I got to walk some extra miles yesterday, dashing about point to point to connect with Marika Rose from Winchester, Anthony Reddie and Willie James Jennings here at Regent’s, and then Cory Doctorow at Blackwell’s. It was… a day of abundance, including a terrific conversation with a PG student who has developed the dangerous misapprehension that my research might be worth her attention.
This morning, weary legs, chilly air (6°), light overcast, two miles nonetheless. Tonight I’ll meet up with Steve and Melinda, who will have spent the afternoon with MArgaret while I was teaching.
The last two days have been similar: clear skies, chilly temps (6° and 7°), though this morning I had a bad case of heavy legs and a slower pace, while Sunday I was more limber and ran to a more favourable time. Another day, another two miles.
Saturday, I neglected to mention, Margaret and I had a leisurely breakfast with our griend from grad-school days, Willie James Jennings. Willie and I entered Duke in the same year, during years in which Duke admitted large groups of doctoral students. In contemporary terms, there’s much to criticise about that scheme, but it made for splendid, intoxicating debates and conversations in the grad lounge and in seminars. Stan Hauerwas’s premise was the we would learn best when we learned from one another, and that worked out pretty well. Willie and I were in the theology seminar for two years, in Ken Surin’s seminar once, and maybe another class I’m not remembering now (and I used to attend the theology grad seminar as well, though I was an interloper from biblical studies). In those days, American theology was in the beginning, perhaps the preparatory, stages of a range of changes: some convulsive, some evolutionary, some retrievals, but all with a sense of vigour and exhilarating range, and among the many who emerged from those years as prominent theologians on the US scene, I kept a watchful eye on Willie as a bellwether of the convergence of good, grounded sense and the expectation that a change was coming. We took part in some fascinating disagreements, some especially valuable sympathies.
When Margaret began her doctoral work fifteen years or so later, Willie was working in admin at Duke. In a field overcrowded with status and egos, he toiled with students to help them get through the various struggles with which seminary training confronts us. I imagine, though I haven’t pried into this, the intricate forms in which institutional and structural racism subtly permeated a wealthy university in the American South must have played a significant part of his role, and as is often the case, the administrative bearer of that burden was not so much appreciated for their negotiating fraught demands and injuries as they were neglected as the messenger with unwelcome news. It looked to us as though Willie didn’t get a chance to flourish as a theologian in his own right; for all the marvellous strengths Duke afforded to its students and staff, harmony and mutual respect did not rank highly enough (especially for women and scholars of colour). When I was a visiting professor there, we saw Willie from time to time, but he was always, always busy.
At that time, Willie had begun to attract attention as a leading figure in a new generation of Black theology; he and Jay Carter stood to represent a powerhouse of Black theology, and Duke was the place to study. For whatever reason — I’m not enough of an insider to give a well-sourced account, though I can make some plausible guesses — both Jay and Willie left Duke around 2010, so that instead of entering the twenty-first century with a staff poised to confront the recrudescence of white supremacist backwash with two front-line theological stars, Duke needed to scramble to salvage some measure of credibility with scholars who care about theology in ways not defined and limited by white scholarship. Willie moved to Yale Divinity School, where he’s understood and appreciated as the gentle, profound, critical theologian and mentor that he didn’t get a chance to be at Duke. He’s giving the Bampton Lectures here at Oxford — I’ll link to the first two below, and the he’ll deliver the second two tomorrow.
(I should add that Jay’s thriving at Indiana, and he has a new book coming out soon if it’s not already out, dealing with race and expression [my characterisation], a mode of religious study, practice, and resistance that emerges from colonial, captialist, and of course racist models for what ‘religion’ might be. I’m eager to read it.)
Anyway, here’s to Willie and the Bampton Lectures and Yale Div and collegial coffee and the future of Black theology!
Clear skies, limber limbs (at least after the three-quarter mile mark), positive pace, only 6° (my hands were distinctly chilled), two more steady miles.
I keep hearing rumours about posts coming open, but for the time being there are very few that seem at all fitting for me. Maybe Margaret will land a post.
8°, clear skies (sun shining directly down Howard Street so that I had to stare downward at the road), heavy legs, but a decent pace and two good miles.
I’m working from home this morning as Margaret has work to do down at Ripon College Cuddesdon and the ladies need oversight. An electrician will come by in the early afternoon to make sure we’re behaving well electrically. It’s nothing but excitement here on James Street.
I note these runs not because there is the least little thing that’s interesting about them, but because that practice keeps me coming back to the site and typing something in. My hope — futile so far — is to shift my impulse-to-scribble from FB and Twitter back to the blog where it belongs.
Speaking of running, 8°, mostly clear, moderately comfortable, two miles, decent pace. On my way, I saw a fox with a distinctly unhealthy appearance,
and an unusual inclination to stand its ground and eyeball me as I passed (I doubled back to take these photos). I see healthier foxes moderately often; I’m not sure what contributes to this creature’s colour and thinness.
Light overcast this morning, 9°, nothing special about my physical condition or sensations, two miles at a non-disappointing pace. A lot of work to do, so time to get to it!
Yesterday afternoon I recalled the advertisements for Archway, our favourite local brand of biscuits when I was a youngster in Pittsburgh. I looked googled the company slogan in hopes of rediscovering the specific adverts I had in mind, the ones Robert Drosnes used to mock by pulling a face similar to those of the grinning children in the clip, and by quoting their strapline: ‘Looky, looky, looky / Archway Homestyle Cookies…’ Probably for the best, these have vanished into the abyss of memory.
6°, clear skies, my joints were achy at first but loosened up as I went, decent pace, another two miles. Every morning I ask myself, ‘Shall I give myself a day off running?’ and every day I say, ‘No, you’ll miss a day when you go up to Scotland, it might be raining someday, you should run every day that circumstances don’t prevent it.’ So another day, another two miles.
I missed writing yesterday’s morning report to the effect that I did indeed finish my two miles, in 11° and clear skies, with comfortable legs — which led me to the mistaken apprehension that we were in for a lovely day. Breakfasted with M., marked essays, tutorial at Oriel, lunch at Oriel, and started off to Regent’s for a quick look-in on my way to the NT Seminar with the brilliant Matt Novenson at Keble.
Sadly, as I left Oriel the light rain that had been descending gently felt a ripple of precipitative muscle and decided that ‘downpour’ suited its mood better. I was drenched to my skin. My shoes and socks were doused; I’d have liked to peel them off, but I’d have had to put them back on to walk to Keble and home, so that wasn’t on. I sat there, trousers dripping, feet squooshing, until at the end of the afternoon I made my way back home and changed clothes. I’ll tell you, that’s a kind of bliss: from clinging, sodden clothes to clean, dry clothes. A-a-a-a-a-ah.
Then to Billy Bragg’s concert at the O2 Academy up the street from us (a convenience we will never experience again, and a great source of joy). Uncle Bill was in fine form, with a set that skewed toward his early work, but mostly fresh political banter and earnest encouragement to keep doing what we can, without cynicism, in a vigilant resistance to fascism in all its forms.
I went to bed with tinnitus reminding me the reason I don’t go to concerts very often, slept like a very tired log, and ran this morning: 9°, clear, heavy heavy legs, so a modest pace, two more miles.
The Orioles won again last night. I won’t feel confident about the team till we have sturdy, reliable starting pitching, but it’s weirdly exciting to check the result every morning and to see them winning two out of three games, after so long when they were losing four out of five (so it seemed).
I liked the Jam and Style Council back in the 70s and 80s, but in retrospect I think it difficult to overestimate the (often unacknowledged) importance of Weller (et al.)’s voice as a sign of trust that we can do better, together….
And we’re going to see Billy Bragg tomorrow night…
This morning I caught a glimpse of what regular official runner-type people evidently experience: the temperature had climbed back up to a more comfortable 9°, very light cloud (I could see the sun rise over Headington), a respectable pace with no significant discomfort, and two miles to get home for a pleasant cup of coffee. Well done, morning. The ‘running’ part still doesn’t especially appeal to me, but it serves its purpose.
I don’t usually talk much about my weight, which is only a side effect of being fitter in general, but my current plateau hovers a little over 12 stone, between 77 and 78 kg (169 and 172 lb). I’d like to hammer it down to 12 stone even, 75 kg, which would approximate my maximum undergraduate weight (though it would be very differently distributed he said, looking down at his waist) — but for now, that’s a very satisfying side effect.
6°, clear, legs okay, decent pace, two miles. Full day of teaching and appointments, off to Oriel for Morning Prayer in a few minutes. Rejected for another job yesterday.
I was well satisfied with last night’s homily, and it was great to have the chance to sit and catch up with Fr Chris. It would be great to have a weekend to unwind after five high-intensity days (starting with preaching at Oriel last Wednesday), but instead it’s back to the coal face for hand-out making and more marking.
This morning, 9° and overcast (surprise!), but the two miles went by relatively comfortably, at a pleasing pace.
Another morning chillier than the 7° the Home Office measured, but light overcast and a decent pace. My legs weren’t as limber as yesterday, but all turned out satisfactorily. Morning Low Mass at Cowley St John, afternoon must-do marking, then preaching at Jesus College tonight. Back to work tomorrow, whee!
Now, one more sermon and the weekend is set, then right back to work on Monday. But Monday I may hear whether I have a job at last, so that would be all right, but I probably will get another ‘So sorry’ email, which will be a drag.
9°, thick overcast, heavy legs, and a disappointing pace, but I ran my two miles. Feeling immense stress about today’s interview and micro-sermon, but there’s nowt for it but to press on.
I’m still knocked off my stride after hearing last night that Dooce had died, that she could no longer just go on living. And I’m not the only one; even after she’d dialled up some unwise* posting recently, her death has struck seismic shudders into a community of online readers for whose shared world Dooce provided one great pole star.
*‘Unwise’ was at least a strong flavour of her brand, after all.
I kept her RSS feed in my newsreader when her blogging sputtered. I’m not her therapist, or confessor, or friend, but something in what I heard in her sharp, self-deprecating, demanding, witty, obliquely honest (honest, but not exactly honest) held my attention even in her silences. She wrote, and felt, and thought, and loved in crackling torrents. Sometimes I shook my head and questioned her judgement, but hey — her decisions weren’t my job, and she could write out her follies with magnetic force.
I was surprised to read about her alcoholism when she first opened up about it, but in retrospect it fit the picture (and it wasn’t as though she had been writing about drunkenness for years). I wasn’t surprised to read about her experiences fighting for stability and for freedom from the deep bonds of trauma. She walked in fire, and told her readers about it, and every now and then she clambered above the smoke and flames to shout out to us in triumph.
We got to know her, and her families, in her long, intense posts: Jon, Leta, Marlo; Former Congressman Chuck, Coco, ; her mum, The Avon World Sales Leader, and her dad; GEORGE!; Tyrant LaCaze; Pete, her companion at the end. My heart goes out to them.
(I’m going to leave this incomplete now, and come back to it during the day.)
Overcast morning, 7°, and I initially set a walking pace because my right calf had a cramp during the night; I wanted to allow my muscles to stretch out slowly, and that seems to have worked out all right, because the second mile this morning felt good, perhaps even better than most days of the last week or so. Later today, marking, sermon-writing, and job-seeking. All prayers, best wishes, candles, crossed fingers, whatever, welcome.
I’m a [reluctant] descriptivist — if you really want to say ‘irregardless’ you may — but I’m also a zealous advocate of knowing as much as one can about the ways words work together. Often that has little or nothing to do with ‘rules’ or ‘grammar’, but simply the effect wrought by striking combinations of sense, sound, context, reference, and so on.
With that in mind: while one element of the sense of the phrase ‘writ large’ has to do with ‘on a grander scale’ or ‘to a greater degree’, surely when Milton wrote ‘New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large’ (as the concluding line of ‘On The New Forcers Of Conscience Under The Long Parliament’), the rationale for the line is less ‘you’re even worse’ (though he does accuse them of so being) than ‘it’s a longer word for the same thing.’
(a) OED gives Milton as the originator of the phrase ‘writ large’, though I’ve seen it attributed to one person a few years earlier than Milton (don’t have time to check); hence, it seems unlikely that it had currency as an idiom for ‘to a greater extent’ or ‘worse’ antecedent to Milton’s use of it to that effect.
(b) If the primary sense is ‘worse’ or ‘even more so’, then the relative length of the words is adventitious. But if Milton (who, I’m given to understand, has a reputation as a pretty clever guy in some literary circles) used ‘writ large’ in the semi-literal sense to convey ‘same thing with more letters’, then the ‘worse’ sense — amply indicated by the rest of the poem — follows on from the wry observation that the only thing the Puritans had changed was the spelling, and intensifies the point.
I noticed when I posted this that I’d already used this header once, so I went to look up the prior use. Almost exactly fifteen years ago, when I was in Durham NC without any evident prospect of a job when my year teaching at Duke Divinity ran out, I posted this. Plus ça change…
