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. :)
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"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
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
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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
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
Thursday, February 5, 2009
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
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
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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
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
Thursday, January 22, 2009
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.
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
Monday, January 19, 2009
Dear friends,
I can make lattes now. After 11 days in Oxford, I have finally managed to attain coffee beans and milk. My life's dream has been to have an espresso machine in my home. Now is that time. I, in fact, have an espresso machine. Praise the Lord.
I went to London on Saturday. It was one of those "I'm in a group of 50 people walking really quickly and taking pictures of buildings even though I don't know what they are and I'm really thirsty and can you please speak up Mr. Tour Guide please?" trips. I don't regret going, but the trip allowed me to confirm what I have known for a while now. I don't particularly care for traveling. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person. Anyone that is in any sense cool or cultured loves traveling. Alas, traveling only makes me angsty. I don't care for big cities; I am doing better with being in Oxford, but that's because I now navigate the city on my own terms.
I had to use a map the other day. And dang if I didn't find out that doing so is actually really useful. Who would have thought? I'm even catching on to the art of turning the map in the proper direction as you turn on to a new street. I pulled out the map when I was on my way to my first meeting with my Greek tutor because I gradually realized that I had been given faulty directions. Pretty soon, I only had 15 minutes until I was supposed to meet him, and I had no idea where I was. Thus, I decided to try that newfangled map idea that everyone is so fond of and it seemed to work. It was a dang miracle that I arrived where I was supposed to arrive.
Today was day one of term one. That means that summer camp time is over, and it's time to get hard-core. I have been feeling not too stressed because my Greek tutor didn't assign me too much work, and the synoptic problem is a quite tangible essay project. However, I found out today that the lecture my Greek tutor suggested I go to is a NT Greek reading class. Thus, I think (but am not sure) that I might not be able to sit anonymously in the corner but might be expected to take a turn in translating. I emailed the guy that is facilitating, and he told me to prepare the first chapter of 2nd Peter. Maybe once I apply myself to this task, it won't be so daunting, but since I haven't seriously taken Greek in 2 years, the prospect of whipping out a chapter's worth of translation in 3 days is really stressing me out. Whatev. It will be outrageously good for me, especially come fall when I attempt to pass out of first year Greek at seminary.
Ha, fun story. I had my "GREEK: An Intensive Course" book sitting on the table next to me at dinner this evening. This prompted a discussion with a guy in the program who had taken Greek in the past and who informed me he planned to go to seminary. Our conversation went like this:
Sara: Do you know where you'd like to go?
Guy: Oh yeah. Westminster Theological School. I love that school. My dad went there.
Sara: Really? Is that affiliated with the Reformed tradition?
Guy: Yeah I think so. It's really, really academic. I mean, ya know how Princeton is really academic but really liberal? Well, Westminster is like Princeton but it's the conservative counterpart.
Sara: Oh that really interesting because I'm pretty sure I'll be attending Princeton in the fall.
Guy: Oh! I guess I was just kind of talking bad about it huh?
Sara: That's okay, you can be the conservative academic, and I'll be the liberal one.
I wore my "Embrace your inner liberal" shirt the other day. A few people commented, but most people just directed lingering glances at my chest. I can't wait to whip out my "WTFWJD" shirt.
On Sunday night, I attended evensong at University College, which is where my gospels tutor is a chaplain. I more or less went because I wanted to hear him preach so I could understand his context better in order to perhaps more adequately cater to his wishes. I am really quite good at manipulative little tricks like that. Nonetheless, I don't always reckon it to be manipulative as I tend to think that doing such things is just essential to success in academia. Although some continue to think that I'm besties with my profs for the sake of good grades, I'm really actually just besties for the sake of being besties. After the service, we went and drank a small glass of sherry while chatting with a kind student that also attends Wycliffe Hall (that's the college I'm at, btw). I was quite eager to sip the sherry and act like a grown-up, but I quickly realized that it was perhaps the worst thing I'd ever tasted. I thus proceeded to a different plan: 1.) open throat 2.) throw back liquid as if taking mini shots.
This worked.
Next time I will drink the orange juice.
Today was my first experience in one of the very important, prestigious libraries. Once I stepped through the door, I proceeded to look very foolish for about the first 20 minutes. Wow do I not know how to do things properly in there. Phew. Furthermore, it was the most distracting library in which I have ever spent time. This was unexpected. I had been prepared to timidly forge my way through stifling silence, but dude, it was so loud! It's not that anyone was talking, but people tend to walk very quickly over here, and they wear boots. Thus, there was a lot of foot-stomping and book-slamming. I read diligently for about 2.5 hours and then could not take it anymore. I had to get out of there for the sake of my sanity. At least in the Northwestern library, most of the people that were in there were my friends so I could say to them: "Excuse me, but you are being a huge douchebag. Would you please stop being a huge douchebag?" However, I thought that doing such might be rude in this context.
Instead, I went home and decided to grind my coffee beans--a task that seemed like it'd be a good, quick study break. I think it took me an hour and 15 minutes. Ridiculous! I kept thinking of the 30 seconds it would have taken me to do at the Hoek.
In other news, there is currently (or maybe not anymore) a 4 foot inflatable penguin in the back room at De Koffie Hoek that is named Sara Moser. Of this I am unspeakably happy.
Tomorrow morning has the potential to be absolutely grand. I plan to attend a lecture at 9.00 addressing Textual Criticism and a lecture at 10.00 addressing the Historical Jesus--two subjects of which I am most fond.
In other news, nothing is incredibly exciting right now, but I am so okay with that. I have had way too much excitement lately and am terribly excited to settle into the mundane.
On that note, happy inauguration day tomorrow.
Best,
Sara
I can make lattes now. After 11 days in Oxford, I have finally managed to attain coffee beans and milk. My life's dream has been to have an espresso machine in my home. Now is that time. I, in fact, have an espresso machine. Praise the Lord.
I went to London on Saturday. It was one of those "I'm in a group of 50 people walking really quickly and taking pictures of buildings even though I don't know what they are and I'm really thirsty and can you please speak up Mr. Tour Guide please?" trips. I don't regret going, but the trip allowed me to confirm what I have known for a while now. I don't particularly care for traveling. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person. Anyone that is in any sense cool or cultured loves traveling. Alas, traveling only makes me angsty. I don't care for big cities; I am doing better with being in Oxford, but that's because I now navigate the city on my own terms.
I had to use a map the other day. And dang if I didn't find out that doing so is actually really useful. Who would have thought? I'm even catching on to the art of turning the map in the proper direction as you turn on to a new street. I pulled out the map when I was on my way to my first meeting with my Greek tutor because I gradually realized that I had been given faulty directions. Pretty soon, I only had 15 minutes until I was supposed to meet him, and I had no idea where I was. Thus, I decided to try that newfangled map idea that everyone is so fond of and it seemed to work. It was a dang miracle that I arrived where I was supposed to arrive.
Today was day one of term one. That means that summer camp time is over, and it's time to get hard-core. I have been feeling not too stressed because my Greek tutor didn't assign me too much work, and the synoptic problem is a quite tangible essay project. However, I found out today that the lecture my Greek tutor suggested I go to is a NT Greek reading class. Thus, I think (but am not sure) that I might not be able to sit anonymously in the corner but might be expected to take a turn in translating. I emailed the guy that is facilitating, and he told me to prepare the first chapter of 2nd Peter. Maybe once I apply myself to this task, it won't be so daunting, but since I haven't seriously taken Greek in 2 years, the prospect of whipping out a chapter's worth of translation in 3 days is really stressing me out. Whatev. It will be outrageously good for me, especially come fall when I attempt to pass out of first year Greek at seminary.
Ha, fun story. I had my "GREEK: An Intensive Course" book sitting on the table next to me at dinner this evening. This prompted a discussion with a guy in the program who had taken Greek in the past and who informed me he planned to go to seminary. Our conversation went like this:
Sara: Do you know where you'd like to go?
Guy: Oh yeah. Westminster Theological School. I love that school. My dad went there.
Sara: Really? Is that affiliated with the Reformed tradition?
Guy: Yeah I think so. It's really, really academic. I mean, ya know how Princeton is really academic but really liberal? Well, Westminster is like Princeton but it's the conservative counterpart.
Sara: Oh that really interesting because I'm pretty sure I'll be attending Princeton in the fall.
Guy: Oh! I guess I was just kind of talking bad about it huh?
Sara: That's okay, you can be the conservative academic, and I'll be the liberal one.
I wore my "Embrace your inner liberal" shirt the other day. A few people commented, but most people just directed lingering glances at my chest. I can't wait to whip out my "WTFWJD" shirt.
On Sunday night, I attended evensong at University College, which is where my gospels tutor is a chaplain. I more or less went because I wanted to hear him preach so I could understand his context better in order to perhaps more adequately cater to his wishes. I am really quite good at manipulative little tricks like that. Nonetheless, I don't always reckon it to be manipulative as I tend to think that doing such things is just essential to success in academia. Although some continue to think that I'm besties with my profs for the sake of good grades, I'm really actually just besties for the sake of being besties. After the service, we went and drank a small glass of sherry while chatting with a kind student that also attends Wycliffe Hall (that's the college I'm at, btw). I was quite eager to sip the sherry and act like a grown-up, but I quickly realized that it was perhaps the worst thing I'd ever tasted. I thus proceeded to a different plan: 1.) open throat 2.) throw back liquid as if taking mini shots.
This worked.
Next time I will drink the orange juice.
Today was my first experience in one of the very important, prestigious libraries. Once I stepped through the door, I proceeded to look very foolish for about the first 20 minutes. Wow do I not know how to do things properly in there. Phew. Furthermore, it was the most distracting library in which I have ever spent time. This was unexpected. I had been prepared to timidly forge my way through stifling silence, but dude, it was so loud! It's not that anyone was talking, but people tend to walk very quickly over here, and they wear boots. Thus, there was a lot of foot-stomping and book-slamming. I read diligently for about 2.5 hours and then could not take it anymore. I had to get out of there for the sake of my sanity. At least in the Northwestern library, most of the people that were in there were my friends so I could say to them: "Excuse me, but you are being a huge douchebag. Would you please stop being a huge douchebag?" However, I thought that doing such might be rude in this context.
Instead, I went home and decided to grind my coffee beans--a task that seemed like it'd be a good, quick study break. I think it took me an hour and 15 minutes. Ridiculous! I kept thinking of the 30 seconds it would have taken me to do at the Hoek.
In other news, there is currently (or maybe not anymore) a 4 foot inflatable penguin in the back room at De Koffie Hoek that is named Sara Moser. Of this I am unspeakably happy.
Tomorrow morning has the potential to be absolutely grand. I plan to attend a lecture at 9.00 addressing Textual Criticism and a lecture at 10.00 addressing the Historical Jesus--two subjects of which I am most fond.
In other news, nothing is incredibly exciting right now, but I am so okay with that. I have had way too much excitement lately and am terribly excited to settle into the mundane.
On that note, happy inauguration day tomorrow.
Best,
Sara
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