PROVINCETOWN — There were still 20 minutes left of the documentary, and Bruce Mason wanted to know if he could finish it before giving an interview. It was the day before Juneteenth, and the Provincetown Council on Aging was showing a documentary about protests.

Mason walked back to his seat, young reporter in tow, and concentrated on the final segment about the 2020 George Floyd protests. A Black Lives Matter button was fastened on his shirt. As the credits began to roll, he was already heading quietly toward the door.

“Bye, Bruce!” the other moviegoers said, once they realized he was leaving. He laughed. He was on to the next thing.

Mason has volunteered at the Council on Aging for the past three years. He’s the oldest volunteer at SKIP, the soup kitchen, where he’s worked for 12 years. He spent four years volunteering at the Center for Coastal Studies, and he still goes regularly to beach cleanups. On the first Saturday of each month, he protests with Racial Justice Provincetown. He’s also the Deacon at St. Mary of the Harbor, the Episcopal church in town.

Many know Mason from his walks — down from Seashore Point to Bradford Street, around to the post office or the library, and maybe to a volunteer shift. Sometimes he walks with friends. Often, he stops to chat with people he encounters along the way. Sometimes he’s alone. It’s a spiritual thing; it’s meditation.

When Mason found out that he’d won this year’s Grace Gouveia Service Award, given by the town to one older adult annually to recognize exceptional community service, he called the rector at St. Mary, Brian Raiche, and asked him if he should accept it. The award involves riding in the Fourth of July Parade and a fall luncheon in the recipient’s honor.

“He wanted to make sure he was doing it for the right reasons,” Raiche said. “He’d rather not be recognized, but I think the award is great. He’s done so much.”

In 2014, when Mason moved from Litchfield, Conn. to Provincetown, he planned to retire, not only from his life as a social worker but from his 35 years as a deacon. It didn’t take long after he moved here before his calendar was full of places to be. “The deacon’s work is with the people,” he explained. “It’s helping people in the church go out into the community to serve goodness and love.”

Joe Privitera, a close friend for over 40 years, wasn’t surprised. “Wherever he goes, his commitment to service goes with him,” he said. “He’s going to find a soup kitchen in Timbuktu, and he’s going to go and help.”

Mason is 89. At the request of his friends and family, he takes shorter walks now, and he’s cut back on his hours here and there. David Wilson, another close friend, has suggested that they walk only half of the mile-long Martin Luther King walk they join in Wellfleet every January. Mason insists they do the whole thing. “I receive much more than I give,” Mason repeats like a refrain. “I spread peace and love, but it’s for me, too.”

As part of his role in the clergy, Mason visits ailing community members. “I am just seeing three people right now,” Mason said, pausing. “Or four … or I really mean five.”

He looked down and twiddled his thumbs for a moment.

Mason says he moved to Provincetown because he felt free here. He could do what he loves without being “put in a box” as a saint or an activist or even as an extrovert.

Mason is “really a very private person,” Wilson said later. But there is a dazzling openness about him — a trait fully on display at the very end of a recent Sunday service at St. Mary.

Mason stood in the back of the church as the congregation turned to face him. Most people were smiling in anticipation of dismissal, the moment when the deacon sends the congregation back out into their lives.

“Let us go forth into the world!” he cried, throwing his hands high above his head. Each word sprung from his chest.

“Rejoicing in the power of the spirit. Alleluia. Alleluia.”

As people filed out, Mason stayed by the exit to say his goodbyes.

Mid-conversation with one couple, he realized a friend was standing nearby, and he grabbed him by the arm. “This guy helped me out last week,” he said, while reaching for the hand of the woman next to him. “And she’s like a mother to me.”

Post-church coffee hour was just beginning. Though Mason is often tired after the service, he tries to attend the mixing and mingling, especially if there are new visitors to the church. But once people have all seemed to find one another, he sits away from the crowd. But he is always sure to find a spot with an empty seat next to him — just in case someone wants to talk.