Notes to self 3. On to Good Friday, Mass of the Presanctified, no hoc est enim. No reenactment of Calvary, but reminder of same. A mass and not a mass. Sermon by Venezuelan. Holy Saturday Lauds . . .

I said I’d be back and here I am. My “more later” may be a fool-you too often but not this time.

Good Friday has featured the night-time Mass of the Presanctified for centuries, in my life since choir-boy days, which I do not regret because they exposed me to top-drawer (non-Gregorian), classical holy music — Palestrina, Gounod and the rest, about which more later, I swear — allowing me to see, rather hear, beauty raw, which in its turn did me in as a new-mass worshiper, often to the tune of today’s liturgical Muzak or worse. More often worse in fact, because it’s not soothing background stuff but startling and distracting. Don’t get me started.

Presanctified because the communion hosts, unleavened bread, are not consecrated at this mass but saved for it. No “hoc est enim corpus meum” (this is my body) at this mass, which is all about the original sacrifice, Jesus’ death, of which the mass is a reenactment. Not a calling to mind or memory refresher or aid to meditation, rather not merely any of those, or a meal, a sort of Last Supper revisited. No no no no. Not an instruction or word of God like the Scripture readings that precede it, but an event. Again, don’t get me started.

So it was, night before last, a mass and not a mass, not quite. but a major prayer service. Drawing a 3/4-church fill, sitting, waiting, quiet but not as much as before the full mass. This worshiper could make out whispered conversation behind him. He put down quickly a temptation to say something. Quickly, yes. Would never do. (Almost never?)

3/4-filled, I say, vs. a year ago filled to the rafters, when he and his fellow worshiper arrived to organ blast and had to hunt (up front!) for a seat, sitting happily behind one of the McDonald’s ladies with her children, she a post-Mexican villager, bilingually fluent, bearing excess weight gracefully, her strikingly serene face ready to smile or laugh. The pews were filled with neighborhood people. With organ and all, the place was jumping.

Sermon by the Venezuelan, a cool cat of a fellow, relaxed and ready. Then the pastor with the same sermon (we were told), in English. Whole thing came across as nicely organized, the English-challenged man clearly appreciating the arrangement.

This time, in the scripture readings, bilingualism had its day, two priests standing off against each other, one several Spanish verses, the other English, back and forth. In the sermon, the priest gave us Spanish, then English, etc. until he finished. (Early, God bless him.)

I’m glad we went anyhow.

In the morning, 9 a.m., Holy Saturday Lauds, in which your more or less humble worshiper kept mouth shut, mind on business at hand. Again glad we went, and three cheers for this parish and pastor, where we find reverence and devotion all over the place.