I stumbled on Bishop Robert Barron on
Youtube nearly five years ago, back when he was still a Father. As a writer, I
was impressed with his knowledge and insight about story and its function. I
was also encouraged by his educated commentary and articulate style. I
subsequently watched several more videos in which he talked about the Bible,
Christianity, and Catholicism. Thanks to his clarifications, I soon discovered
that much of what I’d been told about Catholicism as a practicing protestant
was either misleading or untrue.
Several months later I attended my
first Catholic service here in town. I enjoyed the service, despite my
ignorance of its rituals, and came away sobered by its grandeur and somber
tone. The entire experience humbled me. And this, oddly enough, is what appealed
to me most.
As a protestant teen attending an
Assembly of God church (which, incidentally, has its roots in the Pentecostal
tradition of the early 20th century), emphasis was placed on baptism
of the Holy Spirit. This is a separate thing from traditional Baptism, and it
made for some overly sensationalized interpretations of Christianity. Services
were more free form than structural, involving dancing in the aisles, jumping
up and down, and the shaking of tambourines. This high strung, emotional aspect
– abrupt outbursts by church members speaking in tongues and others providing
subsequent interpretations or announcements of what those tongues meant – struck
me as disorienting and bizarre. It was my parents’ church, my mother’s in
particular, and I never really felt at home.
To make matters worse, in the vein of
what some today term the Prosperity Gospel, popularized by such famous
millionaires as Joel Olsteen, our preacher portrayed God as a kind of Father
Christmas, granting favors and blessings to the pious. Evidently, one’s arrangement
with God was characterized as a sort of quid pro quo. The more devout the
believer, the greater the odds of financial success. Taken to its extreme, this
tends to reduce the purpose of following Christ to a material rewards system. Even
as an ignorant teen, this struck me as a perversion of Christianity. Christ’s
apostles suffered hardship, trials. Somehow, despite my upbringing, I regarded
Christianity as an expression of sacrifice. Through ordeals, I reasoned, one
grows, presumably, not only more reliant on God but more devoted and attuned to
His desires, not our own.
I acknowledge this isn’t a
particularly attractive interpretation. Nor am I suggesting I lived it. But I
regarded the idea as beneficial because it urged the believer to, if anything,
better himself. The idea that God seeks our obedience for its own sake, our
love because He loves us, our devotion because He wants what’s best for us –
this is a hard sell, but it rang true for me.
At this Assembly of God church my
family attended, however, I still recall several occasions in which the more modest and
contrite elements of Christ’s message were supplanted by those verses that
suggested we Christians are children of the King of Kings and therefore
inheritors of the Kingdom of God, and that since Heaven is paved with streets
of gold, we had but to ask our heavenly Father for stuff and He would oblige. This
struck me as self-serving and even satirical.
To expect God to grant our requests
like a genie grants wishes caused me, over time, to question my church’s
doctrine. That God is beholden to our prayers as if He were legally bound to a
contract loses sight of what Christianity is all about. Yet that’s precisely
what many at this church believed and taught at subsequent Bible study groups,
insisting that if God doesn’t oblige, just insist. I could only imagine such a prayer. “Look here, God. This is
Your Word. Luke, chapter eleven, verse nine: ‘Ask and it will be given to you;
seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.’ To refuse me
is to disavow Your promise. Grant my request!”
As I say, even as a teen, I found
this approach presumptuous. Throwing specific lines from the Bible in God’s
face was a form of arrogance I couldn’t abide. In fact, I remember wondering whatever
happened to the contrite, penitent Hebrew of the Old Testament, rending his
clothes, ripping out his hair by the roots, prostrating himself before God, and
sprinkling ashes on his head. Where did his contrition fit into this
privileged, arrogant attitude this church had adopted? This turned me off and played
a part in my religious doubt and eventual atheism, which, by the way, after
over a decade of practicing and reading gobs of philosophy, from Anselm to
Sartre, I ultimately abandoned. After embracing Christianity again, however, I
was still leery of organized religion.
While attending this Catholic
service, though, I knew I needed to treat this faith more seriously. Unlike my
experience in the Assembly of God church, this Catholic service, to my mind, was
a far cry from the more convenient, opportunistic tone I witnessed growing up.
Another reason Catholicism appeals to
me is that in my youth my family frequented a number of protestant churches, not only the Assembly of God one above, in an
effort to find which one best suited them. As a result, I was dragged to
services held in what sometimes were little more than rented office spaces with
folding metal chairs, artificial potted plants, and makeshift podiums.
The Catholic sanctuary I entered, in
contrast, gave one the impression the structure sat firmly on hallowed ground. The
statue of Mother Mary, the priests in their ceremonial garb, the paintings,
the sacred symbols, stained glass windows – it was as if the artisans
themselves were giving glory to God through their work, the beauty and majesty
of the interior staggered me. The place itself appeared to reverence God.
Examining this rich, lavish interior,
where members assumed a dress and demeanor in keeping with modesty rather than those at
my former churches where attendants sported pearls, cleavage, and skinny jeans, I
was reminded of a line from Robertson Davies’ wonderful novel What’s Bred in the Bone.
"Catholicism has begotten much great art; Protestantism none at all."
Any faith that recognizes the Kingdom
of God via humanity’s efforts to visibly represent His glory, to commend our
longing in this way, is a faith worth observing. It was during this service
that I knew I needed to become a Catholic. But I wanted to first educate myself
about the history and creeds of the faith more fully.
I got a hefty tome called The Catechism of the Catholic Church and
began to read it. I’m still reading it. It’s quite a thick volume. But I love
having a guide at my disposal that thoroughly articulates the creeds of a
faith, referencing the applicable scriptures and authorship to support it. A
few weeks ago, I bought this little treasure, Catholicism: A Journey to the Heart of the Faith. After completing
it, I realized I’d finally come home.
You see, I’ve always loved art. As a
musician, writer, and avid reader, I was intrigued by how Bishop Barron used
art, philosophy, and literature in both his Youtube videos and this book to
help illustrate the Christian faith. C.S. Lewis did the same, which is one of
the reasons I so love C.S. Lewis. Some of my most spiritual experiences (as
well as a few religious awakenings) stem from my exposure to great works of
art, music, and literature. When Bishop Barron referenced Dante, Michelangelo,
Aquinas, Tolkien, just to name a few, I thought, “I’ve seen, read, and enjoyed
these masters’ works, and this nod to them, this celebration of their
contribution to society and, more importantly, to the glory of God, resonates
with me.”
One of the things Catholicism does
that Protestantism fails to do involves taking what are essentially abstract
concepts – virtue, vice, the Trinity, grace, salvation, redemption – and attaching
visual representations, corresponding, tangible objects and images to them that
make physical these otherwise, sometimes obscure or oblique ideas. In
paintings, literary epics, sculpture, and music, we’re given a sensory glimpse
of the transcendent, the divine, or to quote from my own work, beauty beyond
the mortality of those who revere it.
I neither know nor care whether the
average Catholic versus the average Protestant is more well read or attuned to
the wondrous nature of art and literature and how these things redound upon
God’s majesty. That’s not my point. My point, rather, is that any faith
celebrating the way in which artists use their talents to illuminate
the faith holds a special place in my heart precisely because I identify with this
effort much like, say, a cellist can appreciate the complexity of Bach’s Cello
Suite No. 1 in G major.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, as much
wisdom one can gain from reading the Bible, I’ve gotten just as much spiritual
nourishment from the writings of the philosopher (and Catholic) Peter Kreeft, novelist
(and Catholic) Graham Greene, as well as C.S. Lewis and his apologetics, to name
only a few.
Another element is my love for and
fascination with the saints. A few years ago, I read The Song of Bernadette, a stirring, well-written novel based on
historical accounts of Bernadette of Lourdes (see blog post). From Bishop Barron’s
book, I read about Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, Thomas Merton, John of the Cross, St.
Teresa of Avila, St. Edith Stein, and Mother Teresa. I’m not too proud to
confess that in spots throughout these brief bios I was moved to tears.
We talk about great athletes, those
whose performance epitomizes the human body’s grace and form. We admire great authors
whose expertise with words stirs our intellects and our hearts. We admire heroes,
those who show courage in the face of danger, who risk their lives for either
an individual or their country. Likewise, we revere (or should) the saints,
those whose self-sacrifice, self-denial, devotion to God at the cost of
everything else, who minister to the needy, the hungry, the disenfranchised,
whose vows demand they renounce things few of us are willing to abandon, and
whose lives ultimately demonstrate the pinnacle of human goodness, charity, and
love.
I wouldn’t dare besmirch the good that
protestants have accomplished over the centuries. Yet I can’t help but view Protestantism
as a lesser faith, in some cases a watered-down version of Christianity, in
others a distortion, providing many of the truths Catholicism recognizes,
granted, but a facsimile nonetheless. On the one hand, you have a faith founded
on a doctrine and a tradition of principles the priests of the Old Testament,
Christ and his disciples, and Paul practiced and taught, not to mention the
rich history, rituals, and beauty. On the other you have Martin Luther’s 95
theses nailed to the Wittenberg door in 1517, which has resulted in over thirty-thousand
denominations today, many of which are absolutely bonkers and all lacking an ultimate
authority as to the veracity or legitimacy of their particular or peculiar interpretations.
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