There are plenty of options for worship in Oxford, even for an apathetic Christian like me. My religious participation during Holy Week (or any other week) is sporadic at best and more often non-existent. This can become problematic at times, because my mother is the pastor of my hometown’s Presbyterian church. So, due to a vague promise made to my mother and a guilty conscience (along with a tsk-tsk from my mother’s friend) for skipping Ash Wednesday services, I decided to go to church on Easter Sunday. As it happened, my participation in Holy week was three-fold.

The first was Palm Sunday. I could say that I planned to join the procession to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Radcliffe Square. However, I must admit that I was there taking pictures and happened upon the parishioners with their palm fronds. Moved by their singing, I joined the procession. When we reached the church’s entrance, I looked upward to a cloudless sky and chose the photo session. This was not a decision made lightly – church vs sun. But this is the UK, where churches are more plentiful than sunshine on an April morning.

My second nod to Holy Week involved a performance on Maundy Thursday featuring the Oxford Philomusica and the Choir of The Queen’s College. The concert, held in the Sheldonian Theatre, featured Bach’s Christ lag in Todesbanden and James MacMillan’s Seven Last Words from the Cross. The Sheldonian Theatre was the first building designed by Christopher Wren, who went on to re-build St. Paul’s Cathedral after The Great Fire of London. The Sheldonian Theatre was designed for University graduations and functions. I am not a music critic and do not claim any knowledge of the complexities of the compositions I heard that night, but I will say that the acoustics of the building are first-rate for a choral concert. Being moved by Bach in the Sheldonian was a given for me. I was surprised, though, by the depth of my response to MacMillan’s work, a modern composition I was determined to dislike. Like I said, I’m no critic, so I won’t make any attempt to describe the music. I will recommend that you find a recording and listen to it in an uninterrupted silent setting. A word to the wise here. If you can afford the chair seating in the Sheldonian, choose it over the gallery seats, unless you are at least six feet tall and have a strong back. The bench seating is uncomfortable and much of it backless. It required a lot of squirming and repositioning for me to actually get my feet to touch the floor. Also, the windows around the ceiling were propped open a bit and the street noise leaked into the gallery. Sitting up front would eliminate some of that noise.

My final and promised destination for Holy Week was Christ Church Cathedral for Easter Sunday services. Christ Church Cathedral began as a chapel for Cardinal College in the sixteenth century, an ambitious endeavor planned by Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Lord Chancellor to Henry VIII and a man who hoped to become Pope one day. Unfortunately for Wolsey, he failed to make good on his promise to arrange an annulment of King Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon. When Pope Clement refused to grant the annulment, Wolsey lost favor with the king, the Crown seized Wolsey’s vast wealth and estates, and he only escaped his execution by dying shortly after his arrest in 1530. Henry renamed the college to King Henry VIII’s College and then after naming Oxford a diocese, the king made the chapel a cathedral. The church is not cathedral-sized or even particularly grand, but its diminutive stature suited the Easter Sunday service.

Unlike large cathedrals open to the public, the secluded nature of the church within Christ College made it possible to worship without tourists and cameras. I remember visiting Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris on an Easter Sunday morning. We went down to listen to the bells and be a part of the celebration. But we did not go into the church while the service was conducted. Even though it was open to tourists, it seemed too intrusive to wander around the worshipers. At Christ Church, a porter stood guard to weed out the worshipers from the curious, while still welcoming strangers into the church. The churchgoers represented countries, ethnicities, religions, and communities. I felt comfortable, even though I had no family or friends with me on a day that is traditionally spent with loved ones. It was the perfect place for me to celebrate Easter.

I don’t know why I am so reluctant to discard religion completely. My intellect overpowers my creative and spiritual tendencies when it comes to believing in God. I dislike the rules and regulations of organized religions that attempt to dictate an individual’s experience with God. Maybe my hesitation has to do with the hypnotic effect of the pageantry involved in cathedrals or the harmonious voices offering praises from the choir. Yet, because that mesmerizing pull is dangerous, I approach those feelings with caution as I remember how pageantry and words can lead the masses to tyranny, rather than spiritual awakening. Maybe I want to participate in that shared experience of being one within a group or knowing that even though I am a small part in this world, that when I join with other small parts, we make up the whole of the Universe. Perhaps, I’m just not ready to give up on God.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I always wanted to study in Oxford. It never worked out and it will never happen — at least not in the way I dreamed the dream. It would require a time machine, the Fountain of Youth, and possibly a more classical education. What’s this? Never say never, you say? I speak the truth here. While it is possible to go back to college in midlife (I did it), the experience is different. I remember practicing conversation in my French classes as an older student. How could I relate to the scenarios of dorm life, clubbing, and entertaining my parents on campus?

I am neither don nor student. The quads of the colleges are hidden behind walls and gates and “no unauthorized entry” signs. The only way I can see them is with a tour guide or during visiting hours with an entrance ticket. I should walk the streets, dejected and powerless, lamenting my lost dream. But here’s the thing: It Doesn’t Matter. I’m creating my own experience.

Every day I have the opportunity to bike or walk into central Oxford. I lock my bike onto a bike rack in front of the Lamb & Flag, a pub whose origin and ties to St. John’s College began in the early 17th century. JRR Tolkein, CS Lewis, and Graham Greene frequented the tavern and it is said that Thomas Hardy worked on Jude the Obscure in the Lamb & Flag. I can walk past the “Bearded Ones” and the Sheldonian Theatre (designed by Christopher Wren) or visit the Old School’s Quadrangle of the Bodleian Library with its doors marking the schools of the university. On April 23rd I can stand in front of Carfax Tower and hear the bells peal for St. George, the dragon-slayer and Patron Saint of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. I walk along Queen’s Lane where all sound from the busy High Street is silenced. And most days I make sure I go to Radcliffe Square and hang out around the circular building known as Radcliffe Camera.

Just last week, I went into Blackwell’s Bookshop (http://www.britainexpress.com/cities/oxford/blackwells.htm) and met Sir Roger Bannister, the first man to run the mile in less than four minutes. He accomplished that feat here in Oxford in 1954. Yesterday I turned down an unfamiliar road and stumbled across the Story Museum (http://www.storymuseum.org.uk/) and a reading of Treasure Island with Philip Pullman, author of The Golden Compass.

I cannot feel sorry for myself, because my education does continue. Every experience I have here stirs curiosity. Walking and riding my bike strengthen my body. Who needs a gym? For the first time in many years, I sleep uninterrupted. Here, in my own little room, I write with a zeal I thought was lost. Maybe not studying here was the best thing that ever happened to me.

This morning I executed my first right-hand turn off of Banbury Road. Taking my brand-new, Robin Blue trekking bike out of the bike lane required confidence in my ability to translate American left-turn into English right-turn. I’m pretty sure I had twenty opportunities to make the turn before I felt sure enough to leap ahead onto the side street. That turn is one of the many “firsts” I am adding to my list. But let’s get back to the bike.

My bike is an Activ Fifth Avenue, a combination between a cruiser and a mountain bike. I thought it had six gears, but it has eighteen (note to self : pay attention to the bike guy as he lists the specifications). This bike is weighed down by every item necessary for a cruising bike. Its fenders shine in the daily minute of sunshine. The bike’s bell dings to warn pedestrians of my unsteady approach and it has an array of flashing lights that glow like something from Area 51.  Best of all — it has a basket on the back for carrying a picnic lunch to a spot by the river or canal. Anyone who has ever bought the bike of his/her dreams knows why I love mine.

It is possible to become childlike on a new bike. I’m not talking about reverting back to childhood or my early twenties or even my early forties. That is impossible. What I am talking about is riding a bike for the pure pleasure of pretending I am whatever I want to be when I grow up.  For some people, a bike is a means of transportation. For others it represents training and discipline and a faint hope of riding with elite bikers in the Tour de France. For me, a bike opens up possibilities.  I ride my bike through the unfamiliar neighborhood with an unguarded view of the world. I get to smile at people and nod a hello or mutter “sorry” when I veer too close. If I take enough antihistamine, I can stop and smell the roses or drop my bike in the grass, so I can lie on my back and watch the clouds move through the sky. Riding my bike reminds me that it is never too late to dream.

I know this because I am now living my childhood dream.