Protestant and Catholic at Critical Mass

My New Blog

2011-06-30T17:35:00.000-07:00

I have changed the tone of my new blog and the format. You can find my posts at: Well How Come It Is?

Another Blog Perhaps in the Works....

2011-03-15T17:35:00.000-07:00

In the fall of 2010...I heard the Lord call me to worship Him as a
Roman Catholic.

Thank You

2009-06-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

Recognizing individuals need support, John Donne wrote, “No man is an island.” For the past two years, three wonderful people silently supported this effort with their advice. They read my stuttering prose and suggested how to make it readable.

Rich Maffeo, my husband, encouraged me from the early months of 2005 to find my voice and tell my part of our story. Rich endured the many drafts and rewrites, as he patiently helped me with grammar and word choices. He often set aside his own agenda to read my writing, doing the laundry or the dishes so I could complete a post. He is my hero. He writes his own blog, "The Contemplative Catholic Convert".

Helen Spalding, a former Navy Chaplain, has been my Protestant sounding board. Her insights and comments taught me much about historical Protestant thought as well as the unity of the Body of Christ. Unfailingly, she responded to my posts with wit and wisdom. I count it a privilege to have received her good counsel.

Gary Presley, author of the memoir, “Seven Wheelchairs A Life Beyond Polio”, has been my Catholic sounding board. His unfailing challenges have made me a better communicator. Without doubt, his questions invariably forced me to look within my perceptions of experience to retrieve an honest description of my inner journey. I am most grateful.

My gratitude extends also to those who encouraged my efforts here. I might have given up had it not been for individuals who either posted comments or told me how valuable my writing was to their life in Christ.

Thank you all!

Conversion?

2009-05-16T14:03:00.000-07:00

A friend wrote me saying, “I sometimes think that . . . the Father speaks to us constantly, and if we were to listen but a hundredth of the time, we might all be Schweitzers or Mother Teresas.”

I agree.

God is the creator of possibilities. The Father’s plans are His own, permeated with His inspiration, and not based on our expected outcomes. Should we stop our narcissistic inner dialogue we might hear His voice, as did the prophet Isaiah. Recorded in the fifty-fifth chapter of his prophecy, God announced, "For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways . . . For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.” (verses 8-9)

I’d memorized those words in the 1990’s, but I was ignorant of their personal scope. How painless it was for me to recite those phrases in Isaiah. Confident in my own sanctity, I heard the distant ring of metal upon metal, the sharp-edged blade of the Holy Scriptures slicing through the dross of the secular world. However, I never supposed that the virtuous blade needed to cut into my flesh and remove the calcified dross that covered my soul.

The living, active, word of God cuts through our miasma of self-absorption and accomplishes His will. The Lord does things in His time, for His reasons, and according to His plan. However, egotist that I am, I want it to be about my time, and for my reasons. All of God’s goodness should be a generous gift to me. For decades, this delusion reigned in my heart until the events I have written about in this blog captured my attention. Through those events, Jesus opened my eyes and ears to perceive Him anew.

My odyssey culminated in December.

The last month of 2006 found me slowly recovering health. I remember that December as a blur punctuated by trips to the doctor. It was a time of intense sadness as well. Two days after Christmas, Rich’s step-dad lay in a coma after massive heart failure. Dad had been so kind to me and so loving to our children. It was a very upsetting time. We were grieved for Rich’s mom and for our children who were then spending the holiday with Rich’s parents.

When we had last visited Rich’s parents during the preceding September, Rich’s conversion had become an enormous element of discord with his parents. Afterward, we decided not to visit them during the upcoming Christmas holiday to allow our children to visit their grandparents without what we expected would be further strife.

But when Dad died, we assembled as a family for the funeral to honor his life. It was the first family reunion since Rich entered the Catholic Church. Despite our grief, the deep ties of family strengthened as we rallied around Mom in her need.

And thus ends the saga of 2005-2007 I have posted here.

Yet some still wonder — did I convert?

Songwriter Andre Crouch wrote, “Through it all, through it all, I’ve learned to trust in Jesus, I’ve learned to trust in God.” St. Faustina received similar inspiration from Jesus, who directed her to proclaim the message, “Jesus I trust in you.”

The lesson about trusting in Messiah Jesus best illustrates the interior lessons I’ve learned.

This blog was not about my conversion from a Protestant to a Catholic. Rather, it examined my interior journey, written as it unfolded, with all the ugly and beautiful parts as I saw them.

The twenty-four months following Rich’s profession as a Catholic were, for me, an intense period of inner reflection with Jesus. During that time, Christ the Lord indicated where I should live: beneath the cross, where He showed me His great suffering for my sin. Jesus instructed how I should speak: with few words, directed by love, that I might learn to listen and dwell more closely to His heart. My Lord structured where and how I should go: to remain at my husband’s side, subject to guidance of Church Rules, that I might learn humility through the things I might suffer. Lovingly, Jesus sent me companions such as Oswald Chambers, St. Therese of the Child Jesus, St. Catherine of Siena, St. John of the Cross. Their words and reflections illuminated my understanding and reminded to keep my eyes fixed upon Jesus.

One Sunday, after I had been writing for a few months, a parishioner stopped me at church. She told me how much these blog posts encouraged her. What had been of importance to her was that although I faced difficulties, “You did not lose your faith.”

I believe I did not lose my faith because my Savior held me firmly. His hand rested upon my shoulder as He walked me through the turmoil, whispering in my ear how much He loved me. And I listened. From the Sacred heart of Jesus, I learned true conversion is one of a right-seeing heart.

What might seem a random series of incidents and reflections published on this blog has come to an end. As one person commented to one of my posts that I really don’t have much to complain about.

I agree.

There are more compelling tales of difficulty than mine, of others who are more challenged -- physically and spiritually – and who face greater and disheartening difficulties than those I have faced.

As to conversion, yes, I did convert. I converted from a self-satisfied, self-centered, bigoted Christian who experienced the body of Christ in a limited way, to a meeker, hopefully more child-like Christian who ever yearns to listen to the Trinity with the ears of my heart. I converted to a Christian who desires only to gaze continually toward my savior, Jesus the Messiah. Moreover, when I hang back in fear or fall into sin, my heart’s desire is to be as a toddler who rushes on tottering feet to grab hold of the cross, thankful the Messiah is there to forgive, pick me up, and renew my life in Him.

Initially, I had not wanted to share the saga of my journey, even though others urged me to do so. What good would it do? I asked myself. How could I share experiences that mystified me and left me perplexed and full of questions? Who was I that I had anything to say? The past is the past, and I just wanted to move on and let it be.

Then, in the summer of 2007, after months of hearing the Holy Spirit’s call in homilies, and through the Holy Scriptures, I gave in. I remember walking into our kitchen and declaring to my husband that I was going to write a blog. I asked him if he could help me think of a name for it. Without missing a beat he said, “Call it, Protestant and Catholic at Critical Mass.”

A Summation of 2006

2009-03-20T11:50:00.000-07:00

For two months I have written and rewritten this post. I’m a rather private person who rarely expresses my deepest feelings to others. Thus, for me, to articulate something as intimate as God’s call on my life has not been easy.

At the entrance to the Roman Catholic church we attend there is a word engraved in the stone floor. That word is humilitas . . . humility. When the Lord spoke to my heart to follow Him and see what He would do as I supported my husband in his Catholic faith, all I could see was a harsh desert before me. When Christ placed within me a ravenous hunger to taste the Catholic culture, I was driven into a wilderness of all things Catholic: parish activities, Catholic books, Catholic internet sites, radio, and television. In that new and bewildering place, I had to discard my Protestant attitudes to see my way clearly through the shifting sands. After the first year, the dry winds of exclusion scoured away my protests, angers, and discontent. Those same winds pitted my soul with a second year of servitude, self-examination, and readjustment.

Through it all I knew intuitively that somehow this was for my good, and the process was God’s method of caring for me, just as the desert had been a place of His care for Israel. These words of Deuteronomy chapter eight resonate with me:

"You shall remember all the way which the LORD your God has led you in the wilderness these forty years, that He might humble you, testing you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not.” And "Thus you are to know in your heart that the LORD your God was disciplining you just as a man disciplines his son“ (Deuteronomy 8:2, 5 NASB).

By the fall of 2006 I was a ragged pilgrim in need of some clear vision about how to persevere.

My desert extended through harsh elements. For example, in a Zenit article, the writer quoted a well-known Cardinal who said non-Catholic Christians practice “a soft Christian life that does not take seriously the reality of sin and its consequences.” He then added, they are tainted "with the individualist error, which is so widespread, of thinking that Christians can relate to God on their own."

Protestantism – perceived from afar – might lead many to believe Protestant Christians have an unperfected process to be forgiven of their sins. And, I suppose, based on their observation of some Protestant televangelists, one might easily conclude Protestants are self-absorbed, worldly, and much like spoiled children.

But, sometimes perceptions can be off the mark.

Thankfully, some in our parish took the time to scrutinize my life, engaged me in conversation, challenged me, poked, and prodded to ascertain if I was indeed a Christian. The scrutiny left me breathless, often without strength, and drove me into the arms of Jesus where I learned His mercy, forgiveness, and courage. And it was there that I reflected upon the kindness of those who sought to know who I was in Christ.

St. Paul’s words to the Ephesians and Colossians about the Church and the Body of Christ taught me that as a baptized child of God I was part of Christ’s mystical body. I learned the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church recognized all Trinitarian baptisms as efficacious for salvation, acknowledging I was a Christian, part of Christ’s body. But when Rich converted to Catholicism, I discovered many Catholics believed they alone were the Body of Christ. Their statements shocked me, and I thought they must consider me dead, lost in my sins. How else could they view me? As far as they were concerned, I was not part of the living organism, the body of Christ.

That was when I began to understand why Catholics told me I could not understand the deep mysteries of Catholic faith, and I thought, surely that was why I was not permitted at the table of the Eucharist (Communion).

The more I listened, the more I learned, and the more I tried not to notice the unrelenting conversations around me of Catholic primacy – or of the rhetoric that emphasized the faults of non-Catholics, the idiocy of trusting in the Bible alone for spiritual direction and warnings about the divisiveness of schismatic Protestants.

But it was the words “individualist error” that struck home.

What I did not know that November 2006, was that there are many unofficial voices that consider themselves teachers of authentic Catholic thought and practice. These people often ignore the Roman Catholic Church’s renewed desire to dialogue with all Christians, to view all baptized Christians as brethren, and to seek a path that will lead to a unity in Christ. I did not know that the many Catholic apologists I was reading online or listening to via radio might be espousing their own view of the Church.

Words like error, used by some of the online apologists, conjured in my mind the idea of being “doomed.” Unlike the conciliatory messages I heard at Mass, they said things like, “From the Catholic perspective we see Protestantism as a single collective error with many facets that is internally fractured through the core error of insubordination to God’s Ecclesial Authority.” They also opined, “Protestantism’s aversion for not boasting by works has made it easy to completely ignore the necessity for Holiness [sic] and the mandate to ‘be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect (Matthew 5:48).’ That requires regular routine disciplines of bathing (confession) and shearing (penance) and health checks and eating of good food (Eucharist) and exercise (prayer).”

After encountering such examples of religious correctness, I came to wonder why I even attended services with Rich. What kind of dim-witted person was I to keep going to a place where these types of opinions were the norm? But I was no fool. I was following my Savior. And although separated from the Catholic body by its rules, I did not practice self-centered individualism, as some Catholics accused Protestantism.

I desired only singleness of heart toward God. By the fall of 2006, that had been my desire for thirty-one years. The Holy Spirit initiated such a desire in me because singleness of heart is an attribute of all Christians. It is a Christian’s deepest longing to be conformed into the image of Christ. For my part, I knew that meant God would work in me and upon me. I knew He would use the framework of my life’s journey to “will and do His good pleasure"(Philippians 2:13).

I was willing to agree with God – whatever it required. I endeavored as best I could to obey my Lord. He called, I answered. That was the only way I knew to respond.

Conversely, I was learning that most Catholics conceive of obedience to God’s call as existing within the structure of their obligations – obligations, for example, to participate in the Mass, observe Holy Days of Obligation, regular times of confession, penance, to evidence good works, as well as obedience to the ecclesiastic hierarchy.

But structural obligations made little sense to how I responded in obedience. That simply was not my culture.

My conscience was formed within a culture that accepted no other rule but of God alone as expressed through His Holy word. It was a matter of trust. I expected God to direct my steps. I had learned to hear His direction through reading Holy Scripture. So, in 2005 when I heard Him say through the Scriptures, “Be with your husband. Live out unity in your marriage,” I simply obeyed. When, within several homilies I heard Christ say, “Choose my way--- the way that is not usual or well understood,” I prayed for strength. When we sang at Mass, “Be Not Afraid,” I heard His call in the lyrics, “I go before you always; Come follow me and I will give you rest,” and I gained confidence.

The call of the Holy Spirit always comes with a price. I must humble myself, follow Him, and obey Him at any cost. His message to me was no less clear and authoritative as the Holy Spirit’s call to those within the Catholic Church to practice obedience and holiness.

St. Francis of Assisi often said concerning humility of those within the Church, “The subject should look upon his prelate not as a man, but as the representative of Him for Whose love he is subject to him. For the more contemptible is he who commands, the more pleasing to God is the humility of him who obeys.”

When I realized that God had put me in a place where I would be subject to distrust, disparagement, misunderstanding, marginalization and disregard, I wanted to give up.

However, as incredible as it might sound to the writers of the excerpts I quoted earlier, a complete and utter commitment to follow hard after my Lord Jesus overcame my paltry objections and worries. And with that commitment to obedience, a deep well of love gushed up in my heart for the very people who thought I was destined for hell.

Once the hand of the Savior rests on the soul, how can it refuse Him any desire of His most sacred heart? That heart, aflame with holy authority to empower, sets all alight with its agape Love.

I felt that flame during the summer of 2006 at a Bible Study mentioned in an earlier post. It was at that time I discovered I could listen without rancor and without offense to those who spoke disparagingly about my Protestant brethren. Jesus did that work of grace in my heart. It was nothing that came from myself. But how like Him to make His call upon my life silently, without fan-fare – and to humble me also in the process. How like Him to allow me, a non-Catholic, to participate even in small ways in the liturgy and in spiritual communion. How kind was His invitation to me to share my artistic skill and other gifts with my parish. It was one of my great joys that year to encourage Christ’s beloved body through the creation of a tapestry for Family Mass. That bright opportunity was to me like a refreshing cup of cool water on a hot summer day.

Later that fall, the wilderness still seemed far too difficult. I fell very ill. In my illness, I longed for the familiar, the simple, the pleasant . . . .

Jesus sent me His heart as His gift – and in that gift I found myself learning to lean on His wounded side, to trust in the plan that flowed from Him - and to wait upon His way, His time, and His call to be ever in the process of being conformed into His image.

Respectful Ponderings

2009-01-31T10:51:00.000-08:00

“Jesus son of God, Jesus son of Mary.” This phrase circled around in my mind as we drove toward church for the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception. It was late fall of 2006. Rich and I had been attending the Roman Catholic Church for almost two years.

As a Protestant, I’d never encountered the Immaculate Conception. It was not part of my Christian vocabulary. Nor did it seem appropriate to think of the mother of Jesus connected to such an unfamiliar theological attribute. Like most Protestants, I had not pondered the implications of who Mary was -- and is. To me, Catholic Christians gave the impression of being obsessed with Mary, an obsession that seemed pointless. The overabundance of St. Mary’s titles reverberated in my brain. They engendered unwelcomed questions that pestered my mind and disturbed my Protestant sensibilities. It seemed her appellations were endless: Mary, Queen of Heaven, Mary, the Mother of God, Mary, the Blessed Virgin, Mary, Holy Tabernacle for the Bread of Life, the Mother of the Church, Our Blessed Mother, Immaculate Heart . . . .

In accord with my Protestant experience, I was satisfied to leave Mary in the role of mother of Jesus. Yet, I also recognized her as a uniquely special human being. I’d never considered her just another woman of biblical history. I acknowledged the Virgin Mary played a pivotal role in God’s provision for my salvation. I considered her an excellent role model. My Protestant pastors had often reminded me of this at Christmas and on Mother’s Day.

Knowing who Mary was in relationship to the plan of salvation seemed to be enough for me.

That is probably why the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception Mass was a meaningless Catholic experience for me. Yet, shortly afterward, I began to contemplate what I knew of St. Mary’s life.

She was a Jewish virgin who lived in her parents' home. She was engaged to Joseph and had a cousin who was the wife of a priest. I knew Mary was present during some of her son’s teaching ministry. She instigated His first miracle at the Cana wedding, and she watched Him die on a cross. I knew she was in the upper room and was active in early church prayer meetings. But none of these facts told me what her spiritual relationship was to her God or why my husband, along with many Christians, held her in venerable honor – or what my response to her should be.

The Holy Spirit drove me to re-read the scriptures, and in so doing, I discovered more about the sweet Virgin. I realized Mary had found such favor with God that He trusted her with His precious gift, His son. Indeed, with the angel’s visit, the Father announced to her that she was the virgin of Isaiah’s prophesy (Isaiah 7:14). Yet, from her reaction to Gabriel, Mary showed us the humility and steely resolve only God had known to be in her heart.

Mary was probably in her mid-teens when Gabriel greeted her. I thought how phenomenal this teenager’s response was! I knew very well the self-centered nature of young adulthood. As I contemplated this, I saw the Virgin in a new light.

I wondered if St. Mary’s humility sent theologians of the past to pour over the New Testament texts that spoke of her. Did they realize the Father’s plan for mankind’s redemption centered on the response of a teenager? Had they also pondered her astonishment at the presence of an angel, and his unprecedented message to her? Did they marvel that she acquiesced without hesitation to receive the mantel of motherhood? Were they amazed that no hint of the well-used human qualifier---- “But” --- passed through her lips?

Scripture and Sacred Tradition give us no sense of a selfish will standing against that of the Father's. There was no, “Will people think I’m a liar – or crazy? And what about Joseph? What will he do when he learns I am with child?” She didn’t say, “What about my parents?” or, “What will happen to me when the town learns I am pregnant?” St. Mary knew she could be stoned for that offense. Engagement in her culture was as binding as marriage, and Mary’s pregnancy would be considered a defilement of the marriage bed. Yet, Mary offered up her life to the One who called her “blessed,” and He commanded His angel to encourage her with these words, “For with God nothing is ever impossible, and no word from God shall be without power or impossible of fulfillment” (Amplified Bible).

Yes, those questions might have filtered through her mind, yet the young Virgin only asked aloud how she would conceive. And, satisfied with the angel’s answer, she responded with humble acceptance.

Is it any wonder the church, from its beginning, has viewed Mary, the mother of Jesus, as the Blessed Virgin Mary? Is it any wonder she would be called by the early church, Theotokos, “bearer of God?” After all, St. Mary bore Messiah, very God and very man.

So, it seemed to me a reasonable thing that devotion for the Mother of God did not dissipate even in the lives of reformers such as Luther and Calvin. Though they took issue with some of the practices and theology of Rome, they continued nonetheless to honor the Blessed Mother. Martin Luther said, “The veneration of Mary is inscribed in the very depths of the human heart.” And John Calvin wrote, “Elizabeth called Mary Mother of the Lord, because the unity of the person in the two natures of Christ was such that she could have said that the mortal man engendered in the womb of Mary was at the same time the eternal God.”

After a time, I began to see why, out of a heart full of praise to God, Roman Catholics turn loving eyes to the tender teenage girl who was the sweet vessel for our salvation.

Though I could not feel comfortable with some of the concepts attributed to the Blessed Virgin, I could at least understand the fervor of thankfulness and respect accorded to so courageous and faithful a servant of the living God. St. Paul tells us to address older women in the faith as “Mother” (1Timothy 5:2). Thus, I consider it a privilege to add my own respectful praise to my Savior by calling His mother, my mother.

The Two Shall Be One

2008-12-17T14:12:00.000-08:00

Rich, my husband, professed himself a Roman Catholic at the Easter Vigil in 2005. I was heart sick for us and furious with the Roman Catholic Church’s insistence we would not share communion unless I converted as well. Hoping for some agreement, I accepted the offer of receiving a blessing, but resented it because I thought it to be a humiliation instead. What seemed equitable from a Catholic standpoint seemed to me unfair and divisive. I could not receive communion, but like a preschooler, I could receive a blessing.

I was resolved. I would not leave my husband’s side. He’d been drawn into the Roman Catholic Church and I would be there with him. If I was denied Communion, somehow, I would deal with it.

In late July of 2005, the loving hand of Christ reached out to my aching heart. When I accepted Jesus’ invitation to open my blinded eyes, the Holy Spirit instructed me that Jesus was indeed present at the Mass. Christ’s loving favor revealed anew His centrality to my salvation and my dependency upon Him. With this instruction came Christ’s gift of welcome to receive a spiritual communion from Him in place of the actual elements of bread and wine. Later that year I began to understand the privilege Christ had given me to ask for and receive a blessing. I found in what had seemed at first a humiliation, a valuable lesson in humility.

My pain diminished. But Rich’s pain did not. He endured the grief of our forced disconnection at Communion, suffering in quiet resolve to be faithful to his calling.

In 2006, Pope Benedict called marriages like ours “laboratories of unity.” He enjoined us all to observe how Christian unity might be fleshed out in inter-churched families. Surely, Pope Benedict has seen into the heart of this laboratory, rife with the past sins of our forefathers.

In our own laboratory, we needed to clear out the failed experiments of the past, such as our favorite points of theological argument, and the well-rehearsed history lessons of Christians on both sides of the theological aisle who fought, and killed others to prove their doctrinal correctness. Unless these failures were dumped into the incinerator, our laboratory would be contaminated with putrefying fraternal carnage and the decaying remnants of hurtful words, unrighteous anger, theological pride, and unforgiving attitudes.

We learned the love of Christ nullifies these contaminants.

By fall 2006, we had lived almost two years in our “laboratory of unity.” Jesus was still the center of our home and we were in love with Him and united in our resolve to remain, as we had always been – one in Christ.

Rich and I may have taken our place in unity’s laboratory in spring 2005, but our original experiment began in 1975 when our pastor pronounced, “Whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.” When he introduced Rich and me as a married couple, he declared us “one in Christ.” We stood before the congregation as one-flesh, a dual oneness, and a biblical view of marriage.

God saw us as one. Yet we needed to mature into His vision for us in our daily life as husband and wife. And so, God took two people, committed to Him and to each other, and worked through our divergent cultural backgrounds. Rich was from New York; I was from the rural Midwest. He was of Jewish background; I was mainline Protestant. His cultural heritage hearkened to Jewish and Italian; mine, to Scotch/Irish, French, and Norwegian.

Our differences loomed immediately. But, as a friend commented after we married, our common bond was our total commitment to Jesus as our savior.

After thirty years of iron sharpening iron, clinging together and to Christ, the Holy Spirit led us though poverty, parenthood, prosperity, sickness, loss, and multiple moves across the globe. Jesus took the sinfulness of our lives and the clash of our wills – and by His grace continued to turn us toward His will.

Rich and I learned to cherish our marriage covenant, and we worked hard to reach agreement in each major issue of our life as a couple. This facilitated our growth as a one-flesh couple. But when Rich joined the Catholic Church and I did not, our conundrum in 2005 was how to reach an accord. Our accord would need to include very different theological points of view, while still preserving the richness and emotional supportive elements of our oneness.

The Catholic/Non-Catholic maelstrom had eased considerably by the fall of 2006. At this time, Rich shared with me his desire to serve our church congregation as a Eucharistic minister.

Neither of us realized the sword this simple act of ministry would send into our marriage. Once Rich had been instructed in his duties as a Eucharistic minister, it dawned on him that he would need to refuse to give me the body and blood of Christ. The realization broke open the wound he had thought was healed. The joy of being one flesh again had strengthened Rich in his commitment to follow Jesus in his Catholic faith. It had brought peace and spiritual growth to me as well. But now, the immutable nature of our oneness seemed in danger of being despoiled.

Rich pondered with me this new challenge. How would we mitigate this sorrow and remain strong and maturing in our relationship as husband and wife? Our priority was to set aside our angst. We remembered some Protestant churches do not offer Communion to non-members. The Roman Catholic Church was not the only Christian body that practiced “closed communion.” No doubt we would have been divided by the same rule if one of us were a member of such a Protestant community while the other was not.

To diminish the potential for new divisiveness, we agreed that I would never be in a line to receive from Rich’s ministrations. Should I find myself in line to receive a blessing from Rich, I would move to a different part of the church, or if this was not possible, I would remain in my pew. Meanwhile, Rich would try to place himself in a part of the sanctuary that was far away from me.

The unintended consequence of the rules surrounding the Eucharistic celebration has been a furnace burning off some of the dross that clung to our oneness. In our laboratory, externally applied dictates forcing us to be separate, strengthened our resolve and purpose to live for Christ. What looked at first like another point of difference has only added strength to our life together.

Shared pain binds us deeper and stronger than easy harmony.

Hospitality and the 40 Days for Life Prayer Vigil

2008-10-02T21:44:00.000-07:00

I haven’t added anything to the blog for the past few weeks because I am involved in an ancient tradition of the Church called hospitality. Hospitality has been fundamental to the Father’s embrace and the Christian life of faith in Jesus since the beginning of the Church.

I am currently reading a book on this subject, Making Room: Recovering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition, by Christine C. Pohl. Through it, I’m discovering the importance of extending hospitality to all human life, and how a person’s life of faith will either flourish or shrivel in relation to our expression of hospitality.

Pohl writes:

“When a person who is not valued by society is received by a socially respected person or group as a human being with dignity and worth, small transformations occur. The person’s self-assessment, so often tied to societal assessment, is enhanced. Because such actions are counter cultural, they are a witness to the larger community, which is then challenged to reassess its standards and methods of valuing. Many persons who are not valued by the larger community are essentially invisible to it. When people are socially invisible, their needs and concerns are not acknowledged and no one even notices the injustices they suffer. Hospitality can begin a journey toward visibility and respect.”*

Christians have always been on the forefront of inclusion and welcome to the least of society’s members. Until I read this book I didn’t consider a prayer vigil to end abortion a practice of hospitality. Certainly, our welcome must include the pre-born. It is such a Christian thing to do.

I’ve been too busy to add to my blog because I am currently extending hospitality through the 40 Days for Life prayer vigil. This vigil will last through the month of October.

Should you desire to become involved in your local Prayer Vigil, log onto the 40 Days website: http://www.40daysforlife.com/about.cfm

*Making Room, by Christine D. Pohl, chapter 4, page 62.

"To God Be the Glory..."

2008-09-04T19:12:00.000-07:00

In 2006, I stared at the rosary beads in my hands and wondered how that string of beads could help me talk with my Father in heaven. How could something so foreign, so symbolically Catholic, be useful to a child of the Reformation? Unknown to me, those beads would let Christ’s bright mirror shine into a hidden place that had crippled my walk with Him. Moving the beads through my fingers, I pondered what I was about to explore and how strange it was that I had kept those beads, a reminder of my visit to Rome in the 1970s, for over 30 years.

As I began to pray, I felt uncomfortable using the Marian prayer of a traditional rosary, because it reflected the Catholic mind set I was unfamiliar with, loving Jesus with Mary’s heart, and because addressing the glorified Saints in heaven was prohibited to me for conscious sake.* Furthermore, I did not I want to repeat some phrases I might make up in my own mind. However, I wanted to honor the historic sense and use of the Mysteries (explained below) and the five (what are called) Decades of prayer that separate the Mysteries. (A Decade is comprised of ten beads).

I reasoned that since the rosary became a popular substitute for the Paternoster prayers early in its history, it seemed only right to center my rosary prayers on the Trinity. The three beads at the beginning of the rosary seemed an ideal place to start my prayer to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Using a small reference card I’d bought in a local Catholic bookstore, I noted the basic elements of the rosary: making the Sign of the Cross to begin; on the crucifix, the Apostle’s Creed; recited in order on the next five beads, the Our Father (the Lord’s Prayer), three Hail Mary prayers, and the Glory Be (the Doxology). For each Decade, beginning the circuit with the Center (defined below), there is a reflection on the Mystery, an Our Father, followed by ten Hail Mary prayers (one Hail Mary on each bead), and, finally, a Glory Be. This pattern continues for all five Decades. The rosary ends at the Center with the prayer, Hail, Holy Queen, where additional petitions can be added as desired. Last of all, a person makes the Sign of the Cross.

I began my rosary with the Sign of the Cross and then I recited the Nicene Creed (instead of the Apostle’s Creed). I said the Nicene Creed because I was most familiar with it, since we repeat it at each Mass. Then, on the first bead, I said the Our Father. On the next three beads, I addressed the Trinity saying:

“Dear Father, Creator of the Universe, my God and King, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Lord Jesus, Savior, Lamb of God, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Sweet Holy Spirit, Teacher, Paraclete, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Then I said a Glory Be on the fifth bead (next to the Center, which is usually a small metal image of Mary, Jesus, or a Saint). On the Center, I stated my petition for whomever I was praying the rosary (prayer intentions). At first, I prayed only for Mother Angelica because it was for her health I had promised to say the rosary, but soon I had a list of many prayer intentions.

On the Center, I recited the first Mystery. (The Mysteries are based on the life of Christ and take us through the Joyful, Sorrowful, Luminous, and Glorious sets of five mysteries. For example, the Joyful Mysteries take a person from the annunciation of the angel to Mary, the visitation of Mary with Elizabeth, the birth of the Lord, His dedication in the temple, and the Lord in the Temple when he was twelve. The Glorious Mysteries take us through the resurrection of Christ, His ascension to heaven, the descent of the Holy Spirit, Mary’s assumption into heaven, and the crowning of Mary among the saints in heaven). These last two Glorious Mysteries were difficult for me to consider at the time. I had no idea how I could relate to them as they were beyond my Protestant tradition. In their stead, I found it easier to reflect on the first preaching of the gospel at Pentecost and the first Gentile conversions at the house of Cornelius.

Since the card did not tell me that it was a common practice to say a particular set of Mysteries on certain days of the week, I initially chose to reflect on only the Luminous Mysteries: Jesus’ baptism, the wedding at Cana, Christ’s three-year earthly ministry, the Mount of Transfiguration and the institution of the Last Supper -- or, the Eucharist.

For the five sets of ten beads (Decades) I chose scripture passages because I remembered how often in Protestant Bible studies I had been encouraged to pray the Scriptures. After much thought, I chose five portions of Scripture that seemed random at first but which I now see fit me perfectly. For the ten beads of Decade one, I prayed Romans 8:28-39, Decade two, I Corinthians 13:1-13, Decade three, I John 4:7-21, Decade four, Ephesians 6:10-20, Decade five, Matthew 6:1-15. On some beads, I prayed two verses so that I could complete my Scripture recitation in one Decade. After each Decade I recited the Glory Be but opted not to recite the Lord’s Prayer at the beginning of each Decade. However, by the end of that year, I’d finish my rosary with one last prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord for Mary, her willingness to embrace the will of the Father and her steadfast resolve to accept her role as the mother of Jesus the Messiah.

True to my pledge, I prayed each day, or if I missed a day, two the next.

I was surprised; the rosary prayers did not generate boredom. In fact, I found nothing boring about them. My concentration was on Jesus and reflection on the words I was praying. Hour by hour and from day to day, I discovered my familiarity with the prayers allowed me to explore their nuances. For example, each word of the Our Father became a topic of reflection in relation to my attitude and life as a Christian. How and why did I address God as Father? What was my responsibility to the body of Christ when I acknowledged that relationship with the word Our? Did I honor the Father’s Personhood and His reality when I voiced the word Who?

I found the rosary to be not only a string of prayer beads, reflections on the Mysteries, praises, and petitions, but a prayer during which I contemplated Jesus, and my life in Him. I discovered a deeper connection to His Passion and ministry. Time seemed to stand still as I met with Jesus over the rosary beads, and I was energized to live a more circumspect life for Christ after each prayer circuit.

The Holy Spirit is relentless in His instruction. He so enjoys teaching us. He delights to share with us all good gifts and wisdom that are ours in Christ Jesus. Each time I prayed, I learned something new about my life in Christ. I was often convicted of my sins and instructed in the virtue of godly love.

Then came a particular evening as I prayed the rosary… a deep heaviness filled my heart.

As clearly as looking into a mirror, I saw the fear that tormented me. It was the fear of being different that had been planted in my heart as a child and nurtured by the unkind acts and words of others. Their sins had buried a barb deep in my heart, crippling its native abilities. The Lord made me aware that the tainted splinter had festered, that it influenced my self-image, and fostered a timid, fearful nature. That fear was keeping me from expressing my love for Christ to others and it was a barrier to my developing friendships within the Catholic community.

This experience came at a time when I was reeling from yet another foray into Catholic culture. Rich and I had recently returned from a retreat among Charismatic Catholics. We believed that our shared experiences in Pentecostal worship and in the blessed presence of the Holy Spirit would make us both feel “at home” at the retreat. It was not so. While Rich was surrounded and engaged in friendly conversation and making new friends, I was politely tolerated by some, and cautiously engaged by others. Even though a few people genuinely tried to interact with me, the temptation for me to think negatively about the experience overwhelmed me. And the fear of being different blotted out any positive elements of our weekend. I became stressed and physically ill by the time we left.

Thomas a Kempis, in his classic, The Imitation of Christ, wrote, “As long as we live in this world it is impossible for us to be without trials and temptations. Thus, Job writes: Is not man’s life on earth a drudgery? (Job 7:1). Everyone, therefore, should show great concern about his temptations and watch and pray lest the devil, who never sleeps but prowls about, finds an opportunity to ensnare him (1Peter 5:8). No one is perfect or so holy as to be without some temptation; nor can we ever be totally free of them.”

Jesus offered me a way out of the snare, the fear of being different. His wounded hands, feet, and side testified to His concern and desire that I should be restored to health. Jesus could see what I could not; under the influences of that barb, I continued to receive its poison keeping me isolated from the good offered me by my loving Lord.

I was helpless, but He had prepared a way for me.

Prompted by the Holy Spirit, I was instructed to attend weekday Mass the next morning. I believed Jesus would heal me there. I waited in expectation through the opening, the homily, and the consecration. When I returned to my seat after processing forward for a blessing, I stood in the pew and watched others going forward for the Eucharist. Suddenly, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. An unseen hand seemed to reach into my chest and pull that ugly splinter from my heart. I actually felt it being drawn out. And in a moment, it was gone! I immediately knew I was free! My fear of being different was gone. I experienced at once, peace and quiet joy.

I remember walking to my car…stunned.

*See my post: Saints, Beads, and Me

Saints, Beads, and Me

2008-08-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

St. Catherine of Siena, in her book, The Dialogue, tells us,” For just as you can better see the blemish on your face when you look at yourself in a mirror, so the soul who in true self-knowledge rises up with desire to look at herself in the gentle mirror of God with the eye of understanding sees all the more clearly her own defects because of the purity she sees in Him.”

When I began to say the rosary, the gentle glow reflected from the mirror of my Savior’s glory began to open my understanding of who I am in Him. This “self-knowing,” often mentioned by St. Catherine, becomes clearer when we see ourselves from Christ’s point of view.

My Protestant faith tradition is as plainspoken as a mid-west farmer, and my prayers are spontaneous, simple and modeled after the tradition I found in the Holy Scripture.

I praise God for His goodness, greatness, and glory. I repent of my sins, petition Him for my needs and for those of others, and I gratefully acknowledge His loving kindnesses. And I trust Him to answer my prayers. I know I am welcomed into the Father’s presence by the grace given me through the sacrificial blood of His beloved son, Jesus.

And because of my confidence in the Father’s love, and in His desire to answer, I never thought to question my method of prayer . . .

Until I set about to say, “Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Long before I became a Christian, I dabbled in philosophies and meditation techniques of Hinduism and Buddhism, calling their gods and founders “Lord.” To my shame, I equated the Lord of Glory with them. Perhaps it is the memory of that sin that causes me to shy away from the rosary’s Marian petition. Or, perhaps my Protestant upbringing and formation makes me uncomfortable to address my prayers to someone other than the Trinity.

Whatever the reason, as I pondered the Hail Mary prayer, I realized anew that my prayer-life is as much worship as it is simple communication. Until then I had never thought much about how I prayed. But now, our Lord’s instruction to His disciples to guard their attitudes while they prayed (Matthew 6) became His instruction to me.

What was my attitude in prayer? For me, prayer is a piercing of eternity through the help of the Holy Spirit. It is a response to the Lord’s invitation to enter into His presence. It is the opportunity to have the same mind as Jesus toward the Father.

Yet Rich assured me that a prayer to any of the Saints in heaven is not like prayer we make to God. Rather, it is like asking a brother or sister in Christ here on earth to pray for us. Prayer to Saints is more a petition – a request. It is not worship. He told me the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church states very clearly, that worship is restricted to the Trinity alone.

Looking for more information, I picked up a book from Rich’s stack of Catholic books. I learned the rosary is a set of prayers (petitions) to the Blessed Virgin, the mother of Christ. I also learned that the rosary was developed to encourage lay people in their Christian faith. Prior to the rosary’s “invention,” Christians recited a series of prayers, such as the 150 psalms or repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer (Paternosters) as a daily devotion.

I also listened to Catholic believers talk about the rosary, and I developed an understanding that prayers directed to the Blessed Mother are really said in reverence for her Son. In petitioning Mary for help, Roman Catholics believe she is eager to respond, and because of her special relationship with Messiah, she has a unique and singular access to Christ.

This Catholic concept is a mystery to me.

However, as I grew in my understanding of Catholic faith-tradition, I thought if the Father welcomes someone who prays to Him through the Blessed Mother, who am I to object? Likewise, if I feel I should refrain from any such communication and He welcomes my petitions to the Trinity alone, who am I to question?

Nevertheless, the more I thought about these mysteries the more I realized I was already participating in them. For many years, as the occasion would arise, I had cried to the Lord that He might choose someone to pray with me. I asked for His help because of the many times I had heard others tell how the Holy Spirit prompted someone to pray for a particular missionary in need. In fact, many times I also had felt prompted to pray for someone who later confirmed he or she had been ill or in trouble. So as I pondered what Rich told me about Catholic thought on the Communion of Saints, and what I had experienced about prayer, it seemed reasonable that the Saints in heaven who cheer us on (Hebrews 12) might indeed be praying for us and with us.

For conscience sake, I still could not address this glittering congregation, but I realized I could ask the Lord to have one of them pray for me. And because I was helping Rich in the sixth grade Sunday school class where we were studying patron saints, (a special saint who is chosen by a Catholic Christian as a special prayer partner), I decided to choose one for myself, too.

When I committed myself to pray the rosary that summer of 2006, I did not have a clue what a mirror it would be to my soul . . .

Or how doing so would change my attitude about Catholic prayer.

The Little Foxes of Fear

2008-08-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

The fear of rejection caused me to isolate myself in early 2005 after Rich was received into the Catholic Church. By the following year, that fear had become a cautious timidity. I warily explored the Mass and Catholic Christianity, trying to ignore the cultural cautions of my Protestant roots. Yet even as I found Jesus so real in the Eucharist, I was plagued by the anxious whirring of the stress of being different – something I was reminded of each Sunday.

Why was I so bothered by this reality? I didn’t know. However, I was constantly reminded that no matter how often I attended Mass or met with the members of the home Bible study, I was forever out of step. I realized I would never quite be accepted within the Catholic culture. I would always feel alien.

It was an uncomfortable place to be.

Yet all the while, Jesus tried to point me toward Himself and His peace.

As I read the devotional book, My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers, I came across this entry, “Is the grace of His ministering life being worked out through you in your home, your business, and in your circle of friends? Have you been wondering why you are going through certain circumstances? In fact, it is not that you have to go through them. It is because of your relationship with the Son of God who comes, through the providential will of His Father, into your life. You must allow Him to have His way with you, staying in perfect oneness with Him.”

Anxiety, like the little foxes that spoil the vines, had turned my heart from the graces of Christ’s love to a self-ward dwelling on my difficulties.

Even when the Holy Spirit pointed me aright with whispers that the journey of faith often leads through difficult times, I ignored Him. I let the social and cultural stresses I experienced tempt me to be full of worry. Yet, despite my negative responses to Christ’s gentle call, somehow He used my anxiety to prod me toward His loving embrace.

During the following few months, it slowly dawned on me that my sense of alienation was rooted not in my present, but in my past. I had thought I’d left those long forgotten days of alienation behind.

In the summer of 1952, before I turned five, I discovered what it meant to be a social oddity. My sister had several episodes of epileptic seizures which often left her unresponsive, and sometimes without respirations for extended periods. I remember my mother frantically calling the fire department (who acted also as paramedics) each time Jan had an episode. Meanwhile, I was sent across the street to stay out of the firemen’s way. From there I would watch our living room window hoping to see the men who were trying to revive my sister. Standing around me were neighbors from the other apartment houses who, for reasons I still do not understand, berated my mother and accused her of calling the fire department so often because she was seeking attention for herself. Even my best friend’s mother found fault with us. She was a Christian Scientist and did not believe in sickness. When my parents rejected her idea that Jan was not really ill, and that they should stop seeking medical help for her, my friend’s mother would not let her play with me again.

Thus in 2006, as I attended the Catholic Church with Rich, I felt myself alienated once more. The experience was like jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool filled with snakes. So devastating were my memories, I panicked. Yet, Jesus was there with me in the pool among those snakes. His strong arms held onto me, as He gently encouraged me to open my eyes to His reassuring presence there with me. And slowly I realized that He was not going to leave me. He was going to help me.

I discovered later that He would do so though a series of unexpected events.

One Sunday afternoon, I was stressing over some event (which I cannot remember) from that morning’s Mass, mulling over how different I was from the rest of the congregation. I sat at our computer, trying to avoid those nagging thoughts of how useless it was to continue to attend services with Rich.

As I absently surfed the web, looking at nothing in particular, I remembered a comment someone made about Mother Angelica, the founder of Eternal Word Television Network (EWTN). I had listened to Mother Angelica sometimes on the radio. I found the EWTN web address and clicked the link to the opening page. That was when I discovered Mother Angelica was recovering from a stroke. I was saddened by this and I followed the links to the prayer response page—joyful to know there was something I could do for her: I could pray. The site did not ask me if I was Protestant or Catholic. It just asked me to choose the number of prayers I would say for Mother Angelica’s healing. I typed a number and then noticed there was an option to pray a rosary.

For several months prior to this, I had been using rosary beads only to meditate on the various Mysteries (Joyful, Sorrowful, Glorious, and Light). I had found this practice to be very worthwhile and spiritually fulfilling. But when I saw the option to pray a full rosary for Mother Angelica, I wondered how I would be able to do so the “Catholic” way, since much of the rosary includes the Hail Mary and other Marian prayers, which were alien to my experience as a Protestant Christian.

However, I continued to sense the Holy Spirit’s prompting to pray a rosary’s length of prayers for Mother Angelica, and I felt overwhelmed with a surety that, no matter what others might think of me, I was not a misfit, that my place with Rich in the Catholic Church was part of God’s plan for my faith journey. And in a split-second, I decided that if Catholics could say rosaries, I could too. With the click of the mouse, I committed myself to saying 365 rosaries for Mother Angelica’s health.

A moment later, anxiety gripped me. I was assaulted with any number of “what ifs” – such as, What if I am doing something terrible, using a rosary to pray? What if Catholics find out and scoff at me? What if this type of prayer is only for Catholics? What if this turns me into a Roman Catholic?

Fear can generate a long list of reasons why we should not seek to follow Christ’s leading. I ignored the “what ifs. I knew our Father in heaven is pleased when we dedicate ourselves to communicating with Him. So I set out to keep my promised prayers . . . .

Idols of My Own Making

2008-07-23T12:07:00.000-07:00

The summer of 2006 brought many interior changes. Christ’s love in me made my heart swell with joy each time we attended Mass. Like David, I longed to be in the house of God, our Catholic church. There the wonderful Presence of the Lord Jesus drew me to Himself. Christ’s presence in the Eucharist was for me a rich and soul satisfying certitude, better than any other church experience I had encountered. In His presence, the sorrow caused by division vanished as Messiah’s peace comforted me.

Soon I discovered I treasured all that reminded me of Jesus at the Catholic Church: the priests, the altar servers, the lectors, the cantor, and the people in the pews. In Christ, all are alive, all are His, and in Him we are all connected. At times I felt that deep connection with the community during Mass. Often the joy of Christ’s love seemed to flow through me to the congregation, and I rejoiced. It was a time of wonder.

But my Methodist, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, and Baptist mix of traditions rejected the design elements of the very place in which I rejoiced in Christ’s love – that being the Catholic Church’s sanctuary. Try as I would, I could not ignore the people I saw kneeling before statues. The scene reminded me of idolatry in the Old Testament, and I knew God’s clear message – no image is to receive worship. God alone deserves worship, and He is jealous of His right.

The statues seemed out of place.

Yet, I also knew Christ’s commandment to love our neighbor as our self. And so, the love of Christ led me to a more complete understanding of Catholic prayer. When I saw people praying before a statue of the Blessed Virgin, I too wanted to pray with them – not to the Blessed Virgin, but to agree with their prayers. I knew in my spirit that each brother or sister’s petition was directed to God, and knowing this, I asked myself, “Could prayer before icon or statue in the Roman Church be actually a means of Christ centered worship? What on the surface seemed to my Protestant Christian traditions so wrong – could it be right?”

Setting aside my reservations, I watched and listened; I read and prayed, and learned that the Catechism of the Catholic Church soundly condemns idolatry.

I slowly discovered God has given a unique gift to Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches. On many levels within and without the sanctuary, the very building is an open book of godly remembrances and forms a kind of catechetic (or teaching) puzzle. As I discovered the pieces linked together, I found a wealth of Biblical instruction.

The furnishings of the altar, the icons, the stained glass – the entire building, displays the promises of the Old Testament, and the completion of those promises in New. Here is the worship of the one God of Israel, the life of His Son -- Messiah Jesus -- and the life of His body, the Church. It is visible on the walls, floor, and ceiling. It’s all around any who care to see. The examples are many. The red glow of the lamp burning near the Tabernacle harkens back to the, ner tamid – which in Jewish tradition is a representation of the incense that burned before the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple. This ner tamid indicated God’s Presence in the synagogue. Now it burns in recognition that the Bread of Life – God in the flesh, the Christ in His Sacramental Presence – is with us.

The altar of the Jewish Temple, the table of Showbread, even the table in the upper room where Jesus ate the Last Supper, all meet their fulfillment in the table of Eucharist “celebration.” The altar also reminds us of the love feasts held in the homes of the early Christians, the love feast which is now the family’s Eucharistic meal, our Last Supper. And in sharing this meal, the Church anticipates the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

I rejoiced in these lessons. But the statues and icons -- I wondered how they fit in.

Then I remembered the church has historically sought to make the Bible an aural, visual, and tactile experience.

Christ’s love, again, opened my eyes to see the images in paint and stone were instructive and uplifting. When I look at the statues of Mary and Joseph, they remind me that marriage is a holy covenantal relationship held together by Christ, the covenant Giver. In an icon of The Holy Family, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph call out the truth that God cares for His holy institution, the family. The statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague reminds me that Jesus was born very God and very man. It says to me, Christ, even as a child was God in the flesh. The saints that surround us remind me of Christ “in us, the hope of glory.” From age to age the Spirit of Christ is the same. These images evoke so many wonderful thoughts of what God has done through others, and what He is doing in the present. Yes, the entire sanctuary became for me an anthem of praise to Christ’s glory, and an encouragement that called me to press on in Christ.

It has taken some time for me to understand the difference between reverence and adulation. I now see that Icons and statues are made for reference, and not for worship. The images decorating our sanctuary represent snapshots of family, much like photos we display in our homes.

Instead of taking issue with these silent witnesses I now remember how much they are teaching me and calling me to Christ. And for that, I am thankful.

Life with Two Traditions II

2008-06-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

The Mystery of Suffering

During the summer of 1958 I lay in my bed praying and sobbing into my pillow for my sister who slept next to me. Night brought both of us blessed peace from her frantic slaps, nagging pinches, and repeated questions generated by her illness-induced hyperactivity. As I cried to Jesus, begging Him to heal my sister, to keep her safe from more sickness and give her peace, I did not know my deep sorrow was part of the unfathomable mystery of suffering.

Now, decades later, my sister is completely vulnerable and helpless. A childhood illness coupled with encephalitis has locked her into the mental capacity of a six-month-old. It has robbed her voice of words. Her hands do not move to her will, and caregivers must position her in bed and wheelchair.

That traumatic event more than fifty years ago compounds the grief we still feel as a family. But her condition never prevented us from our commitment to her well-being. We love Jan, and do our best to ensure she has every opportunity to remain healthy and happy. She is our flesh and blood. She is family.

Yet, our mother’s heart still aches with deep regret for her daughter. Our father’s heart was squeezed by anguish into silence much too soon. And my sister’s illness altered my life, and that of my brother. We did not realize it at the time, but Jan’s illness enriched our lives with a sense of mercy and gratitude.

And I have learned Christ’s love is present in the midst of any difficult situation.

As baptized and blood-bought Christians, we are all members of a family – the universal Church. Christ shares His mercy and tender love through our members. His love fills us with the desire to be together, to pray with each other, to look deeply into each other’s eyes and find the Spirit of Christ looking back. The Blessed Holy Spirit puts within us a need to lean close and hear what our brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers in Christ are saying.

In the summer of 2006 Rich was invited to teach a home Bible study. Some of the people who attended his study on the Lord’s Prayer had, for several weeks, engaged him in friendly discussion over lunch. Both Rich and I enjoyed getting better acquainted with these wonderful people. The opportunity to continue to meet and talk about Christ and the Bible was very pleasing to us all.

As we met each week at the Bible study I came to consider these people family, so I was taken aback by some of the discussion as we studied through 1 Peter. Many of the bible study members began speaking of encounters they’d had with Protestants – encounters that deeply offended them, encounters typically rooted in false perceptions of Catholicism.

As devastating as the unseen illness that sapped the life out of my sister’s limbs and erased the words from her brain, the suffering of division has devastated Protestants and Catholics alike.

As I paid attention to the family, I heard stories that embarrassed my Protestant sensibilities. These Catholic Christians shared their wounded hearts. They told how Protestants had demeaned Catholic piety by asserting that Catholics tried to earn their way to heaven. I heard the crass way the Blessed Virgin Mary is attacked, and how some Protestants believe Catholics are impure pagans and idol worshipers.

As I listened, I was reminded that on any given day, Protestant radio, calling itself “Christian radio,” encourages listeners to share Christ’s salvation with Catholics – in other words, to “get them saved.” Rarely, if ever, did I hear radio preachers encourage their listeners to share Christ’s love with Catholics, or to search for unity and fellowship with their Catholic brethren.

No wonder Catholics back away from me when they learn I am a Protestant. After all, you never know when a Protestant will attack your life in Christ, or the Blessed Virgin, the Mass, or even the Holy Eucharist – and in so doing, violate the very Christianity they claim to represent.

On the other hand, I have experienced a version of misinformation and misperceptions about Protestants from some Catholics.

It does not edify my spirit to be dismissed as someone who could not possibly understand the deep mystery of the Eucharist, or of the Mass. It hurts me when some of my Catholic family consider me a Schismatic, or perhaps even a Heretic. It wounds my heart to know some Catholics don’t consider me a child of God on my way to heaven, just as they are. And like Catholic Christians, it hurts me to realize some do not consider my devotion to Jesus, to the Scriptures (which is His holy Word) and to my (Protestant) Christian traditions as valid expressions of my love for the Savior.

It is as much a mystery that the family continues to choose the suffering of division, as it is that our Father permits us to do so. Perhaps He is waiting on us to choose aright. Unfortunately Protestants and Catholics (and Orthodox) seem determined to hold on to their misperceptions.

I wonder sometimes if we are as helpless as my sister.

And then I remember our Lord can bring healing and life out of disease and death. The One who touched lepers also went out of His way to find those rejected by family and friends. The One who washed the dirty feet of His disciples, and prayed that we would be a united family, is able to bring us into accord.

Jesus has ever opened to us the mysterious grace of His suffering. Here we see our sin actualized upon “Him who knew no sin; who became sin for us.” How undeserved, how marvelous is Christ’s love for us as He prays for His Mystical Body, His family, to be united. Facing the monstrous weight of our sins, our loving Lord called upon His Father to keep us together, all of us, united, one with Him and each other.

“Holy Father,” the Lord prayed as He prepared for His crucifixion, “keep them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one just as we are . . . .I pray not only for them, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, so that they may all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I in you, that they also may be in us, that the world may believe that you sent me” (St. John 17; Italics mine).

That same fervent petition for unity comes in prayer raised to the throne of Grace each Sunday during Mass. My heart yearns after that desire, and calls out a fervent, “Amen…so be it “each time we pray.

As did Mary, let us accept the sufferings that come when we embrace truth. Christ is truth. Our reasonable service is to lay down our lives for Him. Before our Father a great cloud of witnesses renews their petitions for us to persevere. This moment – this time – is our opportunity to be the answer to our Lord’s petition.

The Holy Spirit ever calls unto our hearts to seek unity. Have we turned up the volume of our iPod to block His voice? Our Father’s hand remains out-stretched to heal. Why do we refuse to grasp it? Our Elder Brother even now intercedes for our unity. Have we forgotten His reminder that godly sorrow leads to the mystery of repentance and renewal?

Perhaps out of the suffering and difficulty of the past, all baptized believers of today will allow the risen Savior to heal our wounds of division. In response to the Holy Spirit’s tug on our hearts, may we seek the Father’s will, spoken through His Son, Jesus, and be restored to family once more. When that happens, like the difficulties that took place in my own family, Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox will find family means acceptance, and compassionate care of our imperfect members. Through that recognition we – and our world – will be inexplicably changed for the better by the ordeal.

“Listen and Attend With the Ears of Your Heart”

2008-05-21T21:10:00.000-07:00

---St. Benedict of Nursia

During the summer of 2006, our priest welcomed Rich to teach a study of the Lord’s Prayer. It seemed natural for me to be present at the study since it was held right after the 10:00 Mass we attended.

For a year I had found my vertical relationship with Jesus growing, while my interpersonal relationships with members of our congregation remained superficial or nonexistent. I’d given up trying to get to know people and had settled into the mold of an unseen persona. I wondered out loud to Rich if a Protestant at his study might be disruptive. Rich assured me he was able to keep everyone focused on the lesson. From our experiences with Bible studies in Protestant churches, I knew he could do that.

Had the pastor’s invitation to Rich occurred a year earlier, I might have spent that hour in the car or at a nearby coffee shop. I would have found references to Mary, the Sacraments, the Magisterium or any number of other Catholic beliefs that were bantered about during the discussion, very uncomfortable. But because Rich and I had agreed to remain together at the same church, I had become accustomed to hearing about those beliefs. Although I did not share them, I believed they were valid for Catholics because they represented facets of a Roman Catholic’s spiritual relationship with God.

I am sure those few weeks would have been only another interesting inter-church experience for me had it not been for two things. First, Rich engaged me in the discussions as he did the others around the table. I was forced to participate and, in so doing, the men and women at the study learned I was a Protestant. (I was nervous about that discovery because of what I had experienced previously.) These people were surprised to learn I was not a Catholic, but as the weeks continued, they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Second, what these people did not know was God had given me a love for them.

That love had flooded into my heart weeks earlier on Divine Mercy Sunday, which is the first Sunday after Easter. Our parish had an Adoration planned for that afternoon. Adoration is a time set aside to worship the living Christ who manifests Himself within the consecrated host . . . the Bread of Life physically present with us. Catholics meditate on this spiritual idea, seeing beyond the natural, and believing Christ’s word in its literal meaning . . . this is my Body. This is similar to the Protestant view of a literal seven day creation, the Flood, or the parting of the Red Sea.

Rich decided to attend, and I thought I’d go along, too. Rich’s description of his initial experience with Jesus at an earlier Adoration had intrigued me. I hoped to spend some quiet time with Jesus, much like I did each Sunday when we entered the church before Mass.

We sat near the back of the church and could barely see the white circular host in the golden case called a Monstrance – from the Latin, meaning, “to show,” and defined as, “A receptacle in which the host is held.”

I remember kneeling in my pew and praying in tongues (a charism of the Holy Spirit) for a few minutes. Soon, my knees hurt and my back was getting tired. Several women were praying the Rosary, which seemed to go on and on. I longed for them to stop, simply because their vocal prayers intruded into my mind and made it difficult for me to form my thoughts into prayers. I wondered, perhaps coming to the Adoration was not such a good idea.

Ending my prayer, I remained on the kneeler. My mind wandered, but I tried to keep it focused on that little white disk in the Monstrance. I believed Jesus was there. (Months earlier, the Holy Spirit had taught me that Jesus is present within the consecrated host). I had long ago learned to be quiet before The King of Kings in my personal devotions and to wait upon Him. This was such a time.

And then, somehow, inexplicably, as I knelt, Christ’s love flowed into me until I thought I could hold no more. It left me breathless.

The Holy Scriptures describe an account of two disciples on the road to Emmaus who meet the resurrected Jesus. When He made Himself known to them at supper, and then vanished, they turned to each other, realizing who had walked with them that afternoon. "Were not our hearts burning within us while He was speaking to us on the road, while He was explaining the Scriptures to us?" they exclaimed. (St. Luke 24:32, NASB)

In a similar way, I found Jesus before me that Divine Mercy Sunday, and in revealing His presence, my heart indeed burned with His love.

I sat back in my seat. Rich was praying. I was dumbfounded and strangely energized. I looked anew toward the Altar. As the recitation of the Rosary continued I wondered, “What is happening?” No one else seemed at all affected. I prayed silently and fervently, “I love you, Jesus. What is this?”

I was so full of energy I could not sit still. I knelt again. I sat. I knelt once more and silently praised the Lord, though I wanted to shout. A second time, the Holy Spirit pressed Agape love into my heart. In it flowed with compassion, joy, and peace. The Holy Spirit gave my heart “ears to hear.” By the time we left the sanctuary I’d “fallen in love” with Jesus again, and with His Church – all of His Church. Any lingering doubt that I should continue to attend Mass with Rich had vanished.

I cannot explain the how or the why of this heart change, but it altered my life. I have never been the same since. Shortly afterward, I wrote a friend,” Just as when we close our eyes and turn our face toward the sun, then turning away and opening our eyes we see the world around us as a pale image of unreality, so my view of my former walk in Christ is a paler image of what it is now.”

The reality of this heart change manifested itself as I sat in Rich’s study of the Lord’s Prayer, listening to him and the other Catholics comment about the Scriptures, the Catholic Church and her teachings – and even make a few unflattering comments about Protestants – yet I was not offended by it all. I had found myself filled anew with Agape love as soon as I entered the room.

This was a sea-change for me, and evidence that Christ’s love had entered my heart.

I soon discovered I liked listening to their conversations. I also felt a bond of fellowship in my heart for each person. And as we studied the Lord’s Prayer, I found myself listening in on the heartbeat of the Roman Catholic Church. It was a deep, steady beat of constant love and devotion to the Trinity – the loving Father, Christ, the suffering Savior, and the wonderful Holy Spirit.

Life with Two Traditions I

2008-05-03T16:05:00.000-07:00

It is often the little things we do or say that make an impact on the lives of those around us. By May 2006, I had experienced Jesus’ love at Mass and also through people at the Catholic Church. The pastor and his staff had encouraged my walk among this new culture of believers with their willingness to answer my questions and to find information for me about Catholic faith and practice. From these acts of thoughtfulness I gained confidence to explore the traditions of the Mass. That summer I felt more comfortable to make the sign of the cross, genuflect, and kneel in prayer. As I participated at Mass I began to understand to some degree what Catholics believe. Many of those beliefs revolve around Sacred Tradition.

For Catholics, tradition is identity. It reflects an unbroken line of historical veracity that begins with Pentecost.

The dictionary defines tradition as the handing down of beliefs, customs, and information from generation to generation by word of mouth or by practice. With regard to Christian theology, tradition incorporates a “body of teachings . . . held to have been delivered by Christ and His apostles, but not originally committed to writing.” Roman Catholic Sacred Tradition combines oral traditions, (e.g. Sunday is “the Lord’s Day”) with sacramental acts (e.g. making the sign of the cross), as well as remembered events (e.g. the Assumption of the Virgin). Since the Apostolic era, the Mass is central to Catholic Tradition. For Catholics, much like Jews at the Passover celebration, the Mass provides a portal of involvement that is as timeless and personal as it is supernatural. Just as the Passover meal allows its participants to reenact the events of the Exodus as eye witnesses, the Mass allows its participants to be eye witnesses of the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection. Together, the Mass, the special days of celebration, sacramental practices, the teachings of the Lord Jesus and of His apostles have nourished the Catholic Church since the first century. In combination with the written Scriptures, these all embody the whole of inspired tradition. Thus, Sacred Tradition is as important to Catholics with regard to faith and morals as the Holy Scriptures are to Protestants.

Protestants recognize the Church was born at Pentecost, but for many (especially those who are unaware of their Roman Catholic roots), historical tradition begins with the Reformation.

Although Protestants retain some of the early church’s core beliefs, such as those embodied in the Apostles Creed,* most of Protestant tradition is based on sola scriptura -- Scripture alone. Committed Protestants use the Holy Scriptures to form their doctrine and practice. And, much like the devout Jews of Berea (Acts 17), they study the Word of God daily. Like the noble Bereans, dedicated Protestants – laymen and scholars – expect the Holy Spirit to lead them closer to Christ through their study of the Holy Scriptures. As they search the Scriptures and discuss them with one another, Protestants expect to be educated, gain a greater understanding of God’s love, and be prepared to witness for the Gospel. This tradition of study and dialogue mirrors the ancient Talmudic method of pil-pul, defined by the Jewish Encyclopedia as a “penetrating investigation, disputation, and drawing of conclusions, and is used especially to designate a method of studying the Law.”

For me, resolving the differences between the two “traditions” was of great importance. I came to realize, lurking in the shadows of this controversy, was a passion, fervor, and zeal of each group’s commitment to particular Christian world views. A year earlier, these respective views had made of our home a “no-mans land” of theological disparity. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit showed us a better way.

The Lord has taught me the great value of both Catholic and Protestant traditions.

My faith tradition is expressed primarily through meditating on the Holy Scriptures and in prayer. How would I know in Whom I believe without His words and actions written down to guide me? Holy Scripture has been the practical means Christ has used to mature my relationship with Him.

My husband has shared with me his love of Sacred Tradition, which he sees as vital to His life of faith. He explained to me his understanding that Scripture undergirds Sacred Tradition because Sacred Tradition is intricately intertwined with Messiah Jesus, as revealed in Holy Scripture.

As I see it, without a vibrant and maturing relationship with Jesus, Rich and I would both be weakened in our spiritual journeys. How Jesus uses His gifts of Sacred Tradition in combination with the Holy Scriptures to mature us, I can not tell. However, I know my life in Christ would be subject to disorder without the continued washing it receives from Scripture. As I meet Jesus in the Mass and explore Sacred Traditions, I discover a spiritual vibrancy that allows me to see in them the breath of God, and to experience in my heart a great renewal.

*
Latin Text (ca. A.D. 700)
Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem; Creatorem coeli et terrae.
Et in Jesum Christum, Filium ejus unicum, Dominum nostrum; qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria virgine; passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus; descendit ad inferna; tertia die resurrexit a mortuis; ascendit ad coelos; sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis; inde venturus (est) judicare vivos et mortuos.
Credo in Spiritum Sanctum; sanctam ecclesiam catholicam; sanctorum communionem; remissionem peccatorum; carnis resurrectionem; vitam oeternam. Amen.

Modern English Version
I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.
I believe in Jesus Christ, God's only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
he is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and he will come again to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.

Mystery

2008-04-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

I did not expect to find Jesus so startlingly close at Mass. He found me. That he included me in His embrace through spiritual communion opened my heart to the Holy Spirit’s teaching.

I did not expect to explore the Passion of Christ. It explored me. What could I do but follow, seeing how great a salvation Jesus purchased with His suffering and death.

I did not expect to encounter the mystery and truth of transubstantiation. That mystery captured and transfixed me. Christ’s love melted my icy attitudes and set aside past perceptions.

Freed from the biases that had kept me from seeing, I could now, with open eyes, see the glorious worship of God inherent in the Mass. I began to participate with my whole heart, and as the Lord transformed my previous misperceptions into a clearer perspective, I reached out to my church “home” with opened arms.

I had once thought of Catholic worship as cold, devoid of joy, or personal interaction. I had experienced the camaraderie among Christians in Protestant churches we attended, but now, my experience in church was not primarily horizontal but vertical in emphasis. Here I had an opportunity to be alone with the Savior in a sanctuary where He resided not only in the person of the Holy Spirit but also in the consecrated host within the Tabernacle.

I admit my fervor to understand what my husband and others saw in the Mass drove me to scrutinize everything I encountered in the Catholic services. This investigation, and my longing to know truth, led me to pray that I might comprehend what I intellectually knew occurred at the consecration. And God answered my prayer. I suddenly grasped the authenticity of belief: the bread and the wine change into the body and the blood of Messiah Jesus.

This was no superstition or wishful thinking. The Holy Spirit impressed upon me this truth in such a way that I became convinced and now fully believe. Oh, how precious is the gift of Christ’s presence to the church.

Before the anniversary of Rich’s entrance into the Catholic Church, I was reformed too, into the renewed Christian I am today.

The Mass begins for me at home as I prepare to meet Jesus. I pray and often read my Bible just as I have done for many years. I also attend to one small gift that I have not had the occasion to give Him before. I make sure my hair and forehead are clean in anticipation of the blessing He bestows.

Time stands still the moment I step into the entrance of the church and dip my fingers into the font of holy water beside the door. I make the sign of the cross, reminding myself of my death and burial at baptism, and of my new life in the risen Christ. In some mysterious way, as I move my hand across my chest to make the sign of the cross, the crucifixion becomes terribly real and personal.

As I walk to my pew, I am greeted by silence – a holy hush that is found where the Infinite is revered. It is not simply stillness, or emptiness. It is a purposeful silence, a silence disturbed only by the echoes of kneelers lowered to the floor. It is silence broken by the soft wrap of Rosary beads against wood as the faithful pray. It is the silence of footfalls as priest and choir prepare to serve. It is the deep breath before the glorious beginning of the Mass.

I look for the golden Tabernacle because I know within it lies the bread made flesh, and I rejoice in Jesus who graces our church with His presence.

Genuflection is no longer a polite adaptation. Instead, it is an act of love for my Lord, the King of Kings. Too quickly, we have found our seat and I am on my knee, reminding myself with the little prayer: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. --Touch my forehead, fountain of all wisdom clear my mind of worthless thoughts; touch my chest, wounded Savior I am yours; touch my left and right shoulders, teacher and comforter give me wings to rise above my sinful self.

Thus begins the Mass for me – no longer ritual, but an opportunity to make an endless prayer of worship to the Trinity.

Lessons from a Saint

2008-04-17T13:49:00.000-07:00

Sometime in January 2006 Rich brought home St. John of the Cross’ book, “The Dark Night of the Soul.” He handed it to me and said with affection, “I have seen you in such turmoil these past few months. Perhaps this will help.”

I doubted a book would help. Attending Mass with Rich might have become more comfortable and welcome, but my day to day life was like one long dark tunnel. I leafed through the book and laid it down. A moment later, I opened it again. For Rich’s sake, I gave the book a read.

Chapter after chapter of mind-numbing lists about sins and difficulties began to pile up into a mountain of woe. St. John of the Cross wrote of what may never happen, what will happen, and what might happen. I put the book down a dozen times, yet it did seem to be saying something – although I was not quite sure what that was.

Half-way through the book, it began to make sense. His message about purgation after purgation was no mere method of spirituality and growth, but rather a litany of the Father’s love for His beloved children. Our deserts and long dark tunnels were meant by God to purify our lives from all the dross (sin) we accumulate.

I was encouraged. The difficulty in which I found myself was not haphazard or happenstance, but designed by my Father to mature me. St. John, a Biblical scholar and a spiritual counselor, knew what he was writing about. His own experiences included many difficult and life-threatening times in which he had learned that helplessness brings strength to the bond between the Trinity and the child of God. The Father expressed His love for me by allowing me to be helpless so He could rescue me by removing sins buried deep in my heart. Those sins kept me from seeing Him correctly. It hampered the work of the Holy Spirit and it kept me at a distance from Jesus, my heart’s desire.

When I understood God’s purpose in bringing me through my “Dark Night,” I rejoiced, thankful for such “love divine, all loves excelling.” My Lord Jesus was determined to soften and cleanse my heart that was encased in stony sin. He wanted to make me into His likeness, as St. Paul wrote in Romans 8:29: “For those whom He foreknew, He also predestined to become conformed to the image of His Son, so that He would be the firstborn among many brethren.”

When I realized this, I wanted Jesus to take over my life more than I had ever desired it before. I determined I would not stand in the way of any purging He wanted to do.

The Holy Spirit showed me where I needed to change. These are some of the areas He helped me work on – and on which we continue to work.

Rebellion was the first. I had always wanted to have a say in what and how God would do with me. To live otherwise meant He was in complete control, and I unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) found that objectionable. Although I said I wanted Him to lead me, I thought I might decide on how we got there.

Self-will was next. I saw how dominant my will could be as Rich began talking about becoming a Catholic. It was a terrible, aggressive sin that I had practiced well. So thoroughly was it bonded to me that I could not see it as an error. Instead, I thought of it as a beneficial part of my character.

Anger clung to the first two. Although I recognized this fault as a young Christian and had tried to keep it in check, I could never root out its deep core. This flaming emotion set me to pouting and drove me into depression.

Self-pity rounded out the four. It often filled my mind with the lie that Jesus had abandoned me. I fled from problems because I thought them either too hard for me, or they were a rebuke from the Master. I did not see the problems as His loving refinement, so that I might be useful to His purpose.

Cooperating with the Holy Spirit opened my heart to His continual attention. I heard His voice clearly through our pastors, and through reading the Bible, listening to Christian music and other methods the Holy Spirit wove in and out of my life. He spoke to me so kindly, leading me out of the darkness into a place where the light of Christ could touch my heart with His life, encourage me to trust in His eternally living Presence and give me the brotherly kiss of fellowship.

Purging of my more weighty attitudes led to purging of many others.

Christ then set before me the very misconceptions and biases I had struggled with since Rich became a Catholic. They were the religious and cultural mainstay of my Protestant identity. They had been for me the only true Christianity. The Lord asked me to explore them one by one, and He helped me come to an accord of sorts with each. I would explore the Eucharist, the papacy, communion of saints, Mary, and Sacred Tradition.

The Opportunity

2008-03-18T20:50:00.000-07:00

In January 2006 I wrote a friend, “Until this time I have been smugly happy in my own conceits about my place and part in God's family. Lately, though, I have been pondering the words of John: ‘He came unto his own and his own received him not.’ And I wonder how often I have been unreceptive of Him?”

I thought for years I was as close to Jesus as I could be. I thought I possessed all I needed of Christ. Then Rich’s conversion to Roman Catholicism sent my soul on a desperate journey to reconnect with my commitment to Jesus. As I prayed over how I would follow Him at our Catholic church, I discovered (much to my surprise) my once Christ-centered life had become complacent and stagnant. My sense of contentment was the result of years of rote practice, and the loss of a lively joy in my first love -- Christ. I needed renewal, and Jesus, whose compassion is boundless, revived in me a deep spiritual passion, even while I fussed at Him about the method.

The Lord would not let me languish long in the nether-world of status quo. He knew I needed love that was like living water springing up into new life, and He shook up my world for my good and His purposes.

The Holy Spirit poured Christ’s love into my soul, and like cold water on a hot frying pan, love exploded into my life. His gracious gift of Spiritual communion had created in me a desire to know Christ better. That desire grew stronger each day until suddenly in one moment of clarity I became converted to Jesus’ agenda.

That moment came on a sunny afternoon as I listened to a radio program discussing the servant-hood of the believer. As I listened, my soul stirred, and I remembered a worship song by Kelly Willard entitled “The Servant.” Years before, that song so resonated with my spirit that I had found myself singing it at all hours of the day and night. It became my constant prayer to the Lord. Here is one of the verses:

“Make me a servant, humble and meek
Lord, let me lift up, those who are weak.
And may the prayer of my heart always be;
Make me a servant, make me a servant,
Make me a servant, today.”

At the time, I wondered why I was prompted to pray those words over and over.
But now, several years later, as I listened to the radio discussion on servant-hood, I realized the Lord had answered the desire He placed into my heart years before--- the desire to be a servant.

To think the Holy Spirit had put that song in my mouth so many years earlier, and that He had schooled my heart to plead for servant-hood, energized my desire to agree with what Christ purposed to do with my life.

I did not realize until then that I had been offered a wonderful opportunity.

At last the heartache and heartburn of being separated at Communion seemed to have a purpose. No longer was I only obeying the Catholic Church’s rules of communion concerning non-Catholics. I perceived that I could live out the scripture by expressing love that is patient, love that seeks not its own, is not provoked, and does not take into account a wrong suffered. I realized, too, it was no accident that I received a blessing in place of communion. There was a reason I was a Protestant living and worshiping side by side with my Catholic husband.

The Lord was granting me an opportunity to learn humility and love.

More encouraging verses flowed into my heart that January afternoon. The sadness of being a non-communicant gave way to the privilege of following Christ’s example of servant-hood. St. Paul wrote to the Philippians:

Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves; do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others.
Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men.
Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (Philippians 2: 3-8 NASB)

It was not lost on me that, for the most part, the only others who came forward for a blessing were those too young to receive the Eucharist; and I marveled that the Lord placed me in such a position. Nor, was it lost to me what Jesus had once said about permitting children to come to Him – “for such is the kingdom of heaven.”

Like children, I could come, not demanding a place at His table, but to lay my anguished heart at His feet, and receive the various blessings He gives,for it is Jesus and Jesus alone who imparts blessing.

The honor to be like our Master in some small way is the joy of all the redeemed. I thank you Jesus, for this opportunity and the lessons in humility.

A Preparation to Love

2008-03-05T20:11:00.000-08:00

“In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son {to be} the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.”
1 John 4:10-11 (NASB)

My experiences with Catholic community’s cool acceptance – and perhaps tolerant reception – were not the embrace of welcome I had known in Protestant congregations. I wondered how I could love this Catholic community. For that matter, how would I love anyone? I knew as a Christian I did not need to be valued in order to love others. But I wanted to be valued. I was not a Saint John.

I realized, though, that to function within the cultural and spiritual community of the Catholic Church, I needed to actively do what love does – be kind, patient, endure . . . all the verbs St. Paul spoke of in 1 Corinthians 13. Lacking Christ’s love, I did my best to fit in. So, in order to be inoffensive, I crossed myself and genuflected when I entered or left the pew. I knelt or stood with the rest of the congregation and recited the creed and other responses.

Although I recognized anew the glorious work of my Savior on the cross, I nevertheless needed the gift of God’s love, and the mystery of love’s healing work, to see past the actions of others and my perceptions of them.

God’s Spirit urged me to embrace the Protestant/Catholic divisive encounters I experienced. I was beginning to understand that my Father in heaven was using those difficulties to change my heart. And the transformation of my heart – to which the Holy Spirit continued to call me – would be accomplished through love.

During January 2006, the Holy Spirit continued to point out that Christians should love without qualification. As I knelt in the quiet of our church, the crucifix above the altar exemplified a clear image of how down-to-earth Jesus expressed love, and that expression began to seep into my life. It began to probe my motives and actions, while at the same time the balm of Christ’s peace comforted me as I attended services with Rich.

To revive and school my spirit, the Lord repeatedly took me back to 1 Corinthians 13, and He seemed to underscore each word or phrase.

1 Corinthians 13 (from the New American Standard Bible):

“If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. “

“And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing. Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

“Love never fails; but if there are gifts of prophecy, they will be done away; if there are tongues, they will cease; if there is knowledge, it will be done away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part; but when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away. “
“When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

I slowly began to agree with Christ’s Spirit. My prayers grew more fervent. I wanted to love the way I knew Christians should love, but realized I could never love on my own. I needed Jesus to love through me.

One morning a flood of realization burst into my yearning heart. I expected an answer because, as “a child of the King,” I knew He loved me and wanted to help me. However, in order to answer me, my Father first had to prepare me. Jesus had cautioned against filling old wine skins with new wine, lest the old skins break and the wine spill out. And so Christ set about to make my wine skin new.

I think I must be very slow-witted. How had I not seen my self-centered agendas? Reading the Bible that morning, I was dumbfounded to see my motives from Christ’s point of view. My true self-centered format lay open before me. What I previously dismissed as my personality traits or inborn attitudes stood out plainly as selfishness. I tried to excuse my faults by rationalizing away the conviction of my sin. I thought, “Surely I could never be as loving as the Scriptures commanded. I had tried too many times and failed miserably. There is no way anyone could live like 1 Corinthians 13 describes.”

The graciousness of our God supplied me with the help I had asked for. Again, I discovered that Christ’s help came with my obedience. If I was to receive Christ’s gift of love, I had to put aside my rationalizations and own up to my sin. When I did, the Holy Spirit began to point out my faults – not just on that morning, but all that day, and into the months ahead. I was convicted of my sins each time they occurred. And I quickly got the message: now was the time to pay attention to my sin.

I soon recognized the juxtaposition between the Scripture’s definition of love in
1 Corinthians 13, and my actions and thoughts. Each time I snapped at Rich, the Scripture dropped into my mind: “Love is kind.” When I grumbled under my breath after Rich did something that really annoyed me, the Holy Spirit whispered, “Love is patient.” At each turn God exposed my petty motivations in the light of His word.

When I asked the Father to help me love like Jesus loves, I had not expected He would give me a heightened awareness of my wrong doing. But in order for Jesus to love through me, I should have expected He would first teach me humility. The more I discovered how sinful the rags were that covered my selfishness, the smaller my self conceit grew.

I can only hope it continues to diminish.

Rediscovering the Price

2008-02-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

“What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

Refrain

“Oh! precious is the flow
That makes me white as snow;
No other fount I know,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

When did I forget this wonderful truth? What happened between September 1974 – when I first learned this song – and the year 2005? Somehow my knowledge of the saving blood of Jesus had become a vague memory. Was it because churches we attended had replaced their hymnals with modern choruses and anthems of praise? Or was it my familiarity with the facts of Christ’s death that made this gift of grace simply historical information. Whatever the reason, that “precious flow” lost its riveting appeal.

I can remember sermons exhorting us to “come to Jesus,” who died for our sins. Our pastors preached that only Jesus, the spotless lamb, could atone for the rebellion of Man against a loving and righteous Creator; that Jesus Christ, alone was pure, righteous and without sin, that He alone could become for sinners the perfect blood sacrifice for the atonement God required.

When I heard this preached, I pondered that loving work of grace, that undeserved forgiveness purchased on a splintery wooden cross for the sake of all mankind. Simply knowing this seemed enough for me. I was satisfied that I had chosen to accept Jesus’ gift of salvation.

However, Rich became aware of his lack of focus on the Lord’s passion in early 2000. He placed a crucifix in his office and told me he needed to be reminded of the costly debt God paid for our rebellion. But I missed the point, and mumbled an agreement about remembering the cross. I must have been sleeping.

Five years later on Easter Sunday 2005 my eyes opened again and I was dismayed. As we entered the Catholic Church we were to call home, there in full sight and centrally located was – to my eyes – a shocking wooden effigy of Jesus in agony on the killing field of my sin. It was repulsive and brutal, with its stark nails, drooping head, and spear-wound in the side. I hated looking at it. I would not look at it.

Yet I deeply yearned to know Christ better.

That yearning grew because as I knew in my heart the Holy Spirit was calling me to want to know Jesus Christ better. But to know Him you have to look at Him. To see Jesus the Messiah with the eyes of faith means to see Him on the cross.

God’s love for His creation is not a sweet chocolate-pudding type of love. It is love that is bold and sharp. It is not only joyful but also excruciatingly costly.

In my sleepy state of spiritual numbness, living for Christ meant I wanted Christ’s love to be comfortable. His life renewed in me should be like a happy warm summer afternoon. I wanted to follow Him without recognition of how much Christ set aside for my salvation. I wanted to minimize His very human pain and the blood dripping from His wounds. I wanted to muse on Calvary and consider the cross simply a treasured symbol of faith.

However, the more I encountered Jesus’ body dying and garlanded with our hideous sins, I glimpsed the mercy and love of the Father.

After weeks of avoiding the Crucifix, I looked. And my look became a gaze, and then a longing to know Jesus better. I learned that my will, my anger, and my plans were like dung. In the presence of such a gift, how could I dare be anything but contrite? The Father used the battered body of His dear Son to remind me of true love. The Holy Spirit gently took my heart in His loving hands and whispered, “Look and see how to love.”

Christ Makes All Things New

2008-01-23T10:44:00.000-08:00

“Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature, the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. “ 2 Corinthians 5: 17 (NASB)

I admit I do not fully understand this statement from Holy Scripture. However, when the Lord revealed to me that He was indeed physically present at Mass, that understanding so unsettled me that all my preconceived notions about God dissolved. Intellectually, I knew acquaintance with the Creator of the Universe exposes us to powerful effects. What I did not expect to discover was His loving kindness in such glorious generosity.

Never had I encountered such love.

I am not sure if my outward appearance or demeanor changed. But I was so internally energized by what I knew to be true I could no longer live as I had in the past. Much like my first encounter with Jesus many years earlier when I accepted His redemptive work for me on the cross, and I acknowledged Him as lord of my life – all my previous understanding of God passed away.

I’d thought I knew Jesus. I’d thought I knew my place in Him. But I’d thought wrong. What I wanted became as dross – not all at once, but with each day I changed more and more until I discovered my interests had changed. Christ was supreme and what He wanted was now what I wanted, and I wanted nothing else besides Him.

For years I had pursued the art world as a means of self gratification. I used my artistic skill to promote the personal goals of my vision, my insights, and my personal longing for recognition. But Christ’s love changed me in such a way that I only wanted to draw or paint about Jesus.

Previously, I failed to execute art work about Jesus because I could not communicate myself visually about this subject. Now I could not staunch the flow of ideas that expressed themselves in images about Messiah’s sacrificial love. I went from drawing pretty trees and misty landscapes to the bloody sacrificial wounds on his hands, feet, and side.

I have posted two art works below. The first one, completed in 2003, is an example of images I explored for many years. The second, completed in June 2006, demonstrates the new images that were an outflow of His Grace.

Forest Fantasy

Sacred Heart

The Holy Spirit has given me images that come as fresh innovations, and helped me create something I’d not, to this point in my life, been able to express – that being His wonderful love for humanity.

He is Lord of All

2008-01-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

C.S. Lewis writes in his book, Surprised by Joy, how, as a boy, he discovered joy one morning while walking in the countryside. That moment of beauty and insight so indelibly pressed itself into his heart and psyche that Lewis longed to recapture it ever-after. He later recognized the moment for what it truly was – an encounter with the eternal presence of God.

In a similar fashion, a moment (several moments, really) of joy pressed itself into my heart as the wondrous presence of Christ became exquisitely real to me at Mass.

It’s not that I hadn’t experienced from time to time the joy Lewis talks about. I’d known wonderful times of “refreshing” (a Pentecostal term for the work of the presence of the Holy Spirit) during Protestant church services, or at prayer. I’d experienced flashes of insight into the Holy Spirit’s presence when a passage of Scripture seemed to jump off the page and grab my attention. However, none of my earlier experiences with God can compare with the brief flashes of insight He gave me during the fall of 2005 and winter of 2006.

Until that time I had unknowingly dragged behind me a long and ponderous chain of doubts and half-truths as I attended Mass. Like Charles Dickens’ Marley of the Christmas Carole, I forged my chain with prejudicial ideas that rejected Catholic traditions and beliefs about the Mass as silliness, at best, and absolute superstition at its worse. My preconceived religious fervor determined for me what God could and could not do, and what He would and would not do. Like Marley, those chains held me prisoner in the twilight, unable to experience the day.

The Holy Spirit began to release me from those chains first with insight about the Eucharist. When He revealed His truth, I suddenly understood that Jesus is indeed physically present at the Mass. So complete was the impact on me that all my former chains of ignorance about the Mass dropped to the floor with a clanging thud.

In subsequent bursts of comprehension, the shackles of my Protestant points of view were shattered as I discovered anew our Father truly is and was and will be – all at the same time. Our mighty Lord really is the Lord of eternity; He is not bound by time or space. He is present at the Mass from the breaking of the Matzo and sharing of the Cup, to His crucifixion upon Golgotha, and His resurrection on the first Easter morning.

When those truths settled over me, I wept because it was too beautiful and too wonderful to know, and I realized how profound and magnificent is the gift of the Mass.

As I continued to attend Mass, talk with Rich, and listen to Catholic radio, the Holy Spirit confirmed over and over the insights He had shown me. And with each confirmation, I was amazed that what the Holy Spirit taught me is exactly what the Catholic Church teaches.

No longer believing the Mass superstitious or an absurdity, I am certain the Mass is a moment in time when the past and the present come together. Oh! How like our loving Lord – our Emmanuel – to be physically present to meet with me and with anyone else who seeks Him.

United by the Divide

2007-12-11T18:59:00.000-08:00

Rich’s reception into Roman Catholic faith in 2005 led to a bewildering set of events that left us both at odds. Rich attempted with loving care to mitigate the unexpected consequences his conversion brought into our home. Meanwhile, a great emptiness had entered my life. How could I support my husband and still serve Jesus, while I felt so estranged from Rich and from the Lord?

Although I began to experience a renewed joy after the Lord offered me Spiritual Communion, the heartache of those past months weighed heavily on Rich. He suffered in silence with each obstacle I encountered. His were the hands that held me close when I wondered how I could fit in. In the privacy of our home, his were the words of anger and desperation in response to those who continued to hurt me. His were the promises to protect me from as much anguish as he could.

And his was the heart that broke and bled one morning at Mass.

October had turned into November and I continued to grow closer to Jesus. Each Mass took on new vitality because of the gracious inclusion Jesus offered me. I found myself carried away by His love and would often feel like standing in awe of Christ as I perceived Him through the Holy Spirit.

One Sunday I whispered to Rich that I would not go forward for a blessing. I wanted to stand at my pew instead, and praise and pray. (From the first time I attended Mass with Rich, I had struggled with the point in the Mass when I processed forward for a blessing. I often felt silly or angered to receive a blessing instead of Communion. For Catholics, it was a time of celebration (Eucharist); for me, it seemed demeaning or pointless – depending on my attitude at the time. I struggled with this issue until 2006, when Jesus helped me see the blessing in a different light).

Knowing my struggle with the blessing, Rich nodded and moved into the aisle. As he stepped into line, he looked back at me and suddenly felt as if he had lost something very precious. He said later, ”I felt with each foot-fall forward that I had turned my back on you, our marriage, and our life together. It was as if I was being ripped from our marriage bond.”

When he returned to our pew, he stood very close. After Mass, he looked squarely into my eyes and declared he would never do that again. When he explained what he had felt as he walked forward, I immediately understood. I remembered having a similar response the night he professed himself a Catholic at the Easter Vigil. I assured him from then on I would go forward and ask for a blessing, no matter how I felt about it.

My husband loves me. Any rudeness or unkindness directed by others toward me reverberates in him. When well-meaning Catholic acquaintances happily counseled him that I’d “come around soon” and become Catholic – all while I was standing there as if I was a naughty child needing to be corrected, Rich cringed. When in some social settings others ignored me altogether, Rich hurt even more.

Repeatedly, Rich vowed to leave the Catholic Church. His frustration with the rudeness he’d seen displayed toward me had grown intolerable. He decided we would attend a Protestant church, and he would meet his Catholic obligations as best he could. I knew he was serious. My emotional pain increased as I watched him straining to help me heal and bring me comfort.

By this time, though, I had become convinced it was God who had opened Rich’s understanding of Catholicism, and it was God who called him to the Roman Catholic Church – and I told him so. We talked many times about the pointlessness of leaving the Catholic Church. Leaving was not the answer. Surely, our Father does not make mistakes. And I reminded him that God had called me to be there at his side.

We were united. We would follow Jesus. And we would follow Him together.

A Note of Clarification

2007-12-08T09:43:00.000-08:00

In past months, I have received many concerned comments, emails, and verbal observations related to the difficulties for me as Rich and I fleshed out our life since his conversion to Roman Catholicism. I thank you all for your kind encouragements and genuine concern. So far, this blog has chronicled the first few months of 2005. I experienced many intense moments of distress during that time as I faced discouragement and difficulties. However, in Christ, I have discovered there is strength, a sure haven and “the balm of Gilead” that heals all wounds. Thankfully the difficulties of those days are not presently occurring.

Interchurch Challenges

2007-12-03T09:17:00.000-08:00

I am not sure when I discovered that I was surrounded by unequaled scriptural beauty in the Mass. Although I had experienced the spoken Word in Protestant churches, I never hungered to hear it. Nor had I hungered to meet Jesus with the intensity that seemed to impel me to seek Him each week at Mass and each day in daily Bible study and prayer.

Hearing the Word of God at Mass was like hearing the voice of an old friend in a foreign land. How good that voice sounded: non-judgmental, comforting, stating the same truths I had learned to trust all my life. “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world . . .” This text and others woven throughout the Mass made sense of what seemed a senseless predicament for me as a Protestant worshiping in a Roman Catholic Church. Scripture reverberated in my ears and allowed me moments of forgetfulness from the strain of being set apart.

In years past when I attended Protestant churches and socialized with Protestant friends, I did not think it odd to include in my sphere of friendships Catholic friends. Yet I recall only once meeting a Catholic couple at a Protestant church. They were investigating the possibility of attending our church service. I remember being a bit surprised, and after giving them a handshake and welcome, I asked them why they felt a need to leave their own church. They explained they were an interchurch couple (husband and wife from different Christian traditions – one often Roman Catholic) looking for a church that supported them both. Their desperate search for social acceptance was something I did not comprehend at the time. Nor did they express the division festering at the core of their marriage. It would take my own experience of remaining by my Catholic husband’s side at Mass each week to realize how deep and wide the gulf is that pervades our separated fellowship.

In the fall of 2005, as I began to accept my new relationship to the body of Christ, I naturally desired to find some way to serve. A growing appreciation of Christ’s plan for us motivated me to look for ways to be useful. Scouring the church bulletin, I looked for something a non-Catholic might be able to do.

Initially, I signed up with a prayer chain and faithfully prayed for the needs presented to me. This lasted until the leadership decided to revise the call list and hold a meeting to greet their members and get to know them. By that time, though, I had learned to avoid such encounters because I had unhappily found that once Catholics knew I was a Protestant, the welcoming smile become a mask of politeness. A wall of silence often followed with some bland comment on the weather, and then they discovered they needed to talk with someone across the room

So in spite of the wonderful welcome I received from our priest and the director of education, as well as the opportunity to work alongside Rich as he taught Faith Formation classes (Sunday school), I continued to experience being the outsider in a world of insiders.

But I was persistent. I tried a Bible study at our parish, but discovered that many of those attending the study were agonizing over their children who had left the Catholic Church to attend Protestant churches. I believed that my presence in the group would likely have been hurtful for them, so I did not return. I concluded my ability to serve Christ’s body here seemed useless. I responded by isolating myself further, interacting as little as possible.

Eventually, I discovered I could do something without group interaction. I made it my mission to bring food for our parish’s food bank, and gifts for various other charities the church supported. Most of all, I prayed for our pastors everyday.

That daily prayer became the foundation of a commitment that would grow ever larger, and marked the development of my life in Christ.

Reviewing the Past

2007-11-19T16:38:00.000-08:00

I first realized the significance of the Sacrament of Communion when I attended confirmation classes as a teenager. I was 14. Our family had recently started attending a Congregational church when the class began. I remember long, boring monologues by our instructor, and the blue sky through the window above his head where my eyes continually wandered. When our class covered the subject of what our Protestant denomination believed about Communion, I vaguely remember the words trans-and consubstantiation. Most important, though, we learned Congregationalists didn’t believe in either.

Our teacher, a man with graying hair, doubted the validity of scripture, and viewed the miracles of the Bible with cynicism -- especially the story of the Nativity.

My parents, though, had taught me the opposite – that I should trust sacred scripture, and that Jesus – fully God and fully human – came to earth to die for my sins.

But sin was a subject I wished to ignore – and I was glad our confirmation teacher never spoke about it. The lure of worldly attitudes, such as pride and self-centered importance kept me from seeing my need of repentance and obedience to the Eternal King of Glory.

When the time came for my fellow students to be baptized and confirmed into the Congregational church, I decided not to follow the group. Much to my parents’ disappointment, no amount of pressure – not even a visit with the pastor – would change my mind. My parents had planted in my heart as a young child the idea that to commit to Christ in baptism must be with my whole being. That good sowing bore fruit. I knew I was not ready to make such a commitment. It took a very long detour of 13 years before my rebellious heart was ready to hear the urging of the Holy Spirit to come to Jesus.

I was 26-years-old, when I committed my heart to Christ. It was for Him alone I was immersed in the baptismal water on June 12, 1974 at a Disciples of Christ Church. I wanted to be baptized as an act of love and obedience toward my Savior and as a promise to the Lord that where He led, I would follow.

And to the best of my ability, I did.

Thirty years later, He led me to attend Mass with my husband, whom God had directed into the Catholic Church. That’s how I found myself excluded from the Table of the Lord each Sunday. (I still find it mystifying and humbling that Jesus offered me a way to meet Him each Mass through what I later discovered was called Spiritual Communion).

Through the spring and summer of 2005, I attended services with Rich, but always with great reservations, feeling myself an outsider, held at a distance from the living body of Christ. After weeks of social isolation and spiritual drought, Jesus came to find me and to nourish me with Himself. Once again, I felt like a participant in the worship of our Father, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. Slowly, I began to grow as I received spiritual communion. I didn’t know it at the time, but spiritual giants such as St. Catherine of Siena, St. Alphonsus, St. Thomas Aquinas, and St. John Viennay, had written of such communion, and of what would happen to those who drew closer to Christ through a complete desire to receive the Sacrament.

Little by little, understanding penetrated my heart and the Mass began to come alive for me. I listened to the words of Scripture, the hymns and congregational responses. In them, I heard a new voice speaking – not the voice of a priest, reader, or parishioner – but of my Lord. What had seemed like a programmed hour of rote responses scripted to move from point A to B with ordered regularity, now sounded like a loving conversation between members of a family.

Moreover, as I listened to the prayers, responses, and songs from week to week, it became apparent to me that everything I heard, and all that was said during the Mass was full of Scripture. The lavish use of God’s word made my spirit rejoice. I found myself responding in my spiritual language (what Pentecostal Protestants and Charismatic Catholics call “tongues”) or I simply exalted Christ quietly with joyful peace.

Yet along with joy were the pricks of pain as I remembered that Rich and I were parted at our spiritual core. I was mindful of this especially as we sang songs about the Bread of Life, or lyrics stating, “All are welcome” to the table. I stood empty-handed. I could not be offered a piece of bread or a drop of wine. If the Lord had not provided His spiritual communion for me, I would have completely lost courage.

The Lord’s wonderful gift enabled that courage to empower me to seek His plan for my life within the Roman Catholic Church. I came to accept that He had placed me as a Protestant, with all the warts associated with that label, to be right where I was – in the pew next to Rich.

Refocused

2007-10-14T15:58:00.000-07:00

Saint John Vianney, known also as the Curé of Ars, writes this about Spiritual Communion: “There are some who make a spiritual communion every day with blessed bread. If we are deprived of Sacramental Communion, let us replace it, as far as we can, by spiritual communion, which we can make every moment; for we ought to have always a burning desire to receive the good God.”

During the week following my first spiritual communion, I wondered what was happening to me. I was tempted to doubt my act of faith, wondering if I had fooled myself into believing I was experiencing Communion. I was not sure. Yet, gone was the constant rancor in my heart. I was surprised, too, by moments of joy. However, I was so attentive to my preparation for an art show at the end of August that I took less notice of that joy than I should have. In my view, what was taking place at Mass for me was a great idea. I knew it was a gift, but I guessed it was more like a substitute, and not true Communion.

Not comprehending what the Lord had offered me, I remained satisfied that He had taken pity upon me. I had supposed He was letting me participate on a level that was more like seeing, but not tasting. I did not know this spiritual communion was much more than Jesus’ gift to help me feel at ease. I did not realize the magnitude. Like a toddler who sucks a pacifier, I was pleased to leave the church building each Sunday contented.

The next Sunday I again received my Communion by faith, as I had the week before, but this time during the consecration, my doubts vanished. As soon as I swallowed and said, “Amen,” after the elevation of the cup, I felt a wellspring of joy in my heart, and recognized the presence of the Holy Spirit. For the next few weeks, this became a pattern for me during each Mass.

Rich and I continued to sort out our new lives. We were not in perfect harmony, but at least he was not getting an ear-full of woe each week.

One Sunday in August he commented on the difference. I shared with him what I was doing, and he hugged me, encouraged that in a small way I was happier at Mass.

With the art show fast approaching, Rich also encouraged me in my artistic endeavor by helping with the housework so I could concentrate on the rubrics of my craft. Thankfully, he was satisfied with scrambled eggs or pizza for dinner on days I had spent hours in the studio. With high hopes of sharing my images in a large venue, Rich took me to the airport and sent me on my way to Atlanta during the Labor Day weekend. I sensed that this trip would change me, although I hadn’t a clue how that would happen - and I expressed that to Rich.

The first day or so of the art show was enough to convince me I would not participate in that type of venue again. I was not part of the Fantasy/Gamer crowd, and my art did not seem to appeal to them either. This was a great disappointment for me because I had hoped my unique work would fit well within this eclectic group.

On Sunday I attended a Protestant service with our daughter, who lives near Atlanta. My foray once more into an Evangelical congregation was not as satisfying to me as I had expected. After three years in sacramental churches, I supposed the difference of liturgy and unfamiliar songs left me with a spiritual emptiness. I came away confused by my attitude and disillusioned with what I had thought would be a very satisfying morning. What I did not take into account was how the small act of faith I had experienced at Mass had now changed me.

On the flight home, failure and self-pity engulfed me because of the disappointing reception of my art. The past year’s trials paraded before my weary thoughts, and I slumped in my seat.

After a while, I took out a drawing pad from my carry-on and made some notes about my emotional state. I was determined to keep up a good front of cheerfulness – but my heart had gone out of me. I had come to the end of my fortitude and I felt morose. Moreover, I wondered how long I would be able to be as supportive of Rich as I had been. I knew from experience that over time my resolve would languish, causing my cooperation to falter. I loved Rich, and wanted our covenant-marriage to succeed, but on that flight home, remembering the past months, we seemed sorely in trouble.

It never occurred to me that all the difficulty I had experienced, as well as the failure to prosper in my venture, was exactly right for me. I thought my eyes were wide open and I understood all that had taken place. However, I was still blind.

But Jesus was in the process of giving me sight.

The Undeserved Gift

2007-10-06T19:57:00.000-07:00

Spiritual Communion . . . I had no idea what it was as I doggedly attended Mass with Rich each Sunday, all the while wrestling with my frustration and attempting to cope with all the differences in our lives since Rich converted to Catholicism.

In addition, I found myself yearning to love, and be loved, by Jesus each time I was excluded from the table of the Lord at Mass. I believed Jesus was there, he is always in the midst of those who trust and call upon His name. St. Matthew writes, “For where two or three meet in my name, I am there among them.” Matthew 18:20 (New Jerusalem Bible) Jesus was in our midst, but I was blinded by my preconceived ideas of how I could meet Him. I expected to meet him through the moving of the Holy Spirit in song, prayer and during the reading and preaching of the word. And I longed to again meet Him at His table – a longing that all Christians receive at birth in Him.

But, at our Catholic church (I wrongly concluded) I was a bystander at His table and He was not there for me. As far as I could tell, before that Sunday in July, God had heard my heart’s cry, but He had chosen to keep silent. He did not change my situation so as to meet my wants as I had hoped He would.

He had another plan.

I knew from my reading of the Psalms that at times God is silent toward His children . . . but He is never out of touch with us. While God had been silent in my life at other times, His silence had never been this long nor this deep – nor had my longing to hear Him been so intense.

On the Saturday evening before the Sunday Mass I mentioned in the last post, Rich experienced for the first time an hour of prayer devoted to waiting before Christ in the Eucharist (know as Adoration). I remember patronizing Rich as he rambled on in glowing terms about his experience that evening at a local youth rally with our church. I listened with skepticism to his buoyant excitement about praying before the Blessed Sacrament (a consecrated host placed in a special holder called a Monstrance). Rich was sure Jesus would answer the prayer he poured out before Christ’s beloved Presence – his prayer that somehow I would find peace and comfort in the Catholic Church.

I sensed his deep disappointment when I told him I was glad to support him in our new church, but that I was quite comfortable with my Protestant beliefs and mind-set.

To say I was interested in understanding Roman Catholic thought would have been false. I was happy with what little knowledge I had already gained. I pined for my life as a Protestant. Moreover, I was hurt – and irked – that our new church’s rules denied my right as a child of the King to the Communion table.

I was doing my wifely, Christian duty following my husband, and I suppose I expected God to notice.

The Lord’s deafening silence hurt me all the more.

I must say, though, when the Lord’s answer came, it was not the welcome release I had hoped for. Rather, it was an invitation to an action of faith.

Although I’d been baptized in the Holy Spirit for years with the gift (Charism) of other tongues, and I’d known His overpowering peace through the moving of the Holy Spirit in my life, I was surprised that the Lord’s first clear instruction to me in many months was that I receive communion by faith. It was one thing to see His answers to prayer like asking for my shoulder to be healed or the bills to be paid, but it was quite another to receive a direction to do something that seemed opposite to my understanding of how non-Catholics should act.

I might not like the rules – but I knew how to follow rules. And, angry though I was with the Catholic Church’s rule that I could not take Communion, I was willing to comply, because complying equaled obedience to the Lord, and that meant I accepted His direction whether I understood it or not.

Christ did not suspend the rule, but offered me a gift I had not expected nor asked for. All I had to do was receive it.

Long ago, I had learned God is not as interested in our pleasure – or in what we think He should do, as He is interested in our obedience. And the Father likes to take us at our word. When we say, “I will go anywhere for you,” – He will send us. When we say, “I will do anything for you,” – He will ask it of us.

I had made those promises of going and doing many times during my thirty years of attending Protestant worship services. It had never entered my mind that His “sending” and “asking” would involve kneeling in a Catholic church. More to the point, I never imagined Jesus would ask me to receive Communion by faith during the consecration of the bread and wine. I accepted Jesus’ gift not because I deserved it, but because of God’s grace given to me to accept it.

I am a proud, arrogant, peevish woman who could never be good enough nor worthy of such a magnificent gift. I’d smirked at Rich’s belief in Christ’s presence in the consecrated host the evening before – and with razor-like precision, Jesus challenged my Protestant know-it-all attitude by offering me Himself as supernatural food at Mass the next morning.

His mercy is overwhelming.

Blind

2007-09-18T22:01:00.000-07:00

The continued emptiness of my prayer-life increased even as we attended Sunday Mass and assisted in a Faith Formation (Sunday school). Although I experienced the predictable awkwardness associated with any new comer to a community, this could not account for the emptiness in my relationship with God. Not even walking forward to receive a blessing lifted the barrenness of my heart.

I wondered how could Jesus, whom I loved and to whom I had committed my life, place me in such an unreasonable place. I longed to be at His table. How could He who said that those who believe in Him must eat His body and drink His blood, now engineer a situation where I could do neither?

I accepted that God had moved upon Rich in such a way as to change his understanding of Holy Scripture passages from a Protestant interpretation to a Catholic one. Rich’s love and desire for Communion (the Eucharist), and his deepening prayer life, were indications to me of a move of the Holy Spirit.

In contrast, my relationship to God seemed a rock-strewn path with signposts that advised me to “Pay attention, examine yourself, and follow Me.”

But, follow where?

I had wrestled with my past and present only to realize I was who I was. That was all I could be. Nevertheless, I was exhausted with the struggle that ended in discouragement. Even reading the Scriptures provided no comfort. All I could see in those words was a persistent directive to love.

But God, being rich in mercy, knew what He was doing. Until the Holy Spirit opened my eyes, my situation resulted in an ever-deepening longing for Jesus, even as the strain of abandonment grew in intensity with each Sunday Mass.

Then, one Sunday Morning in July 2005, I sat in the pew next to Rich half-listening to the lector read the Scripture. The second reading in our Missal was from Paul’s letter to the Romans. “Brothers and sisters: What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword? No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:35, 37-39).

I had memorized those passages as a young Christian, but had never experienced the extreme need that would propel my soul to cling to those words and their offered gift of God’s love. I rolled the text over again in my mind: “For I am convinced . . . that nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I interpreted that to mean nothing can separate me from Jesus. Jesus was here at this service for me. He had not kept himself from me. However, my blindness to His love had kept me from Him.

I wondered, was He telling me He would never refuse His body and His blood to me? Would I come to Him, who promised to cast no one away, who approached Him in complete surrender? I didn’t hear much of the homily (sermon) that morning because my thoughts had fixated on the idea that nothing, nothing could separate me from my Savior.

And at that moment I remembered an incident that had occurred years earlier. In 1968, prior to my commitment to Christ, I sat with my parents in an unremarkable Sunday Service at the Congregational church we attended. As a young adult who believed myself to be a Christian because I had been raised to be one, I was welcome to take Communion.

It was Communion Sunday. The small glasses of grape juice and plate of broken unleavened bread had been passed through the congregation. The pastor had already intoned, “This is my body given for you . . .”

I chewed the bread and reached for the cup sitting in its holder on the back of the pew in front of me, but before my hand touched the glass, the thought dropped into my mind, “That’s the blood of Christ.”

Mystified, I picked up the tiny cup and looked into the sparkling liquid, which seemed to thicken and deepen in color. The pastor spoke the words, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood . . .”

I didn’t know what to do. Should I put the cup down? What would I tell my parents – that there was blood in my cup? They would think I was insane. So, I drank it. It was an awful, gagging, difficult thing to do. A black revulsion gripped my heart. I wanted to flee. My spiritual eyes had opened for the first time in my life and I saw I was filthy with sin.

After that Sunday, I avoided Communion for six years. Not until I repented of my sins, asked Jesus to forgive me, and by His mercy obtained forgiveness, did I receive Communion or desire it. When Jesus gave me new life, I became a beloved child of my Father in Heaven. I was buried with Him in my Baptism and raised to newness of life in Him. And with that new life came a deeper understanding of the special sacredness of Communion. I had not forgotten His blood in the cup, nor the need to be clean before Him.

So now, as I stood during the Mass, I wondered if Jesus indeed wanted to give me Communion. Was He asking me to trust Him for something that only He would provide for me? Could I accept as true that all I had to do was believe that He wanted to do so?

Fear enveloped me that somehow I had misunderstood. Yet, spurred on by hope in His love, I would take a leap of faith.

During the Offering, I examined my conscience in preparation for communion.

I knelt as the priest held up the Host and said the same words that my Protestant pastors intoned for years during Communion. As our priest spoke those words and consecrated the host, I accepted the idea that Jesus was giving me His body. I swallowed and recited, “Amen.” Then the priest took the cup, elevated it above his head, and repeated the words of the Lord. And once again, I chose to believe Jesus' offering to me. I swallowed and said, “Amen,” once more.

I felt nothing -- much as I had felt nothing the evening I gave my life to Christ.

However, for the first time since we had attended a Catholic church I did not feel conflicted when Rich went forward for the Eucharist and I for a blessing. On the way home, I sat quietly next to Rich, ruminating on a small kernel of peace, pondering what I had done. For the first time in two very long years, I thought I might feel at home once more in church.

It would not be for another several months that I would learn about Spiritual Communion. By that time, the Lord had radically changed my life.

How We Got Here

2007-09-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

My parents came from different denominations and avoided problems inherent with inter-church families by attending Protestant churches without preference to denomination. Their only requirement was that the church they attended would be either Methodist, Presbyterian, Congregational, or Disciples of Christ. My parents also opted to dedicate their children to the Lord, rather than baptize them. (When Protestants dedicate their children, the parents, acknowledge their children are a gift from God and promise Him to raise their children in such a way that the children will accept Christ as their savior and be baptized. The children do not usually become members of the church when dedicated). Thus, they kept us from becoming members of any denomination by baptism.

My parents taught me I could choose a Protestant denomination once I was an adult. By the time I committed my heart to Jesus at the age of 26, I was uninterested in denominations. My only desire was for Christ, alone. I was baptized in a Protestant denominational church, not as a declaration of my membership in that body of believers, but as a declaration of my love for Christ and my intent to follow Him.

I sought no other label but Christian.

Rich developed his attitude toward church membership within an overseas military chapel environment in a non-Christian country. This setting discouraged denominational divides. Protestants and Catholics shared friendship and fellowship in bible studies and every-day living. They lovingly cared for each other and overlooked their denominational differences. Rich’s idea of Christian servant-hood had remarkable similarities to my own. We were well-suited for each other.

But when Rich converted to Roman Catholicism, I thought he had forgotten he was a Christian. He talked no longer about Jesus, but of the Church, or the Church’s doctrines. This left me ill at ease and, as I have stated in previous posts, I felt abandoned.

However, while I thought Rich had replaced Jesus with a denomination, he believed he was simply trying to share with me his excitement about what he was learning. He wanted me to experience the same wonderful call of God on his life. He hoped I also would discover Jesus in a new perspective within the historical tradition of this ancient church body.

Years earlier, in 2000, Rich had hung a crucifix above his computer. The image of Christ on the cross reminded him of the cost God paid for our salvation. Rich also began to write for a Catholic newspaper on the East Coast, and as each edition arrived, his desire grew to communicate his love of Christ with Catholics. He talked with me about this and I encouraged him to keep writing, for I too, felt the tug to see Rich minister to that part of Christ’s body. Rich’s desire to be more fully involved with some type of gospel ministry with Catholics seemed to grow with each year. However, he could not see how to fit himself into a Catholic context; nevertheless, we were sure we would be shown the way.

In 2002, we moved to Connecticut and spent two months living in a motel room waiting for our newly purchased home to be readied. During this time, we did some local sight seeing. A regional travel book mentioned, “A Sunset Cruise,” sponsored by St. Edmund’s Retreat on Enders Island. I thought this would be fun, since the mini- retreat would be on a sailboat at sunset. It sounded like a great way for us to see some of the coast and spend time with Jesus.

Rich was not sure we would fit in; the retreat was sponsored by a Catholic group. I assured him that there were no qualifiers mentioned in the ad, and I called and made reservations for the next week. We sailed out of Mystic, Connecticut, past Enders Island, out to Fishers Island where we dropped anchor, ate our boxed dinner, listened to a portion of Scripture, and watched the sun set over a glassy sea. Rich initiated a conversation with the priest, who was the retreat director, and who, in the next two years of friendship, opened the door for Rich to explore the mystery and life of the Catholic Church.

When Rich and I discussed the deepening call he felt toward the Catholic Church I found myself in conflict. I thought I was willing to follow Rich into ministry anywhere. But as he moved closer to embracing the doctrines of Roman Catholicism, I discovered my own lack of enthusiasm. What surprised me most, though, was my almost total opposition to Rich’s now consuming desire to join the Catholic Church. My childhood experiences of exclusion by family and friends from participation in any Catholic service or practice had indeed formed a deep gulf of pain.

As we traveled from Connecticut to the state of Washington, we moved into the unknown with knowledge that our future was somehow bound-up in a division that was creeping into our one-flesh marriage.

But God’s grace came to me in a word of comfort one sun-filled morning as we drove through miles of sunflowers along the road headed west. Rich was asleep in the seat next to me and the horizon was an undulating sea of brown fields. Humming a hymn softly to myself, a thought dropped into my mind: in the future we would be attending a Roman Catholic Church.

I was shocked with that idea, but somehow strangely comforted, too. I thought God would do something in me to change my heart. Perhaps we would both be part of this call -- not just Rich. I pondered that possibility over the months ahead and waited to see how I might change.

What I discerned, however, despite my willingness to be changed, was a resounding discovery that I was most definitely a Protestant.

What Followed

2007-09-08T12:58:00.000-07:00

After weeks of feeling miserable and uninvolved, I set about to know more about the Roman Catholic Mass, and dutifully studied the Missal – a book comprising the yearly congregational readings and responses. I found the Missal next to a hymnal in the bookrack.

It took me some time to discover how our Missal worked. I learned by trial and error that the basic outline, or order of the Mass, is in the front. Scripture readings and responses are in the middle section. To find the correct reading on any particular Sunday I looked for the date of that Sunday printed at the bottom of the page. Hymns were in the back of the Missal. Special days such as Easter filled entire sections, and like all books, there was a table of contents.

Across the page from the table of contents were the “Guidelines for the Reception of Communion,” which described who could take Holy Communion, and how those who could not take it might participate in the Celebration through prayer. The suggestion in the Guidelines encouraged everyone to pray to be united with Jesus and other Christians.

I was especially grateful that the general form of the Mass was almost exactly like the Anglican services we had experienced. The service seemed comfortable to me until it came time to sing the Communion hymn and Rich processed forward to take Communion. As had happened each time we attended Mass since his conversion, I was in tears by the time he returned to his seat.

I thought to myself in anger, surely, being a Protestant in a Catholic world was much too difficult for me. Although I was no longer attending a Protestant church, the desire to participate in Communion was a natural outflow of my Christian commitment, experience, and practice. I wondered if I had better rethink finding a Protestant church. The church where I attended a woman’s Bible study would be a good fit, but it was a 45-minute drive, and we had only one car. The more I mulled over the possibilities, the bleaker my predicament grew.

I knew Rich was praying for me. He hated to see me suffer, and was beside himself with misery. He told me many times he didn’t know how we could survive this continuous heartbreak, and if I would be more content, we would attend a Protestant church and he would sort out his Catholic obligations as he could.

Love is patient . . . patient to let the Lord work in me, in Rich, and in our situation.

One Sunday, during the processional hymn at the beginning of Mass, I was surprised to hear a voice very different from the usual near-whispered singing. A man behind us sang with passion, as if expressing his love directly to the Lord. I was impressed. The lackluster congregational singing often made me wonder if anyone in the Roman Catholic Church really cared that they were addressing the Trinity in song.

Later, during the portion of the Mass when the congregation “passes the peace” and shakes hands with those around them, I noticed the young man who had been singing so energetically radiated a joyful countenance. In weeks past, I’d only encountered pleasant, reserved, or non-expressive faces.

After Mass, Rich suggested we try the coffee and donuts in the social center. Because Rich received his RCIA instruction from a military chaplain, this church was a new community for both of us and Rich was eager to meet someone – anyone – with whom we might connect.

As we held our coffee cups and watched the milling crowd, I spotted the young man again. I urged Rich to speak to him. Surely, I thought, a person who seemed to be rejoicing in Christ might be a good person to get to know.

While the three of us sat at a table and talked, Rich mentioned his recent entrance into the Catholic Church. The young man immediately stood up, brought the senior pastor to our table, and introduced him to us.

Our pastor sat down and encouraged us to involve ourselves in the parish. When I explained I embraced the Anglican belief that the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ, he made a genuine effort to address my concerns about not receiving the Eucharist. He explained that the rules of the Roman Catholic Church prohibited him from giving Communion to a non-Catholic Christian. Although there were special circumstances during which non-Catholic Christians might receive the Eucharist, he said these were few and needed special permission. However, he warmly invited me to come forward to receive a blessing during the Liturgy of the Eucharist (Communion.)

I was grateful for the kind welcome and invitation by this good pastor.

My Husband is a Roman Catholic

2007-08-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

By the time we were seated on our chairs in the base chapel for the Easter Vigil Mass, I had accepted the inevitable change that was undeniably upon us. Although I wasn’t thrilled with what lay ahead that evening, I wanted to make the best of it for Rich. After all, I had determined to accept God’s will in my life, and my life was intertwined with Rich’s and I deeply regretted not being able to be fully attuned to this good thing in his life.

It grieved us that Rich had not received any recommendations or suggestions during his weekly instruction of how we might maneuver through these new waters. However, Rich and I talked about it quite often and concluded we had only two options: I could attend Mass with Rich, as a show of unity (but not join the Catholic Church), or I could go to my Protestant church while he attended Mass at the Catholic one.

Rich and I mulled over the solution of dual church affiliation. We knew of couples who’d chosen that option. A group of them had formed an online inter-church ministry to promote a one-couple-two-churches approach. Their web site, www.interchurchfamilies.org, was a great help for us in sorting out our options. The members of the group encouraged husbands and wives to respect the theological differences between their Catholic and Protestant church communities. Many of the couples even attended their respective churches together, and had done so for years

Rich and I discussed this form of church affiliation, and it seemed like a dual commitment of emotional energy, miles of travel, and the juggling of service times; as a 50-something couple, Rich and I were not capable of such an energetic “unity”.

During the Easter Vigil Liturgy, as the congregation recommitted themselves to Christ, Rich and I recommitted ourselves to the Lord, as we had at our baptism. That was a reaffirming part of the Mass for me, yet while Rich recited his part as a convert, I found myself enveloped in a profound sadness. Rich had no idea how wobbly my legs felt when the service ended; I kept a firm hold on his arm as we followed the crowd of well-wishers into the fellowship hall.

While I leaned against the wall and watched, Rich was greeted by one and then another of the congregation. I was happy for him.

Suddenly, I found myself warmly greeted. The man shaking my hand was the priest Rich had been meeting. Looking into his kind eyes, I wondered why he never reached out to me during all those months of counseling my husband. Rich’s half-hearted statement to me that the priest would be glad to answer my questions, and that I might attend any of their sessions, seemed to me an afterthought because of its timing--- midway into Rich’s weekly sessions. My Protestant experience had prepared me for joint pastoral counseling; I did not understand why our marriage had not been an important factor from the beginning.

Nevertheless, this man seemed kind and genuinely interested in me. We chatted for a few moments before he moved on to converse with others.

And so, our new life in Christ had begun.

The following morning we attended our first Easter Mass at the Catholic Church we’d visited several times during the previous months.

A Week Before

2007-08-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

The Saturday evening service between Good Friday and Easter morning, called the Easter Vigil, was the Mass during which Rich would enter the Roman Catholic Church.

A week before the Vigil I finally grasped that this Catholic change was really going to happen, and I’d better prepare. I planned to make a nice dinner, get my hair cut, and select just the right clothes to wear. I queried Rich about the dinner, but he promptly informed me he did not want a fuss. The process leading up to the week ahead had been difficult enough, and he did not want to emphasize it any more. I knew he was thinking of my needs, so I planned his favorite breakfast for that Saturday morning. We had a quick dinner the evening of the Vigil.

During the days leading up to the Vigil, I mused on my future within this unfamiliar body of believers. That future looked somewhat bleak. Rich often sat holding me as I mulled over questions about my role in Rich’s new home church. What if I had a spiritual problem? To whom would I go? As a non-Catholic, how would I “fit in” as Rich involved himself in the life of his church? I had always been at his side during church ministries, such as teaching Sunday school and home Bible studies. Would I now have to remove myself from those ministries in which he would participate? We clung together and pondered these questions from time to time – I in despair and he in anguish, unable to give me answers or comfort me.

By “coincidence,” my daily Bible reading took me through the book of Job during Holy Week. I’d read this book many times before, and had always plodded through the narrative of what seemed like one long, dull complaint. This time I saw myself in a Job-like situation, and his question, “why?” echoed in my mind.

But the more I read of the futility of Job’s situation and how he suffered without understanding the reason for his pain, I realized Job’s character grew stronger through his trials. His steadfast trust in God remained firm despite circumstances and personal attacks. Nothing altered Job’s trust in the mercy and righteousness of his Redeemer.

Friends accused Job of living a sinful life, and that was the reason for his troubles. Although no one had accused me of living a sinful life, I began to accuse myself. I desired so desperately to have renewed life breathed into our marriage that I now agonized over my supposed and real failures. For a time, I worried something was wrong with me because I could not accept the new beliefs that were so easy for Rich. I struggled with this every day. And, like Job, I pleaded with the Father to let me know what I was to do –not what I wanted to do, but what He wanted me to do.

I found part of my answer in Job 23:8-16 (New American Standard Bible):

8"Behold, I go forward but He is not there,
And backward, but I cannot perceive Him;
9When He acts on the left, I cannot behold Him;
He turns on the right, I cannot see Him.
10"But He knows the way I take;
When He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.
11"My foot has held fast to His path;
I have kept His way and not turned aside.
12"I have not departed from the command of His lips;
I have treasured the words of His mouth more than my necessary food.
13"But He is unique and who can turn Him?
And what His soul desires, that He does.
14"For He performs what is appointed for me,
And many such decrees are with Him.
15"Therefore, I would be dismayed at His presence;
When I consider, I am terrified of Him.
16"It is God who has made my heart faint,
And the Almighty who has dismayed me,”

Our Father poured into my troubled heart the balm only He could provide. I was comforted by His reminder that He knows the way I take, and that He appointed for me this time, this place and this way. Even when my heart felt faint from the darkness of an unknown future, it is His nail pierced hand that orchestrated it.

I read that passage repeatedly; and I remembered the exhortation of pastors and teachers in my past who encouraged me to trust in the Lord, lean on His word, accept good and bad from His hand.

The words to a favorite hymn played in my mind, “It will be worth it all when we see Jesus. Life’s trials will seem so small when we see Christ. One look at His dear face, all sorrow will erase; so bravely run the race till we see Christ.”

I would try to accept everything from the Lord’s hand as something He had planned for me.

I Begin My Instruction

2007-08-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

As much as I wanted to, I came to realize that no matter how I tried to squeeze myself into a Roman Catholic mold, I was unable to embrace all Catholic beliefs with a clear conscience. The doctrines and dogmas about Papal authority, Marian devotions, of Indulgences, Purgatory, prayers to Saints . . . I could not embrace them as Rich could, and I was dumbfounded to think that all my best efforts to do so were of no consequence.

It became clear to me that I had forgotten a truth I thought I had learned long ago: the Lord does not need my help.

Discouraged, I determined to tough it out – whatever that would mean for our marriage. And so, in a throw-up-the-hands-and-say-I-give-up exasperation, I decided to go about life as best I could.

But, I was not off the hook. A Christian who does not grow will shrivel into uselessness, and so, while Rich finished his meetings with the priest on the naval base, I began attending a classroom of a different sort.

I am now convinced the Holy Spirit used the turmoil in our home to capture my attention so I could rivet my eyes on Jesus and learn what He wanted me to learn. As I read the Scriptures from week to week, I found myself often opening to I Corinthians 13. That passage had always been a “feel good” chapter for me, because I liked the thought of love, and I believed I was living according to that definition of love.

However, as I repeatedly read and meditated on those verses, I discovered I was not living out any of those commands. In fact, I had never carefully studied my attitudes and actions in the light of what St. Paul had written.

Here is the passage (from the New American Standard Bible):

“If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. “

“And if I give all my possessions to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but do not have love, it profits me nothing. Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

“Love never fails; but if there are gifts of prophecy, they will be done away; if there are tongues, they will cease; if there is knowledge, it will be done away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part; but when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away."

“When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.”

I did not have that kind of love. Through those weeks of strife, I was unforgiving of my husband who was following the Holy Spirit’s urging. I was only marginally supporting him because all I was really interested in was me. Even if Rich did and said things that upset me, if I had love I ought to be kind. I ought to forgive. I ought to be patient, I ought to . . .

The Holy Spirit was focusing in on my sin, but my will set itself against His, and I decided I would “think about it” — later.

Later would come sooner than I thought.

Spectator and Participant

2007-08-11T16:43:00.000-07:00

As the haze of our turmoil started to dissipate, I began to study Rich’s behavior more carefully. What I thought I had observed in him during those more difficult months now caught my attention. I discovered a transformation in Rich’s prayer life, and that brought moments of joy back to my heart. I saw the young man I remembered from our first years of marriage – a disciplined man spending hours with Jesus. Initially I thought his change would be temporary, and I waited to see if his renewed habit truly was a move of the Holy Spirit. The longer I waited, the more dedicated Rich became to “his hour with Jesus.”

More impressive, however, was a change in another area that really confirmed something new was happening to Rich. Of all the challenges I had seen him struggle with consistently; Rich’s most difficult foe was his temper. I had seen him wrestle with ill temper, get a hold on it, and have it on the mat – only to see anger reach out, clutch at Rich and slam him down for the count. Over those long weeks of early 2005, Rich displayed an un-characteristic calm at all times. That impressed me. Perhaps my long years of prayer for him were being answered. I even dared think that this “Catholic thing” was somehow responsible.

If Rich was being made new, I, however, could not see much difference in my life. And that troubled me. Was Rich’s newness because he was now more attuned to the Lord through his different understanding of Scripture? Just as important, could that understanding make a difference in me? I wondered if I could be a Catholic too.

Goaded on by the desire to be again in agreement with Rich in our Christian walk, I felt the need to give an account to myself of what I believed. Thus followed a time where I questioned everything I had learned about how to serve Jesus. I compared all that I had read in the Catholic books scattered about the house, to what I believed the scriptures said. Either I believed the simple gospel – Jesus died for me – or I believed the Catholic books; for me to be a valid Christian, I should believe in the primacy of Peter, the many attributes of Mary, making prayers to the saints and similar ideas, which were foreign to what I believed scripture taught. Furthermore, until I read those books, I hadn’t realized how adherence to specific practices such as Baptism, Reconciliation, the Eucharist, and Confirmation were considered critical to salvation.

As I told Rich, I am a simple Christian. Unlike my husband, my Protestant education was not focused on learning doctrines in a classroom. I just trusted that if the Bible said, “Believe on the Lord Jesus and thou shalt be saved,” that’s what I needed to do to be saved. What I lacked in doctrinal knowledge I gained in relationship with Jesus. He offered me eternal life by shedding His precious blood for my sins. I owe Him everything. He owes me nothing, and yet the Master of the Universe deigned to give me all I possess.

It was this relationship that I pondered, and I pondered it long. Either I was hopelessly separated from Christ because I was not Catholic, as I believed the books insisted, or I was as I had always been since the day I gave Him my heart . . . a Christian.

The End – and the Beginning

2007-08-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

It was clear to me that God had opened Rich’s eyes to Roman Catholic interpretation of Scripture. However, I could not see where Rich was getting his newfound convictions. It puzzled me and caused no end of anguish that I was unable to understand Rich. But more importantly, I was bewildered that my Lord Jesus had not moved upon me in the same way He had moved on Rich. To this point in our lives together, for every major change or direction Rich and I had undertaken, we had individually experienced from God a change of heart to prepare us. However, what happened in 2005 was not what we had come to expect.

Who can comprehend the Father’s plan? I know God does not make mistakes, so I searched my Bible each day, even when the words seemed to have no life in them. I prayed as fervently as I knew how, yet our divisions seemed to multiply. However, in spite of all that was happening between us, Jesus placed into my heart a desire to trust Him.

Nevertheless, for months we found ourselves lost in that grotesque carnival fun house called “division.” After all the talking, weeping, praying, after having taken a course on communication, participating in a marriage enrichment weekend, and exhausting our own best efforts, we found ourselves once more totally frustrated with each other, ourselves and our situation.

We agreed on one thing, though. We knew we could not continue to live this way. We were “one flesh,” but we were biting and devouring each other. So, once more, we pleaded with our Lord to help us. As we approached the Throne of Grace, we admitted our failures and sins, and our need to be free of this divisiveness that continued to consume us.

And that’s when everything began to change. In that quiet moment of prayer on our living room carpet, our Father answered us separately. Into Rich’s heart He spoke, “It is over.” Into my heart He impressed, “Come here no more.”

We each understood His meaning. Rich knew he should no longer speak of our differences. Independently, I knew the same thing. When we told each other what the Lord had spoken to us, we discerned, for the first time in months, the Holy Spirit’s benediction of peace.

How grateful we are that our Father put an end to enmity and opened our eyes to what had been happening to us. We suddenly realized we had been under the control of “…the rulers, the powers, and the spiritual forces of wickedness…” (Eph. 6:12). Our eyes were now open to that devilish plan.

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In opening our eyes, I was suddenly free to discover how God wanted me to live within this new life. What I found was that this change was not just about Rich and his discoveries – but it was also about me. The weeks that I had felt estranged from God, His word, and His direction, started – in a small way – to make sense.

While Rich continued instruction with the Catholic priest on the naval base, I read some of the books Rich brought home for me. They were written from a Roman Catholic perspective to a predominantly Roman Catholic reader. Some books explained doctrines and dogmas of the Catholic Faith in clear terms, listing rules and traditions to which all Catholics adhere. These books described Roman Catholicism as the singular most perfect expression of the Christian Church, because Catholics have the Faith and Traditions handed down by the apostles. I also read testimonial stories of converts, some of whom remembered their Protestant past as being totally biased and dismissive toward Catholics. Some writers, at times, characterized their former Protestant instruction about Catholic theology as a form of bigotry. Although often praising the biblical roots of their faith, most testified to having been overtaken with the surprising discovery that they had been very wrong about the Roman Catholic Church and rejoiced that they were no longer Protestants. Their glowing descriptions of the wonder and newfound life in Christ sounded very much like the emotions I experienced when I made Jesus my savior at the age of twenty-six.

If those books did not beckon me to become Roman Catholic, they did challenge me to grow up in Christ. The first step was to admit that I was also ill taught about Roman Catholicism, and that my teachers had unknowingly passed along to me perceptions and misinformation that could be characterized as bigotry. When I discovered this, I was shocked. I had always thought of myself as open-minded. Could I really be a bigot?

I took a hard look into my past; most of my life I had been acquiring a thick shell of bias against Catholics. It covered the wounds unknowingly inflicted by my extended family, and it cushioned the other times I had hit my head against the wall of Roman Catholic beliefs. And, as bigotry is likely to do, I grew proud in my own particular doctrines and practices; it hardened my heart to the voice of the Holy Spirit, and blinded my eyes to the Father’s image in others.

I had two choices, (we always have only two). I could continue in my sin – or repent. I chose to repent. And the next part of that process was to forgive people who, in the guise of Catholic religious belief, intentionally or unintentionally had hurt me.

Over the years of my life, I have learned forgiveness is not a single act. It is a state of the heart, to be practiced daily. And to this end, the Holy Spirit gives us ample opportunities.

Definite Differences

2007-07-28T14:39:00.000-07:00

Thoughts of being emotionally abandoned kept me up night after night. It seemed as if a wall of isolation stood between us. Rich sought to comfort me, and I sought to comfort him -- but whenever we reached out to each other there was neither peace nor consolation. Our meaningful times of praying together were gone. Going to church became a painful chore.

Not a day passed that we did not find ourselves mulling over our differences of doctrine. Neither of us could understand why the other did not see the plain clarity of our own interpretation of Scripture. I could not comprehend how Rich’s insights could be so divergent from his past. For me, his changed perception and adherence to that change seemed as if he had closed the door on our lives at a critical level. We, who had found our greatest joy serving Jesus at church, now mechanically attended worship services. He began to voice dissatisfaction with the Protestant churches I wanted to try. I found myself in tears during the services at the Catholic churches we visited.

I grew more isolated during those months, alone in our home trying to put the new house in order and prepare for family visits. At Rich’s urging I sought out a women’s bible study at a local Protestant church and I became a member and regular attendee of the art league in town. After three months of attending that bible study, I left. Of the fifteen or so women, only one had bothered to even learn my name. I sought out another bible study farther from home. These women opened their arms in greeting at my first visit. Their acceptance of me unknowingly helped support my fragile courage, especially during the final transition in April.

But most helpful were friends from former days. Although I did not discuss our problems, I did mention the church dilemma we were facing. These women encouraged me to trust Christ. They urged me to stay connected with them. Without their constant commitment to our friendship, I could not have gone through the changes that were taking place in our home. Curiously, one challenged me to look for Jesus in the Catholic Church -- something I did not consider a reasonable suggestion at the time.

During the first months of 2005, Rich began to identify more and more with the doctrines he was confirming in his heart. He tended to have Catholic friends, and because we had just moved to a different state, he reached out to the Catholics he met at work and old acquaintances from our former home in Connecticut whom he knew were Catholic.

Rich did not discuss our problems with anyone, but he asked them for prayer for us to be able to communicate and stop fighting. Some of his new acquaintances tended to take sides. I don’t think they planned to do that, but it happened. What I perceived as their subtle messages about “how difficult Protestants can be” put me on the defensive. I thought Rich was complaining about me to his friends, something he had never done before. When I met them, they seemed cool toward me.

A chaplain he had counseled with at his job tried to instruct me by saying, “I know you are having some problems. We are all on faith journeys and this change in Rich is his responding to God’s call. You need to let him make this change.” As much as we needed help, talking with the chaplain only intensified my belief that I was being singled out and under attack. Rich had gone to her for advice. Yet, objective as I’m sure she wanted to be, she already was biased to his point of view because, as I learned later, she herself had moved with some difficulty from one denomination to another.

That meeting set a wedge between Rich and I that took several months to heal.

Although we both knew how to behave in Christ during good times and difficult ones, we found ourselves focusing more and more on our differences. Our eyes were off Jesus, the One who had held our marriage together for those thirty years. We did not know we were being influenced by the enemy of our souls. Honestly, we believed we were doing everything that was right to do. We sensed our need to find common ground. Yet the slightest problem escalated into sometimes weeks of misunderstanding. This had never happened in the 30 years we had been married.

If our eyes had been opened, we would have seen what was happening. The arguments, the days and nights of feeling abandoned, the lack of joy in our worship together in church or at prayer, the antagonistic feelings and the subtle thoughts of suspicion, anger, frustration were all part of a spiritual manipulation. But we could not see it at the time.

We had become prisoners of ugly, denominational division.

Had To Begin Somewhere

2007-07-12T17:50:00.000-07:00

When Rich first approached me with the idea of his joining the Catholic Church, I panicked. While all that he was learning was new to him, it was very familiar to me. He’d lived his life for more than fifty years without serious thought about the Catholic Church. His only understanding of Catholicism was what he had learned in Bible College, and seminary, and from a few conversations with a Catholic priest and some Catholic friends.

I wondered if Rich knew what his decision might bring into our marriage. I tried to point out things that might be different for us, such as my exclusion from the Lord’s Table, and that we would be at odds about so many long held traditions, but he couldn’t hear me. In fact, no matter how often I pointed out those differences, I did not seem to have his attention, and I perceived his responses as negative. I came to believe he thought of me as an antagonist. He, however, couldn’t understand why I wasn’t seeing the truths he was discovering – truths he wanted to share with me as he has shared other spiritual blessings during our lives together. So, I was frustrated with what I perceived as his anger at my questions and he was frustrated at my tears and outbursts.

Looking back, I shouldn’t have tried to point out the actual and potential problems. I should have let him go about the business of doing what he felt he had to do. He was determined to discover as much as he could about Catholicism. Standing in his way only delayed the process; but I had some deep issues that motivated me.

To understand what seemed to Rich as my emotional and irrational objections to his desire to share his new understanding of the Catholic Church, and why I dared not encourage that clear call of God on his life, I need to take a moment to explain.

The foundation for panic began in my heart when I was four.

A pivotal moment in my life, one that brought years of subtle rejection, took place the afternoon my sister first became ill. My parents were not at home. When my mother returned to our apartment she was dismayed to find our caretaker hysterical and firemen resuscitating my baby sister. I rushed from my bedroom to tell Mom how I had tried to help, but the shock of the event overwhelmed her. She lashed out at me. And unknowingly she allowed that day and the days that followed to embitter her. Her focus became my sister to the exclusion of everything else. I must have seemed a burden. She went about the motions of parenting me but did not begin to recover hope and affection until my brother was born five years later.

If I had no acceptance at home, where could I expect to find it?

My maternal uncle was married to a Catholic woman, and my paternal aunt was married to a Catholic man. Their families were well-meaning toward me, and during my younger sister’s frequent life and death visits and admissions to the hospital, I spent many Sundays in one of their homes.

On Sundays, my mother’s brother, a non-Catholic, stayed home. It puzzled me that my aunt, who was always gracious and welcoming to me, and included me in every family outing, would on Sundays rush her sons out the door while I ate breakfast alone. I often asked to go with them, but she typically evaded my request by telling me my uncle was in the yard if I needed anything. So I would wander the house or watch television until my aunt and cousins returned from Mass. I assumed they didn’t take me with them because my parents and I were Protestants.

My father’s sister and her husband were both Catholic. I remember them as huge people who brooked no nonsense. The first time they took me to Mass I imitated them and knelt after we arrived at the pew. My aunt gently pushed me toward the seat and firmly whispered to stay seated. I sat there until I was told to kneel at the Elevation of the Host. At that time my aunt confided to me that Jesus was now present and they would soon go forward to receive Him. I looked very hard to see Jesus. When the family processed forward I was again told to sit. Jesus came to this church, but I was not invited to meet Him.

This, along with the definitive theological pronouncement from one of my Catholic cousins, who told me that as a Protestant I was going to hell along with the Christ killing Jews, sealed my relationship with the Roman Church. I was not angry with Catholics. I simply developed a gut level feeling that the Roman Catholic Church did not want me around, nor did it consider me of much worth.

When I returned with my parents to our Protestant church and heard again, “…Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world,” I sighed in relief. Jesus loved me.

My husband didn’t realize it, but I expected to be forever an outcast within any local Catholic church because I was not Roman Catholic. Worse, I also knew I’d be barred from taking communion with Rich. That knowledge caused me increasingly severe emotional stress. Communion was the foundation stone that was set into our lives the day we were married. We celebrated Communion as our first act as man and wife – an unusual request, our Evangelical Baptist pastor told us – but one he agreed to.

I was convinced the Catholic Church viewed my love for Jesus, and His for me, as improbable because of my incorrect doctrine and lack of participation in the correct rituals. I was convinced they believed Christ, my Savior, could not bridge that gap and call me His own. The pain of the childhood separation from my mother and from my aunts and uncles’ families morphed into a conviction that I would be separated from my beloved husband in the same way.

I began to have nightmares.

My Life Plain And Simple

2007-07-01T15:23:00.000-07:00

2004 started well. My husband had a good job; we lived in a pretty house on a quiet street with friendly neighbors and beautiful views out our windows. Our children were healthy and busy about their lives, and our siblings and elderly parents were active about theirs. We were involved in our church and had many new friends. Even a long desired art room was mine, and local art shows exhibited my work.

But in the mystery of life, serious changes crouched below the horizon. In fact, those changes – and challenges – were rooted in events two years earlier.

The first came with our move to Connecticut when we began to attend an Anglican church. Although we had never visited a sacramental church before, our interest was aroused when this particular Anglican church was strongly recommended by Christians we respected.

The Sunday we walked into the vestibule we were warmly greeted by the senior pastor. We felt at home with his sermon, the praise choir and the welcome from many in the congregation. But the transition from the non-sacramental Protestant upbringing of my childhood brought lots of questions from family and friends who wanted to know why we would attend a church they suspected to be non-biblical.

My faith and understanding of Christ was born and matured during my fifty-plus years in non-sacramental churches, although, as a young adult, I briefly investigated different styles of worship. I was intrigued by what I experienced at Newman Centers (special parishes that minister to the needs of college students) and for a brief time engaged in some discussions with a friend’s priest about the Catholic faith. Those experiences were more like looking through a window as an observer.

But, I became alive in Jesus the November evening I bowed my 26 year old heart before him, confessed my sins and gave Him my life – all of it. An Evangelical, Pentecostal, and Baptist foundation formed my doctrine and practice. Jesus accepted my commitment to Him and sent me to Japan where I taught kindergarten on the naval base. Within a month of my arrival, I met Rich. A short time later, we married and began our life in that foreign land. When we returned a year later to the States, Rich attended an Assemblies of God Bible college, and we began a family.

I grew in my relationship with Christ as a result of the testimonies of others, and was nurtured by the rich fellowship with godly men and women. My spiritual mentors – men and women of seasoned faith and experience – encouraged me to trust God’s plan for me, to stand firm against temptation, and live each day dedicated to Jesus. I learned to read the Bible from cover to cover, and choose books about Christians who lived totally for Christ. I attended Bible studies taught by mature Christians who also encouraged me to place my feet on the Rock, Christ Jesus.

But in time, I became complacent in my walk with the Lord. When I recognized it, I sought to be renewed in my spirit, and our gracious God sent a Pentecostal revival meeting to our town. It was a wonderful time of getting back to the basics of faith: Jesus’ death on the cross, salvation, resurrection . . . the renewed blessing of the Holy Spirit in my life encouraged me to be more active in the spreading of the gospel.

I believe I understand some of the nature of fallen man. We tend to get in a rut and that rut feels comfortable. So when we started attending the Anglican services I was forced out of my cozy rut. In time, I came to love the sacramental service, the people, and the idea that perhaps for a few moments I was touching the body and the blood of Christ. Our pastors were Anglo-Catholic in their teaching. Although the praise team led our worship, for me, simply entering the sanctuary was a time of worshipful recognition that Jesus was present there. That was not a new concept for me; that idea was held by members of all the Pentecostal and Holiness churches I attended.

The most difficult part of attending the Anglican Church was that it took me a long time to address the pastor as “Father.” I don’t know how often I would find myself not speaking to the man just so I did not say “Father.” He must have thought me a real dunce. But all those years as a child being told to “call no man father” really were hard to get past. After two years I was partly successful.

Life was not perfect but it was pleasant and even the hard places were manageable, taken one day at a time. Life became comfortable again.

I should have thought more about that as I read my Bible. Nowhere are Christians urged to sit back and relax. We are called to be salt and light, not comfy pillows on a couch. I was blinded by the thought that I was doing all I could for Jesus. I was as good a wife as I thought I could be. I was a loving mom and daughter. I attended church, helped out cleaning the sanctuary, taught first and second graders in a youth club, supported hungry and uneducated children . . . I thought I was doing all I could. I looked forward to a life of the same kind of service as I had been accustomed to for over 30 years.

What I did not know was Jesus wanted more.