The TLM in a Novus Ordo parish
The north state’s traditional Latin Mass has been celebrated at a tiny mission church in Durham for the last several months. Next Sunday, it is going to be returned to St. John the Baptist in downtown Chico. In the light of the Motu Proprio, the idea this time around is for the TLM community to be “fully integrated” into the life of the parish. We will essentially be St. John’s parishoners along with those who attend the English, Spanish, and Life-Teen liturgies. Hopefully we’ll have the right to use the parish hall after Mass, to sell books and sacramentals, and to have some of our extra-liturgical activities promoted among the other parishoners.
This is breaking some new ground. In previous models we were either: 1) despised and marginalized “trad invaders” of a Novus Ordo sanctuary, or; 2) inhabitants of the “trad ghetto” of a personal parish. I really prefer the latter model, since with a personal parish the atmosphere can be entirely traditional. But the “fully integrated” presence of the TLM in a Novus Ordo parish could also be a very good thing. I don’t expect that we’ll win huge numbers of Novus Ordoians to the TLM – not at first, anyway – but it is the Holy Father’s desire that the traditional form of the liturgy, and those practices associated with it, influence the greater part of the Church. That would seem to require close proximity and frequent exposure.
In other news …
The north state’s TLM community grew by eight souls last weekend, as some very good friends have moved to Chico from Maple Hill, Kansas, with their six beautiful children. Deo gratias!
Here is one Chicoan’s appreciation for Glenn County.
Our garden is just about finished, except for the tomatoes. Don’t think I’m up to a fall planting this year. Also - for some reason our goat milk hasn’t been top-notch these days. I’m not entirely sure what the problem is. We may have too much and are therefore waiting too long to drink it. I just replaced the mineral block, which should help some. Tomorrow we’ll clean out the goat barn.
Last week I made a business trip to a small organic nursery on the Klamath River, about a four-hour drive from here in the far northern mountains of the state. I was permitted to stay overnight in a guest cabin on the property. The longer I’m alive, the more deeply I find myself in love with California. This region is characterized by miles and miles of pristine beauty, like something out of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, populated very sparsely by Indians, mountaineers, miners, hermits, hippies, and according to local Indian legends, the mysterious tribe of Bigfoot. Indeed, Bigfoot sightings continue to this very day. I don’t know whether Bigfoot exists, but if he does, there’s a vast amount of wilderness here in which to hide. And it is all virtually unknown to the rest of the world.
My gracious host, a self-taught nurseryman and horticulturalist, prepared a marvelous dinner that evening consisting of the best goat cheese and tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. The next day he gave me the equivalent of a seminar in budding for which many people pay good money. A lapsed Catholic from a large family, he proved to be an engaging and intelligent conversationalist. Should he return one day to the Faith of his youth he’d make an exemplary Catholic agrarian.