To the Ones Who Come After: What I Want You to Know If Your Christian College Closes

A year ago, Eastern Nazarene College announced its closure.

I had intended to share the second part of the Humaning in the Age of AI series, but this anniversary seemed too important.
So—next week!

Dear Beloved Disrupted,

You gave yourself wholeheartedly to a mission-driven institution only to be undone by its closure, left navigating the sacred disorientation of grief, calling, and vocational loss.

Christian Higher Ed has never been your job. It’s been your mission.
I'm so sorry you’ve been caught up in a closure.

What is not helpful right now is the reminder that you are in good company—the number of small college closures is growing.

But what may be helpful is this: you don’t have to do this alone.
Reach out to someone who has journeyed this path. We are many.

You didn’t pursue your calling to end up amoung the Beloved Disrupted.

You’ve been put on a journey that will demand everything of you, shake your sense of stability, and consume your attention like a new job.

Even if you find work right away, grief will consume your life. Even if you don’t intentionally make time for it, it will be working on you.

The first thing I want to tell you is this:

No institutional closure will go the way the staff and faculty want or expect it to.
That was true for us, and it may be true for you too.

Hopefully, it will be better than ours.

I’ve spent this year trying to listen.
Trying to make sense of things that will never make sense.

And while I wouldn't wish this kind of vocational death on anyone, it’s been a teacher.
A ruthless, holy one.

Here are five things I’m learning.

Working for a Christian institution means being in a dual relationship, and that is messy.

One relationship is spiritual and communal. We call it family or community.

The other is legal and contractual. You are an employee.

Most of the time, these two live in harmony. But when layoffs, budget cuts, or closure come, they fracture.

And that fracture is deeply painful.

You will hope to be treated like family. But you will likely be treated like an employee—because legal liability will shape every decision made by those responsible for carrying out the closure.

It's disorienting. And it hurts.

You are not crazy for expecting love from a place that once called you beloved.

You may need to practice something difficult—having hope without expectation.

You can still hope that love will be tangible in the closure: through presence, career transition support, and communal rituals for lament.

But don’t expect it from those representing the institution.

If it doesn’t come, it’s not just disappointing.
It feels like a betrayal.

Grief takes longer than your timeline.

The 24-hour news cycle is real.

Others will move on because, let’s face it—their life is tough too. But you too will want to move on before your grief does.

The Church often wants a resurrection story before the body’s even cold.

You’ve likely been shaped by this way of thinking.

But real grief is slow. Inconvenient. Nonlinear. Messy. Uncomfortable.
And hard to be around. YOU will be hard to be around. And that is okay.

You don’t need to rush this process for anyone.

I’m learning the story of God's people is one of grief and loss.
And God met them in unexpected places.

He’s doing that with me too—even when I don’t realize it.

Identifying with work is normal, and even sacred.

When my job disappeared, some of the scaffolding that held up my sense of self collapsed.

I felt embarrassed.
Had I let my work become my identity?
Shouldn’t I have known better?

But I’m learning that it’s human to identify with work that reflects your calling.

My work is how I live out who I am.
It’s how I work out my salvation.

To deny that identity is to deny something sacred in me.

Jesus’ title was Rabbi, but his work went deeper.
He taught, traveled, healed, overturned tables.

And his work led him to the cross.

His job was with an institution that participated in his harm.

Our work can be an expression of the soul.

But a job is not the same thing.
A job is vulnerable to collapse.

In the end, my job was part of a dying institution.
But my calling lives on.

Doing all the right things doesn’t guarantee a place at the table.

I followed the rules.
I got the degrees.
I poured myself into the students and the mission.
I worked more and more for less and less.

I believed that if I did everything right, the institution would make space for me.
I believed loyalty and sacrifice would lead to belonging.

But that’s not how it works.

Just because you give your best doesn’t mean you’ll be protected.
Just because you stayed late and prayed and served doesn’t mean there’s a place for you when the structure starts to shake.

That unspoken promise—if you do the right things in a Christian institution, you’ll be safe—
is not true.

I’m learning to let go of the fantasy that faithfulness guarantees security.

My worth is not rooted in institutional recognition.
It’s rooted in the deeper call of God—
one no system can give or take away.

And that, somehow, is enough.

Denying space for lament is a form of violence.

This past year, some (not all by any means) offered platitudes instead of incarnation.

“God must have something better for you.”
“You were lucky to get 8 years.”

Maybe those words were well-intentioned.
But they missed the moment.

There will be a lot of missed moments: by people who love you and by the institution.

Denying space for lament silences pain.
It isolates those who are grieving.
It tells us sorrow is shameful, and suffering should stay hidden.

It keeps people alone in their sorrow
when what they need most is to be accompanied.

And I’m learning the Church often doesn’t know how to lament
because our theology and worship are disembodied.

We don't know how to process our own pain.
Let alone do it in community.

But that is the point.
Grief was never meant to be processed alone.

Lament is a form of worship.
It belongs in sanctuaries not just private journals.

Here’s what I want to leave you with:

Twelve months later, I’m a lot further than I was.
But I’m still in the formless void.

I’m still discerning. Still grieving. Still rebuilding.
But underneath all that, I’m growing a deeper trust—
one composted from loss and shaped by time and intentionality.

Grief work takes time. I know I’m repeating myself, but until you are in it, like you must be now, you don’t realize how much of your life can be consumed by it.

Writing, spiritual direction, counseling, conversation—
these have been essential.

Beloved Disrupted, if you’ve lost something, your role, your identity, your community, your direction.
You are not alone.

You are not overreacting.
You are not weak for caring as deeply as you did.

Give yourself time.
Do less.
You don’t have to figure it all out right now.

And please, gather with others who are also walking through the loss.
Protect those spaces with your life.

Hold close what matters.
Mourn what you lost.
Let the truth breathe—in public.

And when you’re ready,
move toward the kind of life, work, and faith that can hold the weight of your soul.

I still haven’t found the next dream job.
I might have to create it myself.

That’s costly.
It takes time.
It takes courage I don’t always feel I have.

But it’s the invitation in front of me now.

If you’re standing in the ruins wondering what to build—
start by listening.

The Spirit meets us there.

Peace,

Julene Tegerstrand

P.S. Humanisaverb is like a classroom. I’d love for you to join me. I help people tend to their soul through spiritual formation so they can transform conflict within themselves, with God and in their relationships.