Superior scribbling

Fr Tobias Haller of In a Godward Direction has graciously honored me with the "Superior Scribbler" award. The rules (and you know how I am about following rules) are as follows:

• Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
• Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
• Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
• Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
• Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

In keeping with the above, I am happy to pass along this award ("kind of like doing the 'Wave' on the internet," says Fr Jones) to:

• the newly married and newly priested Jared Cramer, of Scribere Orare Est, who writes lyrically and movingly about the life of faith, presidents who show up at mass, and all manner of theological topics;
• the never mealy-mouthed bls, of The Topmost Apple, who posts about everything from plainsong to food while occasionally cutting loose on clerical foibles and bad liturgy;
• the scholarly but by no means obscure Derek the Ænglican, of haligweorc, who writes the sort of reflections on liturgy that I would post myself if I were more thoughtful and knew a lot more;
  
• the marveously talented Davis, of Audacious Deviant, who teaches me about art, and about prayer, in all sorts of ways; and
• the recently but (I hope) only temporarily quiet Caelius Spinator, of The Monastery of the Remarkable English Martyrs, who is good at both science and theology (which is totally unfair) and is interesting no matter which he's talking about.

There's just something about that Name

(My apologies to those of similar backgrounds to mine, who now have regrettable Gaither music running in their heads)

Some day, when I'm Rector of the Church of Our Lady of Impeccable Taste, I'll have mass for every red-letter day. In the meantime, I have at least discovered that Saint Luke's observes the Feast of the Holy Name, which is one of my favorites.

I discovered this because the Rector just called with the realization that he was leaving town too early to celebrate that day, and since the Curate is gone too, it's time to bring in the third string, which is me.

I'm delighted that I get to start the new (civil) year right, though it does mean I have an unexpected sermon to put together. I'm also flying solo on Sunday, but I knew that was coming -- that's the projected third part of my series of posts on my Christmastide worship adventures. I'll be using the Jesus-at-twelve option for the Gospel, about which (as I'm discovering) there is an awful lot of exceptionally silly commentary.

By 11:00 Rite One we actually meant 10:00 Prayer C

Part Two of a (probably) three-part series of not very interesting posts on my Christmastide worship adventures

The website said "11:15am - Holy Eucharist"; the parish profile said "11:00 a.m. Rite I (with music)." Since I practically never get Rite One with music, I decided to give the place a try.

I set out in time to arrive at 10:45, just to be really safe. And what is this I hear? It's the Doxology. (Followed by -- and how long has it been since I heard this? -- "Our fathers' God, to thee, author of liberty . . .") Yes, the 11:00 (alias 11:15) service apparently started at 10:00.

Two things:

(1) I'm an idiot for not having checked the service times with the parish office during the week. It's the First Sunday after Christmas, and I know perfectly well that schedules are often in flux this time of year.

(2) Even so, parishes at least ought to have correct service times on their websites. It's the way most folks these days find such information. And making a minor update to a website is not hard to do. Heck, I'm middle-aged and a medievalist, and I still know how to use Dreamweaver.

And then it turned out we were using Prayer C. I actually like Prayer C, but it's a bit jarring when you're all geared up for Rite One.

Still, it was a good service (the part I was actually there for), and we sang good hymns (the good hymns listed on the hymn board, as opposed to the somewhat different set of good hymns listed in the bulletin). And the people were very friendly to the stranger in a collar who showed up in the middle of a service and sang his heart out.

Because there was no room for them in the nave

Part One of a (probably) three-part series of not very interesting posts on my Christmastide worship adventures

It was certainly not the way I imagined my first Christmas as a priest.

I knew, of course, that the decision to visit my parents as usual meant that I wouldn't be celebrating the Eucharist, but I had made my peace with that. I had even made my peace with the fact that, for the eleventh Christmas in a row, I would be spending the holidays far away from my M. He visits his family, I visit mine, and -- in all human probability -- never the twain shall meet.

Well, perhaps I hadn't exactly made my peace with all that, since I was obviously feeling a bit fratchety, as will soon become evident.

I had hunted around on websites for service times. Two of the nearby parishes had put their Christmas service times on the front page; a third had not -- I had to download the December parish newsletter and scroll to page 12 to find this highly secret information. (Not that I really have room to complain. The website of the parish I serve hasn't been updated in so long that it's one episcopate behind. My efforts to remedy this situation have been limited to intermittent mild bitching and moaning, performed in a genteel Anglican fashion, which has been predictably inefficacious.)

I settled on a 4:00 "Lessons and Carols and Festival Eucharist" on Christmas Eve at the parish that, in my experience, has the best music in these parts. I arrived about ten minutes before the service to find that the place was packed -- not just really quite full, but literally with not a seat left, even along the walls. A friendly greeter told me that the service would be shown in, and the Sacrament brought to, "Otey Hall." Now although I was in a part of the world where I expect something or other to be named after Bishop Otey just about everywhere I go, I didn't happen to know where Otey Hall was. But the greeter directed me, so I took my bulletin with me and set forth.

I found myself in a large, carpeted parlor, with video and audio of the pre-service cantata that was already in progress. By the time the service started there were probably sixty of us in there.

Bless their hearts, the parish was doing the best they could for the overflow crowd, and I'm an ungrateful wretch for finding fault. But of course watching a service is just not the same as actually being in it, and hymn-singing in a carpeted room with piped-in and not-exactly-surround-sound audio is bound to lack fervor and conviction. When it came time for "Go, tell it on the mountain," I was greatly tempted to provide live accompaniment on the grand piano that stood in the front of the room, but I restrained myself.

So I was feeling disconnected from the liturgy that was taking place a couple buildings over. And as invariably happens when I'm feeling disconnected, I stopped worshiping and started critiquing. I noticed the celebrant's hideous stole and the organist's careless relationship with the score. I quibbled with the celebrant's use of Matthew 5:16 ("Let your light so shine" &c.) as an Offertory Sentence -- yes, there is precedent in the 1928 Book, and the rubrics of the 1979 book are permissive, but is it really a good idea to suggest that the offertory is a great time to let our light shine? I cringed at the prayer over the money-offering ("Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation; through your goodness we have this money to offer . . .") and the redundant pre-oblation oblation of the bread and wine. I wondered how a service could count as a Festival Eucharist when no incense was used and not even the Sursum corda was sung. I wondered on what authority the celebrant changed "shed for you and for many" to "shed for you and for all." I bristled at the bulletin's invitation of all -- not all the baptized, but absolutely all -- to the Sacrament, in open violation of the canons. I wondered why priests find it necessary to add "These are" to the beginning of the invitation to Communion.

In one part of my inner being, I was worshiping and giving thanks for the great gift of the Incarnation. In another, though, I was playing Rubric Cop. And it seems as though the clergy of the parish were making every effort to invigorate that second part and throw obstacles in the way of the first part.

At last it was time for the Sacrament to be brought to us. So the assisting priest comes in -- wearing, it is only fair to point out, a genuinely beautiful stole -- and sort of jokes around with us a bit about how, yeah, I know you think it's really hot in here, but it's way cooler than it is in the church . . . and I think:

You know, I don't want everyone to have a creepy-crawly-cringy piety about the presence of Our Lord in the Sacrament. I come with joy to meet my Lord. But not, I come with flippancy to meet my Lord. Not, I come with levity to meet my Lord.

After this inauspicious start, Communion is administered decently enough. The administration of Communion takes an eternity in the Church -- they are short a priest, and I try really, really hard not to think about that fact -- and then it's time for the obligatory candlelight singing of "Silent night," of which I will never, ever tire. And these are some serious folks in Otey Hall, because every last one of them kneels on the floor and sings. Bless them for that.

I leave knowing that although I have "made my Christmas Communion," I need another shot at worshiping, so I make plans to attend a morning service the next day -- somewhere else, perhaps, where obstacles to scrupulous rubricists like me will be less frequent. But I wake up sick on Christmas morning -- and perhaps the impending illness helps explain my foul mood of the night before -- and the only service for me is solitary Morning Prayer, which the officiant leads with admirable attention to the rubrics.

In which I realize that I am not the Rector

I get to Saint Luke's extremely early, because it's my first Sunday there celebrating the Eucharist and I want to try out the microphone and run some ideas past the Rector. My preferences about manual acts and suchlike matters would, if actually acted upon, require that the table be set differently, among other changes. I explain my ideas to the Rector, who says, "Ah, yes, that would be a cleaner Catholic practice" -- thereby confirming both that he knows his liturgy and that I have carried out my principles in a consistent and intelligible way -- and explains why I can't really depart that much from the parish practice. We find a happy medium that allows me to feel easy in my conscience but will not confound the rest of the clergy, verger, acolytes, and other worshipers.

And thus we enact another version of Catholic practice: do what the Rector says.

Ecce ancilla Domini.

Best headline ever

Most of us have noticed the bizarre expression "homosexual and lesbian," which presumably comes about when conservatives reflexively change "gay" to "homosexual" and then fail to notice the resulting redundancy. But this item, from regrettheerror.com, points us to a whole new level of inadvertent misspeaking:

The American Family Association’s OneNewsNow site has a standard practice of using the word “homosexual” instead of “gay.” They even set up a filter to automatically make the change. This didn’t serve ONN well when a sprinter named Tyson Gay made news at the U.S. Olympic track and field trials. He suddenly became Tyson Homosexual when the site’s filter got a hold of an AP story:

'Twas the night before Ember

Tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday are the winter Ember Days. As you pray for those who are to be ordained, be sure to pray especially for those who are to take the General Ordination Exam this January.

O Fount of All Being, who speakest an eternal Word that we might know thee, and pourest forth an eternal Gift that we might love thee: We beseech thee to strengthen, enlighten, and inspire all those who shall take the General Ordination Examination. Calm their spirits and clear their minds, that they may rest confidently upon the faithfulness of the one to whose service thou hast called them, even Jesus Christ our Lord, who with thee and the Holy Ghost liveth and reigneth, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

Scenes from an ordination

I have slept well, said Morning Prayer, and eaten a fine breakfast at the marvelous B&B where M and I are staying. I'm looking ultra-clerical in my collar and new black suit (bought on sale at Macy's from the butchest menswear salesman in the Western hemisphere). M and I drive down to Saint Swithin's. He heads to a coffee shop to work through some of his huge pile of grading before the service starts; I go into church.

It's 10:00, an hour before the service will begin. I've arrived with a checklist. Are the right readings on the lectern, and in the right translation (RSV)? Can we set aside a copy of the service book for the Bishop that has that one typo corrected? Is the music for the Memorial Acclamation clipped into the Altar Book? And so on. This gives me some things to fuss over for a while, thereby keeping me calm.

*****

"I want to give a quick phone call to your protester," the Bishop tells me.

I reply, "She's right there, third from the end."

The Bishop looks puzzled. "She's singing in the choir?"

*****

I'm in the sacristy, vesting and fussing, when the Bishop returns. "Are you sure that was the right person?" he asks. "I explained to her why there couldn't be any canonical objection to your ordination, and she replied by telling me about how someone called her this morning to try to sell her a Medicare supplement."

*****

I have entirely missed hearing the prelude, a movement from Haydn's Trumpet Concerto, as the long procession is being whipped into shape by the verger. The handsome young trumpeter, I notice later, appears to have a handsome young boyfriend, and I wonder whether the trumpeter's father -- a Network-inclined priest of my diocese -- is aware of this.

*****

I'm not singing in procession, preferring to pray silently as we move ahead, listening to the congregation singing out enthusiastically. (Nobody sings hymns better than the folks at Saint Swithin's.) But when I arrive at the front of the church, I'm ready to sing:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.

Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

The organist drops out for these two stanzas, and the a capella singing is heartbreakingly lovely.

*****

"Therefore if any of you know any impediment or crime because of which we should not proceed, come forward now, and make it known."

There is silence from the alto section.

Whew!

*****

I prostrate myself before the Lord as all the people kneel and the Litanist leads the prayers. The presbyterate of my diocese has more than its share of good singers, but I think she's the best of the lot.

*****

At some point during the readings it strikes me that there are two chasubles draped over the altar rail. One of them is for the Bishop, but one of them is for me. How very odd.

*****

I hear a whoosh of albs and feel the pressure of hands as the presbyters surround me while the Bishop continues to pray. Two of them were priests before I was born; two of them were ordained within the last couple of years. My signature as a member of the vestry is on a couple of their forms. The Bishop says, "make him a priest in your Church."

*****

The Rector puts the chasuble on me. One parishioner will tell M afterwards that at that point I seemed to swell up like Clark Kent turning into Superman.

*****

From where I'm sitting in the sanctuary, I can't really tell what the anthem sounds like, except that the violinist is remarkably good. I make a mental note to ask the composer to send me an mp3 if he ever records the anthem.

*****

I act as concelebrant, in the manner directed by Galley, whose work, The Ceremonies of the Eucharist, I had reread with extraordinary care on the flight up.

*****

I bless the people for the first time, and then there is a bit of a hitch over the dismissal. The Bishop likes the dismissal done from the altar rather than from the back of the church, but the deacon whom he asks to do the dismissal doesn't know this and is a bit confused, since we haven't sung the hymn, as is our usual practice. (Yes, I know, rubrics, etc. I'm just narrating here.) Once we get that part settled, there's the further confusion that what's printed in the service book is the music for the dismissal, and it's the other deacon who sings. But we get safely over that hurdle in what I'm sure was less time than it seemed to the personnel involved, and the procession out begins to form as the organist introduces "Ye watchers and ye holy ones."

*****

My protestor, as the Bishop called her, has been trying to get a chance to speak to me at the reception, so I make myself available. "I wanted to thank you for your letter," I say. "You and I disagree about this" -- "we sure do," she interjects -- "but I know that letter came from genuine love and concern, and from a deep faith, and because you greatly honor the Word of God." She encourages me to be ever diligent in seeking to do God's will and not my own. It seems to me that we are at peace with one another.

After the 11:00 service the next day she will tell me, with great enthusiasm, "You are a wonderful celebrant."

Speaking of manual acts

Last night I dreamed that I was finding the Fraction a little boring, so I got a magician to teach me how to use flash powder to liven it up.

You've got to pray just to make it today

I posted grades yesterday, and now the e-mails are coming in.

Student #1 missed the first exam, missed the make-up I offered, and missed the make-up of the make-up. So I gave him (or rather, he earned) a zero, but I told him that if he performed well on the remainder of the work I would discount the first exam. He did perform well, and I gave him (and this time I do mean "gave") a B+ for the course.

He e-mailed after the grades were posted with detailed calculations showing that if I completely ignored the first test, he would actually get an A-. I replied:

You have got to be kidding me.

I think it would be very much in your interest if both of us pretend you never wrote this e-mail.

Student #2, whom I hadn't seen since the first or second week of class, wanted me to sign a late-drop petition or give him an incomplete so that he wouldn't get the F I had posted. I told him that it was far too late to be making that request, and that the F would stand. He replied:

Do you understand that I went through things that prevented me from going to class. I mean seriously you have no idea what I went through and yet you would say something foolish as this. What kind of human being are you? There should be no reason why you cant sign my petition for me. I was told to do this and that is why I'm trying to do so now!!!

Well, I'll tell you what kind of human being I am. I am the kind of human being who notices that you were able to send an e-mail, which means that you were also able to drop the class in a timely way through our online registration system. I am the kind of human being who forwards abusive e-mails from students to the Dean of Undergraduate Studies and the Office of the Registrar. And I am the kind of human being who does not think it is his obligation to relieve students of the consequences of their own irresponsibility.

Still more *junior* hiring

FACULTY POSITION IN THEOLOGY AND ETHICS

The School of Theology of the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee, an accredited seminary of the Episcopal Church, invites applications for a full-time, tenure-track, junior faculty position in Systematic Theology and Christian Ethics, to begin in July 2009. The successful candidate will be prepared to teach courses in doctrine and in ecclesiology, and the additional ability to teach Christian social ethics (including environmental ethics) is desired.

Responsibilities will include teaching required and elective courses in theology and in Christian ethics, primarily in the M.Div. and M.A. degree programs; participating in other degree and lifetime education programs; and scholarly publication. The position also brings with it a range of engagement in the worship, work, and witness of the seminary community. The successful candidate will demonstrate commitment to preparation of students for parish ministry.

Qualifications for the position include demonstrated professional competence in teaching theology and ethics and active commitment to the mission of the church. A knowledge of and appreciation for the Anglican tradition is expected, and an Episcopal priest is preferred. The strongest candidates will have a Ph.D. or Th.D. (or equivalent) in hand by the time of appointment, although advanced ABD candidates nearing completion of the dissertation may be considered. Salary and rank will depend on experience and qualifications. Episcopal clergy, women, and minorities are particularly encouraged to apply.

The University of the South, an institution of the Episcopal Church, comprises a selective liberal arts college in addition to the School of Theology. The University is situated on a 13,000-acre expanse of forested campus.

The University provides equal employment opportunity to all employees and applicants for employment. No person shall be discriminated against in employment because of race, color, sex, age, national origin, sexual orientation, disability, veteran’s status, or religion (except for those positions in the School of Theology and the chaplain’s office where religious affiliation is a necessary qualification). Eligibility for employment at the University is contingent upon satisfactory completion of a background investigation.

A letter of application, a full curriculum vitae, a writing sample, university transcripts, and three letters of reference should be sent directly to: The Rev. Dr. James F. Turrell, Associate Dean for Academic Affairs, School of Theology, University of the South, 335 Tennessee Avenue, Sewanee, TN 37383-0001. The position will remain open until it is filled, but applications received by January 5, 2009 will be assured of full consideration.

Sermon for Advent 2

Click here for audio

Advent 2B
St Luke's, Diocese of My Sojourn
7 December 2008

✠ I speak to you in the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

39 chapters of doom. 39 chapters of condemnation. 39 chapters of judgment.

That’s how the Book of Isaiah starts off. Oh sure, there are some lighter bits scattered here and there, some crumbs of hope, some gleams of light, but for the most part . . .

39 chapters of doom. 39 chapters of condemnation. 39 chapters of judgment.

And then, suddenly, as the fortieth chapter begins, the clouds lift, and we hear a sweet heavenly voice saying:

Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid.

The last few Sundays have been tough. As in the first 39 chapters of Isaiah, we’ve had doom and condemnation and judgment. We have heard “Throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” We have heard “You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.” We have heard that “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”

But today the clouds lift, and we hear that sweet heavenly voice saying, “Comfort, O comfort my people.”

I’m ready for that, aren’t you?

Of course, we also hear a voice that doesn’t sound quite as sweet. Somehow I don’t imagine John the Baptist – living in the open air, eating locusts and wild honey, clothed like the prophets of old – sounding like a lyric tenor. He’s preaching repentance, not comfort, right? Bellowing like a foghorn, I imagine. Not soothing. Not comforting.

And the place. He’s calling people out into the wilderness. Now the wilderness is a real place – it’s the barren region east of Jerusalem – but it’s also a powerful symbol. For the Jews, the wilderness was the place of wandering. It was the place of punishment for disobedience. It was the place where you encountered the devastating consequences of your own selfishness and rebellion and pigheadedness and negligence.

The wilderness is a hard place to be. There are no malls there, and Amazon.com does not deliver there. There is nothing there to keep us occupied but the constant, searing reminder that we are wandering in rebellion. We don’t want to go out into the wilderness and face up to the things we’ve done and the things we’ve left undone.

So the wilderness is a hard place to be. And yet people were flocking to the wilderness: “people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him.” How would John the Baptist, of all people, draw such crowds out into the wilderness? By telling them it was time to get ready, that one who was stronger than he was about to come. And people recognized in his croaking, hoarse, bellowing voice the heavenly voice that speaks out of Isaiah:

In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

So they went into the wilderness to prepare the way of the Lord, to be ready for the coming of the one who was more powerful than John the Baptist, the one who would drench them in the Holy Spirit.

The way of the Lord starts in the wilderness. I wish it didn’t, because the wilderness is a hard place to be, but it does. So something needs to call us out there, some John the Baptist who shakes us up and tells us that the time for delay, the time for half-heartedness, is over.

Who is your John the Baptist? Pay attention to that voice, that urgent voice, calling you out into your wilderness to face the selfishness or rebellion or pigheadedness or negligence that you do not want to face, telling you to get ready for the coming of the one who is mightier than you, the one who will drench you in the Holy Spirit.

Many of us, I’m sure, have been in that wilderness. Some impending crisis, some sudden dawning awareness of the coming of the Lord, has drawn us out there. And though we do not want to face there the things we have to face there, we know that that is where the way of the Lord begins. Though it is painful to face there the things we have to face there, we can testify that the voice we hear in that wilderness is a sweet voice. It whispers of comfort, and it tells us that we have served our term, that our penalty has been paid.

He is coming. He is coming in the Sacrament of the Altar. He is coming at Christmas. He is coming at the end of the age. Go out into the wilderness, into the place where you must face the things you do not want to face, and find there the place where the way of the Lord begins. And be ready, be ready to “greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer,” to whom, with the Father and the Holy Spirit be ascribed, as is most justly due, all might, dominion, majesty, and glory, world without end. Amen.

In quo postulans ordinationem suam annuntiat, secunda pars

Deo volente,

Reverendissimus Alanus Amictorius

Episcopus Iowensis

Thomam Filium Gulielmi,

qui vulgo Postulans nuncupatur,

ad ordinem sacrum sacerdotum ordinabit.

Die XIII Decembris a. D. MMVIII

Apud Ecclesiam Episcopalem Sanctissimae Trinitatis
Civitatis Iowensis

Petentur praesentia vestra atque intercessiones vestrae.

Updates

The overdue paper is done.

I am truly grateful to everyone who weighed in on manual acts. It helped me a great deal in figuring out what to do. I'm not going to tell you what I decided, though. I'm not prepared for that kind of flak. And it's no fair tracking me down and watching me -- though if I find out someone's coming, I'll make sure there's so much incense you can't see me anyway.

My current Calvinist got his act together and wrote a terrific paper on divine simplicity. And it's not easy to write a terrific paper on divine simplicity.

I have not seen Ms D'Urberville since she sent me that e-mail.

My traditional Latin ordination announcement is forthcoming.

Odds and ends

I get to be a reader for the upcoming GOE. I'm very excited about this, though as M points out, it's quite odd that I'm excited about the opportunity to read more exams.

*****

Clicking on a link at the blog of a friend of a friend, I remembered why I usually stick to my tried-and-true handful of familiar blogs. Yikes! Now I have uncharitable thoughts to repent of.

*****

Speaking of which, I'm preaching tonight -- a short meditation on Sunday's Gospel. I started to type out my basic outline (remember, no texts on Wednesday nights!), but it looked really lame. I hope it will work out better in practice.

*****

I got an e-mail today from one of my Sewanee profs, asking for my very late paper "ASAP." It's only fitting that I should experience being on the other side of that particular dynamic.

I've written 2500 words on the paper since getting that jolt. At this rate, I'll be done by Friday morning. So why has it taken me so long to get around to writing it?

*****

Churning out that paper means postponing that book review on Schmanselm for a little while. I suppose that's just as well, because what I have so far appears to have been written in high dudgeon, as if I regarded the author as an Enemy of All That Is Good and Noble in Scholarship. It's just a bad book, not a personal affront. Sheesh.

Notes to my students

Mr B -- I am begging you: please transfer to another school. Sure, you'll do fine here, and you'll get a respectable education, but you'd be so much better off at a place where the profs are able to pitch their classes a little closer to your level. When I think about how much more you would have been challenged by this course the way I used to teach it back at Excellent State, I could weep.

Mr M -- Congratulations! Because you're reasonably bright, you're going to manage a decent grade in a class that you've scarcely ever attended. Keep this up, and you'll graduate with a minimum of effort. You won't have gained any useful skills or transferable knowledge, but you'll have that degree -- not to mention some hideously bad habits that will make life in the "real world" ever so unsatisfying. Nice work!

Ms L -- It's a shame. You had a perfectly good mind that was ruined by the dilettantism and half-assed postmodernism of Sixties Refugee College. Now you're a graduate student with a lot of interesting things to say and no way to make anything coherent of them. Sometimes there's a good reason that path is grassy and wants wear, you know?

Mr W -- I really hate to pry, but I have to know why you were discussing the Christian view of homosexuality with the class Calvinist, Mr R. How did that even come up? And why would you care enough about the matter to come to my office hours to get my take on it? I know you're not a Christian, because you told me, and you don't seem gay, so what's up? Well, I suppose I should be glad that any student wants to talk to me about anything during my office hours.

Ms D -- How do you manage to ask such consistently good questions and participate intelligently in class discussion but then write such incoherent and semi-literate essays? Somewhere along the line, some of your teachers clearly failed to do their job. I really hope I'm not one of them.