Good Friday

I am sitting in pew 3 on the far left of St. Andrew's Cathedral in Victoria, British Columbia. My mother is on my left, reading a missalette. I'm fully armed with geekery - PDA in my wallet, moleskine and Uniball Vision in my left secret pocket, a book in my right, Canon camera affixed to my belt, and a Swiss Army knife. The Good Friday mass begins in 10 minutes.

I'm a bit hungry, having skipped breakfast. I read somewhere that a reliable way to know the level of cleanliness of a restaurant is to assess the state of the washrooms.

The entire church is now approaching a large cross in single file; each person kisses the cross or touches it and kneels.

* * *

I must confess that my brain hasn't yet synchronized with the significance of this day. It is more than a commemoration of the death of one individual. People die each day; people undergo torture each day, in various parts of the world. I suppose the significant difference is *who* was tortured, who was killed. Yes, that's it - brain resynchronized.

I suppose it would be analogous to me visiting the place where the neighbourhood cat eats and sleeps, sitting in the bushes beside it, sleeping on the same mound of soil on which it sleeps, under starlight and heavy rains, without change of cloak or the amenities of a bath, sharing in its meals of bloodied rodents and puddle water,and finally expiring in the open air. For one to come down to such a base state shows extreme dedication to the creature.