St John of the Cross parish has a Sunday evening Mass, a practice which has a sentimental attachment for me. Arriving at the church in the darkness of December, the first thing I noticed was a collection of handicapped spaces that rivals the size of some parishes’ entire parking lots.
The liturgy itself was solidly middle of the road. The homily didn’t mention the parish’s patron—fair enough, since properly it should be an exegesis on the day’s readings which it was—but there also seemed to be a lack of any image of St John of the Cross, or any other saint really, in the whole church which had a decor which approached protestant austerity.
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