Dave Cimbora, Samford’s new provost and vice president for academic affairs, possesses a PhD in clinical psychology, a black belt in Jiu Jitsu, and an engaging transparency that makes him the most wide-open of books. In a deep-dive conversation the administrator waxes on his fascination with martial arts, a quarter-century in Christian higher education, his instant synergy with President Beck Taylor and a lifelong battle with perfectionism:
About that journey to becoming a black belt: It has deeply affected your leadership approach.
Cimbora: It has helped me grow in ways that have impacted just about every area of my personal life. While it’s certainly not more important than my Christian identity, it has been a sort of a test tube for me. As in, what am I learning in Jiu Jitsu that I can apply to my job, that can apply to my therapy, that can apply to my marriage and family? As a white belt, no one expects anything of you. You can walk in and get your butt kicked. That's what happens to white belts. I miss those days—to be free, to be able to not know things, and you’re expected to not know things. You walk in and everyone just kind of leaves you alone. But now, when you walk in as a black belt, it comes with a lot more baggage and responsibility. Everyone makes assumptions: “You must be great at this, and you must know all of this.” And there's a testing of that assumption: “Maybe I can take him out. Maybe I can overthrow the black belt.”
So I encourage the faculty to actually embrace the fact that being a white belt isn’t bad. It's actually good to have a culture that believes it’s OK to not know. I try to hang on to the fact that I have so much to learn. One, it's true. Two, that’s where I’d rather live. When I was an assistant professor, I just couldn't wait to get to associate, and I couldn't wait to get to go full, and I couldn't wait to get tenure, because then I'd feel like I arrived. I could make my claim and the world would recognize that I'm not some newbie. But similar to the black belt story, sometimes you work your way up whatever ladders you're climbing, and at the end of the day, how much more do you really know? If anything, the expanding gulf in my mind is, “Wow, look at all that I don’t know!” And yet I’m expected to lead this community. Can we embrace that mindset and be OK with that? Can we say that out loud? It kind of gets back to that humility mindset, that constant learning mindset. If we're telling our students to be lifelong learners, are we modeling that? Or are we just pretending that I’m a black belt now and I have nothing else to learn?
A terrific analogy that doubles as a wonderful conversation starter.
Cimbora: Yes, it is. I’m an ambassador of the sport, and it’s fascinating how many people I meet who either want to do it badly or they’re curious. They’re wondering, “How can a psychologist be a person who fights?” That's weird for people. And it is weird for me, contrasting the soft science of psychology with the fact you just pulled your arm out of socket because somebody cranked on it, or you got another black eye or another concussion.
It's actually not that dangerous of a sport, because it's all about respect—to be able to have somebody's literal life in your hands and they trust you to let go, because we have chokes. You keep that choke on, they will pass out. It happens. I've passed out. I haven’t had people pass out often, but it does happen, and if you don't let go, they're dead. And yet, these are people you've just met in the academy—that's it. Not at church, not at Samford, you haven't sat down and shared testimonies. You don't even know what they believe. You don't know who they are, and yet there's this mutual respect. I love that, because it cuts across all walks of life.
Back when I was in Oregon and Los Angeles, I didn’t talk about what I do for a living, and some people at the academies thought I was a bricklayer. Then they found out I was a dean, an administrator, and they couldn't believe it. So I asked, “Why did you think I was a bricklayer?” and they said, “It’s your grip. Your grip is so strong. We figured you must work with your hands, and we thought bricks.”
You were born in Massachusetts, the son of a pastor who subsequently led churches in Detroit, Spokane, Chicago and Wisconsin. You describe your father as a marvelous speaker and teacher, but there’s inherit difficulty living up to those standards:
Cimbora: I had this experience where it was very important to keep up appearances in the church for my parents, and particularly for my dad—that the pastor's kid couldn't be problematic. Some pastors’ kids—because I've met many of us—just say, “To heck with that.” They rebel and go off the deep end. Me, I tried to stay in that frame where we need to support dad, don’t act out, don’t run in church, be super polite. As a kid raised in that, I believed I had to do the same with God. I had to keep up the appearances with God, that God expected perfection, which meant struggles couldn't be discussed very easily. So I watched my faith, from junior high through the grad school years, move into sort of a works-based perfectionism, like Pharisaical. In my 20s, it just really ballooned. I’d be able to talk in ministry about grace, and I'd give little sermons on grace and the sacrifice of Jesus, how great that is. I had even done my comparative world religions classes in college— workspace, workspace, “Jesus is Grace. Perfect. I'm glad I'm here.” But I didn't believe it.
It showed up a lot in education. I’d be terrified of not getting an A. Terrified of a professor giving me a bad review. If I felt that a professor was not in my favor, I'd obsess over how to win them over. Like, what do I have to do?
Almost performative, right?
Cimbora: Very performative. And it's interesting because during a one-on-one conversation I had with a student, this was the same topic he volunteered. He was struggling with perfectionism, so I smiled and said, “You don’t even know who you’re talking to. We’re going to have fun with this one.”
You recalibrated in your mid-30s, thanks to a spiritual direction.
Cimbora: It’s focused on exploring your relationship with God in a confidential, private way. I went to spiritual direction because I was in a crisis, and a mentor told me, “I don't know how you lasted this long in a works-based theology. You're 34 years old—most people give up by 24. You have the most stamina of almost any Christian I’ve ever met.” I'm crying in the midst of this conversation. And he encouraged me by saying: “The problem is, you have stamina for the wrong thing. You have stamina to prove yourself to God. How about you have stamina to prove that you’re not good enough for God? That you’re a sinner? How about you work on stamina in a different direction and embrace the fact that you’re not perfect?” So there I am at 34. Been in youth ministry most of my life, and I’m raising my kids as Christians in a Christian marriage, teaching at a Christian university, and it's probably only then that I discovered the gospel in the most impactful way.
This sense of having to keep it all together for God, for the Christian community, for the church and my job, it’s a struggle. So that’s when you hear me talking about being a white belt and loving it. Let’s just be able to say, “I don't know.” That's the point of decades of working on this to where I can walk into President Taylor’s office and say, “I don't know.” The 34-year-old me would’ve been terrified to do that, would’ve tried to show him 13 tables of data and tried to win his approval. Now I can go to God.
As a provost, given the baked-in obligations to faculty and leadership, how do you keep 6,000 students top of mind when deliberating over high-level decisions?
Cimbora: I had a conversation with President Taylor in September where we talked about a difficult issue, and we both looked at each other and said the answer is whatever is best for students. Not what's best for me or him, or even the board of trustees, or the faculty or the staff, or the financial bottom line. Until we know what is best for the students, it’s very difficult to make a decision. So I appreciate that our president and the board think this, say this and act like this. We recently came back from the board retreat, and the No. 1 thing—other than loving Jesus—was how are we going to enhance the student experience here? How are we going to love our students?
The president at my first university, Biola, asked me only one question for my tenure review. Only one question, after the provost asked me 15. The president sat in the same office, said nothing for 55 minutes, and at the end he says, “How will the students know that you love them?” And here I am, 20 years later, having that same conversation with you. That has just been sort of my anchor. Yesterday I had lunch with an older student, and I asked him to go to lunch because I don't know what it's like to be a grad student here at Samford. We talked about his ethnicity and about his experience here and he says, “You're the first person to ever ask me that question.” The same day I met with an undergrad. I asked him what it was like as an undergrad, as a Greek student? What was it like for him coming from a rural area? I have been encouraged by Beck to be that kind of leader who gets out into the community and builds relationships with students.
By the time I had been here nine weeks, one student already asked me to be his mentor, and three students had offered to take me to the cafeteria because they know I don't know my way around. That's happening because our students are great people who want relationships. But if I don't get outside of this office, and if I'm not in the weight room, or I'm not in the cafeteria, I'm not at the football game, or I’m not at the music recital, I'm not going to be able to engage with the students and learn what they think is best for them. Literally, that’s one of the most fun things I get to do—coffee and lunch with students. I know who already knows what’s best for them—they do. They might want way more parking than we currently have. Maybe they want a parking lot on the quad. They might want filet mignon for lunch in The Caf, I don't know. But I know we should at least listen to them.
