Just hear me out. This article's premise may sound like something that began as a ludicrous joke and then snowballed--and that's because it is--but when I followed the thread long enough, it brought me to a far deeper level of the labyrinth. So, first, let me explain the joke.
Back in the 80's, there was a cartoon called He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I haven't watched it since I was a kid, so I've managed to remember it being awesome. Now, a few weeks ago, Netflix created a reboot called simply, Masters of the Universe (or MOTU), in which--spoilers--the putatively titular character, He-Man, is immediately killed and replaced by Teela, the infinitely perfect female character who is better than all of the males at absolutely everything. It's Woke. Fans aren't happy.
Also a few weeks ago, Pope Francis issued a type of proclamation known as a Motu proprio, "On his own initiative," which means in effect that it's the answer no one wanted to the question no one asked. In this particular document, entitled Traditionis Custodes (Custodians of Tradition), he upholds Catholic tradition by decreeing that there shall be no Traditional Latin Mass in any parish where it's not already celebrated; and that, furthermore, in any parish where it is celebrated, it shall continue to exist only at the discretion of the bishops, many of whom hate the Traditional Latin Mass. It's exactly as subtle, and exactly as honorable, as shooing emancipated slaves away from the democratic process by enacting a law that you can only vote if your grandfather voted.
Now, how does the confluence of Roman legalese with English acronym represent anything more than a slightly amusing pun? Because it's just one visible swirl of the Butterfly Effect: a stray gust from the hurricane raging through dimensions we can't perceive. In the Middle Ages, folklore held that God allowed demons to tempt us, but compelled them to give one warning sign, however clandestine, of their true nature--hence the phrase "showing the cloven hoof." I mean, I'm not suggesting the Supreme Pontiff is working directly with Netflix (although who knows? Gone are the days when a useful distinction could be drawn between a crazy conspiracy theory and, simply, a theory), merely that pop culture and theological doctrine represent two sides of a single pincer. Attacking tradition under tradition's guise and using He-Man to push toxic femininity: it's the same insidious hoofprint.
As finite creatures, we can't see "the big picture." Yes, if Providence exists at all, true randomness is out of court--either everything connects or nothing does--but for daily functioning on our own assigned scale of being, we rightly distinguish between essentials and accidents. To fash ourselves rummaging for synchronicity in the leaves of tea or the guts of birds, "Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry" (The Dry Salvages), is foolish and, also, forbidden. But every now and then, when you're going about some more or less innocuous business of your own, a piece of shrapnel from the larger cosmos hits you on the head. I dunno, maybe it's just a coincidence. Except--it's not.
