"Maybe You're Catholic?" Part I

Oooooh! It stinnnngs us!... It burrrrrnnnnsss us!...

Dear Reader, Karen, asked me this almost as a hypothetical aside about a year ago after a particularly acidic post I'd written about the state of the Protestant Church and how we were slowly coming to grips with the fact that we were, in fact, surrounded by well-meaning theological idiots. Of course my automatic reaction was astoundingly negative. And a little terrified. 'Cause much as I hated to cede her any theological ground, I had the sinking suspicion she might be right.

I've always loved the Idea of Catholicism, though I could never quite wrap my brain around the theology and structure of it. But the pulpits of Protestantism were -- and are -- full of Catholic-bashing; with long sermons on Catholicism as the head of "dead worship", "idolatry" and "the perversion of the Gospel". Some even went so far as to proclaim the Catholic Church "The Whore of Babylon" in keeping with their own interpretation of the Book of Revelation. Protestants were taught that Catholics weren't Christians; that they worshipped Mary, the saints and the Pope (the latter as the virtual reincarnation of Jesus); Communion wasn't the actual Presence; birth control was a neutral thing; and it was us alone with God -- no one else entered the equation (like say... some especially holy peeps to cheer us on from heaven's bleachers). Nevermind that Martin Luther and John Calvin themselves didn't hold these views -- much less the Church as a corporate body until well after the Reformation (1500 years after Christ's ascension).

But really, this intense introspection was the Pope's fault. What a wonderful guy! Such a humanitarian. Such an embodiment of the word, "Papa". History will never forget John Paul II... *cluck* History is only now beginning to really know him. Anyway, he had to go and get all mortally ill. And then he just had to make us wait for him to pass, while the news media re-capped his astounding tenure on earth as Papa Supremo (especially the echo of his firm and calm voice on the life and human rights of Terri Schiavo, an issue Tef and I wept over on the meek pages of our little blog).

Of course I was glued to the tee-vee. Of course I soaked in as much about the processes of the Catholic church as I could. Of course I paid attention, fascinated by what I saw. And, thanks to some volatile and even downright evil preaching I'd heard over the years, of course I felt a little sorry for all these "deluded Catholics" who knew no better than to think they had to go through a man, even a man so great, to "get to God".

But the singing, the chanting, the honor, the dignity, the thousands of people who choked the Square! The outpouring of love and godly respect! Enormous. And there were no riots, no protests, just people waiting to say goodbye... And then hello.

That was when I knew I was in mortal danger. When I agreed with every tenant of the Catholic Church on who they might next elect as Pope. The hair helmet hamas pursed their lips and sneered, "Well, maybe the newww Pope will let women be priests, and let priests marry... Maybe the newww Pope will like gays. Maybe the newww Pope will let up on abortion and birth control." They licked their slobbery chops and prayed for someone like them. I prayed and worried and wished for someone like Jesus.

When Benedict was announced and then introduced himself as only a "humble laborer in God's vineyard," my heart was shot through with fear. Because those were the words I had so longed to hear. I had been tortured for too long by primadonna demigods. What I needed was a Father. Who was himself also a servant to The Father. Not some preening, throttled, clot of vanity. Ouch. My heart was torn between rejoicing and mourning. I could be happy for the Catholic Church. Very. But that happiness only afflicted me. Because I could not feel it for myself.

So we bumbled through another year. We were married by a Presbyterian minister. Because we had no church of our own. And because he was the present Pastor at the church I'd grown up in. The church my grandfather helped build. The church my father had always attended. The church I'd sat with my grandmother in for every Sunday of my childhood. The church her uncle had formed when he returned to a tiny, rural town from a long stint as missionary to China.

The wedding ceremony was beautiful... And meaningful. But we had to ask to have communion added. It's not something that's done at most Protestant weddings. And certainly not with wine. Because?... Well I don't know why. But I guess because since it's not seen as the actual Presence, only a symbol, it's no big deal if it's left out. The study I have done since makes me more aware and more thankful that we insisted. Even on the wine.

But our "home church" (the church we'd been attending but refused to join) got worse and worse. The "sermons" consisted of recaps of articles from the newspaper, opinions on politics, fluffy nothings, feel-good mental Prozac, and, in the case of their fundraising push, downright greed. The only vestige of spiritual joy was retained in the oddest place -- the liturgy. I've never been a liturgical person. Mostly because it was drilled in my head that it was "bad". But more because I'd not been exposed to its beauty. I supremely enjoyed Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Easter, Advent, and the Christmas Eve "watch" services. It never occurred to me that what I'd loved most had been drawn from the cave-shadows of Catholicism.

But the last straw didn't come until the Sunday after Ash Wednesday. I was having a glorious morning. I'd already proclaimed my fast for Lent on Tuesday, taken my "mark" (along with Tef) on Wednesday, and had been sticking to my commitments. I'd gotten up, eaten my breakfast, read my Bible, gotten to church and smiled gratefully through the opening prayers. *la-dee-dah... dee-dee-deeee* The Senior Pastor stepped into the pulpit. I waited to hear about the Lenten Season, how we were supposed to model ourselves after Christ. How we were to take His sacrifice and reflect on it, gaining our comfort for the next 36 days from Him alone...

Uh-huh...

Know what I got? *drumming fingertips* A lecture on recycling. A screed on how "clean and green" and "alternative fuel sources" were to be our new watchwords as citizens of God's Country. No Bible. No Jesus. No Lenten reflection.

"Repeat after me everyone," his voice smiled in its plastic smile, "Cleeeean and greeeeen."

And all the robots praised him, "Cleeeean and greeeeen," they intoned.

*humph* Clean and green...

Well, Communion was about to start and, wha'ddaya'know! By gum, I just had to get home and check on the drapes! I'd left the iron on the stove! And the roast in the oven was gonna' catch fire 'cuz the microwave had forks in it and, well, just look at the time! I've gotta' feed the llamas! SEE YA.

I marched home and gave Tef (who had been ailing from allergies) an earful. He agreed with my sentiments. But we were at a loss. We didn't know what to do. We couldn't go back to my former church -- the local outpost of the "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God". We didn't believe in predestination, gay ordination, socialism, the power of positive words to create material wealth, abortion, teetotaling, euthanasia or women clergy. Nor were we suited to flip-flops and twee guitars. We wanted reverence and discipline and a gorgeous dose of Biblical liturgy. We soon realized, to loosely quote Chesterton, that all roads led -- inevitably -- to Rome. And that, dear reader, scared the *blank* outta' me.

So I did the only thing I know how to do in situations like these. Research. I got on the internet, found the local headquarters of the Catholic church and perused their bulletin. Among other sensible programs (like courses that teach people how to care for elderly family who have memory problems and self-care concerns) there was an annual Mass held by *wow, I hope I can write this without tearing up* mentally handicapped parishioners. THAT, is respect and reverence for life. RIGHT THERE. I forwarded it to Tef.

You don't understand. The churches we'd been going to had programs for every hour of every day. Most of them aerobics, bread-baking and square-dancing classes disguised as "discipleship". Not much enrichment going on -- unless you want to invest in underwater basket weaving as a vocation. Then they'd come to their congregation asking -- no, guilting and threatening -- for more money to fund their "enrichment programs". It never occurred to them that the Church is not a YMCA. Nor is it a cottage industry in arts and crafts. A counseling workshop that equipped people to care for their aged loved ones? Yeah, that never occurred to them either.

But I can still remember Tef's response, "We can check it out. If you want." I was so relieved. And terrified. And then we freaked out a little. I freaked out a lot. Mary? The Saints? The infallibility of the Pope? Oh, no... Too much... Too soon. And what will people say? Oh, God... we're risking everything. We're risking it all. What does Christ think about all this? Am I committing an idolatrous sin if I say a Hail Mary? What about when I talk to my grandmother? Oh, God... Help...