The Good Friday non-Mass brings us down, down to the very depths of God knows what, to where down looks up to us . . .
Down and dirty, brass tacks, let devil (who's he at this point?) take hindmost, we are at the heart of things with this not-a-mass service on this day called good when all that is evil seems to have won the world series of god-damn-it-all.
At the beginning of today's service the priest lies prostrate at the foot of the altar. This is a sign of man's desolate and helpless condition before being redeemed by Christ's death.
Looking the part.
In the solemn petitions, every group of people, every affliction of mankind is brought to the dying Christ and united to the mediating power of His death.
Heavy load.
The Veneration of the Cross is one of the high points of today's service. First, Christ on His cross is solemnly and dramatically unveiled and then adored and kissed.
One by one.
But wait.
Thus in worship we tenderly thank Jesus for the salvation He has purchased for all men at so great a cost.
Yes?
Through the cross He won the victory of the world's redemption. Good Friday's triumph is manifested in Christ's resurrection.
Can't help ourselves, looking ahead, keeping it in mind. And now. . .
The climax . . . is the Communion Service. After Christ is brought back to the re-covered altar, He is elevated and consumed.
The sacrificial lamb, yes.
. . . The primary intention in receiving the Body of Our Lord, sacrificed this day for all men, should be to "obtain more abundantly the fruits of redemption."
Ours, from this day forward. Liturgically, however . . .
. . . the absence of His Eucharistic Presence [returned to side-altar obscurity] deepens our mourning for His violent death.
We pray, as . . .
. . . our worship is directed not to the unbloody sacrifice of the Mass, but exclusively to the bloody but triumphant sacrifice of Calvary.
Time now to drink in this story of self-sacrifice -- until the great day dawns . . .
We can steal a thought from Christina Rossetti.
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?