Models for the Emerging Church: Promises and Threats
William C. Graham
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.” Her own experience was a far better teacher than any explanation I might have offered.
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.
I recently attended the wedding of a delightful and delightfully traditional young couple who wanted part of their wedding liturgy sung in Latin. They did not recognize that the setting they employed for the Sanctus and Agnus Dei was from the Requiem. Mentioning this to another traditional young guest there, I was asked, “What, exactly, is a Requiem?”
Praying in Latin is not easy. Neither fond nostalgia for an era one never knew nor spending a couple semesters in Rome and ordering spaghetti carbonara in Italian gives one the ability to pronounce or understand the complexities of an ancient language one has never studied. One of my colleagues, a Latin professor, went one day to a local celebration of the Eucharist according to the extraordinary rite, the rite we usually refer to as Tridentine. Coming back to campus, shaking his head, the professor sad sadly, “I don’t know what that was, but it was not Latin.”
So what are the issues involved in restoring the Tridentine liturgy? Lisa Takeuchi Cullen (“I Confess, I Want Latin,” Time [June 30, 2007]) wants “to experience the joy of communion without the anguish of our modern-day differences.” She thinks that in the Tridentine Mass, when the priest has his “back to the congregation and [is] speaking in a dead language,” she will be spared homilies based on the priest’s “Netflix queue.” Good luck to her with all that. Even back in the day, the homily or sermon was not in Latin. Ms. Cullen could seek out a parish that celebrates the liturgy in another language unknown to her — Vietnamese, maybe, or Tagalog or Eritrean. She could then get what she seeks: “an hour-long meditation in the community of the faithful, reaffirming ancient beliefs in familiar but inscrutable chant.” She opines, “I’m not so sure that isn’t what the Apostles intended.” There is scant evidence to suggest that the apostles were big into inscrutability. Perhaps her opinion reveals a different desire: to decide herself what the apostles intended rather than trust the church in magisterial authority to interpret and mediate both Scripture and Tradition with the wisdom of the ages.
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.
But, Can We Keep Paul V’s Missal?
In an earlier [article], I pointed out that the folks who were most surprised by Pope Benedict XVI’s decision to loosen restrictions on the celebration of the Tridentine Mass (the extraordinary rite) may have been those of us just old enough to remember chanting the Requiem and the Missa de Angelis back in the glory days of booming, burgeoning Catholic schools. 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.
When the Tridentine crowd prays on Good Friday for “the perfidious Jew,” the rest of us know with certainty that God will hear what we ask, but we trust that he will give us what we truly need. This will surely not include perfidy, either among Catholics or Jews. A caution is in order here, however. We cannot be sure of the accuracy of all the translations of the Mass; prudence would dictate, I think, that those who seek to pray in Latin use only the Latin text, eschewing all other translations in an effort to avoid that which may be unseemly, inaccurate, or irreverent. But I digress.
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.
Together in the big tent that is the church, may we continue with faithfulness and good humor (and in all the languages of humankind) the church’s unbroken tradition of coming “together to celebrate the paschal mystery: … giving thanks ‘to God for his inexpressible gift’ (2 Cor 9:15) in Christ Jesus, ‘in praise of his glory’ (Eph 1:12), through the power of the Holy Spirit” (Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, 6).
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Rev. William C. Graham, a priest of the diocese of Duluth in Minnesota, directs The Braegelman Program in Catholic Studies at the College of St. Scholastica. His latest books include A Catholic Handbook: Essentials for the 21st Century (Paulist) and Clothed in Christ: Toward a Spirituality for Lay Ministers (Twenty-Third Publications).
This article originally appeared in the February 2011 issue of Ministry & Liturgy, a publication of Resource Publications, Inc. It is reprinted here with their kind permission.

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