Part 4: In the Journey Home (Chronicling My Return to Catholicism)
NOTE: This is a revised version of a text initially composed in 2022, to mark the four-year anniversary of this pivotal morning.
I sat positioned roughly two hundred feet east of Mound Rd., looking past a small cluster of trees at the houses on the opposite side. The engine idled, and my foot rested on the brake. Yet, my hand seemed reluctant to move the shift knob and put the vehicle into DRIVE.
For mid-February in Michigan, it was an unexpectedly pleasant morning—sunny and mild. Although the air was brisk, I could feel late winter warmth from the low morning sun pushing past the window.
Gazing without particular focus into the space before me, I let out a long, slow breath. I couldn't quite pinpoint what, but something was working against my resolve to move on with my day.
So, I there I remained, reflecting on the Mass I had just attended. Thinking about the Scripture readings and how they served as the foundation for the priest's concise yet meaningful homily. My thoughts lingered on how my spirit felt profoundly nourished once again by the Eucharist—that long dormant sacramental practice recently springing to new life in my own.
I believe one reason I hesitated to drive away was my desire to experience it all over again. I knew it was good and right for me to be there that morning. It was the sort of sense you sometime have that goes beyond, “I’m really glad I decided to do this." Like, to the extent you wonder if something of more lasting impact was achieved in the fact that you did.
Yet, a greater reason was this: There was to be found something quite stirring in my desire to stay. That was in large part due to the arid spiritual place I had been navigating the past several years. The Liturgy of the Word … the Liturgy of the Blessed Sacrament … left me quenched at a level I could not deny. But what's more was that I knew, in that moment, I should not deny it any further, like I had been.
In that instant, I realized it wasn't merely about attending Mass on occasion; it was about confronting the very present fact that God had called me back to the Catholic Church.
A Bit of Background
This inevitability had been building momentum for some time. It started roughly three years earlier (approximately five years before this post), when I first considered the possibility that God might be guiding me back to Catholicism.
During the first two years, I primarily lived in denial. However, as I kept studying, praying, and discussing with other Christians experiencing similar struggles in their evangelical surroundings, I had to seriously reflect on why I couldn't let this go. It simply wasn't fading away.
Instead of fading away like the temporary tug of emotion, my thoughts on Catholicism only intensified over these two years. This shouldn't imply I didn't have any objections or concerns about certain aspects of Catholic teaching—I did. However, compared to the objections or grave concerns I was facing within my faith context at the time, these seemed relatively minor and much easier to resolve.
I dedicated myself to exploring this topic more deeply, whether through formal seminary education or independently. I found it undeniable that many Catholic practices, which my Protestant perspective initially viewed as strange, incorrect, or unbiblical, were often more biblically and historically substantiated than the newer doctrines I had presumed to be true. This presumption had led me to, in some way, disregard aspects of Christian history that were inconvenient to my own beliefs.
Like many others, I simply ignored it. There was the Church in the New Testament, followed by those who rediscovered it (in parts) between the American Revolution and Azusa Street. The other 1800 years, particularly those before 1517, seemed like a religious jumble, distant and disconnected from me, merely an echo from a bygone era that I felt free to overlook. Or so I believed.
Peering out from behind the curtain of bias, I was surprised by the numerous and significant disconnections that existed. This caused considerable discomfort because I didn't find much of my evangelical identity, as I understood and practiced it, represented in early Christianity.
Let me give an example. It involved the increasing difficulty I faced with the practice of communion.
Even a brief examination of early Church history shows that the belief in Christ's real presence in the Eucharist was essential to the early Church. It was taken for granted, in fact. To such an extent that Christians were accused of cannibalism by pagans and Jews from the end of the first century due to their regular gatherings to partake in the Body and Blood of Christ.
This was the focal point of early Christian worship. Although supported by Scripture reading, prayer, and teaching, gathering before the Lord's Table was the centerpiece of Christian practice.
This belief and practice persisted in the developing Christian Tradition, consistently upheld throughout the Middle Ages (even beyond the schism between the Latin Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Churches—both of which maintain the same doctrine today).
It was not seriously contested until a decade into the Protestant Reformation, when Martin Luther, of all people, vehemently defended a version of the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist against a new doctrine proposed by the early Swiss reformer Huldrych Zwingli, who argued that the bread and wine were merely symbolic of Christ's bodily sacrifice.
Thus, I became puzzled over the practice of mere memorial communion and the suitability of its occasional, sometimes casual, insertion between praise and worship and what had become the new centerpiece of contemporary Protestant evangelicalism ... the sermon.
At this point, my prayer focused on remaining devoted to surrendering to God's influence. Despite the unsettling nature of this experience at times, it was valuable in revealing what I had truly become as a believer—more of an assumer than a seeker.
From that gravitational influence (and this personal insight) the distant possibility emerged that God was guiding me back to the Catholic Church. It soon transformed into a real possibility. Gradually, it became a likelihood ... and then an even greater one, until returning to my Catholic roots became the desire of my heart and soul.
Enter the pandemic
Like many aspects of 2020, this entire process was disrupted by the uncertainty of the subsequent months. Additionally, I began my doctoral journey in the fall of that year. Combined with witnessing my dear mother's final stages in her brave fight against Alzheimer’s, there was understandably little mental capacity left for further productive thought during that period.
As things started to settle into what is often called (though I dislike the term) the “new normal,” I momentarily reflected on the entire experience and questioned whether it was just a wave from the 2020 “reality check” that had crashed and faded away.
How naive of me. Not only did it come back, but it also invaded my mind, heart, and spirit with great force. I might even describe it as ferocious.
So, on that day, as I sat in the north parking lot of St. Kieran Catholic Church in mid-February 2021, I understood that my world had been shaken. It was evident to me that the Spirit of God had brought me back to the Catholic Church.
Notice the tense used: “had brought me,” rather than “was bringing me.” I aim to express a sense of finality with this realization.
However, agreeing to this meant declining something else. Although my mind, heart, and spirit were aligned, convincing my will to follow? Well... that was going to take some time. If you've read all these installments, you're aware that my will lagged until May of 2022, when I reached a point where I could no longer tolerate my own inaction (which was a few weeks before the date of that first installment).
You might wonder why the will was so unyielding. In short, it was due to loyalty, commitment, and weighing the consequences. The detailed explanation will be reserved for a later chapter in this story.
However, similar to when I left that wedding Mass (mentioned in the previous installment) contemplating how I would confess to my evangelical family that I was finished with everything due to my disbelief in God, I found myself once again leaving a Mass pondering how I could ever inform my evangelical family that I was done with it all because I believed God was guiding me "home to Rome."
The loyalties, responsibilities, and personal connections to that community were deeper and stronger than ever at that time.
Yet, I was in disbelief, you know? I kept thinking, “God, you cannot possibly be asking this of me.”
But I recognized I was too involved for it to be any different. I also saw it as the culmination of a process that had started years earlier. Reaching that moment was the outcome of a long and painful journey of confusion and decline I experienced after surrendering the framework of my faith to God. A framework that, once surrendered, proved to have little value for my connection with Him in the first place.
It all began about a decade before that morning.
What Am I Really Even Doing Here?
I don’t recall why, but I was flying solo at church that morning. Douglas was just over four years old at the time, so perhaps he was feeling unwell, and Nicole stayed home with him. Regardless, there I was, positioned toward the back and on the right side of our dimly lit auditorium, its brightly and colorfully lit stage up front.
Our new worship leader, a full-time staff "pastor," was three songs into his set. This would have been about six months or so into his brief layover with our congregation. Watching the stage, I admired the evident skill, polish, and charisma the man possessed.
"He's quite the performer."
Wait, what? The thought surprised me. “Performing?” I wondered. “That’s seems a bit critical. Why would I think that?”
In that instance, I was drawn into some self-reflection. I acknowledged any number of reasons I had such a thought. All of them judgmental and pointing to issues with my outlook that morning, as opposed to anything he was or was not doing.
Insofar as that was the case though, I couldn’t help feeling I was standing in an atmosphere that seemed more like something else than church. It was as if my mind and spirit were being pointed toward numerous things, none of which happened to be God, in any direct sense.
I started to examine my attitude for a "judgmental sprit." Yet, I understood myself enough to realize that wasn't the issue. It wasn't about anything negative toward him, the church, anyone, or anything. It wasn't about me being religious "get off my lawn" guy because of a new style, sound, approach, or volume level that didn't suit my preferences.
Still, and without even noticing, I had somehow become disconnected from the worship service early on. I simply stood there, observing everything like an uninvolved spectator, almost as if I were attending a concert but didn't know the band.
As I broke it down … the thing that really stood out at me was the focus of it all. I could not help but think that it was not as God-centered as it was “US” centered. Now four songs in, each one focused on: WE, ME, and especially I.
It had been about a decade and a half since my encounter with God in Pensacola. In the intervening years I had grown to be integrally involved with, and in many respects in love with, this community. I met my wife and got married there. Served alongside them in various capacities, volunteering to join or lead, as my skills were suited.
I teamed with them in foreign lands to serve the church and its mission abroad. I prayed with them. Ate with them. Celebrated with them. Mourned with them. I had been part of their journey, as they had been part of mine and Nicole’s (and Douglas’) for a good long time. This wasn’t just my faith community. It was my tribe, my friends, my family. Truly amazing people.
Truly.
But for the first time, that morning, I found myself vexed with an unexpected and troubling series of questions … questions that focused on: US, WE, and especially ME.
“What are we even doing right now?"
"Is THIS what worship is supposed to be?"
"Is there an attempt to manufacture something spiritual and meaningful happening before me, around me … in me?”
But one question hit me that morning that I would wrestle with for years to come, “Is this really all the church is supposed to be?”
Minutes before the service ended, right after the sermon, the lights were dimmed out once again. The worship leader returned to do his thing, behind the speaker while he delivered an impassioned final prayer. One that like most weeks exhorted the Spirit of God to move upon those who needed it, while inviting those who did ... to let it.
Still in observer mode, I stood there, taking in every word, processing it all in context. I found myself in the moment reduced to a single wonder: “Why am I even here?”
At this point, many readers might quickly think of defensive answers to what these questions suggested, because my asking them implies that something was wrong with all of this. Consequently, whatever I sensed to be wrong ... must have been grounded in something wrong with me.
I spent the entire sermon trying to work out what my deal was. My outlook on worship that day, must signal something was "off" within me, as opposed to the possibility that what was off, was actually what we all were doing.
I would go so far as to say that this self-examination and criticism persisted, manifesting as spiritual self-abuse, for quite a few years thereafter. It felt as though my questions were a form of betrayal or revealed something insincere about my faith. I grappled with these questions and their implications, frequently experiencing significant discomfort and condemnation regarding my love for God and my personal spiritual and moral condition.
Any evangelical is aware that when you begin to ask such questions, the general consensus is often that you're causing division, caught up in sin, influenced by a "Jezebel spirit," not reading your Bible sufficiently, or not praying enough, and so on.
Without knowing it at the time, and long before the term "deconstruction" became so trendy among evangelicals, the demolition of my evangelical framework had commenced.
An Evangelical Deconstruction Begins with Certain Realizations about the Certainties Themselves
In the years that followed, I increasingly faced these issues as I embarked on a deeper exploration of my spiritual self than ever before. I not only encountered questions and tensions but also made a concerted effort to understand the true motives behind them.
I was beginning to understand that while I was developing and maturing as a "church-goer," this wasn't leading to growth and maturity as a Christian.
I would even assert that for about five years, my spiritual journey with God significantly progressed after I encountered Him in Florida. However, this was now thirteen or fourteen years later. Without realizing it over time, I couldn't identify any specific tangible element of my spiritual or devotional life that had substantially deepened in the last eight or nine years of this period.
My development as a disciple of Christ was stalled at puddle depth, even though I adhered to the spiritual formation requirements commonly found in the publications, teachings, and devotional strategies of the wider contemporary American evangelical movement. I was reading the Bible regularly … and doing so A LOT. I was praying. I was fasting (on occasion). Getting involved in ministry and service. Doing the small group thing. And I was doing it with the desperate thirst of one aware of their own “parched-ness.”
I started reflecting on my discipleship in a very personal and unfiltered way. It was devastating to realize and then acknowledge that I was more of a follower of a belief system than a true disciple of Christ. This system was tied to a set of morals and typical spiritual standards, which, if adhered to, would represent the "fruit" of a good Christian life, rather than being a dynamic and evolving embodiment of living within and being shaped by the gospel.
Despite all the talk within the broader evangelical community and my own discussions about prioritizing "relationship over religion," I was starting to realize that my current situation might not be the most conducive for developing and valuing either.
I was familiar with every aspect of my faith context: the spoken language, the body language, the spiritual etiquette, and the behavioral expectations. I performed them diligently and faithfully, and, as far as I could see, with genuine intent, just like the rest of my faith community.
However, it troubled me to realize that I truly didn't know God well at all.
I started to wonder, what determines what? Was it the system and code shaping my discipleship, or was it Christ?
The belief held was that the system, code, and characteristics were biblically based, making it acceptable to assume that my actions aligned with God's will. Still, when I took a step back to examine my relationship with the Lord as a whole, I was dismayed to discover that it was more about chasing a spiritual identity than pursuing the genuine love and affection with my Savior.
To put it another way, I was in relationship with a standard of belief and behavior, as opposed to living gospel alongside others who needed The Gospel. I had come to assume, without ever consciously deciding to, that growing in alignment to the ways and certainties of a particular Christian circle was growing in the Christian walk.
I was prioritizing this relationship over religion, indeed. However, my concern with the relationship was more about aligning beliefs and emotions, which ultimately reflected a hidden self-centeredness. It was a perspective that saw God as part of the backdrop in my own reflection.
Let me repeat that: IT WAS A PERSEPCTIVE THAT SAW GOD AS PART OF THE BACKDROP IN MY OWN REFECTION.
My focus was on myself, with God relegated to the background, possibly even effectively removed. Unfortunately, I couldn't perceive Him without considering myself first.
My Christianity could be boiled down to what I was doing. Yes, what I was doing in relationship to, or even distantly for God, but the priority of focus always started with me—what I was doing. Was I believing the right stuff? Was I acting the right way? Was I saying the right things? Was I doing this and this and this, but never that, or that, or that.
Deconstruction is inevitable when contact with the divine is inhibited by the construct itself
Like the old "chicken or the egg" question, I wondered did the framework drive this sort of Christianity, or does this particular sort of Christianity need such frameworks? Inasmuch as the question is circular, it is also insular. And for that, when I started to feel the urge to gaze beyond the girders into the vast expanses of the truly divine, where there was a place for awe and wonder, and where there was space to nurture admiration for the profound meaning and mysteries of my ancient Faith, all I could perceive was the structure building yet another barrier of its own certainty, preventing such imagination from achieving a broader perspective.
Although the structure was robust in terms of proposition, energy, and attraction, I couldn't perceive beauty in it. There was nothing inherently beautiful at the core of the framework. Apart from the beauty introduced by its followers, the system lacked beauty in its own inherent, incarnate, form.
What about transcendent beauty? The kind that exists in a structure but originates from a source beyond it, like sunlight and warmth pouring through windows and doors? That, too, was absent within.
This was a immensely unsettling realization. Of course these things were not foreign to the denomination I was in, but besides being occasionally mentioned, there was nothing that could be tangibly pointed to. And in the absence of elements that drew us toward awe, mystery, meaning, and beauty, alternatives needed to be produced.
My faith community put in a lot of effort, always with sincerity, to utilize the most current and effective strategies they knew to guide us toward those goals. Nevertheless, it was simply the best a human effort could manage in recreating things that lay beyond the framework in which the Assemblies of God operated. Consequently, the energy, enthusiasm, and appeal appeared to me as imitations of what I was genuinely longing for.
I strenuously contemplated this for several months. I actively searched for links between our pragmatic, almost consumer-oriented approach to being a church and the divine elements of our profoundly rich, mystical, and intellectually engaging Faith. These connections were missing. As a result, the divine, with all its awe, mystery, significance, and beauty, remained merely conceptual within that circle and its wider context.
I want to stress that there was a great deal that was positive and healthy there. When I say I could not find a connection to the truly meaningful, in no way do I want to say it was meaningless. When I say that the ancient beauty of the Faith was not readily observed, that does not mean there was ugliness there. Yes, I would say that the mystical and intellectually engaging aspects were, to a certain degree, met with an unfortunate indifference, reflecting the historical traits of American evangelical ancestry more generally.
It was a good place, with safe people, who strove to love and serve Jesus as best they could. That reflected the nature of the community's righteous and healthy leadership, who were committed to shepherding the flock by way of the best guidance they knew to provide.
All of this, no matter how positive, was just not enough. I could not shake it. Something serious was missing. That, as I would become aware in due time, was the sacred. It was the very thing that would be the point of contact to those other elements I could not locate within the framework. It is something that for certain cannot be reproduced.
That which is sacred possesses its sanctity in both an ontological and transcendent manner. No thing can be humanly engineered or systematically turned into sacredness; the sacred simply exists as such or it does not. The sacred is ordained by God and bestowed upon humanity as a grace.
Creating a spectacle and then associating God with it is the exact opposite of how the sacred truly works. Trust me when I tell you, I deconstructed an entire framework for "doing church" just to be able to see that painful truth.
To sum it all up
Contemporary American evangelical frameworks consider themselves receptive to the movement of the Spirit in ways that the liturgical church is not. They believe this is because they are not "bound" by the constraints of "ritualism" that the "religious" individuals are caught up in.
What I came to see was merely that a different liturgy was taking place. Instead of calling it "Mass," we called it a "service." But this service was structured around elements that were, as far as I could tell, just as ritualistic, if not more. Once I came to this opinion, I began to consider this form of liturgy was rooted in. It wasn't ancient (capital "T") Tradition. It wasn't the practice of the early Church. It wasn't the New Testament. It wasn't awe. It wasn't beauty. And it wasn't the sacred.
It was a more contemporary vibe. It was twenty-first century. It was attraction. It was consumer.
Let me clarify that I am not claiming it is wrong; rather, I am suggesting it is a form of liturgy with a different focus. It undeniably directs attention towards God. However, it prevented me from direct communion with God, as I was constantly contemplating Him, even subconsciously, through a perspective prioritizing myself.
This is the American perspective at its heart—stylized to be individualized.
I will, of course, admit that perhaps this feeling was "just me." However, "just me" seemed spiritually shallow.
Cutting to the quick, I felt spiritually isolated and disconnected from the Object of my faith.
I suppose you could say I was seeking meaningful solitude with God. I aimed to deepen my understanding of Him. Interestingly, for this to occur, I needed to carve out time for us to retreat together ... away from ME.
So, a more beautiful, straight away, and sacramental liturgy became my longing—a form of worship that required me to set aside individuality to unite more completely with others. Bringing in about as much individualism as a single cell does to their organism. That Organism is the Mystical Body of Christ.
I yearned for a more beautiful, directly meaningful, and sacramental liturgy. guess you could say, I began yearning for more religion.
It was the morning of February 18, 2021, as I sat in the parking lot after Mass, when I accepted that yearning had developed into a call. I would return to the Catholic Church and I would attend this parish—St. Kieran.
I only had to figure out how.
Comments