"I have a dream"

Dear friends,

This doesn't particularly fit the vibe of this blog, but as several people have asked to read the transcript of my chapel speech, I am just going to go ahead and post it on here. I never like letting people read something that I prepared as a speech, because my sentence structure for a speech is not always as acceptable or eloquent as it should be in written material. That being said, please do not judge me for the occasional sentence fragment.



Sara Moser

Campus Community

Chapel Speech

8 May 2009

Good morning. My name is Sara Moser. I am a senior religion major, and I, apparently, have a dream. Over my years at Northwestern, I have composed a fair number of chapel speeches in my head in which I was usually pacing dramatically across the stage, spilling forth eloquent rhetoric with just the right measure of sass, and even dropping a well-placed cuss word to punk out my one-woman show of biblical exposition. But then, I withdrew from the chapel speech of my head and remembered, “Oh wait, I’m not a trendy, charismatic pastor with black, square-rimmed glasses, I’m Sara Moser.” Even though it is indeed necessary that I be winsome and witty while wooing you with well-crafted rhetoric that has an unshakable biblical foundation, I feel that it’s not particularly necessary for me to feel that I have something to prove as a senior with a dream, because I am one of you. Faculty, staff, or student, we all stand in continuity with the biblical narrative, in which the people of God are enmeshed in this constant cycle of apostasy and reform. They mess up, come back to God. Mess up, and come back to God. My apparent dream, then, is that as a campus community of equals, we might view our community to be on the same continuum as the biblical greats in this unfolding narrative—right there alongside the great patriarchs and matriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and Sarah, Rebeccah, Leah, and Rachel. Here we see supposed biblical heroes who, even through their proximity to God’s intervening work in the world, were in reality biblical losers who, just like us, continually failed to get it. Just like us, they were struggling to live and figure things out, “things” including God.
Looking upon this narrative, I would venture to say that the biblical writers and actors therein didn’t really “know” God just as today, we don’t really “know” God. Is this a bad thing, to not know God? I used to think so. But now, I am ever so content to place myself alongside God’s people as just another biblical loser, and I count one of my greatest accomplishments at Northwestern to be my acceptance that I cannot, and do not want to, know God.

Now, before you think “Hmm, that’s a bit sketchy,” allow me explain what I mean when I say that I do not want to know God. Earlier this week, I was described as possessing an “insatiable desire to ‘know’” and as one that often contributes by asking particularly “probing” questions. It’s true. I have always been that horribly annoying person, and never more so than when it comes to talking about anything having to do with Christianity. For a painful example, picture freshman Sara, dutifully attending the wing D-group like any good little freshman. I clutched my Good News Bible, the one with lots of underlining in the book of Romans and James (so that people would know that I was a Christian). That week in particular, I was writing a philosophy paper addressing the question, “Does God exist?” and I thought it pertinent that everyone else think about the question as well. My D-group leaders, though, had other things in mind. They began to lead a lovely discussion on the psalms and how we might discern characteristics of God through the imagery. “Wait,” I stopped them, “Why are we assuming that God exists? What is our basis for that knowledge?” “Loser freshman philosophy girl!” they cried, “stop what you are doing.” Well, perhaps they didn’t say that at all, maybe they would go on to thank me for challenging their thinking, but I know.


This ridiculous obsession with knowledge, or phrased more classily, “insatiable desire to know,” was undoubtedly at its peak my freshmen year, as I then began to lapse more into the role of “I’m a jaded, apathetic upperclassman, and I have already dealt with all of these issues.” I would sit sullenly in chapel, often unsatisfied with the subject matter at hand. I wondered how people could get up here and assert beliefs. I craved beliefs. A boy told me that I was like the doubter in James 1:6 who is “blown and tossed by the wind.” “Boy,” I said, “I know this. The verse is double-underlined in my Good News Bible. Someday I will have beliefs. Someday I will know the answers to all of my religious quandaries.” I thought that I hadn’t learned enough yet to allow myself to actually believe anything. I was excited for the day to come, when I would know everything. I was excited for the day when someone would ask me a question about God, or about Jesus, or about doctrine, or anything, and I would know the answer.

The preparation, though, for someday knowing everything, filled me with unbridled angst. People would ask me how I was doing: “Oh, you know, existential, postmodern, no self-esteem, hate my life, the usual.” “Well sister in Christ, just keep seeking God,” they would tell me. “Ah yes, God,” I would think, “someday I will seek and know God.” This was undoubtedly a trying lifestyle. And as I moved on in my apathetic upperclassman years, I began to figure out that everything is impossibly complex. Religion being my field of choice, I came to find studying the Bible a beastly endeavor—an endeavor that I am greatly passionate about, but a beastly one nonetheless. I was never going to get to a point where I could provide confident answers to any biblical question that might arise. In fact, the notion that I could do so, or should strive to do so, was absolutely absurd.

It was around this time that a respected adviser told me, “Don’t be a Gnostic.” He was referring to a sect in the early church of what we now refer to as heretical Christians. Amongst a whole smattering of other things, these Christians believed that salvation came through ‘gnosis’—salvation came through knowledge. “Don’t be that,” he had told me, “Don’t think that it is necessary to have the right knowledge in order to have faith.” I cannot remember in the slightest what we had been talking about that had led him to offer this bit of advice, but it stuck with me. “Don’t be a Gnostic.” This meant I was going to have to put more of a serious effort into faith—whatever that means. I didn’t know. And yet I came to realize that if I wanted to have faith, I was going to have to break down and be willing to assert belief, even though such beliefs cannot be justified in a logical manner. As hard as I may try to reduce everything to a logical progression of events, I will never succeed. In light of these realizations, my goal became to assert a statement of faith that somehow accepts the very beauty of faith, and then to continue to learn and explore in the light that such a statement would provide.

So when I say that I am grateful that I do not know God, and nor do I want to know God, what I mean is that I am grateful to have recognized that Christianity does not consist of knowing the right things or doing the right things. The biblical narrative is just that—a narrative—it is not something to defend, but rather something that as God’s chosen people, we are called to be a part of. When we survey the Judeo-Christian tradition, we do not see a people that are sure about this faith-life that they are a part of; what we see is more reminiscent of the reality that we know today—God’s people continually straying from the covenant, questioning the means and motives of God, and often going directly against God’s word.

In particular, the psalmists are quite vocal in expressing their angst regarding their interactions with God and their interactions within God’s land. They sure as heck don’t have God figured out. And yet there is not a sense that this is a problem. It is perhaps instead an absolutely distinct opportunity to explore knowledge of God on many different levels. This great array of different images for God beseeches us, “do not fumble to know God in the sense of understanding God, seek to know God in the sense of being transformed by God.” In other words, it’s not what you know about God, but rather how you let the experience of an unknowable God infiltrate your life as a Christian.

Now, I will be the absolute first to admit that when I speak and write about things of this nature, I often feel as though I am putting forth fanciful, idealistic rhetoric. Sure, we get the part about not putting God into a box that limits our understanding to only what we find safe and fitting of the God we want to worship, but what about the whole entering as a community into the biblical narrative spiel? The words may flow smoothly off the tongue, but how is the idea to be made manifest in our lives? And if we somehow manage to do this, and somehow manage to accept the beauty of an unknowable God whom the biblical greats have wrestled with since ages past, what would it mean to let this understanding infiltrate our lives as Christians?

It seems that perhaps we are able to enter the biblical narrative and experience the unknowable God when we recognize that what has been preserved for us in the Bible is something so much grander than a moral codebook. To relegate the content as such would be to unwittingly strip away the bits of reality that permeate the text—bits of reality that encompass the good, the bad, and the ugly of the lives of God’s people. When we pick apart any one of the biblical character’s lives in order to find moral messages that we can apply to our own—whether it be Rahab, or David, or Elisha, or whoever—we effectively objectify the characters and neuter the stark reality of the part they play as human beings in God’s grand plan of redemption. That is not at all to say that no moral messages can be pulled from the biblical text; I don’t mean at all to say that the stories therein aren’t applicable to our lives today. Rather, I am saying that we must embrace and appreciate the reality of both the failures and the triumphs that come part and parcel with the faith. The value that comes through the less glamorous parts of the Bible—the parts in which sin and apostasy run rampant—is not in that these stories tell us “what not to do.” Rather, the value comes through in that God’s people who have been revealed to us in Scripture were living, breathing, and thinking screw-ups through which God still willingly worked. Some comfort can surely be derived from recognizing that God does not require pure and holy vessels to bring great plans to fruition. Indeed, it seems that having recognized our parallels to the biblical characters, we might then be able to enter the biblical narrative as the modern day installment on the continuum of God’s Kingdom work.


Even though I perhaps made it sound as though I had learned to put my insatiable desire to know behind me, I undoubtedly have not. I still sometimes wish that I had tried and tested, comfortable answers to fall back on when facing biblical questions. But I know that not having answers at hand all the time has revealed to me the opportunity of the mysterious God that I cannot, and do not want to, know. I have hopefully left behind the horribly annoying bits of freshman Sara as I have transitioned into senior Sara with a dream. Critique and questioning is, and will always remain, an absolutely healthy and necessary part of our lives as Christians. But sometimes, I have found, it is better to observe and appreciate the nuances of the Christ-life than it is to critique it. Sometimes it’s better to experience God than to “know” God. Faith need not be balanced on a sturdy foundation of conventional knowledge; I have chosen to find mine through the narrative that God enacted with the biblical greats of the past and continues to enact with people like you and me today. What is my dream then? May we move from the “someday” of knowing God that perhaps we hope for into the “present” of experiencing God together through community and together through narrative.

Amen.

Imminent Death

Dear friends,

This will be my last post as I will soon be dying from the swine flu. I am really, really perturbed by this news. I am not ready to die. Apparently everyone that gets it dies. Immediately. Also, if one person gets it at Northwestern, the campus will be quarantined for 2 months and members of the campus ministries team will be placed strategically around campus to shoot anyone who tries to escape. With. A. Gun.

So, this is my lovely life after Oxford. Dodging bullets and death. Yes, please.

I feel as though everyone is curious as to how "transition" has been for me (well not everyone...that's really conceited). "Transition," I ask, "...did I just get back from Oxford? I forgot." Mostly people ask me, "So are you just hanging around on campus to laugh at everybody taking finals?" OR "So are you just bored all the time?" To these people I say, "Dude, I am not a freaking slacker." I have a job and in the last week, I have acquired 5 more. No for real, these are my summer jobs:
1. De Koffie Hoek & Bistro -- Barista
2. Nederlander's Grill -- Server
3. Quiznos -- Sandwich Artist
4-5. Cleaning houses -- HouseCleaner
6. Giving plasma -- PlasmaGiver

I am most excited about #6. My coffee colleagues and I are going to take a plasma shuttle over to Sioux City twice a week to make...(get excited) $65 a week! Except they're probably not going to want my plasma now that I have the swine flu. Dang. It.

Hmm...I need to say more about coming back from Oxford, I think. Here's what I think, I think I have put the experience behind me really too quickly. It's like when you go to church camp and love God, and then go home and don't love God anymore. I mean, God is not part of what I'm talking about. Maybe that was a bad example. What I mean is I have not particularly been dwelling on my Oxford experience. Before I left, I had a goal of not coming back a pretentious tool and part of avoiding that label involves not saying things like: "you guys suck at talking. When I was at Oxford...[insert pretentious statement about how everything is better in Oxford]." Of course, I still make some random comments, but I've switched over to, "In England." Better, I think.

In almost every way I'm glad to be back. In what way am I not glad to be back? You guessed it, swine flu. But everyone in the UK will die soon as well, so whatever. I guess being in America is better because I will be living in fear for a shorter time. Other things that aren't my favorite part about being in America: I seem to always be busy, and I am sleep deprived. What is the freaking deal? "When I was at Oxford, I got loads of sleep, and I was not busy at all (except for the whole constantly doing homework thing).

On the other hand, I am happy to be back because I get to work, see people, go to class, use my cell phone, and drive my car. And lots more things. It feels like I never left.

I could talk about more ways in which I feel like I grew over there, but I don't want to.

Another thing that has happened since I got back is people saying to me: "So I hear that you decided to go to Duke instead of Princeton." (Delayed response). "Okay" [said in a "I am purposely using this tone to belittle you" tone]. What the blank is that supposed to mean? Just because "Princeton" rings a prestigious bell for you more than "Duke" doesn't mean that you know anything about what it means to go to Princeton "seminary" or Duke "divinity school." So stop being a douchebag and implying that I made a dumb decision. I did a decent amount of research about this, and I know what I'm doing. Professor Vonder Bruegge informs me that whereas Princeton is perhaps stronger in terms of Old Testament, Duke is likely stronger right now in terms of New Testament, which is where my interests lie. So get off my back yo?

Graduation is soon. Very soon. But that's okay because I will not be a real person for YEARS. It is weird when your friends start being real persons and you do not. Whatev. Everyone and their dog is engaged by now, and that is okay because I am excited for my futureless life.

Something else to say: Since I got back, I have heard my blog described as PG-13 and inappropriate. "PG-13," I say incredulously, "that's not true, my grandmas were reading it!"
"Well, well, Sara Moser will be Sara Moser." It's nice, by the way, to come back and have an identity again. Also friends. I enjoy those too. I enjoy having friends and an identity and friends who know my identity. I am thankful that I have these and sad that when I go to Duke, I will never have friends again. Wah wah.

Also, I have an apartment now and am paying rent starting today. It costs $5 a day. BooFreakingYah. Also, I have 3 male roommates. BooFreakingYah. Also, I have no furniture. BooFreakingYah. Does anyone have a spare mattress? I am VERY excited; no, I really am.

Well, many of you have asked whether I am going to continue blogging. I make no promises for the summer (but perhaps), but I will likely try and get another blog going when I go to Duke. I have really enjoyed it and think it would be beneficial for the world if I kept putting my brilliant thoughts out there. In the meantime, please don't forget about me, or I will become an empty shell of a man.

Thanks for reading.

Best,
Sara

Terminal 4 is harder to find than you might think.

Dear friends,

It has been noted that I have not updated for 17 days. My apologies. [Insert comments about how the last 2 weeks were busy]. I certainly have much to say now, though, and I will try to do it in a post that is less than a mile long.

I am home. In Rockford, Iowa. Which I might add has gotten 10x trashier since I left (the town, not my house). Has the town gotten trashier or have my standards gotten higher? Nevertheless, America is the best thing in the history of ever. And when I say America, I mean my comfortable bed, my parents, and the food that my parents give me. I want to come back to America every day of my life.

The travel home went more or less without a hitch. Getting through Heathrow turned out to be the easiest thing ever. Who would have thought? However, there was a minor discrepancy with where I needed to get off the bus. You see, I took a bus from Oxford to Heathrow terminal 5. Then I had to get on a new bus to take me to terminal 4. So I got on said bus and hoped I would know when to get off. So we drove for awhile and then got to this stop called Stirling Lane. It sure didn't look like an airport entrance but some sign vaguely referred to terminal 4 so I thought, "crap, I think I need to get off here. I better just do it!" So I dragged all my luggage quickly off the bus and disembarked into what looked like a vacant parking lot. I stood there for about 5 seconds, scanning the vacant parking lot, wondering how the bloody hell to find the Northwest ticket desk. "Hmm," I thought, "I really wish I had common sense." At this point, a kind lady ran out of the bus and said, "Are you sure you wanted to get off here?" I said, "Is this terminal 4?" She smiled and informed me that the vacant parking lot was indeed not teminal 4. Thus, I made a walk of shame back to the bus, having to haul my suitcases back on while everyone watched the idiot girl who didn't know what she was doing. The lady then proceeded to make kind small talk with me (very abnormal for a Brit). She asked me why I had been in England. "I was studying at Oxford University," I told her. I'm sure she had quite the time computing how that had gone for me, seeing as how I couldn't get off at a proper bus stop and all. Oh well, something of that sort was bound to happen.

So I reckon that the last 2 weeks wrapped up fairly well at Oxford. Well actually, the second to last week was pretty dreadful. I was writing a very dumb essay on Darwin and religion and whenever I was writing dumb essays, I always wanted to come home. Thus, that whole week I only thought about coming home. As soon as that was over, though, I could finally focus on my long essay on the non-canonical gospels. This long essay was supposed to be some huge project, showing off our ability to do serious, independent scholarship, but let's be serious, I only worked on it for about a week and didn't even read half of my primary sources. In the end, my essay ended up being fairly bad, because I had the broadest question in the history of ever. Nonetheless, I hope Albus likes it.

I went and talked to Albus two days before I left. It was absolutely glorious. He had missed me, I could tell. I said, "Albus, can we be best friends forever?" He said, "I was hoping you would ask." Then I gave him a friendship bracelet as a token of our time together. Then, in real life, he said that he had enjoyed teaching me and shook my hand. Awesome.

I have one last library story that is fairly enjoyable. I was in the library researching for my long essay, and on the top of my hand, I had earlier written "milk" in blue sharpie, because, well, I needed to remember to buy milk that night. Also that day, the lecturer in Angst class had used the word "manifesto." Since that word has special meaning for my friend Brittnee and me, I added "manifesto" in blue sharpie to my hand. Later, in the library, I was really very tired while reading, so I fell asleep on top of my hand for awhile. When I woke up, tattooed in blue ink across my left cheek read "milk manifesto." "Milk manifesto!!" Ridiculous!

In other news that is very important in my life right now, I have to retract an official decision I had made. I earlier told you that I had officially decided to go to Princeton Seminary. Well, I have now changed my mind. I am officially going to Duke Divinity School. BooYah. They came through with the money after all, making the price almost comparable to Princeton and so I said, "Hell yes, Duke, I'll see you in the fall." Actually I think I said, "It is with great pleasure that I accept this scholarship," but the sentiments are the same. I feel so much better about this decision. I had been unsettled about Princeton, but now I feel very excited about Duke. If there's one thing I learned at Oxford, it's that if academia is going to be one big mess of pretentiousness, with pretentious people being pretentious all the time (you get it, I know), then I don't want any part in it. Now Duke might be just as pretentious of an area (apparently the area has one of the highest concentrations of master's and PhD's in the country), but I figure that it's the SOUTH. People will be nice there. I used to want east coast pretentiousness and want people to just leave me alone so that I could be anti-social, but that is the absolute last thing that I want anymore. All I want to do is go somewhere where people will be nice to me. Is that a dumb request? Also, I think I thrive more in an environment where people are more conservative than me. I thought that I would more likely find that in the South. Needless to say, I am very, very excited.

So, if you can remember back to my first post ever, I started out with 3 goals:
1. View Codex Sinaiticus and Codex Alexandrinus in the British Library
2. Not eff up my GPA.
3. Learn to enjoy a good pint.

Unfortunately, I don't think I fulfilled even one of these goals. I definitely did not view the manuscripts, which was really stupid on my part. I didn't take the initiative to plan a trip to London, which I should be kicked for.

I'm not quite sure whether or not I effed up my GPA, as I didn't receive a single grade the entire time I was there. I imagine that I effed it up a little bit, but I don't think things could have turned out too terribly. I feel good about my potential Albus grades, unsure about my Angst class grade, and most fearful about my Greek grade. I later joked with Albus Jonathan that the hardest part of that class for me was that I had no one to be better than. Since I was the only student, I was consistently at the bottom of the class. Bummer. I'll be anxious to see if I maybe did better than I'm expecting.

In terms of the pints, I visited far fewer pubs than I ever thought I would. This was perhaps largely because my house was 40 minutes out of town, so it wasn't too convenient to head back into town to the pub. Plus, I generally turned down people's offers to do fun things, as I was studying.

This brings me to another point: I would say that my social interactions at Oxford were nearly a comprehensive failure. I did very poorly in this regard. I never met my "kindred spirits" so I was a floater the whole time. I don't like being a floater. It is not my preference. However, at the end of it all, I very regretted not spending more time with the majority of people. That was a large mistake on my part.

In turn, I feel as though whereas other people regretted not putting more time into their schoolwork, I do not have regrets about that. So I guess that's good, seeing as how Oxford is supposed to be the academic semester and all. I will never have an experience like this past semester again, where I have no jobs and so few obligations. Oxford was the time in my life where I could study unabashedly with few interruptions, and never in my life will I have that again. Thus, I am glad that I left without a lot of regrets about my academic performance.

Interestingly though, I do not feel like Oxford was the most intense semester I have had. By no means, actually, was it my most challenging semester. In fact, I found it rather relaxing. I don't think that all my Oxford peers would agree with me, but let's be serious, all we had to do all day was study. It was a cakewalk.

Thus, the areas in which I grew the most involved more practical things, like learning how to live in a city. That was initially very hard for me, but I eventually figured it out and even learned to enjoy it quite a bit. This will be very good for me next year, I think, as Durham will be much, much bigger than Orange City. Learning how to use maps, cross streets, and ride the bus isn't that hard after all. Who would have thought?

Well, this isn't going to be my last post here, as I know that I have forgotten things that I'd still like to write about at least once. I am heading back to Orange City very soon, and it'll be interesting to see how things go there. Thus, I will definitely update you again.

Until that time,

Best,
Sara

"I could spend every night in a different parking lot"

Dear friends,

Happy "when I wake up tomorrow, I will be flying home in 2 weeks and 1 day" day! Actually, as the number of days keeps decreasing, I'm kinda getting angsty about leaving! I just think it'll be weird. Because then I will be graduating. And then living in my car.

Speaking of living in my car, I have spent the better part of today thinking about whether I could feasibly live in my car this summer. I have considered where I could shower, what I would eat if I didn't have a refrigerator or a stove, and where I would do my laundry. I have concluded that it would not be the best summer of my life, but that I could do it, and it would be very adventurous. Orange City would definitely be a safe town for such an adventure so I hopefully wouldn't die every night.

I also began thinking about how to incorporate my dream summer into my living in my car summer. You see, my dream summer would consist of travelling around America, visiting all the different churches and church events that I possibly could. "Wow, Sara. You are so spiritual. I wish I could be as godly as you." Error. I would not be doing this for spiritual purposes. I would be doing this for "observe the crazy evangelicals" purposes. As it happens, the thing I am perhaps most obsessed with in my life is Christian culture. Everything about it fascinates me. I love bad Christian literature, bad Christian music, bad Christian merchandise, Christian colleges, etc. One of my favorite activities in the world is typing 'rapture' into the search box on youtube. Or 'evangelical.' I spend hours doing these things. Hours. I highly recommend searching for 'the Lord's boot camp' or 'jesus camp' on youtube. I never tire of watching these things. I also once planned to send notes to hundreds of campus mailboxes that said "Ready or not, here I come! -Jesus."

"Wow," you say, "I wish I had those sick fascinations. That is awesome."

Anyway! My roommate pointed out to me that if I'm going to be living in my car, I may as well do it while I'm travelling around living my dream summer. I, however, had not been swift enough to figure that out. I had instead been thinking that my car would remain parked in Orange City, and I could try to do a mini-version of "scaling the area churches" right in the land of God that I know and love. Basically, I was trying to think of ways that I could get people to feed me, and I figured, "I should go to church!" I could join a local Bible study and say things like: "God has really been laying this thought on my heart lately." Or, "I've been praying about it and I think..." Then hopefully area families would scoop me into their homes for a game of hearts and a casserole. That would be AMAZING. So if I don't have jobs or a house, I will see if I can make this happen. Then maybe I can write a book about it and be cool.

In other news, I spent 35 minutes on skype earlier with a kind admissions lady from Duke. I had emailed to withdraw my decision to attend Duke, so she had emailed and wanted to talk to me about grants, stipends, and scholarships. She told me that I have been nominated for a scholarship (which I've known for about 5 months now), and the committee is meeting for the final time on April 13th. I've obviously fallen through the cracks the other time the scholarship committee has made decisions, but apparently there's still a chance for me. It was really nice to talk to a real person about the school, since I haven't talked to a real person at either Princeton or Duke. She obviously tried to sell the school to me. I said, "Really? Remember I told you I didn't have enough money to go to your school? Now you're trying to get me to buy the place?" Hahaha...I'm so clever. I mean, she tried to make the school really appealing to me, which kind of worked, so if I do happen to get a decent scholarship, I would be very conflicted about what to do. I might have to withdraw the official decision that I made to you all that I was going to Princeton. I just want to tell these schools to "[cue Nsync] quit playing games with my heart."

I've been really conflicted about the Princeton decision, though, just because everyone and their dog from Northwestern is going there.

And that is all I have to say about that.

Today, I tried to figure out the post office again. I was determined to figure out how to buy stamps. However, as it happened, I couldn't figure out how to do it. So, I left defeated. Someday I swear I'll learn how to use a post office. Maybe while I'm living in my car.

Well, this post could be longer. (It also could be shorter.) But time is short, and I must go to bed! Cheers!

Best,
Sara

Oatmeal and Douchebags

Dear friends,

Another week has passed here in Oxford, and if I were to tell you about it, I would probably summarize it by using the words 'angst' and 'douchebag' quite frequently. "Really Sara? You would do that? That doesn't sound like you."

I've definitely gotten to that point where I wake up thinking about going home and go to bed thinking about home. I am just really so very ready to go home. I think that this program should not have given us a spring break, because it is really very hard to transition from traveling back into academia. Especially when that 'academia' no longer involves beautiful gospel topics and Albus Andrew, but nasty British landscape topics and history video series.

I am currently writing an essay on Julian of Norwich. Perhaps I should be interested, but I'm just really very not. I think that I'm not a very well-rounded person. This is unfortunate but is just how things go I reckon.

Wow, I'm writing about really boring things right now. Good thing I have a brief story that I've been saving up for awhile now. So one time I was sitting in the large, ominous, silent library while I was working on an essay. All of a sudden, I sensed that something was wrong. Music was playing. I looked up to see a guy frantically opening and closing his laptop. He had shut it, and then removed his headphones, but the music hadn't stopped. While he feverishly tried to stop the music, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He continued to make panicked motions and finally looked around at all of us staring at him. 2 seconds passed. Then, in desperation, he grabbed the laptop off the desk and literally ran out of the library, with the music still playing. The readers at the desks glanced around at each other with smirks on their faces. Ahhh, Bodleian reader bonding. Poor guy. Of course then he had to make a walk of shame back to his desk to gather the rest of his belongings. Man, I almost wish that had happened to me. Nothing bad ever happens to me anymore. It's a dang shame.

So here's something maybe you should know. I am officially going to Princeton Seminary this coming fall. Technically I've been officially going to go there for about 5 months now, when I told them I was coming, but then I also told Duke Divinity School that I was going to go there as well. Since I obviously can't go to both schools, I was going to have to tell one of them no. I finally got my financial aid notification from Duke yesterday. They are offering me $30,000 in loans. Princeton is offering me free tutition. Thus, I think I'll go to Princeton. I'd be a lunatic not to do so.

So, it's nice to have that decision made!

Except now people have started to tell me things like "New Jersey is the armpit of America." "Jersey is really dirty." "You are going to get stabbed and die." "You are going to fail and die." "You are going to get stabbed, fail, and die."

So, I guess I'm getting excited for that.

No, I reckon it'll be good. I've only gone to the east coast once, for the national spelling bee (woot woot!), so I hope it's a good fit for me. I hope that not everyone is a pretentious tool. I hate pretentious tools. One thing that I have reaffirmed while being at Oxford is that I don't particularly like to hang out with people who are like me. Hanging out with people that are all really driven and focused on success makes me super angsty. I mean, I would never want to hang out with myself, so why would I want to hang out with people who are like myself? So, basically I hope Princeton is not filled with people like me. Or maybe I can get a job at a coffee shop and hang out with people that are chill and not angsty all the time. Actually, one of my greatest desires for awhile now has been to bartend my way through seminary. We'll see if I make that happen. I think I'm too short to be a bartender. We will see.

I have also more or less officially decided that I will be spending my summer in Orange City. Of this decision, I am ridiculously pleased. Really, so very, very happy. Making the decision completely goes against the normal way I make decisions, considering I'm not sure I'll have a place to live, or jobs, and it may very well be a very financially unwise decision. Regardless, I'm doing it because I want to. Sometimes I think it's okay to do things that make you happy. Oh, and let me know if you are aware of any living/job opportunites. I mean, I may have an apartment...and a roommate...and a job...but it's still all completely undecided. I think I'll still have a job at the coffee shop, but I won't be given enough hours to only work there. I'm going to apply at Blue Mountain (swanky Orange City restaurant), and I hope to God that they hire me. Hopefully my chances are good since I think they always need help, and some of them know me from the coffee shop (which is right across the street), and I have like 6 years of experience as a server. I hope it works out. I think I have a job cleaning someone's house once a week as well. Basically, I just plan to pimp myself out to anyone that wants me to do something. (Hmm...in a completely ethical/moral way, I mean...) I adore working. Absolutely love it. I remember in high school telling one of my teachers that working was my identity. She insisted it was not. She was wrong. She's also the one that told me I would have a nervous breakdown in college. She was wrong.

Oh yes, I went to Belfast last weekend. It was absolutely glorious. Really, probably the highlight of my time in the UK. I kind of feel guilty for thinking that; I feel like I should have an Oxford highlight instead. As of right now, though, my favorite part about Oxford is the clouds. We'll see if I can make a better memory that that.

Anyway, Belfast. I stayed with/hung out with friends that I had met last spring on my SSP to Belfast. Just picture amazing, wonderful people and that would be these people. I finally got to drink my Guinness in Belfast (which I had been denied last year -- darn NW rules), and I did so while watching an apparently monumental rugby match in a pub with very enthusiastic Ireland fans. Again, amazing.

I was so glad to get away from the program here and just be in real life. I feel as though Belfast may be that place that I'll always try to return to in my life. That can be a life goal.

Well, I did that thing again where I wrote for a long time about completely inconsequential things. Now I'm going to go make oatmeal. I'm planning to not buy groceries for my last three weeks here and instead live off of a bag of oatmeal. I always end up doing this weird thing where I deprive myself of groceries in order to meet some strange goal that I've set. It's okay though, mom, because I got a real meal for lunch during the Angst/Douchebag classes, and then I just have to fend for myself at supper. Basically, I'm a stronger breed than most humans.

Yes, well, that is that. Hope you're doing well.

Best,
Sara

"Come Back To Me, Albus Andrew. Come Back To Me Is My Request."

Dear friends,

Another Thursday=another blog post. However, this time I have not emerged fresh out of another tutorial experience. And what a grim day it was.

Today marked the beginning of the portion of my time here that the program has so aptly titled "Angst: A Historiographic Approach to the Methodologies of How to Make You as Angsty as Possible." I've always wanted to get credits for angst. Now the opportunity is mine to seize. The participants in my program sometimes refer to the Angst class as British Landscapes, just so they can pretend to their schools and families that they are learning something substantial and worthy of credit at their home institution. Underneath this fondly assigned label, though, we all know that the class is very terrible and lives up to its name by being properly angst-inducing.

So, now that tutorials are over, I have 3 main things going on.
#1. Angst Class
#2. Writing and researching for my "Dissertation"
#3. Douchebag Seminar

"Wow," you think, "I have got to get me into that Oxford program. A Douchebag Seminar sounds right up my alley."

To elaborate further, my entire schedule has been changed drastically. You see, the Oxford term consists of eight weeks of tutorials. Then, all the students go home until the next term. There are 3 eight week terms throughout the year. Thus, I have finished the real Oxford portion, and we are now doing fake Oxford things so that we can fulfill requirements at our home institutions and be allowed to do this whole study abroad thing. Thus, a normal day for me now will consist of waking up early, vying for the shower at the same time as forty other douchebags in my house, and then playing a game called: "Try as hard as you can to walk the 35-minute path alone and avoid 40 other douchebags walking in the same direction." I failed miserably at the game this morning.

Upon arrival at 9:30am, we immediately settle in for a one hour film that hurls us wildly through British history. 10:30 brings tea time while I sit amongst a crowd and think about how angsty everyone is making me. 11:00 brings another one hour lecture about something British and landscape-ish. 12:00 brings lunch. Yay free lunch (that my tuition paid for)!! Then we're all supposed to scurry off and spend the rest of our lives in the library until the next day starts. I only have 2 essays to write for this class, but the topics that I have to pick from are very terrible. From my first day of "class," I can summarize what I learned by dropping a few names, but not knowing at all what those people did. How unfortunate.

The Douchebag Seminar began today as well. Some people refer to this as the Integrative Theology Seminar, but again, we all know what it really consists of. This was maybe the angstiest hour of my life because 8 students and 1 facilitator sat in a pretentious circle and talked about pretentious things that were completely pointless. All we did was talk about theology in some horribly abstract way and use words and phrases like "patterns of judgment," and "metaphysics." Actual mention of the Bible occurred very few times. I utterly despise theology in the abstract. There are things I can appreciate about biblical theology--a lot of things--and overall, I think it can be a quite worthy enterprise. However, there are terrible ways to go about theology, and I think that my Douchebag Seminar is going to be a crash course in worthless ways to discuss theology. (Of course, you perhaps should realize that this is me talking. I evaluate most things in a pessimistic manner. However, in my opinion, the Douchebag Seminar is worthy of rampant pessimism.)

The one thing that does make me happy is the prospect of working on my dissertation. The only problem is that I don't have much time to devote to that since I have the Angst and Douchebag classes eating into my time. I don't know why pointless things have to infringe upon my scholarship. Angst.

In other news, I did just return from Wales. Wales was perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. It was a very chill trip. We hung out, went to castles, and hiked a mountain. The hike was probably my favorite part. I like to accomplish things.

Tomorrow will consist of a field trip to a cathedral somewhere north of London and then I will depart at 1am to catch a bus to airport where I will board a flight to Belfast. Even though I just got back from break, I really need another one. Belfast will be wonderful. I'll arrive Saturday morning and leave Sunday night so it will be a very quick trip, but I am terribly excited.

There is perhaps more I could write about, but I must really get to bed in preparation for the early morning "fight 40 douchebags for the shower" game.

Best,
Sara

"Please don't forget me, Albus"

Dear friends,

One thing that I have realized about this blog is that I have gone about it all wrong. I don't ever really tell you what I'm actually doing in Oxford. In fact, mostly all I have done is try to tell you interesting stories while seeing how many times I could possibly insert the word 'angst' into a blog post. I realized this when a friend told me that she had directed someone who wanted to go to Oxford to visit my blog. This person is really going to learn nothing about Oxford, but rather only a lot about this strange 'Albus Andrew' figure who has taken over my life. That is all to say, I don't much care if I have gone about this blog wrongly. I, in fact, hate reading boring study abroad blogs that say things akin to: "Today I visited a castle. It was beautiful. God lived in the castle. I like God. I like castles. Therefore, I like castles with God in them." No thank you. I prefer my methods.

That being said, get ready for a new batch of stories about my tutorial experiences.

Today I had my last tutorial ever with Albus Andrew. It was a sad, but glorious hour. I was glad to see when I came in that he had lit the fireplace, likely in anticipation of avoiding my freak show of shivering on his sofa. We went through the usual routine of him saying, "Right, let's see how you got on then," and then me reading my essay on the fourfold Gospel aloud to him. When I had finished reading my last sentence [which happened to be a BAMF sentence], there was the usual long pause in which my mind races wildly while I try to figure out by his facial expression whether or not he liked it. Then he said:
Albus: "Let me start with a broad question. What are you doing next year? Have your plans for seminary come together yet?"
(Um what? Albus? Fourfold Gospel? Remember...we were talking about it?)
Sara: "Um, no. As of right now, both Princeton and Duke think I'm coming there in the fall. I'm going to need to remedy that at some point."
Albus: "And what do you want to do eventually?"
Sara: "Well, I've kind of been thinking for awhile that I wanted to use seminary as a stepping-stone to a doctoral program and go into academia, but Oxford has made me doubt that a lot. I mean, I doubted it everyday of my life before I came here, but Oxford has magnified that."
Albus: "Why?"
Sara: "[insert weaknesses and lack of abilities here]" I'm just not sure that I'm cut out to handle what would be expected of me."

At this point, Albus and I transitioned into territory that we had never ventured into before. We talked about the more personal topic of whether or not I suck at life. Albus lapsed into a 10-minute segment where he told me that he, in fact, thought I did not suck at life at all. He said many very good things that people should not reproduce on their blogs unless they wish to be written off as a pretentious jerk. Basically, he affirmed that he thought I was quite capable and he told me that it would be "disastrous" if I left Oxford thinking that I wasn't cut out for academia, because that just wasn't true at all.

To some of these comments I responded: "Yes well, I often feel as though I can be confident in my writing and my ability to express the content in an essay, but as I'm sure you've seen in our tutorials, I often struggle more with my ability to express things well verbally."

Albus Andrew thought about this and said that he had never thought that I couldn't articulate myself well, and that he had always thought I had responded relatively well to his questions.

Sara: "Well, maybe I'm just too hard on myself sometimes. I tend to be very hard on myself."

He agreed that if I felt like I was doing poorly, then it was because I was setting impossible standards for myself. I said, "I know I do this, but it's very difficult not to do this." Seriously. I don't know how to be a normal person that can be satisfied with the quality of my work. I may have the poorest self-esteem when it comes to academics of anyone that I know. Actually, it's bi-polar self-esteem. Sometimes I can feel very confident about my ability to do well, but most of the time the feeling of imminent failure overrides everything. I happened to be reading back through my facebook status reports over the last 3 years [lame activity, yes I know], but it was interesting to see how many times I had talked about failing at life. "Sara is upset to be failing at life." "Sara is happy that she has avoided failing at life." I really wish I would get over this. I remember one time my junior year getting a 95 on a paper and after seeing the grade, going on a failure walk in which I reprimanded myself by chanting: "failure, failure" to the tune of my footsteps. [WOW, these are maybe not things I should write in a blog]. Suffice it to say, I know that I'm not normal, and I know that I beat myself up too much, but I also know that I will always be this way. I don't see a shift in optimism coming my way.

Having expressed these sentiments about always doubting my abilities, I feel as though having Albus Andrew affirm me so greatly can give me a little boost to think back on in the future. Albus Andrew knows really nothing about me, and he has absolutely no reason to give me praise if I didn't deserve it, and yet he did. Thus, perhaps I can do things decently from time to time. I very much appreciated the opportunity to start from the bottom, and prove myself to him, even though it made me angsty as heck back in the day.

I was recently told that I shouldn't feel as though I have anything to prove, but I do. I really, really do. Maybe I shouldn't operate from this basis, but again, I have no idea how to not.

I was thinking the other day about how this whole tutorial experience has been quite similar to the first time I went skiing (which was only about 3 months ago). I, in fact, am generally quite terrible at physical endeavors such as these. In middle school basketball, when I was put in the game during the last quarter because we had basically already lost, I never ever made a basket. I would have dreams in which I scored points for the team, but in real life, I'm not sure I ever even took a shot. Needless to say, the prospects for my success in skiing were not high. Nonetheless, after about 2 hours of training, "Ski Master Dave" pointed and asked me if I was ready to go down "that hill." Having never gone skiing before and having absolutely no idea what "that hill" entailed, I enthusiastically agreed that I thought I was ready to conquer the hill.

The thing is, I had no idea that the hill, that I will forever refer to with a distinct string of cuss words, was roundabout a 18 mile straight shot to the bottom (of course you know this is not true). Thus, as I started confidently down the hill, I suddenly realized that I HAD NOT LEARNED HOW TO SLOW DOWN. "Hmm," I thought, "I am going really very quickly. There is a fence coming up." [insert lots of cussing, screaming, and crashing here]. This process continued as I picked myself up and hurled myself down the next stretch of death.

As I got into one horrible, death-defying crash after another and was continually helped up by a little boy, I realized that I could not quit because I had to somehow make it down the hill. Thus, I simply could not quit. Unless I died in the process, I had to keep going down that hill.

Why in the world am I telling you this? Because the whole process of my tutorials with Albus Andrew has been a little bit like having to get down that hill. As he would ask me a question and I would flounder and crash in a cloud of my own self-induced failure, I HAD to come up with an answer to his question. I could not quit. I had to get to the bottom.

As my day of skiing continued, I went back to the bunny hill and learned how to turn and how to slow down. After about 4 hours of this, I tried "that hill" again, and I made it the whole way down without falling. Amazing. The past three weeks with Albus Andrew have been like making it to the bottom without falling. In today's tutorial, I may have even won the prize for having the "maddest skillz."

That, my friends, is how my skiing experience is relevant.

I will very much miss my tutorial experience. Every evening (or the wee hours of the morning) when I would finish my essay, and the last pages dropped down into the printer tray, I went through a bit of a stapler ritual. For some reason, in my attempts to staple two separate copies of my essays, I would always staple one of the copies poorly. The other copy, however, I usually managed to staple very well. I would then meticulously check to make sure that I gave Albus Andrew the copy with the nice staple. Not that he ever would have noticed if he got the essay with a staple slightly askew, but oh my was this stapling process important to me.

Well, well...perhaps I have packed enough angst into this post to hold us all over into the next week. It should be pointed out, however, that Oxford is currently going quite well. Tomorrow will be my last Greek tutorial with Albus Jonathan and on Saturday morning I will depart for a 5 day trip to Wales. Of this, I am greatly pleased. I think it will be a delightful time.

I do thank you for reading these thoughts of mine. Perhaps I share more than I should on a public blog, but I believe that authenticity is one of the things I value most in life.

And on that note...

Best,
Sara

Nerds are better in the Rainbow Pack.

Dear friends,

Two weeks have lapsed since my last blog post. My apologies: [insert boring comments about how busy I've been here.]

I'm sorry to say that nothing terrible has happened to me in quite awhile. I mean, come on, am I going to write about good things? I am nowhere near witty enough to make good things entertaining. My tutorials have been going really well lately. Last week, I finished reading my essay on why the Gospel of John was written, and after giving me no feedback for five weeks, Albus Andrew (without even looking up from my essay) said carefully:
"Well Sara, I don't know that I agree with everything you have said, but that is one of the best essays I have heard. Your other essays were good, but this one is really excellent."
(2 seconds of stunned, awkward silence)
(tentative tone) "Thank you."
(3 seconds of awkward silence)

Sweet Jesus.

I was in shock for about the next five minutes and had to force myself to be chill and not smile. I don't think I did a very good job of this because I was so distracted by his compliment that I couldn't concentrate on his questions for awhile. I forced myself to repress my joy for the next hour until I left his office and could smile like a giddy school-girl as I walked to the library. That moment will forever remain a moment that I can think back upon when I am convinced that I can do nothing adequately.

Ironically though, his good comment contributed to more angst in the coming week as I had now set a standard for myself that I didn't want to fall below. I HATE setting standards for myself, but this is a recurring theme in my life. My own expectations haunt me.

In other news, I've spent the past two tutorials with Albus Andrew shivering uncontrollably on his couch [that is, I was the one doing the shivering--this would not be ambiguous if I were blogging in Greek (how fun would that be?)]. The first week, before I had noticed that I was visibly shaking, he stopped mid-sentence and said:
"(Irish lilt) Are you okay? Are you warm enough?"
"Oh, uh, am I? ... I'm okay."

After this, I vowed to take a sweatshirt but conveniently forgot again this morning.

"Albus, will you turn on your fireplace, pretty please? Because I am freaking cold." Unfortunately, he didn't pick up on the subliminal messages I tried to send him by staring longingly at the fireplace, and this time he didn't comment on the shivering which made the fact that I was shaking uncontrollaby all the more awkward. I'm sure that he was wondering how to deal with me when I looked like such an angsty freak. Ahh well, good old Albus.

For an Albus Jonathan update:
Albus Jonathan: "Do you feel like there's a general sense of gloom among the program right now?"
Me: "Uh, I'm not really sure. I feel a lot less stressed than most people in this program. And I've been getting more sleep this semester than any other semester in my college career."

Yes, I really said that. Why the heck did I say that? Albus Jonathan then proceeded to quadruple the amount of Greek homework for my next tutorial.

Note to self: Always appear angsty.

Oh yes, one more thing, I totally taught Albus Andrew the word 'discombobulate' today. I used it in my paper and he said: "I have never seen that word in my life. What [the crap] does it mean?" I felt happy about this. I guess the word does look completely messed up.

In more shallow news, on my walk to the grocery store today, I stopped in a thrift store and found the most amazing trendy euro boots ever for 5 pounds. These are the sort of trendy euro boots that beckon me from the store windows with their nasty price tag of 30-50 pounds. Thus, I should probably pull an evangelical and say: "It was a God thing. It was as if God wanted me to have those shoes." I'm sure that was it. I mean, what else could it be?

Here is an awkward thing: My next essay topic is: "A theological opportunity or a historical problem--what should we make of the fourfold gospel?" The awkward part is that Albus Andrew put one of the books that he has written on the topic on my bibliography. I mean, of course I am going to read his book, but do I cite it in my essay? I feel as if that would be overly awkward. What would be exceptionally awkward would be if I were to quote him in my paper. Then I would be reading aloud my essay to him and quoting him. Sketchy. How would I phrase that? "As you comment in your book..." No way, dude. Any advice on how to deal with this predicament? Because if I don't cite it, I don't want him to think I completely ignored his book. Oh the trials of studying under tutors that are undoubtable BAMFs.

Well, I apologize that this post was rather mundane. Maybe another natural disaster will come my way in the next week. We can only hope.

Best,
Sara

Ps, I've gotten some amazing mail lately. Thank you greatly for your kindness. :)

"The Flooded Cowpath"

Dear Friends,

My regular Thursday blog post has turned into a Saturday post this week because Albus Andrew pushed back my Thursday tutorial to Friday, thereby entirely confusing my normal routine. That is to say, need not worry that I died.

I have found that I usually like to start out these posts by regaling you with the tale of my latest debacle. The angsty situtation for this week can properly be deemed: "The Flooded Cowpath."

Alas, think back to the angsty situation of two posts past--the canceled tutorial and the snow-covered, icy hill--that story should transition quite nicely into this story because lots and lots of snow, when melted, turns into lots and lots of water.

As I set out last Friday morning for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan, clicking down the lane with my newly attained trendy Euro boots, I thought I might take the scenic footpath that winds blissfully around one of the university parks. However, I hadn't gone too far down this path when I came to a locked door preventing me from going any further across the bridges (locked doors are becoming a bit of a motif, aren't they?). Considering the situation, I deduced that the water was too high, and that the path had flooded and I would have to go around. I then proceeded to click much more quickly with my trendy Euro boots, as I now had to trace my steps back and then take an entirely different path. I might also mention that at this point, the newly attained trendy Euro boots had caused a blister the size of a golf ball to form on my right foot. Regardless, I did not want to be late for my tutorial with Albus Jonathan so I clicked feverishy on.

When I had gotten a little ways down the new path, a friendly British woman with even more trendy Euro boots stopped and informed me that the path I was heading towards was completely flooded over.
"Oh no," I said, glancing at her knee-high trendy Euro boots, "what did you do? Did you get wet?"
"No, I didn't go through--it's too deep--I turned around."

The blasted snow was going to get the best of me once more.

I was already running slightly behind for my tutorial, and if I were to turn around now and pick another new path, I would be at least 40 minutes late. Thus, having not yet seen the water level, I forged ahead. As I rounded the corner and the field path came into view, I saw that the path was indeed covered with nearly a foot of what could not be described as gently, gurgling water. However, having no choice at this point, I stooped down, pulled off my newly attained trendy Euro boots and socks, rolled up my pants like a young girl excited to go frog-hunting, and moved my way confidently into the gushing stream.

I cannot say that this was a good idea.

I did remember that it happened to be the middle of the winter while I was wading through the foot of ICE COLD water. Thus, I did what any girl would do as she waded barefoot through 300 yards of frigid terror. I cussed unabashedly.

When I got to the other side, my pants were soaked up to the thigh from the splashing water, and I was very, very cold. I shoved my feet back into my trendy Euro boots, minus the socks, and hoped that I had not contracted syphilis by wading through the water with my golf ball sized blister. Now being about 15 minutes from the location of my tutorial, I thought that I might be able to make it without dying.

I arrived finally at the house and was greeted by a nice lad and ushered in. Albus Jonathan poked his head into the doorway.
"Hello Sara."
"Hi," (looking downward) "It seems I got my pants quite wet. The cowpath is really flooded. Is there by chance a girl around that I might borrow some pants from?" (Remember, Albus Jonathan is the RD-type person for the other house students live in).

Albus Jonathan looked around and found me a girl who provided me with a lovely pair of sweatpants and put my own soaked pants in the dryer. I then proceeded to have a wonderful tutorial with Albus Jonathan in my socks and newly attained sweatpants. Having finished, I retrieved my warm and dry pants from the dryer, returned the lovely sweatpants, and headed out for the rest of my day in town.

Roughly six hours later, as I was walking back to my home for the evening, something struck me. Pants, in British-English mean UNDERWEAR. Thus, I had arrived for my tutorial, promptly informed my tutor that I had gotten my underwear wet, and asked if I might borrow some dry underwear from a nearby female. Oh. My. Goodness. I laughed joyfully all the way home. I had always been worried, and therefore conscientious, that I was going to make that mistake, but in the aftermath of my angst-filled debacle, I had completely forgotten to make the differentiation. Dearest me.

You ought to be glad, you know, that I have no common sense and get myself into these situations. They're probably going to end up being the highlight of my trip.

In other news, since last week I have comsumed my first, and second, Guinness. I am quite pleased that I enjoyed it as doing such was I believe my third listed goal in coming here. I have found a friend that enjoys going to the pub and discussing theology over drinks. Of this, I am most glad. A discussion of universalism makes a pint go down so much more smoothly.

I hate to tell you this, but I am enjoying Oxford a lot lately. A lot, a lot. I enjoy the clicking of my trendy Euro boots as I travel the 45 minutes into the city--I enjoy the crowded streets--and I especially enjoy the books I read and the essays I produce. I had a chat this past week with the "cutest, most brilliant English woman in the history of ever"/senior tutor for our program. When I had submitted to her the required progress report for how I thought my tutorials were going, I had mentioned that I was a bit concerned because Albus Andrew never gave me any feedback, and therefore I wasn't necessarily sure how to improve. She imformed me that Albus Andrew, in his own progress report on me, had reported that I was doing really very well.
"Albus! I wish you would tell ME that!"
He had also offered to be my long essay/"dissertation" advisor, which is not the norm, as he is an outside tutor. Thus, I'm going to get to keep Albus Andrew for another 4 weeks after my tutorial finishes.

I'm starting to like Albus Andrew so much. During my tutorial yesterday, I just wanted to give him a hug and bake him a casserole. Nonetheless, doing such might be the most inappropriate thing possible one could do to one's tutor. Also, I've never baked a casserole. Do you even bake a casserole? Or do you cook it? No one really knows.

For next week's tutorial, I get to describe and account for the distinctive emphases of the Gospel of John and answer why it was written. I am SO excited. As I begin doing some of my reading, I remembered/realized that John is most certainly my favorite Gospel. It is the best. I could definitely be a Johannine scholar and spend the rest of my life steeped in that literature. Not only does the 4th evangelist present a superhuman Jesus as speaking "as no man has ever spoken" (7:46), but he also portrays Jesus in a very human way--getting tired, weeping, having friends, engaging in long drawn-out discussions with his opponents (rather than the polished one-liners of the Synoptics). John is both so hard and so easy to understand. Scholars have described it anecdotally as a Gospel in which both an elephant can swim and a child can wade. Needless to say, I am super excited for this week's studies.

Also, to keep you updated, I have decided to do my "dissertation" on what the non-canonical Gospels offer to the discussion of the historical Jesus. I ended up picking this because it was the topic Albus Andrew had offered to advise me on, and I thought having his input would be fantastic as he is currently writing a book on the non-canonical Gospels. Booyah. Can't beat that eh? And he's going to hook me up with a super sweet bibliography.

Alas, I should probably go read now. It s a delightfully beautiful day and perhaps even warm enough to lounge outside with my books. Joy.

Best,
Sara

Bastard Stew and Things of the Like

Dear friends,

First, a collection of interesting tidbits and short narratives:

I recently googled Albus Andrew. (I'm apologize that all of my posts are about Albus Andrew, but he provides for such fantastic blogging opportunities.) Anyway, googling your tutor is a terrible idea. Besides seeing all the great scholarship that he has done thus far, I found this report: "[Albus] Andrew is a skinheaded nutcase who needs to be locked up." "Gee," I thought, "I sure hope that's not my Albus Andrew." After that, I thought it best to close the web browser.

I'm assuming that Albus Jonathan feels quite left out seeing as how Albus Andrew gets all the attention. No worries, for Albus Jonathan provided for his own moment of glory during our first meeting. As we were discussing my translation of Xenophon and his Persian Expedition (biblical Greek, I long for you...), we got to a point where dear Xenophon, (or was it Kyros?) anyway, one of them was hunting game. Peculiar game he seemed to be hunting--ostriches, wild asses, things of the like. This being the case, when I asked my tutor what a certain Greek word meant and he replied that it was a bastard, you can only imagine why I would take it as natural that Xenophon was hunting wild asses and bastards. Perhaps a peculiar sport to the modern mind, but who doesn't like to enjoy a hot bastard stew?

It was only later when I had gone back to my translation on my own and come across the bastards in another section that I realized that, in fact, Albus Jonathan had replied that the word in question was "bustard" -- apparently a large, ground-running bird. Goodness me! Those English accents are tricky to say the least.

And again back to Albus Andrew: during the small talk portion that typically concludes our tutorial, Albus Andrew calmly asked me in his pleasant Irish lilt:
"Have you begun working on your dissertation yet?"
"Crap Albus Andrew! Making it through one of your tutorials is enough of a tenuous affair, don't you think we should deal with improving my competency therein before discussing my dissertation? Who ARE you?"
Nonetheless, I found out fairly quickly that he was referring to the long essay that I will write as a culmination of my time here.
"Of right," I said, "my twelve page dissertation." "No, I have not particularly begun my work on that."

I then rather cautiously asked him if it was typical to refer to such projects as dissertations. He looked as though he thought I was trying to trick him and answered cautiously himself: "I guess I'd use it to refer to any longer piece of writing."

"Dear Northwestern College,
I went to Oxford to write a dissertation. Now do you think you could give me those freaking honors cords?
Just checking in,
Sara"

In other news that is perhaps the coolest news you've ever heard, I found out that N. T. Wright did his preparation for the Anglican ministry at Wycliffe Hall, which is the hall I'm associated with here. In case you don't know, N. T. Wright is a BAMF. I hope someday I can be a BAMF just like him. I probably sit in his favorite spot in the library, where he planned to write a million great books. You don't get that everyday at Ramaker eh?

In terms of one bit that is more anecdotal: a friend of mine here described the British as those "walking along looking sad in their peacoats." Sometimes when I'm out in public, I'll catch myself smiling for some reason or another, and I have to immediately put a stop to that. The same friend described the Brits' reaction to having a stranger smile at them: (tear eyes away viciously) "OMG, I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAW THAT." However, I have befriended in the slightest sense an adorable, older librarian in the theology faculty library. Today he commented on how I seemed to be clutching my red, frayed New Oxford Annotated Bible like it was such a precious thing. Once I told him about how when I hold it noticeably in public, God takes note of my righteousness, then he understood. He wanted one too, I could tell.

You might be interested to know that I have been considerably less angsty this whole past week. I feel as though I'm adjusting more and more, and my roommates and I have been interacting more so as besties lately. To illustrate the comfort level I have gained with them, I felt okay asking them the other night whether or not Philadelphia was a state. In retrospect, I really shouldn't ask questions like that outside of my head, but I had already shut down my computer and thus had no access to wikipedia. Geography really is my most terrible subject. It took me years to remember that London went with England and Paris went with France.

I think part of the change in my perspective is that I have realized that I will never "succeed" here in any sense of the word. As long as I am here, I am utterly, irreversibly dumb. Instead of being angsty about this, I have decided to enjoy it. I have decided to enjoy having no idea whether or not Albus Andrew thinks I'm a daft fool. In fact, it's really quite nice to not get grades on my essays. I will still get a final grade, but I will have absolutely no idea what that might be until I see it on my transcript. How about that for a angsty, obsessive, perfectionist eh?

I still wonder countless times each day whether or not I would find joy in a future in academia. I doubt my abilities so very, very much. The Oxford programme of study has a way of exposing all of my weaknesses, all the time. For this, I am both perpetually angsty and eternally grateful. Sometimes, I have this great fear that I might accidentally end up as a pastor. I don't know how one goes about becoming a pastor by "accident," but sometimes I worry that it will happen to me. I think that might be the worst thing I could foresee in the history of ever. I really have no idea what I'm going to do with my future.

So back to my dissertation, and here I readily welcome your advice because I have to make a big decision. I need to pick a topic within a week, and I have two topics that I really quite want to pursue.

a.) How important are non-canonical gospels as sources for the historical Jesus?
Thus, in terms of what we might be able to conclude regarding a historical account of the person of Jesus, might what we find, for instance, in the Gospel of Thomas or the Gospel of Peter be of any help?
Truly, this could be a really good time.

b.) My other option is to do something with textual criticism, which is what I was supposed to do my honors research on at NW before that fell through.
For those who might not be familiar with textual criticism, it refers to the process of trying to restore the original words of the New Testament manuscripts. The field of textual criticism exists because the original manuscripts of the New Testament do not.
Thus, I would pick an interesting variant that runs contrary to what is printed in most Bibles today, and I would explore perhaps why that variant was either introduced into the text or eliminated from the text.

For example, at the end of Luke's account of Jesus' baptism, the text reads: "And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased" (3:22 NRSV). However, some of the manuscripts read something more akin to "You are my son, today I have begotten you." Now if you want to go all Bart Ehrman-esque, you might say that here we have an instance of orthodox corruption of the text--scribes smoothing out portions that might be preyed upon by various heresies. In particular, a heresy of the day that might be quite fond of the "today I have begotten you" reading would be that of the adoptionists--those who believed that Jesus was not divine at all, and had been more or less adopted at his baptism to be God's son. Thus, if Luke's original text read "today I have begotten you," then perhaps good-intentioned scribes smoothed over this a little, resulting in a reading that did not lend itself so easily to an adoptionist interpretation.

Wow, I did not plan to write so much. It's boring, yes I know. But I find it FASCINATING.
So, you get to help me, which sounds more interesting to you?

Okay now on to something more interesting: the other night I had what I'd like to refer to as "the best idea in the history of ever." While browsing flight prices on Ryanair.com, my roommate mentioned that she didn't even know what country most of the listed flights went to. After nodding my affirmation of this, I wondered aloud, "wouldn't it be fun to just book a flight to a city with a cool name and then just find out what country you were in when you got there?"

As one might imagine, this quickly became a "that's the coolest idea ever, and let's go and do it and remember it forever!" sort of thing. Thus, my roommates and I plan to book a 5 pound flight to a city with a cool sounding name and then figure out what to do once we get in that country. Is that perhaps not the most brilliant idea you've ever heard? It's going to be fantastic. I hope we don't die.

Well, seeing as how I have again written a ridiculously long post, I must now go prepare myself for Greek tutorial #2 with Albus Jonathan tomorrow. I do wonder what Xenophon might be hunting this week. Hopefully, another [insert expletive of choice] stew will be in order.

Best,
Sara

Dear Friends,

If a short film were to be made of my life as it took shape this morning, it would be perhaps the most wonderful short film you had ever seen. Why? Because other people's pain is glorious.

I would now like to tell you about what I will forever remember as:
"the worst morning of my life."

To begin, remember when I fondly recounted the recent snowfall to you and told you it was glorious and made me feel like I was at home? Well, I have quickly learned that snow in Oxford is a wholly different entity than snow in Iowa. People in Oxford do not know what to do with snow. They definitely do not scoop it, but rather think it wise to take care of it by letting passers-by pack it down with their trendy Euro boots. They don't seem to understand that simply packing the snow down turns the footpaths into paths of death.

Thus, after spending an angst-ridden night, and for that matter, an angst ridden week, writing a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad essay on a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad topic, I ventured out for what would presumably be a most dismal tutorial.

Fortunately, the morning offered to me about 5 inches of beautiful, fresh, fluffy snow.

Unfortunately, the snow lost its appeal the first time I stepped in it with my low-rise, white sneakers and ankle socks.

I spent the next 35 minutes making the walk to University College to meet my tutor. This proved especially precarious on the hill that I usually refer to with lots of cuss words, as my shoes have not even a hint of traction. I fell and died only once, but since I was firmly clutching my frayed, red New Oxford Annotated Bible, God took note of my righteousness and saved me from sliding off the hill to be hit by the oncoming buses.

My growing angst at this point can hardly even be translated into the written word. Suffice it to say, within 5 minutes, my shoes, socks, and pant legs were thoroughly saturated. I was cold and with every step I took, continually at the risk of falling to a death I was starting to welcome.

When I arrived at last at University College, I leaned against the building wall with a crazed look in my eyes. Not only was Albus Andrew going to rip me to shreds for an hour, but he was going to rip me to shreds for an hour while I had sloshy, wet, cold feet. Unbridled angst held me tight in its grasp.

Nonetheless, I forced myself to go to his study one minute before 9.00--I no longer arrive early, because that translates into more time for my self-esteem to be crushed. However, when I got to the big red door that led to his office, the door without a doorknob was shut firmly. Since I had one time seen him get that door open by opening it trickily from the top, I thought perhaps he was now testing my physical strength as well as my mental strength. I thought to myself, "Albus Andrew! That is not kind of you! You know that I am really quite short. I cannot reach the top of the door in order to trickily open it like you do. Albus Andrew, I think your trick is beastly."

Thus, I began to knock loudly on the door, but not too loudly in case he was praying with someone or something awkward like that (I mean, he is a chaplain). Seeing as how this was to no avail, I sat dejectedly on the wooden stairs across from his office and thought about taking pictures of how angsty and forlorn I looked so I could entertain you with my most unfortunate situation. At this point, I was still convinced that Albus Andrew was indeed behind that door and was eventually going to come out and upbraid me for being late.

Now, while my angst was dripping on the floor, someone started heavily trudging up the stairs. "Albus Andrew? Is that you?" I put on my most forlorn face so that he would see how neglected and abandoned I looked. I mean, I know Jesus says:

"When you [are angsty], do not look somber as the hypocrites do, for they disfigure their faces to show men they are [angsty]. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you [are angsty], put oil on your head and wash your face, so that it will not be obvious to men that you are [angsty], but only to your Father, who is unseen; and your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."

However, I thought: "Screw it, Jesus. Albus Andrew needs to know."

Much to my chagrin, it was not Albus Andrew, but rather an unknown man who looked at me while taping a note to Albus Andrew's big red door without a doorknob.

"Tutorials canceled today."

I might have just as well died right then and there.

"Jesus? I know I don't believe in the rapture and I'm sorry for that, but I've changed my mind. I think the rapture is great. Will you please come right now? Please Jesus?"

Why Albus Andrew? WHY?? There was nothing I could do at this point except for cry a little and turn around to go home. Suffice it to say, the walk home was perhaps even worse because my pants were now soaked almost to the knee, and it is much harder to walk up a treacherous, icy hill.

At this point, the crazed look in my eyes could have made the park rapists feel uneasy.

When I arrived home, after an hour and 45 minutes of a purposeless trip. I checked my email.

"Sara and Grace,
I am sorry, but I will have to postpone our tutorials this morning - my daughter's school has been shut."

"Your daughter's school has been shut? Well, as quaint as that is Albus Andrew, perhaps you could have NOT sent this email 16 minutes after I last checked my email before leaving the house to come meet you."

In a point of irony, I noticed that he signed his email, "Best, [Albus] Andrew." I don't even want to speculate on whether or not I should appreciate that or not. What is perhaps the worst part is that the tutorial now has to be rescheduled, and I now feel obligated to make my abysmal esssay better seeing as I have more time. Drat Drat Drat.

However, I guess it's always kind of refreshing to have one of those mornings where you can chant to the beat of your footsteps: "I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life..I..hate..my..life." It's clearly therapeutic to be in the throes of despair.

Well, I feel most joyful that I was able to share that with you. I actually had many other fun stories to share, but they will have to wait because this event clearly deserves a post of its own.

Best,
Sara

Highlighters and Cadbury Eggs

Dear friends,

I have almost completed my second week of tutorials. I kind of feel as though this experience may end up being akin to working at summer camp in that you hate it so much, but it's still so good. I often feel as though academia is comprised of 99% angst and 1% pure joy. However, that 1% of pure joy makes the 99% of pure angst worth it in some masochistic way.

I left my tutorial this morning rife with angst. It may have been because while I wasn't looking, Albus Andrew slipped a note into my folder that read thusly:

"Dear Sara,

You suck at life.

Sincerely,

Albus Andrew"

Okay, maybe that didn't actually happen, but it did in my mind. In order to bring surcease to my perceived pain, I bought highlighters and cadbury eggs and looked at trashy British Valentine's cards. After this, I felt much better. I think I may have to give myself an allowance of 2 or 3 pounds that I can spend after my tutorial so I can eat my feelings or lose my identity in materialism.

One thing that though seemingly minor struck me as a big deal during this tutorial is that when I used the word "lambastes" in my essay, he crossed out the 'e.' Upon checking the spelling on dictionary.com and fnding out that I had in fact been correct, I lamented:

"Albus Andrew! I am not so much of a daft fool that I spelled a word wrong on my first page in my second sentence! I would never do that! I mean, I don't know if you've perhaps heard about me, but I'm kind of a big deal in the spelling bee world--I've competed in 9 formal spelling bees! Please Albus Andrew, I know I suck at life, but I do NOT spell words wrong in my essays."

Yes, this was exceedingly minor compared to my vast lack of knowledge about Judaism, the topic about which he wished to discuss in depth, but since it was something I could have control over, I will likely dwell on it forever.

In other news, I spent 45 minutes in Starbucks on Tuesday morning listening to a presumably CRAZY man. As I was reading diligently, he came up to me and asked if he might sit in the chair across from me. Considering that there was an empty comfy chair beside me, while all the other chairs were just well, chairs, I figured he just really wanted to sit in a comfy chair. I told him that he could of course sit there and then re-inserted my earbuds and continued to read diligently. The man in question then proceeded to clear his throat and start talking about the weather until I took out my earbuds out and looked at him. This, in retrospect, was a mistake. He asked me what I was studying and when I told him theology, he asked me when my birthday was.

"December," I replied.
"What day?"
"the 23rd"
"what year?"
"1986"
(Should I be delineating the nuances of my birthdate for this strange man who told me he was British but definitely has an accent I can't understand?)
"Oh, well that makes sense that you would be studying theology if you were born on that day."

He then proceeded to tell me about the planet Venus and how I could tell what direction in which the sun rose. This led him into a disastrously long story about a prime minister, which in turn caused him to remember the time he had met Elvis Presley on the streets of Oxford when Elvis was a young boy. During all of this, he never once stopped talking. I quickly realized that I was not going to be able to return to my diligent reading, and stated plotting means of escape. As I began making obvious moves toward leaving, such as packing up my bag and picking up my coat, he asked me what kind of music I liked. At this point, my comments were terse:

"I don't know, I don't really listen to popular music."
"Oh, classical? Like the Austrian Orchestra?"
"Sure."

And, as any seemingly rational person would do, he then began to discuss the Austrian-Hungary empire.

Sweet Lord, I thought I might be on Candid Camera and that perhaps he was doing an experiment to see just how long someone would sit there and listen to his nonsense. I finally realized there was no way I could make an exit without being rude as there were simply no breaks in his speaking. I finally got so frustrated that I just stood up in the middle of his story and told him I needed to go meet some friends.

"It's been really nice talking with you, but I have to go meet some friends."
"Oh okay, well, we'll meet again here sometime okay?"

Okay crazy man. I'll look forward to that.

I think that I need to be having more fun. Considering that my best will really never be good enough, I really should do more things besides reading and writing. I don't know. This programme is CRAZY. It's so weird. It's like a cesspool of angst that freaky nerds enjoy. Today I was pondering whether or not an Oxford reality show would be really good or so intensely boring that not even the participants would watch it. I think there's a distinct possibilities that the confessionals could be pretty good, or whatever they call those when one person goes into a little room and talks about themselves and the other people. I think it would be fun to get everyone in this programme together and find out why their twisted background caused them to be such freaks who are obsessed with knowledge and success. I mean, maybe I could find these things out by asking, but that would involve me talking to people.

So, in terms of activities that I plan to engage in during my time here, I am joining no clubs, taking no dance classes, and attending no rowing practices. I have done these kinds of things all of my life. I want to not do them. Not doing those things is an activity in and of itself. Thus, I am doing 2 minor things with some of the others in my program. Once a week, I am reading the Bible aloud with some others in community, and once a week I am attending a Greek Bible study. Now you might be thinking to yourselves, "Wow, has Sara found religion?" "Good for her!" The answer is no. I have indeed not. I would like to state firmly that even though I am engaging in these Bible type things, I am not a crazy evangelical. Not. a. crazy. evangelical.

In the Greek Bible study, we're actually going through Mark, which is exactly what we were doing in the Greek club we formed on campus a year ago. The only difference is, some people came that don't know a lick of Greek (daft fools, did you read the email? We don't want you.), and so we also had to talk about spiritual and theological implications. Thus, the time slipped precariously into what I'd like to call "D-group mood." You know what I'm talking about, when people like to say whatever comes to their head, regardless of whether or not it pertains to the discussion. This means that within an hour and a half, we talked about fallen angels (which aren't even in the Bible), baptism, and speaking in tongues. Goodness did this make me angsty. All I wanted to talk about was syntax and verb forms.

I have realized why I perhaps feel angsty a lot here. It's likely because I have a lot of time to think while I make long walks alone. At home, I prefer to have no time to myself because thinking is a dangerous thing. I'd prefer to be busy all the time so that I don't have to be left alone with my own thoughts. This is why I never understand people who have problems; I always just tell them to get another job. I think, really, that getting another job is a solution to a lot of things in life. It's too bad more people aren't more like me eh?

Well, I have Greek tutorial #1 tomorrow with Albus Jonathan. I hope that goes well. I should perhaps go and brush up on my paradigms.

Best,
Sara

Dear friends,



I attended my first official Oxford tutorial today. Having said this, I realize that I have, for the most part, failed to actually explain to most of you what I am doing here. Well, I am collectively doing not much of anything alongside a level of work more substantial than I have ever engaged in previously.


Therefore, allow me to give a brief and boring sketch of my actual academic obligations while here at Oxford. Perhaps to jazz up the presentation, the material would be best outlined through dialogue.

Q&A / Important points to remember:

Q: "Dude, like how many hours do you, like, go to class each day?"

A: "Yes, thank you for your question. The simplest answer to that is zero. I do not attend class."

Q: "Dude, you don't go to class? Aren't you going to, like, fail and screw your chances of graduating summa cum laude? I mean, you already handed away your honors cords when you went through that severe stint of senioritis and dropped your honors research, don't you think you should step it up a notch? C'mon Dude, I thought Oxford was BA."

A: "Yes, that is a very good point you make when you assert that Oxford is BA. Oxford is indeed one of the most BA environments in which I've spent a good amount of time. Nevertheless, unlike most British universities, Oxford and Cambridge retain a system of schooling that is based largely on a tutorial."

Q: "Dude, is a tutorial, like, when you learn not to handle blood-borne pathogens or beat the elderly? Yeah, I'm totally familiar with a tutorial."

A: "Right, yes. Well, I'm sorry to say that you're entirely wrong. A tutorial consists of a one-on-one meeting between a tutor and a student. Thus, I reckon you could say it's like a class, as long as you remove your definition of 'class' from the compartmentalized, Western setting you're used to."

Q: "That's sweet, dude. So how often do you meet with your tutor dudes and do they all look like Albus Dumbledore?"

A: "Yes, good question. Of course they all look like Albus. I walk into my tutor's study, and I say 'Sup Albie? Can I pet your beard? Wanna talk about Jesus?' I meet with my gospels tutor, whose name is Albus Andrew, once a week for an hour. I then meet with my Greek tutor, whose name is Albus Jonathan, once every two weeks for an hour."

Q: "Dude, you only go to class 6 hours a month?"

A: "Yes, that is correct."

Q: "Dude, that's freakin' sweet"

A: "Dude, I know."

Q: "But I thought the flier said Oxford would be the most intense thing you'd ever done and that you would likely die?"

A: "The flier indeed speaks of many voluntarily maiming themselves to escape the program. This is confusing to me thus far as, on the whole, I have been relatively stress-free about academic matters."

Q: "You? Not stressed about school? That's ludicrous!"

A: "Indeed, indeed it is."

Q: "So basically you never do anything? You're spending 7 years of wages to do nothing?"

A: "I think, specifically, the 7 years of wages were used to print my name on my library card. Nonetheless, it seems that even though my schedule is almost entirely open, I actually keep quite busy, what with attending lectures that pique my interest, walking 45 minutes in order to get anywhere, and occasionally spending hours in a corner with a book."

Q: "So, is that what your entire term will look like?"

A: "No, but I don't want to talk about it yet because that part isn't as exciting."

Q: "Wow dude, thanks for the chat. I feel as though we're besties now."

A: "Besties we are...Besties we are."

Therein concludes this portion of the discourse. I hope it was informative.

Given this background knowledge, I would now like to tell you a little bit about my tutorial today. My tutor is brilliant, articulate, and an otherwise amicable fellow. It seems as if some people have tutors that are brilliant, but are a bit awkward and not skilled in speaking with a real person. In this regard, I feel quite fortunate.

Perhaps regaling you with the tale of last night's paper writing scene would be good. As per my routine, I didn't start writing my essay until the day before it was due. This is not new. I can almost never write until I am stressed. I thrive on stress. However, I planned to spend all day writing and thus thought I perhaps might be able to get some sleep before my tutorial. Nonetheless, given the combination of my procrastination and perfectionism, I had only around 3.5 pages by midnight, and I was aiming for 8. Let it be known that I am the slowest paper writer in the history of ever. You think I would get better at it, but I continually fail in my attempts to simply spill material onto paper. I do not know what a rough draft is, and I never find a need to edit my papers upon completion. Several times at Northwestern, I was assigned to write a rough draft, and I found the exercise to be an absurd request. It doesn't make sense to me that you would not strive for perfection the first time around. So, it was clearly going to be a long night. Luckily, I was quite alert and had a roommate to keep me company, as she was also pulling an all-nighter in preparation for her upcoming tutorial. Fortunately, I finished my paper at approximately half past 5.00. I needed to be at my tutorial by 9.00. I was happy about my early finish as that meant I might catch some sleep before heading into the city.

It is at this point that the story lapses into what I'd like to call: "That Damn Printing Episode." Friends, I first tried to print my paper around 5.30, and I failed to succeed at this task until 7.15.

Q: "Wow, that sounds like a blasted, terrible episode."

A: "It most certainly was."

Thus, as I trudged through the morning rain on my way to tutorial #1, I wondered if I was perhaps getting off to a bad start. However, I then arrived, was invited into Albus Andrew's study and offered a cup of tea, and settled upon the couch by the fireplace and Jesus books. At this point, Albus Andrew and I began with friendly small talk, as he enquired as to how my week was going and if I was getting to know my way around the libraries yet. It was at this point that I decided that he was quite a nice chap and that we were going to get along quite well.

To officially begin our tutorial, he had me read my paper aloud to him while he scrawled comments on to his copy. Here, I realized that perhaps another proofread might have been in order, as I noticed a few minor errors that simply shouldn't have been there. I also noticed that I had used the word "hypothesis" in my paper roughly 300 times, and "hypothesis" is not a word that rolls smoothly off the tongue when reading aloud.

When I finished reading, Albus Andrew and I engaged in stimulating discussion about the nuances of the synoptic problem. A lot of the things he pointed out in my paper were instances of my rhetoric glossing over an issue. I am usually quite conscious of what my words might be conveying in the first few pages of my paper, but as it gets later and later, I start to be much less conscious of such things. All in all, I did not feel like a daft fool. Of this I was most glad. I was more or less able to respond to his questions competently. Not brilliantly, but competently. He ended up talking for most of the hour, which I did not expect as I had been expecting to have to really talk quite a bit myself. Needless to say, I was not upset. I could sit there and listen to him for hours. Well, maybe not for hours because I was running on no sleep, but he is fascinating.

At the end of our session, I asked him if I was perhaps heading in the right direction in terms of how to properly write an Oxford essay. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it was some string of affirmations that I was indeed not a daft fool. Joy.

I am quite excited to progress through these tutorials. My question for next week is: "Account for Matthew's relation to Judaism, and to Israel. Is his Gospel anti-Semitic?"

Listening to Albus Andrew talk inspired me to elevate careful reflection over reading for my next essay. Clearly, reading is important, but my own reflection and processing is perhaps more important. It is quite nice that I have someone responding to my writing that really doesn't know me at all. At Northwestern, I mostly felt as though I put on a facade of intelligence that no one ever called me out on. I generally felt the need to confess to my professors that I really wasn't smart, but just obsessed with "success." I also often felt that I was given A's largely because I was "Sara Moser." I am really quite excited to be evaluated here by people who have not interacted with me so I can see whether or not I am actually capable of doing these academic things. Don't get me wrong, I always felt that my professors at Northwestern were really hard-core and not apt to be fooled by my manipulative tricks. However, I think I came to recognize that I write in such a way that my rhetoric glosses over my incompetence. Sometimes I would write an entire paper and still not have any idea what I had said, but would receive high marks for it. I guess what I'm saying is that I want people to tell me that I'm stupid?

Well, that is not what I want. That would cause pain. I'm not sure; I just feel as though I want people to more critically evaluate my work, and the one-on-one setting here should be quite conducive to this desire.

Thank you for bearing with me through this ridiculously long and boring post. I swear I think of interesting things to blog about throughout the day; I just forget them all by the time I actually sit down to type. Perhaps I will carry a notebook around throughout the day so I can entertain you more adequately.

Best,

Sara