Oxford University is one of the most prestigious universities in the world and the list of people who went to Oxford reads like a whose who of important historical  people. They came from every possible disciplines such as politics (Indira Ghandi, Bill Clinton, Margaret Thatcher, William Gladstone), economics (John Locke, Thomas Hobbes) and literature (JRR Tolkien, Lewis Carroll, Oscar Wilde). The names continue: John Wesley, Sir Walter Raleigh, Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Stephen Hawking, C.S. Lewis, Adam Smith.

And now me. Yep, most people don’t know it, but I went to Oxford. I walked those same hallowed streets as some of the world’s best and brightest. I strode through the same gateways; pushed on the same doors. Heck, I even have a coffee mug that has the coat of arms of every college associated with Oxford.

Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a student there, unless you count reading all the historical markers around town and a brief walk through the Oxford University bookstore. I guess you could probably list my official Oxford classification as…tourist. I would like to study there and it has always been a desire to at least visit Oxford. It didn’t disappoint. In fact, it was nearly too much. Come to think of it, it was sensory overload caused by historical and architectural gluttony. I devoured the reality of 700-year-old buildings constructed from the cut stone of the Cotswolds and shaped to classic perfection, only to turn and face another as old and as historic.

And if these buildings could talk they’d bear witness to so many significant events. Think what Oxford Castle would say of its nearly 1,000 years of life and how it was established to remind the conquered Saxons of their resounding defeat at the hands of Normans. Or how about something much more “contemporary” as the 1555 martyrdom of Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley, two English reformers burned on Oxford’s Broad Street by order of Queen Mary I (Bloody Mary) for their refusal to renounce their Protestant beliefs.

Oxford is so much more than punting (and as my experience dictates I’m glad it is!), and as I’ve scanned through the pictures I took I think it will take some time to digest the magnitude of such a place. Pictures aren’t worth a 1,000 words because some need that many words of explanation, but I’ve posted a couple here and you can find more at my Flickr photo page. They still don’t do Oxford justice so if you want a better experience you just have to go to Oxford.

I did.

I love Venice, Italy, with the uniqueness of its watery corridors lined with incredible architecture steeped with history. Who can resist the opportunity of romantically drifting by the Piazza San Marco in a gondola with a loved one, while the striped-shirted piloto regales you with an original version of the Neapolitan classic, O sole mia.

Ah, Venice. Yep. I love Venice; or actually I guess I should say I love the idea of Venice. I’ve never actually been to Venice, unless you count watching somebody else’s YouTube clip from their vacation of them drifting romantically along Venice’s watery corridors listening to a piloto regale them with O sole mia.

But I have been to Oxford, England. And I have drifted along the River Cherwell. However, there were no Rudolph Valentino looking dudes in striped shirts with voices like Pavarotti serenading us with O sole mia, or any other song. There was no Piazza and no gondolas. There were, however, a number of misdirections that ended with the bow of the punt – or flat-bottom boat propelled by a long pole (operated by yours truly) – ramming the narrow river’s bank like an ill-fated beach landing. There was also the pole getting hung in low hanging trees or stuck in the gray, oozy mud – or both. Instead of the lilting sounds of a perfect tenor, my family nearly got the incoherent rantings of a West Tennessean. I would have snapped the pole across my knee in a fit of frustrated rage, but where do you snap a 16-foot pole? And even if I’d figured that out I’m reasonably certain the thick aluminum would not have yielded to my belligerence.

But it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

When a friend (yes, she’s still a friend – mostly) recommended we give it a try it sounded like a good idea. And once I read the description on the Website it was an absolute must do.

At Magdalen Bridge Boathouse you have the opportunity to spend the day enjoying the beautiful River Cherwell as it passes historic oxford colleges, the botanic gardens and tranquil English countryside. Set off from the boathouse and glide past the famous Botanic Gardens. Drift quietly through Christ Church Meadows, where Lewis Carroll was inspired to write Alice Through the Looking Glass. Pass St Hilda’s College gardens, Magdalen College Tower, traveling through English countryside down to the river Thames.

Now do you see from whence came visions of Venice – UK style? The exception being that I half expected to see Cheshire Cat grinning from the river bank, or when asking which direction I was to navigate, having the King of Hearts tell me, “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” But it wasn’t like that at all. I banged us under the bridge, against parked punts and into others who were no more qualified than I to punt; and some who I felt reasonably sure could very well have been chasing Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit instead of Lewis Carroll’s.

Once clear of all obstacles other than the persistent river bank which kept navigating itself directly at the punt’s bow, I propelled our boat (sort of) forward with confident uncertainty. My daughter wanted to help, so she floated a dwarfed-size paddle through the current in the water alongside. Of course I did what any self-respecting man would do: I blamed our constant misdirection on her paddle serving as a rudder forcing us to the river’s edge (Totally absurd, I know, but since I’ve already invoked the absurdity of Lewis Carroll I feel I can throw myself on the absurdity of absurdity to rescue even a shred of seamanship here). At $26/30 minutes, a brief glance at my watch solidified my mission: circumnavigate the small island in the river and return the boat within the 30 minutes to limit the financial disaster meandering and unscheduled beach landings would cause.

I forged ahead, fought the trees and willed the punt to it’s resting place. As I was handing the pole back to the guy who launched us I asked, “So how many times out before I navigate it like you guys?” “At least twice,” he said, without so much as a respectful pause. “Well that’ll never happen,” I thought to myself, as he added, “But actually, you did quite well for a first timer. Most people can’t get it around that quickly.”

Okay, so maybe that could bring me back, I thought; and let’s face it, the girls had fun despite my constant mumbling. But, the truth? I’ll take a punt on punting. Next time I think we’d try the paddle boats.

Or better yet, just go to Venice and let the Valentino-Pavarotti dudes do all the rowing and singing.

There is something ironic about Old City Jerusalem being called, “The Holy City.” It isn’t.

Jerusalem is a city where stress runs high and the strain of so many people practicing so many religions in such a small area makes the tension palatable. Young Muslim men spitefully mock an elderly Jewish man as he winds his way through the Muslim quarter on his way to morning prayers. Devout Jews press their faces against the Western Wall, crying out to God to hear their prayers while harboring contempt in their hearts toward Muslims whose Dome of the Rock located on the other side of the wall is anathema (it is built on the site where the Jewish temple once stood thousands of years ago). People of traditional religions press their icons and rosaries against the slab of rock within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre believed to be the stone upon which Jesus was laid after being crucified. Tears streaming down their faces, they seek a blessing or a healing or some connection with God through well meaning, but mistaken, devotion.

Bitter schism resides just below the surface and there isn’t any one of these factions that would be disappointed if the other two would exit the city walls. Money is the unifying denominator. Remove the tourist dollar – take away the thousands of global residents who push their way through the throng along the cobblestone streets leaving a significant amount of money with the hundreds of gift shops – and it would boil over.

My task during my eight days of wandering through the Jerusalem maze was to find out what Jerusalem means to the people who live there. Through several interviews and probing questions it quickly became obvious that the romantic notions people I know have of Jerusalem are not shared by the people who live within Old City’s walls. As objective as inhabitants say they are or try to be it all goes pear shaped with one question: What do you think it will take for there to be peace in Jerusalem?

Palestinian Muslims clamor for Jewish building and resettlement to cease in the West Bank and for Jews to reinstate boundary lines as they were in 1948 or 1967. Then, they say, there will be peace. Jews wail at the Western Wall over the defilement they believe the Muslim’s mosque and monument bring to the Temple Mount. Remove the Dome and Mosque and then, they say, there will be peace. Both groups harbor contempt toward “Christians” (the word they associate with those practicing Catholic and Orthodox traditions) for the Crusades and mock them for their idol worship.

I recognize these are generalizations and not everyone in Jerusalem feels this way, but I talked with enough people in each group to get a sense that a significant number of people in Jerusalem believe the most lasting solution for peace rests upon the total expulsion or annihilation of his or her neighbor. As one devout Jew said, “There will never be peace as long as that dome sits on the Temple site.”

The Bible records Jesus approaching Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives and looking across the narrow valley and into the city. The temple would have been plainly visible to Him since its location sat near the wall on that eastern side. His perspective was slightly elevated from the hillside so He was looking down into Jerusalem. “Jesus looked over the city and wept,” Luke wrote of the occasion.

Why was Jesus weeping? Wasn’t Jerusalem a holy city? It was not. It was a religious city – much as it is today – and that is why he wept. The religious leaders of the day brought such bondage on the people that there was no joy in serving and worshiping God. They were so busy ritual keeping that they failed to rightly interpret Scripture and recognize Christ as the fulfillment of thousands of years of prophecy. Jesus wept precisely because there was no holiness, only ritual.

I am convinced after walking the streets myself and talking to devout and secular Jews, Muslims and “Christians” that Jesus would weep because nothing has changed. If anything I’d say it has become more complicated and contentious. The bondage of religion is heavier now than it ever has been. Reconciliation to God through the Son brings peace with God and produces holiness. Holiness before God produces peace within oneself that radiates outward to bring peace among other people. As Paul wrote, “as much as it is within you, live at peace with all men.”

Jerusalem needs your prayers. In fact the Bible commands us to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. Peace will not come through religion, mostly because religion is divisive and some of the great atrocities in the history of the world have come because of religion. Jerusalem is rife with religion.

Don’t call Jerusalem the Holy City. It is not a Holy City; it is a religious city and the difference is the difference between war and peace.

I stood in silence screaming at the image facing me. Disgust pushed me to leave. Anger anchored me to stay. I forced myself to stand there and deal with every emotion that crashed against my soul. I fixated on the soldier with gun trained feet from the head of a defenseless mother desperately shielding her child from the murder that was seconds away. Profanity spewed from my mind as I witnessed the depths of evil and cowardice. I found it easier to linger in my hate of the soldier rather than convince my eyes to digest the image of a desperate mother, knowing she was about to be dealt a crushing blow. “God, no!” I pleaded with all my heart. But I was too late.

Nearly 70 years too late.

I thought going to the Yad Vesham Holocaust Remembrance Museum in Jerusalem sounded like a good idea. I knew enough about the atrocities perpetrated against Jews by Germans in  collaboration with many other guilty nations that I felt reasonably sure I wouldn’t be introduced to much new. What I learned is that I had an extremely superficial understanding of the cruelty and suffering; the hate and helplessness; the evil and desperation.

I froze when I walked into the room where the picture hung. It seemed so….real; like I was there. I wanted to yell, “Run!”; or “Stop!”; or “No!” I wanted to have a gun aimed squarely at that cowardly bastard and blow his head off before he could do what history records he did. How can someone’s soul be so shriveled – so dead – that it would allow someone to coldly kill a helpless mother and her child?

“Dear God, how could this have happened?” I asked over and over as I roamed – sometimes in shock – as image after image presented itself and begged from me an answer to the same question: “How could the world have allowed this to happen?” I wanted to deny the truth of what I saw yet the evidence forced my admission of it. It was real. And it did happen. And the world was slow to respond throughout World War II and when it did it acted surprised by what it found. Maybe it is better to describe it as shocked by what it found since reality proved much more horrific than nearly five years of previous eyewitness testimony indicated. All the world bears the shame of that episode of history.

And what of the world today? Not much has changed. We’ve stood by and watched Cambodians suffer similar genocide at the hands of the Khmer Rouge, or Tutsi and politically moderate Hutu Rwandans at the hands of militant Hutus, or the innocent of Darfur at the hands of extremists.

The Bible asks “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9). Standing looking at the image of a cowardly soldier murdering a helpless mother confirms the depths of our depravity and presents us with the reality of who we are.

God’s response to the question is in the next verse: “I the Lord search the heart and test the mind, to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his deeds.”

What are the fruits of my deeds? What are the fruits of your deeds? Will we be guilty of the deceit in our own hearts? Will we be guilty of waiting until it is too late before we deal with it?

I bounced my purple plastic worm through the green-tinted water anticipating the possibility that at any second the fishing pole might be ripped from my hands. My palms were sweaty, and I fought the urge to strangle the foam handle. I knew I needed to relax. The tension I felt could cost me The Big One.

Landing the big fish is about feel. You have to feel the lure sliding through the water. You have to feel the nibble on the bait so you know when it’s time to set the hook. You have to feel the strain on the line so it doesn’t break as the fish is running for its life.

So I relaxed as much as I could, but remained vigilant…and it happened. A massive fish hit my bait with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball crashing into the side of a condemned building, Within a breath, it had run more than 150 feet from the boat. The pounding of my heart sounded like a kettle drum in my ears but I was screaming in my mind, “Be patient!” Slowly I started to crank the reel, dragging what felt like a truck tire toward the boat. After what seem like hours (probably more like 5 minutes) my avatar reached into the water and hoisted from the water an exhausted 36.8 pound stripped bass.

I say “avatar” because I was fishing as a virtual person, on a virtual lake, using virtual bait, driving a virtual boat and landing a virtual fish. But it was a BIG virtual fish…and it didn’t get away. (An avatar is not really like the movie, but is a digitally generated image that sorta looks like you – or looks like you wish you looked). My virtual me went on to harvest 83 pounds of virtual bass to win the virtual tournament on virtual Lake Amistad, Texas. I won a virtual crank bait and a virtual $25 gift certificate to a virtual Bass Pro Shops.

This virtual world is contained inside the Bass Pro Shops’ “The Strike” video game my dad has for his XBox. It comes with a stubby little fishing pole with a spinning reel. You push a button, draw the pole back and fling it like a real cast. I had so many “perfect casts” I lost track. I was a fish-catching machine. I could tell my virtual me even enjoyed riding in the boat.

And that is about where the similarities ended between the virtual experience and the real-life experience my dad and I had drifting along the bank of the Tennessee River near Pickwick Landing. I for the most part cast my line to within about 30 feet of where I was actually trying to land it. I caught one little bass that a friend of mine said in response to the picture he saw of my prize: “We don’t want to see the live bait we want to see the fish!” (A good line, crushing, but a really good line.)

But the virtual game isn’t perfect. It can simulate a lake, a fish, a boat, a catch but it can’t simulate actually being on a real lake in a real boat and catching a real fish. It can’t simulate spitting sunflower seed hulls, jabbing your finger on a hook or getting worm poop on your hands when you thread the squirmy things as bait. It can’t simulate sunburn, the serenity of drifting along or the suspension of time.

It’s biggest shortcoming? It can’t simulate real time together with your dad, which I wouldn’t trade for even 83 pounds of real fish and that was the best part of having gone fishin’ – for real.