Discipline and the Compassionate Teacher

“I’m not walking anymore!” My five-year-old student’s brown eyes looked up at me as he said this, feet planted on the sidewalk. The line of a dozen paired-up students came to a stop behind us. It was a warm September afternoon, and our kindergarten class was halfway back from the playground situated fifteen minutes from our school.

“Sweetheart, we’re not stopping here. We’re almost back to school, and your job right now is to continue walking without complaining.” His brow furrowed, and then, pulling his hand from my own, he sank down into a low squat with his seat just inches off the ground.

In the passing moment before addressing him, I glanced at the line of students watching us, aware that a resolution had to be quick and my authority had to be certain. It was not the first moment of struggle today for this boy, and I felt my frustration well up. I wished he could just let school life be easier. I was prepared to remind him of the expectations, along with the consequences if he refused.

I knelt beside him and, with my hands, gently lifted his face until his eyes met my own. In that moment, my frustration melted. “Are you tired, little one?” He nodded. “You know, I’m tired too. I think we could both use some encouragement. I have an idea. You must continue walking, and you must speak respectfully even when you’re tired; but while we’re walking, if I’m feeling tired, I’ll give your hand a squeeze to let you know. You can say four little words back: You can do it.” I said each of the four words distinctly, lifting a finger one at a time to represent each word. “To make it fun, instead of saying the words, you can squeeze my hand back four times, and I’ll know it’s a secret code: You. Can. Do. It. Four words, four squeezes. And if you feel tired, you let me know, and I’ll encourage you through secret code too.” He smiled and stood, took my hand, and was eager to be off.

The remainder of our walk back to school was not only free of complaining but it cultivated a warmth and affection between us. I had nurtured this boy’s trust that I would help him when he struggled and taught him the principle of encouraging another even when you are discouraged. With all the whispering-while-counting-hand-squeezing going on, the walk back was also just plain fun. Simply put, his defiance gave way to cheerful, quick obedience.

Since that afternoon on the sidewalk, my mind has often returned to that moment. My student needed to hear my voice and follow my instructions. There is no doubt that for the good of that class and the good of that boy’s heart, my authority needed to be clear and the fruit of obedience needed to be quick. But within the pale of right leadership, there is often a range of possibilities for how a teacher may use his or her authority.

In the initial moment, frustration took hold. I was simply going to declare what he was doing wrong and remind him of the consequences if he refused to obey. This approach would not have been wrong, and likely would have even brought about obedience. However, I know the deficiencies of my own heart, and I know my first instinct, driven by frustration, was lacking in a foundational virtue: compassion.

How many times do I follow the correct formula for training in discipline but fail to demonstrate the virtue of compassion?

Before considering the heart of the teacher, we must first affirm that there is no freedom without discipline and, in the Grammar years especially, regular training in the habit of obedience is necessary. Calm, well-ordered classrooms create readiness for engaged learning and joyful play. It is the teacher’s daily task to train students to listen, follow instructions, and submit to the teacher’s authority. The fruit of obedience leads to abundant life, and we accept this God-given authority to lead when we step into the role of a teacher.

However, once the necessity of discipline and the dangers of permissiveness are properly acknowledged, there are questions we should ask ourselves as we strive to become the teachers we ought to be: Am I a compassionate teacher? Does my discipline flow from a frustrated heart or a compassionate one? Do I see my students as whole, complex persons who will invariably struggle? Do I remember that training children in right behaviour is what I signed up for when I became a teacher? If my students were to narrate a day in my classroom, would they tell the story of a teacher who is frustrated with them or of one who delights in them? Do I sympathize with my students in their weakness? Do I lead my students the way my Teacher leads me?

In classical education, we often reflect on mimetic teaching and how, when it is implemented wisely, the student is not merely to imitate a lesson or a behaviour. Rather, on the deepest level, mimetic teaching is meant to cultivate virtue—an attitude of the heart.

We who teach are still being taught, and our Teacher, when we are weary, defiant, or unwilling to keep going, is One who has compassion for us. The struggle to do what is right may look different for adults than for children, but we have a Teacher who is gentle, who hears our cry, who stoops low and helps us. When He lifts our face and our eyes meet His, we see a Teacher who is neither harsh nor frustrated with us. Far from this, we see the heart of a Teacher who humbled Himself and sympathizes with us in our weakness.

Being a teacher is a holy calling. Sometimes we forget what a sacred task we have been given as we teach a little person made in God’s very image. Students are humans, and in a sinful, broken world, humans will inevitably struggle to do what is right at times. In these moments of struggle, may we discipline with a heart of compassion.