The point is that we should not regard as Cafeteria Catholics those who seek to reclaim the 1950s. Instead, we should see them as a model for the emerging church. In fact, recent reports suggesting that Benedict granted permission not just for the Tridentine liturgy but other rites — the Ambrosian, for example, celebrated in Milan (“Motu proprio allows use of several old rites,” The Tablet [June 6, 2009]: 31) — is surely an early announcement of hope for those priests or parishes who have felt some anxiety about the coming translation of the liturgical prayers. Clearly, the precedent seems to be set: those who may not approve of the new translation will be under no obligation to use it but can instead either petition for or presume permission to continue using the present books. Maybe I am incorrect. Let’s break into discussion groups on this idea, with both our canonists and liturgists as guides.
I don’t get this business with the Tridentine Mass. I should get it.
I was in ninth grade at Cathedral High School when the first English translations were introduced. As a boy, I learned the Latin responses to the prayers at the foot of the altar and the other parts proper to the altar server. I could sing the proper parts of the Mass with our St. Rose of Lima School schola, as well as the ordinary parts, and I could pronounce Latin far better than I ever understood it.
I have but rarely presided at the liturgy in Latin. A couple times, as a pastor, I worked to convince parishioners that we should celebrate at least one Mass on Pentecost Sunday in the lingua antiqua and sing the Missa de Angelis, Mass VIII. Afterward, even daily-Mass Catholics would say, “Well that was a nice enough look at a museum piece, but I don’t need to do that again.”
Still, I recently scheduled Mass in Latin for students at the college where I teach. They should know, or at least experience, that part of the tradition. At least that’s what I told them. One of the most rigorously orthodox of our students said sweetly, succinctly, and accurately the morning after: “It was nice to be in touch with our tradition and to experience the Mass as did our grandparents, but there was a layer of meaning entirely absent.”
Catholic folks born in the 1950s often assert that they know Latin. Few actually know it. Some will say, “I speak Latin.” Or “My mother speaks Latin.” Then they greet me: “Dominus vobiscum.” I may be large, but I do not take the plural.
The church, in the wisdom of the ages, prompts us to pray in languages we understand. Those who sentimentalize another reality should not seek to press it on others among the people of God.
While we may sometimes celebrate the Novus Ordo in Latin when in Rome, or at home on Pentecost for old times’ sake, we tend to agree that there is a layer of meaning entirely missing when the church at prayer employs the lingua antiqua.
My earlier caution, I think, bears repeating. The priests I know who intuit a pastoral need for the old rite did not grow up with it. Because the Mass in any language can and should be celebrated with reverence, the need for the old rite seems unclear. Those who celebrate it cannot, on Monday morning, gather at the water cooler with other Catholics and a variety of other Christians and discuss the Scriptures they heard the day before; Trent’s missal is different from today’s lectionary, with fewer Scripture pericopes and scant attention to the Old Testament.
Clearly, the precedent seems to be set: those who may not approve of the new translation will be under no obligation to use it but can instead either petition for or presume permission to continue using the present books. Maybe I am incorrect. Let’s break into discussion groups on this idea, with both our canonists and liturgists as guides.
Together in the big tent that is the church
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