It might well have been. It should have been. With a deep, funereal gloom I returned to my mother. With a deathly sense of finalities I took the pew beside her. Jesus does not abide in women's rest rooms.
Mirrors are there, surrounded by lights and suffused by incense.
But not Jesus. Jesus was nowhere in this church for me. I was a most sorrowful disciple. With grim, remorseful eyes, I watched the service proceed. Perhaps my senses were intensified by sorrow, for I saw things as I had not seen them before.