A Speculative Origin Account of the Folding of the Corporal

The following article was written by Zsolt Orbán.

In the Roman liturgy, a corporal is the name given to the square cloth placed on the altar cloth during Holy Mass to lie under the chalice and the host. However, this cloth is not unique to the Roman liturgical tradition; it is found in many ancient traditions, and its purpose is the same everywhere: to prevent even a single crumb or drop of the Holy Body and Blood from dropping to an unworthy place.

The size, colour, and shape of the cloths used in the liturgy – whether rectangular or square – vary greatly, but they share one common feature: they are folded in the same way, always inward from two directions into three sections, to prevent any crumbs of the Eucharist that may be on them from scattering. This is how they are folded according to the Roman tradition and likewise the Copts fold them the same way (they do this with every cloth used on the altar, since they have several), and this is also how the antimension is folded according to the Byzantine tradition.

Byzantine antimensia

The use of a cloth — present in all major liturgical traditions, used on the altar, and in direct contact with the sacred species — and the manner of its folding may suggest that this is an ancient common apostolic practice.

Speculative Origins

But where might the use of the corporal and its characteristic folding method in liturgical traditions originate?

Below, I outline a speculative explanation of origin that is a source of joy for those who live in the faith of the Resurrection, for I propose that the use of the corporal might be traced back to Christ, and might have become an ancient practice of the Church through Saint John.

Saint John’s role is unique among the apostles. He was the only apostle whose distinguishing mark was that he was “whom the Lord loved.” However, the divine love manifested toward him was not an expression of our Lord Christ’s human sympathy, but sprang from God’s justice, for it was a just response to the apostle’s greater love. This is why Saint John was entrusted with the task and honour of caring for the Virgin Mary, and this greater love was also evident in the fact that he was the only apostle present at the crucifixion.

His greater love is also evident in the events following the Resurrection. We see in him with an attitude of respect born of love, for although he ran faster than Peter and thus reached the tomb sooner, he still waited for the older apostle to enter the tomb first. “Then cometh Simon Peter, following him, and went into the sepulchre, and saw the linen cloths lying.” We see in him the sensitivity of love, which is why he speaks of the empty tomb from Saint Peter’s perspective, as if he knew it only from Peter’s account: “And the napkin that had been about his head, not lying with the linen cloths, but apart, wrapped up into one place…”

But the hidden yet most obvious sign of his love is his famous statement: “Then that other disciple also went in, who came first to the sepulchre: and he saw, and believed.”

The reason the Apostle John came to faith more quickly was his greater love. There was something in the empty tomb that St. John describes just as St. Peter saw it, but which Peter did not actually notice, since it was not he who “saw and believed,” but the youngest apostle, whom the Lord loved. And this something was not merely the empty tomb, nor merely the empty linen cloths and the face cloth, but the way the face cloth was laid: separately, folded up. Therefore, it was likely the way it was folded that led Saint John to recognize that Jesus had risen, and he immediately came to faith, the first among the apostles.

Only Jesus could have folded the cloth the way the cloth he saw in the tomb was folded, and only someone who, out of his burning love for the Lord, had observed and cherished in his heart every tiny detail, event, and gesture related to him could have recognized this. This is why Saint John came to faith from such a sign sooner than anyone else.

The Shroud That Led to Faith and the Memories

Without taking into account, refuting, or confirming the various studies and convictions regarding the different cloths, we can state with a clear conscience that when the apostles entered the tomb, they saw, among other things, what we now call the Shroud of Turin and the Sudarium of Oviedo.According to my interpretation, St. John may have come to faith upon seeing the Sudarium of Oviedo, which is less well-known today than the Shroud of Turin. A whole series of St. John’s memories might have been connected to this cloth and the way it was folded.

The Sudarium of Oviedo (source)

The most immediate memory, of course, was the events following the removal from the cross.Although the Gospels make no mention of Joseph of Arimathea — who purchased the shroud — being present at the execution, he may have been among those watching from a distance, since he was quickly informed of Christ’s death. But if he only saw it from a distance, he might not have known exactly how much Christ’s face had been disfigured by the blows, or that blood was flowing from his nose and mouth; therefore, he might not have prepared a cloth capable of absorbing such a large amount of blood. Therefore, for this purpose, they may have used an everyday piece of clothing that was at hand, that is, a sudarium. This may also explain why this cloth was not made of the same quality of material as the expensive Shroud of Turin purchased by Joseph of Arimathea.

And perhaps this sudarium was precisely the Sudarium of Oviedo, an 84 x 53 cm cloth similar to those commonly used in that era as an accessory to cover the head or neck, which protected against the heat of the sun or, when pulled over the nose, against dust — as can be traced back to the name sudarion, the Middle Eastern scarf known as the sudra.

Whose sudarium might have been at hand beneath the cross? Could it have belonged to Saint John? It may have been his scarf that was placed over the head of the dead Christ to catch the blood flowing from his nose and mouth, perhaps even before he was taken down from the cross.

Perhaps still earlier memories of Christ could have been tied to this sudarium. For example, at an earlier Easter, when the multiplication of the loaves — also described by Saint John — took place, whose “liturgy” was a precursor to the Holy Mass, is it not highly likely that Christ spread out a cloth on the grass, performed the motions of breaking the bread over it, and then called for the collection of the leftovers so that he himself might fold up the cloth after the miracle? And if the apostles had not prepared food for the event (as seems evident from the narrative), the cloth was likely a makeshift solution; perhaps it was even St. John’s sudarium. And if this is what happened, it is no coincidence that the sudarium of the apostle who most deeply contemplated and understood the Eucharist served as the “corporal” during the multiplication of the loaves.

But whether the cloth at hand was his sudarium or another’s, the beloved disciple saw Jesus folding the cloth, and the manner in which He folded it. And who else would have been situated by Providence to observe how Christ folded the sudarium after breaking the bread, if not the most beloved disciple? Moreover, he saw that the way it was folded was not ordinary, since in everyday life one generally does not need to fold a cloth in such a way that nothing falls out of it, not a single crumb.

If St. John truly saw all this and truly remembered it, wouldn’t he have recognized, upon entering the tomb, that his own bloodstained sudarium was not where it had been left, but was set aside separately and folded just as Christ had done after the multiplication of the loaves? And wouldn’t he have known immediately that only Jesus could have folded it that way? And if He folded it, then He lives!

And if the folded sudarium was indeed significant in St. John’s conversion, and reminded him of the way Jesus Himself folded the “corporal” in the foreshadowing of the Holy Mass, isn’t it logical that, based on this sign, he would interpret the way the cloth was folded in the tomb as a call to “do as I have done”? And if he interpreted it this way, wouldn’t he have passed it on to the other disciples? Thus, it would be no surprise that all liturgical traditions fold the corporal in this manner.

Folding the corporal in the Latin Rite (for the benefit of both amateur and professional sacristans, along with the method of cleaning and starching, so that this knowledge may become widespread — accompanied by a sister’s lively commentary):

An introduction to the Byzantine antimension and how it is folded:

St. Thérèse of Lisieux on the Sacristans of Her Convent

Many readers will be familiar with this wonderful photograph of St. Thérèse, shown posing in her work of filling the ciborium with hosts (among other typical functions of a sacristan) for the daily conventual Mass:

This, of course, is much in keeping with the usual customs of women’s monasteries, where the sisters perform many of the tasks that would otherwise be assigned to clerics, such as leading the entire Divine Office and chanting its readings and prayers; making the responses at low Mass from outside the sanctuary in situations where no servers are available; and, in some rare cases, chanting the epistle at Mass (see Shawn Tribe’s “Carthusian Nuns and the Use of the Maniple and Stole”).

A photo that is much less known, and which I myself saw only for the first time recently, shows Thérèse with, if I may so say, her liturgical assistants in November 1896. Three of them are her blood sisters Marie, Pauline, and Céline (Sr. Marie of the Sacred Heart, Mother Agnes of Jesus, and St. Geneviève of the Holy Face) and one is her aunt Marie Guérin (Sr. Marie of the Eucharist). Sr. Marie of the Eucharist, Sr. Marie of the Angels (not in the photo), and St. Thérèse were the sacristans, while her three blood sisters were altar bread bakers[1]:

St. Thérèse was a gifted amateur poet and playwright who composed a surprising amount of literary work in her spare moments during her nine years as a Carmelite nun. Some of her work was intended for public occasions such as recreations, birthdays, and feastdays, while other pieces were more private, sent to one or a few of her religious sisters.

In the same month of November 1896, she wrote a poem called “The Sacristans of Carmel,” in rhyming octosyllabic verse, which I wish to share with readers in honor of the Little Flower’s feast (whether you are celebrating it today on the new calendar or two days from now on the old calendar).

The poem was written for Sr. Marie Philomena, who had asked Thérèse for something she could sing while baking; but it was first read by her aunt. Later, all of the sacristans and altar bread bakers got to know the poem, and apparently sang it regularly in their work, to whatever familiar tune they chose that would match the meter. In this we see a splendid example of the genre of a “work song” that has nearly disappeared from the world of mass-marketed and passively consumed entertainment. One may hope such work songs still survive in the Carmels.

The religious and theological content of the song are quite worth of attention. Here is the ICS translation, slightly modified to make it more literal[2]:

1. Here below our sweet office
Is to prepare for the altar
The bread and wine of the Sacrifice
Which brings to earth—“Heaven”!

2. Heaven, O supreme mystery!,
Hides itself under humble bread,
For Heaven, it is Jesus Himself,
Coming to us each morning.

3. There are no queens on earth
Who are happier than we.
Our office is a prayer
Which unites us to our Spouse.

4. This greatest honors of this world
Cannot compare
To the peace, profound and heavenly,
Which Jesus lets us savor.

5. We bring a holy envy
For the work of our hands,
For the little white host
Which is to veil our divine Lamb.

6. But his love has chosen us.
He is our Spouse, our Friend.
We are also hosts
Which Jesus wants to change into Himself.

7. Sublime mission of the Priest,
You become our mission here below.
Transformed by the Divine Master,
It is He who guides our steps.

8. We must help the apostles
By our prayers, our love.
Their battlefields are ours.
For them we fight each day.

9. The hidden God of the tabernacle
Who also hides in our hearts,
O what a miracle! at our voice
Deigns to pardon sinners!

10. Our happiness and our glory
Is to work for Jesus.
His beautiful Heaven is the ciborium
We want to fill with souls!...

The original draft

I heartily agree with the Carmelite commentators who find this poem both charming and insightful:

The sacristans are the untiring agents of this mysterious exchange [between heaven and earth]. In this poem, they readily call to mind something like Jacob’s ladder. These stanzas are full of “gentleness.” There is the discreet gentleness of the “housewife,” if we dare call it that: of the spouse “happier than a queen” whose heart remains attentive to her Husband, while her hands are diligently working for Him. There is also the discreet gentleness of the Carmelite nun, who is associated with the apostle at the altar in the role that is hers, that of the hidden companion. In both cases, the assistant becomes like the one she assists. …
       Here she [Thérèse] sings of her concrete way of sharing immediately in the “sublime mission of the Priest.” “Transformed” into Jesus by the Eucharist, “changed” into Him, does she not then also become an “alter Christus”…? She cannot leave her cloister to “preach the Gospel,” but Jesus, the first Missionary, walks in her and through her. He “guides her steps,” as He does those of the apostles she prays for, loves, and struggles for.
       She cannot absolve from sins. But Jesus present in her through the Eucharist gives her a share in his ministry of reconciling sinners.
       She will never fill the ciborium with consecrated hosts. But she is spending her life “filling Heaven with souls”—living hosts in which Christ lives alone from then on. …
       So Thérèse has no inferiority complex toward “men” or priests. She has no presumption either. For her, it is Jesus who acts in collaboration with men—and women. Even in 1892, she wrote to Céline: “I find that our share is really beautiful; what have we to envy in priests?”[3]

In fact, if we may use the awkward expression “holy envy,” it will always be the case that each Christian vocation has reason to admire the goods of every other, since these goods are not, simply speaking, compatible with one another. The priest may well “envy” the female religious her total and silent dedication to prayer, which he will almost never attain in his active ministry; the married man or woman may “envy” the consecrated soul its undivided attentiveness or availability for the things of the Lord (cf. 1 Cor 7); the consecrated man or woman may “envy” the married their sacramental realization of the faithful, fruitful union of Christ and the Church, which brings new immortal souls into the world, to complete the number of the elect. In the Mother of God alone do we find united that which nature cannot unite, combining and exceeding all Christian states of life: she is the wife unwed, the child-bearing virgin, mother inviolate, mediatrix of all grace as the inseparable minister of the High Priest. In her all vocations are at one, like white light before it splinters into a spectrum of colors. For the rest of us, the individual colors are distinct, complementary, and beautiful, as they are intended to be, for our individual benefit and for the common good of the Church.

St. Thérèse’s poem serves as a profitable meditation on several intertwined mysteries: the unique, exalted, and irreplaceable nature of the ministerial priesthood; the lofty participation in Christ the High Priest enjoyed by all who are baptized into His sacerdotal and royal dignity; the special position of consecrated religious, who follow the priestly and sacrificial Lamb whithersoever He goeth; and the value in God’s sight of the quiet, humble work done by sacristans whenever they reverently prepare the materials and environs required for worthily offering the sacrifice of praise.

NOTES

[1] For this and other details, I am indebted to the excellent commentary in The Poetry of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, trans. Donald Kinney, OCD (Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1996), 169–70.

[2] The translation is found in Kinney, Poetry, 170–71, as well as at this website. The French is contained in Kinney, pp. 301–302.

[3] Kinney, Poetry, 169–70.

The fair copy

Why the Double Ablutions?

A priest and regular NLM reader, responding to the series on canonical or liturgical digits (see here), sent this note to me:

I was wondering if, in your study, you have come across any authors who explain the double ablution that takes place in the traditional liturgy: first with wine, then with water and wine.
          The basic nut I am trying to crack is: I feel like a single ablution is not enough whenever I purify the sacred vessels—whether it is done with water only, or in the more traditional way, with both water & wine. It seems right that there be two ablutions before any further cleaning of the chalice (such as with soap & water, as is common in most hygiene-minded sacristies dominated by busy lay sacristans today) be done. I’m hoping to find some older commentaries on the purification that might (or might not) lend an argument to my feelings and impressions.

I have not seen an explanation in the sense of a moral or theological explanation, but of course the rubrical authors speak extensively about how it is to be done, and the basic reason why. For example, O’Connell’s The Celebration of the Mass says (p. 286):

The proper quantity of wine to be taken [at the first ablution] is about the same as had been taken at the Offertory, so that all the surface of the chalice that had been touched by the Precious Blood will be covered by the wine. When the celebrant has received sufficient wine he raises the chalice slightly as an indication to the server. The celebrant may then rotate the chalice carefully once or twice in order that the wine will pass over the surface that had been touched by the Precious Blood. He drinks the Contents of the chalice at the same point on the edge at which he had received the Precious Blood. ... Next the celebrant takes the chalice with the second, third, and fourth fingers of each hand around the cup, and the joined index fingers and thumbs within it. .. The amount of wine and water (together) to be taken will again be about the quantity of the Precious Blood. Rubricians direct that at the second ablution a little wine and a good deal of water be taken: (a) to make sure that when the second ablution has been drunk none of the Sacred Species will remain to be wiped up by the purificator; (b) because water is more cleansing than wine (especially than sweet wine, which is sticky); (c) to avoid staining the purificator.

This passage seems to confirm the reader’s intuition that a thorough cleansing is only possible with “two goes at it.” It seems to me that this was a matter of common sense developed over centuries of experience, and that it should be adopted today even in the context of the Ordinary Form, in accordance with the principle that we ought to exercise epikeia or good judgment with respect to laws to be followed, and always seek the common good—which begins with the proper treatment of the sacra mysteria, for, as St. Thomas Aquinas teaches us, “the common spiritual good of the entire Church is contained substantially in the sacrament itself of the Eucharist” (Summa theologiae III, q. 65, a. 3, arg. 1).

It is interesting to note, in terms of development (if it can be called such), that in the traditional Roman Rite the purificator does not ordinarily come in contact with the consecrated species, and therefore the Rituale provides no special blessing just for purificators. However, since corporals and palls do come into contact, there is a special blessing for them that is also “reserved”; an ordinary priest had to be delegated to bless a corporal/pall. Nowadays, the opposite obtains: purificators are often soaked with the Precious Blood by extraordinary ministers and clerics, while corporals more or less do not come into contact with the host due to the continuous use of the paten (although I have been told that some priests are sloppy in how they fracture the host). Besides, the modern Book of Blessings does not actually intend to bless the Mass linens as such.

What the foregoing shows is the beautifully consistent logic in the traditional practices: every detail makes sense. What is supposed to come into contact with the consecrated species is duly and properly blessed by the proper hierarchical authority; what is not supposed to come into contact is not so blessed; and the rubrics themselves govern the disposition and use of all items so that the sacred species will be treated with utmost care and reverence. One suspects that this is why the entire set of customs “had” to be dismantled by the modernists: they could see that it was a total system and had come to despise its rigor, impersonalism, objectivity, and sacrality. As Alice von Hildebrand once remarked, you either have to patiently accept it all and submit to it as the sweet yoke of Christ, or you will chafe at the bonds like a restive horse.

Priestly Preparation Before Mass and Thanksgiving After Mass

By the grace of God I’ve been a Catholic all my life, and during these decades, I’ve known and observed many priests going about their duties. One of the most fascinating differences among them is how they bear themselves before and after Mass. It took me a long time to realize how great an impact for good or for ill this can have.

Let us take as our point of departure a marvelous line in the Code of Canon Law. Canon 909 reads: “A priest is not to omit dutifully to prepare himself by prayer before the celebration of the Eucharist, nor afterwards to omit to make thanksgiving to God.”

As if commenting on this canon, Bishop Marc Aillet writes:

Tearing us away from the secular world and thus from the temptation of immanentism, [the liturgical rites] have the power to immerse us suddenly in the Mystery and open us to the Transcendent. In this sense, one can never stress enough the importance of the silence preceding the liturgical celebration, an inner narthex, where we are freed of the concerns, even if legitimate, of the secular world, in order to enter the sacred space and time where God will reveal his Mystery; one can never stress enough the importance of silence in the liturgy to open oneself more readily to the action of God; and one can never stress enough the appropriateness of a period of thanksgiving, whether integrated into the celebration or not, to apprehend the inner extent of the mission that awaits us once we are back in the world.

The Time Before Mass

Consider first the time before Mass. Shawn Tribe wrote an article here a number of years ago that deeply affected me—an article urging the recovery of a spirit of reverence, respect, and quietude in the sacristy before the celebration of Mass. He noted that many sacristies have a sign reading SILENTIUM, and recalled the very old custom of the priest reciting hallowed prayers as he dons each separate garment in preparation for offering the Holy Sacrifice. Before a High Mass, a Solemn Mass, or some other major liturgy the platoon of servers will be very busy, but there is no reason why they can be quietly busy, learning to move in an atmosphere of prayerful preparation and anticipation, keeping their voices down and their conversations useful to the matters at hand.

The holiest priests I’ve known (although there are exceptions to any rule) have tended to arrive in the sacristy early so that they could prepare in an unrushed spirit. I have noticed that they would carefully say the vesting prayers and be ready, waiting, often looking at a wall-mounted crucifix, before the servers had finishing pulling themselves together. When the bell rings or the clock strikes, such a priest is ready to process in, with a “Procedamus in pace” on his lips. What a profound “ripple effect” his earnest, calm, and focused mind can have on the entire sacristy atmosphere, and on all who are working in it!

Contrast this with the priest who rushes in at the last minute, in a whirl and a tizzy. He’s looking here and there, maybe stealing a quick glance at the Ordo, racing against the clock. He throws open the closet and grabs the alb and the chasuble, scarcely taking time to straighten them before walking out into the church. Where is the “dutiful preparation” of Canon 909? Do the servers imbibe a true spirit of reverence towards this most awesome of all human actions—indeed, do they see that the priest is embarking on a divine action of which he is, and they are, totally unworthy, and before which we stand in fear and trembling? Or take the other contrast, Father Foghorn, whose arrival everyone knows because you can hear him yacking away in the sacristy before Mass, about the weather, or football, or something in the news, or someone’s sick aunt, or whatever the topic du jour may be. Indeed, he might even be giving out commands about liturgical preparations, but the generalissimo manner is enough to debar anyone from prayer.

The truth is simple: Father Foghorn and Reverend Roadrunner are not edifying. We need clergy who, before Mass, conscientiously pursue the spirit of recollection, prayerfulness, humility, and peace. At the end of the day, this is not merely for the benefit of a bunch of rag-tag servers or half-asleep pewsitters; it is for the benefit of the clergy themselves, who stand to win or lose their vocations based on how they approach the very work for which they have been set apart. The devil, shall we say, never omits to prepare for whatever dark business he has in hand, and it seems he targets those who have forgotten their dignity. We must not omit to prepare ourselves for ascending the mountain of the Lord in the company of the angels.

The Time After Mass

Let us turn to the time after Mass. Although I don’t remember ever seeing this custom while growing up in a mainstream American parish in the 1970s and 1980s, I began to notice in college and afterwards that more conservative or traditional priests, having returned to the sacristy, would say “Prosit” and then give a blessing to the kneeling altar servers. This is a laudable custom that surely deserves to be retained wherever it exists or revived wherever it has fallen into desuetude.

But what should happen next? The best way I can answer that question is to describe a particular priest friend of mine, whose example in this regard was as luminous as can be. After blessing the servers, he would quietly divest (no indulging in sacristy banter and very little of the “post-game debrief”), and then immediately step out to the sanctuary, kneel on the side, and pray for several minutes. He sometimes used the traditional prayers of thanksgiving from the Missale Romanum, other times not. It was clear that he was not doing this to be seen by men, yet everyone saw him nonetheless—and this is as it should be. The priest who offers the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, the most sublime act of worship on the face of the earth, the ecstasy of angels and the terror of demons—how can he possibly return immediately to secularity, light chit-chat, text messages, voicemails, or emails, or rush away to do something else (unless it is a genuine emergency)?

The holy priest just described is the polar opposite of the priest who seems unable to get away fast enough when Mass is over. He zips out of the sanctuary or nave (depending on the planned or available route of escape), whips off the garments, and is out the door quicker than you can say: “Father, do you have a minute to hear a confession?” To a layman, this is a dismaying experience. I was taught in grammar school to stay a bit after Mass and make thanksgiving. Why isn’t our priest, our leader, doing the same? We always say that example speaks louder than words.

Then there is the priest who obviously thinks that the time after Mass is created for socializing, often at great length, in the atrium or right outside the main doors of the church. I’m not saying that greeting people, shaking hands, and asking “How’s your mother doing?” or questions of that sort is a bad idea; in fact, on Sundays it seems to be an especially good opportunity for making the sort of “horizontal” connections that ought to be avoided during the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass itself. Nevertheless, when the post-liturgical bonhomie is conducted with such vim and vigor that the faithful who are trying to pray in the church can hear the guffawing and backslapping pouring through the entrance, or when the extent of the socializing crowds out any real prayer of thanksgiving on the priest’s part, we are dealing with a mixed-up sense of priorities.

When we have received our Lord in Holy Communion, He is, for some precious minutes, really, truly, substantially present within us. If we are in a state of grace (and we’d have no business receiving communion otherwise), He is always with us spiritually; but He is not always with us in the miraculous mode of His physical Eucharistic presence. This is a special time, a time of unique intimacy and love, when our praises to God and His favors to us are poured out more abundantly, when we are most of all abiding in Him and He in us. Let us not squander this gift from the Lord—and let the clergy lead the way in setting a strong and sincere example of how to rejoice and give thanks. I am reminded of a saying attributed to St. Pius X: “If the priest is an angel, the people will be saints; if the priest is a saint, the people will be good; if the priest is good, the people will be mediocre; and if the priest is mediocre, the people will be beasts.”

The Advantage of the Usus Antiquior

As a parting thought, the impression has grown on me more and more over the years that one of the strongest merits of the usus antiquior is that it has preparation and thanksgiving already “built in.” Yes, there is still a brief period for each in the Novus Ordo, but nothing comparable to Psalm 42 and its accompanying versicles and prayers, or to the Placeat and the Last Gospel. One feels that one has decisively begun and decisively ended. There is a suitable psychological and spiritual transition from the secular world to the sacred, and again from the sacred to the secular. And yet, paradoxically, it is among usus antiquior-celebrating priests that I have tended to find the greatest recollection and prayerfulness before and after Mass, too. What this suggests to me is that the very reduction of the rituals of preparation and thanksgiving within the Ordinary Form has had a bleed-over effect on the time before and after the liturgy itself.

This is why we should adamantly oppose any “reform” of the 1962 Missale Romanum that involves the abolition of the prayers at the foot of the altar and the Last Gospel. Those who speak of the value of the 1965 Missal—the supposed implementation of Sacrosanctum Concilium—as if it’s the fulfillment of legitimate liturgical reform are not thinking carefully enough about why these introductory and conclusory parts became popular in the first place and why, under the influence of the Holy Spirit, they were eventually integrated into the liturgy.