Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Preacher: Revd Dr Donald MacEwan, University Chaplain
Readings: Psalm 139:1-18; Jeremiah 18:1-6
How do you measure a year?
Last year on this weekend, Sam and I went round the halls of residence as students moved in. We said hello to people outside DRA, Uni Hall, Sallies and others, as they collected multiple boxes of lateral flow kits, and put their masks on before finding their room. The year before, I chatted fully masked to arriving students at McIntosh and ABH, two metres apart. And this Service of Welcome had 50 people, who had signed up in advance. No-one could sing. We’ve come a long way in a year or two, and there is a wonderful sense of anticipation about this year starting now – and of course some anxiety – which I’ll come back to.
How do you measure a year, the year to come?
Well, you measure it out of 20. Or at least we do in St Andrews. As returning students well know, most assessments are marked out of 20. As a rough guide, 17 and above is first class or distinction; 14 and above is a 2:1 or Merit; 11 and above is a 2:2 or a pass, and 7 out of 20 is, well, some say 7 is heaven. Let’s just not think about what lies below 7.
But while students are here to learn deeply about this amazing universe, the extraordinary discoveries of science, the most profound human creativity, and the astonishing ways societies have been organised – there is more going on in a year here than labs, lectures and all-nighters in the library. The psalm which our Principal read for us earlier is a beautiful meditation on the whole of a life. It begins with observations, even measurements.
O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and rise up;
You discern my thoughts from far away.
God is like a scientist, observing, noting and recording from which comes divine knowledge. It’s a knowledge beyond what we even know of ourselves. And for the psalmist, that’s because God is our creator, the loving origin of all life, from whose generous hand comes our potential in body and mind, from taking walks on the West Sands, to the inspiration infusing Sir James MacMillan, a Professor here, in composing the anthem which the choir will be singing shortly.
For some parents here today, that will be a huge comfort. The child leaving your care is not falling into an absence of care – but will be continuing in the loving knowledge of God. As we heard in vv. 9-10:
If I take the wings of the morning
And settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
Even there your hand shall lead me,
And your right hand shall hold me fast.
Well, it may feel that St Andrews is at the farthest limits of the sea, five miles beyond the last train station, found down increasingly skinny roads, and often approached from behind a large piece of agricultural machinery. But the University’s been here, at the ends of the earth, for over 600 years, and in my 11 years here, I have seen God’s leading of our students as they grow and struggle, as they panic and as they thrive. Of course, family and friends are welcome to supplement God’s guidance, or perhaps be the channel for it, in an occasional phone call, or parcel posted from home of essentials you are sure cannot be obtained here. Though Tesco on Market Street may be their only store in the UK which does stock Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Yet for all the comfort we may find in faith, however tentatively held, there is bound to be anxiety today, for new and returning students, for staff members, and for all in chapel or watching at home. The year to come has not been measured because it has not happened yet. What will my course be like this year? Who will my friends be? Will I make the first team? Can I produce edible meals? How do you wash clothes? Will I fall in love – and will they like me? What will happen when my degree ends in a few short months? The psalmist shares his belief in v. 16 that
In your book were written
All the days that were formed for me,
When none of them as yet existed.
That might mean that this year is all determined in advance. But scripture is clear that human beings have responsibility for our actions, that part of God’s creative gift to the world is freedom, that what happens in the world is an interplay of divine providence and creaturely action. In some ways, every module in the School of Divinity is an attempt to tease out that interplay between God and the world. So the year still lies ahead of us – to be lived. What will it be like? Let me explore this via a song.
I love going to student shows – theatre, concerts and musicals. Over my years here, I’ve seen some brilliant student productions of Anything Goes, Chicago, The Drowsy Chaperone, Cabaret, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Hair, Spring Awakening, and a peculiar piece called Urinetown. But one of the best was Rent, first performed on Broadway in 1996, which I saw at the Byre Theatre a few years ago. Loosely based on Puccini’s La Bohème, it tells the story of a group of artists in New York under the shadow of HIV/Aids. The showstopper is the song Seasons of Love.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
Here is how the writer Jonathan Larson suggests you measure a year:
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
Could these measurements work in St Andrews?
Daylights – yes, and even dawns such as the morning of the May Dip on the first of May on the East Sands, when thousands of students run into the sea.
Sunsets – yes, such beautiful sunsets visible from South Street at about 4 pm on December afternoons. (Returning students will confirm that there’s not a whole lot of daylight in a St Andrews winter.)
In midnights – oh yes, from throwing a few shapes at a bop in 601 in the Union, to finding those creative juices flowing for that assignment due in the following morning.
In cups of coffee – I refer again to that assignment due in the following morning.
In inches – well, we have a few golf courses here, and every golfer knows the difference between glory and disaster on the Old Course is measured in inches.
In miles – yes – Britain has adopted metric measurements in a somewhat haphazard fashion. Distances in miles, petrol in litres, but scales tell our weight in stones.
In laughter – absolutely. Some of you will have modules in comedy, from Dante to romcoms. But all of us will laugh at the absurdity of so much of our existence.
In strife – undoubtedly. And when you do struggle with studies, friendships, mental health, romance or anything else, you are welcome to come and have a chat with Sam or me in confidence, or get in touch with Student Services. Strife is normal, but we learn to live with it, and learn from it.
The song Seasons of Love after all these details holds them all together in its closing words:
Measure your life in
Seasons of love.
I don’t think there could be a better lyric for a service of welcome in a University. For parents here, having children, bringing them up, seeing them grow has been a long season of love, a couple of decades or so. But as we deposit them in a room with a bed, a desk and unfamiliar flatmates, it’s a new season of love, a love of letting them discover who they are, away from our kitchen table. And for those who are embarking on a new year of studies here, a new year of life, this will be a season of love. There will be friends to make, to catch up with, to deepen in loving. There will for some be the growth of a partnership which could be for ever. There will be commitments to the poor, to the vulnerable, to the planet, in campaigning and action – in love for all our fellow-creatures. And there is love from God and for God. Love which comforts us in what we fear, and encourages us to care for each other
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
How do you measure a year?
How about love?
END