Faith In Exile, Part I

I’ve never until this moment written the following words down, and I’ve only spoken them aloud to my wife.

I consider myself a Catholic.

I was raised in a non-religious home, although my mother taught us to believe in the God of the Bible, and in His son, Jesus. She allowed us to attend church with friends if we wished, and she prayed with me at my bedside when I was a little fellow. The doctrines — if they can be called doctrines — that I was taught were standard but elusive. The Ten Commandments, and the Sinner’s Prayer, and Jesus waits to be invited into our hearts. But even if you prayed until your eyes bled and your hands locked together and asked Him to forgive your sins and take you to Heaven upon death and if He came and dwelt with you….it could all be undone with one deliberate sin. The promises that He made concerning your soul and eternity were serious, inviolate decrees. Unless you displeased Him. In that case, all bets were off, and you were now officially a Backslider, and you had to repent and get “saved” all over again. I never heard my mother talk about getting “saved” or trusting Christ as her savior until she was in her eighties, and even then it was only a glancing, oblique remark upon which she flatly refused to elaborate. I got saved when I was 11 years old at a Vacation Bible School meeting, and got re-saved a few more times in my young life, always following the Sinner’s Prayer formula and usually in the midst of some emotional crisis or peer pressure. The the crass but effective sales tactics of the manipulative evangelist Charles G. Finney were never underestimated in the Protestant South of my youth.

But I had an aunt who went rogue on us. She converted to Catholicism while serving in the Air Force after high school. In my family, this was as shocking and shameful as if she had become a member of the Communist Party or applied for a sex-change operation. I remember being fascinated by her crucifix and asking her questions about her faith when I was a teenager. At one point she made a remark along the lines of, “Well, if you’re interested in Roman Catholicism, I could introduce you to my priest. I’m sure he could answer any questions you have.” The look my mother gave her at that point peeled all the paint from the walls of my aunt’s house, and I believe most of the neighborhood cats went sterile at that instant, and the fire alarms in nearby businesses began to sound, and if memory serves, two or three airplanes crashed nearby. My aunt never again said such a thing in my mother’s presence. In fact, I don’t recall us ever discussing Catholicism again. I don’t honestly believe she had any influence on me at all in terms of religion. She was, however, the one adult I talked to about a mystical experience I had when I was a small child, and what I told her made her angry and uncomfortable, and she told me not to talk about it anymore.

I spent my young adulthood away from church, except for brief excursions to chapel while serving as a Marine. Once, while flying out west, I was seated next to a Catholic priest, an avuncular older man with silver hair and a pleasant smile. He tried to engage me in conversation, but I remember being cold and aloof to him, and he finally gave up and took up a book to read. My only explanation for my behavior is that I carried a superstition, probably from my family’s influence, that even talking to a priest would endanger my soul. Catholic priests, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Moonies, Masons, and Marxists were all part of a shadowy cabal intent on destroying my soul. So it was better to be rude than to end up retching on brimstone fumes.

After my USMC years, I grew introspective and interested in eternal things, and gravitated towards church once again. I was a Baptist briefly, but asking too many questions of the deacons earned me a not-so-subtle suggestion that I find another church to annoy. I found myself in the Presbyterian world, and latched onto it with a tight hold. I became an uber-Calvinist, and I blush now to think of what an obnoxious, doctrinaire little twerp I was during those years.

I served as a ruling elder in the church for years, teaching Sunday School and playing the game with all the spiritual vigor I had. But I became disillusioned with what I saw and heard, and I realized that I didn’t really believe quite a bit of the stuff I was ramming down the throats of others. I began to make enemies in my church circles when I started making pointed observations about John Calvin and Martin Luther…and the denomination’s leadership. So, in the fullness of time, I resigned my ordination and asked that my wife and I be removed from the membership rolls (an unusual request, but it was granted, largely because the congregation was in turmoil over other matters having nothing to do with me).

We originally planned to church-shop a bit and settle in with another congregation. But our conversations, deep and wide-ranging as usual, prevented us from jumping onto our horses and riding off in all directions. We both became perhaps more spiritual and more God-centered than we had ever been while part of a congregation, but we were uneasy. We were never free of the peer pressure from friends and family (and one family member happens to be a clergyman, if you can dig the complications that little fact brings about). If you’ve never lived in the American South, you probably can’t relate to the compulsive need most adults feel to invite you to church and try to evangelize you at every step. If you’re not a member of their church and/or their denomination, well, you very well might not really be a Christian, so it never hurts to ask, and our pastor preaches the best sermons, and we have a great youth program, and can you come to the fellowship meal on Friday night?

The churchless weeks stretched into months, and the months stacked up, and we simply didn’t feel any great need to run out and attach ourselves to a group. We were warned repeatedly by loving friends and family that we were forbidden to forsake the assembling together of the saints, and no amount of “We’re not forsaking anything” declarations ever made a dent in any of them. We read and discussed Scripture, prayed together, and talked incessantly of the things of God. And then something happened that I would never have foreseen.

I had an experience, which I will not discuss here, an experience that led me to question several basic beliefs of mine, and this questioning led to much, much reading and thinking. And this reading and thinking led me right to Rome, metaphorically speaking. I corresponded with a few well-known Catholics and was treated to some careful, considerate responses. Over time, I realized that my heart and soul were in sympathy with the Catholic church. I was standing just outside this embattled, mysterious group called Roman Catholicism. And I had never even attended Mass.

To be continued….

S.K. Orr