Monday, May 28, 2012

Why So Great?


            Only in the British Isles will you walk into the office of a college professor and come upon a hunk of cheese and two wine glasses just recently drained of their contents lying conspicuously on the table. The smell was insufferable and I was glad later on Tuesday (the day of arrival in Oxford) to notice that the cheese and glasses were gone. Instead, the table boasted a full cup of black tea. Even jetlag couldn’t prevent me from noticing that I was no longer within the boundaries of Providence, Rhode Island. At no American college will you behold the unbelievable sight of a couple of blokes playing a pleasant game of croquet on the immaculate green of Christ Church—nor will you find the schoolboys of Oxford playing a miniature cricket match. Indeed, Oxford is where college students casually assemble to bask at the Thames while cheering on their friends racing in a regatta. It’s where students blast past you while riding their bicycle to an exam—which they take donning their mandatory robes.
            As picturesque as all of this sounds, Oxford is not picturesque. That is, Oxford is beautiful, but its appeal does not consist in the stone composition of its halls nor the verdant pastures that border the Thames. A picture is a worthy memento, but its value diminishes as water smears ink and dust veils details. The picture of Oxford is no doubt less promising in the cold, rainy weather Oxfordians endured for the past five weeks until the sun shone again this week. So what makes Oxford the great center of wisdom and erudition that ranks it as one of the finest academic institutions that ever existed?
            Before defining what comprises a great school, let’s ask what makes a great man. Chesterton said that “the real great man is the man who makes every man feel great.” I believe that one can contend the same of a university: Oxford should make everyone feel great. Such a claim is outrageous, some may argue, since admission to such a prestigious school is extremely selective and most of the people who go to Oxford are tourists and not students. Surely non-students don’t feel fortunate, and certainly not great. But they should, and here’s why: the reason why institutions such as Oxford are of such repute is because they appeal to our greatest desires as human beings. We desire truth.
            Certainly, truth should be the standard for any academic establishment, but Oxford is so special because it has been pursuing the Truth for almost a thousand years. Through the stone walls of Oxford pulse the stories, discoveries, and hopes of our predecessors. Stepping into the gates of Blackfriars Hall, go through the door on the left-hand side, and up the stairs into the library, wherein you will find a rich deposit of theology and philosophy. Leave the same way that you came in and you’ll come upon another door on the right side of the way, which will take you into the Chapel of the Holy Spirit. Either way, you’ll be transported into the Middle Ages—and will thus appropriate all that those men and women held most precious.
            Such an archaic epoch and people can have nothing in common with us. Centuries ago, man still hoped and searched for fulfillment, which his heart told him rested with the Truth. Today, truth is an ideal or perhaps more accurately, it is a vapid term that is only momentarily convenient. Today, we prefer to recline in the park and hide behind our parasols from the luminous rays of the Truth. But the scholars of Oxford fought for what they knew to be true, and the streets of Oxfordshire remember the blood of Catholic and Protestant martyrs smeared on their pavement. Catholics were persecuted in Britain when Henry VIII declared independence from Rome and only in the early twentieth century were the Dominicans allowed to re-establish themselves in Oxford. Their motto was always veritas—truth. That’s why Oxford is great.  

Sunday, May 20, 2012

"Abandon Hopelessness All Ye Who Enter Here"


“For you, perhaps,” G.K. Chesterton writes in Charles Dickens: the Last of the Great Men, “a drearier philosophy has covered and eclipsed the earth. The fierce poet of the Middle Ages wrote, ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,’ over the gates of the lower world.” Upon hearing that I’ll be spending six weeks studying in Oxford this summer, no one has told me to “abandon hope.” Quite the opposite! Instead, there have been entreaties from all quarters for me to enjoy my time at the alma mater of Lewis and Eliot because these weeks will be short-lived—in the grand scheme of things they really will. While hopelessness hasn’t exactly characterized anyone hearing about my adventures to the Dominican enclave of Blackfriars in Oxford, there has been a tone of cynicism. The reality, they say, is that reality can never be so sweet—at least not for more than a few glorious weeks spent in leisure in the English countryside. My response to these individuals is best represented by another healthy dose of Chesterton:
            “Forego for a little the pleasures of pessimism. Dream for one mad moment that the grass is green. Unlearn that sinister learning that you think so clear; deny that deadly knowledge that you think you know. Surrender the very flower of your culture; give up the very jewel of your pride; abandon hopelessness all ye who enter here.” Indeed, the first Oxford scholars veritably abandoned hopelessness because in seeking knowledge, they were pursuing the Truth and thus yearning to draw closer to God. Like so many who are in error, the pessimists lay hold to a half-baked truth, which is that my study at Oxford this summer will be ephemeral. They are correct on this point. Their fatal error, however, lies in the assumption that the fruits of this time will also eventually rot away—they will not. The fruit of my study will ferment and endure for years to come.
            You see, the fruits cannot expire after the allotted six weeks because true knowledge consists in contemplating the Truth. Christians say of the Virgin Mary: “Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus” because this fruit is immortal. The motto of Oxford is Dominus Illuminatio Mea (“The Lord is my light”). The light of Christ will not go out once I have bidden good-bye to Oxford. Wisdom, then, lies in opening our hearts and souls to the light of truth that only Christ, who is the Word offers us if we knock at His door. True knowledge lies not in attending a prestigious university or studying a particular subject but in granting deference to the glorious erudition of the past.
            Chesterton says: “Tradition may be defined as an extension of the franchise. Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about.” Although I hope to meet many interesting people as numerous and varied as the characters of Dickens during my time in England, my experience will be colored primarily by the votes of “the most obscure of all classes,” who are the great men who cast their ballots first. It is so very exciting to be studying at Oxford because of the centuries of academics who have learnt and taught within its walls—whose ballots I endeavor to read. My story at Oxford is but a detail on a large, ornate frame that captures the dynamic quest of man simply to know. I know that my adventure will soon be eclipsed by others but the perpetual human thirst for truth and wisdom will never end—even outside the hallowed confines of Oxfordshire. Tomorrow, Monday, May 21st, I begin a journey whose character is not so very extraordinary: it begins and will thrive on the desire of all men to know.