1. we arrive outside the door, to a small basket of ferns and Holy Water cupped in porcelain. fingers in, a soggy hieroglyph traced on foreheads already bent towards the altar, push open heavy doors. the ferns remind me of home more than Palm Sunday, and home of the book I'm reading, Tangi, by Witi Tame Ihimaera. the story of a fathers death, a sons gaping grief. death as betrayal, a final leaving behind. "Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?" the book weaves into this moment, leavens it. we move inside
2. most of the seats are taken. my friend with me, we walk to the front, past my usual seat guarded by the stations and the heater high up on the wall. I hope she'll feel welcome, not estranged as the hour unravels. by the sequence, the movements, the words which enfold us. make the sum of us, one. this is my body
3. the word in Maori is Paraire Tapu, and I wonder, why is Good Friday good? It’s stripped back in here. the flowers, the altar cloth, all the ornaments are gone. an empty tomb. bereft, and strangely comforting. there is an absence today which allows something else in. the singing starts, we rise to our feet. holding a single sheet of paper which rustles in many hands. should I sing? if I sing, will my voice rise? will it climb. then drift away
4. Aranga – arise now. we shuffle, pass a thumb over forehead, lips, and heart. a kid starts whining, I loose the thread of John. the light is warm through the window, it comes from far away. this story has no beginning, told in fourteen chapters with an ending we already know. the denunciation always rattles me. would I have had the courage to speak my heart? do I have the courage, even now? take this, all of you
5. he will come back, and so will the flowers, the altar cloth and ornaments
6. we look at each other
7. and smile
--Amanda Surrey
