It was a most remarkable moment.

The simple wooden coffin, laying on a low bier in the bright sunlight. Flanked on both sides by lines of bright red robes of the College of Cardinals. How odd to see these experienced hands holding paper Missalettes in order to follow the Mass, just like those of us unfamiliar with the Catholic rites.

Down below the coffin stood two large, square phalanxes of Church members, each uniform in dull colour. But beyond them, filling the rest of St. Peter's Square, part of the 800,000 mourners.

The people. Coming to say farewell to the People's Pope.

Brightly coloured flags flying over their heads. The white-over-red banner of his native Poland far outnumbering the white and yellow flags of his final home, the Vatican. I even saw the tree of Lebanon flying in the strong breeze.

A banner of large red letters on white brought my heart up into my throat. Not for the word, because I cannot read Polish.

It was the font.

Solidarnosc.

A form of lettering that I suppose means nothing to so many of you out there reading this.

And there, there at the foot of the coffin, amidst the uniformity that was the Roman Catholic Church, stood a line of twenty or so men. All resplendant in robes of different colours and designs, appearing to have a different form of head gear for each man.

One stood with a microphone held by an aide, and recited the Mass.

In Greek.

The man was the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church.

Giovanni Paolo II had invited the Eastern Orthodox Church to say a Mass at his funeral.

He invited the Eastern Orthodox Church to come say a Mass at his funeral. At the Vatican.

And they came!

A most remarkable moment.