“I touch the future; I teach.”  -Christa McAuliffe 

When I was in high school, I felt that I was mistreated as a student. I was one of the kids on drugs, one of the ones who liked to cause trouble. I also adhered to what the media taught me about school being boring and my teachers being stuffy fools who needed to get a life. I saw school as a prison that held me back from experiencing life. As I matured, I found out the hard way that I was wrong. I had issues in my life that kept me from being mature enough to see the benefits of having an institution whose sole purpose was to offer me a foundation of knowledge that would help me succeed in life. Though school offered me many good opportunities, I couldn’t see past my negative experiences to reap the benefits. It wasn’t until later in life I learned to value a good, free education. This is at the essence of my heart as an educator. I hope to reach the students who are like I used to be, I hope to put some concrete meaning and purpose into their lives. I want to make my class a life experience rather than something students just have to wait through to get on with life. Unfortunately, that’s easier said then done.

School should be a life experience in itself, not just a training ground. There are many aspects of an effective classroom. Teachers should seek to know their subjects as thoroughly as possible. In order to motivate their students they should try to make their subjects relative to what students are interested in on their own time, and they should use every opportunity to show students how important the skills being taught are in life. Without taking away from learning, they should try to make it fun. How this will become manifested depends on the subject and the teacher’s own personality, but school does not have to be boring all the time. However, even if a teacher has come up with the most creatively fun and productive activities, it doesn’t mean anything if he can’t maintain a positive learning environment in which the students are willing to put in their own work and do the activities that aren’t always entertaining.

In my opinion, the most important step in creating an effective learning environment is to establish trust. There are many ways to do this, but first you have to become a person of integrity, to be consistent in your actions. A teacher who will make clear boundaries and stick to them will give their students a sense of security in knowing what consequences to expect from their actions whether positive or negative. However, there must be an awareness of the individual as well. A teacher must take into account the circumstances of every situation and try to be aware of when they need to be flexible. Each person is different, what works for one student might not work for another, it is important to find out what works best for the individual, especially in matters of discipline.

In most cases, if a teacher truly seeks to respect his/her students and see them as people, they will sense this. Just like everyone else, a teacher’s actions reveal his/her heart. However it is difficult for some kids to receive even a positive response from someone in authority, so it is important to become skillful in language that shows the students teachers are for them and want to see them succeed. The language that teachers use should always be in a loving and self-controlled manner that provides respect. Of course, once a teacher develops a rapport with students and gets to know them individually, he/she can often use humor or sarcasm to push them in the right direction. But this is only after a measure of trust has been established, and the teacher truly knows the student.

Teachers should also seek to show students that even the negative consequences of their actions are intended to push the student to learn to make positive choices which will result in an overall higher quality of life. I like the “Love and Logic” theory of discipline. “Love and Logic” doesn’t take away the students power of choice. In a time when adolescents are testing their boundaries and learning to become more autonomous, it is important to give them this sort of control over their lives. When students are given a choice in their actions and an understanding of the consequence students will learn they are responsible for their actions, and will pay the consequence, whether positive or negative, of the choice they make. It helps them to own their decisions and their consequences, both positive and negative. With guidance and direction from positive adults, students can learn to see the good results of their positive choices and eventually begin to develop higher self-esteem. A higher self-esteem will give students the confidence of an “I can” attitude. Once the child believes in him/herself, the hardest battle has been won. Again, easier said then done, but I have seen this principle work in real life from time to time.

Under no circumstances should a teacher ever put down a child or make them feel less intelligent, yet I also am against giving students praise for something they don’t deserve. This can be even more damaging in the long wrong. A child with a false sense of accomplishment can become discouraged and even devastated later in life to find out he/she doesn’t have the skills necessary to move ahead. It is important to keep it real with your students. Honesty with tactfulness and respect goes a long way. We need to meet our students where they are. If we give them positive encouragement and confidence in their abilities to gain the skills needed for success, then they can move up and progress at their own pace, seeing their growth and accomplishments in a substantial way.

Another way that can help teachers gain the trust of their students is to be available for them outside of the scheduled class time. I don’t mean teachers should hand out their phone number to students, and I don’t think teachers should be “friends” to their students in the sense of “buddies.” It is important to be a professional first and to draw the line if you sense a student getting too comfortable in their relationship with you, for reasons concerning the respect of authority, as well as possible legal ramifications. But a teacher should never be this unapproachable person that students are afraid of. Teachers should take an interest in their students’ personal lives; they should ask them how they are doing on a regular basis. It doesn’t take much for a teacher to show they care. Teachers should also let students see who they are as individuals. They should talk about themselves, their personal interests and how the weekend went. If students can see that teachers are real people too, they will be able to relate to them better. If teachers took the time to show students they really do care, students will tend to care back and work harder in class.

These have been just a few ways to show integrity to students. No person is perfect, even teachers, but trying to teach with integrity will go a long way in gaining the students’ respect. Being real, being someone who cares, and being someone who can be trusted is being a person who is respected. When teachers gain the respect of their students, behavior problems will be greatly minimized and students may get interested in learning just because they like the teacher. Of course there are many other factors that go into learning, but once there is a manageable classroom, there is more time and opportunity to present the material and teach the skills that students will need to move up and be successful in their lives, and there is greater opportunity to offer them a life experience to grow and become more than what they were before they entered the classroom.

Peter L Richardson
3/17/2003

http://www.loveandlogic.com/educators.html

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To think about Elizabeth Bishop, one is forced to think about geography. Her friend and fellow poet, Richard Wilbur, speaks of her, “When she looked in her poetry for ultimate answers, she generally expressed the search in the key of geography, of travel.” But Bishop did not content herself to looking for answers only in geography. She was free to look in other places as well. In her poems, “The Moose” and “The Fish,” Bishop has an encounter with the natural world. It is in these creatures that Elizabeth comes closest to discovering an “ultimate answer” for the struggles she bears in each particular poem. Though each poem is very different in structure and style, each has similar themes. In both, there is an interaction of some kind between man and the natural world. Bishop describes each creature with a sense of respect and honor. Each creature comes to represent something deeper than itself to her. Through each experience Bishop learns that there are things in life that are bigger than she, yet that doesn’t serve to diminish her worth, rather each experience helps her to grow.

“The Moose” was published a good twenty years after “The Fish.” However, there are manuscripts that indicate she began the poem much earlier. Also, knowing a bit about Bishop’s biography indicates that “The Moose” is probably about an experience Bishop had as a child, while “The Fish” can be assumed to be about an experience she had as an adult. For this reason, I’ll begin with exploring what was going on with young Elizabeth, as Bishop reflects on her encounter with “The Moose” and then move on to explore her encounter with “The Fish.”

“The Moose” is dedicated to Grace Bulmer Bowers, Bishop’s maternal aunt. When Bishop was a child her father passed away and her mother had to be institutionalized. She was sent to live with her maternal grandparents in Nova Scotia until her paternal grandparents intervened and took her to live back in Massachusetts, her father’s origins. On the surface, “The Moose“ is a narrative poem about a bus ride in which the passengers encounter one of nature’s creatures in the middle of the road; however, a closer reading reveals that the moose standing in the road blocking the vehicle‘s path becomes the representation of all that young Elizabeth holds dear. “The Moose” is a poem about leaving home. It is Bishop’s journey away from safety and away from security; away from the sacred.

The length of the poem resembles the length of the journey. We know by Bishop’s vivid description that in the beginning of the poem we are in her hometown in Nova Scotia along the Bay of Fundy. As the poem progresses, Bishop casually names the places in Canada where the bus stops to receive and let go of passengers. As night darkens, an older woman enters and we find that she, and presumably Bishop, will take the bus “all the way to Boston.” Finally after four pages of this five page poem the bus encounters a moose. The poem is broken up in to six-line stanzas, each line roughly about six meters. There is no set rhyme scheme; some stanzas have very regular end rhyme, while others have no rhyme at all, and still others have only one or two rhymes which may occur in various places. Yet the feel of the poem is not at all choppy, rather the poem itself has a physical feel of a bus ride, sometimes speeding up with regular rhyming, sometimes slowing down, while the steady meter keeps us moving along with Bishop.

From the start Bishop sets the tone of leaving home with her description of the bay. She imagines the bus riding through her hometown towards her house and past the bay that was so familiar to her. In the first stanza we see how “the bay leaves the sea…and takes the herring on long rides,” and later in the second stanza the bay is “not at home.” By the third stanza the bay becomes “a red sea” and Bishop begins to mix the imagery of home with the imagery of the sacred. She imagines the bus traveling towards her “past clapboard farmhouses / and neat, clapboard churches.” By the sixth stanza Bishop enters the bus and says goodbye to her family, her dog, her farm, her woods. In short: her home. She continues the mixing of the sacred and secular as “the fog…comes closing in…on the…lupins like apostles.”

Over the next few stanzas the imagery becomes very lonely. The landscape the bus passes by becomes “A pale flickering. Gone…” and later, “An iron bridge trembles…A dog gives one bark.” Until they enter the New Brunswick woods. Bishop hears “Grandparents’ voices…talking in Eternity.” They talk about misfortune and conclude that “’Life’s like that. We know it (also death).’” These grandparents remind Bishop of her own; they talk “the way they [Bishop’s maternal grandparents] talked.” They talked in “Eternity” where Bishop feels safe. Children exist in Eternity, they don’t think about anything but their current situation, their home is eternal, and their home is sacred. Bishop had already lost so much in her young life. She was probably very familiar with the “half groan, half acceptance / that means ‘Life’s like that…’” as loved ones took pity on her. And with thoughts of home she began to feel safe; “Now, it’s all right now / even to fall asleep.” But the bus “–Suddenly…stops with a jolt” and we finally meet the moose.

The image of the moose embodies everything Bishop feels that she is losing by leaving home. It comes out of “the impenetrable wood.” It comes from a place of mystery, a place that is eternal. It comes out of the natural world and confronts man as it “looms…in the middle of the road.” It is something that happens to the passive onlookers in the bus. Bishop describes the moose as “high as a church, / homely as a house / (or, safe as houses).” This moose becomes for Bishop her last connection to her childhood place of safety, the place that is “’Perfectly harmless…’” The place where the sacred and the secular are one, the place where home is an eternity. The moose is revealed to be “a she;” she becomes maternal, and yet she is still “otherworldly.” Bishop asks herself “why do we feel,” and she adds, “(we all feel) this sweet / sensation of joy?” The world of nature has a spiritual quality to it, “otherworldly,” and man’s encounter with a rarity of nature causes him to reflect on, perhaps even connect to, his sense of eternity. But the bus must move on, and Bishop is left with only a moment to look back upon her fading connection to home. The poem ends with Elizabeth being left with “a dim / smell of moose, an acrid / smell of gasoline.” The word “acrid” leaves a sense of overwhelming discomfort. As the moose represents Bishop’s home that she is leaving, the bus is the only image she has for the place she is going to. As the smell of home fades in the background, the “acrid smell” of her future overwhelms her. The poem ends with Bishop feeling overwhelming pain from leaving her home with her maternal grandparents.

In Bishop’s poem “The Fish” we once again have an incident of man’s interaction with a natural creature, only this time under very different circumstances, resulting in a different type of poem with different conclusions. This poem is a story of Bishop out fishing one day when she “caught a tremendous fish.” In “The Moose” the creature for whom the poem is titled doesn’t show up till the end, yet almost the whole of this poem is focused on her description of the fish she caught. This poem begins very much like a “fish story” in which the facts are exaggerated or simply not true. This is something common among fisherman and it suggests that Bishop may never have had an encounter with this fish, perhaps she simply dreamed him up one day while she was waiting for a bite. But whether or not he is real or imagined, what he represents for Bishop and what she comes to realize through him is a genuine experience of revelation and growth.

“The Fish” is a free verse poem with bits of alliteration scattered about. Bishop emphasizes important points in the poem by incorporating the use of repetition. The first of which is; “He didn’t fight. / He hadn’t fought at all.” Bishop is intruding into the fish’s world with her bait and hook. As the fish is caught, this time, he remains passive, he gives in to her. It is interesting to note that it was Bishop’s moose who walked out of his habitat and interrupted man’s world while the passengers on the bus remained passive onlookers. Here there is no “sweet sensation of joy” among a group of people, no feeling of the spiritual world mingling with the natural. This time it is only Bishop and the fish alone together. Yet as she looks upon this fish, she begins to describe him with a developing sense of respect and awe. In this poem Bishop is not being forced to leave the image of her home behind, rather she is in control. She holds the passive creature in her hands and begins to understand and relate to him in new ways.

At first Bishop begins to see the fish through her own terms and describes him in a familiar sense of home. She says “He hung a grunting weight, / battered and venerable / and homely.” She continues to use images that are like a home; “his brown skin hung in strips / like ancient wallpaper, / and its pattern of darker brown / was like wallpaper: / shapes like full-blown roses…the course white flesh / packed in like feathers.” Bishop continues to describe areas of the fish that would not be very pleasant to look at with the pleasant images of a home. Right in the middle of this type of analysis, she describes his gills; “–the frightening gills, / fresh and crisp with blood, / that can cut so badly–” She is trying to relate to the fish in terms she understands, in terms of a home, yet it is also as if she is saying that the home is not such an ideal place anymore. It is not as safe, perhaps, as a child may perceive it to be. The “frightening gills” are what a fish uses to breath, this fish is now drowning in air, and yet they “can cut so badly.” The need for a home is almost as great as the need to breathe, yet there are times a home can hurt you and make you bleed.

As Bishop looks “into his eyes” she begins to see the fish in a new way. The fish’s eyes “shifted a little, but not / to return [her] stare.” The fish is unresponsive to her. He is not intimidated by her; he is not concerned with her presence at all. He no longer seems as a passive victim; rather, he becomes patient, awaiting the next move. Bishop describes the fish’s eyes shifting as “more like the tipping / of an object toward the light.” The word “light” here could also carry the meaning of understanding. Bishop now begins to understand this fish on his own terms as she begins to describe him with masculine terms; she “admires his sullen face, / the mechanism of his jaw.” She begins to see him as a warrior; his lip, “if you could call it a lip,” becomes “grim, wet, and weaponlike.” The fish still has five hooks lodged into his mouth. All five hooks are still bearing the strings attached which the fish broke and snapped in previous struggles. We see that the fish is not so passive. That he has war wounds which he bears from past struggles to survive. To Bishop these hooks become “medals with their ribbons / frayed and wavering;” the fish is not only a warrior, he is a hero. He has survived the fight and shown himself worthy. She describes the strings as “a five-haired beard of wisdom / trailing from his aching jaw,” and the fish becomes an elder, an old wise man who commands respect and honor, who still feels an ache from his wounds. This fish, who has battled through life and survived, becomes the image of life itself to Bishop. We are not to be passive onlookers, waiting for our homes and spiritual peace to come to us; rather, we should be active partakers in life, gaining wisdom and understanding through our struggles as we bear the medals of each wound we survive. We cannot force life into a pattern that is safe for us, we must let life be what it may be, and learn to let go of what we cannot control.

At this revelation the poem dramatically moves from a concentrated focus on the fish to the larger picture. Bishop “stared and stared / and victory filled up / the little rented boat.” The victory is her new understanding of life she has received, or caught if you will, which is the dignity that the fish possesses. In “The Moose” the “acrid smell of gasoline” overwhelms the young Bishop; however, this time some spilled oil mixed in the bilge becomes a symbol of beauty as it makes a rainbow. The elderly “know it,” that “Life’s like that…(also death).” It is through our trials that we gain wisdom. The wounds we bear and survive, the pain that we face, ironically can add beauty to our life and dignity to our character. We need to find the wisdom to choose the right battles to fight and the wisdom to know when to let go with dignity. As Bishop expands her focus away from the fish, she continues to describe “the little rented boat,” and  Bishop’s revelation comes together as this free verse poem pulls together with the last four lines ending in rhyme:

     from the pool of bilge
     where oil had spread a rainbow
     around the rusted engine
     to the bailer rusted orange,
     the sun-cracked thwarts,
     the oarlocks on their strings,
     the gunnels–until everything
     was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
     And I let the fish go.

Bishop realizes that she can’t go back to making home a completely safe place anymore, that there are some parts of life that she must learn to accept on their own terms; she must learn their language. As she lets go of the fish, she lets go of her need for control and deep safety, and she is able to see the beauty of life despite its pain and struggle.

In each of these poems we see how an encounter with nature gave revelation to Elizabeth Bishop, and she was able to find answers to her heart‘s search. In “The Moose,” Bishop was a child taken by members of her father’s family from the home she knew and felt safe at. It is a testament to how sacred the home is to a child. Elizabeth shows through the imagery of this poem, through her image of the moose, how important it is to provide a place of safety and security to our children. Yet in “The Fish,” the adult Elizabeth comes to realize that life really isn’t a safe place, but neither is it an entirely bad place. As we grow up and learn from our mistakes, we find that we can embrace life for what it’s worth. We are able to gain wisdom and dignity through the trials we bear. When we accept life on its own terms, we learn when to take control and when to let go, and our eyes are free to open up and see the rainbows.

Peter L Richardson
20th Century Poets
October, 2003

The Moose
For Grace Bulmer Bowers

From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats’
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens’ feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn’t give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship’s port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
“A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston.”
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb’s wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
–not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents’ voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

“Yes . . .” that peculiar
affirmative. “Yes . . .”
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means “Life’s like that.
We know it (also death).”

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it’s all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
–Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus’s hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man’s voice assures us
“Perfectly harmless. . . .”

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
“Sure are big creatures.”
“It’s awful plain.”
“Look! It’s a she!”

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

“Curious creatures,”
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r’s.
“Look at that, would you.”
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there’s a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

Elizabeth Bishop

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
–the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly–
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
–It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
–if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels–until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Elizabeth Bishop

Bearing the Mark

February 1, 2011

“The most attractive Christian examples I’ve ever met are not nice people running through fields of daisies and throwing candy to children. These are real people held together by their belief in God. They do wonderful things and they do horrible things and they’re sorry when they do them.”  -John Schneider

“Markedness” in linguistic terms is the concept that certain words are more “marked” than others. Words and the objects, actions and concepts they represent fall into categories called “lexical fields.” These lexical fields hold words that are similar in meaning, such as the field of colors which holds red, blue, green, yellow, etc. These colors are all “marked” in that we know they are all a “color.” The more narrow and specific a concept matches its word, the more marked that word is said to be. For instance, within the color “red” exists an entirely new lexical field which contains pink, burgundy, violet-red, magenta, etc. These different fields build a hierarchy of “hyponyms;” specific terms which are subordinate to their more general, less marked terms. “Red” is a hyponym of “color” and “magenta” is a hyponym of “red,” wherein “magenta” is the most marked of all these terms, because the word is the most specific to the concept it represents. The more general a word meaning is, the less marked it is, the more universal it tends to be across cultures.

Every culture has the concept of colors, but some only have a concept of two different colors, black and white. So while the term “color” is the least marked of the lexical categories we have been talking about, it is the most universally used. “Red” happens to be the third most universal concept of colors, so red is more marked than black or white, but less marked than, say, blue or green, and magenta would be even more marked than all of these terms. This happens because different cultures and people groups have different needs for their languages. It is the same idea that Eskimos have so many words for snow, while we only have a few and some cultures closer to the equator may have none. The Eskimos have a need for more specific descriptions of the various types of snow.

This concept of “markedness” can be used further than the realm of linguistics. People mark themselves consistently throughout their lives as they express themselves in various ways. We are all human beings, but can be separated into categories of male and female. We also separate ourselves into different races and cultures; depending on where we were born, the depth of color of our skin, the language we use and many other ways. Within the different cultures we categorize ourselves by social status, the type of careers we choose and the kind of lifestyles we live. People are marked by what they look like, how they choose to dress, how they speak, where they work and every action they make. The truth is we are constantly observing and being observed and making judgments about one another all the time; this is human nature. So while my blue jeans, love for rock-n-roll, weakness for fast food and impatience may mark me as an American, my tendency to judge people is a less marked human universal.

The idea of markedness in our personal lives is an interesting concept. I have found myself move in and out of so many social groups, that I used to wonder if I had some kind of identity crisis. I have had people comment on my ability to blend from one group to another without much notice, but as I grow older and settle into a more stable personality, I can look back and see how certain stops on my path stuck with me and have marked me along the way. For instance, back in high school, I discovered the joy and wonder and the destruction of drugs. I had developed a love for the Doors and took on a hippie persona. I was a pretty nice guy underneath my exterior and a few people had figured this out, but I remember developing a friendship with a girl who was of a higher social class; she dressed well and was very stylish. I felt we were getting closer and I approached her about it. She replied that she really liked me and thought I was “hot,” but she just couldn’t go out with a “grit” because of her reputation. So, even though this person had a genuine attraction to me, she refused to respond to it, because she had marked me in a different social class then hers. Of course, my pride being hurt, I spent a few years after that marking females who were well dressed and stylish as “stuck-up.”

There are times we get marked by a group we belong to, but the general stereotypes don’t always apply to us. Not long after high school I became a Christian. I have had some ups and downs in my life, but through all the challenges and doubts I have always returned back to my faith. One thing I have learned to do over the years is to not be as openly zealous about my faith as when I first submitted to God. Not because I am ashamed of it, although perhaps being ashamed of the actions of some who call themselves Christians might be a part of it; however, I have learned that when I express to people I am a Christian early in a relationship, they already have judgments and expectations against me that aren’t always the case. One thing I can’t stand is for someone to act differently around me for fear of offending me or for fear of retribution. For my part, I have my convictions on how I live life, but I don’t wish to place them on anyone if they have not made a free and open choice. I would rather people in my life to be real with me from the beginning. I don’t hide my faith, but when I am more subtle about it, I have found people can discover who I am without judgment and we can be open and honest with each other in all the good and ugly parts we possess. On a positive marking of my faith, I believe that the principles I try to live by do make me a more moral person, and people see that and question it, and that is usually how they learn that my faith is important to me, and often it becomes important to them. So I try to mark myself as a Christian by my lifestyle (which, I confess could use a lot of improvement) rather than by my words or my T-shirt, and I find that people respond to this better and are not afraid to be themselves around me.

The beauty of Jesus is that his mark is so broad it can be found on any person no matter their age, sex, race, social status, or culture. The Apostle Paul states, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). However, there are many who claim to bear the mark of Christ who do little more than put on a t-shirt or listen to Contemporary Christian Music. To these people the Church is equivalent to a social club. In the Old Testament, the Lord consistently rebuked the Jews for being more concerned with outward appearances then with really changing their hearts. God made a covenant with Abraham, the father of the Jews, through circumcision to show that he and his descendants would serve the Lord (Genesis 17), but God would often tell his “chosen people” to “circumcise your hearts” (Deuteronomy 30:6, 10:17, Jeremiah 4:4, etc). He tells them their outward appearance or cultural background (the Jewish Law given by God) cannot save them, each person must serve God with the whole heart. There are many in the world who are wasting away because many of us who claim to be in the Church place exterior or general marks of Christianity on ourselves, but when the “hyponyms” of the faith are observed, there is little to show the ever increasing specific marks of faith. Jesus tells us that we will be known by our fruit (Matthew 7:20). In other words, the world should recognize that we are followers of Jesus by our actions. As Christians, we all bear the mark of the Holy Spirit in our spirits. Paul later teaches us “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23). If there is no evidence of the mark of the Holy Spirit in a person’s life, it must be questioned (by both the individual and the observer) whether he truly has the mark of Christ. Of course, no one can be perfect, but if you truly serve God and follow Jesus, there should be a consistent growth in the quality of your character. Christianity has nothing to do with what you look like, what your social status is, or what your taste in music is. Jesus simply tells us that the world will know us by our love for each other (John 13:34-35). What is the mark that you bear to the world?

Peter L Richardson
December 2003 / revised January 2010