Balkan Triduum begins at St. Stephen's Basilica in Budapest. The bus from Belgrade allowed me to catch a bit of rest after packing and cleaning through the night, or whatever was left of the night after walking two hours back from the Traviata. The 6:00AM bells from the nearby Franciscan monastery chimed as I walked out the front door of the building, and then another two hour walk to the new bus station. Made it to the minute.
When I arrived in Budapest, I headed right to the baths, under the rule that when sleeping overnight on buses and trains during the journey, such things are wise. Learned that after trying to push through 3-5 day journeys at the beginning of the trek. A bit in the mineral pool, then two and a half cycles of the radiant rock sauna (at a third of the price of a cheap hotel), and then to the Basilica (after a bit of inner deliberation whether I might be better off taking it easy there, recumbens cum fratribus, or, technically speaking, alone). "Lord, if I'm mistaken, teach me my errors while I'm alive." And about 20 minutes later, I had the inner certainty that I should head south to the church. The first subway station had an issue with the fare machine, so I walked on down the line, including across a lake along a thin stone dam, following two children (who, it should be noted, weren't porting two bags of travelling kit).
When I arrived at the Basilica, which I've never visited, as there's usually an admission fee, I rant the gamut of the tour-staff and their quiet backing of the security folks. Oddly, they asked if I wanted to go to the English service. Given the rubrics, very surprised and wondering at this. I opted for the local language in the main hall, because the point was to be at the event. My guess is that she thought that I was just using it to catch a quick glimpse of the place, and although he was right about that, the way she was right about that would never have occurred to her.
To walk into the room is a wonder. Immense, bright and clean yet somehow still dull, smoky old walls, murals, and decorations. (Including four statures, presumably evangelists, who are on sorts of platforms in the crossing dome, parallel to the ground, to rather good effect.) Very interesting local liturgy that seems to resonate along the precisely the fault lines that give me some concern with the present politics here. No consecration bells, still the Lenten blocks. All crucifixes veiled, but still incensed, and after the long local devotional that followed the Mass, I assume they were bowing to the veiled cross above the tabernacle. At the conclusion of the communion rite, three sort of chalice-like pyxes were placed on the main altar. Abp., with concelebrants, offered incense and adoration from behind the sacramental altar. Then the removal to the altar of repose behind the main altar, never leaving the sanctuary, with a local variation on the Pane Lingua melody that I couldn't quite grok. Then, the return to the sanctuary, the congregation having sat down when they left view, and an old-style changing of vestments for the Abp, who then appeared to do a private silent meditation at the ambo, not a soul having left the darkened nave. Then to the old altar with the tabernacle -- removal of something, perhaps a corporal, and a solemn opening of the doors. Then (the order of some of these might be off), the Abp, with vested concelebrants, solemnly doused the six candles on the high altar and reverently stripped the altar. (Under the American system, this usually falls to the assistant sacristan at St. Pat's, and I have to imagine that he'd be surprised that anyone was watching. Though I usually was.) Then another private mediation at the ambo, followed by a very long spoken meditation in the darkened church, the Abp's reverent low tones the only noise. Quite powerful, actually, even not understanding a word. An attempt to hold them safe using the voice and mind alone, rather than the sacred appurtenances of the building.
Last year, I was with the Croatians in Mostar for these ceremonies, and among other things, I was very struck by the way that the priests used the formularies to create a dynamic of personal power. Herrschaft, in a certain way of speaking. But this is the nature of the sacred fabric here. The Boston puritans would call it priestcraft, but it has preserved the faith for centuries. Not incidentally, in this very building. And the essential fabric of the faith is that thing within which the things happen. That's why the long sermon in the darkened church was so powerful for me. Christ and his fishermen-and-tax-collector minyan had finished their three years of training; no more midrashes on the text and shared formal prayers, no more spiritual apprenticeship. Events now, not deliberate devisements would be the nature of the time. Only the voice and the thoughts of the one who remained -- not the sacrament and the power.
Events themselves, due to the nature of the event, would be the nature of the time.