Good Friday

It's the little details that you notice. The flowery mug on the ground by the priest's chair. The way so many people venerating the cross kiss the nail; the tenderness with which the altar servers wipe the spot kissed. The parents with babes in arms that proffer their young one towards the cross to learn the action. The garment that is put round the priest when he goes to fetch the Host from its resting place in the side chapel. The care with which he carries the ciborium, hidden under the embroidered garment. The plainness of the sanctuary, the cream sandstone merging into the creamy altar, the shrouded statues and icons hidden in the whiteness of the walls. The sombre pale silk inside the open tabernacle, the golden doors wide open to reveal its emptiness and hide the gaudiness of the screen. So still, so quiet, as we all exit to the darkening sky, remembering that God is dead. And we have killed him ...

Home, to watch The Passion, and rethink it all again. And to look forward to the Easter Vigil ...