And so I am one of two million people who thought it is absolutely necessary to be at Mass with Bishop Francis. The new humility, and all that.
The Mass is celebrated by a chap in white so distant I can only follow him through megascreens; if I can follow, that is, because during most of the mass the whispering and giggling of those around me will make it not easy anyway.
I will then proceed to take communion – as it is basically obligatory nowadays; if one does not take communion, well, he wasn't really there, was it now? – from one of an army of (hopefully) priests mobilised for the occasion; I will have to trust that the host was consecrated, though by one or two million participants who knows what logistics problems may have occurred.
The entire exercise will in the end remind me of a televised mass, with the exception of the priest – or, more likely, EMHC or how on earth those people are called – materialising out of the human ocean and giving me what I hope is a consecrated host. I mean “hope” here, because I am assuming, for the sake of this blog post, I am one of those who believe in Transubstantiation.
In short, the most unreal Mass I have ever attended. Still, I can say I was there.
Which is, in the end, the only reason I am here in the first place.
On my way home, I will have to remember to buy the condoms. But I really liked Pope Francis ' style. So humble. Look, Elton John is already on board, now we only need Stephen Fry and then we'll have the coolest pope evah!