• Requiem æternam and Lux æterna are out; Amazing Grace, On Eagle’s Wings and How Great Thou Art are in. Indeed, these three songs are so ubiquitous at funeral and memorial Masses (at least two of them have been sung at 90% of the Masses for the dead that I have attended) that they almost seem to constitute a new “proper.”
• Black or purple vestments are out; white vestments are in.
• Eulogies after communion are typically in, despite efforts to stamp them out. People expect them today the way they expected the Dies iræ in former times.
• Bodies are, increasingly, out. It’s been several years since I’ve attended a funeral in my parish that featured a body rather than “cremains” or sometimes just a photo of the deceased.
• In terms of overall tone (readings chosen, homilies given, etc.), intercession for the deceased is out; celebration of the life of the deceased is in.

These developments all seem to me to be “organic,” in the sense that they are the result not of legislation but of what the pips (people-in-the-pews) are asking for. Of course, their desire for these things is shaped by larger cultural forces, some of which may be benign and other malign. But hasn’t this always been the case with “organic development”?

While Latino Catholic leaders frequently perceive the U.S. Catholic Church as a significant institution that could do much to uplift their struggling sisters and brothers, Catholic leaders of European descent tend to be more concerned with issues of authority and the adaptation of the church to the U.S. milieu or, conversely, with the alarming worry that U.S. Catholics already embrace societal norms far more than they do fundamental Catholic teachings. Latinos’ concerns reveal that, besides the widely-discussed split between the right and the left, another prominent divergence in U.S. Catholicism is one along class and cultural lines.

The originator of the Christmas crèche, if only he could have copyrighted the idea, clearly would have made a fortune. Using figures to meditate on the mysteries of the nativity is just a great, great idea. It works for so many people, young and old! You can’t beat it for encouraging imaginative engagement with the story of Christ’s birth.

Like any religious devotion that makes its way into truly popular culture though, there’s no saying how far it may get pushed over the edge into… well, tasteless trash.

A friend of mine shared this website post of whacky nativity sets. He found it hilarious.

I have to admit, however, that seeing this collection of the world’s worst nativity sets (and reading that the list is growing) made me grimace rather than smile.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I think there is only one way to do this. In fact, I’m all for inculturation. I think it’s wonderful, for instance, to see the Holy Family depicted as members of all races and peoples. It can be a beautiful witness to how Christian believers around the globe own the story — it’s our story, wherever and whoever we may be.

I think there’s a place for anachronism in engaging with the Christmas story. There’s a way of putting our contemporary world around the Christmas crib, thus symbolizing the coming of Christ into our everyday life—a popular motif in Italian crèches. The idea behind that sort of thing is grand.

Let me hasten to add that not all religious art is fine art, and that’s perfectly, well, fine. Folk art is genuinely valuable. I’m even OK with sentimental art or “religious kitsch” in the home. Placing, say, the little drummer boy or a kneeling Santa into the nativity scene under someone’s Christmas tree may not be to my taste, but I respect the devotional impulse behind it.

But a Holy Family made out of rubber ducks? The Savior in sausage? A crèche of kitty cats? Here’s my question: Is there a point at which the point of the crèche is lost? Or can anything be dressed as the Holy Family, and it still works? In other words, is it impossible to evacuate the meaning from the symbols (the figures and their arrangement), and therefore it really doesn’t matter?

Maybe a Holy Family made up of dogs is just a bit of foolishness, and we should all have a good laugh. Maybe we should even admire all the novelties people have thought up. On the other hand, we are heading into a post-Christian culture, in which images that made sense in a Christian context are losing that context. Maybe frivolous treatment of the Christmas crèche is not a laughing matter.

What would St. Francis think?

What do you think?

The prophet Miriam danced in celebration of the exodus from Egypt, “while all the women went out after her with tambourines, dancing” (cf. Exodus 15:20-21). King David danced before the ark of the Lord (2 Samuel 6:14). Psalm 150 enjoins us to “give praise with tambourines and dance” (cf. also Psalm 149:3). As the prodigal son returned home, he heard the sound of music and dancing (Luke 15:25). In Seville, six choirboys dance before the Blessed Sacrament on Corpus Christi.

This video recently made at the St. John’s Abbey depicts a journey to attain tranquility through the vehicle of dance. The dancers begin at the baptismal fount and make their way down the aisle as they search for peace. It’s quite beautiful – give it a look.

OK, I’ll be honest. Dance in church really isn’t my thing. Do you suppose I can appeal to cultural context, since we didn’t do that sort of thing where I grew up in southern Minnesota? Or should I ask myself whether people who believe in the incarnation and the goodness of all creation including the human body shouldn’t get over their discomfort, and examine their conscience for traces of Puritanism or Jansenism?

Maybe we should have more dance in the liturgy. Maybe the young people in the video could lead the newly blessed water into the sanctuary at next year’s Easter Vigil.

Whaddayathink?

awr

The coincidences remind me of the last time I was in the same room as royalty, about 10 years ago. The college in London where I was working at the time received a formal visit from the Chancellor of the University, Her Royal Highness the Princess Anne. I found myself in a corner of the room in company with a colleague, a feisty feminist from these United States. We both had to be there, because it was a command performance for the faculty; I at least was in fact sneakingly curious about what the princess looked like in the flesh. But neither of us wanted to have to talk to the august royal personage. In my case, this was because of an unease with polite conversation about nothing, of the kind that is expected when you meet the royal family. But my friend and colleague was far more forthright and definite: ‘Americans curtsey to no-one,’ she roundly declared.

‘Americans curtsey to no-one.’ If we celebrate this feast of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Universal King here in the US, we need to recognise that so much of what is valuable and precious in this country arises from a rejection of the idea of kingship, a recognition that the political power of this world can often be dysfunctional and abusive, that human freedom and dignity need to be safeguarded. These United States are founded on a belief that all are created equal. Most US citizens are descended from immigrants who came to this country because the monarchies of Europe could not provide them with a decent living. The Pilgrim Fathers stand as a symbol for millions who came to this land, found here the blessings of prosperity and liberty, and were thereupon moved to give thanks. It’s no coincidence that when I walked into the sacristy this morning I was wished not, ‘happy feast of Christ the King’, but ‘happy Thanksgiving’—and surely, however great our devotion to this Sunday’s feast, preparations for Thanksgiving will be taking up a large part of our energies this weekend.

I am actually a mildly monarchist Englishman, I suspect because all my lived experience is of an unusual monarch who is a woman. Queen Elizabeth’s behaviour has been exemplary over nearly sixty years; in particular, she has never used her position to further her personal interests and preferences, and she has always respected the prerogatives of her duly elected government. Not many monarchs in history have been like her. When the gospels speak of Christ as King—which they don’t very often—they are always concerned to bring out that his kingship is not like that of the great ones of this world who lord it over others. He is not a King before whom we bow and scrape and curtsey. This king is hidden from us; we don’t recognise him. He is in the poor, those in need, the naked, the sick, those in prison. St Paul tells us that Christ is raised on high by his Father, and given the name above all other names, precisely because he emptied himself into the human condition, and then went further, even to death on a cross. It is on Calvary, over the abused, executed, broken body of Jesus that we find the proclamation in Hebrew, Latin and Greek: Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

The Gospel is anything but an endorsement of the established political order, anything but a simple affirmation of power as we experience it. The Gospel is about liberation. The title of Christ the King only makes sense if we see it in the context of this world’s powers and authorities being transformed, of a promise that all of us will be given a royal dignity, all of us will be given the exclusive privileges of a first-born son and heir.

Next week, the language of our Mass will change. One difference—perhaps the most striking—will be that metaphors of the Roman imperial court, frequent in the original Latin but downplayed by the first translators, will be restored. I have heard a respected theologian (pick up the video about 2 minutes in) in the last weeks state that it’s right for us, in our dealings with God, to use the formal, stately language of the court, language fit for a king. Now, there are, I think, some reasonable arguments for the impending change in tone: we do need to be reminded that our dealings with God utterly transcend our dealings with each other, and we Anglophone Catholics, we members of a universal Church from the most powerful culture and language group in the world, do need to be taught that we find salvation only in fellowship with people who don’t think and speak as we do. If a more formal liturgical language helps us in these ways, well and good. But our God is one who has no favorites, one who seeks out the lost, on who embraces death so as to rescue us and lead us to eternal life, one who identifies with the least of his sisters and brothers. This God needs to be addressed in the language of closeness, of warmth, of noble simplicity.

Even if we may be gaining in some respects with our new texts, we will be losing what has become familiar to us over some forty years. We will no longer hear expressions that, whatever their shortcomings, have helped many of us recognise the closeness of God to us, the unfailing intimacy of divine kingship and lordship. Our liturgy is about to become more remote in its expression. We must trust in the providence of God that good will somehow come of the change. We are regularly being encouraged to embrace the new translation and make its introduction a moment of growth in our relationship with God. Such calls obviously have their place. But precisely in order for that growth to happen, we may need also to recognise the losses involved, and give ourselves permission to grieve for something that has become dear and precious.

At any rate, the shift in register and tone next week must not weaken our grasp of the central truth about Christ’s kingship: such talk makes sense only because the language of kingship is being used in a quite distinctive, strange, quirky way. This kingship takes the form of Christ’s identifying himself with the poorest among us. The world of the court is evoked, certainly, but only so that it can be subverted.

All that said, we may, if this sort of thing appeals to us, take the image of a European monarch as a means of contemplating who Christ is. The ideal, if not always the reality, provides us with a rich symbol. But the feast of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Universal King, is rightly understood only when we see that there is also authentic Christianity in those who, at least when it’s a matter of this world’s royalty, have a grounded sense of their own God-given dignity, an evangelical dignity on the basis of which they rightly curtsey to no-one.

I grew up with the practice of having a stack of envelopes on the altar during Mass—donation envelopes on which people wrote the names of the deceased for whom they wanted prayers. I never liked it. An uncluttered altar brings our attention to rest on the Eucharistic elements in their beauty and simplicity. A packet of envelopes, even if listing names of the dead, looks like a reminder of… well, money. The impulse to remember and pray for the dead is certainly understandable and laudable, but is this the best organization of our symbols?

Liturgy Training Publications at one point came out with a Book of the Names of the Dead—a handsome ledger, soberly illustrated, in which the faithful could write the names of people who have died and for whom they wished the prayers of the community. (I believe they were the first. There may be others. Does anyone know?) This seemed like a good idea—better than a stack of envelopes, anyway—but where is the book kept during November? In the narthex? By the baptismal font? With votive candles?

One parish I worked at had a very long white scroll hung on a pillar, on which the names of all the persons who had been buried from the parish during the preceding year were written in large, calligraphic letters. It had a particular focus in that it spoke to the recently bereaved. The bereavement committee wanted it to remain for the whole month of November. But once Advent began and the whole environment of the church changed for the new season… Shouldn’t the month of November give way to Advent? People disagreed about that.

Recently, I was touched to receive an invitation from St. John’s Abbey to fill out a small slip of paper with names of my own beloved dead. It was explained that these are put in a basket, and as the monks come into church, they each take one and pray for those souls during the service. This felt more personal, yet it was also a reminder of the communion of saints in that intercession extends beyond praying for the people we know personally. I liked this idea.

Cemetery visits during the month of November are another way that Catholics bring together prayer and remembrance, grief and hope. Numerous rituals surround such visits.

Surely there’s no single answer or best solution for every community or individual, even if there are some general principles to be observed, such as respect for the liturgical seasons and integrity in the use of symbols. There are probably many effective customs and practices, according to the local setting, culture, and sensibility. Your thoughts?

The focus has been on the Missal. The pressure has been to get this done. All other concerns have been set aside. The hope is: If we can get through this, everything will be alright.

What must eventually be faced, however, is that this is only the beginning. If Missal implementation is judged a success, it will give the green light to the rest of the translation project.

It is time to consider what awaits us if the current regime continues the policy followed with the Missal. I’ve put together a partial list (not exhaustive), from three ritual books, of what we can expect to see changed in our ritual repertoire beyond the Missal. I’ve chosen three books published during the 1980s: The Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, The Pastoral Care of the Sick, and the Order of Christian Funerals, because they exemplify the sort of pastoral adaptation likely to be suppressed if current policy continues.

RITE OF CHRISTIAN INITIATION OF ADULTS (1988)

The Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults has enjoyed great success in its implementation not only because of its innate genius but also because it has been adaptable. Many people have invested countless hours of labor to make a vigorous catechumenate experience part of the Church’s ordinary life and ministry, especially in North America.

In the United States, because of the culture in which we live, about two-thirds of the adult participants in the initiatory process are baptized candidates. Their needs are different but related to those of catechumens. In 1988, an entire set of rituals adapted for this population received approval from the U.S. bishops and from Rome and was implemented. These ritual adaptations have not been above criticism. Many pastoral leaders would like to see them revised in light of the experience of the past 22 years. Yet few would want to abandon the field altogether. The great majority believe there is a place for ministry—and for appropriate rites—suited to the journey of baptized candidates.

If the RCIA is retranslated according to the restrictive norms that were followed with the Missal, however, all the adapted rites for baptized candidates (Part II, chapter 4, sections A–D, and Appendix I, 1–4) will disappear. Why? Not because they have been tried and found wanting, but simply because they are not in the Latin text. The Rite of Welcome, The Call to Continuing Conversion, the Penitential Rite for Candidates, the Combined Rite for the Easter Vigil—all will be gone. The only rite for the baptized will be the Rite of Reception into the Full Communion of the Catholic Church.

The RCIA for children will also be affected. Children of catechetical age will no longer be allowed to celebrate the Rite of Election, for example (RCIA 277–290). Including children in election is an American adaptation, the fruit of much work and striving on the part of pastoral practitioners. Out it goes.

So too will go the Rite of Sending (RCIA 106–117, 434–445, and 530–546), an American adaptation designed to be celebrated in the parish as a complement to the Rite of Election when Election takes place in a diocesan setting.

The titles of several of the rites will change. The arrangement of the notes will change. Inclusive language will be eliminated from all the prayer texts. And, of course, we can expect a translation with the same awkwardness of expression we’ve seen in the Missal.

There has been a sharp decline in the number of unbaptized catechumens since 2005. What has kept our initiation numbers up has been the baptized candidates. With the decline in catechumens and the elimination of rites for the baptized adults who normally would be included somehow in the ritual processes of initiation, the size and scope of the RCIA will be dramatically reduced. I expect that it will actually disappear in some parishes altogether, because fewer resources will be given to it. Certainly, the impact of the RCIA on parish liturgy will diminish greatly.

The rites for the unbaptized, although they will be retranslated, will remain the same in structure. This is the good news.

THE PASTORAL CARE OF THE SICK: RITES OF ANOINTING AND VIATICUM (1983)

The Foreword to the 1983 edition of these rites states that “The texts in this volume have been arranged ‘in a format that will be as suitable as possible for pastoral use’ (General Introduction, 38f).” New texts also were added to the particular edition, according to the provisions of no. 39. Relevant references from other ritual books were added wherever helpful. These include texts from the RCIA, Penance, Funerals and Holy Communion and Worship of the Eucharist Outside Mass. The result has been a well-designed and very practical ritual book.

On the left hand side of each page is found the new numbering system necessitated by the rearrangement of texts and the insertion of additional texts. The Latin numbering system remains visible in the right hand column. A look down the right hand column shows that return to the original numbering, and removal of all texts from the particular edition that are not in the Latin, will result in numerous alterations and – yes – a book more difficult to use.

Some very fine pastoral material will be deleted. Here are a few examples of what will disappear: visits to a sick child (PCS 47–50, 62–70); care of a dying child (PCS 168–174, 280); passages concerning the link between the sick person and the eucharistic community (PCS 51, 73); pastoral notes on the anointing (PCS 104–107), and a note on emergency rooms or casualty wards (PCS 152). The 1983 edition also makes a distinction between prayers for the sick and prayers for the dying, something not so well marked in the Latin edition yet important to their appropriate use.

It is strange to think that, for example, attention to the needs of children would be looked upon as an attack on authentic liturgy rather than a permissible extension of its benefits, but the terms of Liturgiam Authenticam are clear. Anything not in conformity with the Latin text is an intrusion to be eliminated.

THE ORDER OF CHRISTIAN FUNERALS (1989)

The arrangement of the texts for the 1989 Order of Christian Funerals, like the Pastoral Care of the Sick, has made the book much easier to use without flipping pages. These adjustments have been well-accepted. In fact, one is hard-pressed to think of a single complaint raised against them. They will be undone however, because the Latin edition must be followed in all its particulars.

All the introductory material (OCF 1–68), which sets out beautifully what is important to note about the ministries and the liturgical elements of each of the rites, is particular to the American edition. It will therefore be deleted.

Entire sections from Related Rites and Prayers, including introductory material and texts for Prayers After Death (OCF 98–106), for the Gathering in the Presence of the Body (OCF 109–116), and for the order for the Transfer of the Body to the Church or to the Place of Committal (OCF 119–124) will be gone.

The notes for the Funeral Liturgy (OCF 128–158) and the Introductory Rites (OCF 159–163) of that liturgy as well as texts for the General Intercessions (OCF 167) and the Final Commendation (OCF 170) are not in the Latin original. The introductory rites include such well-loved items as the placing of the pall and Christian symbols on the casket, and the blessing of the casket with holy water. Will any of these elements be permitted to remain? The bishops can ask, of course. But given our experience with the Missal, it seems unlikely that they will receive a favorable answer.

Finally, the notes on the Rite of Committal (OCF 204–215), as well as some of its texts (cf OCF 216, 218B and C, 219B, and 223), will also be taken out.

Again, one faces the heartbreaking fact that what blossomed into an entire section of  notes and prayers pertaining to the funeral of a child (OCF 234ff) will probably be rejected simply because there is no word-for-word equivalent for it in Latin.

Many original prayers for individuals (bishops, priests, deacons, religious, married persons, the young, the elderly, several persons), sadly, will be lost. More painful still is the thought that prayers for those who died accidentally or violently (OCF 43), or by suicide (OCF 44, 45), will be deleted. Our current text even includes a prayer for a deceased non-Christian married to a Catholic (OCF 36). Presumably it won’t in the future.

LITURGY AS PASTORAL CARE

As one steps back and considers the big picture, things look bleak. The example of these three rites shows that, if current policy continues, pastoral care through the liturgy will be made smaller in scope and less effective. This is not an outcome in keeping with the Church’s mission. Nor is it likely to result in more effective evangelization and witness in the world.

As anyone who has worked in pastoral ministry can attest, the moments of the Church’s ministry surrounding sickness and death are some of the most critical. Likewise, the initiation of adults is a matter of fundamental concern, and also an occasion for outreach to the unchurched and non-believers. Scaling back our liturgical rites, making them less accessible and less adaptable, is surely the wrong way to go.

Yet here we are. In service to the ideology which says our English text must adhere so closely to Latin that even the arrangement of notes is identical, we are poised to pursue outcomes that will hurt and diminish the Church.

TAKING RESPONSIBILITY

I began by saying that many well-intentioned, loyal servants of the Church have put their shoulder to the wheel of this “new translation” machine, perhaps not fully realizing where it would take them. Indeed, I doubt very much they are itching to get rid of prayers for dying children and the like. Yet the jettisoning of rites for two-thirds of the participants in the RCIA, the exclusion of special prayers for children who are sick, dying, and deceased, and all the rest of the changes outlined above, are foreseeable results of the self-same project. If we can foresee it, we bear responsibility for what we do — to support it, or to oppose it.

But perhaps we can all agree that the music played as the Pope censed the altar during the stadium Mass in Germany was absolutely wretched: Opening of Berlin Papal Mass.

I particularly like the expression on the Pope’s face at the end.

Hat tip to Rocco Palmo.

I have to admit, I was charmed by the image but I couldn’t place it at all. And usually I’m pretty good at religious iconography! My guidebooks did not come to my aid. It took — get this — a visit to “Hedgehog Central” to find the following explanation:

The significance of this unusual bas-relief on the walls of the Cathedral at Amiens in North France is most interesting as it is a graphical interpretation of a passage taken from the Bible at Zephaniah 2:14 where the destruction of the great city of Nineveh is prophesized with startling accuracy.

While the King James version renders this verse as:
“And flocks shall lie down in the midst of her, all the beasts of the nations: both the cormorant and the bittern shall lodge in the upper lintels of it; their voice shall sing in the windows; desolation shall be in the thresholds; for he shall uncover the cedar work”

…the Septuagint, Vulgate, New American Standard Bible translations render it as:
Flocks will lie down in her midst, All beasts which range in herds; Both the pelican and the hedgehog Will lodge in the tops of her pillars; Birds will sing in the window, Desolation {will be} on the threshold; For He has laid bare the cedar work.

…and the New World Translations renders it as:
And in the midst of her, droves will certainly lie stretched out, all the wild animals of a nation. Both pelican and porcupine will spend the night right among her pillar capitals. A voice will keep singing in the window. There will be devastation at the threshold; for he will certainly lay bare the very wainscoting.

Bible scholars render the two words, “the cormorant and the bittern ” as “the pelican and the porcupine.” The [taq], “pelican,” comes from [haq], to vomit, because it casts up fish or water from its membranaceous bag; and, “porcupine,” is from the verb, which means to cut off as by a bite, or rather, from its Syriac meaning, to dread, for it is a solitary animal.  Some scholars, however, contends that it is the hedgehog, and both the Septuagint and Vulgate render it as such. This is generally accepted in most modern Bible translations and fits given that the original Hebrew word, “qip·podh’” is very similar in etymology to the modern Hebrew word “Kipod” for hedgehog.

In this bas-relief, there is a hedgehog below and a bird above (a pelican, [or, possibly, a cormorant] although poorly rendered as though by someone who has not seen one but is merely interpreting a description given) while in the window there is a singing bird in what appears to be a cage.

Is this accurate? Calling all scripture scholars and art historians to either confirm or deny the accuracy of this report!

In my admittedly rather unsystematic search, I also discovered that the NRSV refers to a hedgehog in Isaiah 34:11, although the designation of the animal is uncertain. But the architectural motifs in the image above argue for Zephaniah rather than Isaiah as the inspiration.

The old basilica from the 19th century is in Romanesque style. In Europe it has become a whole field of architecture to adapt huge churches to work for the small communities that now gather in them. In this case a wall was put up to divide off the back 1/3 of the basilica. The altar is in the center, the appointments are modern.

As much as I believe in modern art and architecture for the liturgy, as much as I oppose making the liturgy an escape from the real world, even I resist this “baldachino” of metal bars and shapes. It strikes me as cold, jarring, unattractive. The liturgy should somehow still feel like home, even when it engages modern culture. Maybe the piece would grow on me with time.

The Germans are hymn singers. And not just entrance, prep, communion and closing as we sometimes do. The centuries-old custom is to replace elements of the Mass Ordinary with vernacular paraphrases, sometimes quite loose paraphrases, in strophic form. (In former times the priest said the official Latin text simultaneously. Since Vatican II he sings with the community in German. The paraphrases are loose because the Church prohibited exact translations.)

Liturgiam authenticam (2001) supposedly banned such metrical Mass part paraphrases, but the German-speaking bishops, who are now revising their official hymnal, wouldn’t hear of it. The Vatican wouldn’t back down. Neither would the bishops. As Fr. Tony Ward told me – this was when Msgr. Moroney brought me along to show the second-last draft of the document Sing to the Lord to the Congregation for Divine Worship – the standoff was solved when Pope Benedict heard about it and said, “Well, whatever they do, I sure hope they keep Schubert’s Deutsche Messe – I’ve sung it since youth and it’s my favorite.”

And so we began Mass, a metrical psalm of 16th century Fr. Kaspar Ulenberg from the official hymnal Gotteslob. (Which word, BTW, has three syllables and means “God’s Praise” – not the two syllable rendition of one of our exchange students just arrived in Austria – “got-slob.”) Solemn procession with crucifer and incense. Female acolyte (hmmm, we don’t do that at St. John’s…). Choir of older gentlemen from the “Kolping” pious society. Strophic Gloria in parts – two brief stanzas that took about 45 seconds and at least mentioned “Glory” once or twice. Opening prayer recited.

All three readings for Sunday. That wouldn’t be newsworthy except that when the new lectionary came out, the German-speaking bishops allowed for just two readings on Sundays, I think to make room for Mozart and Haydn Masses with choir and orchestra. But in my experience the monasteries have tended to read all three.

No responsorial psalm – instead, the choir sang a Bavarian sort of religious folk song. In the first line of text I heard Christus – “Christ.” Charming, but…

Longish but highly engaging homily – congregation was attentive. Here and throughout, the people seemed engaged, attentive, outgoing, and glad to be with each other and their God.

Most of the congregation in the pews knelt for the entire Eucharistic Prayer, but many knelt only at the words of institution. Those in chairs stayed standing, which didn’t seem to bother anyone. Metrical Sanctus in parts, choir alone. Communion under both forms for all.

Nearly all attendees (except the monks) appeared to be 60 or 70 and older, with a small sprinkling of younger generations, one little girl and one or two guys who looked to be in their 20s.

And so the Lord’s Day was kept, the Word of God preached and the sacrifice of our salvation made present in the holy banquet.

awr