A Journey Home (2): From Catholic Roots to the Evangelical World

Part II: Chronicling My Return to Roman Catholicism

St. Veronica Catholic Church; Eastpointe, MI. Photo credit: detroitchurchblog.blogspot.com

Audio Article option: Narrated by the author

This is the follow up to my post from a few months ago, when I reported that I had made the decision to return to Catholicism. At that time, I mentioned how I would find a way to document it in an effort to offer something serving those who have been interested in my making such a move, as well as answer the many questions of many folks as to why I am.

It has been more difficult to simply “write” than anticipated. Not because of any second guessing, but because the process has uncovered how this is far less a tale of a single process, and a far more involved spiritual/theological biography of my life.

In my original post, I suggested future installments would include: My history with the Roman Church; then my withering spiritual comfort in the Evangelical framework; and lastly a surprising reconnection with and gravitation back toward Catholicism.

This piece will cover my Catholic heritage and gather around some of the early formative background that, over the past five or so years, I have come to appreciate as far more important to my faith journey than I had ever realized. I hope I am able to translate that full circle in future parts of this story.

Here, I will simply introduce that path by way of a tale … actually a recounting of one of my earliest “spiritual memories.” And from there, briefly describe how I came to be a part of the Protestant evangelical world. I imagine the next installment won’t pick up where this leaves off, but rather will leap to about five-six years ago when I realized my journey was charting back in the direction of Catholicism and then bring that up to the here and now.

The portion in the middle will be last. And whether it is actually ever written is based on if and how I am ever able to manage appropriately articulating it. Namely, how do I describe how my decades in such a consistently good, healthy, and wonderful church community could end in such a departure, without managing to hurt such a community of consistently good, healthy, and wonderful people?

But I have also come to recognize how just making the move conveys what many folks see as judgement or is almost perceived as a betrayal (as one person put it). I wonder … how could it not?

Especially when I speak in terms of this journey being something that I firmly have to recognize as the will of God upon my life. To say that … is to say God’s will was not to remain where I was, and with those I was. That alone makes a pretty hefty statement, even if this isn’t even about a statement, aside from even getting into to what I believe the Lord revealed as to why I needed to go.

In turn, while this move is one I believe to be part of the process in my deepening faith journey, and a deepening commitment to developing as a disciple of Christ, common theories for why I am doing this involve the assumption it must be the opposite.

And questions or comments like these confirm as much: Is your relationship with Christ ok?” “Are you doing this out of reaction to something?” “There must be a moral failure involved here.” … or … “Do you think you’re on the way to atheism?”

All of these, and some others, have come up in discussions and correspondence with even some of the closest people in my life that I have discussed this all with.

And what I have discovered is that fully appreciating it, for those who have or may ever come to appreciate it, probably wouldn’t happen if they hadn’t heard the story behind it.

What follows is simply the first chapter of the tale. So here goes.

"This Is Exactly Where I Should Be."

The adults were in the gym, probably setting up for something happening the next day. Before dad got “saved,” volunteering at parish events was common for mom and him. Festivals and fish fry’s … stuff like that. I think this may have been for the annual craft show because it was autumn.

No matter the event … it was dark outside … where we were.

I was the youngest among the kids I was with at the time. These included my sister, her friend, and another boy (a friend who lived a few doors down from us). He was in their grade, putting them all three ahead of me. This means I (most likely) was between second and fourth grade, because it was while they were still in grade school, and prior to me becoming a mass server. As this tale recounts one of my earliest clear memories of St. Veronica’s church, I’m inclined to think it was at the younger end of that range. 8 years old would be a respectable guess.

I’m not sure what we were up to, but it was the neighbor boy who began telling creepy tales about oddities in the church across the street.

“I know a kid who went in there when it was dark,” he said in a spooky, ghost story tone. “He saw a witch!”

“I heard that too! Yeah, me too!” my sister and her friend echoed in affirmation.

“But …” one of them added, “I heard it was a phantom … in a black cloak.”

“It floats around the church backwards. Opposite Stations of the Cross,” the boy went on.

(I didn’t at the time, but I now appreciate how this would be a sort of satanic way of doing such a thing. Quite the elegant narrative addition for a kid barely out of adolescence, right? )

Other details are elusive so many decades later. Yet, you just know we ended up going into the church. One recollection that lingers is the sense of daring I felt heading up those steps.

Entering the narthex, I can tell you that I recall being a bit scared, because this where my memory becomes strangely, and remarkably, clearer.

The interior was dimly lit, but not dark. Despite deep shadows, there was a lot of warm color.

I remember feeling like I was “sneaking around.” Surely someone would have warned me about being very quiet. Of course, we wouldn’t want to attract the attention of whatever evil entity lurked inside.

A perfectly predictable suggestion was one of the older brats volunteering me for peeking-into-the-sanctuary-duty. You know, to see if I could spot this dark force. Why not. It was clearly a “let’s get Mikey to try it” sort of thing (IYKYK).

And … being the young and gullible one, I went along with this advantage-taking proposal, like a good little stooge. Although a bit scared, I wasn’t necessarily that afraid though. I loved being in that building. I felt safe there.

Plus, I don’t think I was totally buying what they were selling. But I will admit to being creeped out, at least to some memorable extent.

Nevertheless, I tip-toed onward.

Just about at the threshold between narthex and nave, someone shoved me from behind, down the main aisle a few leaping-for-balance strides.

And … they all yelled, “There IT/SHE is!”

As I gathered my feet, my eyes darted all around, trying to draw a bead on who/what they were talking about.

But there was nothing. There was no one. Just an empty sanctuary.

I turned around, confused. Only to spot those who had conspired against me crashing through the main doors, running down the steps, in satisfied laughter.

When the doors completely shut, the sound of them was cut off.

Astir with a mix of fright and excitement, a gust of panic hit me with the realization I was all alone.

Or was I?

Still standing on that same spot (which would have been somewhere close to the angle of the picture above), I pivoted to redouble my scan of the nave. Again … no thing or no one was in sight.

So, I remained there. I can’t even be sure how long, but enough time to calm down under the influence of the sweet familiarity of that place.

The ornate overhead hanging lights were barely on, casting little more than a warm glow across rows of pews. This served to amplify the gloriously illuminated apse (the domed portion at the rear of the picture below that ascends behind and up over the Tabernacle).

The Apse at St. Veronica. Photo: JM Zabick

Directionals poured brighter light at the things which should command one’s focus—the massive Crucifix, the Tabernacle, altar, and other important elements of veneration.

I even remember the smell. The scent of collected years of polished wood, tile, and marble. The aromatic echo of ceremonial incense, absorbed in the pages of the old hymnals, and the fragrance accumulated from the repeated lighting and snuffing out of candles—some left flickering in that very moment, representing prayers offered by someone for some need or for someone else.

I recall five flames especially. The almost ever-lit red-glass candles that hung aglow over the Tabernacle, indicating to me (or anyone) that the consecrated Host was present within.

_________

You may wonder at my recollection of the detail in this description of the church, its lighting, layout, aroma, and certain candles. Like, how can it be so vivid, when it has been nearly 40 years since I last stepped foot in that church?

I wonder that too.

Let me just tell you this … I sit here writing this piece, with a recall for that space that is simply (knowing my memory) uncanny. Something about that church is etched in my mind’s eye. And it has been for decades now. It has even been the setting for many dreams throughout my life. I have vivid memories of it from every angle. Like no other space I have ever been an inhabitant of.

Outside of my childhood home, and my current one, there is practically no space that I can mentally reconstruct in my mind, like I am able to with St. Veronica’s. I spent eight years at the parish school, and I can hardly remember it that well at all, despite spending seven hours a day in its confines.

Yet even before giving much thought to this piece, I could do a mental walk-trough of that church recalling remarkable similarity to what you see in these pictures (with the exception of the more recent altar configuration). The specificity of detail is something that escapes my explanation. The mosaic tile floor. The carved icons on the end of the pews. The amazing stained-glass windows.

The colors. Everything.

Why is that?

I’m in no way trying to overly glamorize something mystical about this. I am however, trying to stress that something indelible about that place was etched upon me in a significant way, that I have thought an awful lot about these last six years.

_________

Although I had settled down a bit, I realized from where I stood, the whole church wasn’t completely within view. Being a classical cruciform layout, both transepts were blind spots that could be occupied by that fabled, demonic thing. So, I shuffled up to the cross (floorplan intersection, not symbol). I looked right, then left. The coast was clear. No ghostly entities to be found.

Cruciform floorplan similar to St. Veronica. Image Credit: WikiMedia Commons

Confident I was alone, I recall the peace that followed. I recall wanting to stay there.

And so, I did.

I plopped down right in the front pew and I just sat there. Taking it all in. Maybe soaking it all in would be a better way to say it.

Not sure what I was soaking in, but whatever it was, I was loving it.

It was a wonderful moment, and now I suspect something deeply formative was going on in it. I realize that may be part of why this sequence has been so completely unforgettable to me. And if it was not in that moment, it was in another around this time, that some sort of flame was sparked in my spirit, that while going very dim for a period—a long period—I now realize had never been extinguished.

Can’t be sure how long I sat there. But it was actually a good bit. It was definitely long enough to make my mom mad. I know that.

I heard the door, way behind me, open. And I turned, to see her storm into the rear of the nave.

She yelled, “Jonathan! Where have you been?”

As I made my way back to her, I dipped my finger in one of the marble wall-mounted holy water fonts and before I could turn toward the Crucifix to make the Sign, she just rushed me on out of there.

Man ... SHE. WAS. MAD.

I only remember one other thing she said, “You should not be in here.”

But that assessment didn’t seem accurate. I felt quite differently about it all.

And so I was probably all like, “Nah son, this is exactly where I should’ve been …” or something similarly argumentative. But that’s where memory of all this clouds back into a typical forty or so years ago fog.

__________

In a way (back to my question of why I have such vivid recollection of that church) I think because it was a sort of home to me, at least spiritually speaking.

And “homecoming” is a theme that has been repeatedly emphasized in this process, beyond me, across the last 5-6 years, since this gravitation back to the Catholic Church has taken hold of my life.

I hope that’s established in this piece and will help to articulate more clearly, moving forward, why I consider this a return to the Catholic Church, and NOT a conversion to it (as some have insisted seeing things).

Seeding the Tap Root

My love for God was forged in my Catholic upbringing, and through my exposure Catholicism, my engagement, and my involvement with it, a foundation was laid for a lifelong attraction to the presence of God possible only in this form of Christian expression.

CAUTION! I do not mean that to imply the presence of God is limited to a Catholic form of faith expression. My exposure to, engagement with, and involvement in the evangelical community proves as much. I will find a way to document how that was such a richly meaningful and incredibly valuable part of my life, along the way here.

But first things first.

As I grew toward my teen years, I grew in my passion for God and the Church. The story above is my first real recollection as a point along that journey.

Making the sacraments and becoming a mass server were things I was extremely proud of. Being a server allowed me to spend much more time at the mass and be involved in the liturgy in such a way that it allowed me to feel a part of something I just knew was profoundly meaningful and important to me.

Even when not serving, being at mass was always something I was excited to do. And we went regularly. That is … my sister and me.

Around the years of fourth and fifth grade, a typical weekend involved just the two of us walking to and from mass.

Our parents had gotten to the point they seldom went. I won’t get into the story of why, beyond saying that they were sort of contending with their own life issues, and church didn’t really fit in to things during those years.

It was important that we go, however, so my sister could get a check into the offering, which affirmed the Zabick family were indeed faithful parishioners and therefore qualified for discounted tuition rates at the school.

I was all too happy to go. In fact, there were many times I would be in numerous masses per weekend, signing up to serve as much as I could.

So, imagine what a screeching halt my father’s “getting saved” constituted for my own faith formation.

On one hand, there was (and remains) little doubt the Lord did something drastic in the man’s life. To say his life was (and remains) radically transformed would almost seem like an understatement.

It was also radically positive for our family.

I thank God for what he did for us all, through his work in my dad. Turns out, I can say without hesitation, it was one of the single most impacting events of my own life.

On the other hand, however, it marked the start of a process that would lead me out of and away from the Catholic Church. Something I now realize was a loss affecting me at a depth I feel safe identifying as a trauma of sorts.

For as wonderfully transformative as it was, what happened to my dad served as a wrecking ball to something I dearly loved.

While I would not trade it for the world, I do recognize this event was complicated in that respect.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

I was in late fifth grade when we, as a family, began attending a little Pentecostal church. Quite frankly, I hated the place. There were some really wild folks in that group who embraced a maverick brand of charismatic expression that was downright troubling.

My first time there was completely unnerving.

Right in the middle of the message, some woman behind us just stood on up and started to scream out this repetitive stream of “tongues.” Over and over and over. She went on forever. I had no idea what was going on about, but I distinctly recall how angry she sounded.

My mom, sensing how uncomfortable I was, put her arm around me and covered my ears. Clearly she was uncomfortable with it too.

I can still picture this one event, a few years later, when they called a man with paraplegia up front to pray over for healing. Before the entire congregation, several “prayer warriors” tried to pick him up out of his wheelchair, insistent upon getting him to stand, while “declaring him able to walk.” It was so horribly cruel.

I looked at my mother, as if she would have an answer for why this was happening to him. But she was tearing up, having already recognized the fear and embarrassment he was being put through with this abusive and ungodly display.

Just like before, she placed her arm around me, only this time she was covering my eyes.

It was not long after this that church imploded in the wake of pastoral sexual immorality. But it was not long before, when I was told my days as a Catholic were over.

For the first nearly three years after his encounter with Christ, I was allowed to pull double duty. I continued to serve Saturday evening mass, just about every week. The next day, I would have to attend that other church for morning service, but my folks kindly dropped me off afterwards to serve the latest Sunday morning mass.

It was in the midst of the eight grade Confirmation process when the decision was made that I could no longer proceed with the sacramental preparation. I would continue to attend the school, but I was no longer allowed to participate in the worship. My parents even notified the parish I was no longer to receive the Eucharist, serve at masses, or otherwise participate in the liturgy.

And from that point on, I somehow became an outsider to this thing I loved.

Moving forward, I was even told to sit with the non-Catholic kids at school day mass, a few rows behind the those involved.

I remember them all. They were such great friends. But they were non-Catholic from the start, and grew up used to the alternative expression of faith, at least as I figured it (and if I am diminishing any of their experiences in any way ... my sincere apologies are humbly offered).

I, on the other hand, was plucked out of the stream. And ... it was a tremendous blow.

Being moved from participant to spectator? Well, it was just so painful. Something I have only recently been able to fully process since reconnecting to this period of my life.

I remember one day after school … it was a day when the rest of the class spent time practicing for the Confirmation ceremony … I begged my mom to talk my dad into changing his mind. It didn’t go anywhere, with her only stressing how she supported the decision as well.

I stomped up to my room and sobbed on my bed. I recall the massive front of confusion that washed over me with that too. Like, how could she support the decision when even she knew that other place was so weird. I couldn’t make sense of it.

I don’t know if it was kind or cruel, but they let me at least go to the Confirmation mass, so I could watch my classmates make the Sacrament. But the sense of loss not being among them hurt me sharply. I remember walking down Redmond St ... this six-foot three, fourteen-year-old kid crying all the way back home.

So it went throughout high school. I could participant in a Catholic education, but not their worship.

It was over those four years where I began to feel less and less like a Catholic forbidden to practice Catholicism, and more and more like simply a spiritual stranger in a strange land.

I was growing more and more confused with religion, and more and more angry with the whole process.

New Garden, Same Roots

On the other side of that spiritual table, was (mercifully) a new evangelical church. A church that I was a part of from the age of fourteen until May of this year. And while I didn’t ever come to fully realize it until my mid-20’s, it constituted that aforementioned community of consistently good, healthy, and wonderful people, under the leadership of some of the most character laden and godly people I will ever have the honor to meet—a few of whom will always be pillars in my life.

They were, or are, a people, who despite my creeping religious confusion, skepticism, and the accompanying safeguards of the manufactured, young man bitterness I expertly held against them, never shied away from simply loving me.

That last statement alone is the dearest cost counted in all of this ... with so many of them still, or until very recently, being a part of that same community.

So much so, it represents the single greatest source of second guessing and hesitancy that I had to confront in the face of what God was asking of me. And the tale of my place among them is one I look forward to telling at some point coming up.

But that sort of encapsulates my Catholic past, my earliest sense of God and the spiritual life, and how I made my way, or was ushered away, from it.

Hopefully, it also establishes the presence of a very formidable tap root that was, as I have come to realize, never severed. Something I think will help frame what is to come.

Until next time.

Thanks for listening/reading.