On Turning 56

A historian reflects on his final act

I turned 56 yesterday. It was a busy day. But in between the meetings, blogging, teaching, and writing of this essay, I had some time to reflect. I don’t know why I chose my 56th birthday to get so introspective (why not my 50th or 55th?), but when the spirit speaks, I listen.

At 56, I have experienced enough of life to think more fully about the triumphs and the failures, the wise decisions and the wrong turns. But I also realize that there is still plenty of time to do more—to add to a legacy, to fix the things that are broken, to make a change. I can still remember the dreams of my 36 year-old self. Some of them have come true. But I also resonate with Springsteen’s line from “The River”: “Is a dream a lie that don’t come true, or is it something worse?” 

I am also starting to imagine, for the first time in any serious way, what life might be like for my 76-year-old self. Where will we live? Who will take care of us in old age? Will we be financially secure enough so that we will not be a burden on our daughters?

Of course these kinds of birthday reflections often center on personal matters. Have I been a good husband? A good father? A good friend? A good Christian? Where have I failed? How can I do better? But they also revolve around the work I have been called to do in this world. How have I fulfilled my vocation as a teacher and writer of history? How will I continue to fulfill that vocation in the coming years?

At 56, I am stronger than ever in the classroom. I now bring thirty years of reading, study, and thinking to my students in a way that I was unable to do when I taught my first undergraduate history course at the College of Lake County in Grayslake, Illinois in the fall of 1992. I think my current students are getting a much better history education than the students in that first Western Civilization class.

Yet the older I get, the more the age gap between me and my students (and younger colleagues) becomes apparent. My classroom style remains pretty traditional. I lecture, rarely put students in small groups, have never felt entirely comfortable leading a discussion, am still unsure what people mean when they talk about “active learning,” do not understand much about what some of us call “the assessment regime,” know just enough about CANVAS to get by, and, apart from the pandemic quarantine of spring 2020, have never taught an online course. My kids say I am “old school.” I’m not sure they mean it as a compliment.

In terms of writing, I wonder if all those projects I once imagined will ever come to fruition. Will I ever get to do that spiritual biography of Bruce Springsteen? What about that survey of American Christianity? Will my history of the American Revolution in New Jersey book get done before the United States’ Semiquincentennial in 2026?

How should I use the time I devote to research and writing? Do I work on enduring pieces of scholarship that might have a long shelf life? Or do I spend my efforts, as I did in Believe Me, bringing historical reflection to bear on contemporary life? What about Current? Will we get enough support to keep it going? Is all the labor worth it? There is still plenty of time. There is so little time.

And, finally, where will I find a vocational home? I have invested the last two decades in one place. Messiah University has been good to me. I am still here because I believe in its mission. But, as is the case with any institution of higher learning, people leave, university priorities change, and 56-year olds get anxious. There is an old saying in academia that goes something like this: “You can love an institution, but an institution can’t love you back.” As I look back after twenty years, I can honestly say that Messiah has come as close as possible to loving me back. But at 56, I am acutely aware of the fact that my final act is now underway. Where is the best place to perform it? What will it look like? Will my way of improvement really lead home? Has my definition of home changed?

My Italian grandfather had a habit of ending conversations about the future by saying “Well, whatta ya gonna do? I guess you just gotta take it one day at a time.” I never thought it was a very profound statement, but after a long day of birthday reflections, it seems like sound advice as I head into the weekend.

John Fea is Executive Editor of Current.