Easter in Hong Kong. An oxymoron if there ever was one. The “special administrative region of China,” with nearly 8 million residents, seems an unlikely place to celebrate the Christian feast. Packed into 420 square miles, within which trade and finance are king, the city is geared for people on the move.
But of the total population, 1.3 million are Christian and more than 400,000 Catholic.
So on a cloudy Easter morning I left the behemoth complex where I’m staying
and hit the street in search of a sanctuary.
It was business as usual,
the importance of the day notwithstanding.
But taking a short cut down a narrow passage,
which nearly always leads to something, I emerged onto a quiet thoroughfare,
and discovered Rosary Church of Hong Kong.
Assuming I’d missed morning Mass, I nevertheless peeked inside and learned I was the last to arrive.
No one seemed bothered, so I stood in back as many do on the major feast days.
The language was Chinese, not a word of which I understood. But wherever a Catholic goes in the world the ancient liturgical service is recognizable.
And the slow movement at the conclusion,
was not unlike most any Mass at Holy Trinity, our home parish.
Afterward I lingered, quietly observing the reverent,
and those at ease with their pastor and fellow parishioners.
It being nearly noon, I went in search of an Easter meal.
Duck was a possibility,
but I chose the local soup instead.
Delicious.
Hu Meichun, a sweet lady, was my server.
I inquired about the soup.
Her smartphone translator apparently different than mine, she answered:
“Fish egg river.”
We chuckled, although I don’t know if she actually got it.
She wanted to know where I was from.
“America,” I told her. I asked if she’d been there, to which she replied,
“Never eat an American.”
More chuckles.
It’s not easy being away from family on Easter Sunday. With the exception of the first Easter of COVID, it’s never happened. But I’ll be with them by FaceTime after the grandkids are up from nap.
I’m sure Mr. Bunny will be there too.
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