River-Rat Reflections

Saturday, August 21, 2010

We have been busy this summer working at our business Carlton Gardens, now that I'm between books and waiting for page proofs to come in on Parade of Faith in the next couple of weeks. Last week we completed the Chapel by the Bridge. John built it; I stained and painted and did the fake stained glass windows. It actually looks much better in person than pictures. It is dedicated to the memory of John's two dearly departed wives: Ruth Ann and Myra Jean.

About Me

I am married to John Worst and have a son and granddaughter, Carlton and Kayla Tucker (now married to Ariel Sosa) as well as two step-daughters, Laura and Sarah and three more grand-kids, Mitch, Ashley and Zach. I did my doctoral degree in history and have written more than twenty books and have taught at colleges and seminaries for more than 30 years. John taught music at Calvin College for 35 years and holds a Ph.D. from the University of Michigan. Besides reading and folk-art painting, my favorite activities (with John) are hiking, biking and kayaking. Most of our days are spent at our shop, Carlton Gardens, which we refer to as a "hobby gone wild."

My Calvin Seminary Story

I began teaching at Calvin Theological Seminary in 2000--the first full-time woman professor in the school's 125-year history. In 2003, less than 3 months after Cornelius Plantinga, Jr. was installed as the new president, I was, without warning, removed from tenure track and given a terminal appointment. I have repeatedly asked that all the evidence be opened only to be blocked by a dishonest cover-up. When independent mediators were retained by the seminary board in 2005, they called for "retroactive pay to 2003" and my appointment as full professor. They also stated that the charges against me were inflammatory and should be removed from the record. That report was buried. I finished my second terminal appointment on August 31, 2006, and shortly thereafter published my story here.

A Provocative Poem

PEDESTALS

Thousands
cheer,
chant,
and clap
as one of their own
is proudly carried toward the
lofty pedestal.
The audience
urges him
up the stairway,
step by step,
higher and higher,
far above the masses
on the prominent platform.
The media is there
with lights,
cameras
and prime-time coverage.
Publishers huddle
around the base,
for they know
pedestal-people
sell well.
The crowds
on satellite hook-ups
hang on
every last word,
for he seems
so close to eternity.
Yet he feels
unsure,
unworthy,
afraid
and very alone . . .
But at that height
no one notices,
no one questions,
no one confronts.
And so,
in a split second,
the trap door swings,
the noose tightens,
the crowd gasps.
Undeterred, the mob moves on
to build more pedestals;
to encourage another
of their own
up the starlit steps.
But mostly
to wonder
why those
at the pinnacle
keep falling
from the heights.
© 1988 James N. Watkins