1:10 a.m. Good Friday. Not a pleasant holiday. Not a great moment in human history.

When I was in grade school, we used to spend the dreadful three hours -- from noon until 3 p.m. -- in church. Stations of the Cross. Stopping off points around the perimeter of the church, priests and altar boys and incense and the nuns and their classes lined up in the pews.

We were supposed to stand and kneel, stand and kneel, but otherwise not move a muscle. Not one more muscle. Stand stock still, no squirming. Eyes forward, hands clutching the Missal. It was the Least We Could Do.

As the years go by, I try to figure out what is the proper thing to do during those three hours. I try not to eat or drink anything, of course, but compared to the moment we are remembering ... it's ... less than the least I can do.

I also try not to do any work because work gives me pleasure. Some years I've taken a walk. Some years I've tried to sit quietly and meditate. Some years I feel I've gotten some insights into the human drama and the terror of this day.

Those immortal words: "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak ..." fill me with profound guilt. The sad story of the Last Supper and the long night in the garden when Jesus wanted a little companionship -- and one by one, the apostles fell asleep.

The flesh is weak. It demands.

Today's event also reminds us of the fickle nature of the mob. I've been reading and enjoying Three Gospels by Reynolds Price. He has pieced together a narrative that reads like any modern story, and he calls his apocryphal gospel "An Honest Account of a Memorable Life."

It is heartbreaking in its clean, uncluttered way.

A story of a profound, pure destiny running squarely into the bloody teeth of an established bureaucracy. State sanctioned murder: I wash my hands of it, Pilate said.

I feel guilty for my place in the mob.