Christ Church, Oxford

 

Alright, I admit it. I love pop culture. That’s probably why I enjoyed the references to the movie Alien cunningly embedded into the story lines of the 2018 cinematic blockbusters Ready Player One and Infinity War. These references become even more interesting to me when they cross paths with religious figures. Such is the case of Harry Potter and John Wesley. I recently attended the Oxford Institute of Methodist Theological Studies, a scholarly conference that convened on the grounds of Pembroke College, Oxford. Day and night, Wesley scholars divided themselves into work groups to debate the Bible, ecumenism, interreligious dialogue, Methodist history, missions and evangelism, practical theology, theological education, theology and ethics, Wesley studies, worship, and spirituality. Of course, we also had less serious conversations about coffee, tea, and our favorite biscuits (cookies). During our colloquies at Pembroke College, we could hear the Christ Church’s magnificent bell tower, “Old Tom,” chiming each hour, on the hour. I had been to Oxford several times before on day trips with American tour groups. However, this was my first time to sojourn in historic Oxon.

I can’t imagine a more fertile ground for Methodists to enjoin in “Christian conferencing,” a Wesleyan means of grace. It was at Oxford that the pejorative term “Methodist” was coined. John Wesley was a fellow of Lincoln College while his younger brother Charles was matriculated at another Oxford college known as Christ Church. It was there that John Wesley gave leadership to the so-called “Holy Club,” a band of earnest collegians involved in faith-based humanitarian outreach to poor people and prisoners as an important part of their spiritual discipline. Wesley’s penchant for no-nonsense study of the Bible and spiritual classics would in time contribute to a grassroots reformation of British society that may have prevented a bloody revolution akin to that experienced in France. At least, this is what the French historian Élie Halévy suggested in his book, A History of the English People in the 19th Century. Our own modern group of scholars meeting in Oxford were aware of Potter and the Halévy thesis, possibly even a bit tired of hearing about both.

On a Thursday evening, I walked across the street with my colleagues to attend sung Eucharist at Christ Church Cathedral. Three things caught my attention in the fading light of the British sun. First, I noticed a lovely little fountain in the center of the Christ Church Quadrangle. I leaned over the edge of the fountain to snap a photo of the water lilies in blossom. I was startled when several huge fish magically poked their heads above the waterline to pucker their lips at me. Apparently, they were accustomed to begging for treats from every passing biped. I couldn’t take my eyes off of those overly friendly fish. The second sight was no less dramatic. An elderly university don with a kind face, wise eyes, and a shock of long white hair made intense, purposeful strides across the Quad towards the entrance of the Cathedral. He was wearing a flowing black academic robe commonly worn at British universities. By his striking appearance, he could have walked right off a set of the latest Harry Potter movie. The third sight was the college refectory, whose familiar architecture served as the model for J. K. Rowling’s imaginative dining hall at Hogwarts. Most Methodists are familiar with the Harry Potter cultural reference, but they may miss the strange parallels with that location which nurtured a nonfictional eighteenth century man who was not a mesmerizer but a mystic of sorts.

I am quite sure there were no magical meals being served in the refectory that night. However, something remarkable was about to happen in the adjoining Cathedral. Celebrating the Eucharist was a guest Chaplain, a priest in the Church of England. After delivering a stirring homily garnished by a chorus of ruffed singers, he made his way to the high altar in the apse. When the appointed time in Eucharistic liturgy came, the priest elevated the sacred host (bread) while speaking the words of institution, thus affirming the divine mystery of the Christian faith. When Britain was Roman Catholic, the Latin words were hoc est corpus meum (this is my body). Sometimes, illiterate priests mispronounced the words so that they sounded like hocus pocus. Of course, to the layperson at that time, the divine mystery was the magical transformation of the host into the true body of Christ. I kneeled in the Cathedral to receive Holy Communion, less than a stone’s throw from the place which inspired Harry Potter’s wizard-worthy meals.

Something about being in that place in Oxford at that time with those unexpected stimuli activated my own imagination. I couldn’t help but ponder how many other places, both ancient and modern, might evoke such creative bursts of energy. It wasn’t magic that I discovered there as much as a renewed commitment to open my mind to inspiration. When we enter interfaith dialogue, it might be helpful to ask: “Who else is experiencing these phenomena?” At the very least, that could be an exciting place to begin our conversations.

The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view(s) of The United Methodist Church or any other employer or institution.