Who We Are

The following is a sermon given by Dr. Hulsey on Sunday, May 20, ahead of the annual “Senior Shake.”

This past February I was attending a headmaster’s meeting in Durham and found myself sitting next to the former headmaster at Episcopal High School. Rob Hershey retired from Episcopal two years ago, so I know him well. In fact, his first teaching position out of Williams College was at Woodberry, so he knows Woodberry well. I had on my Woodberry tie and explained to him that I would be leaving the meeting early in order to fly to New York for an alumni gathering that evening. Those of us who know Mr. Hershey know that he is fiercely competitive and that he rarely gives an inch, especially when it comes to his passion for Episcopal and his eagerness to take it to the Tigers whenever he can. But when I mentioned our alumni, Rob nodded, and after a pause said, “You know, Byron, I love Episcopal, but there’s no doubt that the Woodberry alumni love your school more.”

Now it’s impossible to measure exactly the love, devotion, commitment, and passion that an alumni community has for its school, and I understand that I’m about as biased as I could ever be, but I can’t imagine any school in the nation that is loved like Woodberry is loved by its alumni. I feel it everywhere I go: It comes through clearly in alumni stories about the unpredictable twists and turns of life on dorm, memories down the hill of games played in the freezing cold, early morning Saturday classes with quizzes and tests that no one thought they deserved, the primordial belief in the power of the bonfire, and the drudgery of Saturday night demerit hall. I remember visiting with an alumnus, now in his 80s, who was caught smoking at Woodberry without permission. He recalls that his punishment was to run 100 miles, and he still loves the school — maybe he even loves it more because of that formative experience. I feel the endurance of that love every April when teary-eyed alumni come back on campus and pick up with their friends exactly where they left off, five, ten, twenty, and fifty years ago.

I often ruminate on why the Woodberry alumni love the school as much as we do. Now I take it as a given that not every alumnus had a supremely positive experience and certainly not every single alumnus loves or even likes the school. And I’m very well aware of the fact that not every one of you loves the school and that a few of you have even decided that you won’t return next year. I get that, and yet I’m still struck by how deeply committed and emotional so many Woodberry alumni are about the Tiger Nation. As we anticipate this year’s Senior Shake, I thought I’d offer a few reasons why I believe the school is so deeply loved, and some thoughts about the graduating class and the legacy you’re leaving those of us who will return next year.

It’s the culture that matters most. We’ve never wavered from our mission as an all-boys, all-boarding school. The clarity of that institutional identity, coupled with our location and the beauty of this campus, combine to create extraordinary friendships and relationships with teachers and coaches and mentors that last a lifetime. Because we are all-boys, and all-boarding, each one of you is equal here, in ways you’ve never been before and may never be again. You stand shoulder to shoulder with each other. As equals, everyone’s held to the same high standard. Here you learn together, laugh together, suffer together, win together, and lose together. Here, when we’re at our best, we are one. We come from many places and many backgrounds, now from all over the world. We have wide-ranging and varied passions and interests in academics, athletics, and the arts, but because we are all-boys and all-boarding, and because we buy into the same high standards, we are one single, unassailable band of Tiger brothers.

Last spring in The New York Times, columnist and social critic David Brooks distinguished between thick and thin institutions. The wider national culture increasingly favors the whimsical, selfish preferences of the individual over the sustained power of community. Consequently, national institutions have grown thinner over time. But we’ve thickened here, especially in comparison to what we see in the world beyond. Because there are so few places like Woodberry left in the world, our alumni are more closely bonded to the school than they’ve ever been. Mr. Brooks writes that “a thick institution is not one that people use instrumentally, to get a degree or earn a salary. A thick institution becomes part of a person’s identity and engages the whole person: head, hands, heart, and soul. Thick institutions have a physical location, often cramped (think C-dorm), where members meet face to face on a regular basis, like a dinner table or a packed gym or assembly hall.”

He goes on to write that “such institutions have a set of collective rituals — fasting or reciting or standing in formation. They have shared tasks, which often involve members closely watching one another, the way hockey teammates have to observe everybody on the ice. In such institutions people occasionally sleep overnight in the same retreat center or facility, so that everybody can see each other’s real self, before makeup and after dinner. Such organizations often tell and retell a sacred origin story about themselves. Many experienced a moment when they nearly failed, and they celebrate the heroes who pulled them from the brink. They incorporate music into daily life, because it is hard not to become bonded with someone you have sung and danced with.”

As social creatures who crave belonging, we feel emotionally about thick institutions like Woodberry. These kinds of communities seep into us and shape us. In a sense, thick institutions and strong communities tweak our social DNA, often for the good. One bedrock element of the school’s culture is our longstanding, unwavering commitment to seeking truth. The value that we’ve placed on the truth resonates with Woodberry alumni from every generation. Too many in the world beyond have a shaky allegiance to the truth. They pick and choose only the facts that support their view, or, even worse, they ignore the truth altogether and live in a made-up world that aligns with their preferences rather than the truth that binds a place like Woodberry together. In Paul’s second letter to Timothy we learn that these charlatans “will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths.”

The commitment to truth runs deeply through our academic lives here: Your science teachers demand that you generate, assemble, and communicate data to advance a hypothesis that you’ve posed; your math teachers often insist that you show the work that yielded an answer; history and English teachers require that you support your opinions with historical facts and references to the text. The truth matters here — it always has and it always will. Over time a boy learns here that the truth liberates him to be his best self, as opposed to being chained to a fake self in an unreal, fabricated, even dystopian world.

Truth, of course, is the essence of the student-run honor system, and it’s foundational to our common commitment to ourselves and each other that we’ll tell the truth, complete our own academic work, and respect what belongs to others. When we practice a reverence for the truth we present our best and most noble selves, and that standard has bonded generations of Woodberry alumni. We benefit here from a standard that we inherited, one that sends a message near and far that a Woodberry alumnus is a man of honor and integrity. Jameel Wilson’s father, Alfred, told me a story last year about closing a business deal. At the very end everything was stymied and progress had slowed to a crawl. Then the attorney from the other side, the father of an alumnus, called up and said, “Our sons are Woodberry boys. I know what you believe and we’re gonna get this deal done.” That’s the power of trust that comes from an unwavering devotion to the truth.

A commitment to the truth also demands that we understand that life at Woodberry is full of disappointment and even failure. If you’re going to be a Woodberry boy, you will be roughed up and bounced around, and it’s in these moments that you’re faced with an opportunity to grow through the disappointment to reach higher than you could have reached if you’d never failed in the first place. This year’s senior prefect captured it beautifully when he shared with me that “the only way to succeed is to become comfortable with failure.” If you’re devoted to the truth, you can’t run and you can’t hide.

Truth flows through our social relationships and our friendships at Woodberry, too. A sixth former shared with me earlier this winter that “you have to be yourself” if you’re going to make it here. In our community you can’t fake it and hope to escape the poking and prodding and occasional ridicule that comes with trying to be someone you’re not. I recently shared this observation with an alumnus from the class of 1985, and he said, “That’s exactly why I love Woodberry so much. You have to learn to stand up for who you are, and if you do, your classmates will love you forever.” The Woodberry experience offers each of us multiple avenues for self-discovery. The place has the power to reveal who we are, full of strengths and weaknesses, and–when we’re at our best–accepting of each other and full of hope that tomorrow each of us will be a little better than today.

129 years. 106 in this chapel. It’s obvious that we inherited the culture that we enjoy today. Woodberry’s culture is an extraordinary blessing, an underserved gift, one that has elevated my life, and I hope yours, too. Clearly we should be grateful. But God calls on us to be more than mere inheritors; we are creators, too. In our fleeting time, each one of us is faced with daily opportunities to restore and renew and revitalize Woodberry’s culture, just as each one of us can fritter those moments away and let the place grow stale and warped and ossified. In closing, I want to pay tribute to the class of 2018 and the legacy of brotherly camaraderie you have grafted onto the culture here.

More than any other class I’ve known, you’ve practiced what it means to take care of each other. By the way, not a single one of us is perfect in this regard. We all have regrets of missed opportunities to save a friend or advisee or student, but if the truth is told, you answered the call forthrightly and bravely. You’ve taken on the responsibility of reaching out to help one another. This has happened consistently, in ways both small and large, ways that are seen and unseen. It’s an element of the climate here and it matters. One sixth former compared Woodberry to his old school and said, “Here we pull for one another.” He didn’t get that at home. Perhaps even more to the point, it hasn’t always been that way here at Woodberry. But you’ve done your part to make this place better. You pull for one another, on stage, on the court, in the classroom, as peer tutors working with younger boys, and on dorm talking with a friend who needs the presence of your companionship.

Small actions mean more than you might think. It’s when older boys pair up with alumni and judge the physics fights for third formers on the last Sunday of the school year for seniors. It’s when a prefect or a defect or an old boy from home checks in on a boy who’s homesick just to lend a hand. It’s when the hulking Edward Solms picked up the decidedly smaller Daniel Vroon on the second Saturday in November and apologized for not winning the game in Daniel’s new boy year. It’s a cheerleading crew that is more uniformly positive and enthusiastic. It’s a senior class that organized two student-only assemblies this year, the first to address the problem of theft and to restore our community of trust, and the second to take responsibility for making healthy decisions and to rid our campus of nicotine and drugs.

Your legacy won’t be state championships or numbers of Walker Scholars. Along the way, like every class in Woodberry’s history, you’ve stumbled and been bloodied and fallen short. The crooked places have not all been made straight. But it’s been a privilege to watch you grow through the school and I want you to know that I’m grateful for the ways you’ve taken care of each other. When it comes to well-rounded excellence and meaningful contributions to your classmates and the younger boys, you’ve enriched our culture. 

Culture matters most, and at a place like Woodberry, culture often evolves slowly, even imperceptibly. But on occasion there is a group of leaders, some known and others unknown, who step up and step forward to make an enduring contribution. You’ve left those who will return next year an extraordinary opportunity to sustain what you started. Your legacy is a challenge for future classes to make Woodberry an even stronger school going forward, a place where every boy learns to work hard, build his character, and like the class of 2018, take care of each other.

Institutional Adaptability

The single guiding principle for Woodberry Forest should be wide-ranging and thoughtful answers to a meta-question: What do boys need for their future? Of course boys today need much of what we’ve always needed: discipline, rigor, high standards, decency, respect, and an overriding commitment to character and integrity above all.

And yet we know that the world has changed rapidly and irreversibly since the turn of the century with the consolidation of the Information Age and ubiquity of technology in every area of life. Simply put, boys need the timeless values and the structure of the Woodberry community to stay grounded in the midst of accelerating change; at the very same time, however, they need to hone skills like curiosity and adaptability if they’re to make the most of the opportunities that lie ahead.

Every boy who thrives at Woodberry has learned to adapt to the challenges of living on his own: he gets himself up in the morning and makes it to class on time; he takes responsibility for completing his work and fulfilling the expectations of his teachers and coaches; and he learns to live with a roommate and hallmates who may be very different than he is. This elemental form of adaptability is basic, yet it shouldn’t be overlooked. Thousands of Woodberry boys have graduated with confidence that they can achieve on their own when they make their way to college and beyond.

Athletics and the arts often emphasize the importance of adaptability. Winning teams make half-time adjustments in response to what they hadn’t anticipated. The boys on the winter climbing team model curiosity at the highest level. They’re problem solvers who fall from a climb, stand back, reassess, and then change their strategy to make it higher on the next attempt. The boys in this year’s winter musical are embracing adaptability. In “The Mystery of Edwin Drood,” a musical murder mystery based on Charles Dickens’ last novel, the ending changes each night, depending on the vote of the audience.

We’re becoming more adaptive in our academic curriculum as well. Engineering, an elective for sixth formers, is applied math and science that demands novel strategies for problem solving as boys create Halloween costumes for faculty children and build cardboard boats for a spring regatta in the Ruffin Natatorium. This is the third year that we’ve offered senior distinction projects for sixth formers. In their final marking period at the school, boys take on their own big projects like building a car, constructing a mandolin from scratch, or producing short movies on a common theme.

Finally, I’d like to salute the faculty who model adaptability, curiosity, and life-long learning for the boys. When we offer a new course in response to changing times, it makes a difference. When we coach a boy to see a problem through a different angle, we help him develop the cognitive musculature to take a risk he might not have taken. And when a boy is consumed with an audacious dream and we look for a solution, we change a life forever.

I’m thinking of Efose Oriaifo ’17, a young man who is legally blind and wanted to join the mountain biking team before he graduated. Nolan LaVoie got special permission from league authorities and the pair competed together on a two-man bike, with Coach LaVoie calling out turns while Efose helped pedal.  Like any thriving species, the Woodberry culture must evolve or be passed by. We know, and we celebrate, the myriad ways we stay rooted to tradition that generates meaning and, at the same time, we live into a future that demands adaptability both for the school and the boys.

A Moment to Remember

Not long ago I was walking through the beautiful William H. White, Jr. Library late on a Friday evening before the St. Christopher’s football game the following day. I came across a senior defensive back deeply immersed in a paper for his philosophy class. I was intrigued by his title: “What Is the Truth and How Do You Know?” We visited for several minutes and I walked away, reminded that the rhythm and routine of Woodberry matters in ways that help boys grow into young men, prepared for the challenges and opportunities of a changing world.

Boys have never needed Woodberry more than they do today, and Woodberry has never been more relevant to the world than it is today. This may sound like headmaster hyperbole, but let’s be honest: adolescent boys are engines of distractibility, and in a culture that celebrates the latest iteration of the iPhone, 24-7 gaming, and the latest social media app, boys are struggling to find their footing and make good choices. Biologists and brain researchers remind us that in these adolescent years the amygdala, which governs our desire for immediate gratification, our emotions, and our fight/flight/flee instincts, often overwhelms the prefrontal cortex, the portion of our brains that governs executive function and self-regulation.

I’m occasionally asked why would Woodberry remains one of the very few all boys and all boarding schools. The quick and easy answer is that we’ve always been so. But a better answer is that in an environment of swirling mass distraction, boys need to learn how to manage their affairs, make good choices, and hold themselves accountable. At Woodberry, we provide them with the environment and the support to establish healthy patterns for a successful life, exactly at the time when the plasticity of the brain is at one of its most formative peaks. For third and fourth formers, the structure of the schedule and our clear expectations help boys understand what they need to do in order to succeed. For fifth and sixth formers, we offer more freedom within the structure so that they can exercise increased independence, autonomy, and self-awareness.

The school’s first headmaster, J. Carter Walker, never talked about “executive function,” but he and his faculty, as well as succeeding generations of teachers and coaches, knew intuitively what boys need. Much of what we do here is designed to help a boy build the discipline to regulate himself and make good choices. He has to get himself out of bed and to class on time without the hounding of his mother. Seated meal three nights a week starts at exactly 6:15, not when you want to roll off the couch and peek in the fridge. Study hall is two hours a night, six nights a week. We’re one of the few places left where boys go to class on Saturday morning, even on the second Saturday of November before The Game against Episcopal High School.

In the zero tolerance, single sanction world of the Woodberry honor system, boys learn how regulate themselves by protecting their integrity when they don’t know an answer on a test. They have to respect what belongs to their classmates, even when they’re tempted to take it, and they are charged with telling the truth, even when they know they’ll be held accountable. Without the luxury of a second chance, Woodberry boys learn to make good choices every day when it comes to drugs and alcohol, a long-held school policy that builds the grooves of healthy decision-making. In short, just about everything we do helps a boy learn how to learn and how to take care of himself. Here he builds the neurological musculature of a better developed pre-frontal cortex, and here he learns to stay focused on the signal in a noisy world of increasing distraction.

The patterns we establish often stay with a boy for life. I remember a gathering in Charlotte when the parent of an alumnus referred to his friend Hooper Hardison ’79 and said, “I learned from Hooper that you’ll get ahead in life if you work every Saturday morning.” Hooper was quick to say, “I learned that at Woodberry.” Another alumnus told me that he goes to church every week with his family, not because he did when he was a boy at home, but because that’s what we do at Woodberry.

Graduating seniors tell me the same kinds of stories. In small group conversations every year, they tell me what they value most about the Woodberry experience. One of the prominent threads, coming from every sector of the class, is an enduring self-confidence in knowing how to make good decisions and manage time effectively. This kind of independence, established through the structure of the Woodberry experience and then exercised through a pattern of good decisions that a boy learns over time, is exactly what we mean when we say that in a world of extraordinary and mindless distraction, Woodberry has never mattered more.  And given the challenges we see, it’s clear to me that boys have never needed a Woodberry experience more than they do today.

Wrestling with Why

The following is a sermon given by Dr. Hulsey in St. Andrew’s Chapel on Sunday, May 21, ahead of the annual “Senior Shake.”

Deep in the winter of 1985, I was limping my way through John Reimers’ trimester course on the novel. I can’t say that I ever fully understood Mr. Reimers or his methods, but I did enjoy the class. Like those of you who have had his class or have it now, I knew that I was in the presence of a well-read, deeply interesting, sometimes frustrating, and occasionally mercurial man. I don’t remember many details, but I have never forgotten one encounter that I wish to share with you tonight. We were reading Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, and when we came to class one day, Mr. Reimers announced that we would have a quiz. We closed our books, took out some paper, and awaited his instructions. Nothing happened. And then he walked over to the board and wrote one question that we were to answer. “Why?” We moaned and groaned to no avail. He completely ignored our pleading inquiries about how we should answer the question. So we began to write. Many of my classmates wrote several paragraphs and learned later that they’d failed the quiz. I had no idea what Mr. Reimers wanted, so in a fit of frustration, I answered the question “why?” with “because,” and got a “C.” One boy in my class answered, “why not?” and earned an “A.”

At the time I chalked up this Woodberry memory of John Reimers to what I believed to be his arbitrary and capricious methods of instruction. But over the years I’ve come to understand that there was method to the madness—that John wanted us to understand that there are occasions in life when we will never be able to answer the question “why?” Please don’t misunderstand me. Your eagerness and willingness to ask “why?” and to search for the truth is essential to what it means to be an educated citizen in our democracy. Critical thinking is learning how to ask the right question at the right time and then building a case based on facts to solve a problem that needs to be addressed. Those who never ask “why?” typically follow the herd and fall short of their potential, but those who take time to ask put themselves in a position to lead and to serve in communities larger than we will ever be.

But there are undoubtedly times in life when we’ll never be able to answer the question “why?”, and “why not” comes about as close as we may ever get to the truth. Like many of you, I’ve wrestled with one question I’ll never be able to answer: “Why do bad things happen to good people?” Why are some children afflicted with a terrible illness when most of us are healthy? Why would God stand idly by and allow six million Jews to be killed in the concentration camps? Why are some born into privilege and comfort when others are born into miserable poverty and social chaos? Why do some die in an earthquake or tornado when others are spared? Why does a boy lose his father in the blink of an eye just four years after the death of his mother?

Such questions rattle us to the core and have theological, moral, and psychological implications for how we come to see the world and our place in the human community. As you wrestle with “why?” I want to offer one more story that’s personal to me. After my first semester in college, my parents bought me a car from a friend of a family friend in Dallas. I was back at UVa at the start of the second semester, so a friend of my dad’s drove a navy blue, two-door Honda Prelude to Nashville, where a fraternity brother and I met him one weekend in late January. After the hand-off we set out on the trek to Charlottesville on a cold Sunday night, and all felt right with the world. Near the town of Bristol, snow started to fall. It had not accumulated on the highway, so I felt like I could safely continue the trip back to UVa. Several miles later an 18-wheeler in front of me braked, and when I followed suit, I lost control of the car as we spun around the interstate on a sheet of black ice. The last thing I remember is seeing from the rearview mirror another 18-wheeler coming straight at us. I have no memory of the collision that ensued, but do have a vague recollection of the Tennessee state trooper who woke us up as he came upon the accident and drove us to the hospital to be checked. Fortunately my friend suffered only a sprained thumb. I thought I was fine, but it turns out that I’d fractured my skull (Jennifer, by the way, wonders occasionally if I’ve ever fully recovered!) and stayed for several days in the Bristol hospital before heading home to Texas to restore my health.

Several weeks later the insurance adjuster sent us a harrowing photograph of the two-door Honda Prelude after the accident. It was, for me, the single moment in my life that cemented my understanding of the world and my tiny place in it. The car was absolutely crushed. It’s almost unfathomable that anyone could have survived or not been maimed for life. I was tempted to believe that God had reached out and spared my friend and me in that moment of peril and that He had big plans for my life. But that view of God does not account for the undeserved suffering in the world, those who lose their lives in tornadoes and tsunamis, those who perish at the hands of evil tyrants, those who get sick when others are healthy. We’re left with that vexing question, “Why?”

“Why not?” may be about the best answer that we can offer in the wake of terrible loss and undeserved suffering. If we hold to the belief that God gives people what they deserve, we come to see ourselves as righteous if we’ve not yet been afflicted. But then we come to blame ourselves unfairly when tragedy strikes. Our God of love can quite quickly turn into a God of spite and vengeance, and that does not work for me. Instead, I have come to see life as an undeserved gift from God who created all and knows all but does not control all. After seeing that photograph of my pancaked Honda Prelude and putting that single moment in the context of the suffering in the world, I know there’s no good reason for me to have been spared while others perish.

Even though “Why?” is a good question to ask, I hope that we don’t stop with “Why not?” as an answer. It can, after all, be a little too blasé, a little too indifferent, a little too uncaring and fatalistic. In the face of suffering, I hope you’ll be brave enough and courageous enough to ask deeper and more penetrating questions, like “Given what has happened, what am I called to do?” or as the Jewish Rabbi Harold Kushner writes in his book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, “Now that this has happened to me, what am I going to do about it?” Kushner makes clear that “the God I believe in does not send us the problem.” Instead, through prayer, “He gives us the strength to cope with the problem.” You will get the answers through your faith, through careful conversation with your conscience, through your best relationships, and through, I hope, the foundational beliefs that you’ve learned here at Woodberry.

Many, like the Old Testament’s Job and the Apostle Paul from tonight’s readings, find solace and strength and bravery in prayer. Paul understands suffering to be an opportunity to build endurance which yields character and finally hope for troubled times. Those who have suffered and lean into their suffering seem hard-wired to serve their fellow man, much like we call on you here to take care of each other. A man I’ve long admired is the deceased Austrian psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, who survived three years in Jewish concentration camps in World War II and then wrote Man’s Search for Meaning in 1946. Frankl had every reason to be bitter and resentful. His wife, parents, and brother all died in the camps, and yet he somehow rose above the evil depravity he’d witnessed and found meaning and actually freedom through the experience. In the face of the cruel capriciousness of his captors, Frankl looked inward to his moral being and outward to his fellow inmates for the strength he needed to survive and prove worthy of his suffering.

Frankl came to understand that “the salvation of man is through love and in love.” Frankl had been separated from his wife and family and knew he’d likely never see them again, but that brutal fact did not erase the power of love that sustained him. He reminds me that nothing can take away the love we have for our family and friends and for our Woodberry brothers. It was also in the camps that Frankl embraced the freedom of his existence. The ideal of freedom and the reality of a concentration camp seem like a woefully misaligned paradox, and I understand that many of you feel far from free at Woodberry with study hall on Friday nights, classes on Saturday, demerit hall on Saturday night, the many rules in the Blue Book, and our high standards for your behavior that run counter to the ways of the world. I’m reminded of the former board chair, Sion Boney, who said jokingly many years ago when a family friend visited our campus for the first time and compared it to a country club that Woodberry might be better understood as a “country club run by Nazis.”

Freedom in the midst of a concentration camp or freedom and Woodberry Forest don’t make sense on the surface. But listen carefully to what Frankl means, and listen for the ways his message connects to our charge that you take care of each other and wade bravely into the suffering rather than stand idly by. “We who lived in concentration camps,” Frankl wrote, “can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s way.”

Choice is the essence of freedom, and while there is much in life that we cannot control, times in life that leave us reeling with no way to answer “why,” each of us has the freedom to make a choice about how we handle the unexpected twists and turns that lie ahead. In the days and weeks and years to come, each of us should spend a little less time seeking success or happiness or searching for meaning. We should, instead, understand that success and happiness and meaning come from our moral beliefs, a dedication to noble causes greater than we will ever be, and to an unconditional commitment to relationships secured by a transcendent love that knows no bounds and sustains us through the best and worst of times. That’s what I hope you’ve gotten here from your teachers and your coaches and the best of your friends, and I hope that’s what you’ll take from here to make the world better as proud and humble alumni of Woodberry Forest.

One Band of Tiger Brothers

The following is a sermon given by Headmaster Byron Hulsey during the first chapel service of 2017.

My first teaching job after I graduated from the University of Virginia was at a co-ed boarding school in rural, southwest England. It was in many ways, the ideal first job: I learned more than I could have ever expected, I made some great friends, and I lived and traveled in a different part of the world that I came to love. Bryanston School was and is in many ways almost the polar opposite of Woodberry Forest: it is co-educational; there is not even a semblance of an honor system; it is unabashedly progressive; it even has a pub in the basement for seniors that is open four nights a week.

I remember many of my students like it was yesterday: Gracie Burnett, Liam Connelly, William Coleridge, Jon Curtis, and Ben Fogle come immediately to mind. One-on-one, these were great kids. Each was smart, funny, curious, and always interesting to be around. But together, they were a handful. They mocked my American accent mercilessly, they took advantage of the fact that I was new at the school and new to the profession, and they more than once showed a flagrant disregard for academic integrity. I remember many days during that first year, at the age of 23, when I was at wits’ end, totally frustrated, confused, and bewildered that my new school was so different than Woodberry Forest       or UVa.

In my ninth grade European history class we spent the entire winter term studying World War I: the causes of the war, the military history, the war at home, the propaganda machine designed to stoke the fires of hatred against the evil foe, and the struggle for peace once the conflict came to a bitter and inconclusive conclusion in 1918. Those of you in Mr. Tallman’s class remember the war in all of its devastating horror: 70 million combatants from around the world were mobilized; 9 million of those who fought eventually died in the war; an additional 7 million civilians lost their lives as a result of the fighting. It was a brutal and devastating stretch of years in European history, and as the first modern, total war in history, it marked the end of innocence for all who lived through it. As a young teacher and a history major, I found the material riveting, and I loved the opportunity to look at the war from every angle. My students—not so much. They were their characteristically distracted selves, rarely, if ever, focused on the task at hand.

We closed the term with a five-day trip scheduled by the department chair to the World War I battlefields in Belgium and France. The ferry ride over from Southampton to Calais was a near disaster, as our students raced crazily around the ship and seemed on the verge of getting into major trouble at every turn. We bussed over to a hotel in Belgium late the night we arrived so we could be at the site of the Battle of the Somme first thing the next morning.

Some of you may know the history of the Somme: it was the epitome of “modern” trench warfare, with little more than a few hundred yards separating the German and British lines. On the one fateful day that the British troops went “over the top” in what was supposed to be a surprise attack, German machine gunners mowed them down mercilessly, leaving nearly 60,000 Englishmen dead or wounded. In fact, England lost more men on that day alone than the United States lost in 10 years in Vietnam.

We’d read and studied the Somme carefully back at school, and still I didn’t expect it. When we stepped off the bus, you could have heard a pin drop. In the moment it felt ghostly in a poignant way, as if these boys and girls had been utterly transformed into the most respectful, quiet, thoughtful, and mature group you’d ever met. I learned that day that there is something in an English person’s DNA that makes the Somme, even though it’s across the English Channel and on the continent, a memorial in perpetuity to a point in time where innocence was lost and the British Empire changed forever. I learned something more important, too, about teaching and humanity. I’d been mistaken to think that I knew my students and that as a group they were likely to be a disappointment. I learned that even when we think we know someone else fully and completely, there’s often another layer at the core of a person’s true self that we’ll never know unless we’re paying attention and open to the wholeness that you get when we cast our critical assumptions aside and take time to be surprised, often for the better.

I’ve been thinking about the Somme a lot of late, especially as we make our way through the Christmas season beyond Epiphany and into the dead of winter. On the one hand, the Somme represents some of the worst in our flawed and fallen human nature: fought over several hundreds of yards of “no man’s land” between national armies who’d convinced themselves that the other was morally depraved and demonic, the human carnage and the financial wreckage were simply catastrophic for Europe. Even today we struggle to understand what caused the Great War. It seems petty and childish. Millions died. So much was lost, and so little was gained. And while we look at the Somme and shake our heads in bewilderment about the inanity of man and how foolish we often are, there’s another story, too.

Late on Christmas Eve in 1914 British Expeditionary Forces heard their German counterparts singing carols and patriotic songs, and they saw their trenches lined with lanterns and fig trees. The following day on Christmas morning the guns fell silent, and British and German soldiers climbed out of their trenches and met in no-man’s land, exchanged gifts, took photographs, and played informal games of what we call soccer and they call football. They were, for that fleeting moment united and connected and made whole by a common belief in the gift of the Christ child for a fallen and broken world.

Tragically the truce did not last, and the war raged on. But here, in that one moment, we have the second competing image of how we might live our lives. On the one hand we fall prey to the natural temptation to see a dualistic, binary world of “us versus them”—angels and demons. That’s a zero-sum game of winners and losers that divides us from one another and even from ourselves. It’s a man-made and socially constructed narrative as old as humanity, and it pours forth in the Bible in the Cain and Abel story and all through human history in wars and conflicts that emphasize how we’re different and better, more pure and more righteous. Of course the other side sees itself in exactly the same way and the conflicts–personal, within a family or community, within a nation and between nations–rage on. The truth becomes elusive, trust evaporates; fear, suspicion and doubt fester. We see it today in the bitterly divided United States: red versus blue; Republicans and Democrats; gay and straight; conservatives and liberals; men and women; rich and poor; Fox News and MSNBC; the educated coastal elites at odds with the nation’s heartland; rural versus urban; police and Black Lives Matter demonstrators. The list goes on and on, and the identity politics and the slicing and dicing of the electorate we know so well threatens to tear our national community apart and leave us ever more certain that we are right, and the other side is wrong, that we are patriots and the other side are traitors to the cause.

And like any such nation, community, or family, we’ve had some of division and difficulty at Woodberry, too. We are lesser than the sum of our many parts when we fall prey to the temptation to think of ourselves and others as parts of a whole rather than the whole itself. But the Christmas truce at the Somme reaches through time, and made even my rowdy students pause just long enough to see a second, more complete and unified vision of who we are and who we can be, whether it be individually, here at school, or in the nation and world. At Woodberry we’re better when we practice and celebrate all of what we do here, whether it’s an eclectic and spirited cast in Spamalot last winter, extraordinarily diverse chapel choir and musical ensembles singing and playing at the candlelight concert in December, boys taking on sports they’ve never tried, diving into an elective class they’d never considered, or working with Mr. Phillips with younger students as a peer tutor. It’s singing Amici in chapel, after The Game, or at commencement. These programmatic and scripted initiatives matter, but just like the Christmas truce, it’s the unplanned, impromptu times of togetherness that can matter even more. It’s when a table of fifth formers with boys from all over the world hangs out with each other on Tuesday night, long after they’ve finished their meal, just to enjoy each other’s company. It’s down-time on dorm that you might spend with someone you think you know, but really don’t. I’ll never forget two years ago when sixth former Averett Flory from Columbus, Georgia told me what he loved most about Woodberry is that one of his best friends came from Hong Kong that he’d visited there the past summer. “If I’d stayed home and never gone to Woodberry,” he told me, “there’s no way I’d ever have a friend from Hong Kong.”

Forging these kinds of connections and building these relationships across apparent divides requires empathy and leadership, but it results in a reservoir of trust that is in short supply in our nation today. In just eleven days we will celebrate the peaceful transfer of power as President Obama gives way to President Trump on January 20. We should never take for granted the peaceful transfer of power between two competitive parties in our democracy, and the pageantry and celebration matter for our national community. During President Obama’s Farewell Address tomorrow and during President Trump’s Inaugural Address next Friday, be watching for signs that they want the nation to be knit back together and that they will work to make it happen. Fortunately, they have models of leadership in American history to which to point: After the bitterly divisive election of 1800, Thomas Jefferson claimed in his inaugural, “We are all Federalists. We are all Republicans.” In his first inaugural before the Civil War, Lincoln called on the North and the South to remember that “we are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.” In his second inaugural, before the Civil War had even come to a close, Lincoln emphasized that he’d go forward with “malice toward none and charity for all.” Just weeks later when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, Grant asked Lee, “How many men do you have, and are they hungry?”

It’s one thing to be humble and magnanimous in victory, quite another to be gracious and charitable in defeat. And yet history can help us here, too. In 1992 Bill Clinton won the White House by overwhelming the incumbent, President George Bush. It was, for Bush, a bitter pill to swallow. Losing always is, especially when the stakes are so high and you’ve poured so much into a presidency that was rejected at the polls. And yet the elder George Bush has a vision of the country that is much bigger than us versus them or Republican versus Democrat or rural versus urban or rich versus poor. Just hours before the inauguration of his rival, President Bush went into the Oval Office one last time and wrote a letter to Mr. Clinton that he left in the desk. “I wish you great happiness here,” Mr. Bush wrote. “I never felt the loneliness some presidents have described. There will be very tough times, made even more difficult by criticism you may not think is fair. I’m not a very good one to give advice, but just don’t let the critics discourage you or push you off course. You will be our president when you read this note. I wish you well. I wish your family well. Your success is our country’s success. I am rooting hard for you. Good luck, George.”

I hope we see similar threads of unified connectivity for our nation from those who have won and lost in the days ahead. But we can’t wait for others to do what we need to for ourselves and our community here at Woodberry. At our best we are the way the world should be, a place of wholeness and oneness, a community bound together by high expectations, trust, respect, and brotherhood.

Scripture tells us that God wants us live in unity as one body, the whole so much more mighty and meaningful than the sum of the separate parts. Saint Paul urges the Ephesians to “be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all through all, and in all.” May we all take time to listen and reach out; let us make a point in this new calendar year to get to know someone we might have never known and take care of a brother who needs a helping hand in a moment of confusion, difficulty, or loneliness. Because at our best, and that means right now, we are one band of Tiger brothers, forever and ever. Amen.     

A Vision for Woodberry Forest

We’re coming to the close of one of my favorite times in the school year at Woodberry Forest—the three-week stint between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Cold nights signal the onset of winter and also generate majestic sunsets over the Blue Ridge Mountains as we make our way to seated dinner. Trimester exams are complete, and the start of any new academic term generates hope and breaks the fever of acute academic pressure. We’ve started the winter athletic season, and boys are excited about their new teams and the contests that lie ahead. And all of us look forward to a restorative break with friends and family as we part ways for Christmas and New Year’s.

The annual candlelight service of lessons and carols in St. Andrew’s Chapel is a highlight of the year, and always reminds me that here we are part of a community and culture so much larger than any of us on our own will ever be. It’s a natural time to take stock in the year, to acknowledge the challenges and difficulties, the twists and turns, and the enduring resonance of why Woodberry matters.

This past summer I re-read Simon Sinek’s book, Start with Why: How Great Leaders Inspire Everyone to Take Action. Sinek makes clear that most of us are more comfortable in the realm of what we do and how we do it, routinely losing sight of the bigger picture of why we do what we do in the first place. Sinek’s challenge is a clarion call to individuals, and also to institutions. I’ve often pondered Sinek’s challenge in the context of Woodberry Forest, the one community that means more to me than any other. Put simply, why does Woodberry exist? What is our purpose?

I’m an historian by training, and more often than not find comfort and solace and direction in the past. And when it comes to Woodberry Forest, there’s no better place to go than the school’s first headmaster, J. Carter Walker, who served for fifty-one years. Mr. Walker was very clear as to why Woodberry existed, and his words of wisdom inspire us today. In 1955, he looked out on the grandeur of the campus and wondered, “How is it possible that a school could begin without experience, without money, without any material resources, and acquire the plant it now has, and the reputation it has achieved during these years?” The answer, Mr. Walker understood, was the unbroken commitment to excellence that has shaped the school since the beginning: “Woodberry Forest,” he noted, “was founded upon two principles that are charged with force. From these principles there has been no deviation during the years that lie behind us, and I venture to say there will be none in the years to come. There are tremendously important principles: absolute intellectual thoroughness and moral integrity.”

Intellectual thoroughness and moral integrity are emblazoned on the plaque just to the left of the front door through the Walker Building, and these beliefs are the values by which we live as we construct our academic program and build character and integrity through the Honor System and residential life community. Mr. Walker went further, though, as he reckoned with the question: why? In one of his more inspirational and challenging statements, he noted that “We try to teach that education is training for service to others rather than success for one’s self; to give rather than to get; for sacrifice rather than gratification.” Most teachers and coaches I know are idealists at heart, and we pour ourselves into our students to make the world better through their lives after they leave the school. Mr. Walker knew this, and his charge remains our challenge today. When I scan the world beyond the school, I see communities that need better men of character who are willing, able, and committed to serve as leaders, learners, and citizens.

Presented to the board of trustees this past September, the current vision remains rooted in the school’s past and renews our dedication to graduate boys who understand that they must have a moral purpose larger than themselves. We also make clear, however, that we are evolving, too. We understand that to prepare boys for their future means that we must be more purposeful about developing their ability to adapt and to express the curiosity of life-long learning grounded in humility and poised to make the most of a world increasingly marked by accelerated and occasionally bewildering change.

No one knows what the future will hold. Uncertainty and anxiety seem more prevalent today than ever before. We do know, however, that in the midst of change, moral character will always prevail in the end. And we know that life-long learners who adapt to change will make the most of the opportunities that lie ahead. And so it’s with eagerness and anticipation that we present a vision for Woodberry Forest—true to our past and freshened by the opportunity and responsibility to play a transformative role in the lives of boys who’ve never needed Woodberry more than they do today.

Vision for Woodberry Forest

Since the school’s founding in 1889, Woodberry Forest has sought to develop young men of intellectual thoroughness and principled integrity equipped with the capacity and eagerness to serve as leaders, learners, and citizens. Consistent with the historical founding of the school on Christian principles, we aspire to instill in every boy a deep sense of empathy, an enduring self-confidence buttressed by genuine humility, and an enthusiastic pursuit of life-long learning marked by curiosity and adaptability. Above all, we aim for every boy to enjoy a meaningful life by nurturing his commitment to act upon moral beliefs and ethical values in service to others.

The Things You’ll Carry

 

The following entry is the Baccalaureate Sermon given on May 28, 2016 in St. Andrew’s Chapel by Headmaster Byron Hulsey to the graduating Woodberry Class of 2016 and their families. 

Your graduation day from Woodberry Forest. 126 classes have gone before you, but this is your day and your moment. May 28, 2016: you have planned for this, hungered for this, perhaps dreaded this or been excited for this. If you are at all like me, you find time to be one of the strangest, most befuddling forces in all of life. We can’t see it, but we sure do feel it. It goes too slow, and then it pours out way too quickly. I understand that Thompson Brock has had an app on his phone since his third form year that counted down the days to graduation. The only thing that surprises me about that is that it wasn’t Teddy Garner! Time creeps by, and then rushes forward way too fast. Most of us would like for this morning, these last few hours, to last a little longer, but time won’t stand still. For those of us on the faculty and for me as headmaster, today is bittersweet. I’ll miss your class, and I will miss each of you, even those chance encounters with the likes of Bo Sheridan on the steps on Anderson Hall. But if we get consumed with spending too much time reflecting on what was or was not, the good times and the challenging times, investing too much time worrying about what might happen or too much time hoping for what will never be, we will run the risk of missing the precious moments that make up our lives.

Even if we miss too many moments, the good news this morning is that Woodberry Forest is and will always be a constant force in our lives, one that has long stood the test of time, and will continue to remain a rock of continuity in a changing world that can leave us feeling bewildered and bemused. Here you learned the rigor and the discipline necessary to reach for a life of consequence and meaning. Here you developed friendships that will last you a lifetime, and here you established relationships with teachers and coaches that might well be the foundation for your future dreams and aspirations. And most importantly, here you grew in stature and character, more and more sure that a life of integrity and character, honor and purpose, will stand the test of time and set you apart from those without principles and beliefs.

I graduated from college long, long ago in 1990 and in that year Tim O’Brien published a novel based on his own experiences that he entitled The Things They Carried. It’s a book that may be familiar to you, and details the kaleidoscopic, nightmarish experiences of fighting in the jungles of Vietnam. O’Brien emphasizes the wide variety of provisions, supplies, and pieces of equipment that an infantryman carried while humping it in Southeast Asia: canteens, can openers, pocket knives, dog tags, mosquito repellent, cigarettes, packets of Kool-Aid, C-rations, toothbrushes, comic books, love letters from sweethearts at home, M-60s and M-16s, slingshots and brass knuckles, safety pins, razor blades, fingernail clippers and ponchos. One of O’Brien’s characters carried his girlfriend’s panty hose wrapped around his neck as a comforter. Other men carried bibles and diaries.

I’ve been thinking of all you’ve carried in your years at the school: laundry that you learned how to do on your own and hauled from Community Street to C-Dorm, backpacks, blue blazers, calculators, pens, pencils, scooters, hats, books, milkshakes from the Fir Tree, Beats and endless bags of Oreos if you’re Michael Davenport, laptops and, at least in the last two years, phones that beep and buzz, a strap from the Dick Gym, and, at least until this year, a tray in the Reynolds Family Dining Room, some of you carried demerits rather routinely, even the “Dirty Thirty,” others of you carried Arthur before bestowing him upon a group of fifth formers earlier this week. You’ve carried your fair share here, just as the legions of alumni who’ve gone before.

O’Brien’s image of the things they carried is far more than the merely physical. For him and for the men in Vietnam the things they carried are freighted with the emotional heaviness of vicious combat in a world far, far from home. They carried guilt and shame, love and redemption, fear and loathing, hope and despair. Above all they carried memories, and so it is for you, too. Here at Woodberry you’ve sacrificed much to be here. Through the rigor that is and always has been the Woodberry way, you’ve developed grit and persistence, patience and follow-through, care and commitment, honor and integrity, character and an enduring self-confidence buttressed by the knowledge that you have made it. Along the way, of course, each of you and the class as a whole, has endured loss and disappointment. You’ve seen friends come and go. You’ve struggled to understand how and why, you’ve had your doubts about this place and about yourselves. But time and time again, whenever there was a chance for this class to fray and splinter, you instead made the call to grow stronger, both individually and collectively, and for that indomitable spirit, I salute each of you, and I salute the class of 2016.

People and place shape us and generate the memories that bind us all together, but we are ultimately formed for the good we’re called to advance after we leave. I want to call on you to remain humble and hungry always, and I challenge you this morning to avoid a mistake that I’ve seen plague too many Woodberry alumni. It’s true that here we are one and in our Woodberry family we know what this place means and what it does to make boys into men and make good men even better. But don’t expect the rest of the world to care that you went to Woodberry Forest. I’ve seen too many alumni expect too much in life just because they graduated from Woodberry. I went to college with guys who occasionally acted as if they expected the Woodberry aura to matter to those on the outside far more than it does. Please, gentlemen, don’t make that same mistake. Know deep in your gut that the truths of this place will hold you in good stead for the rest of your lives, but, at the same time, avoid the temptation to project yourselves with hubris or arrogance on men and women who in the end just don’t care that much that you went to Woodberry. Instead, wear your experience here lightly on the outside. Be curious, inquisitive, tender-hearted, and open-minded on the path that lies ahead. Have confidence in your ability to reach beyond yourself, but always have something to prove, or else you’re settling for a life of mediocrity that falls short of your potential. Remember the counsel of Warren Buffett, who advises us all to “hang out with people who are better than you, and you cannot help but improve.” Stay rooted to the story of Jesus after the Transfiguration: be not afraid, and come down quietly from the mountain-top that has been this extraordinary experience without lording it in any way over those who just don’t know and just don’t care.

While I hope that you’ll wear your journey here lightly on the outside, I trust that you’ll allow the Woodberry experience to burrow deep inside you for the rest of your lives. On numerous occasions this spring I’ve been reminded that the place means so very much to so many Tiger faithful. At reunion weekend I met and visited with misty-eyed men who spoke emotionally about who they’d become here, what they learned here, how they suffered here, and how they came, far from the comfort of their homes, to embrace the responsibility and the opportunity to reach for a great life full of meaning and fulfillment. Just a couple of weeks ago at a Woodberry reception in Richmond, two non-alumni parents whose son graduated over ten years ago told me how hard it was for them to turn left out of the entrance and bid farewell to the campus one final time after commencement. And just two nights ago, as I wandered the campus and the senior dorms, I came upon groups of you just hanging out, soaking up the few remaining hours you have together. I came upon a fantastic, late-night game of poker in Griffin House, and the ease, comfort, and sheer bliss in the room captured for me the essence of brotherhood that is at the core of who we are.

Not long ago I was visiting with a headmaster friend of mine from a Catholic boys’ school outside of Boston. He mentioned that one of his early board chairs believed that there is a dynamic and interactive relationship between the ethical, social, and spiritual values of justice, mercy, and grace. Justice, he said, is when we get what we deserve. Mercy is when we don’t get what we deserve. And grace is when we get what we don’t deserve. There is no disputing the fact that justice and the clear line and acting on high standards matter here at Woodberry. And while that justice may be plain and may be clear, it hurts us and rattles us and jars us; at the end of the day, however, our commitment to moral integrity and high standards generates the brotherhood, and it’s not the brotherhood that produces the high standards and devotion to moral integrity that constitute the Woodberry way.

Mercy is another matter entirely. While it may not be etched into the Blue Book or the enrollment contract, and while it may vary situation to situation and person to person, we know that it exists, and I daresay every alumnus alive today would be able to tell you about a time that he was the beneficiary of mercy, a time that he did not get what he deserved.

For me it is grace that is the synthesis between the two. I like the interpretation of grace as being when we get what we don’t deserve, and for me this is wrapped up in the parable of the prodigal son that Caleb read this morning. Justice and mercy are woven into the daily culture of life at Woodberry, but on the cusp of your graduation, it is grace that I hope embodies this place for you in the years that lie ahead.

Part of us will always be the prodigal son, the one who leaves home with ambitious dreams about hitting the big one and making it on our own. At various times in your life you will likely find yourselves on the greasy pole, searching for a toe-hold and yearning for material success. And no matter how successful you may become, or how frustrated or disappointed, I hope and I pray that for you, just as it has been for me, Woodberry is a place of undeserved grace which calls us home and reminds us that we are known, challenged, and loved, that here we are one and here we are welcome and here we are the beneficiaries of an abiding grace that we did not deserve, but instead exists as a gift from God and the faculty and alumni who have shaped this place for 127 years. Amen.

 

 

24/7 Learning

Most of us who are alumni know intuitively how to answer the question, “Why Woodberry?” But occasionally our heartfelt answers about enduring friendships, a rigorous academic experience, and well-rounded opportunities in the arts and athletics sound to those who don’t know the Forest like something that could appear in marketing materials from any of the best independent day schools in the land.

It’s almost impossible to market the marrow that makes up Woodberry’s culture. My most lasting memories as a boy here are truly kaleidoscopic: bus rides back from Richmond or Alexandria; working through squabbles with roommates and hall mates on Upper Taylor as a new boy; hanging out with friends in the Reynolds Family Dining Room long after we’d finished eating; arguing about politics with Nat Jobe and the most conservative boys in the class in the common room after study hall; playing pick-up basketball deep into a Saturday night while the mixer crew rambled back from Chatham or Madeira or some other faraway place.

As headmaster, my greatest joy comes from watching the boys create their own memories, and these memories are invariably borne from extraordinary learning opportunities that happen anywhere and anytime in our all-boys, all-boarding environment.  We are expanding the curriculum to include electives that challenge the boys academically to apply their learning in new contexts, some of which will have greater relevance for them as they prepare for life in college and beyond.

But our taught curriculum comprises only one important part of the learning experience at Woodberry, and not by any means the whole of what it means to be a Woodberry boy. In the weeks just before Spring Break, we were treated to two fantastic theatrical performances, the Black Box production of Picasso at the Lapin Agile and, on the main stage, the musical Spamalot. In Spamalot, six boys appeared on stage for the first time in their Woodberry careers. Four are sixth formers who were clearly making the most of their days at Woodberry by participating wholeheartedly in endeavors that they might not have chosen if they’d stayed at home for high school. This learning experience in the dramatic arts was formative for them, and their sensational and rollicking performance was so good that we had prohibit fellow students from coming to watch them more than once and missing more than one night of study hall!

Just before exams, the sixth formers also completed the Average Joe’s basketball intramural championship. Teams are composed of non-varsity players. The varsity players only role (an incredibly challenging role, for sure) is to referee the hotly-contested games in the Dick Gym. The championship game included not one, but two, improbable last-second shots, and the ensuing pandemonium was a reminder of the purity of sport at its very best.

I love the fact that sixth formers Gray Robertson and John Pittman called the game on WFSPN, our new student broadcasting network and a learning endeavor that Gray launched this year to bring the magic of Woodberry to viewers and listeners far from our campus.

At our best, we love learning here at Woodberry. Whether it’s in the classroom, on dorm, down by the river, in the dining hall, at the easel, or on the field, the Woodberry experience is rich and transformative for boys, new and old, who love the school far more than words could ever convey.

Finding Your Purpose

The following entry is the sermon given on Sunday, January 10, 2016 in St. Andrew’s Chapel by Headmaster Byron Hulsey:

“These are the times that try men’s souls. Winters here are awful. Regardless of how much fun your break was, how awesome your spring break plans are, in this stretch from now until early March, more than any other time, you will wonder what you’re doing here.” So writes our friend Publius in a recent edition of The Anarchist. Now Publius and I don’t agree on everything, but he’s certainly right about this: winter at Woodberry is tough. It’s cold, it’s dark, and it’s gloomy. Guys don’t feel well, struggling to shake a cold before it turns to bronchitis, doing everything possible to avoid the stomach virus when it starts to rifle through the dorms. The academic load can seem unrelenting, the teachers unceasing in their high standards and stubborn insistence on more and more, better and better. Boys even have trouble finding a refuge in athletics. The suicide wind sprints in the Dick Gym are interminable; the challenge of dropping weight undoubtedly makes wrestling one of the most demanding sports we have; swimmers have their face in the pool, gasping for breath, lap after lap. And, most haunting of all, Publius’s nagging question stands: What are you doing here? What is all of this for?

Unfortunately, the culture around us doesn’t provide much sustenance as we search for enduring answers to these existential questions. We’re programmed to yearn for happiness as an end in itself, and many of us fall prey to the temptation to equate happiness with admission to a highly selective college with a thriving Greek life. We think of happiness as what you get when you land a good job after graduation and pull a good salary; we think that happiness comes with more stuff: gadgets, scooters, drones, cars, houses, vacation homes, and incredible trips spent in exotic locations aimed to give us a foretaste of what heaven is surely supposed to be. Sadly, climbing the greasy pole for this definition of happiness is always fleeting. There’s never enough money, there’s never enough fun, and we’ll never have enough stuff. We’ll be plagued by a constant feeling of emptiness, a vague sense that we don’t have enough, and a gnawing belief that we don’t really matter and that we’re sleepwalking our way through life, whether here at Woodberry or beyond.

What are you doing here? What is all this for? Not having answers to these questions is, unfortunately, all too common today. You may have heard of “boomerangers,” those young adults who graduate from college and move back home with their parents while they chart a path forward and try to get a toe-hold on the greasy pole. In today’s America, boomerangers are primarily young men, not much older than you. I’ve recently heard them described as “kippers,” otherwise known as “kids in pockets of parents eroding retirement savings.” Too many young people across our land are back home with Mom and Dad, drifting aimlessly, deadened by anxiety and uncertainty. Their bravado and nonchalance are a mask of coolness that often covers an underlying fear that they have no real purpose in life. And, for many of us, winter’s the most depressing time of all — hence Publius’s reference to the season that “tries men’s souls.”

Publius is correct to suggest that Woodberry itself is not necessarily a satisfactory answer for many of you, especially in the winter. In my judgment, grades, test scores, victories in athletics, dazzling performances in the arts — none of these will provide you with long-term answers to the vexing questions of why you are here and what this is for. I hold that the only enduring answer comes from finding and then pursuing a moral purpose for your life, a noble cause that will outlast you and one to which you can surrender yourself in service to something bigger than you’ll ever be. Paul reminds us in tonight’s reading from Romans that “we have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us” by God. You are called upon to discern your own gifts and your own purpose in life, and once found, this purpose will surely outstrip grades and awards in importance. The men and women I admire most in life give little thought to personal gain, and by giving of themselves to something bigger and nobler, they grow into a satisfaction that the materialists in the world will never know. These men and women are scholars with a burning desire to add to the body of knowledge that will make the world a better place. They are businessmen and businesswomen who value their customers and their workforce above themselves. They are lawyers who put a premium on the truth, even when it undermines a case. They are priests and rabbis who listen to their congregants and lead from behind. They are your teachers and your coaches, and you might take some time to ask them what it was that motivated them to forego fame and fortune and a life of luxury to go into the profession and serve here at Woodberry Forest.

You may do what you want with your life, but my call for you is to make it count on behalf of someone other than yourself. Here at Woodberry, even in the winter, perhaps even most in the winter, we call on you to work hard, build your character, and take care of each other. Be good to the brotherhood, and take responsibility to make sure that the brotherhood is good for every boy here. Each day is an opportunity to live by those ideals, and the more you lose yourself in those ideals, the more satisfied you’ll be, even in winter. By the way, that won’t happen on its own. You have to make the choice to make it happen each and every day you are here.

One of the great joys of my job as headmaster at Woodberry is getting to know the school’s alumni. This past summer I had a long visit with an alumnus who taught me more than I can ever convey. He is, by his own admission, a recovering alcoholic. Now, before you tune out because you’re not addicted to alcohol or you don’t know anyone ravaged by this disease, I want you to wrestle with the fact that most of us are, or have been, addicted to something in our lives. Another way of saying this is that we all have demons that strip us of self-control and even, at times, our conscience. For some, it’s a phone or video game. For others, it may be SEC football, the Redskins or the Panthers, or an unhealthy obsession with the weight room. Others struggle with their body image, or the body image of others, or even latent feelings of prejudice. We are all broken, and when we think we’re not, we’ve started our decline. The only way to keep these demons at bay is to remain humble and hungry, grounded in humility and awareness of our shortcomings, but inspired by a quiet ambition to make something great with our lives.

So back to the Woodberry alumnus. He told me that he drank through college and never really felt the effects. He had a great run in college, and didn’t see himself out of control in any way. As a young professional, he continued to drink socially, but it didn’t diminish his early career. He married and had children, and over time began to drink more and more to manage the many challenges of his life. For him, alcohol became a crutch, a short-term salve to nurse his daily miseries on the job and in his life. Some years ago his wife and family intervened, and convinced him to go through rehab and seek counseling. He quit drinking completely, and was convinced he would never drink again. On the surface, he was doing so much better, mostly because he wasn’t drinking and he was attending a few Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. But deep down inside, he was frustrated, angry, and even depressed. He hadn’t found any lasting peace because he did not have a sufficient substitute for alcohol.

As most of us would predict, our friend the Woodberry alumnus relapsed, and he did so with a vengeance. He rationalized to himself that his anger and unhappiness would go away if he could only have a couple of drinks. And in the short term, he did enjoy some relief. But he’s an alcoholic, and over time he lost control of himself and his purpose and was on the verge of risking his life. After another intervention, he acknowledged that his life had become unmanageable, went back to rehab, got more counseling, and quit drinking. He realized that he could not do it on his own so he re-committed himself to Alcoholics Anonymous, got a sponsor, and worked through the steps, steps grounded in surrender to God, motivated by the courage to undertake a fearless moral inventory, and clothed in a lasting humility that ironically allows an alcoholic, through extraordinary patience and persistence, to overcome his or her addiction.

I tell you this story in some detail because today this Woodberry alumnus is one of the most satisfied and most purposeful men I know. For him, his whole life changed through AA when he became a sponsor for others in worse shape than he. To this very day he attends AA meetings, no matter where he might be in the country. And he serves as a sponsor for many men who might call him at any hour of any day or night for support and care. He works hard to follow the apostle Paul’s command to, “in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.” My friend’s whole life changed when he understood that he mattered to those he was sponsoring. He came to realize through taking care of others, he was caring for himself. When you care for others here, you develop a purpose in your life, one that will last beyond yourself. I urge you to get into this arena here at Woodberry and beyond, and to make the most of what it means to be a young man of character, a young man who lives for others, at some cost to yourself.

Woodberry Forest matters, and it matters even more in the winter. Not long before Christmas a number of teachers, young alumni, and I joined a throng of mourners at Chris Lee’s funeral in Charlottesville. The son of an alumnus, Mr. Lee graduated from Woodberry in 1984, and his sons, William and Thomas, graduated in 2012 and 2015, respectively. In early December Mr. Lee was driving to work early one morning outside of Charlottesville and he tragically died in a one-car accident. Gone in an instant. No chance to say goodbye or prepare for life without a husband, father, brother, uncle, or friend. The hundreds of attendees that morning at his funeral are testament that Chris lived a life of purpose. He was a civic leader, a prominent and successful businessman and contractor whose buildings will outlast most of us, and a man who gave of himself, time and time again. For me, the most poignant part of the funeral was watching Thomas and William share public memories of their father over the years. Choked by grief, with tears streaming down their faces, these two brave young men closed their remarks with a rendition of the Boys’ Prayer at Woodberry Forest, because, as they said, it “meant so much to Dad.”

Later tonight we’ll recite the Boys’ Prayer. And may we do so knowing that it’s a clarion call to a life of purpose, one deeply engraved in our culture, history, and tradition, and one that will see us through this winter, and all the winters to come. Amen.

 

 

Taking Care of Each Other

The following entry is the sermon given on Sunday, September 6, 2015 in St. Andrew’s Chapel by Headmaster Byron Hulsey to the 393 boys beginning the 127th session at Woodberry Forest School:

It’s a great privilege to welcome you here to this special place at the start of the 127^th year at Woodberry Forest. I want to offer a warm welcome to all 128 new boys. I hope and trust that no matter where you are from you will come to think of Woodberry as a second home, the community of teachers and coaches and fellow students that cared for you and challenged you and shaped you at the most formative time in your life. Thirty-two years ago, my parents dropped me off at Woodberry as a new boy fourth former. From the moment I came on campus I had a feeling I have never shaken, a feeling that I might have had fleetingly in other places, but never so enduringly as I do at Woodberry Forest: Here I feel big and small at the same time. Right away, as a new boy, I knew that I mattered in this community. But at the same time, I knew then and I know today that this is the kind of place that has been, and always will be, far bigger than any of us will ever be. I believe that’s the pride, mixed with lasting humility, with which God wants us to live.

It’s fitting that we open the year here in St. Andrew’s Chapel and that we gather here once a week, no matter our faith orientation, to give thanks to God for His many gifts, ask His blessing on our family, friends, and the broken world around us, and seek His help as we make our way forward through the challenge and opportunity of a long and sometimes arduous school year. I love this place. Scores of times over the years I have come to chapel anxious and preoccupied. But I have often left comforted and cared for, secure in the faith that God knows me to my core and cares for me even when I haven’t always cared for myself. I hope that St. Andrew’s Chapel will be that kind of place for you, too.

Earlier this week we on the faculty renewed our commitment to you, namely and most importantly, that every boy under our care will be known, challenged, and loved. Old boys know from experience that those values are the relational essence of this place. When we are challenged by men and women we admire, we reach higher than we would have reached on our own and we become more than we ever thought possible. I do not blanch at the intentional use of the word “love.” I mean it here in the sense that here you will be cared for, here we will look out for you, here we will know you for who you are, and here we will invest emotionally in you until you graduate — and then continue to do so in the world beyond as you make your way forward as alumni of Woodberry Forest.

In return for being known, challenged, and loved, I ask that you respect that commitment and honor that trust by working hard, building your character, and taking care of each other. If you are an old boy, you know that precious little at Woodberry is easy. Here you are called on to work hard in order to make the most of this opportunity. There will invariably be roadblocks and obstacles, setbacks and injuries. Hard work and perseverance, grit and persistence — those are the qualities that will see you through.

Hard work, though critical, will not be enough. Here you will be called on to build your character, to make each day the choices of the hard right over the easy wrong and, in the process, build your character to something more noble and more enduring than you might have thought possible. In his recent book, The Road to Character, social critic David Brooks draws a line between “Adam I” and “Adam II,” the former who pour their energy into the “résumé virtues” of career accomplishments, and the latter who stay focused on the “eulogy virtues” that spring forth from our character, stand the test of time, and create a legacy for others to follow for generations to come. Mr. Brooks would say that “Adam I” would want to know primarily what Woodberry could do for him. “Adam II,” on the other hand, would want to know primarily what he can do for Woodberry Forest.

I invite you to consider that the expectation we have of you to “work hard” is all about Adam I and what you’ll do here to build your profile. It’s your stat page: grades, test scores, leadership positions, accomplishments in athletics, the arts, and extra-curricular activities. It’s brand management and it matters, but not nearly as much in the end as character. It’s not a stretch to suggest that Adam I is consistent with the natural instinct that some of us have to make a name for ourselves and maybe even become famous. More and more Americans in recent years actually aspire to a life of fame, one marked by a big salary, a vacation home or two, luxury cars, the newest and highest-powered gadgetry, all that money can buy. Our hunger for fame hasn’t always been so. In his book, Mr. Brooks notes that in 1976 there was a Gallup poll in which respondents ranked fame fifteenth out of sixteen in a list of their life goals. By 2007, just twenty-one years later, 51 percent of young people reported that being famous was one of their top personal goals. In another recent study, middle school girls were queried about who they would most like to have dinner with. Perhaps we should not be surprised in our pop culture world that Jennifer Lopez came in first, Jesus Christ second, and Paris Hilton third.

Popular authors and cultural forces like the Disney Channel for children feed our quest for fame as a worthy life goal. The fifth biggest bestseller in the history of the New York Times rankings is Dr. Seuss’s 1990 book, Oh, the Places You’ll Go! Elementary school children read this book as a way to learn the power of dreaming and reaching and questing. But its message is hyperbolic, and tilts us decidedly to Adam I and away from Adam II. Just one quote from Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go! to make the point: “You’re on your own….Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be, / With the whole wide world watching you win on TV.”

Building our character is work that never reaches completion. It’s the daily choices that make the difference. Last year’s football team might say it’s “brick by brick,” and it’s one of those construction projects that is never complete. You might think of character as what you do when no one is watching, or what you do when there’s no chance you can get caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing. As I mentioned before, it’s about choosing the hard right over the easy wrong. Yes, it includes adherence to the honor system; it includes general politeness, civility, and a genuine respect for others. But it, more importantly, includes gratitude for the bounty of our lives and an unwavering humility to admit and allow that in life there’s much we don’t know — and that even when we think we may be right, we just as easily might be wrong.

Embracing humility as a worthy virtue is an important element of character. Such an orientation will keep you hungry to learn more, to strive to be a little better every day, and to lend a hand to your fellow man. Taking care of each other is the highest form of character, and it flows from both gratitude and humility. Several evenings ago I was dining with a number of seniors who asked why I had assigned The Sunflower for summer reading. I hope you’ll be discussing the book in several of your classes as we start the year. I certainly don’t want to preempt those conversations this evening, but I will share with you that I assigned the book in part because Simon Wiesenthal poses a question that cannot be answered definitively. No one here knows how we would have responded to Karl’s request for forgiveness in the wake of the atrocities he’d committed. But just because a question cannot be answered does not suggest that it should not be asked. Instead, I believe that a great and good life requires the courage and bravery to pose these kinds of questions and to wrestle with the implication of what kind of community we wish to create here at Woodberry Forest as we grow in opportunities to take care of each other.

The themes of forgiveness and reconciliation are not easy to understand, resolve, or advance. Owning a mistake and accepting responsibility for hurting our fellow man does not come naturally. Apologizing can be difficult, and seeking to make matters right is not easy. It is, however, a mark of strength, and not weakness, both to apologize for having hurt a friend, classmate, family member, or colleague, and it is certainly a mark of strength to make amends with someone brave enough to step forward to ask for your forgiveness. There may be some deeds of fundamental evil, such as the war crimes committed by the Nazis in World War II, that are unforgiveable in this earthly realm. But as we seek to care for each other, we’d be wise to follow the example of Jesus and forgive our fellow man “not seven times, but seventy-seven times” — just as we seek forgiveness for our own missteps and sins along the way.

In closing, I want to offer one final thought about forgiveness. When we harbor a hurt or hold on to the pain that comes in the aftermath of having been trod upon by someone who’s let us down, we make a choice to allow their actions to keep us living in the past. We’re here this evening at the cusp of a new school year. The sheet is blank and we begin anew. But this year, no matter how hard we try, we’ll make mistakes and let each other down. In those moments, might we remember the wisdom of the prophet Buddha, who noted that “holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” We’re likely to find that if we build our character by taking care of each other, we’ll inevitably succeed at taking care of ourselves. Amen.