If an alien were to come to Oxford, our tour guide Tom told us, it would notice two things: academia and religion. Tom was right. Every corner you turn in that city--right on Beaumont Street, left on Blue Boar Street, on the corner of Turl Street and Brasenose Lane--you run into a college or cathedral. The aura of intelligence and reverence spills onto the common tourist from all those spiky turrets, lofty clocktowers and spires, and the solemn statues behind their protective nets.
Sunday morning I sat in the back pew of St. Mary Magdalen's Church. I followed the stone columns and brilliant stained glass up and up with my eyes. When mass started I watched the people in front of me so I'd know when to unhook the green kneeling cushion or when to cross myself. I was a bit nervous about the incense swinging and the bowing at the altar. A few times I got lost in the order of the service. But I liked the call and response, the tall candles, "this is the Word of the Lord" repeated in lovely received pronunciation, and the angelic allelulia's sung from the rear balcony. Every action was precise and measured and practiced hundreds of times.
In the two millenia since the Church started, hundreds of thousands of people, in countries and languages all over the world have been perfecting this art of worship. As a participant I saw what a little speck I am on that timeline. But a small speck in good company, because I'm preceded by hundreds of thousands of other specks.
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