I had a conversation last summer with another Protestant preacher’s daughter. The two of us talked like two teenagers over our sandwiches and salads. I had traveled to Oklahoma from St. Louis to give my conversion story to her parish and found a kindred spirit in this new convert. It is a long and unlikely journey from the parsonage (pastor’s house) to the doors of the Catholic Church, but we shared from mutual joy as we reflected on our journeys to a home we never knew existed.
The Catholic Church is the last place I would have guessed I would call home. But this Church is Home. All the good I saw in so many denominations as a child is all gathered into one place that we call the fullness of the faith.
When I was a young girl, my father was a Wesleyan minister. I remember those days fondly. How we would gather for prayer meetings, and the adults would be on their knees. How people would share testimonies of God’s grace, and how powerful and personal the Lord Jesus Christ was in their lives. How they longed to be sanctified and to walk in grace.
I loved being Wesleyan. But then my dad changed denominations, and my siblings and I became Presbyterian preacher’s kids.
It took awhile to adapt to the denominational changes, but we learned a new prayer called the Lord’s Prayer (the Our Father), and the confirmation students had to memorize something called the Apostle’s Creed. There was a wonderful sense of kinship that welled up inside me when we recited it together and affirmed that we all believed these things and that we held them as sacred and holy and truth with a capital T.
It was about this time that my Assembly of God cousins began receiving the charismatic gifts of the Holy Spirit. The Wesleyans and Presbyterians didn’t want to talk much about being baptized in the Holy Spirit. The gifts of speaking in tongues and prophecy were seen as either divisive (because so many denominations had suffered from splits when a handful of parishioners experienced this outpouring and wanted to pass it on to others), or the gifts were seen as holy whoopla of human origin. The Wesleyans voted to prohibit such nonsense. The Presbyterians simply didn’t talk about it.
I suppose it was about this time that I began to wonder, like Pontius Pilate, what is truth? I loved kneeling in church, but Presbyterians didn’t do that. I loved the creed and the prayers, but Wesleyans didn’t say them. I could see the excitement in my cousin’s faces when they told me about their new joy – and how they said I would be blessed by experiencing this outpouring for myself. But neither the Wesleyans nor the Presbyterians believed the charismatic reading of Holy Scripture was accurate.
So what is truth?
I did what most children do. I tried to gain spiritual ballast by listening to my dad. After all, he was the most godly man I knew.
That worked for about forty years. And then my dad died. My version of the pope was gone. Let’s face it. We all have a spiritual go-to guy and for me, that was dad. But he was no longer there to answer my questions and point me to the Truth. It is ironic that his death pointed me toward the fullness of Truth as I began a journey for answers to the great question of suffering servants.
The rest of the journey is a gift of grace. I cannot claim any credit for it, except perhaps to say that I said yes to every door that opened before me. It has been four years since I first stepped through the doors of a Catholic Church and asked what I had to do to become Catholic. I have come to realize that there is much more to Our Lord’s Church than I ever thought.
That’s what my new friend and I were talking about in the sandwich shop in Oklahoma just hours after we met. Sure, there are spiritual gems of the Christian faith scattered to the four winds. She had experienced many of them for herself. I had as well. Every Christian denomination has a few pieces of the fullness in which to boast.
I can drive through the city where I live (St. Louis) and see a church on one corner, where I know they recite the prayers of the ancient faith and have some understanding of the sacramental life. I know that another church just down the street is hearing a sermon on sanctification. And a member of the church across the street has been blessed by the anointing of the Holy Spirit, and she has been changed forever.
And yet, none of those parishioners will find all spiritual gems in their faith tradition, because there is only one place that has the fullness, all that I was seeking and more. Kneeling. Sanctification. The Creed. The Our Father. Sacraments. All biblical teaching, even solid teaching on the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Social Justice. Contemplation. Theology of the Body. Right to Life. Church history from “upon this rock” to the year 2009. More scripture reading in every Mass than many Protestants read in a week – maybe even a month. Don’t get me started on the lives of the saints.
I am amazed that I have access to all the pieces. Every last gem of the faith. And I know that I am home.
My friend has her own story. Like me, she has sojourned through many faith communities, and finally found Mother Church.
We are not alone. The mystery of conversion happens every year. There are men and women in RCIA classes this year. They are waiting, anticipating with a hunger that I remember very well, to receive the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Say a prayer for them this year. And join us in thanking God for continuing to call hearts to conversion.
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