[In a fit of insanity I volunteered to share my faith journey with the Catholic Medical Association of Nashville tomorrow night. This--more or less--is that I have in mind to say. Prayers appreciated.]
Thomas Merton began
his biography with these words:
On
the last day of January in 1915, under the sign of the Water Bearer, in a year
of a great war, and down in the shadow of some French Mountains on the borders
of Spain, I came into the world.
I think mine
begins this way:
On a
holiday now forgotten, in 1951, under
the sign of the Balance, as a minor war came to a stale mate, under the shadow
of a crucifix, a baby scientist was delivered of a Methodist mother by a Jewish doctor in a Catholic hospital.
My birth is a
metaphor for my journey—Protestant to Catholic by way of Judaism, always with
Holy Mother Church in the background, surrounding me, waiting, watching,
guiding me. It just took me 50 years to
figure it out. Sometimes for a
scientist, I am not all that observant….
God
made me a scientist before He made me anything else. As long as I can remember I have had the urge
to understand even the inexplicable. But
if God gifted me with the burden of a
scientist’s nature, He also gifted me with an understanding that whatever I
could explain was necessarily insufficient.
For example, I understand all manner of things about chemistry. I can explain the chemical reaction that
produces water. I can to regurgitate the
formulas that explain chemical bonding and draw diagrams that make it visible. But I
also know instinctively that
understanding the material concepts of how water comes to be doesn't explain
water. If doesn't explain rain, or soft
Irish mist , or ponds, or the ocean, or the incredible relief a cold, wet cloth or cold drink on a hot day
brings. I suppose God gifted me within innate understanding of the
difference between substance and accidents and He gifted me with a sense of
Mystery, and with that can sometimes be a great frustration …
The good sisters
at Holy Name of Jesus Hospital s
ent the crucifix that hung over my crib home with my
mother. It hung over my bed throughout
my growing up and I managed to hold onto it even during the turbulent years of
college. It now hangs at the apex of the
family oratory, a reminder that even when I didn't see where I was going God
did.
My parents were sporadic in church attendance
but looking back I realize that they taught me something perhaps more valuable:
that religion starts in the home and
informs one’s very life. Religion to them was a way of living, not a
Sunday exercise. It is telling that all
three of us children have strong—though wildly different—faiths even to this
day: A Methodist-turned Lutheran, now Pentecostal, a Methodist, turned
Episcopalian now Baptist and a Methodist Jew now relatively newly-minted
Catholic.
I would show up in
our little church for the first day of
Sunday school, and Easter, and promotion day, and a few days in between. I would learn vast quantities of Scripture (though
in a foreshadowing of my Catholic destiny I never managed to learn citations
along with it). But mostly in my early
and Methodist years, I was formed by two
things: music and mystery. But perhaps
they are the same thing.
My two older
brothers—13 and 15 years older-- would take me to hymn sings on Sunday evenings
and if we did not go to church on
Sunday, I would spend Sunday mornings with my dad watching Gospel music
programs on television. There is a lot
of theology in music and I internalized it largely in silence because in my
family the more important something is the less likely we were to talk about
it. While that sometimes causes problems
it also gave me the gift of interiority that has served me well as a Catholic. I learned without ever talking about it that
God was present and unseen in even the most mundane things I did. If I did not learn to worship Him every week
in church, I least came to know that He is, is real, and is not some distant
figure but part of the very fabric of life.
My own personal life, not random, generic, life-in-general.
Every once in a
while, we would wander into church on something other than the appointed days
and sometimes it would be the last Sunday of the month, communion Sunday. In our church, we would kneel at the altar
railing, in which was carved Do This in Remembrance of Me. We would pass a tray filled with
little cups of grape juice and cubes of Wonder Bread and we would take and we
would eat. It was entirely symbolic. But there was something inexplicably special
about kneeling there with my family on either side of me, doing something that
I knew had been done from the very first days of the very first
Christians.
When I was in high
school, I once wandered into the Catholic Church for a noon mass, mostly just
out of curiosity. I was surprised by the
fact that even though the mass was in a language I did not understand-it was in
the last days before the English mass would be introduced in our area--I knew
the rhythms and when I looked at the translation in the Missal, I knew the words, both from the Bible and
from our communion services. And when,
as a quick study with no idea that I was not to come forward, I followed along
with the crowd, and knelt at the altar, said the Amen, tipped back my head and
opened my mouth and received our Eucharistic Lord for the first time, I knew
this was as different from the communion service in my church as night was from
day even though I was not sure how. I
just knew that I had been a presence overwhelming and very special. But that is where it ended, at least for the
time being.
I mentioned that Holy Mother Church
was always present. My next door
neighbors were Catholic and I was great friends with the second son who was a
few years older than I. Catholics were
somehow exotic : Ray got to wear a cool uniform
to school, he rode the city bus to and from, the school he went to was so much
better than mine and besides, he got days off I didn't. And in his family, like mine, religion was
something you lived not something you just believed.
I saw it in the way they went to church,
in the way they did not eat meat on Friday, in the Sisters and priests
who dressed and lived differently from everyone else.
Somewhere along
the line, my dad brought it home to me a rosary someone had left behind where
he worked —I have no idea why and, true to form, I never asked. It was enough it was a gift from my father. It was pink glass beads, and it came in a
little box that had “my rosary” on the
top of it. Ray took it to his parish and
had it blessed and told me how to pray it.
When
he explained the Hail, Mary, I remember asking him why he called Mary the
Mother of God when she was Jesus’ mother.
He is explanation was simple: Jesus is God, right? If Jesus is God and Mary is His mother, Mary
is the Mother of God.
Even my still developing
scientific nature got that on the first try.
If A=B and B=C, then A=C. I
eventually lost those physical beads, but when I would pick up another set some
forty years later, they were inexplicably familiar, like reconnecting with an
old friend. Mary was never an obstacle
in my journey.
In college, I
drifted away from my Methodist roots but I was still surrounded by Holy Mother
Church. I went to school in Arizona and
I started my college career as an anthropologist. The scientist in me chose physical
anthropology before the practical side of me switched to chemistry upon
realizing that people with Ph.Ds in anthro were driving cabs for aliving….. Anthro course work required studies in
cultural anthropology as well as bones and digging. I learned the skill of looking at a culture
at least in part through its own
lens. And what a culture I was
surrounded by Tucson was steeped in the
Catholic way of life, very much in the Hispanic mold. It is home to one of the most beautiful
churches ever established by any missionary in the Southwest: San Xavier del Bac, the White Dove of the
Desert, fruit of Fr. Eusebio Kino’s faith and fortitude. When I got involved social justice issues in
college—it was all the rage--they were colored by the presence of the Catholic
Church. I worked in the barrios among
the poor, cleaning houses and community buildings and sharing tortillas and
beans with those who lived there. I got
to know how the Yaqui Indians celebrated
Easter and how the Hispanics celebrated Christmas and assorted feast days in
wonderful, public and ways that stirred up something more than just my
intellectual appreciation of them.
When I finished
college, I went to medical school because it was oddly enough the path of least
resistance. There I met and married husband. Reflective of where we were at the time, it
was a secular ceremony and we wrote our own vows. Later, I would learn what a gift my marriage really
was; how I would learn the meaning of love
and sacrifice; how God would communicate the mystery of His love through the
very real presence of my husband whom I will never be able to thank enough…marriage:
the icon of the interior life of God..who knew?
Intellectually, I never encountered that notion until after I entered
the Church, but once I did, it found an immediate home, for I knew the reality
before I had the words to explain it.
In the middle of
residency, and for reasons that are lost
in the mist of time, I began to have religious stirrings again. And for reasons that are likewise lost, I was
not attracted to the “Me and Jesus” Protestantism that surrounded me. Like a good scientist, I suppose, I decided
to go back to basics and so I studied and entered the Jewish faith. I'm pretty sure my husband thought I had
taken leave of my senses but he supported me because I suppose at some level he
trusted me not to be completely crazy.
I don't know that
I was ever a particularly good Jew, but I entered into it as fully as I
could. I read about it (because that's
what scientists do) but more importantly I lived it: I made Shabbos, celebrated
Passover, went for the festive reading of the Megillah at Purim, attending at shul
for Yom Kippur—I did it all, or at least all that presented itself to me for my
participation. For Judaism, as with the
religion of my youth, is a way of being more than a way of thinking. In the few years that I practiced actively, it inserted itself in my very bones. For me, Passover is not a concept is a
reality. The story of God caring for the
Israelites is not some abstract tale but is family lore. And the idea that God works through the very
stuff of this world is as natural as breathing.
When I look back, I know that learning to be a Jew helped make me a
Catholic.
When our son was
born, like all pretty much secular couples we were faced with an existential
crisis: how to raise this child. Both of
us knew that we would raise our children with faith but the question was which
one? Steve had never been able to
embrace the practice of Judaism. We shook the family tree and a couple of
Episcopalians fell out--- and an Episcopal church was just around the corner
from where we lived--so that's where went.
We spent 20 years
as Episcopalians. We learned to love the
beauty and rhythms of liturgy for there are few things more beautiful than High
Anglican worship. We learned the power
of prayer and mystery reentered my life in a new form and quite unexpectedly in
something as close to a mystical experience as my clay-footed and scientific
nature is ever likely to allow.
It happened like
this: The Holy Week after we entered the Episcopal Church, I walked through a
pouring rain in the middle of the night to the chapel of repose to keep vigil
on Holy Thursday. I spent an hour there
alone, trying to make sense out of this religious commitment I had made in
light of the daily life I was living at the time as a medical examiner hip deep
every day in the evil that men do that—I can testify to this—really does live on
after with great force.
Miracles, you see,
have never been a mystery to me; the mystery
to me has always been how to make sense of this very broken world when somehow I
know a good God exists. I
will not bore you with the details; suffice it to say that night, as I walked
back home in the rain in the darkest hours of the night, at some level beyond
the edges of my mind, in a space not my intellect, a place where I think my
heart lives, I understood that I would never understand but also knew that if I were quiet and open I would somehow
come nearer that good God even through the awful things I worked with every
day.
Because we eventually
spent so much time in a parish led by a descendant of the Oxford movement, we
considered ourselves as fully Catholic as anyone. If you believe you are already at the
destination, it makes it hard to continue to journey. In my experience, those who consider
themselves Anglo-Catholic are at once the closest relatives and the most
distant strangers to Catholicism. I am
sure that had we remained in our Anglo-Catholic parish in Florida we would
eventually have still swum the Tiber but a constellation of events in God's
good time made it happen sooner.
As we were getting
ready to leave our little island of orthodoxy in Florida for parts unknown and
parishes untested in Tennessee in 2003, ECUSA elected Vicki Gene Robinson a
bishop. As this was happening I remember
thinking that this was simply impossible, that the ECUSA would never do such an
outrageous thing.
But they did. As a result, we sat in Episcopal Church after Episcopal Church in
the Chattanooga area listening to the various Episcopal ministers in each
church castigate those of us orthodox inclination who could not accept that it
was all right for a priest of the Episcopal Church to abandon his sacramental
marriage for a gay relationship he then called sacramental and then be ordained
bishop in the bargain. After one
particularly memorable moment of which I am not proud—but which is the stuff of
legends-- I turned my husband and said, “There is a Catholic church down the
street. I'm going. Come with me if you want.”
It was an act very
much born out of frustration and anger and in some ways it was a running away
from more than a running to. But much
like a child who at the first sight of lightening and the first peal of thunder knows instinctively
to seek her father's lap and her mother's arms, I went to the Church. When I think about it I am reminded to Peter’s
words: To whom else would we go Lord?
You have the words of eternal life.”
All I knew at the
time was that the sands had shifted beneath me.
The Episcopal Church that had nourished me for so many years with
liturgy and music and communion had suddenly decided to put truth up to a
vote. And the scientist in me knew that
that we discover truth, we encounter it, we do not decide it or create it.
The decision to go
to the Catholic Church was very easy: I had learned to depend on communion and
I could not be without it. I did not
know why but I knew that my very life depended on being at table. And at table I was going to be.
Of course it took
over a year for that to come about. I
would have done quite literally anything Holy Mother Church asked of me in
order to be able to receive again. That
time when I could no longer in conscience kneel at the Episcopal altar and was
not yet received into the Catholic Church was a period of great dryness and
trial.
It was made worse
by the fact that our college-age daughter was in the midst of a deep depression
that found its expression in lashing out at me.
I remember telling God that I didn't care whether or not my daughter
ever loved me again, I only wanted her whole.
God took advantage of the Desert to teach me in very real terms what
redemptive suffering is all about—I would learn the intellectual concept only after coming into the Church and
being there for some time--- and He did it then even though—perhaps because—I
was without the usual consolation of communion.
In my very bones,
the same bones that carry the rhythm of Jewish life (and the Jewish
understanding of suffering as beyond comprehension but not enough to separate
us from God) even today, I know that had
the Eucharist not brought me home, the lessons of redemptive suffering would. And if not that, the realization that the
relationship of Christ to His Church is that of Groom to Bride—in a real and
mysterious, not just metaphorical sense would have been the key. I have found God hedges His bets…
Even so it was not
until sometime after we were received that I actually converted. I was standing in the kitchen, where my best
thought and prayer occurs, peeling potatoes for a winter stew. Suddenly it hit me, the incredible,
mysterious, consonant, rational, senseless,
incomprehensible beauty of the Catholic faith.
And just as suddenly I couldn't
stop talking about it. In contrast to my
many years in the Episcopal Church, when I never felt moved to share my faith, I will tell anyone who will listen (and some who won't) about what I found
when I came home. And of course the
scientist in me has to explain what that is even though I know I can't possibly
do that.
What I found is
what I had been looking for all along: a path to the fullness of Truth that
would lead me encounter the great I AM as He is, where He is. And He is most
fully and most gloriously is in the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, in
the faith passed down whole and entire from the Apostles, and especially, most
especially. in the sacraments, and most particularly in the Eucharist.
I started this with
a quotation from Thomas Merton. I want to end with something I heard on Downton Abbey. This is a my best recollection of a conversation
between the Lady Mary and her husband Matthew.
Over the three seasons of the show, Lady Mary has established herself as
a sometimes mean and unpleasant character.
The conversation begins in the bedroom where her husband has just given
her a good night kiss and told her what wonderful woman she is.
Mary: No one else
seems to think I'm very good. Why do
you?
Matthew: Because I
have seen you naked. Because I have held
you in my arms. Because I know you
better than you know yourself and I love you.
The scene ends
there but the conversation really concludes some weeks later, after the birth of their
son. Mary looks at Matthew and says
something like, “I want to be your Mary for all eternity. Thank you for loving me."
And that is what
this scientist found in the Catholic Church.
I found the place where Jesus, really and substantially, body and blood,
soul and divinity, waits to meet me in and through the sacraments He established,
surrounded by my family, the Church; family that by its very existence communicates
Him to me in ways real and supernatural. I found Jesus, in the way that He
intended, in the fullness I sought, the great vastness of mystery laid out for
me not to understand but to encounter and live contented within and sit in awe before. I found Him who has seen me with all my
faults. Who has held me in His
arms. Who knows me better than I know
myself. And yet, Who, loves me.
I
want to be His Barbara for all eternity.
And I thank him for loving me into and through His Church.
Deo Gratias.
This Tremendous Mystery whom we call God has become incarnate and has revealed Himself to all who seek Him, especially to His Barbara.
ReplyDeleteWell done; wish I could be there to hear it in person.
ReplyDeleteYour thoughts reminded me of a quote I read in an excellent book by Thomas Dubay entitled: The Evidential Power of Beauty. In it, Mr. Dubay writes this quote: "You can recognize truth by its beauty and simplicity" -- Richard Feynman, Nobel laureate in physics.
It took me many years to appreciate the beauty and simplicity of the Catholic faith.