I think I'm turning Catholic

Huh. So I think I'm turning Catholic.

My first encounter with Catholicism was not a positive one. When I was younger, I asked a girl if she was Christian. She replied: "No, I'm not Christian! I'm Catholic." Again, not exactly a positive experience.

My second encounter with Catholicism was quite a bit better. It was at a religion and economics conference, where I finally met an adult Catholic who knew about his faith and doctrine, and could explain why. His brief clarification on the subject of the saints resolved that issue before it even became a major objection for me.

Over my college life I met a number of other Catholics. The ones who actively identified themselves that way tended to be doctrinally orthodox and intellectually active, so I respected them a good deal. I even knew one friend who 'converted' to Catholicism in his senior year of college. At the time, however, I viewed it as I might view a switch between Baptist and Lutheran, not as a particularly noteworthy event.

When I was 17 I had my big spiritual experience, and the life of my faith has been (for lack of a better word) quite lively ever since. My primary mode of worship was in theology; my primary mode of pursuing God was by reason. I don't believe it's objectively better or worse than other modes (as Scripture tells us, "love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength") but it worked quite well for me.

Near the end of last year, however, I discovered something that came as quite a shock. My theology was over 50% Catholic. Without quite realizing it, my faith had developed within a substantially Catholic framework. I think I can blame C.S. Lewis -- the ostensibly Anglican but universally Christian apologist whose works are acclaimed by Protestants yet informed by a thoroughgoing Catholic worldview.

At this point I was not Catholic, for there remained quite a few hold-outs of Protestant doctrine. But at that moment I realized I needed to take Catholicism and Catholic doctrines seriously.

So I began my investigation, and my objections starting tumbling, one by one. The initial realization had begun with the Eucharist, and thanks to my earlier experiences I already had a firm grasp of the Saints. Mary was a bigger stumbling-block, so I started in on the Marian doctrines next.

The next step was the Catholic teachings on Salvation. I knew of the whole "faith v. works" debate from the Reformation years, and my instincts on the matter were entirely Protestant. But when I finally understood the Catholic perspective, I found it impossible to maintain my objection to it. Ironically, the same books that led Luther to reject Catholic teachings (Romans and Galatians) for me actually paved the way to the Catholic Church in this matter.

The next step was the Catholic understanding of the Church. Predictably, as I was a Protestant, my primary objections were to Tradition and to the Magisterium. On the other hand, my theology had been rooted for some time in a kind of traditionalism (mostly thanks to C.S. Lewis), so these elements had a sort of instinctive appeal for me. Nevertheless, these doctrines took the longest to accept.

In the end, out of a few dozen objections I'd started with several months before, I was reduced to very few. The two doctrinal points were the Marian doctrine of the Immaculate Conception and the ecclesial doctrine of papal infallibility. The other was much broader: the insistence on non-Christological doctrine as prerequisites for participation in the Eucharist. Over the next several weeks of focused study, these objections fell as well.

I don't fully understanding Catholicism -- if I imagined I did, I should be ashamed of my conceit. Nor do I deny that there are many sins committed and many errors believed by Catholics. Moreover, I can hardly deny that the Catholic culture is anything but foreign to me. But these are not objections. I question whether full understanding is ever in our grasp, I am hardly surprised to find that people sin, and my cultural shock will no doubt be overcome in time.

It boils down to this: the doctrinal objections that would keep me away have fallen like dominoes. My acceptance of Catholicism at this point seems like a matter of intellectual honesty.

I write this note as an open invitation. I will begin the formal process of becoming Catholic next week, by starting RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) classes at the parish. But while I can hardly help but treat it as a foregone conclusion, I don't want to ignore potential difficulties. If you have major objections to Catholic doctrine, I would love to hear them. I will continue posting my notes on Catholicism, and will continue to explore the themes and topics discussed in this note. But I trust in others to see where I am blind and to catch where I miss.

Christ the Bridegroom: #2

**This is the second entry in three-part reflection on "Christ the Bridegroom." The essay was guest posted by a close personal friend of mine who was raised in the Greek Orthodox Church. This section begins with the Hymn of Kassiani, justly acclaimed as perhaps the most famous (and most musically demanding) hymns in the Orthodox liturgy. It is sung on Tuesday of Holy Week for the matins of Great and Holy Wednesday.**

Sensing Thy divinity, O Lord, a woman of many sins
takes it upon herself to become a myrrh-bearer,
And in deep mourning brings before Thee fragrant oil
in anticipation of Thy burial; crying:
"Woe to me! For night is unto me oestrus of lechery,
a dark and moonless eros of sin.
Receive the wellsprings of my tears,
O Thou who gatherest the waters of the oceans into clouds.
Bend to me, to the sorrows of my heart,
O Thou who bendedst down the heavens in Thy ineffable self-emptying.
I will kiss Thine immaculate feet
and dry them with the locks of my hair;
Those very feet whose sound Eve heard at dusk in Paradise
and hid herself in fear.
Who shall reckon the multitude of my sins,
or the abysses of Thy judgment, O Saviour of my soul?
Do not ignore Thy handmaiden,
O Thou whose mercy is without end.

I open this article with Kassiani’s eponymous hymn because the lament of the “woman of many sins” in that poem could very well have been the cry of my soul at one time in my life. Although not engaged in prostitution like the speaker in the hymn, I had let my fleshly desires alienate me from God in a more profound way than I ever dreamed possible. So diseased was the state of my soul that I became physically ill and mentally withdrawn for weeks.

Sadly, this was far from the first time I had struggled with sexual issues in my life, and through my battles I have learned that sexual impurity has become an epidemic among Christian women in my generation. Yet these sins are so personal and so deeply stigmatic that most Christian women suffer in silence, afraid to admit their problems even to their churches, who are supposed to be there to help them with just such issues.

I know I personally lived in dread of anyone knowing what a hypocrite I was, but I also knew I needed someone to pray with me and to keep me accountable with God. So by God’s grace, I finally had courage to confide in a friend about my struggles, and she gave me a rather remarkable book by Shannon Ethridge called "Every Woman’s Battle," which offers comfort and advice to Christian women in their struggle for sexual purity.

This book forced me to confront a fact that I had sensed for years but feared to put into words: namely, that the reason Christian women today make such horrible mistakes in their love lives is because they are searching for something they feel they cannot find in God. The reason that romantic love holds such an appeal for women is because being utterly adored in the romantic sense is the highest validation of our self-worth that we can have. This combined with the joy of union with the person we love above all others on earth creates an irresistible pull on the hearts and minds—and, through those conduits, the bodies—of most women. Yes, I saw this more clearly than ever in my own life. My sexual impurity stemmed from a perversion and obsession with romantic love, something I felt I could not get from God. I could sense this truth penetrating to the depths of my soul even as my mind tried to deny it.

In order to receive the healing I needed, I had to uncover my identity as the Bride of Christ, and I had to realize that this was not an arranged marriage but a love-match.

As I was trying to understand what being the Beloved of Christ meant, I first had to remind myself of all the things that romantic love entails, and then apply that to my vision of God. First of all, romantic love is an all-consuming passion for the beloved. I could picture that. I remembered being in love myself, and I could also remember seeing that blissful look of utter adoration of the face of lovers as they contemplated their beloved. Is that, I wondered, the look on Christ’s face as he gazes at each of us?

Romantic love is also a love that exults in all good while forgiving all shortcomings, a love that elevates the beloved above all else. Yes, I could see that as being true of God because it says in the Bible that Christ not only forgives our sins but also that He “remembers them no more.” There is no condemnation, therefore, in His love. In addition, He must also value us more than Himself or He would not have died a horrible death for us.

Romantic love, however, is not a love that admires from a distance. Rather, it is a deep desire for union with the beloved. We humans are communal creatures in essence, and romantic love is the deepest form of communion possible because connects us with the beloved in all three parts of our essential being: the spiritual, intellectual, and physical being. This kind of communion also exists within the Godhead because God is one in essence but three persons working in perfect harmony.

This means romantic love is more than merely consistent with the character of God. It means that the human ability to feel romantic love is not some base or biological instinct for procreation, but is rather a facet of the imago dei (image of God) which we bear.

All this made sense to me on a certain level at least, but when I looked at the darkness in my own soul—I, who had been a devout Christian all my life—it seemed to be nothing more than an exquisite but impossible dream.

It is truly one of the great mysteries of our faith that a wholly good, beautiful, transcendent, omniscient God could be in love with any one of us, let alone each of us, since we are so flawed, petty, and ugly each in our own unique way. Yet that would explain why He bothers to saves us all individually instead of letting His sacrifice automatically propel all human souls to heaven.

It is not mere immortality that Christ desired to give us through His death and resurrection, but rather a restoration of our intended union with God.

This also fits perfectly with the Protestant insistence that the Christian religion is a “close personal relationship with Jesus Christ.” There is no closer personal relationship than a marriage, which is literally the joining of two people into one. So Christ doesn’t just love us in a benevolent agape sense, nor is He the lover of merely our souls. In order to be our husband He must be our lover in every sense: soul, mind, and body.

Check out the rest of this essay at:
Christ the Bridegroom: #1
Christ the Bridegroom: #2
Christ the Bridegroom: #3

Holy Week: A Lenten Fast

As readers of this blog will know, I have recently been exploring the Catholic faith and practice. I grew up an evangelical Protestant but I've found myself drawn to the Roman Catholic Church.

Parallel to these theological explorations, I have been immersing myself in Catholic practice and discipline. One aspect of this has been my participation in Lent, from Ash Wednesday to Holy Week.

When I was growing up, I knew a number of people who did Lent-related activities -- some of my friends even organized 'prayer fasts' for several days at a time. I never participated, and never really understood the appeal of fasting. My faith has always been more rational than experiential, so it was almost like speaking a different language. However, many of them talked about the benefits and insights they gained, so over time my curiosity grew. This year, with the added incentive of immersing myself in Catholicism, I jumped in headfirst.

I organized my Lenten fast around the "Official Lenten Regulations for the Archdiocese of Seattle" (published here by St. Michael's Parish in Olympia). To briefly encapsulate: I would limit myself to a single meal each weekday, though I could add two smaller 'supplemental meals' if I needed to "maintain strength." I would also abstain from meats on each Friday of Lent. These restrictions would not carry over to the weekends.

This is what I learned:

1) Fasting sucks.

The first week of my fast, I felt terrible. Fortunately there were no restrictions on liquids, so I consumed a lot of those over the past few weeks. I also added multivitamins to my routine, mostly to ensure I wouldn't die of scurvy. It did get easier over time, but not by much.

2) Fasting recalls us to humility.

Before I fasted, I used to imagine that I could be pretty self-sacrificial if called upon. I loved God and I loved my neighbor, so the idea of casting my health, wealth, or personal security aside for the sake of another was not out of the question. After several weeks of fasting, all I can say is: yikes. There's a life lesson here: never imagine that you are more virtuous than you actually are. God might tell you to act like it.  Fasting was an excellent way to remind me that I'm still fallible, still weak, and still desperately in need of His strength and support.

3) Fasting moves us to solidarity.

For most of human history, there was always a question of whether you would have food on the table today, tomorrow, or for the next season. Even today, in many parts of the world, there is still starvation and malnutrition. By voluntarily depriving yourself of food, you suffer alongside others. Is there a more central command in the Christian faith, than to take up your cross daily? "Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13).

4) Fasting encourages self-control.

This is sometimes described as "mortification of the flesh." That sounds fairly barbaric, like an Inquisitorial rack, but the word pretty accurately conveys the Christian discipline. After all, we as Christians are constantly reminded of the need to die to ourselves and therefore live in Christ. The ascetics disciplined their flesh in more visceral ways as a reminder to suffer with Christ. Even the lesser degrees of mortification, such as fasting, help remind us to suffer with Christ and die with Him.

5) Fasting points us to prayer.

The first week of fasting was just awful. Prayer seemed to help quite a bit. It didn't make me less hungry -- certainly the rumblings of my stomach didn't decrease in volume or frequency -- but it helped me shift my attention to God. As I grow mature in my faith, I imagine I will identify considerable more meaning and importance in this aspect of fasting.

6) Fasting teaches us a 'vital rhythm' of Christian life.

The liturgical calendar tends to vary between fasts and feasts. During the weekdays we limit our meals, but over weekends we can enjoy three square meals, or even more. There are even a few Holy Days of Obligation (that is, feast days) during the Lenten season, such as the Solemnity of the Annunciation. This variance helps us realize that we are not called to enjoy a perpetual emotional "high" from our faith, nor should fasts continue without end. There are seasons for everything.  For many years I felt keenly the absence of God and the lack of an experiential component of my faith. When I was older, I realized that this was deliberate: I was supposed to yearn for that sort of experience, so that it would be more powerful and more preserving when I actually experienced it.

7) Fasting reminds us of the Passion of our Lord.

Christ lived so that He could die. We preach a resurrected Christ, but we preach a Christ who was first crucified. Fasting reminds us that Christ conquered death, and redeemed suffering. Indeed, by fasting, we can participate in and recapitulate the willing self-sacrifice of our Lord. Because of the Cross, suffering is tremendously redemptive, not only for ourselves, but also for others.

Confessions: #3

An open letter to Ian, a kid from my first-grade class.

I hardly remember you. I never saw you after first grade, and I had almost forgotten you entirely by the third grade, when I started homeschooling. But a few years later I remembered, and those memories appall me even today.

I remember watching you cry. I remember making you cry. I remember enjoying it.

There were three of us in that first-grade class who were fleet of foot and mind: Alex L, Roger, and myself. You were not only a slow learner, but also overweight, and we teased you mercilessly for it. We taunted you in the playground during recess. If you tried to respond, we could turn your own insults against you; if you tried to catch us, we could outrun you. You were helpless.

Can you fathom how much this bothered me when I remembered this, in my fifth-grade Sunday school class? There was a time in the first grade when I had been a bully.

I never saw you after that year. Perhaps you moved, perhaps you found another school. I hope you recovered from us, but I'll never know. All I remember is that I had hurt you, and never had a chance to ask your forgiveness.

This note will not find you, so this apology is for my friends. Forgive me my sins against you, whether done knowingly or unknowingly. And to Ian, this is my penance for you: whenever I see another hurting, I would help them as though I were helping you. This is all I know to do.

Be strong in Christ,
~Alex

I wish I could undo the past, but memory has made me who I am today. I am a better man because I remember and recoil from evil. This is no consolation for those whom I hurt, but the greatest consolation for me. God forgave my evil, and used it to teach me good. Glory to the King of Zion! How deep are the wounds of the Lion of Judah!

An open letter to several of my college friends:

I don't even know why I write this, but words seemed necessary. I hardly even know why our paths intersected so strongly, but then again, actions seemed necessary there. To reflect Him, in word and deed, may God bless our enterprises.

At the beginning of the quarter, each of you struggled. In your own ways, in your own time, you wandered in your faith, and foundered in your relationships. For some reason--God knows why--I was placed at a crisis point in your lives. I felt compelled to make myself known to you, to speak and pray and offer counsel. I hardly even knew myself in those moments; it felt as though I were not at the helm of my own heart and mind.

Is prophecy possible? For a man whose lips have been branded by coal from the altar, it is still possible to cry out "Here I am, Lord, send me"? For it was in those moments that I truly understood the prophetic voice, and that I made my own that 'voice in the wilderness crying.' I understand the typology of the moon: that the star which in the daylight of reason breeds confusion, sheds at night just enough light to guide our feet to safety. I spoke in a different tongue than I knew before, a dangerous tongue, only suited for times when hope has vanished.

Yet my voice produced fruit. Some of you I know quite well; others, I pray Heaven I knew better. But for those I knew, my counsel helped them find themselves and find God; it had rejuvenated them, in some sense.

You cannot comprehend the blessing I feel to have been a part of your lives. You cannot understand the tremendous relief it is, to be the one upon whom others put their burdens. I need help as much as others--perhaps, as I see now, more than others--but it is characteristic of my personality to desire to be that bulwark and support of others. You gave me a glimpse of what it is to have that desire fulfilled, and I will not soon forget it.

I know not how you will read my words, but I pray they find fertile soil in your spirit. Go with God,
~Alex

Confessions: #2

Man possesses an infinite soul; he transcends tragedy. Heaven help me, I know better than most the addicting satisfaction of a tragic mindset--the previous school year was immeasurably difficult for me for this very reason. I have always had a keen awareness of my intellectual gifts, and the distance between me and my peers that it caused. Yet I did not give glory to God for giving me this unique mode of worshiping him, but rather resigned myself to his service. I felt like the servant given ten talents during the master's absence; I was duty-bound to increase those talents until my King returned, yet never able to live up to His expectations. I did not "consider all things joy," but rather considered life to be a responsibility.

I cannot begin to describe how aesthetically satisfying this self-perception was, to consider myself a "tragic hero," a victim of the noble sacrifice.

Nor can I begin to describe how numbing and utterly soul-sucking this self-perception proved to be. My soul was weather-beaten, atrophied, consumed from within as though by disease. It produced both pride and self-loathing, excruciating despair and total apathy. I rarely (if ever) showed this side of my life to my friends or mentors--I wish I had not been so convincing an actor in this regard. But even had I wished it, I'm not sure I could have expressed my sickness. It was an ineffable sin, an inarticulable cancer of the spirit.

If there was any single cause for my spiritual rejuvenation, it was the decision to cast off this misconceived vision of my life. I still believe that it is the most deadly heresy into which we may fall. I should sooner curse the God who loves me and the Son who gave up His life, than fall back into that pit of tragic apathy. "I wish you were either cold or hot. But because you are lukewarm... I will spit you out of My mouth" (Rev. 3:15-16).

In the sphere of Venus I learned war;
In the sphere of Saturn, my heart leapt for Joy.
While bathed in light I accepted your mystery;
when wreathed in shadow my heart discerned God.
God, by your Word, grant me peace in your Name.
My heart is a King's, yet my soul is complacent.
Grant me, God willing, respite from this numbness.
Lord, judge me! Savior, forgive this lukewarm spirit!
Give me the freedom to care and to cry.

God, forgive my complacency. I know Your lovingkindness, that You have borne the weight of sin and defeated the power of death. I am witness to Your suffering, in bearing the weight of tragedy and the curse of the Law. From the instant of Creation You have endured the entirety of suffering that we might not be crushed, for You are the only One who could bear such things. Your hands are scarred; let me touch them! My soul is numbed to the potency of Your love. Console me, reignite my passion to live, place in me a pure heart, to delight and to feel.

Oh! God, my heart is searching Yours; grant me my prayer! Teach me to cry out to You!

Confessions: #1

This is an excerpt from my seventh "Contemplation in Theology," posted on Facebook on January 25, 2009. In that Contemplation, I hoped to explore the nature of the "Mercurial" temper. I identify strongly with this personality type, so I decided to write in a more personal epistolary mode that, I hoped, would shed more light on the personality than a more abstract contemplation. It seems appropriate to break this up into a personal "Confession" and a separate "Contemplation." I will probably follow this template with future notes with substantial personal content. Enjoy!
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An open letter to a girl from my church:

From my youth I have trained myself in the art of articulation, that I might do justice to words and ideas in expressing them. How strange for me, that at the time when I have the most to say, I have the least assurance that I will acquit myself.

I am your age. Emotionally, I deal with the same issues as you and all my age mates. But the simple fact is that I think faster than my peers. I can more quickly connect ideas, identify solutions, articulate my thoughts. Intellectually, I found a home with my elders--graduate students, professors, people who could engage me on issues and ideas I cared for.

When we spoke, I was both pleased and ashamed when you described me as thoroughly confident. I was pleased that my attempts to exude an aura of self-assurance had been successful; I was ashamed that these vanities so little reflected who I was inside. How can you begin to understand my insecurity? My heart was in one sphere; my mind in another. Up until quite recently, I never felt that I belonged to any of the clubs, cliques, or social circles around me. I still deal with it today, this sometimes despairing hope to feel peace, this desire to "belong."

You were the exception. When I was younger I could only find a handful of people who could even approach the rapidity of my mind. You were one of them, and--miracle of miracles--you were my age.

Whenever I lost hope of ever 'belonging,' whenever I was driven to despair, you were the strongest beacon of light. You gave me hope that, just perhaps, there were people 'out there' who might be able to relate to me. When everyone else was a stick, you were the carrot. And when others were the carrot--when I was getting along fine with others, when I felt I could finally connect--you were the stick. You personified that nagging doubt that, just perhaps, there were more and better things waiting somewhere 'out there.'

Do you begin to understand why I treated you differently from all the girls at our church? Naturally, it didn't help that I was an immature teenage boy, or that you are an exceptionally beautiful lady. You did not deserve any of what you endured because of me; forgive me for it.

But there is more than merely contrition I wish to express. I feel such gratitude, as you may scarcely comprehend. You have contributed more to my spiritual development than you can possibly imagine. You were a constant reminder of that foundational confession of St. Augustine: "O Lord, Thou hast made us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee."

You were my nagging doubt. You were a persistence reminder of hope and despair. You were the constant thorn in my flesh, and God be praised for it. I could never be complacent in my faith, while you were present, as God paraded tantalizing glimpses of More in front of me.

You did not mean to show me this Truth. You gave not by intention, nor even by your actions, but by the simple fact of your existence. God speaks to others through our actions, to be sure, but often He is reflected most in the mere fact of our being. You were simply reflecting the glory of your King. But I will not soon forget my debt to you, nor easily abandon my appreciation of you. You were reflecting and serving God, and may God honor you for it!

Go in peace,
~Your brother in Christ

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An open letter to a lady from my college:

It would be an overstatement to call our acquaintance brief. I have hardly seen or spoken to you this quarter. But our fleeting interactions at the end of last quarter affected me profoundly, in ways I'm not sure you can understand. I began this series of notes largely because of you, due to the waves of thought that your presence inspired. You were the immediate cause of my spiritual rejuvenation over break; may God bless you in equal measure to how greatly you have blessed me!

From the previous letter you should have some idea of my insecurity and restlessness. I am a child of Mercury, the messenger god, fleet of foot and thought. My mind is constantly active. This is a blessing and a curse. As I have said, I think more quickly than most of my peers; unfortunately, I also over-analyze just about everything, including my friendships.

So when I invited you to a informal 'date' with others on my floor, I had certain expectations. I knew I would over-analyze everything you said or did; I was fairly sure I would worry about whether you were enjoying yourself, and whether you enjoyed my company; and I was dead certain that I would leave that evening more entrenched in my insecurity than before.

How wrong I was! Your smile evaporated my anxiety; your joy lifted my spirits; your openness gave me freedom from my over-analyzing mind. In short, I felt the full and unmitigated peace of God descend on me that evening. Perhaps it was not the first time I had felt peace, but it was certainly the first time I'd consciously recognized it as such. And that realization blew me away.

I am a child of Mercury, but the desire of my nature is for Jupiter, the persona reflecting the Kingship of God. I wish to be the delight of His eye; I desire to rest within the peace of His Majesty. This is the basis of my capacity for Joy--which I'd previously defined as "an obscured glimpse of God finding Joy in me."

From that moment on, my entire being had a new center. My thoughts had been reoriented. The desire of my heart was nothing less than to revel in, and reflect, the glory and peace which I had found in Jupiter. I shall expand on that in my next note, but I assure you, this realization ended in a comprehensive re-examination of my spiritual life, and a re-dedication of my soul to God. You had showed me what I'd been looking for, what I had been seeking my entire life.

You did not mean to display this aspect of God, but He spoke to me through your very nature, and showed me precisely what I needed to see.

To the church at Corinth, Paul wrote: "I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing the growth" (1 Cor. 3:6). He exhorted the Corinthians to give the glory to God. Be that as it may, the Corinthians did not soon forget Paul or Apollos, nor shall I soon forget you.

God bless you,
~Your brother in Christ