A TLM Girl in a Novus Ordo World

My experience was similar, except that due to distance and the fact I no longer drive, I'm forced to go to the Novus Ordo, though I'm lucky to live where I do, where the Mass is celebrated reverently, by orthodox Priests.

From One Peter Five

By Laura Phelps

“This is what I have been searching for my whole life.”

I was living my best Catholic life. Thanks to a powerful encounter with the Lord, I went from a “check-the-box faith” to an all-in, sign me up, on-fire disciple of Jesus. From Catechist to VBS, I gave my “yes” to everything, but my church involvement peaked when I introduced a women’s Bible study to our parish. The program was wildly successful, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a profound sense of belonging. I had found my people, I knew my purpose, and the church felt like home.

And then a wrecking ball tore through the front door.

The demolition began with a question: “What’s on your arm?” We were assigned a new Priest, and I couldn’t help but notice his manner of dress; it was different, ornate, and I was captivated. “This is a maniple,” he said. “It represents the toils of the Priesthood; a towel used to wipe away sweat or tears.” As a forty-nine-year-old cradle Catholic who rarely missed Sunday Mass, how had I never seen this before? Father enthusiastically shared the significance of robing himself in the unworldly when he entered the church. “I cannot approach the altar looking like myself,” he explained. Intrigued, I returned home and immediately googled “maniple,” catapulting myself down a sacred vestment rabbit hole for hours.

The next morning, I wore a dress to Mass.

But this was more than garments. It was the way he moved, turned, and genuflected; a seamless motion, a quiet mystery unfolding, his every move a prayer. Something extraordinary was happening on the altar, and I was not the only one who noticed–my Bible study friends recognized it too. There was a reverence and rhythm of beauty that made our daily Mass routine less routine. Gone were the days of casually entering the church; we were prayerfully ascending the mountain, and boy, did we love it there.

Until we were kicked off.

Sadly, the Priest was relocated, our spirits deflated, and there were far too many parking lot conversations. When the drama died down, we accepted our fate, and everyone returned to the status quo—everyone, but me. With my husband’s blessing, we followed this Priest to a parish where he was permitted to offer the Traditional Latin Mass — a Mass I knew nothing about and believed was simply the Novus Ordo said in Latin. Despite his first time instructions: “do not try to follow along, just soak it all in,” the control freak in me screamed to know what the heck was happening. Between the confusion, disorientation, and sweating, all while trying to balance a slip-sliding veil on my head, I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure this was the Mass for me. I preferred the one that handed me a script, assigned me my role, and put me under the spotlight. The TLM delivered none of these, and yet, I kept going back, kept getting drawn in, until one morning, while humbly kneeling at the communion rail, something came over me. Never had I felt so beautiful, so close to God, and so in love with Him as I did in that moment.

When I got home, I ordered a veil with a sewn-in clip. That’s right–I was all in now.

The Traditional Latin Mass is both an ocean of refreshment and a school of humility. It has opened my eyes wider than I thought possible. Everything is elevated: my posture of prayer, how I confess my sins, and the way I examine my conscience before receiving the Eucharist. I’ve been introduced to forgotten customs like Ember days, Septuagesima, and my favorite, the Rorate Mass, in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Every time I learn an old custom or ancient prayer, I marvel at the depth and richness of our faith, thinking to myself, “This is what I have been searching for my whole life.” Like the parable of the merchant seeking good pearls, I have truly found the pearl of great price—and the parable doesn’t lie–it is costly.

I’m a TLM girl living in a Novus Ordo world, and it hasn’t been easy.

Leaving a familiar parish, attending a different Mass, and adhering to a liturgical calendar that differs from those of my closest friends and colleagues come with their own challenges. Let’s just say that my departure from the Novus Ordo has not been without its assumptions, accusations, and uncomfortable situations. From “holier than thou” to “contributing to the division,” I have heard it all. But what has caused the most grief is the loneliness and anonymity. My pride likes to remind me that back at the Novus Ordo, I was a big deal. The community praised me for my efforts, crediting the success of the Bible study to me. At the TLM, no one praises me; they praise God (and “successes” are the fruits of the Spirit).

I’ve also discovered that as an older mom of adult children, making friends at the TLM requires more effort. Having lots of little kids is where the social scene is at, and well, that ship has sailed. (I do, however, have twelve chickens, so perhaps homesteading will be my way in.) I miss my friends terribly, and while I see them from time to time, it is not the same. Serving side by side in parish ministry is now a thing of the past, as are nights of contemporary praise and worship. I love these women and have invited them to come and see what I have found to no avail. When they complain about the weak homilies or lack of reverence, I say, “Come to the Latin Mass!” When they start church hopping around town because of the bad lector, unbearable music, and loud conversations in the church, I cry, “Try the Traditional Latin Mass!” When they are discouraged and admit to feeling like there has got to be more, I encourage them, “You’d love the Latin Mass!” They tell me they will come.

But they never do.

I don’t know why they never do, but I know what it feels like for me. Fear of the unknown, letting go of control, and the real possibility of losing something we love are obstacles the enemy loves to throw in our way to prevent us from a deeper union with God. We want to follow Jesus, we may even deny ourselves sometimes, and suffer a little for Him, but lose everything? That’s where we draw the line. And I get it. Even if what we are losing is for our benefit, when the road gets hard, it’s difficult to trust that God is leading us to something better. I can understand why the Israelites wanted to return to Egypt; there are times that I long to go back; when I cry out to the Lord, “What have you done to me, bringing me out of the Novus Ordo, where I was casual and comfortable and had no idea what I was missing? Now, getting myself to the church requires greater effort and discipline, with a good chance of sitting in highway traffic for up to an hour. Back then, I enjoyed familiar community, a close circle of friends, and impromptu coffee dates after daily Mass. Now, I have to learn a new language and make new friends, who most likely live miles away in the opposite direction. And don’t get me started on what sacred music has done to modern liturgical hymns! If only I had never attended the Traditional Latin Mass!”

But I did. And all will be well. Because here is the thing about God:

Every time the devil holds up one of these earthly “losses,” the Holy Ghost floods His light on the bigger picture, reminding me of a truth the world is hellbent on my forgetting: My life is not about me. The Mass is not about me. Worship is not about me. Authentic discipleship has never been described with words like easy, feel-good, or convenient; rather, it is characterized by self-denial, suffering, rejection, and even death. As much as I long for Church companions, coffee dates, and a Mass that’s a hop, skip, and a jump away, the greatest longing of my heart runs deeper; it longs for an interior transformation, a life centered on Christ, an other-worldly experience–in a word, heaven. At the end of my life, when I come face to face with God, He is not going to ask how many people knew my name; He is going to reveal whether or not He recognizes my own. As terrifying as this is, I believe there is no better preparation for this moment than the Traditional Latin Mass; a liturgy that is teaching me to pray humbly, and reverently; one that closes the door on the modern world and immerses me in the eternal; a Mass that brings me to my knees and directs me towards God, as I enter into the mystery of Christ’s sacrifice.

I won’t lie–there are times that I struggle. But I have found the pearl of great price, and it is worth selling everything.