.

But if that’s true, maybe you are called to be one too.