When we have learned how to do something well, in the world generally, we say it has become “second nature” to us. Many are the second natures that have taken up residence inside us, from the way Aunt Sally threads a needle to the way Uncle Elmer votes. It demands, finally, a thrust of our own imagination–a force, a new idea–to make sure that we do not merely copy, but inherit, and proceed from what we have learned.
Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook: A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry
Last Friday I attended a celebration of the life, work, and friendship of Stanley Hauerwas on the occasion of his retirement from Duke Divinity School. It was an extraordinary day of honoring a man whose extraordinary generosity has shaped the lives and vocations of so many. There were funny stories and moving tributes. There was beautiful worship and scholarly discourse. There were smiles and sighs and laughter and tears. There was much tenderness.
Stanley’s Texas twang has always invited mimicry (and there was plenty of that, too). But the real concern with imitating Stanley Hauerwas has long been that his larger-than-life persona and his staggering intellectual output would create clones rather than independent thinkers, copycat theologians instead of original scholars. (In my experience, this has worried Stanley’s critics more than it has concerned Stanley or his friends).
Stanley himself has never gone in much for originality. He has often said that the theologian’s task is not to be original but to be a faithful custodian of the tradition entrusted to the Church. Yet he’s also famous for lines like this one: “I don’t want you to think for yourselves, I want you to think like me.”
Who has not seen a young painter in a museum intently copying a Vermeer, or a Van Gogh, and believing himself on the way to learning something valuable? (Oliver).
As I took in the rich celebration of this charismatic, controversial man, I noticed that his students, colleagues, and friends revealed, again and again, that they had taken in the best of Stanley’s life and work–trying it all on, seeing what fit, what didn’t, what needed tailoring or tweaking or fine-tuning. They had studied him intently–attending to the contours of his art, the broad strokes and finer nuances of his craft.
And in the thrust of their own imaginations they did what the best imitators do: they bore witness. With honesty and straightforwardness they engaged their teacher. They described Stanley’s work better than Stanley often does. They praised him. They pushed back. They took risks.
But there is also this:
What most of us long to imitate in Stanley Hauerwas is, I think, his attentiveness to the people around him. It is Stanley the teacher who makes me want to be a teacher like him: passionate about texts and deeply interested in the well-being of students. I believe that Stanley loves his students.
Such talk, of course, in this age of assessment and learning outcomes, sounds ridiculous. But the art of teaching is an act of giving oneself away in love for the sake of what (and whom) one loves, without reservation or embarrassment. I have experienced this as Stanley’s student; I hope my students experience this in me.
And here, I think, is the difference Christ makes (the theme of the celebration last Friday): Stanley taught us, in his writing, in his teaching, in his being, that in the body of Christ we have time enough and all that we need to cultivate friendships, to practice patience and generosity, to pay attention to beauty, to teach students and to love them as Christ loves them. In this, it isn’t the imitation of Stanley that we aspire to, but imitatio Christi.
Still, Stanley has been our companion on the way, our teacher and our friend. Thanks be to God for such gifts.