Month / January 2024

by nflanagan

The Mental Energy of Teaching

Interesting tweet from @EdFuller_PSU:

The one thing non-teachers simply do not and cannot grasp is how MENTALLY EXHAUSTING IT IS TO TEACH ALL DAY. There are very, very few jobs that require the constant mental attention that teaching does. I’d love to see all the people criticizing teachers to teach for a week. (Caps are Fuller’s.)

There are over 750 responses, running about 30 to one some form of confirmation, most of which are from teachers or parents. The odd pushback (i.e., @Angrydocsx: Surgery, nursing, working on an oil rig, construction, being a lineman, etc… Teachers are great but get over yourself.) are either from people who feel their jobs are equally taxing, or your garden-variety anti-teacher/anti-union/you-suck-so-shut-up tweets.

Side note: I think surgery and nursing are also incredibly demanding and find @Angrydoc’s immediate shift to oil rigs and linemen in cherry pickers—dangerous, outdoor male-dominated jobs—telling.

Fuller (who, not coincidentally, was a HS teacher before moving into higher education) puts his finger on the thing that makes teaching exhausting—you’re on all the time, making decisions on the fly and—if you’re doing the job right—taking sincere responsibility for teaching…something, to students who may not particularly want to be taught.

He did not say teaching was the most mentally exhausting job in the world—there are others where you can’t take a break or turn your back—only that the need to constantly pay attention and adapt were factors that many folks did not perceive, when they thought about teaching. A number of the tweeted responses, in fact, were from people who thought they’d give teaching a try, but concluded that it wasn’t the job they thought it would be.

Larry Cuban recently compared teachers’ decision-making to playing jazz and rebounding in basketball—two complex skills that depend on prior learning and practice for automaticity. He includes two footnotes about the number of decisions teachers typically make:

*Researchers Hilda Borko and Richard Shavelson summarized studies that reported .7 decisions per minute during interactive teaching.

*Researcher Philip Jackson said that elementary teachers have 200 to 300 exchanges with students every hour (between 1200-1500 a day), most of which are unplanned and unpredictable calling for teacher decisions, if not judgments.

Cuban notes that those studies are older, and invites readers to share any newer research—but those figures ring absolutely true to me. Interactions, decisions, re-direction, pop-up questions, wait time, modeling, judgments. On and on and on. Teaching is all about an on-your-feet response to whatever crops up. It’s the essence of unpredictability, and every day is exhausting.

What Fuller’s tweet and the plethora of responses clearly illustrates: There is no such thing as successful scripted teaching or “effective” fidelity to pre-constructed lessons. Also: the more you teach, if you’re paying attention, the more fluid the decision-making becomes, and the more tools in your mental (and emotional) tool bag. Experience matters. Perception matters. Judgment matters.

When I had been teaching for more than 25 years, I took a two-year sabbatical to work at a national education non-profit. There was an opportunity to pursue an alternate career in our contract language, but even though I knew I could return to teaching, I was certain that this new job was my off-ramp.

At first, it was great. I had my own cubicle, with a computer and a phone and–get this–a secretary. We took an hour for lunch, occasionally going out to a restaurant (and, also occasionally, having a glass of wine). We could use the bathroom as often as we liked. I could pop into someone else’s office and have a long chat about some issue that had arisen. I could leave early to go to the dentist. We were doing a lot of conferences and workshops—on weekends, because our clients were educators—and if we were in another city for the weekend, we didn’t return to work until Wednesday or Thursday: comp time!

I found the workload easy and the pace relaxed. I liked the people I worked with. But after the first year, I started thinking about going back to teaching. It took a long time to work through the reasons. Teaching offered less money, less prestige and way more what might be called mandatory time on task.

What I finally concluded was this: When I left the school building at night, and walked across the parking lot, I could describe the good I had done that day, things students had learned, progress made. I didn’t get that daily confirmation at the non-profit (which was much-admired). Lots of days were focused on strengthening the business end of the non-profit’s work. I didn’t get to hang out with kids, either.

I taught a lot of subjects and varied grade levels during my career, speaking of mental exhaustion. I taught large middle school and high school band classes (65+ students), and 7th grade math in the first year of a new, “connected” curriculum that the old math teachers loathed. I taught vocal and instrumental music in every grade from pre-K to 12. By far the most mentally challenging class I ever taught was general music to a group of 12 Pre-K children, mostly four years old, in my last year in the classroom.

These kiddos were all over the place, maturity-wise. My biggest challenge at first was getting them all to sit, not sprawl or run around, on the circular rug in my classroom. I had them for 50 minutes, twice a week (yup—too long, I know, but that’s the way the schedule was set up), so the first time they came to my room, I prepared a lesson plan with seven different activities, from listening to marching. Seven!

They ran through that plan in about 20 minutes. I remember thinking: I’m supposed to be good at this! I hope nobody makes an unscheduled visit to my room.

Although I got much better at teaching very young children, thanks to the generous suggestions of my colleagues, it was a mental attention marathon, day in and day out. Did they understand that word? Why aren’t his hands coming together when he claps? How much time is left? Wait— is she actually spitting?

When we speak of teacher professionalism, we think of content knowledge, instructional expertise, being a respected contributor to a school learning community. But a big part of professionalism is accepting responsibility for what happens in your worksite, for expending the continuous mental energy to create a successful and skilled practice.

The last word about the way the public sees teacher professionalism, from Jose Vilson:

Over the last few decades, pundits and policymakers have derided the professionalism of teachers because “accountability” or whatever. No matter how many degrees and certificates they get, how many years of experience they accumulate, or student commendations they collect, American society looks at teachers and says “Oh, that’s nice!” but also, “How do you do it? Couldn’t be me!” “You and your union make the job easy, right?” and my personal favorite, “I couldn’t stand me when I was a child. How does that work out with 30 of them?!” In other words, even though many people think only a special set of people can do the job, they also think anyone can do it.

by nflanagan

“My Research is Better than Your Research” Wars

When I retired from teaching (after 32+ years), I enrolled in a doctoral program in Education Policy. (Spoiler: I didn’t finish, although I completed the coursework.) In the first year, I took a required, doctoral-level course in Educational Research.

In every class, we read one to three pieces of research, then discussed the work’s validity and utility, usually in small, mixed groups. It was a big class, with two professors and candidates from all the doctoral programs in education—ed leadership, teacher education, administration, quantitative measurement and ed policy. Once people got over being intimidated, there was a lot of lively disagreement.

There were two HS math teachers in the class; both were enrolled in the graduate program in Administration—wannabe principals or superintendents. They brought in a paper they wrote for an earlier, masters-level class summarizing some action research they’d done in their school, using their own students, comparing two methods of teaching a particular concept.

The design was simple. They planned a unit, using two very different sets of learning activities and strategies (A and B) to be taught over the same amount of time. Each of them taught the A method to one class and the B method to another—four classes in all, two taught the A way and two the B way. All four classes were the same course (Geometry I) and the same general grade level. They gave the students identical pre- and post-tests, and recorded a lot of observed data.

There was a great deal of “teacher talk” in the summary of their results (i.e., factors that couldn’t be controlled—an often-disrupted last hour class, or a particularly talkative group—but also important variables like the kinds of questions students asked and misconceptions revealed in homework). Both teachers admitted that the research results surprised them—one method got significantly better post-test results and would be utilized in re-organizing the class for next year. They encouraged other teachers to do similar experiments.

These were experienced teachers, presenting what they found useful in a low-key research design. And the comments from their fellow students were brutal. For starters, the  teachers used the term ‘action research’ which set off the quantitative measurement folks, who called such work unsupportable, unreliable and worse.

There were questions about their sample pool, their “fidelity” in teaching methods, the fact that their numbers were small, and the results were not generalizable. Several people said that their findings were useless, and the work they did was not research. I was embarrassed for the teachers—many of the students in the course had never been teachers, and their criticisms were harsh and even arrogant.

At that point, I had read dozens of research reports, hundreds of pages filled with incomprehensible (to me) equations and complex theoretical frameworks. I had served as a research assistant doing data analysis on a multi-year grant designed to figure out which pre-packaged curriculum model yielded the best test results. I sat in endless policy seminars where researchers explicated wide-scale “gold standard” studies, wherein the only thing people found convincing were standardized test scores. Bringing up Daniel Koretz or Alfie Kohn or any of the other credible voices who found standardized testing data at least questionable would draw a sneer.

In our small groups, the prevailing opinion was that action research wasn’t really research, and the two teachers’ work was biased garbage. It was the first time I ever argued in my small group that a research study had validity and utility, at least to the researchers, and ought to be given consideration.

In the end, it came down to the fact that small, highly targeted research studies seldom got grants. And grants were the lifeblood of research (and notoriety of the good kind for universities and organizations that depend on grant funding). And we were there to learn how to do the kind of research that generated grants and recognition.

(For an excellent, easy-reading synopsis of “evidence-based” research, see this new piece from Peter Greene.)

I’ve never been a fan of Rick Hess’s RHSU Edu-Scholar Public Influence Rankings, speaking of long, convoluted equations. It’s because of these mashed-up “influence” rankings that people who aren’t educators get spotlights (and money).

So I was surprised to see Hess proclaim that scholars aren’t studying the right research questions:

There are heated debates around gender, race, and politicized curricula. These tend to turn on a crucial empirical claim: Right-wingers insist that classrooms are rife with progressive politicking and left-wingers that such claims are nonsense. Who’s correct? We don’t know, and there’s no research to help sort fact from fiction. Again, I get the challenges. Obtaining access to schools for this kind of research is really difficult, and actually conducting it is even more daunting. Absent such information, though, the debate roars dumbly on, with all parties sure they’re right.

I could tell similar tales about reading instruction, school discipline, chronic absenteeism, and much more. In each case, policymakers or district leaders have repeatedly told me that researchers just aren’t providing them with much that’s helpful. Many in the research community are prone to lament that policymakers and practitioners don’t heed their expertise. But I’ve found that those in and around K–12 schools are hungry for practical insight into what’s actually happening and what to do about it. In other words, there’s a hearty appetite for wisdom, descriptive data, and applied knowledge.

The problem? That’s not the path to success in education research today. The academy tends to reward esoteric econometrics and critical-theory jeremiads. 

Bingo. Esoteric econometrics get grants.

Simple theoretical questions—like “which method produces greater student understanding of decomposing geometric shapes?”—have limited utility. They’re not sexy, and don’t get funding. Maybe what we need to do is stop ranking the most influential researchers in the country, and teach educators how to run small, valid and reliable studies to address important questions in their own practice, and to think more about the theoretical frameworks underlying their work in the classroom.

As Jose Vilson recently wrote:

Teachers ought to name what theories mobilize their work into practice, because more of the world needs to hear what goes into teaching. Treating teachers as automatons easily replaced by artificial intelligence belies the heart of the work. The best teachers I know may not have the words right now to explain why they do what they do, but they most certainly have more clarity about their actions and how they move about the classroom.

In case you were wondering why I became a PhD dropout, it had to do with my dissertation proposal. I had theories and questions around teachers who wanted to lead but didn’t want to leave the classroom. I was in possession of a large survey database from over 2000 self-identified teacher leaders (and permission to use the data).

None of the professors in Ed Policy thought this dissertation was a useful idea, however. The data was qualitative, and as one well-respected professor said– “Ya gotta have numbers!” There were no esoteric econometrics involved—only what teachers said about their efforts to lead–say, doing some action research to inform their own instruction–being shut down.

And so it goes.

by nflanagan

The Twelve Best Books I Read in 2023

Last week, Emma Sarappo, in The Atlantic, cautioned against setting reading goals for 2024:
Quantifying my reading, whether by titles finished, pages read, or another metric, doesn’t capture the quality of my attention to each book. In 2024, that’s what I’m most concerned with, and logging, rating, and sharing on the social web might pull my focus away from the moment and back to my phone. 

Well. La-di-dah.

I’d be hard-pressed to describe the quality of my attention to the 112 (Oops! Quantifying!) books I read in 2023. I logged them all, wrote a paragraph or a sentence about each and rated them, one to five stars.  Is that enough quality attention?

I log the books I read mostly so that I don’t accidentally bring home previously read books with interchangeable names—thrillers and series, especially—and so I can remember the best stuff. Barack Obama names his favorite books, each year. Why shouldn’t I?

In my top dozen this year, five non-fiction and seven fiction titles.

I liked two of the non-fiction titles so much that I wrote separate blogs (click on book titles) outlining their excellence:

The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism (Tim Alberta)

The Teachers: A Year inside America’s Most Vulnerable Profession (Alexandra Robbins)

The other three:
Lady Justice: Women, the Law, and the Battle to Save America (Dahlia Lithwick). This book was a gift from a man who plays in my local flute ensemble, a retired lawyer who bought me a copy as a gift. The book is a fascinating review of amazing women who took the law into their own hands, often facing subtle and not-so-subtle discrimination. What makes the book outstanding, however, is Dahlia Lithwick’s semi-snarky, to-the-point prose.

The 1619 Project (Nikole Hannah-Jones) Actually, the NY Times Magazine collection of essays and commentary that frame the eventual book give the reader the rich essence of the multi-author big book. It took me a month to get through the whole volume, reading a chapter or two at a time. But the book deserves such contemplation. History is complicated, and always debatable, but what happened to Hannah-Jones after publishing the book is reprehensible.

Gender Queer: A Memoir (Maia Kobabe)I decided to read it because it was the book most often on lists of books—so MANY lists!—targeted for banning in schools and public libraries in 2023. What surprised me was how gentle, even tender, the book was, how sweet the drawings. Yeah—there is one drawing of sexual contact (which occurs between two consenting grad students) but my overwhelming impression was how incredibly helpful such a book, which reflects kindness and caring in interpersonal relationships, might be to a confused teenager. Also: props to this Massachusetts teacher.

Seven Fictional titles:

Tom Lake (Ann Patchett) Best book I read this year. I have recommended it to many friends, and lots of them have had lukewarm reactions, but the novel hit my sweet spot. Not only is it set, mostly, in the Grand Traverse region of Michigan, where I live, much of the action takes place during the pandemic. Nobody writes with the humor and humanity Ann Patchett infuses into her novels. I loved this book.

All the Sinners Bleed (S.A. Cosby) I’m with Barack Obama on this one. It’s a great read, as a crime thriller, but the uneasy racism and ‘Merica values that infuse the writing make it special.

The River We Remember (William Kent Krueger) I’m a fan of Krueger’s Cork O’Connor series, but I especially love his standalones, beginning with Ordinary Grace. “River” traces a crime through the eyes of a law enforcement officer still suffering from what we’d now call PTSD, after World War II, and the elderly female lawyer who helps him prosecute the guilty. Krueger is a master at creating memorable, complex characters and turning ordinary stories into reflections on human nature.

My best friend gave me a copy of The World Played Chess (Robert Dugoni), a beautifully layered book that looks at the long-term damage done to men who served in the Vietnam war. The novel’s structure, following a narrator from his teenage years, when comments on the war were vastly different from the way we perceive the conflict now is beautifully structured. This was the first Dugoni novel I’d read, and it sent me off to read more of his work.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow ,and Tomorrow (Gabrielle Zevin) I am totally not the audience for this book about the development of video games. I’ve written a lot about how I think technology is oversold. I have zero interest in the gaming culture. But I loved it. I can’t really say why.

The Displacements (Bruce Holsinger) I read Holsinger’s The Gifted School and liked it, but this novel is the ultimate dystopian fiction around a Category Six hurricane hitting Florida’s wealthiest coastal residents. Utterly believable, occasionally funny and scary as hell, the book somehow ends up being heart-warming.

Small Mercies (Dennis Lehane) Lehane, whose work is always good and always dark, says this may be his last novel. If so, it’s a barn-burner, centered around tough-broad Mary Pat Fennessey, and set in 1974, during the Boston school busing protests. Lehane spares nobody in this book—the dialogue is brutally authentic, and it’s hard to find a character to root for, at first. In the end, the book will break your heart.

by nflanagan

Where Were You in the Blizzard of ’78?

From The Gander Newsroom: The story of the Great Blizzard begins in late January 1978, during a winter that had already been fiercely frigid. The closing days of January saw snow falling in the Great Lakes Region on Tuesday, Jan. 24. Just as soon as that snow system was wrapping up Tuesday evening, the National Weather Service issued a Special Weather Statement: “Another Winter Storm Threatens Lower Michigan.”

As the Detroit Free Press reports, what would turn out to become the massive winter storm the Great Lakes Region would see in the coming days resulted from two different weather fronts in the US: single-digit temperatures coming from the north and moisture climbing from the south.

On Thursday morning of Jan. 26, the NWS’ Ann Arbor office issued the following special weather statement: “A Great Storm is Upon Michigan.” As the heavy snow fell, strong winds created whiteout conditions across the state. Michigan became paralyzed as air and land travel came to a standstill.
NWS Ann Arbor Meteorologist in Charge C.R. Snider wrote the following in a summary of the event:

“The most extensive and very nearly the most severe blizzard in Michigan history raged throughout Thursday January 26, 1978 and into part of Friday January 27.

About 20 people died as a direct or indirect result of the storm, most due to heart attacks or traffic accidents. At least one person died of exposure in a stranded automobile. Many were hospitalized for exposure, mostly from homes that lost power and heat. About 100,000 cars were abandoned on Michigan highways, most of them in the southeast part of the state.”

Over the course of the storm, snowfalls across the state included 30 inches in Muskegon, 19.3 in Lansing, and 19.2 in Holland.

I was a young teacher, living in Ann Arbor, in January of 1978. The weather had been crummy all week, making my 30-mile commute to work (in a lightweight Toyota Corolla) dicey. On Wednesday afternoon, I white-knuckled my little car to my boyfriend’s farmhouse–a guy named Flanagan– on the north side of Ann Arbor, sliding into a snowbank in his driveway and killing the engine. The weather was bad and supposed to get worse. And boy, did it.

It was the only time in my life where I was truly snowbound, unable to get out or go anywhere, and unclear about when the dirt road might be plowed or whether my car would start again. On TV, it was The Blizzard of 78, all the time, with terrible pictures of wrecks on the freeway and stories of people freezing in their homes.

I remember it, however, as a gloriously fun, responsibility-free five or six days. We never lost power, so we were warm enough and safe and able to talk to people on the phone and pull random stuff out of cupboards and the freezer to eat. We watched movies on TV and listened to lots of great music and shlumped around wrapped in quilts and two pairs of socks. At night, however, as the winds howled around the old drafty house, it was possible to imagine living on the prairie a century ago, wondering if daybreak would bring an end to the storm. Or our lives.

It’s stormy here tonight, events cancelled, social media full of “grow up people, this is Michigan” scolding and warnings about charging your devices and keeping a flashlight handy. We’re going to get a foot of snow or more, all told. I have a sturdier house, a better car (with better tires), more food and the miracle of technology, should things go south.

Still– I’m nostalgic for those two in the farmhouse, under that quilt.

by nflanagan

Star Tech: The Next Generation of Record-Keeping

In her last year of a degree program in Justice Studies, my daughter took a course called “Surveillance in Society.” The readings and discussion were around intrusions into personal privacy and data made possible by technology. Dear Daughter and I had many amusing conversations about some of her assignments—“Are Bar Codes the Mark of the Beast? Discuss.”—which struck me as paranoid in the extreme. Her professor was obsessed with our imminent loss of civil liberty, always urging his undergrads to be suspicious of anyone asking for personal information, and, presumably, scanning the sky for black helicopters.

However—I have been thinking a lot about the use of technology to gather data and “streamline” normal school processes, like testing, attendance and grading, to present an image of a “21st century school.”  Here is a simple story about data collection and our belief that All Technology is Good.

In 1998, my district opened a new middle school, full of state-of-the-art technological systems. We were the envy of the other buildings, with fully networked software to handle all our data needs. We got some training and the big pitch—our new procedures would save time, paper and man-hours, give us more accurate data, impress parents with e-communications, yada yada,

Under Old Attendance procedures, every teacher took attendance once, at the same time every morning, recorded it in their grade/attendance book, and sent a student to the office, with an attendance form, printed on scrap paper from recycle bins. Secretaries recorded these on a master list, and handled absence data for students who came/left during the day. Teachers got a copy of the master list, to help confirm absences when students needed to make up work.

Under New, Improved Attendance procedures, every teacher had a computer, with separate attendance book and gradebook functions. Teachers were now required to take attendance every hour and enter absences and tardies on the computer within a five-minute window. We were not allowed to keep the attendance program open on our computer desktops (because our gradebooks, protected by the same password, might be accessed by devious students)—so we had to log in every hour.

Because this was 1998, the server’s horsepower was severely strained by 40 teachers logging in simultaneously, and it would take 30-60 seconds for the program to load. Teachers who forgot to take attendance within 5 minutes would be called by the office (where a secretary now sat, monitoring the data coming in every hour), disrupting teachers’ lessons. If someone had a missing assignment, you had to toggle between attendance and grade programs to discover whether the child had actually been absent.

A process that had taken two minutes of teacher-time daily suddenly began to take two minutes every hour. Best-case scenario, teachers would lose ten extra minutes of instructional time each day: 50 minutes/week, four class periods per month, 36 class periods per school year, or six full days of instructional time. Taking attendance.

Lest you think I’m being overdramatic (or are dying to tell me that faster computing and better software have eliminated problems and made attendance-taking an absolute joy)—I tell this story not to whine about record-keeping, but to question our automatic goal of “efficiency” and the uses and purposes of all K-12 tech-enhanced data collection.

The state requires daily absent/present data, and that to ferret out kids who aren’t actually attending school but were counted for funding purposes. A student who went AWOL would not necessarily be picked up any quicker under the new system, and most of our mid-day leavers were signed out to go to the orthodontist with their mom, anyway.

The new system made data-entry mistakes six times more likely and kept a secretary busy checking on students who were marked present one hour, but absent the other five due to teacher error. I had great sympathy for “careless” teachers who rushed through the attendance procedure to get started on, you know, teaching—only to be monitored and chastised later. I was one of them.

Nobody in the office could explain why or how, precisely, the new system was helping us do a better job of serving kids. The on-line gradebooks also came with unanticipated problems—teachers who didn’t post enough grades (remember when formative data included things that weren’t numbers?), the amount of time now required to deal with anxious parents, and so on.

The most obvious reason to question always-available online gradebooks is that responsibility for turning in work and monitoring a running performance record should belong to students, especially in secondary settings. We have always had periodic reporting to parents—four or six times a year, or in some cases, weekly progress reports. Any more than that elevates grades over actual learning and encourages students to let mom be in charge of their education.

Tech-based surveillance of students is now on steroids. In a thoughtful post entitled How Much Should I Track My Kid? Ann Helen Peterson says this:

My parents trusted me because I had earned their trust. Sometimes I stretched that trust, but I was constantly figuring out what felt too risky, what felt right or wrong, who I didn’t want to get in a car with. Maybe that sounds like a lot of discernment for a teen. But how else do we figure out who we are? My parents could’ve lectured me about “making good decisions” all they wanted; I only knew how to make them by finding myself in situations far from them where I had to.

The same principle applied to my grades, to my online use, to how I talked to boys and figured out friendships. In high school, I would see my exact grade around twice during the quarter, when a teacher would distribute printouts that included all graded assignments and your current percentage.

Schools pay attention to what they value. We collect data first, and decide how to manage it later, a pattern repeatedly endlessly in thousands of schools. We assume that everything can be done faster, cheaper and better through technology. Sometimes, the rationale runs backwards—we adopt the technology, and then invent reasons for why we need it.

by nflanagan

I’m Not That Kind of Christian

I was eager to read Tim Alberta’s new book: The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism. I follow Alberta’s magazine pieces, in the Atlantic and Politico, his appearances on cable and mainstream news and podcasts. I read his previous book, American Carnage: On the Front Lines of the Republican Civil War and the Rise of President Trump, and found it well-written but disappointing, an overly detailed defense of country-club Republicanism that missed the ugly underpinnings of how we ended up with President Donald Trump.

But—cutting to the chase—The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory is a fantastic book. Highly recommended, even though the burgeoning Christians-are-what’s-wrong-with-this-country crowd may be irritated by Alberta’s persistent, conservative choir-boy insistence that the church is a force for good.

I should mention here that I had a front row seat for the rise of the Cornerstone Evangelical Presbyterian juggernaut in Brighton, Michigan (nothing like your mainstream Presbyterian, btw). We moved to Livingston County around the same time as Richard Alberta, long-time pastor at Cornerstone and Tim Alberta’s father. When we were looking for a church, we heard repeatedly about the great things going on at Cornerstone, which was just a few miles down the road—the rapid growth of the congregation, the inspiring sermons, the youth group with 100 members. Pretty soon there would be a school, too—ultimately, there would be six major building expansions in 30 years.

One Christmas Eve, we decided to give Cornerstone a try. My son was three or four at the time and had zero capacity for quiet behavior in a strange place. When heads began turning, my husband took him out into the narthex. After the service, he was holding our coats and standing by the door. We’re not coming back here, he said.

Out in the car, he pulled a fistful of brochures and monographs out of his pocket, collected as he chased our son around the lobby area. Take a look, he said. There were predictable anti-abortion pieces—but also literature supporting capital punishment, and the usual Old Testament scourges against divorce, dark (Harry Potter) magic and homosexuality. We’re not exposing our kids to this, we agreed. We found another church.

But Cornerstone, which eventually grew to 2000 families, held a lot of power and influence in Brighton. Richard Alberta enjoyed stirring up local controversy—when a downtown coffee shop put a tiny rainbow sticker on its door, he wrote a letter to the newspaper, suggesting customers who were willing to order coffee in such a sinful place consider going to “Sodom and Gomorrah” (his too-clever name for Ann Arbor, 25 miles south), instead. The shop closed a few months later.

At Christmas time, when many churches collected gifts for needy families, he declared that there really was no excuse for being needy in well-off Livingston County. Instead, his church filled up a semi-truck with evangelical goods and household items and shipped them to Russia, to support struggling Christians there.

Alberta broke up the Brighton Ministerial Association because he refused to meet with a local gay minister. He brought in “security” specialists when my church, St. Paul’s Episcopal, called a Black rector, claiming that criminals “from Detroit” (code language) would now be getting off I-96 and endangering congregants in Brighton churches’ parking lots.

He went after my church, probably the most liberal mainstream congregation in town, repeatedly and viciously —in the newspaper and any other media outlets he could find, pre-social media. When a reporter at the local newspaper asked for an in-depth interview, he had a putting green set up in his office, and spent the interview nonchalantly practicing his short game, as she sat and took notes.

Many of my students attended Cornerstone and went on mission trips to save the unchurched of West Virginia or wherever. One of my band students’ father was an associate pastor at Cornerstone; at Parent-Teacher conferences, this pastor asked me to call the fees for his son’s upcoming band field trip a “donation” for tax purposes. He came with a typed-up statement for me to sign (I didn’t).

There’s much more, but you get the picture.

Tim Alberta’s book begins with the death of his father, in 2019, and his surprise at learning formerly dedicated congregants were leaving Cornerstone for more MAGA churches. Funeral attendees criticized Tim for his openly non-MAGA thinking (a well-deserved potshot at Rush Limbaugh). Followed up, of course, with the righteous assurance that they were praying for him to see the real truth.

My thought: The Buddhists were right about karma. You reap what you sow.

Which is, bottom line, where Tim Alberta is going in this book. He takes the reader through right-wing congregations, colleges and organizations around the country, a wide-ranging array of appalling examples of religious malfeasance. Mercedes Schneider posted some hot quotes from the book in her blog, if you want to get a sense of the flavor of his writing, and the practices he explores and condemns.

Alberta is careful to note that Trump was merely an accelerant, a permission-giver for bad behavior in the name of the Lord, not the root cause of what has happened to the Evangelicals. But he pulls back the curtain on some distinctly repellant, un-Christian conduct and people, both the globally famous and the local yahoos in Brighton.

He resists passing judgement on more inclusive, mainstream churches, although his conservative perspective is never hidden. He also has the scholarly and personal background to dissect theological and biblical questions raised by the commercialization and politicization of the spiritual. He writes with great confidence and clarity, relishing the opportunity to counter every lazy iteration of “Well, the Bible says…” He spends a half-dozen pages on abortion that are well worth reading.

I learned a great deal from the book. For starters, I began to understand where MAGA and its tribal beliefs and actions come from, how conservative Christians moved rightward—the triggers, the entitlements, the power-hoarding. This was personal for me, too, a look at how all the nice white kids from nice white families in my school district shifted their world-framing and let casual racism, sexism and xenophobia emerge.

It was also clear how the pandemic was a huge political trigger, dividing congregations that wished to protect their more vulnerable members from those who saw vaccines and restrictions as the state trying to control the church, and COVID deaths as God’s will.

Alberta ends the book with some signs of hope—the most convincing of which, ironically, come from women who have been sexually abused and actually fought back—Jennifer Lyell and Rachel Denhollander. Aside from Paula White, Trump’s hottie “spiritual advisor,” the main characters in this book’s framework are men. White men. When Alberta travels, as research, he visits men—genuine pastors, scoundrels posing as clergy, insufferable jerks, the egomaniacal, the greedy and the scheming. Women take a subordinate role in all of the churches and organizations. This is so obvious, in all 500 pages, that it feels like a blind spot. He thanks his wife for essentially raising their three boys in his absence, in the acknowledgements, but it feels like an afterthought, the cookies and coffee after the meat of an intelligent sermon.

Nonetheless, Alberta seems to have had a religious epiphany, taken a well-researched and critical look at what evangelical Christians have become, and bravely wrote about what he’s observed. When I read about mega-churches, pastors living in mansions and castigating their fellow citizens who believe differently, as the donations roll in, I always think “Not all Christians are like that.”

And, lo and behold, there’s a FB page for that: Not That Kind of Christian. There are think pieces—“We Were Wrong”– and bricks and mortar churches where the focus is on doing good and building community, not accruing political power. The traditional church may be fading, as it definitively has in Europe, but it isn’t dead yet.

I am certain that Tim Alberta holds out hope that we’re on the crest of a religious revival. In the meantime, he was harrowingly honest about what he saw. Everyone—believers and non-believers should read the book. Five stars.