Today's bike ride, through green rice fields with the odd terrace of yellow canola, baskets of baby chicks in the markets, pink and white blossoms, an old guy with a rabbit on a leash, was a reminder that it is getting close to Easter, the holiday that most Christian children wouldn't put on top of the list (I always liked Canada day and Halloween the best, because of the excuse to blow things up) unless Mom and Dad were extra-generous with the chocolate. But it is the most important time of year. And old traditions die hard. I am in China miles away from the nearest church, and 100s of miles from the nearest church where anyone might potentially speak English, and I'm riding down the hill thinking about what I ought to give up for lent. And recalling that all the non-belief in Jesus Christ as my pesonal saviour did not stop me from attending midnight mass in Ninh Binh, Vietnam. Not a word of English, not a single familiar custom (seriously this did not resemble anything like mass, except that it was held in a cathedral at midnight on the 25th of december) but somehow this felt like something appropriate. It felt right to be there. But why? Why do people repeat the traditions of their youth well into adulthood, knowing that these things are not going to bring them salvation and that these things might even be bad for the intellect? Did I actually stop being a Christian years ago and simply not notice because there is a comfort in being one of the group, in having scripture meditation to occupy my mind, songs to sing, and prayer to get me to sleep at night?

(and before the outrage begins: no I didn't touch the bread and wine)