The season of Easter is the season of bunnies, egg hunts, and chocolate. On Easter Sunday, my wonderful friends came together to race across college collecting those chocolates — much to the chagrin of the head gardener. The winner happened across a whopping 28 chocolate eggs, which he generously shared. Even I, a self-proclaimed chocolate hater, participated in the ceremonious chocolate eating.

The hunt was followed by the biggest banquet I’d ever seen. After all the running around we stuffed ourselves with Easter bread, Easter cake, Easter eggs, then entertained ourselves by smashing our painted hard-boiled eggs against each other’s — a winner was crowned that day. The celebrations lasted for over eight hours, and even then I didn’t want it to end. Lying in bed at the end of the night, I mulled over my Easter celebrations only to reluctantly accept the fact that as amazing as it was, something was missing. I was missing God.

To me, Easter is a time of reflection. At home, the dense snow would’ve only started to melt, leaving the roads covered by a dirty pile of slush. Despite the sad conditions, the sun would’ve returned and the temperatures would’ve climbed to a healthy 0°C, compared to the daunting -15°C two months earlier. I would’ve made my way to the closest underground station, travelling a measly two stations before emerging and meeting my best friend for church. We’d talk excitedly about the music we were going to hear, the hymns we might sing, or share the recent pieces of gossip in our social circle. Then we’d sit down for a good hour to contemplate the past year. As Easter marks the rebirth of Jesus, so I, too, may be reborn as a better person upon reflection.

“In the average Cambridge community, my ‘backwards’ belief in a random sky guy would never be accepted.”

Church, to me, serves not as a place of worship but rather as a place of thought. It’s a quiet place to ponder everything larger than the self. I’ve always found peace within the hollow pews, where so many have sat for the same purpose. Being in a church service makes me feel more alive; the stories told break the confines of my individual struggles and free the love and happiness under the surface. Church is also the one place where I can always find music. One of the many joys of being a chorister is regularly singing in such a beautiful space. Thousands of years of hymns and chorales all began within churches, the same churches still standing today. Music that excites people all over the world has been created in worship. And all these things that I love I had to hide when I moved to Cambridge.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Cambridge welcomed me in all my weirdness except one. In this progressive community, I could be me, but only without my religious fascinations. I quickly discovered that no matter who I was or what I did, it was my beliefs and not my actions that defined me.

My college had a Christian group that met up occasionally to have dinners and discussions, most of which were open to other students to participate. I was very keen to attend at least one session, but unfortunately it was not to be. The group’s willingness to engage was quickly shot dead when they were openly mocked on social media. Though some people came to the Christian group’s defence, it was clear that jeering at those who are actively religious was not frowned upon. The party on the offense undermined every and any academic accomplishment people of faith may achieve, citing the superiority of reason. They cited logic and science as the ultimate accomplishments while bashing the concept of faith – ignoring the fact that one of the members of the Christian society was in fact a trained medic and neuroscientist. I’d always thought that logic itself required belief in the system, but apparently those things are completely irreconcilable and no scientist can ever have faith. I buried my own belief further.

Religion: a time of testing

A couple of weeks ago, I brought up the idea of going to Easter service to my closest friend in Cambridge, hoping to share the experience together. He adamantly refused. He was raised Catholic and forced into religion by his parents. As I was also forced to go to church as a child, but somehow grew into it, we came to muse about our different childhoods. Slowly, nostalgia turned into anticipation. Our childhood turned into future childhoods. The flowing conversation swiftly halted when I made the mistake of imagining how I would bring up any future children with religion. The most understanding person I know proceeded to shut down any possibility that a child could be happy while attending church regularly. Of course, I understand that his own past will no doubt skew his idea of religion, but I was crushed nonetheless. He sent me the same clear message: I am to be me but not my religious fascinations. Of course, when I am alone, I am free to indulge in whatever ‘harmful’ customs and beliefs I care to, but do not invite discussion, do not pass it onto children, do not engage.

To this day, only my closest friends know of my religious leanings, though it’s nothing we’d ever discuss. In the average Cambridge community, my ‘backwards’ belief in a random sky guy would never be accepted. Though religion teaches me selflessness, sharing it means I’m imposing. Though I am studying science — ‘the epitome of logic’ — I subscribe to all possible fallacies because of my religious leanings. In a place that claims to be so accepting, I’ve been thoroughly rejected