I started to respond to Joseph’s second post on this topic when I realized that a brief comment would probably be misinterpreted; more explanation would be required to avoid that. I’ve read Sophia’s posts on the topic, not so much because I share her strong feelings as because it’s just hard to resist good writing. I don’t, in fact, have strong feelings on this subject in either direction. There are reasons for that.

One reason is the futility of it (for me). The nearest extraordinary form of the Mass is a two-hours drive away, and chronic phlebitis makes the trip inadvisable. While I have an opinion, of course, any strong feeling on the subject is more or less an unaffordable luxury—rather like a battle not chosen?—which doesn’t mean that I think the battle is unimportant. I’ve never participated in a Mass in the extraordinary form, so I can’t regard it with either conviction or nostalgia (depending on your point of view). I have participated in very reverent forms of the Novus Ordo Mass while traveling, and once I was forced by my Sunday obligation to attend a Mass so sacrilegious it made me weep.

But another reason is that, perhaps because of my enforced distance from the subject, I have a different perspective. Liturgical preference is an internal matter. I didn’t say “unimportant” but “internal.”

A distance perspective often provides a kind of historical view, for which the metaphor of a tapestry has been employed. We can’t see the overall design because we’re part of it. Only much later, with distance, can we see that what might have caused us great concern at the time was actually a necessary part of a design we would never have dreamed of ourselves. That design shows us that corruption leads to reform, that the “certain end” of the Church leads to its rebirth, etc. It’s a repeated pattern we can’t discern during its making because we’re too close to it. Like now, for example, the external threat to our religious liberty may later be recognized as the necessary beginning of a small revolution in our religious culture—maybe not. We have to wait and see.

But one thing is certain: We can never see in the now of things. It seems the warp always thinks it’s the woof, and vice-versa, or someone who turns out to be a mere little thread (like Napoleon, for example) is dead certain he’s the shuttlecock, if not the weaver himself.

And so, it would be naïve and even foolhardy to regard internal disputes as unimportant compared to the threats from outside the Church. The latter may come to nothing at all and the former may become the source of renewal. What we can gain from a distance perspective is not a sense of righteousness, but a sense of caution—about how we discern the significance of things. As C.S. Lewis said, “The thing about reality is that it never turns out to be quite what one expected.”

I am certain, however, that were I given the choice, I’d prefer the extraordinary form simply because: The center of Catholicism is the Eucharist; the Eucharist is the central purpose of the Mass. No matter what form it is celebrated in, we witness and participate in a miracle which is the very meaning of our lives, both temporal and eternal. That Fact calls for as much dignity and grandeur as we can muster. But I am not given that choice, so I’m not in a position to argue about it. Further, I know that the vast majority of Catholics are in the same position I’m in, regardless of the Holy Father’s motu propio. Fortunate people who live in strong Catholic communities often forget they’re fortunate. Most of us just muddle along doing the best we can in our diverse circumstances and watch things from a distance. But that distance does provide perspective. Perhaps that’s useful in its own way, or perhaps it’s just a compensation to us. Like so much else in the tapestry, we can’t really tell now.