In the recent movie Mickey 17, the central conceit is that Mickey is an expendable. To flee his troubles on Earth, he joins a multi-year mission to another planet. To get accepted, he agrees to take on the most dangerous jobs, which are mostly suicide missions. Once Mickey “dies,” they just print another copy of him, which oozes out of tube with his original consciousness intact.

I apologize for the discursive, and I have no doubt that Marc, when he reads this, will scoff at my tendency to devolve toward popular culture, probably calling me a philistine in the process. But the set-up matters. There is a reason they could never call such a film Marc Clauson 17. It isn’t possible to think there could ever be more than one Marc Clauson. And yes, I know that he has a twin brother–I have met him several times. Though a twin, there was only one Marc Clauson. I cannot ever conceive of meeting anyone else like him.

When I got to Cedarville, our offices were still in Collins Hall, a three story partner to Founders, which had not been quite as updated as its campus cousin. Then, a popular saying was that everything at Cedarville should “have excellence stamped all over it.” Murray Murdoch’s old joke was that “if you stamped excellence on Collins Hall, it would fall down.” During my first or second year, custodians, inspectors, and other official looking people were lurking and appeared concerned. We were told the exterior walls of Collins were pulling away from the floors. I don’t think it was accidental that Marc’s office was on the top floor. Only Marc would have enough books to threaten the structural integrity of a building. I told him that after the collapse we might never find him since he would be buried under an avalanche of paper. They moved his office to the basement–I assume to minimize the strain.

Marc’s attachment to books, of course, was a proxy for his love of knowledge and learning. He loved to buy and Jennifer, to supply their book business, would regularly cull his flock to sell. There was always a loving tension between Marc the buyer and Jennifer the seller. Together, they roamed book sales at the Cedarville Library (I cannot count the number of times I heard from a student who, forlornly, got into the line behind the Clausons. They knew the good stuff would likely be scooped up.) as well as places flung across the Midwest. I asked him once about his upcoming plans (maybe for a break or a weekend?), and he said, “we’re going to St. Louis.”

“For a baseball game? Barbecue?”

“Books.”

Marc would, inevitably, muscle a pile of books into class. Sometimes he would refer to them. Sometimes they would just sit there. I think they gave him comfort, and they essentially functioned as his notes. Here is a picture a former student sent me yesterday, one they had surely taken surreptitiously. (This was in the classroom on the 3rd floor of Collins. Notice the beautiful woodwork, which sharply contrasted with the chipping paint and crusty carpet.)

Once we team-taught a class on Conservatism & Progressivism. I think we had 15 or so students. We traded back and forth based on the topic, and we generally attended all the class periods, even if we were not teaching that day. I feel sorry for those students in retrospect. The whiplash between me and Marc had to be a challenge. If Marc were teaching, say about Woodrow Wilson, and a student asked a marginally related question about Hegel, Marc would pontificate, sometimes at length, about Hegel, his perception of the state as an organic entity, and Hegel’s influence on Wilson’s thinking as an academic and politician. It was always impressive. The next day, I would show up, and ask the class a question about Wilson’s argument in a specific speech. Instead of an answer, I would get, probably from the same student, a similar question about Wilson’s influences. My response would be, “I think it is pretty clear who didn’t do the reading. Do you want to try again or should I move on to someone who is prepared for class?” I would then make a note to deduct points from that student’s class participation grade. Marc taught with a shotgun. I taught with a sniper rifle. He was gracious and considerate and patient. I was brusque, sometimes degrading, and occasionally offensive. It had to be a Jekyll & Hyde experience.

I also remember teaching a section of Politics & American Culture in a room where Marc taught Western Civ before me. I am perpetually late to class, so we rarely actually saw each other in the space, but evidence of Marc was always around. I wish I had taken a picture of the white board one day. Some of you may think I am exaggerating, but I promise that is not the case. On the board, there was a beginning point, something like “Elizabethan England.” That was in the upper left corner, and then there were four or five more points, descending toward the bottom right of the board, concluding with “Nazi Germany.” I have no doubt a student’s question prompted the discussion, and I have no doubt it was interesting and learned. Marc loved students. He loved learning. It showed.

I spent a bunch of time with Marc over the years in a car on the way to an event, on the stage for a panel, in department meetings, sometimes in his office (trying to see over the books or struggling to find a place to sit), the gym, or the hallway. Without fail, Marc was kind, thoughtful, and smiling. He fit the old description of a “gentleman and a scholar.” But more than that, there was a center to Marc Clauson. He could always be counted on, in every situation, to pull the discussion toward Scripture, biblical principles, and our ethical obligations as believers. His care for right thinking was predictable and became a pillar of the Department of History & Government.

In my new role as Dean, I have been a bit disconnected from my colleagues in the department for the past two years. I knew Marc was ill, and that this semester was difficult. I did not know until Thursday how serious everything was. The news on Friday, that he was absent from the body, but present with the Lord, was a shock. I will miss him, but I have hope for our eventual reunion. I am certain that even in heaven, he will be instantly recognizable and unique.