BitterSweetLife

Or: Reflections after the Midterms Firefight


On the way to school, I contemplated the onrushing showdown.

My mind was jittery and alert, ready to take the offensive at the first sign of a threat. At intervals I heard the sound of footsteps, real or imagined, and whirled to vindictively grapple with my enemies, pinning them cleanly to the wall—then relinquishing my death-grip, moving on, only to hear another adversary approaching from behind me…

Early this morning, as I was downing the pre-combat espresso and taking in
some Bible, I read a verse that gave me pause: “Don't walk around with a chip on your shoulder, always spoiling for a fight” (Proverbs 3:30, The Message). But surely, I thought, that doesn’t apply to midterms? When it comes to exams, the chip is locked in place and fully loaded.

The firefight in Church Growth was mercifully quick. Within seven minutes, the body of my multiple-choice assailant lay smoking on the floor. I stooped over the corpse long enough to count the bullet holes, then turned on my heel and left the room. No time for sentimentality.

In History of Christianity I found myself facing a more equally matched opponent. I was lost briefly in the no man’s land of Gnosticism, behind enemy lines, but regained my position with the help of a chronological GPS system (clock) and blasted my way to freedom, and the next skirmish—Justin Martyr. But it was all downhill from there. Tertullian’s anti-Roman apologetics and anti-heretical dogmatics succumbed to my sniper-rifle optics and ample firepower. Leaving a large body of evidence behind me, I surged forward. Only one battle left.

In Theology, my professor had said liltingly: “Use introductory sentences and smooth transitions; write flowing theological prose”—his breezy enunciation communicating clearly the irony of his message. “Flowing theological prose” is C.S. Lewis, not essay-style exams on the Doctrine of Scripture with 70 minutes allotted to spell it out. Nonetheless, I was prepared to conjure up a few flowery phrases in honor of the prof’s figurative request. Until I sat down and started scribbling.

The exam became an exercise in cold, hard efficiency, no time for eloquence. My coffee-enhanced acuity was wearing thin, replaced by a dull headache and the ruthless will to win. Here and there I showed off a little of what I could have done, given world enough and time—“the Bible is a historic document in every sense of the word, not pristine, handed down by angels or engraved on gold tablets…” “…an exercise in humility is required, seeing as how my sin-darkened eyes remain in their sockets…”—but mostly the verbiage was brief, dry, and mildly reproachful. Flowing theological prose.

In the closing minutes of the game, I felt the enemy give way, and ripped off a staccato burst of brutal applicatory paragraphs. The exam went down, still trying to drag me with it as it choked in the dust. But I brushed off its convulsively weakening fingers, and sagged back in my chair with a sense of calm pity—drained but free. I was the winner, the last one standing. But in the end, winning carried its own sobering burden, and I was strangely moved, strangely silent. I had defeated them, but I could no longer view my opponents as entirely evil.