It was a Saturday afternoon in summer. It was bright and sunny. It was a “Saturday vigil” Mass for some green Sunday or other. I was twelve.

The celebrant was the diocesan bishop, Theodore McCarrick. He was doing a parish visit.

My memories of that Saturday at church were vivid even before “Uncle Ted” became a justly vilified ecclesiastical pariah. My memories of that Mass were vivid because it was one of several similar occasions on which I came to appreciate what exactly often troubled me about the celebration of the post-conciliar, reformed liturgical rites, even as a child.

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