The true test of intelligence is not how much we know how to do, but how we behave when we don't know what to do.

--John Holt, How Children Fail

 

While preparing to meet my first class as a teaching fellow in East Asian Studies at Harvard in 1985, I visited several professors I admire, told them of my new responsibilities and sought their sagacious advice. My inquiries brought me up against the curious fact that many university teachers are reluctant to talk about teaching, even though they spend much of their professional time in the classroom. While some professors entered into animated conversation with me--"I find that I get nervous about meeting my classes even after twenty-five years. Why do you suppose that is?"--a more common response was along the lines of "Well, Mark, teaching is very idiosyncratic. Either you have it within you to do it well or you don't. Not very much can be said on this matter. Good luck."

It's true. Some people are more adept at teaching than others, and temperament may be a distinguishing element here. New teachers spend a lot of time searching for that particular style of communication that will instruct and motivate others. But more can be said on this matter than just this. To view teaching as utterly idiosyncratic is to miss the fact that, like any art or craft, it entails a recognizable set of attitudes and skills that can be learned and used so that teachers and students might better express their own voices.

In this essay I will introduce some practical, common sense perspectives on teaching by commenting on three overlapping areas of interest to beginning TAs. First, I will provide some specific items to consider as you plan your first section meeting. First impressions count in the classroom, and it is important to get off to a good start. Second, I will introduce ideas for section leading and give you some things to consider as you prepare to meet your students from week to week. Finally, I will offer some thoughts on the nature of your authority as a teacher. Questions surrounding authority are often at the root of anxieties we bring to first (and subsequent) class sessions.

I. Preparing for the First Section Meeting

While most teaching assistants are not in on syllabus planning, preparation for a course begins with attention to the syllabus and questions like What are the purposes of this course? Are assignments clear and reasonable? What are the aims of written work? Are materials on the syllabus good for discussion in sections? Will materials for the course be in the bookstore on time? What is expected from the professor and the TAs? How much autonomy will TAs have? Discuss these questions with the professor and other TAs far in advance of the first day of class. Make this one of many discussions you will have about the course. Ongoing conversation about the aims and effects of the course will likely influence the construction of future syllabi (yours and the professor's).

Early preparation also concerns the physical arrangement of the classroom. Is the room an appropriate size? Do you have proper furniture and equipment (chalk, markers, overhead projector, etc.)? Will everyone seated around a table be able to see everyone else? Where will you sit? Advance attention to details like these will free up energy for interacting with students.

In the first class meeting it is good to enter into some kind of substantive discussion related to the content of the course. In addition, this meeting provides an opportunity to set the tone, lay down some ground rules, begin the process of getting acquainted, and generate interest among students. Students are very interested in learning just how open and accessible you are, so the manner in which you present yourself and items for discussion is of the utmost importance.

I like to arrive early to the first class and write the following information on the board:

• My name
• Course name and number
• Office number and phone number
• Office hours
• Email address and home telephone number[2]

Once students are comfortably settled, I introduce myself with reference to the above information. You will have to decide how much more you want to say about yourself at this time. I usually talk about how I became interested in the subject matter and identify several aspects of the course that I'm particularly excited about. I also mention something I hope to learn more about as the quarter goes along.

I next emphasize that section meetings are for discussion. It is, therefore, important that students get to know each others' names and make an effort to get acquainted for the sake of the class. To get this process started--and it will take several class meetings before people begin to feel comfortable with each other--I hand out 4" X 5" index cards and ask students to record information like the following (noting that it is optional to do so):

• Name
• Year
• Academic major [or concentration]
• Telephone number and email address
• Other courses they are taking that quarter
• What they expect from this course
• An unusual fact about themselves

The final item on this list will open up avenues of conversation that go beyond the bounds of the course. These cards will prove helpful as you start to put faces with names.

Before collecting these cards you may want to use them to help students introduce themselves. I like to pair students up, have them exchange cards, converse a few minutes and introduce their partner to the group. Students won't remember many names at this point, but the ice will be broken enough to move things along. At the beginning of the next class you may have everyone state their name before selecting someone to go around the room naming each and every person. This exercise gets people to attend to learning names, especially if you say you may ask somebody else to do this at the beginning of the next meeting. In these early meetings you might also have students make name cards which they set on the table.

Once introductions are taken care of, it is time to look more closely at the syllabus and set ground rules for discussions and written work. By reviewing the syllabus you let students know where the course is going and how, in your mind, various topics fit together. Students will learn better if they keep this overall picture in mind. By setting ground rules that let students know your expectations and policies concerning their work, you become trustworthy as you put your cards out on the table. What, for example, is your policy toward late written work? Do you expect people in the section to arrive on time? What will you expect from students who are making class presentations?

Think carefully about your expectations and policies, for you will be bound by them as the course goes along. Deviations from stated policies are often the cause of trouble; it is to everyone's advantage if you are firm and remain consistent with the framework set forth the first class. Reiteration and explication of these items will probably be required at a later date, especially around the time when the first written work comes due.

Every class period should be carefully planned in advance. There is never enough time and you must set priorities. While introductions and discussion of expectations and procedures are necessary, it is important that a portion of the first class be devoted to intellectual work. After all, the main purpose of discussion sections is to examine texts and ideas in ways that promote the development of intellectual virtues. Giving part of the hour to consideration of a question or small portion of a text will help set an appropriate tone.

Choosing a substantive issue for the first day can be difficult. Time will be limited and you will want to find something that piques curiosity and points to questions and concerns that will be important throughout the course. In some classes reading for the first section will already be assigned on the syllabus. In that case, I recommend you select just one important paragraph from the assignment and work with that. Have students read this paragraph in silence before asking if anyone would like to summarize it (those who haven't already done the reading are then included). Ask for additional summary statements and have a student or two raise a question for the group to consider. A discussion may take off from there.

If the selected passage is from a supposedly familiar text (i.e., something students may have encountered in a required freshman seminar like CIV), you may wish to work through it line by line, showing what close reading is about. Students will find things in the familiar text they have not noticed before, and you can point out that the kind of attentive reading and rereading just demonstrated will enhance their appreciation of assignments throughout the term.

If you are not starting with something already assigned, you may wish to demonstrate close reading with a text you select and bring in. You may also begin with a relevant newspaper clipping, or start by summarizing conflicting interpretations of a salient idea in work for the coming week. Whatever you do, remember that students will learn a good deal about the way you plan to facilitate section discussions. This first session, then, provides a great opportunity for setting an appropriate tone, demonstrating your approach to discussion leading, drawing attention to important skills and creatively introducing course material. Don't worry if time runs out before the discussion really gets off the ground. The rest of the quarter lies ahead!

II. Leading Discussion Sections

In the course of your life as a student you have undergone an "apprenticeship of observation." That is, you have observed a lot of teaching over the years. Your experience as a student is one of your best resources for preparing to teach. Which models will you emulate? Which will you try to avoid? In this section I will note several important characteristics that distinguish effective teachers. Good teachers are imaginative, well-prepared, flexible, and available.

A. Imagination

After many years of schooling, teachers and students have come to expect certain norms in classroom life. Sadly, many students will assume that life inside the classroom isn't going to be very interesting or relevant to life outside. This poses a challenge to your imagination. Are there ways you can upset expectations and improve classroom culture so students might change their ideas about the value of classroom time? Can you imagine ways of keeping students off guard so that they remain attentive and eager to exercise their skills? What happens if, for example, you try to introduce ideas in a text through music or pictures?

In most classrooms--even those intended for discussion--lines of instruction run separately from the teacher to each individual student. While this may be convenient for instructors, this dyadic dynamic inhibits the creation of an atmosphere where students will learn to work together. Are there ways of facilitating greater communication among students so that interaction extends beyond the class hour and makes classroom time less discrete?

I once set things up so that students in my section were writing to and for each other. It has always seemed strange to me that students rarely read each others' papers. Why should communication in writing go only from student to teacher? In an effort to upset this norm, I arranged things so that each week a student would write a short essay on a very broad question relevant throughout the course. All students wrote on the same question--something like What is history? What is scripture? What is the good life? Why should one study religions? The first draft of this paper was read by two students who commented on it in writing. The author took these comments into account and composed a final version. The final draft, attached to the first draft and peer comments, was then turned in to me.

This experiment had many good effects. The papers generated ongoing conversation about the one, broad question students shared. Writing kept conversation about the question topic going, people remained interested in how others would approach the question and references to ideas in these papers came up in class discussions. I learned that students are very interested in what their peers think and appreciate the opportunity to express their ideas through the more controlled vehicle of writing. Finally, students learned to value rewriting and the process of collaborative learning, one of the purposes of the discussion section format.[3]

One of the main aims of discussion sections is to help students learn how to learn through participation in the life of a group. You may want to be very explicit about the skills that are necessary for this and discuss these skills in your class. You can't assume that students understand the reasons why lectures and sections are organized as they routinely are. Use your imagination to upset the routine--thereby drawing attention to it--and find ways of facilitating interaction among students who are capable of learning from each other. (See Mark Unno's "Pedagogical Tools and Strategies" for additional ideas.)

B. Preparation

If you expect students to be serious and prepared, you must be well-prepared too. You will teach much by example. Have you been to the week's lectures? Have you worked through course materials with points for discussion in mind? That is, have you identified essential tensions and questions in the materials assigned for the day? Have you clarified your goals for the section meeting? What would you like students to be thinking about when they walk out the door? How does what you are doing in section relate to the course as a whole?

It is good to begin class meetings by helping students focus on the hour that lies ahead. Students often arrive in section with a variety of things on their minds (sleep, food, sex, the last class, the next class, the weekend, etc.). I help them prepare mentally for class by taking a few minutes to review salient features of the last meeting and give an overview of plans for the present hour. This draws everyone together, creates narrative continuity and turns attention to matters at hand.

Students will forgive most everything except the offense of being obviously under prepared. Being well-organized and helping students focus on immediate tasks demonstrates that you care about the course and value class time.

C. Flexibility

It is possible to be over prepared. In this event you may be so set on covering your agenda that you leave little room for student input and spontaneous "teachable moments." The atmosphere in a discussion section should be one of give-and-take. If you are too organized, there will not be enough room for spontaneity: creative energies will wane and the class will lose its conversational tone. If one is not organized enough, discussions may be unfocused and difficult to summarize and assess.

While it is important to arrive with an agenda in mind, you should be flexible enough to bring extemporaneous questions and ideas into your plan. Since good discussions have a life of their own, unexpected insights may take the class in surprising and exciting directions. You will have to assess whether unanticipated detours are productive or distracting.

If you begin the class by spelling out an agenda, the session can end (as it should) with a summary of what has transpired. If items on your agenda were not spoken to, you have a way of measuring what was accomplished by relating it to your original plan. Sensing just how much preparation is necessary and knowing when and how to get things back on track when unproductive digressions appear is an art you will learn over time.

D. Availability

Student surveys repeatedly indicate that a TA's availability is a primary concern. While you cannot be available twenty-four hours a day (and some students might expect this), you have an obligation to be available when and where you say you will be. Set office hours and stick to them.

Office hours often provide some of the best teaching time. Quieter students will be more forthcoming (not everyone is comfortable expressing themselves in the larger group), and you will have a chance to become better acquainted with your students as you meet to discuss particular ideas and projects.

It is also important to be available at the end of each class hour. Be careful not to schedule anything that will prevent your interaction with students at this time. Some students will use this time to ask questions they weren't able to bring to the group. They may also want to push the preceding discussion further. This is also a common time for discussing assignments and arranging meetings during office hours.

III. Your Authority as a TA

At institutions such as Brown or Stanford you are teaching in a lively, multicultural environment. As a teacher, you represent academic culture. That you are a TA indicates you have learned to be at home in the academic world, and that you understand its rituals, procedures, languages, politics, and resources. The fact that there may be things about academic culture that you do not like is itself an indication of your growing familiarity with it.

When you walk into your first class meeting, students--however suspicious they appear--are going to view you as someone with a tremendous amount of authority. In large part, this is because you represent success in a culture they want to participate in and know. Since questions concerning the nature and exercise of authority are at the root of many of the anxieties TAs have, I want to briefly grapple with that vexing problem here.

I think your main task as a teacher is to help students articulate and explore genuine questions--questions that somehow connect students' lives to the subject matter at hand. The skill you most need to develop is that of guiding others through the process of working toward meaningful answers. Your authority as a TA is based on your proven ability to identify and explore serious questions. The best, most immediate, resource you have for developing this skill is your own experience as a learner: When confronted by a genuine question, how do you proceed?

TAs are usually better off when they claim authority on the basis of their ability to learn. Good teaching, then, is not a matter of presenting yourself as a walking Encyclopaedia Britannica, (though information is fundamental to the teacher's task). The good, most authoritative teacher is one who is able to engage others in a process of discovery. This process of discovery and the excitement it generates is what makes life in the university worthwhile.

I mentioned that one of the best resources you have for becoming articulate about the processes and joys of scholarship is your own experience as a learner: When confronted by a genuine question, how do you proceed? One of the best ways to prepare for teaching a course is to reflect upon this question so that, through your words and actions, you may communicate those energies, insights, and resources that have carried you along.

When stepping into the teaching role, it takes courage to trust in your own experience, use your own voice, and really be yourself. It takes courage not to try and be somebody else--probably the most common mistake beginning teachers make. In honestly expressing yourself and drawing on your own experiences and inner resources, you will be able to claim and enjoy authority as a college teacher.

Conclusion

In the epigraph to this essay, John Holt suggests that intelligence is best indicated by how one behaves in a new situation. While college teaching isn't entirely new to you (remember your apprenticeship of observation), the transition you are making from being a student to being a teacher sets you in a situation that brings new responsibilities and problems. If it seems that my advice is common sense, that's good. Becoming a teacher can be difficult, and in difficult situations it is not uncommon to throw common sense right out the window.

It will take some time to become comfortable in this transition, and patience is required. It helps to remember that the teachers you most admire and plan to emulate have become good at what they do because they have been working on it for a number of years. They have experimented, measured student responses, reflected on their aims, talked to colleagues and fine tuned their particular approaches. Now you can begin to do the same.

In the course of my work as a teaching assistant and instructor, I have had the opportunity to try out a variety of tools and strategies, and I would like to share some of them. Many will already be familiar with them as they have had occasion to encounter them in other situations or as students. Furthermore, they are not necessarily specific to religious studies and can generally be used in any humanities course. Nevertheless, I thought it might be helpful to review some of them.

Weekly Short Assignments

I have found it useful to assign one- to two-page response papers on a weekly or bi-weekly basis. I ask students to reflect on each week's readings and to bring in a few well-thought-out questions or a brief analysis of an idea or passage that they found particularly insightful, difficult to understand, or otherwise thought-provoking. I collect these short assignments at the end of each section and return them the following week with my comments. Making comments on these short assignments and returning them regularly assures the students that the teacher cares about their work and maintains two-way communication. I do not grade them, but they are required, and together with their participation in the discussion sections accounts for approximately one-tenth of the students' course grades.

These assignments fulfill several functions. They help students to reflect on the readings and provide the teacher with a means to get a sense of their overall development. This in turn enables the teacher to understand students' longer papers better and to make more meaningful comments on them. They provide a springboard for discussion; the short assignment makes certain that students have something prepared for discussion, and shy students tend to be more confident in speaking up if they have something written prepared. It is also easier for me to call on students when I know they have something ready. If the discussion bogs down, I can always call on someone to present what they have prepared.

I have generally found that the short paper fulfills these functions well. Even when I was TAing for a course that satisfied a double distribution requirement and was graded pass/no-credit, students consistently handed in these assignments, made insightful points, and used them to engage in high-level discussions.

Student Presentations

Each week, I also ask students to pair up to make ten-minute presentations on the readings. I suggest that one student present some analysis or problem and that the other respond, but I leave the format fairly open. Depending on the number of students in the section, each member of a discussion section usually ends up doing these presentations one to three times. Most of us have had experiences with this in graduate seminars, and I have found that it works quite well for discussion sections in lecture courses.

I usually begin the section with these presentations. This allows students to take control of the discussion and present ideas that they are most interested in. Usually students are able to carry on a focused discussion based on the initial presentation for fifteen to twenty-five minutes, and I only intervene when necessary, that is, to correct misinformation or to refocus a discussion that has gone too far off on a tangent.

When the discussion initiated by these presentations begins to wind down, I either pose further questions that I would like to have the students consider or make my own presentation as a supplement to or clarification of the readings and lectures.

I have found that discussion sections serve two main purposes: to clarify and elaborate upon course material that could not be covered adequately during lectures and to help students develop their ability to discuss and reflect on the material intelligently. Beginning discussion sections with student presentations first and introducing one's own material later on is one way to balance these elements.

Student Debates

I usually have students engage in debates two or three times a semester. Of course, debate is a normal part of any discussion section, but here I am referring to a more formal situation in which students are asked to represent a particular position. I first learned of this as a teaching intern for Hester Gelber's Philosophy of Religion (RS42) at Stanford University and have used this often.

I prepare a passage of paragraph-length which describes a scenario involving problems relevant to the course material and pass it out to the students at section. I have the students divide up into groups of four to six and have each group represent one position. For example, I might have different groups represent the position taken by Hume, Kant, and Kierkegaard on the question of the existence of God. Each group elects a spokesperson, and after ten to fifteen minutes of discussion, the spokespeople engage in debate with each other in an attempt to establish their own position and to critique the others.

This has been a useful format for several reasons. It helps students to develop discussion skills, to learn what it means to represent a particular position, and to take on perspectives that might not reflect their own personal convictions. As Steve Wilson has noted,[5] this is a particularly helpful format for certain students and even whole sections that tend to be reserved, as it is often easier for such students to play a role rather than give voice to their own position.

The debate format is especially helpful in courses with a philosophical dimension, since effective argumentation is essential to philosophical discourse. It can contribute significantly to the study of nearly all subjects to the extent that critical analysis and argumentation constitute a part of most academic work. It is also a nice change of pace to insert debates during the course of a quarter.

Grades

Grades are, it seems, a necessary evil of higher education. There is an unavoidably subjective element in grading papers, and it is difficult to be consistent. As a TA I found various standards applied by different professors, and I tried first of all to be consistent with the individual instructor's own standards. It is important for students in different sections of the same course to have the same standards, and one of the easiest ways to achieve this is to consult with the instructor and to come to some kind of consensus regarding standards that are consistent across sections. If one has strong disagreements with the instructor in this regard, they can and should be voiced.

One advantage of being aware of the instructor's standards is that, when students have grievances concerning grades, the TA can appeal to the instructor as a referee. Eventually, however, TAs must be weaned from reliance on the instructor's authority and be willing to take sole responsibility for grading. I have my own genearal criteria for grading which I use as an instructor, and these are explained in the sample "Paper Writing Guidelines" which have been included in this volume. I make adjustments in these criteria for different courses as necessary.

Students at institutions such as Brown and Stanford are intelligent and motivated, and it is fairly unusual to give a grade below a B-. There are, however, often enough cases in which students' work is less than adequate, and lower grades given accordingly. Whenever I do I ask the student to speak with me briefly, either after section or during office hours. I do this for several reasons: 1) to make sure that students understand why they received the grade they did, 2) to suggest ways of improvement, and 3) to encourage students and highlight the positive points of their papers. Time and again I have been surprised to see how students improve in their writing over the course of a quarter.

There were several instances in which the students' writing was so poor that I was not certain whether they could complete the course satisfactorily, but after making some suggestions and encouraging them, virtually all of these students reached a surprisingly high level of proficiency by the end of the course. I recall one case, however, where a student performed quite well on the rewrite allowed for first papers but failed to reach her potential later on. It was a case where she simply had other priorities.

In another interesting case, a student received a low grade, and when I explained why, he told me that he knew he had not done a very good job but did not want to do a rewrite. He also did not contribute much to the discussions and seemed rather disinterested. In such cases I sometimes try to involve the student by calling on him or her and making various suggestions. But in this case, something told me that I should just let him be. He was in a small section of highly capable and motivated students. He remained silent through most of the quarter but became visibly more interested as he was infected by the enthusiasm of the others. He gradually took a deeper interest in the course, and his writing naturally improved. Sometimes less is more, as this case seemed to illustrate.

Peer Review

Another tool I began using this past year is the peer review. Mark Gonnerman had mentioned this to me, but I decided to use it for the first time in two seminars that I taught this past year, using my own format.[6] Students were required to hand in drafts two weeks before the final due date and exchange papers with a partner. Once the peer reviewers made comments on the draft, they were required to hand in the drafts with comments to me, and I in turn made comments on the comments. This process served to refine student writing, empowered students to benefit from one another's work, enhanced the collaborative character of their study, and brought more focus to bear on the quality of writing and thinking rather than on quantity. In both classes the the effect on the quality of writing was positive across the board, and students' response to the peer review was equally strong.

Working with Other TAs and Instructors

I have learned a great deal from other TAs as well as from my own teachers and colleagues, and I have found it helpful to work with them in a variety of ways. Especially in my early experiences, I found it just as helpful to consult with more experienced TAs as with the instructor. This has included everything from procedural matters to the presentation of specific ideas.

Sometimes I had TAs from other sections serve as a guest TA for my section. Students in the section were thus exposed to different styles and approaches to the same material, and their learning was enriched through broadening the scope of their experience. At times I asked other TAs to consult with students in my section when they had particular difficulty understanding the material or working on a paper. Other TAs may be more knowledgeable in certain areas, or they may be able to provide an angle that I had overlooked. Teaching is a highly individual affair, and much depends upon the chemistry between teacher and student. While there may be consistently good teachers, no one is good with every student.

One helpful tool for gauging students' experiences in section is the mid-quarter evaluation. I have most often used anonymous evaluation forms for this purpose. Most departments have standard forms that can be used, but I have usually formulated my own, for two reasons: 1) Standardized forms usually have a ranking scale for different areas of pedagogy as well as specific questions; I have found that students tend to focus on the ranking scale at the expense of providing detailed comments, and the latter are often more helpful for making adjustments midway through a course. 2) I also make minor changes in the form depending on the course.

Handouts

Various types of handouts have proven beneficial. I have already touched on the Paper Writing Guidelines which have been included in this volume. I would like to mention just three other types that I have used: 1) supplementary bibliographies, 2) glossaries of names and terms, and 3) diagrams. Supplementary bibliographies with brief descriptions of the works listed can be helpful, because bibliographical information for works cited frequently by the TA but not listed in the course syllabus can be included. Glossaries are useful for making sure students know the spelling for certain terms, providing brief definitions of terms students are expected to know, and generally highlighting key concepts and names. Diagrams provide a means to organize one's thoughts, as schematic presentations of key concepts provide a framework in which various ideas can be placed. In this sense, diagrams, like theoretical generalizations, are limited but useful. Here is a case where a picture is not worth a thousand words but meaningful nonetheless.

Conclusion

The tools and strategies described above are just a few of the ways in which I have tried to make the learning experience for students as meaningful as possible. Each teacher will develop her own strategies as she builds on her experience, and I look forward to learning more from what others have to offer as I continue to develop my own repertoire.

The idea for "Paper Writing Guidelines" began with my work as a teaching assistant as I started to assign and grade papers. At first I explained orally what I expected and required regarding the procedures, mechanics, content, and overall evaluation of papers. However, I began to recognize that students sometimes did not remember everything, and I was having to spend a great deal of time explaining these matters during section as well as writing the same comments on papers repeatedly.

I decided to hand out a written set of guidelines for papers to lessen my work in this regard. In addition, the Guidelines proved a helpful reference for questions and grievances that arose. Students were clear about what was expected, and I was accountable for my own position.

The Guidelines seem to be helpful, as students have responded positively, both in terms of their feedback regarding the Guidelines and the quality of their written work. Two of the most important skills that are taught at the undergraduate level are how to think and write well. The two are distinct but closely interrelated, and it has been my experience that a basic foundation in clear and organized writing often aids in the development of critical thinking skills. In humanities courses, the written paper is the only tangible evidence of the students' work, and it is our responsibility as teachers to see to it that they are given the necessary tools to excel.

This requires a grasp of basic procedure and mechanics. They are like the tools used by a carpenter or the utensils of a chef. Without a basic knowledge of these instruments, the carpenter cannot complete a project, the chef cannot cook an adequate meal, and the college student does not have the necessary framework to express her ideas effectively. Beyond these basics, the college or university paper usually represents a genre that is more complex than anything students have attempted before and incorporates elements that are new to their thinking and writing. I will not go into each area in detail here; the sample which follows is fairly self-explanatory in this regard.

Students may sometimes become preoccupied with the details of the Guidelines, and their writing may become cramped in an effort to satisfy the instructor. In order to counterbalance this tendency, a brief essay on academic writing as a creative process, "Writing: The Bridge between Consciousness and Unconsciousness", has also been included after the Guidelines.

The Guidelines presented below are in turn meant to serve as a guideline for your own thinking about these matters, and I merely hope that they will stimulate reflection.

Please follow these guidelines when writing your papers.

1. Deadlines

Submit your papers by the deadlines stated in the syllabus. If for some reason you cannot hand in a paper on time, contact me by the day before the due date. In all reasonable cases I will give you an extension, but if you don't let me know, there will be a grade deducted for each day it comes in late.

2. Mechanics

Mechanics are important. They are the basic tools that make the paper possible.

a) Descriptive Title. As simple as this is, some people do forget.

b) Page numbers. In case the pages come loose, I will be able to read your paper.

c) Consistent citations. You may use either footnotes, endnotes, or intra-textual parenthetical notes. However, do not mix forms of citation. There are some exceptions to this rule. Some examples of standard citation formats follow:

Footnotes and endnotes

Books: Etty Hillesum, An Interrupted Life (New York: Washington Square Press, 1985), 42-44.

Article in an anthology: Hideki Yukawa, "The Happy Fish," in Experimental Essays on Chuang-tzu, ed. by Victor Mair, 85-100 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1983).

Journal article: Philip J. Ivanhoe, "A Happy Symmetry: Xunzi's Ethical Thought," Journal of the American Academy of Religion 49:2 (Summer 1991), 309-310.

Intra-textual note

(Ivanhoe 1991:309-310).

Bibliography

Yukawa, Hideki. "The Happy Fish." In Experimental Essays on Chuang-tzu, ed. by Victor Mair, 85-100. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1983.

For a more detailed explanation of standard formats, consult:

Kate Turabian's A Manual for Writers of Term Papers, Theses, and Dissertations, 5th ed., rev. by Bonnie Birtwistle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).

If you do use intra-textual references, be sure to provide a full bibliography of cited works at the end of your paper.

d) Use block quotations for citations four lines or longer. When using block quotations, do not use quotation marks at the beginning and end of the block.

e) Check your spelling. There should be few errors in this regard.

3. Style

There are a few stylistic matters to be aware of.

a) Avoid using too many conjunctions and qualifiers, such as "however," "then," and "given that." Except in a few cases, the reader will know how one sentence relates to the next without the use of these terms, and the resulting paper will be easier to read.

b) Use natural English. There is no need to fill your paper with technical vocabulary or difficult terms. If you do use them, they will have a greater effect when you write for the most part in clear, straightforward English.

c) Tenses. Be consistent in your use of past and present tense. If you are writing a thought paper (ideas, philosophy), it is accepted practice to put everything in the present tense. For example, you may write, "The Buddha says, . . . ." or "The Tibetan master Milarepa behaves in unconventional ways."

If you are writing a research paper dealing with historical issues, you should put scholarly assertions in the present tense ("I think," "Gregory Schopen states") and historical facts in the past ("Sakyamuni delivered a sermon," "Devadatta turned traitor"). In any case, be consistent.

d) Documentation. Whenever you make generalizations or assertions, document your claims with citations, either from the lectures or readings. If you make a statement that seems controversial and you don't cite a reference, then I will not know where your ideas came from. You cannot be too careful on this point

e) Subheadings. They are not required, but it can be helpful to insert subheadings as you go along. They let the reader know that new topics are being addressed.

f) Gender. It is now widely considered that the exclusive use of male pronouns to refer to both sexes is unacceptable. There are a number of strategies that can be used to negotiate this matter. You may use i) male and female pronouns alternately, ii) neutral pronouns such as "one" and "they"; however, avoid mixing these two pronouns in the same sentence, iii) both (When a person finds him or herself in this situation . . .), or iv) "s/he". If you have any questions about this, please see me.

4. Drafts

You are not required to submit drafts, but I will be happy to look at them for you. It is the surest way to improve your performance, and it will help both your thinking and your writing. At the same time, I won't have the time to look at a draft at 10:00 p.m. the night before a paper is due. Please give me at least three days before the due date to look over a draft.

5. Types of Papers

There are generally two types of papers, thought papers and research papers. There are commonly elements of both present, but papers largely fall into one of the two categories.

a) Thought papers may make use of materials beyond the required reading but need not do so. Rather, the focus is on careful study, analysis, and elaboration of ideas presented within a limited context, such as a single article. It is often helpful to focus on one idea, passage, or paragraph and consider the ramifications thereof.

b) Research papers deal with a careful study of objective evidence available to support and refute arguments. You do not need to go to outside material, but it is often helpful to obtain supporting evidence to back up your assertions.

For the purposes of this course, you may choose either type, but the emphasis will be on the former. You may write on one of the suggested topics, or you may choose your own topic; in the latter case the instructor's approval is required.

6. Grading Criteria

Although grading is an imprecise art, it is possible to attain a considerable degree of consistency. I look for the following when reading papers:

a) Writing. If you write clearly and grammatically, you will think clearly and in an organized fashion. If you think clearly, this will be reflected in your writing.

b) Accuracy. Have you represented the relevant ideas fairly?

c) Sophistication. Have you taken into account various facets of a problem or idea? You can be accurate at a general level ("The Buddha was a seeker of truth."), or you can be accurate at a sophisticated level ("The Buddha was a seeker of truth who formulated his understanding in terms of the four noble truths.").

d) Breadth of knowledge. Have you covered the main ideas relevant to your topic?

e) Depth of analysis. How deeply have you delved into the topic? Have you uncovered problems that might not be apparent at first glance? How carefully have possible objections been taken into account?

f) Engagement and effort. How hard have you tried to tackle the topic? Even if the paper might not seem so great at first glance, it will be apparent if you have made an honest attempt to understand what you are studying.

g) Creativity. Do you have a flair for expressing yourself? Are there unexpected insights and a sense of adventure?

Although there are no hard and fast rules, if you cover criteria a) through d) and execute them well, you should get a B. Provided you have gone that far, you can add further dimensions to your paper. If you have any questions about comments I have made on your paper or your grade, please come and see me. It is important for me to know of any doubts or problems.

Rewrites will be allowed for the first paper only.

7. In Conclusion

If you study these guidelines, it will make the learning experience more pleasurable and rewarding for both you and me. At the same time, this represents nothing more than what it says, "guidelines." They are meant to help you polish a skill, academic writing, that you are developing as you progress in your studies. Don't get so hung up about them to the extent that you feel your creative processes hindered. If anything, they should provide just enough of a framework to express your creative and analytical skills. The accompanying essay addresses the creative aspect of paper writing.

I like writing. When I am totally absorbed in writing, many ideas which have never occurred to me before can pop up in my mind, or once confused and fragmentary information and thought can be spontaneously organized and become clear. It is one of the most satisfactory moments for me.

Yet, I often struggle for long periods trying to organize ideas in front of the cruel white paper. This is especially true when I am trying to be systematic and logical, beginning with an outline. Since anything unclear or vague is eliminated in the process of making an outline, the paper turns out to be organized, clear, and compact, but I rarely have a sense of satisfaction.

What is the difference between a paper which emerges spontaneously and one that begins with a concern for logical consistency? I have been wondering how I can bridge the gap between these two types of writing and the attitudes they represent. I have found some clues to these problems in three articles written by Donald Murray, Peter Elbow, and William Stafford.[9]

What they emphasize in common is the process; writing is not the description of a result; in fact, writing itself can create the result. This means that we should not worry too much about how the last draft will turn out, or how we can organize all of our ideas before we begin. According to Murray, what we need for writing is enough information and a clear purpose: logic or order can appear later in the process. Elbow even denies the need for coherence in the initial stages of producing writing. He suggests "freewriting," which activates the writing process by getting rid of any concern about correction. Also, Stafford remarks that the most important things for his writing are receptivity and a willingness to give up high standards. For all of these writers, logic and organization, which has restricted me in certain ways, are secondary at the initial stage of production. It is true that logical rigor is important, but we can worry about that as much as we like after everything has been written down that we want to say.

What is important in writing is, as the three writers agree, the productivity of writing. According to Murray, for example, writing is the process of "making something that was not there before, finding significance where others find confusion and bringing order to chaos."[10] By writing you can find new things, which may be a new thought, a new feeling, a new idea, or even a new self which you would never have found without writing.

In order to promote this kind of productivity, Murray, Elbow, and Stafford agree on the importance of opening our minds. Murray points out that writing gives us an opportunity to capture, at the conscious level, unconscious feelings and ideas we had not noticed or had forgotten. Elbow says freewriting is a method to make our consciousness empty so that we can pick out something unconscious from deep within our hearts. Stafford remarks that the power letting him write is not a conscious device but his "own weak, wandering, diffident impulses" and his "confident reliance" upon these impulses.[11]

Writing might be compared to a breeze blowing towards the small window between consciousness and unconsciousness. The window is usually closed because consciousness is too strong to let the window open, and one ends up living in only half of the house, that is, the entire world of one's existence. But when writing occurs with the mind open, a breeze opens the window and one can encounter other aspects of the self, or even another self and become more fully integrated: The wonder of the writing process may even be the act of another self.

When I try to stick to the rules of logic from the outset, my consciousness prevents the window from opening to the other world. My writing then becomes a mere product of my pre-existing consciousness rather than the activity of my whole self. Repeated experience and practice of freewriting has helped me to open my mind. I can worry about logic and organization after my creative impulses have found expression on paper.

*What is a teaching portfolio? It's a collection of materials documenting your strengths and accomplishments as a teacher. Peter Seldin, author of The Teaching Portfolio (Anker, 1991), says "The portfolio is to teaching what lists of publications, grants and honors are to research and scholarship."

*What should my portfolio include? There is no one formula for preparing a teaching portfolio. Each portfolio reflects the capabilities and responsibilities of different, individual teachers. However, portfolios typically include a brief table of contents, a personal statement, supporting material from others, and evidence of effective teaching. Your portfolio is not an exhaustive compilation of everything that reflects your teaching performance. It's a selective, thoughtful collation making the best case for your effectiveness as a teacher.

*Personal Statement. Personal statements are generally 4-6 pages long and may include the following items: 1) a reflective statement of your pedagogical interests, strategies, and objectives; 2) a summary of your past and present teaching responsibilities; 3) a description of steps taken to evaluate and improve your teaching, including changes resulting from attending teaching workshops, being videotaped, or meeting with a Center for Teaching and Learning (CTL) teaching consultant; 4) an explanation of appended supporting materials such as syllabi, exams, handouts and other evidence of effective teaching.

*Supporting Material from Others. You may include: 1) statements from professors with whom you have worked as a teaching assistant; 2) statements from professors, other teaching assistants, and colleagues who have observed you in the classroom; 3) student statements and evaluations of your teaching (forms are available at CTL); 4) documentation of teaching/development activity with CTL staff, including written results of student small group evaluations and video consultations.

*Evidence of Effective Teaching. You may wish to submit: 1) copies of exemplary student essays; 2) student work you have graded showing excellent, average, and poor work along with an explanation of your grading and evaluation strategies; 3) an audio or videotape of you lecturing or leading a discussion section. (Videotapes made by CTL can be purchased at cost.)

*Collaborate. Teaching portfolios are best prepared in consultation with others. As you put your portfolio together, seek the advice of your academic advisor, other TAs, and members of the CTL consulting staff. One great benefit of assembling a teaching portfolio is that it helps you become more articulate about your teaching strategies as you review and reflect on your work, consult with others, and clarify your pedagogical aims.

*Summary. There is no one way of compiling a teaching portfolio. The above suggestions provide general guidelines. Use them to assemble a portfolio demonstrating your particular interests and accomplishments. And remember, your portfolio is not set in stone. The contents will change as your teaching experience and insight grow.

I have been asked to address the curricular ramifications of the emergence and development of the field of religious studies-with particular reference to Brown University. I am happy to do so, but must make it clear that when it comes to history I am an amateur (my areas are comparative religious ethics and philosophy of religion, not history). So what I'll be discussing are some of my impressions about the topic, informed by some rather skimpy materials in university and departmental archives and guided by three brief but insightful historical sketches of the field and its curricula-one published by John Wilson (Princeton University) in 1970, another by Thomas Benson (University of Maryland-Baltimore) in 1987, and (especially) a third published by Frank Reynolds (University of Chicago) in 1990.

Let me start with a brief "external" history of the department that I found in our departmental files and which, I think, reflects the development of both field and curricula within older "private" nonsectarian colleges and universities more generally. The department had its origins in the 19th century when the study of classical languages and literatures ruled the day-including Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Biblical and other philosophical and theological texts. In 1891 a professor of semitic languages and oriental history (William Jewett) was appointed to the faculty, and in 1897 a Department of Biblical Literature and History was established. In 1935, with the appointments of Robert Casey and Joachim Wach (the first a specialist in what we now call "early Christianity", and the second, an omnicompetent historian and sociologist of religion with an interest in both Western and non-Western religious traditions), the department's name was changed to the Department of Biblical Literature and the History of Religions. In 1953, following a Corporation Committee Report on the status of religion within the university, the department's name was changed once again to reflect developments in the field: the Department of Religious Studies. These nominal changes mark important developments in the field as well as significant evolution in the curriculum, and so I now turn from this brief capsule view to discuss what I perceive as important issues of subject-matter, method, and curricular thinking lying behind these name changes.

Underlying these changes is a gradual evolution of the department and field through four phases, each with a relatively distinctive conception of the study of religion and a relatively distinctive curricular paradigm. Adopting and refining Reynolds' three-fold typology of Early Modern, Late Modern, and Post-Modern, I identify the four phases as: Early Modern Theological (roughly 1800-1900), Transitional Ethnocentric (roughly 1900-1950), Late Modern Critical-Scientific (roughly 1950-1975), and Post Modern Hermeneutical (roughly 1975-1991). This typology may over-simplify, and the labels may not be entirely satisfactory, but they will have to serve (e.g., one can discern sub-phases within and overlapping between these four phases). Notice, by the way, that by my accounting each successive phase is relatively shorter than the preceding one, reflecting the intensity of methodological self-exploration and understanding of the field. I now want to characterize each of these phases in terms of what I perceive to be its corresponding conception of the study of religion in general as well as a curriculum appropriate for undergraduates-I leave graduate study to one side in these formal remarks. Since I have been asked also to address general socio-cultural and institution-specific factors that may bear on the emergence and development of these phases, I'll do that too, but with considerable unease about my competence to do so (here I will rely heavily on Reynolds, Wilson, and Benson to help me out). When I state intersubjectively verifiable facts that have some consensus, I'll so indicate; when I interpret, I'll say so; when I speculate, I'll say so (without apologizing each time).

The first phase-Early Modern Theological-needs to be understood in the context of what Reynolds claims was the predominant educational mission of most colleges in this period (late 18th to mid-late 19th century). They were, he suggests, committed to preparing students for taking up positions of intellectual and social leadership in what was perceived to be a relatively homogenous society and culture-by providing them with trained minds and restrained passions, both of which were to be achieved by a strong grounding in classical languages and literature. In this period, the study of religion in American colleges was dominantly theological, aimed at the understanding and apologetic defense of the Christian way of life. It focused on the subject-matter of what the Christian scriptures say or imply and how this content is played out in terms of a rationally based theological worldview and morality. It employed the methods of philologically oriented study of Christian Scriptures (New Testament, Old Testament) combined with Enlightenment-oriented reasoning about the nature and justification of the Christian religion and its claims. Faculty undertaking these inquiries were professors of divinity with (I speculate) college-seminary training in major relevant primary languages, study of scripture, and theology.

This conception of the study of religion as theology is expressed in a curriculum that has as its fundamental mission the initiation of students into a reflective Christian way of life (what Wilson calls "religious-moral nurture"). Courses appear focused on scriptural study in the original languages as well as careful reading of major English-language works in natural theology and natural law. In 1821, for example, Brown's total curriculum was 20% theological, including courses in the Greek New Testament, Paley's Moral Philosophy, Paley's Natural Theology, Paley's Evidences of Christianity, Butler's Analogy of Religion, Barlemagni's Natural Law. Pedagogy, then, appears to involve (as expected) study of classical languages and literature as well as study of theological texts with an eye to evidences and arguments for the truth of Christianity.

The second phase-Transitional Ethnocentric-needs to be understood in a socio-cultural context of what I speculate is a society becoming increasingly aware of its heterogeneity-especially following World War I and the waves of immigration that came shortly thereafter-a society less insulated from other societies and cultures and a society that is industrialized and becoming increasingly oriented to science and technology. Reynolds claims that colleges and universities at this time are beginning to conceive of their mission as preparing students for technical leadership in a modern industrial and scientific world and have decreased commitment to providing religious-moral nurture. (Indeed, as early as 1891 at Brown, the function of religious enculturation is split off from the curriculum and assigned to agencies at the periphery of the curriculum-chaplains, Y. M. C. A., voluntary Bible classes conducted by the President, etc.). Reynolds further suggests that the colleges and universities feel increasing pressure and need to devote greater proportionate attention to the sciences and somewhat less proportionate attention to the humanities. He also reminds us that this period sees the gradual emergence of the psychological and social sciences claiming to be a distinctive set of disciplines essential for understanding human behavior and social institutions and needing incorporation within the education of future leaders.

It is documentable that the conception of the study of religion in this period shifts from the explicitly theological to the historical understanding of Christianity (origins and development) in comparison and contrast with other religious traditions. The aim is to historicize the study of Christianity by employing tools of critical history and literary analysis and by comparing its content with the scriptures and historical development of other traditions, both East and West. Its methods include philological tools, standard techniques of historical inquiry, literary analysis, as well as some use of concepts and models adopted from the social sciences. Faculty undertaking these inquiries include both professors of biblical literature and history and professors of the history of religions. Most (I speculate) are trained at university-based divinity schools or independent seminaries, some at theological faculties in foreign (principally German) universities.

This conception of the field is played out in gradual changes within college curricula. Brown is a forward-looking case example. The curriculum now sees its mission in both research and teaching as to connect the "study of the bible with the general history of religions" (East and West) and to emphasize "the importance of religion as a factor in general culture . . . an active and measurable force in individual and social history" (Visiting Committee Report, Department of Biblical Literature and History of Religions, 1938, quoted in departmental file history). With regard to students, this presumably means their initiation into a critical understanding of the history and literature of their perceived primary tradition (Christianity) conceived as being enhanced both by comparison with other world religious traditions and by exposure to (e.g.) sociology of religion. Courses include a dominant "core" in biblical literature and history (Old Testament, New Testament, biblical themes and topics such as "Social Teachings of the Prophets and Jesus"), but this "core" is increasingly surrounded by courses in ancient civilizations (taught with the Classics department), contemporary religion (the development of modern forms of Judaism and Christianity), religions of the Orient, primitive religion, and sociology of religion (taught with the Sociology department). Pedagogy appears less focused on language-training-this period documents the emergence of the study of biblical literature in translation (beginning around 1910), which is (I interpret) a reflection of the demise of the classical education associated with the Early Modern Theological curricular paradigm. It is to be emphasized that the theological orientation of that earlier phase no longer holds sway, though this is not to say that the curriculum is not still appreciably ethnocentric in its orientation to Christianity as the religious tradition of primary focus and interest. The biblical "core" is a "core", and the comparison of Christianity with other traditions is in service of understanding Christianity better (or so I interpret).

The third phase-Late Modern Critical-Scientific-marks a "watershed" (as our departmental file history puts it) in the development of the study of religion at Brown as well as in American higher education more generally. Here, I speculate, we have a society that, after World War II, has emerged as a dominant force in the modern world-decisively involved in the affairs of other societies and cultures, conceiving of itself as self-consciously secular, scientific-technological, pluralistic, and egalitarian. Reynolds suggests in so many words that college and universities now conceive of their mission as to prepare an increasingly diverse student body for leadership through critical training in the natural and social sciences (primarily) and the humanities (secondarily). But these generalities aside, it is clear that, following upon the breadth of advances of the Transitional phase in the study of religion, a relatively "hospitable environment" (in Wilson's words) exists for further development of the field. This is, in fact, the period where the academic/scholarly study of religion emerges in its full flower.

The 1953 Brown Corporation Report in "Religion within the University" expresses this complete emergence quite well. It clearly distinguishes the work of the department from that of the chaplaincy, and it specifies that the mission of the department is now to pursue a scholarly understanding of "the nature and role of religion," with an emphasis on "a historical approach," though intended to work in "the philosophy of religion, its sociological implication, and the areas of conflict with scientific thought," covering the study of Christianity, Judaism, and other religions. The aim of the field, then, is conceived to be the historical-scientific-philosophical study of religions, self-consciously employing multi-disciplinary tools and methods in the effort to understand, interpret, and explain features of the world's religious traditions. The ethnocentric bias of the past is broken. The limitation on methods of critical inquiry is ended. And we can see in the emphasis on combining historical, philosophical, and sociological approaches an underlying commitment to the ideal of detached objectivity and value-neutral inquiry-in strong and self-conscious contrast with work done in the earlier phases. "Critical" and "multidisciplinary" and even "scientific" are the watchwords here. Over this period, we see faculty coming to be increasingly trained by graduate programs in religious studies with self-conscious commitment to these aims and methods; as seminary-trained scholars retire, they are replaced by people fully trained in the academic study of religion.

Needless to say, this large development in the study of religion results in concomitant changes within the curriculum. No longer is its aim explicitly theological or mutedly ethnocentric. Its mission now is to initiate students into the critical study of the world's religious traditions so that they might appreciate and understand in an historically deep and theoretically sophisticated way the nature and role of religion in human life. Courses involve sophisticated periodization and contextual-ization of the history of traditions, East and West. They involve exposure to alternative critical methods of inquiry as well as interpretive and explanatory theories of religion (e.g., psychoanalytic, phenomenological, social-functional, cultural-symbolic). And, generally over time, they increasingly include a broadening of the "texts" studied with reference to religions-not only basic scriptural canons and major intellectual figures but also ethnographic data, aesthetic forms, etc. Rather surprisingly, perhaps, given this openness to alternative critical methods and the sorts of texts studied, the pedagogy of these courses remains somewhat "traditional" in the sense of employing the standard lecture/discussion section format, mid-term and final exams, a final term paper. This may be due to the enormity of the task taken on by these courses of trying to teach students both a large amount of information as well as a variety of approaches-resulting in the felt need to teach somewhat didactically (this is my interpretation).

The fourth phase (thus far)-Post Modern Hermeneutical-like the other phases, has a distinctive socio-cultural context. Reynolds suggests that this context involves the vivid and self-conscious awareness of pluralization within American society-as represented, for example, by the increasing size and "voice" of minority groups-and a vivid and self-conscious awareness of an interdependent global world order-as reflected, for example, in global concerns about the natural environment, the legacy of the nuclear arms race, the extent of starvation and suffering throughout the world. Furthermore, one cannot help but notice an important intellectual shift away from the hitherto dominant image of detached, objective, and value-neutral inquiry. Suggests Reynolds, gone is the Enlightenment myth of monolithic objective reason able to produce algorithms for "proper" science, "proper" morality, "proper" social change, etc. In its place is a rather more humble sense of the reaches of context-dependent rationality and the historical and social location of all human endeavors. And it should not go unnoticed that colleges and universities must take account of a student body shaped by such self-conscious plurialization, global sensitivity, and historical and social awareness. I suspect that many colleges and universities have adjusted their mission accordingly and now conceive of themselves not only as preparing such students to be scientifically and rhetorically competent but also as responsible for educating them in such a way that they may be able to grapple critically and creatively with social and global problems of considerable political, historical, and moral complexity. Brown would be no exception.

My perception is that the academic study of religion is significantly affected by this socio-cultural context-in both aim and method. One can discern, I believe, a clear interest in approaching religious traditions as complex organic systems embodying forms of life and thought that have their own rational integrity different from but just as "authentic" as the rationality of research programs and disciplines concerned with the study of religion. So the aim of religious studies becomes less of a hegemonic theoretic effort to explain (objectively) the religious Other and more of an attempt of one "equal" to understand and appreciate another "equal". Though the critical methods of inquiry that have been employed are certainly still used (with appropriate refinement and expansion, e.g., feminist critique), nonetheless they are now used with a somewhat different manner and tone: to set up an interdisciplinary and intercultural dialogue with the worldviews of the traditions being studied. A more self-consciously humble dialogue or hermeneutical conversation is established to probe not only the traditions under study but also the assumptions, norms, and values of the disciplines doing the study. Ethnocentrism is left firmly behind-not just in the sense of not presuming the priority of a certain religious tradition but also in the sense that the scholar must be ever alert to more subtle ethnocentric (and gender) biases built into disciplinary approaches and methods. I, for example, can no longer do comparative religious ethics in the way that I did in the late 1970's and early 1980's: developing an analytical framework based on western moral philosophy's typology of normative moral theories (e.g., varieties of deontology, consequentialism, etc.) and then blithely imposing this as a sortal device on non-western religious-moral traditions, thinking that I can therewith understand these traditions in their subtlety and nuance (often involving ideals of character and virtue and norms of rationality very different from my own and the framework that I employ). If I use this framework at all-as perhaps a means of starting up a conversation with traditions I am interested in studying-I must now allow these traditions to critique (as it were) my framework and all of the assumptions about self, society, and human nature that may underlie it.

Now such changes as these cannot but help to be reflected in curricular development in religious studies. The goal now becomes to initiate students into a critical understanding of and dialogue with religious traditions conceived as complex forms of life and thought with their own integrity and rationality, different from but prima facie equal to our own. Teaching and learning are more focused on using methods of inquiry in a radically self-critical way to foster deeper understanding of the problems posed by trying to make sense of other cultures and religious traditions. Questions arise: What does the world look like from the Other's point of view? How can we know that it looks the way we think-as revealed by a certain method-given the possible tension between the way we construe the world and the way that the Other construes the world-after all, are not all ways of construal historically, socially, and culturally conditioned? As might be expected, this sort of teaching and learning requires some change in pedagogy-away from "traditional" didactics and toward more interactive learning designed to foster awareness of the significance of interdisciplinary dialogue and comparative inquiry as hermeneutical conversation between disciplines and traditions. More discussion classes, more frequent short papers focused on problems of critical interpretation, and a willingness to engage normative issues (aesthetic, moral, political) that may surface in interpretation and conversation. And so in addition to methodology and theory of religion, sophisticated periodized history of religions (Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Israelite, ancient Greek & Roman, etc.), our department now has such courses as Comparative Religious Thought: Judaic & Christian; Parables and Paradoxes: The Limits of Language & Redescriptions of the Self; Religious Ecstasy & Performance in the Hindu Tradition; Secular & Sacred Readings: Paul, Pascal, Kierkegaard, & Kafka; Religion & the Good Society: Sex, Children, & Gender; Calvin's Institutes: Rereading the West's Master Narrative; War & Religion in the Near East; Freudian Ego and Id from the Perspective of Western Religious Thought; Sacrifice & Sacred Violence in Ancient Religions; The Compassionate Way: Confucian & Buddhist Ethics (in dialogue with western understandings of altruism); Status of Women in Early Christianity; Women in Religion; etc.

By this time in my discussion, I hope that you are gaining a clearer sense of not only the history of curricular development in religious studies but also the nature of religious studies as a field of academic inquiry. I think that two issues remain to be addressed. First, how exactly does this field now understand itself? That is, is it a distinctive discipline, or what? Second, why exactly are there departments of religious studies? That is, how does one explain the existence of free-standing departments and disciplines? The answer to the first question has been provocatively addressed by Benson. He suggests quite straightforwardly that religious studies is not one discipline per se-representing one distinctive mode of cognitive inquiry governed by a single set of questions, goals, norms, and a community of scholarly consensus-but rather a "community of disciplines" brought together to focus on a common subject-matter in all of its myriad richness and complexity. He observes, quite correctly I think, that simply having a common interest in the study of religion is insufficient in itself to justify viewing this study as a single unified discipline (though there have been unsuccessful attempts in the past to project a "science of religions"). As Benson points out, there is no shortage of multidisciplinary scholarly groups in the academic world, brought together by general themes or shared subject-matter (often, I might add, in the form of extradepartmental or interdepartmental centers and programs-this university is notable for its past encouragement of such efforts). So why exactly a department of religious studies, given this understanding of religious studies as a community of disciplines gathered around a common subject-matter?

John Wilson, I believe, provides the beginnings of an answer to this second question. He suggests that two significant types of factors lie behind the trend in American higher education to form departments of religion rather than to permit the "diffusion of the study of religion" throughout other already established disciplinary departments in colleges and universities. The first type of factor is practical: colleges and universities may perceive administrative and organizational advantages in establishing separate and free-standing departments of religion (e.g., I speculate, avoidance of interminable turf-battles over allocation of FTEs to the study of religion, seeking development monies for a new department, etc.).[14] While this type of factor may constitute a necessary condition for departmental establishment, it seems insufficient by itself. The second sort of consideration advanced by Wilson is more "theoretical": the need, as Wilson puts it, for the co-residence of scholars involved in the study of religion, so that they and their field might benefit from the cross-fertilization of ideas that comes from sustained interaction in doing research and developing curricula. Taken together, these two sorts of factors-administrative-practical and scholarly-theoretical-may be sufficient to explain why we have departments of religion, but I (for one) am not entirely convinced. I think that other factors may have been at work here; for example (and this is speculation based on the Brown case): the professional eminence of scholars in the study of religion during what I have identified as the transitional phase (Millar Burrows, Robert Casey, and Joachim Wach were major international figures in the study of religion who left Brown for more prestigious institutions, e.g., Yale and Chicago); the need for the university, the field, and the transitional phase department to distinguish in a decisive way the academic study of religion from the past university role of religious-moral nurture; the fact that religions constitute a significant type of cultural force and dimension of human experience and behavior roughly coordinate with art, politics, economics, etc.; the rise of identifiable professional organizations and journals dedicated entirely to the academic study of religion; and so the list could continue. I suggest, then, that the confluence of myriad factors and forces virtually overdetermine the decision to found departments of religious studies. In my opinion, that decision has borne considerable fruit. There is no question in my mind that the academic study of religion would be considerably worse off if departments with stabilized and interacting faculty, graduate programs, and undergraduate programs had not been formed. American higher education is not alone in this view apparently, for following upon the American experience, there have been comparable developments in other countries as well.

By way of conclusion in the form of a postscript, I might mention that I shared a draft of my remarks with some of my colleagues in the department in order to solicit their critical response to my historical vision of religious studies at Brown. I am happy to report that all found it instructive, thought-provoking, and largely accurate-a somewhat heartening response-but some thought that I may have overplayed or downplayed certain points, and these are worth sharing with you. First, some suggested that I may overestimate the extent to which 19th century students studied the Bible in the original languages. Perhaps, but all I can say is that the catalogues of the university indicate rather clearly that both the New Testament and the Old Testament (the Christian version of the Bible) were read in the original languages (though greater emphasis was placed on the New Testament) and that a wide variety of language courses were taught at various levels. Second, some suggested that I ought to emphasize that graduate training in the history of religion in the post-modern period incorporates both philosophical-methodological sophistication and the detailed mastery of religious texts and that this training helps to account for the hermeneutical character of the post-modern undergraduate curriculum. This observation is, I think, clearly true, and I accept the clarification with gratitude. Third, at least one colleague thought that I ought to mention that the post-modern curricular paradigm includes courses in "constructive religious thought" (as distinguished from the doing of theology per se)-that is, courses that explore how systems of religious thought might (or indeed, ought to) respond to non-religiously based understandings of human nature, society, and culture, with it being understood that the inquiries in such courses are answerable to canons of reflection and argument typically associated with the university context as contrasted with canons of theological argument as might be specified by particular religious institutions or communities of faith. I am happy to accept this clarification as an extension of my point about the re-emergence of normative inquiry in the post-modern curriculum.

Bibliography

Catalogues of Brown College/University, 1820-1991

"Departmental History," Files of the Department of Religious Studies.

Citing:

Visiting Committee Report, Department of Biblical Literature and History of Religions, 1938

Report of the Special Committee of the Corporation on Religion Within the University, 1953.

John F. Wilson, "Introduction: The Background and Present Context of the Study of Religion in Colleges and Universities," in Paul Ramsey & John Wilson (eds.), The Study of Religion in Colleges and Universities (Princeton University Press, 1970), pp. 3-21. Thomas L. Benson, "Religious Studies as an Academic Discipline" (sub-entry of three-part article entitled "Study of Religion"), Encyclopedia of Religion, 16 vols., Mircea Eliade, editor in chief (Macmillan, 1987).

Frank E. Reynolds, "Reconstructing Liberal Education: A Religious Studies Perspective," in Frank E. Reynolds & Sheryl L. Burkhalter (eds.), Beyond the Classics? Essays in Religious Studies and Liberal Education (Scholars Press, 1990), pp. 3-18.

Related Useful References:

Ninian Smart, The Science of Religion and the Sociology of Knowledge (Princeton University Press, 1973).

John F. Wilson & Thomas P. Slavens, Research Guide to Religious Studies (American Library Association, 1982), esp. ch. 1 ("The Study of Religion").

Jonathan Z. Smith, "Narratives into Problems: The College Introductory Course and the Study of Religion," Journal of the American Academy of Religion 56: 4 (Winter 1988): 727-739.

Teaching living religions is tricky business, but teaching Islam is trickier than most. The reasons, it seems to me, are obvious; but let me offer a word of explanation.

Courses on living religions always draw a fair number of those students who come from families traditionally belonging to that specific faith which happens to be the subject matter of the course. Let us call these students "believers"--but with one proviso: they may not be so in the strict sense of the word; nor is it always the case, so experience has taught us, that they consciously share their parental religious identities at all. What motivates these students to take college courses on their "own" religion is a phenomenon that is both complex and fascinating, something that deserves a thorough sociological study in its own right. But one thing is certain, and it is that their motivation generally arises, at least partially, out of some inner personal concern.

So to speak, the rhythm of the believers is different from that of the rest in the class. There are things that touch them deeply, same things which are treated with disinterest by others; many specific religious terms, phrases, formulas, and anecdotes strike a familiar chord in the listener who is a believer, while for the rest all this is likely to serve a cognitive function, rather than an existential one. Then, there are issues which in the history of religions have been profoundly divisive; there are, for example, questions of theological controversies, heresies, betrayals, persecutions, bloodshed, and wars. Here the believer may have heard accounts that are at variance with that of the teacher, and the believer may have inclinations to be sympathetic with the "culprit" rather than the "victim," and with the "heretic" rather than the "faithful"--thereby tending to reverse the standard scholarly appellations.

It is very easy for the teacher to forget all this, and it is for this reason that I say that teaching living religions is a tricky issue. True, in the world of learning we have made an uncompromising commitment to respect all faiths and creeds equally, to encourage critical inquiry, and never to impose dogma, nor to indoctrinate. But beyond the boundaries of our campuses lies a bigger world; in that world many divisive religious issues are alive: here much polarization does exist, and here religious battles are still being fought. We cannot possibly view our students in isolation from this bigger world. When they come to college, they inevitably bring with them a heavy baggage of popular and private perceptions.

This baggage is heavier in the case of Islam, and that is why I say that teaching Islam is trickier. In fact, this specific case is more obvious than the general one, for while Islam--like any other living faith--is no petrified monolith, it is at the same time a bubbling political issue of global proportions. To be sure, no other religious community in the world receives such extensive, animated, feverish, and frequent media coverage as do those identified as Muslims. And more, Islam remains a major concern for world leaders and policy-makers, generating inter alia an enormous body of political rhetoric, highly publicized and deeply polarized. Added to this is the fact that the proportion of American high schools offering courses on Islam is infinitesimal, something that contrasts sharply and painfully with the daily journalistic portrayals and analyses of Islam on the television and in the newspapers. Here we have an asymmetry leading to a paradox--the paradox that typical high school graduates, while feeling that they know quite a bit about the Islamic world, in fact know practically nothing; and what they feel they know is, at best, a jumble of contextless truncated truths.

What is the result of all this? Evidently, it produces before the teacher of Islam an intricate jungle of misunderstandings, stereotyping, polarization, and even fears. But let us pause here to note that the carriers of this jungle, namely the young students, are utterly blameless; the responsibility lies rather on the shoulders of the "grown-ups" of the bigger world existing beyond the boundaries of school campuses. The students have no choice in the matter: they do not pack their baggage themselves. They unload before the teacher what they receive from their environment.

Teaching of Islam to a typical American student body, then, happens to be a much more serious pedagogical challenge, more serious, that is, than teaching other world religions. First, there are problems intrinsic to Islam itself, similar to, though more intense and complex than, other living faiths. To begin with, the Western tradition of separation between one's private life and professional life is still alien to many Muslim students--how can, they wonder, a non-believer teach, say, the Qur'ân? Or understand the life of the Prophet? Or speak about the Islamic obligation of Pilgrimage to Mecca when non-Muslims are not even allowed to visit it? These questions evaporate only when it is discovered that the teacher is not only a Muslim, he or she is a practicing one--a state of affairs which, speaking empirically, rarely obtains in American universities. This mistrust results in what I call psychological dislocation, a dislocation that manifests itself in many ways: some Muslim students become over-aggressive in the class, heckling throughout the lecture; others turn cynical; some take a defensive and apologetic posture; some suffer in an intriguing and glowing silence; and so on.

Then, there is that familiar problem of the believers. Islam, as I said, is not a monolithic body of doctrine or of people; there exist deep differences of opinion within the Islamic world, and there exist different sects. In fact, this very concept of "sects" is a serious issue in itself. For example, the minority Ahmadiyya group, which originated in the South Asian subcontinent in the late 19th century, considers itself to be a Muslim sect; whereas it has been declared a non-Muslim "heresy" by the bulk of the Islamic world, and this after a good deal of bloodshed. The problem looms large: an Ahmadî student who typically insists on considering him- or herself a true Muslim would feel dislocated if the Ahmadiyya is not included by the teacher among Muslim sects. But if it is so included, the majority of Muslim students would condemn the teacher for what they see as a gross misrepresentation of Islam. Here we have a formidable challenge for the teacher: how to construct a critical framework of pedagogical methodology that, on the one hand, ensures fairness, accuracy, and balance; and, on the other, promises a high degree of sensitivity to the full range of differing opinions, perspectives, and affiliations represented among the believers in the class audience.

But this does not exhaust the baggage students bring with them. There remains what is by far the most daunting challenge--the challenge of cracking through the hardened crust of popular perceptions of Islam. Here the teacher faces double jeopardy: to begin with, there exists typically a profound psychological polarization between believers and non-believers among the audience in an introductory Islam course. We know all too well that the mention of Islam evokes terrifying images in the minds of most non-Muslim students who frequently expect to hear from the teacher not so much about the religious, doctrinal, theological, and cultural features of Islam, but rather specifically about hijackings, terrorism, violence, fundamentalism, polygamy, and veiling. To be sure, I have noticed the impatience of some students when I talk somewhat at length about the diction and stylistics of the Qur'ân and its legislative and ethical contents; or about the normative status of Prophetic Traditions; or about the structure, function, and principles of Islamic jurisprudence; or about the sources of Islamic ethics. These blameless students feel that all this is too long a prologue to the main act: the act in which the dominating characters are bearded, berobed, and fire-breathing Ayatollahs of Iran, and state-sponsored terrorists, and shrouded women of the Middle East, and the rap bands of the Nation of Islam.

But, then, when the teacher does turn to the contemporary world, the weight of his or her onus increases further. For here the serious instructor moves directly against the overwhelming currents of media sensationalism. The task, after all, is to explain, not to utter platitudes or invectives. Explanation, let us note, is not apology, nor is it advocacy, nor, indeed, is it a moral or normative act. Thus, any respectable scholar teaching the contemporary Islamic world would construct historical and contextual frameworks, theoretical perspectives, comprehensive corpora of facts, all this to explain. For example, the Iranian Revolution of 1979 cannot be explained in isolation from the turbulent and bloody history of Iran during the Shah, a messy history with international actors. But if this is done without due pedagogical reflection and judiciousness, and without keeping in view the nature of the audience, the teacher's explanation is likely to be equated with apology for the Ayatollahs, or worse: with advocacy for "Islamic" violence. This is one horn of the double jeopardy.

Clearly, when the teacher of Islam attempts to discard the vilifying trade of stereotyping, presenting Muslims in the historical context like any other people, the believers in the audience begin to feel gratified, perhaps exonerated. But if extreme care is not exercised here, another problem emerges. On the one hand, given the polarization of opinions typically existing between the Muslim and non-Muslim students, the teacher in the process of explanation might set the poles even farther apart. Obviously, a result of this kind constitutes a very sorry situation. But on the other hand, a sensitive issue lies in store, begotten by the teacher's elaboration of what I just said: that Muslims, when represented in the sweep of history, turn out to be just like any other people. And this brings us to the other horn of the jeopardy.

The historical observation that Muslims are just like any other people is grounded in data which have both happy and unhappy elements. For among other things, it throws into relief the fact that there indeed are episodes in the fifteen centuries of the history of Muslims when they have made their own serious lapses; when they have taken more than a small share in internal intrigues and bloodshed; when they have not been tolerant of ideological differences; when they have committed offense to their own doctrinal principles and axioms. Such critical approach has to be informed by a need to balance: for otherwise, a psychological crisis is likely to develop among Muslim students, especially those who are practicing ones.

This jeopardy is similar to the one faced by the teacher of other living religions, such as, say, Christianity. But it is comparatively more complex in view precisely of the polarization typically existing in the audience in an introductory course on Islam. Again, the insensitive teacher might deepen this polarization, receiving the flak now from the believers. For now the believers might easily equate a critical account of the history of Muslims with apology--apology this time to the non-believer. But it can be worse: it may even be considered a misrepresentation, based on the reports of unsympathetic, non-Muslim historians.

Having said all this, let me admit that what I have presented here is the worst-case scenario. These problems may not emerge all in the same class, and they may remain feeble enough not to disrupt the smooth flow of pedagogical discourse. On the other hand, these problems are not hypothetical; I have myself faced them in the early phases of my teaching career. And, to be sure, some of my colleagues who teach Islam do report to me the kinds of crises I have outlined; and they sometimes approach me for advice. The question arises: What is to be done to keep introductory Islam courses commotion-free? How does the teacher win the trust of the undergraduate audience? Over the years I have reflected hard on these challenges, and I have in the process developed my own pedagogical system. When my colleagues ask me to articulate this system by way of advice, I begin by identifying four mutually supportive pillars on which it rests: methodology, strategy, sensitivity, and courtesy.

Let me elaborate. As for methodology, every scholar must have one; but the point is to articulate it and announce it explicitly before the class audience. Take the question of truth for example. A historian of religion, insofar as he or she is operating as a historian, is not concerned with the issue as to whether or not a given religious belief is true: for instance, a group of people believe that monkeys are gods, but it is not my concern to judge if monkeys can be true gods, or if polytheism can be true at all. I am interested, rather, in the function of these monkey-deities: what specific role has a faith in these gods played in defining a religious system; and what are the cultural yields of this faith; and how do believers make sense of this faith; and what is the nature of the social and moral ethos it begets; and questions of this kind. But I am not concerned here with the question of truth. I do not stand before my audience as a preacher; I stand as a scholar. This methodological principle--which is a grand principle of my methodology-- should be made public before the students.

Thus, when comparisons are made, and parallels are drawn, students ought to be informed that these are not moral or value judgments. When I compare, for example, the Christian trinity with the radical monotheism of Islam, my audience is made to understand that here in the capacity of a university teacher I am not saying that Islamic monotheism is true monotheism and that the standard Christian idea of trinity corrupts it. Similarly, when I say that, as contrasted with Christianity, there exists in Islam no doctrinal clergy and no official orthodoxy, the students are reminded that my exposition is not judgmental: that here I do not mean to claim that in some absolute sense one religious tradition is better than the other. I find it important to clarify that I am not engaged in a moral-normative exercise of sifting good from evil and truth from falsehood, sifting with an implicit appeal to some presupposed eternal principles. I tell my students that in the classroom my approach is disciplined--that is, it conforms to the norms of critical inquiry set by the discipline of Religious Studies as this field is understood in an institution of higher learning. And in the same vein I announce that there is no penalty for disagreeing with me, just as there is no reward for agreeing with me. And more, I frequently assure my students that they are totally free to express their own opinions, as free as it gets.

Such methodological declarations prevent many problems, for the rules of the game are known in advance. Besides, articulation of methodology is beneficial in its own right both for the teacher and the students. But there does remain the somewhat informal question of strategy, my second pillar. Here my concern is an efficient and credible presentation of my case. Thus, for example, when I move against the familiar Western misunderstandings of Islam, I buttress my position, as a matter of strategy, with citations from Western authorities--highly respected Western authorities whose erudition is widely recognized and who can in no way be considered apologists for Muslims. Take the popular view that Islam spread through the sword; here I quote the dissent of a Bernard Lewis rather than a Fazlur Rahman, and of a Francis Peters rather than an Ismâ`îl Farûqî.

But conversely, when I come to the darker side of the history of Muslims--and here it is clarified that I speak not of moral but historical darkness--I quote Muslim historians, those Muslims who are considered to be the unparalleled luminaries of Islamic historiography: a Tabarî or an Ibn Khaldûn, rather than a Philip Hittie or a William Muir. This conveys a sense of credible balance to my scholarly position. To be sure, this strategy is not a ploy of clever salesmanship; on the contrary, it adds to the rigor of the discourse by providing a principle of source selection, a principle which requires the use of academically respectable and recognized primary and secondary sources.

The need for a wise and well-meaning strategy becomes particularly urgent when one deals with intensely sensitive and controversial issues. I spoke above of the Ahmadiyya's Muslim self-identity in the face of its fierce exclusion from the pale of Islam by a vast majority of Muslims--this is a case in point. Does the teacher include this group among Muslims? My strategy here is to declare at the very outset another methodological principle: Islam is what Muslims say it is, and Islam ought to be what Muslims say it ought be; just as the American constitution is what Americans say it is, and the American constitution ought to be what Americans say it ought to be. To examine a body of doctrines and principles in isolation from the way it is received and understood by its primary followers is, in my view, a mere pedantic exercise empty of historical content.

Thus, after tracing the history of the emergence of the Ahmadiyya, and after presenting it on its own terms, I tell my students of the grounds on which the overwhelming majority of Muslims condemned it as what they considered a mischievous intrigue against Islam; and I end by pointing out that following several bloody incidents, most Islamic governments have officially excommunicated this group: that, in other words, the bulk of Muslims do not recognize the Ahmadiyya as a Muslim sect. And here I leave the matter. Similarly, when I deal with controversial issues which are historically distant, I likewise let Muslim authorities have the final say: a typical example is the vexed question of the Muslim treatment of the Jewish clans of Medina during the time of the Prophet of Islam. I handle this question in two steps: first, I place the matter in its fuller historical context invoking several non-Muslim scholarly sources; then, I present the Muslim explanation of the events, using a range of standard Muslim sources. Thus, again, I end by expounding what Muslim themselves have to say about the matter; and again, at this juncture I lay the matter to rest.

Strategic considerations are equally important when we deal with today's Islamic world. To be sure, every serious teacher of Islam has been mercilessly exercised by this whole contemporary question of jihâd, militancy, terrorism, violence, and fundamentalism, given the preconceived pictures typically existing in the minds of the young audience. Here I find it most useful to issue several disclaimers, announced expressly and in advance: That in dealing with these issues my primary preoccupation is not moral, rather it is historical. That my chief aim is to provide contextual explanations; and explanation in this critical sense is not meant to be advocacy or apology. That here in the academy we do not support violence, bigotry, discrimination, or hatred. That we do not promote violations of fundamental principles of human liberty and freedom. That we have no tactical political axe to grind. And that, above all, our conclusions, generalizations, and views are not presented as incontrovertible truths to be accepted uncritically. These advance disclaimers prevent a great deal of potential misunderstandings, and more: they help develop a sense of trust on the part of students.

Let me now turn to my third pillar, sensitivity. It goes without saying that every teacher is virtually duty-bound to operate with heightened sensitivity to the range of differing opinions, outlooks, and sensibilities of his or her student audience. In fact, what I have already said effectively takes care of much of this. But here I wish to address a specific issue concerning the believers, an issue I referred to in the very beginning: that among other things, it is some private concern which generally motivates believers to explore their own faith in a college course. This concern often manifests itself in what may be called the "believer's agenda"; but let me illustrate this. Some of my Muslim students, I have noticed, are from the beginning interested in certain specific questions, practically to the exclusion of all else: the question of women's rights in Islam typically looms large. Some other believers focus throughout on certain tenaciously-espoused sectarian positions and vantage points which they are wont to defend. Yet others simply wish to corroborate what they hear in a mosque. A teacher ought to remain sensitive to these concerns, for they merit recognition and support rather than dread and suppression. To be sure, I do encourage the believers to pursue their agenda--but, then, along with my blessings I also provide professional guidance, and it is this guidance which is the crucial thing here. The agenda should receive a careful intellectual nourishment from the teacher so that it is articulated, developed and defined--and carried out with critical control. Such sensitive nourishment generally produces very happy results, happy not only in terms of pedagogical rigor, but also in existential and scholarly terms.

Finally, a word about courtesy, the last of the four mutually supportive pillars of my pedagogical system. Again, all teachers are duty-bound to be courteous anyway. But in dealing with a living religion, and particularly if it happens to be Islam, certain peculiar issues emerge on the horizon which require a careful identification. Muslims, until this day, use standard honorific forms of address and utter deferential salutations whenever they name sacred figures and personages in their tradition. For example, the Qur'ân is generally, "The Noble Qur'ân"; God is referred to as, "Allâh, May He be Praised and Exalted!"; the names of the Companions of the Prophet of Islam are always followed by the invocation, "May God be Pleased with Him/Her!"; and so on. But by far the most important one, and here we are dealing with a highly sensitive issue, is the case of the Prophet himself: in the universe of Islam, his name is always--uncompromisingly-- followed by a deferential formula, "Upon Whom be Peace!"

It is understandable that a teacher of Islam may not be able to stretch his or her courtesy to the degree so as to utter these invocations each time a revered name is spoken. But I think it is important to point them out to the class, and thereby recognize them; and by the same token it would be a profoundly touching gesture of courtesy to the Muslim students if indeed these formulas are declaimed here and there, especially upon a first naming. To be sure, the case of uttering the name of the Prophet deserves the fullness of the teacher's courtesy. On the other hand, this needs a balancing gesture: the same sense of courtesy ought to be extended to the sacred and respected entities of all religious traditions: be they clerics, rabbis, heroes, objects, or gods.

I must now acknowledge at once that this largely informal account in no way constitutes a manual for the teachers of introductory courses on Islam. It is intended neither to be comprehensive nor authoritative; nor indeed does my system come with any warranties. All I can claim is that this system has worked for me.

It has already happened a number of times. There is a bright, motivated senior in one of my sections. Towards the end of the class, I ask him or her what next year's plans are. The answer will often be "I'm going to law school" (although one could substitute investment banking, management consulting, etc.). I then ask, "What aspect of the law are you interested in? Why have you chosen that career path?" The response will be something like, "I'm not really interested in the law. It's just that I don't know what else to do. A lot of my friends are going to law school, and my parents think it's a good idea. At least the money's good for lawyers."

In contrast to the students' utter lack of thought about one of the most important decisions they have made in life thus far, they have put a great deal of thought into how best to accomplish the goal. Most have known exactly what to do to position themselves well for a career they're not even sure they want. They have received excellent grades, have done well on the standardized exams, have good recommendations and are skilled at the interview process. They have all the right answers even if they don't believe in them.

Each time such a situation occurs -- and it occurs far too often -- I reach the same conclusion: these students have missed out on a crucial aspect of their university education. What does this have to do with the teaching of religion? Everything -- or so I will argue.[15]

The American university system is training a nation of means-ends thinkers. The worlds of business, law, management, politics and science are filled with highly skilled problem-solvers. Whenever the government sounds the alarm about a crisis in education in this country, they point to how far behind the Japanese or Europeans our students are in math or science. While our emphasis on problem-solving has created one of the most technologically advanced societies on earth, the advancement has not seemed to carry over into the realm of our humanity.

While many can find the means to almost any end, few direct their attention to the ends themselves, which include the ends of their particular company or profession, and more importantly of their own lives. The problem seems to be captured in the distinction between intelligence and wisdom. In almost every sector of the American landscape -- Wall Street, the Beltway, the academy, Silicon Valley -- there are numerous people of exceptional intelligence. They are quick, creative and driven. But, I would contend, there is a dangerous lack of people who truly possess wisdom. While an in-depth discussion of the distinction between intelligence and wisdom is far beyond the scope of this essay, it seems to me that a central element of the latter that is often missing in the former is reflection. Not calculation, computation, or instrumental reason, but reflection. Although means-ends thinking may be a part of it, the type of reflection I am referring to -- the type that distinguishes people of true depth as opposed to those that, for example, merely get good grades -- is reflection on ends, on the most important things in life.

Perhaps the most important element in such reflection is self-reflection, which centers around (ultimately, though not always explicitly) the question, What is the best way to live? or How should one live? This requires that we look closely and seriously at questions such as, What is a human being? or What is the nature of the self?

The Importance of Comparative Religion

Exploring such questions is one of the most important reasons to study religion. And this is one of the reasons I disagree with Jonathan Z. Smith, who argues that the subject matter of the introductory course "is of secondary interest (indeed, I suspect it is irrelevant)."[16] I take him to mean that the fact that we are teaching religion is not important, as long as we give the students certain skills, in particular reading, writing and speaking. In fact, Smith writes that "there is nothing distinctive to the issue of introducing religion."[17] I would argue that since an introductory course is the only place that many students will ever be exposed to other religious traditions, and because the study of the "content" of a religion, in particular its world-view and normative thought, is critically important for stimulating reflection, the "religious content" should be central to the course. For it is within religious texts, articulated by the great religious thinkers, that the ultimate questions are posed and grappled with, and that answers are offered. By standing on the shoulders of religious giants, we gain a vastly expanded, and often breathtaking, perspective on the world. When we encounter these texts, we are given compelling visions of what the best human life is, what the human self is (if there is one), and how the self relates to itself, to others, to nature and to the cosmos.[18]

Students in a religious studies course have a unique opportunity to reflect on these fundamental issues; and they will be doing so not only in the company of a professor and fellow students, but with the guidance of the greatest minds working through these most important issues. While many students might sign up for a religious studies course because it fulfills a distribution requirement, or out of mere curiosity, it can also be the opportunity for an existential encounter with powerful alternative visions of the world and our place in it. As much as possible, we as teachers should try to bring about such an encounter. While we are certainly not trying to convert anyone to any particular way of looking at the world, we are trying to facilitate the kind of encounter that can act as a catalyst to a deepening self-understanding -- one that stimulates sustained reflection and develops imagination, empathy and a greater awareness of human possibility.

I believe that the comparative study of religions can accomplish this task in a uniquely powerful way. A deep, honest encounter with an "other" can expose the "false fixities" of one's own way of living and thinking. It can call into question one's most deeply held assumptions and engender a type of intellectual and spiritual exploration that is the fount of true reflection.

The student may come to see that there exists a genuine plurality of human goods, a multiplicity of forms of human excellence (this is brought to light by studying the exemplars held up by the world's religious traditions, figures as varied as Sakyamuni, Confucius, Augustine and Maimonides).[19] Hopefully, we will also show that this is a bounded plurality; that not "anything goes," and that there are ways of thinking about better and worse-and truly unacceptable-lives. (In fact, it is hard to find a religious tradition that is truly relativistic in the crude sense.) This means that in addition to showing students different religious visions, we must also help them develop the necessary skills not only to appreciate them, but also to critique them. What we must aim for is not to have the students suspend judgments in the light of plurality, but rather to hone their ability to make better judgments.[20] But here, too, content matters, for studying the methods (in addition to the visions) of religious thinkers can make us better at ways of thinking most of us already, implicitly, employ (e.g. reading Aquinas) or can radically undermine certain forms of thinking and present powerful alternatives (e.g. reading Zhuangzi).

It is not necessarily the case that the student's view will be challenged by the religious view being studied, for many students have not yet developed any well thought-out picture of the self and the world. Many people's views on the most important issues are inchoate or unarticulated. One of the most important things the study of a religious tradition can do for students is simply to get them to articulate their beliefs about these issues. Just getting clear about what we think is a critical first step in the process of self-reflection. Confronting a challenging religious vision will force the student to ask him or herself, "What do I think about that?" Such an encounter makes students become articulate about what they believe, which often means discovering or developing a view on an important issue. For a student who has never thought through these issues, the encounter with a religious vision can show how thinkers organize their lives around certain ideals and principles which have a profound consequence for their lives. The study of religion will not only challenge those students that have a different worldview, but will make those that have no articulate, well thought-out position wonder what they might be missing without it.[21]

Confronting the "Other"

What attitude or disposition toward the ends that other religious traditions pursue should we aim to cultivate in our students? In order to truly see these ends as goods, the student must learn to see them as perfective of the human being, as capable of providing fulfillment and humanity to the individual and society. Given that different religious traditions often pursue radically different ends, the student will ultimately recognize that there is a plurality of human goods. How, though, can a reflective individual see an end under such a description (i.e. "perfective of the human being") --in other words gain a deep appreciation for the goods represented by a certain type of spiritual life -- and still decide not to pursue it? Lee Yearley offers an answer to this in the form of a uniquely modern religious virtue, that of spiritual regret.[22] One who cultivates this virtue recognizes a religious good, and to some extent feels the power of its pull, yet chooses not to move toward it or actualize it in his or her own life.

The modern sensibility that makes spiritual regret possible is the recognition that true human goods exist which may not be available to oneself, but which are still perfective of others qua human beings. It recognizes that we all unavoidably live partial lives, where the element of necessity, our facticity, moves us irrevocably in certain directions. Historical, cultural, ethnic, and other factors make some goods simply unreachable for us; they are not real options if we are to remain ourselves. At the same time, we recognize that our own culture and tradition makes certain goods available to us, and these are the ones we must pursue. At a certain point, we must commit to our own real possibilities and follow a path toward a good that is fulfilling of us as we are. We recognize that we have an identity, and that to move toward a good that is too "other" would fundamentally change who we are.

The attitude we take toward the goods we recognize but cannot possess, and thus will not move toward, is a complex one. On the one hand, there is a type of joy that lies behind spiritual regret, a celebration of the diversity of human possibilities that manifests itself in the plurality of human goods. This is accompanied by a feeling of sadness, for those who truly feel the existential pull of a profound human good must also feel the sense of loss when they recognize that it can never be theirs. The best that we can do is cultivate a deep appreciation for that good -- in effect to share in it by appreciation -- which is why imagination is such an important part of the process. The regret also comes from the realization that being human involves recognizing a finitude that ensures no individual can ever possess "the good" in its entirety; the most any of us can hope for is a movement toward our own good supplemented by a deep appreciation of the goods of others.

One will not remain unchanged by the encounter with the goods of others. When the range of human possibilities opens up for one, and when another good is recognized as possible for human fulfillment, one's own notion of what it is to be human is inevitably transformed. While one might continue to pursue one's own good, it will be done with a renewed sense of the partial nature of that good from the view of humanity; in fact, the nature of the good itself might change in the course of the encounter. The space opened up by spiritual regret is the locus for some of the most important forms of self-reflection.

Spiritual regret changes who one is because it involves a new choice, a choosing of oneself anew in light of options of which one was previously unaware of. Even if one chooses to reject it, or modify and incorporate some of it, one is still transformed. Living without spiritual regret is like walking down a trail never realizing there were crossroads. One who follows the same path but is aware of alternatives chooses her path and because of this leads a different kind of life, for she has a different self-understanding.

The Comparative Imperative

How do we help students cultivate this virtue? In teaching comparative religion, our imperative is to walk the fine line between the Scylla and Charybdis of domestication and exoticization. Each one provides an easy escape from the task of a true encounter. In the former, one concludes that the other good is, in reality, the same good as (or at least not in tension with) one's own. It is a denial of radical difference and incommensurable plurality, and in the end fails to see the richness and power of the other good. One tames a potential challenge to one's way of life by smoothing it out until it looks enough like one's own to avoid confrontation. In the latter, one keeps the good at a safe enough distance by carefully packaging and displaying it as a museum piece or tourist attraction rather than as a good that might potentially speak to one. It provides fuel for superficial cocktail party conversation which, in effect, sanitizes it for one's own spiritual protection. At best, one might see it as a good for humans qua Chinese, or qua Ancient Greeks, but certainly not qua human being. It is their good, it is fascinating and different, but it is not compelling to me.

Spiritual regret rejects both of these escapes by seeing the other as both radically different and a compelling human good. The domesticator convinces himself that he is not, in fact, failing to move toward that good. The exoticizer never considers the good as a possibility for himself, so he does not even get to the point of having to reject movement toward it. Those who take the radical other seriously fail to move toward that good only with the deepest sense of regret that choices must be made, and with the awareness that we all must live partial lives.

Teaching Methods

What I am advocating, then, is an approach which emphasizes the comparative study of religion as an existential encounter, in particular one that fosters reflection on life's most important questions, provides competing visions as candidate answers to those questions, and develops the intellectual capacities to critique them, adjudicate among them (or to know when disputes cannot be adjudicated) and make meaningful choices. I am also arguing that the study of religion is uniquely important because it alone poses these questions and offers these answers in such powerful, beautiful and compelling ways.[23]

This picture generates a number of specific approaches and positions in teaching, three of which I will briefly mention here. First, this suggests an approach that could be described as an "imaginative insider's vision". More and more, religious studies departments are being asked to justify their continued existence. The question is often, "Why should there be a separate religion department if religion is studied in numerous other departments, e.g. history, anthropology, psychology, literature, etc.?" While I believe there are a number of answers to this question (including the importance of the multi-disciplinary approach that religious studies scholars bring to their topic), one is the need to enter into a conversation with particular traditions from, as far as possible, the inside. We are not just studying, for example, what Buddhists did in Tang China, or what happened to Buddhism in Kamakura Japan, although these things are truly important. We should try to show our students why this vision has been so deeply compelling and profoundly moving for so many human beings in so many different cultures for over two millennia. A student should see how Nagarjuna, Wonhyo, or Shunryu Suzuki views the human condition, what type of life they feel is the highest form of human flourishing, what spiritual practices they recommend for transforming ourselves or realizing our true nature. Certainly, as noted above, we should provide the students skills with which to critique the visions they study (this seems to be what Smith is emphasizing)-- skills which