The Little Foxes of Fear

The fear of rejection caused me to isolate myself in early 2005 after Rich was received into the Catholic Church. By the following year, that fear had become a cautious timidity. I warily explored the Mass and Catholic Christianity, trying to ignore the cultural cautions of my Protestant roots. Yet even as I found Jesus so real in the Eucharist, I was plagued by the anxious whirring of the stress of being different – something I was reminded of each Sunday.

Why was I so bothered by this reality? I didn’t know. However, I was constantly reminded that no matter how often I attended Mass or met with the members of the home Bible study, I was forever out of step. I realized I would never quite be accepted within the Catholic culture. I would always feel alien.

It was an uncomfortable place to be.

Yet all the while, Jesus tried to point me toward Himself and His peace.

As I read the devotional book, My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers, I came across this entry, “Is the grace of His ministering life being worked out through you in your home, your business, and in your circle of friends? Have you been wondering why you are going through certain circumstances? In fact, it is not that you have to go through them. It is because of your relationship with the Son of God who comes, through the providential will of His Father, into your life. You must allow Him to have His way with you, staying in perfect oneness with Him.”

Anxiety, like the little foxes that spoil the vines, had turned my heart from the graces of Christ’s love to a self-ward dwelling on my difficulties.

Even when the Holy Spirit pointed me aright with whispers that the journey of faith often leads through difficult times, I ignored Him. I let the social and cultural stresses I experienced tempt me to be full of worry. Yet, despite my negative responses to Christ’s gentle call, somehow He used my anxiety to prod me toward His loving embrace.

During the following few months, it slowly dawned on me that my sense of alienation was rooted not in my present, but in my past. I had thought I’d left those long forgotten days of alienation behind.

In the summer of 1952, before I turned five, I discovered what it meant to be a social oddity. My sister had several episodes of epileptic seizures which often left her unresponsive, and sometimes without respirations for extended periods. I remember my mother frantically calling the fire department (who acted also as paramedics) each time Jan had an episode. Meanwhile, I was sent across the street to stay out of the firemen’s way. From there I would watch our living room window hoping to see the men who were trying to revive my sister. Standing around me were neighbors from the other apartment houses who, for reasons I still do not understand, berated my mother and accused her of calling the fire department so often because she was seeking attention for herself. Even my best friend’s mother found fault with us. She was a Christian Scientist and did not believe in sickness. When my parents rejected her idea that Jan was not really ill, and that they should stop seeking medical help for her, my friend’s mother would not let her play with me again.

Thus in 2006, as I attended the Catholic Church with Rich, I felt myself alienated once more. The experience was like jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool filled with snakes. So devastating were my memories, I panicked. Yet, Jesus was there with me in the pool among those snakes. His strong arms held onto me, as He gently encouraged me to open my eyes to His reassuring presence there with me. And slowly I realized that He was not going to leave me. He was going to help me.

I discovered later that He would do so though a series of unexpected events.

One Sunday afternoon, I was stressing over some event (which I cannot remember) from that morning’s Mass, mulling over how different I was from the rest of the congregation. I sat at our computer, trying to avoid those nagging thoughts of how useless it was to continue to attend services with Rich.

As I absently surfed the web, looking at nothing in particular, I remembered a comment someone made about Mother Angelica, the founder of Eternal Word Television Network (EWTN). I had listened to Mother Angelica sometimes on the radio. I found the EWTN web address and clicked the link to the opening page. That was when I discovered Mother Angelica was recovering from a stroke. I was saddened by this and I followed the links to the prayer response page—joyful to know there was something I could do for her: I could pray. The site did not ask me if I was Protestant or Catholic. It just asked me to choose the number of prayers I would say for Mother Angelica’s healing. I typed a number and then noticed there was an option to pray a rosary.

For several months prior to this, I had been using rosary beads only to meditate on the various Mysteries (Joyful, Sorrowful, Glorious, and Light). I had found this practice to be very worthwhile and spiritually fulfilling. But when I saw the option to pray a full rosary for Mother Angelica, I wondered how I would be able to do so the “Catholic” way, since much of the rosary includes the Hail Mary and other Marian prayers, which were alien to my experience as a Protestant Christian.

However, I continued to sense the Holy Spirit’s prompting to pray a rosary’s length of prayers for Mother Angelica, and I felt overwhelmed with a surety that, no matter what others might think of me, I was not a misfit, that my place with Rich in the Catholic Church was part of God’s plan for my faith journey. And in a split-second, I decided that if Catholics could say rosaries, I could too. With the click of the mouse, I committed myself to saying 365 rosaries for Mother Angelica’s health.

A moment later, anxiety gripped me. I was assaulted with any number of “what ifs” – such as, What if I am doing something terrible, using a rosary to pray? What if Catholics find out and scoff at me? What if this type of prayer is only for Catholics? What if this turns me into a Roman Catholic?

Fear can generate a long list of reasons why we should not seek to follow Christ’s leading. I ignored the “what ifs. I knew our Father in heaven is pleased when we dedicate ourselves to communicating with Him. So I set out to keep my promised prayers . . . .

Idols of My Own Making

The summer of 2006 brought many interior changes. Christ’s love in me made my heart swell with joy each time we attended Mass. Like David, I longed to be in the house of God, our Catholic church. There the wonderful Presence of the Lord Jesus drew me to Himself. Christ’s presence in the Eucharist was for me a rich and soul satisfying certitude, better than any other church experience I had encountered. In His presence, the sorrow caused by division vanished as Messiah’s peace comforted me.

Soon I discovered I treasured all that reminded me of Jesus at the Catholic Church: the priests, the altar servers, the lectors, the cantor, and the people in the pews. In Christ, all are alive, all are His, and in Him we are all connected. At times I felt that deep connection with the community during Mass. Often the joy of Christ’s love seemed to flow through me to the congregation, and I rejoiced. It was a time of wonder.

But my Methodist, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, and Baptist mix of traditions rejected the design elements of the very place in which I rejoiced in Christ’s love – that being the Catholic Church’s sanctuary. Try as I would, I could not ignore the people I saw kneeling before statues. The scene reminded me of idolatry in the Old Testament, and I knew God’s clear message – no image is to receive worship. God alone deserves worship, and He is jealous of His right.

The statues seemed out of place.

Yet, I also knew Christ’s commandment to love our neighbor as our self. And so, the love of Christ led me to a more complete understanding of Catholic prayer. When I saw people praying before a statue of the Blessed Virgin, I too wanted to pray with them – not to the Blessed Virgin, but to agree with their prayers. I knew in my spirit that each brother or sister’s petition was directed to God, and knowing this, I asked myself, “Could prayer before icon or statue in the Roman Church be actually a means of Christ centered worship? What on the surface seemed to my Protestant Christian traditions so wrong – could it be right?”

Setting aside my reservations, I watched and listened; I read and prayed, and learned that the Catechism of the Catholic Church soundly condemns idolatry.

I slowly discovered God has given a unique gift to Roman Catholic and Orthodox churches. On many levels within and without the sanctuary, the very building is an open book of godly remembrances and forms a kind of catechetic (or teaching) puzzle. As I discovered the pieces linked together, I found a wealth of Biblical instruction.

The furnishings of the altar, the icons, the stained glass – the entire building, displays the promises of the Old Testament, and the completion of those promises in New. Here is the worship of the one God of Israel, the life of His Son -- Messiah Jesus -- and the life of His body, the Church. It is visible on the walls, floor, and ceiling. It’s all around any who care to see. The examples are many. The red glow of the lamp burning near the Tabernacle harkens back to the, ner tamid – which in Jewish tradition is a representation of the incense that burned before the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple. This ner tamid indicated God’s Presence in the synagogue. Now it burns in recognition that the Bread of Life – God in the flesh, the Christ in His Sacramental Presence – is with us.

The altar of the Jewish Temple, the table of Showbread, even the table in the upper room where Jesus ate the Last Supper, all meet their fulfillment in the table of Eucharist “celebration.” The altar also reminds us of the love feasts held in the homes of the early Christians, the love feast which is now the family’s Eucharistic meal, our Last Supper. And in sharing this meal, the Church anticipates the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

I rejoiced in these lessons. But the statues and icons -- I wondered how they fit in.

Then I remembered the church has historically sought to make the Bible an aural, visual, and tactile experience.

Christ’s love, again, opened my eyes to see the images in paint and stone were instructive and uplifting. When I look at the statues of Mary and Joseph, they remind me that marriage is a holy covenantal relationship held together by Christ, the covenant Giver. In an icon of The Holy Family, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph call out the truth that God cares for His holy institution, the family. The statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague reminds me that Jesus was born very God and very man. It says to me, Christ, even as a child was God in the flesh. The saints that surround us remind me of Christ “in us, the hope of glory.” From age to age the Spirit of Christ is the same. These images evoke so many wonderful thoughts of what God has done through others, and what He is doing in the present. Yes, the entire sanctuary became for me an anthem of praise to Christ’s glory, and an encouragement that called me to press on in Christ.

It has taken some time for me to understand the difference between reverence and adulation. I now see that Icons and statues are made for reference, and not for worship. The images decorating our sanctuary represent snapshots of family, much like photos we display in our homes.

Instead of taking issue with these silent witnesses I now remember how much they are teaching me and calling me to Christ. And for that, I am thankful.

Life with Two Traditions II

The Mystery of Suffering



During the summer of 1958 I lay in my bed praying and sobbing into my pillow for my sister who slept next to me. Night brought both of us blessed peace from her frantic slaps, nagging pinches, and repeated questions generated by her illness-induced hyperactivity. As I cried to Jesus, begging Him to heal my sister, to keep her safe from more sickness and give her peace, I did not know my deep sorrow was part of the unfathomable mystery of suffering.

Now, decades later, my sister is completely vulnerable and helpless. A childhood illness coupled with encephalitis has locked her into the mental capacity of a six-month-old. It has robbed her voice of words. Her hands do not move to her will, and caregivers must position her in bed and wheelchair.

That traumatic event more than fifty years ago compounds the grief we still feel as a family. But her condition never prevented us from our commitment to her well-being. We love Jan, and do our best to ensure she has every opportunity to remain healthy and happy. She is our flesh and blood. She is family.

Yet, our mother’s heart still aches with deep regret for her daughter. Our father’s heart was squeezed by anguish into silence much too soon. And my sister’s illness altered my life, and that of my brother. We did not realize it at the time, but Jan’s illness enriched our lives with a sense of mercy and gratitude.

And I have learned Christ’s love is present in the midst of any difficult situation.

As baptized and blood-bought Christians, we are all members of a family – the universal Church. Christ shares His mercy and tender love through our members. His love fills us with the desire to be together, to pray with each other, to look deeply into each other’s eyes and find the Spirit of Christ looking back. The Blessed Holy Spirit puts within us a need to lean close and hear what our brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers in Christ are saying.

In the summer of 2006 Rich was invited to teach a home Bible study. Some of the people who attended his study on the Lord’s Prayer had, for several weeks, engaged him in friendly discussion over lunch. Both Rich and I enjoyed getting better acquainted with these wonderful people. The opportunity to continue to meet and talk about Christ and the Bible was very pleasing to us all.

As we met each week at the Bible study I came to consider these people family, so I was taken aback by some of the discussion as we studied through 1 Peter. Many of the bible study members began speaking of encounters they’d had with Protestants – encounters that deeply offended them, encounters typically rooted in false perceptions of Catholicism.

As devastating as the unseen illness that sapped the life out of my sister’s limbs and erased the words from her brain, the suffering of division has devastated Protestants and Catholics alike.

As I paid attention to the family, I heard stories that embarrassed my Protestant sensibilities. These Catholic Christians shared their wounded hearts. They told how Protestants had demeaned Catholic piety by asserting that Catholics tried to earn their way to heaven. I heard the crass way the Blessed Virgin Mary is attacked, and how some Protestants believe Catholics are impure pagans and idol worshipers.

As I listened, I was reminded that on any given day, Protestant radio, calling itself “Christian radio,” encourages listeners to share Christ’s salvation with Catholics – in other words, to “get them saved.” Rarely, if ever, did I hear radio preachers encourage their listeners to share Christ’s love with Catholics, or to search for unity and fellowship with their Catholic brethren.

No wonder Catholics back away from me when they learn I am a Protestant. After all, you never know when a Protestant will attack your life in Christ, or the Blessed Virgin, the Mass, or even the Holy Eucharist – and in so doing, violate the very Christianity they claim to represent.

On the other hand, I have experienced a version of misinformation and misperceptions about Protestants from some Catholics.

It does not edify my spirit to be dismissed as someone who could not possibly understand the deep mystery of the Eucharist, or of the Mass. It hurts me when some of my Catholic family consider me a Schismatic, or perhaps even a Heretic. It wounds my heart to know some Catholics don’t consider me a child of God on my way to heaven, just as they are. And like Catholic Christians, it hurts me to realize some do not consider my devotion to Jesus, to the Scriptures (which is His holy Word) and to my (Protestant) Christian traditions as valid expressions of my love for the Savior.

It is as much a mystery that the family continues to choose the suffering of division, as it is that our Father permits us to do so. Perhaps He is waiting on us to choose aright. Unfortunately Protestants and Catholics (and Orthodox) seem determined to hold on to their misperceptions.

I wonder sometimes if we are as helpless as my sister.

And then I remember our Lord can bring healing and life out of disease and death. The One who touched lepers also went out of His way to find those rejected by family and friends. The One who washed the dirty feet of His disciples, and prayed that we would be a united family, is able to bring us into accord.

Jesus has ever opened to us the mysterious grace of His suffering. Here we see our sin actualized upon “Him who knew no sin; who became sin for us.” How undeserved, how marvelous is Christ’s love for us as He prays for His Mystical Body, His family, to be united. Facing the monstrous weight of our sins, our loving Lord called upon His Father to keep us together, all of us, united, one with Him and each other.

“Holy Father,” the Lord prayed as He prepared for His crucifixion, “keep them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one just as we are . . . .I pray not only for them, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, so that they may all be one, as you, Father, are in me and I in you, that they also may be in us, that the world may believe that you sent me” (St. John 17; Italics mine).

That same fervent petition for unity comes in prayer raised to the throne of Grace each Sunday during Mass. My heart yearns after that desire, and calls out a fervent, “Amen…so be it “each time we pray.

As did Mary, let us accept the sufferings that come when we embrace truth. Christ is truth. Our reasonable service is to lay down our lives for Him. Before our Father a great cloud of witnesses renews their petitions for us to persevere. This moment – this time – is our opportunity to be the answer to our Lord’s petition.

The Holy Spirit ever calls unto our hearts to seek unity. Have we turned up the volume of our iPod to block His voice? Our Father’s hand remains out-stretched to heal. Why do we refuse to grasp it? Our Elder Brother even now intercedes for our unity. Have we forgotten His reminder that godly sorrow leads to the mystery of repentance and renewal?

Perhaps out of the suffering and difficulty of the past, all baptized believers of today will allow the risen Savior to heal our wounds of division. In response to the Holy Spirit’s tug on our hearts, may we seek the Father’s will, spoken through His Son, Jesus, and be restored to family once more. When that happens, like the difficulties that took place in my own family, Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox will find family means acceptance, and compassionate care of our imperfect members. Through that recognition we – and our world – will be inexplicably changed for the better by the ordeal.

“Listen and Attend With the Ears of Your Heart”

---St. Benedict of Nursia



During the summer of 2006, our priest welcomed Rich to teach a study of the Lord’s Prayer. It seemed natural for me to be present at the study since it was held right after the 10:00 Mass we attended.

For a year I had found my vertical relationship with Jesus growing, while my interpersonal relationships with members of our congregation remained superficial or nonexistent. I’d given up trying to get to know people and had settled into the mold of an unseen persona. I wondered out loud to Rich if a Protestant at his study might be disruptive. Rich assured me he was able to keep everyone focused on the lesson. From our experiences with Bible studies in Protestant churches, I knew he could do that.

Had the pastor’s invitation to Rich occurred a year earlier, I might have spent that hour in the car or at a nearby coffee shop. I would have found references to Mary, the Sacraments, the Magisterium or any number of other Catholic beliefs that were bantered about during the discussion, very uncomfortable. But because Rich and I had agreed to remain together at the same church, I had become accustomed to hearing about those beliefs. Although I did not share them, I believed they were valid for Catholics because they represented facets of a Roman Catholic’s spiritual relationship with God.

I am sure those few weeks would have been only another interesting inter-church experience for me had it not been for two things. First, Rich engaged me in the discussions as he did the others around the table. I was forced to participate and, in so doing, the men and women at the study learned I was a Protestant. (I was nervous about that discovery because of what I had experienced previously.) These people were surprised to learn I was not a Catholic, but as the weeks continued, they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Second, what these people did not know was God had given me a love for them.

That love had flooded into my heart weeks earlier on Divine Mercy Sunday, which is the first Sunday after Easter. Our parish had an Adoration planned for that afternoon. Adoration is a time set aside to worship the living Christ who manifests Himself within the consecrated host . . . the Bread of Life physically present with us. Catholics meditate on this spiritual idea, seeing beyond the natural, and believing Christ’s word in its literal meaning . . . this is my Body. This is similar to the Protestant view of a literal seven day creation, the Flood, or the parting of the Red Sea.

Rich decided to attend, and I thought I’d go along, too. Rich’s description of his initial experience with Jesus at an earlier Adoration had intrigued me. I hoped to spend some quiet time with Jesus, much like I did each Sunday when we entered the church before Mass.

We sat near the back of the church and could barely see the white circular host in the golden case called a Monstrance – from the Latin, meaning, “to show,” and defined as, “A receptacle in which the host is held.”

I remember kneeling in my pew and praying in tongues (a charism of the Holy Spirit) for a few minutes. Soon, my knees hurt and my back was getting tired. Several women were praying the Rosary, which seemed to go on and on. I longed for them to stop, simply because their vocal prayers intruded into my mind and made it difficult for me to form my thoughts into prayers. I wondered, perhaps coming to the Adoration was not such a good idea.

Ending my prayer, I remained on the kneeler. My mind wandered, but I tried to keep it focused on that little white disk in the Monstrance. I believed Jesus was there. (Months earlier, the Holy Spirit had taught me that Jesus is present within the consecrated host). I had long ago learned to be quiet before The King of Kings in my personal devotions and to wait upon Him. This was such a time.

And then, somehow, inexplicably, as I knelt, Christ’s love flowed into me until I thought I could hold no more. It left me breathless.

The Holy Scriptures describe an account of two disciples on the road to Emmaus who meet the resurrected Jesus. When He made Himself known to them at supper, and then vanished, they turned to each other, realizing who had walked with them that afternoon. "Were not our hearts burning within us while He was speaking to us on the road, while He was explaining the Scriptures to us?" they exclaimed. (St. Luke 24:32, NASB)

In a similar way, I found Jesus before me that Divine Mercy Sunday, and in revealing His presence, my heart indeed burned with His love.

I sat back in my seat. Rich was praying. I was dumbfounded and strangely energized. I looked anew toward the Altar. As the recitation of the Rosary continued I wondered, “What is happening?” No one else seemed at all affected. I prayed silently and fervently, “I love you, Jesus. What is this?”

I was so full of energy I could not sit still. I knelt again. I sat. I knelt once more and silently praised the Lord, though I wanted to shout. A second time, the Holy Spirit pressed Agape love into my heart. In it flowed with compassion, joy, and peace. The Holy Spirit gave my heart “ears to hear.” By the time we left the sanctuary I’d “fallen in love” with Jesus again, and with His Church – all of His Church. Any lingering doubt that I should continue to attend Mass with Rich had vanished.

I cannot explain the how or the why of this heart change, but it altered my life. I have never been the same since. Shortly afterward, I wrote a friend,” Just as when we close our eyes and turn our face toward the sun, then turning away and opening our eyes we see the world around us as a pale image of unreality, so my view of my former walk in Christ is a paler image of what it is now.”

The reality of this heart change manifested itself as I sat in Rich’s study of the Lord’s Prayer, listening to him and the other Catholics comment about the Scriptures, the Catholic Church and her teachings – and even make a few unflattering comments about Protestants – yet I was not offended by it all. I had found myself filled anew with Agape love as soon as I entered the room.

This was a sea-change for me, and evidence that Christ’s love had entered my heart.

I soon discovered I liked listening to their conversations. I also felt a bond of fellowship in my heart for each person. And as we studied the Lord’s Prayer, I found myself listening in on the heartbeat of the Roman Catholic Church. It was a deep, steady beat of constant love and devotion to the Trinity – the loving Father, Christ, the suffering Savior, and the wonderful Holy Spirit.

Life with Two Traditions I

It is often the little things we do or say that make an impact on the lives of those around us. By May 2006, I had experienced Jesus’ love at Mass and also through people at the Catholic Church. The pastor and his staff had encouraged my walk among this new culture of believers with their willingness to answer my questions and to find information for me about Catholic faith and practice. From these acts of thoughtfulness I gained confidence to explore the traditions of the Mass. That summer I felt more comfortable to make the sign of the cross, genuflect, and kneel in prayer. As I participated at Mass I began to understand to some degree what Catholics believe. Many of those beliefs revolve around Sacred Tradition.

For Catholics, tradition is identity. It reflects an unbroken line of historical veracity that begins with Pentecost.

The dictionary defines tradition as the handing down of beliefs, customs, and information from generation to generation by word of mouth or by practice. With regard to Christian theology, tradition incorporates a “body of teachings . . . held to have been delivered by Christ and His apostles, but not originally committed to writing.” Roman Catholic Sacred Tradition combines oral traditions, (e.g. Sunday is “the Lord’s Day”) with sacramental acts (e.g. making the sign of the cross), as well as remembered events (e.g. the Assumption of the Virgin). Since the Apostolic era, the Mass is central to Catholic Tradition. For Catholics, much like Jews at the Passover celebration, the Mass provides a portal of involvement that is as timeless and personal as it is supernatural. Just as the Passover meal allows its participants to reenact the events of the Exodus as eye witnesses, the Mass allows its participants to be eye witnesses of the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection. Together, the Mass, the special days of celebration, sacramental practices, the teachings of the Lord Jesus and of His apostles have nourished the Catholic Church since the first century. In combination with the written Scriptures, these all embody the whole of inspired tradition. Thus, Sacred Tradition is as important to Catholics with regard to faith and morals as the Holy Scriptures are to Protestants.

Protestants recognize the Church was born at Pentecost, but for many (especially those who are unaware of their Roman Catholic roots), historical tradition begins with the Reformation.

Although Protestants retain some of the early church’s core beliefs, such as those embodied in the Apostles Creed,* most of Protestant tradition is based on sola scriptura -- Scripture alone. Committed Protestants use the Holy Scriptures to form their doctrine and practice. And, much like the devout Jews of Berea (Acts 17), they study the Word of God daily. Like the noble Bereans, dedicated Protestants – laymen and scholars – expect the Holy Spirit to lead them closer to Christ through their study of the Holy Scriptures. As they search the Scriptures and discuss them with one another, Protestants expect to be educated, gain a greater understanding of God’s love, and be prepared to witness for the Gospel. This tradition of study and dialogue mirrors the ancient Talmudic method of pil-pul, defined by the Jewish Encyclopedia as a “penetrating investigation, disputation, and drawing of conclusions, and is used especially to designate a method of studying the Law.”

For me, resolving the differences between the two “traditions” was of great importance. I came to realize, lurking in the shadows of this controversy, was a passion, fervor, and zeal of each group’s commitment to particular Christian world views. A year earlier, these respective views had made of our home a “no-mans land” of theological disparity. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit showed us a better way.

The Lord has taught me the great value of both Catholic and Protestant traditions.

My faith tradition is expressed primarily through meditating on the Holy Scriptures and in prayer. How would I know in Whom I believe without His words and actions written down to guide me? Holy Scripture has been the practical means Christ has used to mature my relationship with Him.

My husband has shared with me his love of Sacred Tradition, which he sees as vital to His life of faith. He explained to me his understanding that Scripture undergirds Sacred Tradition because Sacred Tradition is intricately intertwined with Messiah Jesus, as revealed in Holy Scripture.

As I see it, without a vibrant and maturing relationship with Jesus, Rich and I would both be weakened in our spiritual journeys. How Jesus uses His gifts of Sacred Tradition in combination with the Holy Scriptures to mature us, I can not tell. However, I know my life in Christ would be subject to disorder without the continued washing it receives from Scripture. As I meet Jesus in the Mass and explore Sacred Traditions, I discover a spiritual vibrancy that allows me to see in them the breath of God, and to experience in my heart a great renewal.




*
Latin Text (ca. A.D. 700)
Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem; Creatorem coeli et terrae.
Et in Jesum Christum, Filium ejus unicum, Dominum nostrum; qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria virgine; passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus; descendit ad inferna; tertia die resurrexit a mortuis; ascendit ad coelos; sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis; inde venturus (est) judicare vivos et mortuos.
Credo in Spiritum Sanctum; sanctam ecclesiam catholicam; sanctorum communionem; remissionem peccatorum; carnis resurrectionem; vitam oeternam. Amen.


Modern English Version
I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.
I believe in Jesus Christ, God's only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
he is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and he will come again to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting. Amen.

Mystery

I did not expect to find Jesus so startlingly close at Mass. He found me. That he included me in His embrace through spiritual communion opened my heart to the Holy Spirit’s teaching.

I did not expect to explore the Passion of Christ. It explored me. What could I do but follow, seeing how great a salvation Jesus purchased with His suffering and death.

I did not expect to encounter the mystery and truth of transubstantiation. That mystery captured and transfixed me. Christ’s love melted my icy attitudes and set aside past perceptions.

Freed from the biases that had kept me from seeing, I could now, with open eyes, see the glorious worship of God inherent in the Mass. I began to participate with my whole heart, and as the Lord transformed my previous misperceptions into a clearer perspective, I reached out to my church “home” with opened arms.

I had once thought of Catholic worship as cold, devoid of joy, or personal interaction. I had experienced the camaraderie among Christians in Protestant churches we attended, but now, my experience in church was not primarily horizontal but vertical in emphasis. Here I had an opportunity to be alone with the Savior in a sanctuary where He resided not only in the person of the Holy Spirit but also in the consecrated host within the Tabernacle.

I admit my fervor to understand what my husband and others saw in the Mass drove me to scrutinize everything I encountered in the Catholic services. This investigation, and my longing to know truth, led me to pray that I might comprehend what I intellectually knew occurred at the consecration. And God answered my prayer. I suddenly grasped the authenticity of belief: the bread and the wine change into the body and the blood of Messiah Jesus.

This was no superstition or wishful thinking. The Holy Spirit impressed upon me this truth in such a way that I became convinced and now fully believe. Oh, how precious is the gift of Christ’s presence to the church.


Before the anniversary of Rich’s entrance into the Catholic Church, I was reformed too, into the renewed Christian I am today.


The Mass begins for me at home as I prepare to meet Jesus. I pray and often read my Bible just as I have done for many years. I also attend to one small gift that I have not had the occasion to give Him before. I make sure my hair and forehead are clean in anticipation of the blessing He bestows.

Time stands still the moment I step into the entrance of the church and dip my fingers into the font of holy water beside the door. I make the sign of the cross, reminding myself of my death and burial at baptism, and of my new life in the risen Christ. In some mysterious way, as I move my hand across my chest to make the sign of the cross, the crucifixion becomes terribly real and personal.

As I walk to my pew, I am greeted by silence – a holy hush that is found where the Infinite is revered. It is not simply stillness, or emptiness. It is a purposeful silence, a silence disturbed only by the echoes of kneelers lowered to the floor. It is silence broken by the soft wrap of Rosary beads against wood as the faithful pray. It is the silence of footfalls as priest and choir prepare to serve. It is the deep breath before the glorious beginning of the Mass.

I look for the golden Tabernacle because I know within it lies the bread made flesh, and I rejoice in Jesus who graces our church with His presence.

Genuflection is no longer a polite adaptation. Instead, it is an act of love for my Lord, the King of Kings. Too quickly, we have found our seat and I am on my knee, reminding myself with the little prayer: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. --Touch my forehead, fountain of all wisdom clear my mind of worthless thoughts; touch my chest, wounded Savior I am yours; touch my left and right shoulders, teacher and comforter give me wings to rise above my sinful self.

Thus begins the Mass for me – no longer ritual, but an opportunity to make an endless prayer of worship to the Trinity.

Lessons from a Saint

Sometime in January 2006 Rich brought home St. John of the Cross’ book, “The Dark Night of the Soul.” He handed it to me and said with affection, “I have seen you in such turmoil these past few months. Perhaps this will help.”

I doubted a book would help. Attending Mass with Rich might have become more comfortable and welcome, but my day to day life was like one long dark tunnel. I leafed through the book and laid it down. A moment later, I opened it again. For Rich’s sake, I gave the book a read.

Chapter after chapter of mind-numbing lists about sins and difficulties began to pile up into a mountain of woe. St. John of the Cross wrote of what may never happen, what will happen, and what might happen. I put the book down a dozen times, yet it did seem to be saying something – although I was not quite sure what that was.

Half-way through the book, it began to make sense. His message about purgation after purgation was no mere method of spirituality and growth, but rather a litany of the Father’s love for His beloved children. Our deserts and long dark tunnels were meant by God to purify our lives from all the dross (sin) we accumulate.

I was encouraged. The difficulty in which I found myself was not haphazard or happenstance, but designed by my Father to mature me. St. John, a Biblical scholar and a spiritual counselor, knew what he was writing about. His own experiences included many difficult and life-threatening times in which he had learned that helplessness brings strength to the bond between the Trinity and the child of God. The Father expressed His love for me by allowing me to be helpless so He could rescue me by removing sins buried deep in my heart. Those sins kept me from seeing Him correctly. It hampered the work of the Holy Spirit and it kept me at a distance from Jesus, my heart’s desire.

When I understood God’s purpose in bringing me through my “Dark Night,” I rejoiced, thankful for such “love divine, all loves excelling.” My Lord Jesus was determined to soften and cleanse my heart that was encased in stony sin. He wanted to make me into His likeness, as St. Paul wrote in Romans 8:29: “For those whom He foreknew, He also predestined to become conformed to the image of His Son, so that He would be the firstborn among many brethren.”

When I realized this, I wanted Jesus to take over my life more than I had ever desired it before. I determined I would not stand in the way of any purging He wanted to do.

The Holy Spirit showed me where I needed to change. These are some of the areas He helped me work on – and on which we continue to work.

Rebellion was the first. I had always wanted to have a say in what and how God would do with me. To live otherwise meant He was in complete control, and I unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) found that objectionable. Although I said I wanted Him to lead me, I thought I might decide on how we got there.

Self-will was next. I saw how dominant my will could be as Rich began talking about becoming a Catholic. It was a terrible, aggressive sin that I had practiced well. So thoroughly was it bonded to me that I could not see it as an error. Instead, I thought of it as a beneficial part of my character.

Anger clung to the first two. Although I recognized this fault as a young Christian and had tried to keep it in check, I could never root out its deep core. This flaming emotion set me to pouting and drove me into depression.

Self-pity rounded out the four. It often filled my mind with the lie that Jesus had abandoned me. I fled from problems because I thought them either too hard for me, or they were a rebuke from the Master. I did not see the problems as His loving refinement, so that I might be useful to His purpose.

Cooperating with the Holy Spirit opened my heart to His continual attention. I heard His voice clearly through our pastors, and through reading the Bible, listening to Christian music and other methods the Holy Spirit wove in and out of my life. He spoke to me so kindly, leading me out of the darkness into a place where the light of Christ could touch my heart with His life, encourage me to trust in His eternally living Presence and give me the brotherly kiss of fellowship.

Purging of my more weighty attitudes led to purging of many others.

Christ then set before me the very misconceptions and biases I had struggled with since Rich became a Catholic. They were the religious and cultural mainstay of my Protestant identity. They had been for me the only true Christianity. The Lord asked me to explore them one by one, and He helped me come to an accord of sorts with each. I would explore the Eucharist, the papacy, communion of saints, Mary, and Sacred Tradition.