Respectful Ponderings

“Jesus son of God, Jesus son of Mary.” This phrase circled around in my mind as we drove toward church for the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception. It was late fall of 2006. Rich and I had been attending the Roman Catholic Church for almost two years.

As a Protestant, I’d never encountered the Immaculate Conception. It was not part of my Christian vocabulary. Nor did it seem appropriate to think of the mother of Jesus connected to such an unfamiliar theological attribute. Like most Protestants, I had not pondered the implications of who Mary was -- and is. To me, Catholic Christians gave the impression of being obsessed with Mary, an obsession that seemed pointless. The overabundance of St. Mary’s titles reverberated in my brain. They engendered unwelcomed questions that pestered my mind and disturbed my Protestant sensibilities. It seemed her appellations were endless: Mary, Queen of Heaven, Mary, the Mother of God, Mary, the Blessed Virgin, Mary, Holy Tabernacle for the Bread of Life, the Mother of the Church, Our Blessed Mother, Immaculate Heart . . . .

In accord with my Protestant experience, I was satisfied to leave Mary in the role of mother of Jesus. Yet, I also recognized her as a uniquely special human being. I’d never considered her just another woman of biblical history. I acknowledged the Virgin Mary played a pivotal role in God’s provision for my salvation. I considered her an excellent role model. My Protestant pastors had often reminded me of this at Christmas and on Mother’s Day.

Knowing who Mary was in relationship to the plan of salvation seemed to be enough for me.

That is probably why the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception Mass was a meaningless Catholic experience for me. Yet, shortly afterward, I began to contemplate what I knew of St. Mary’s life.

She was a Jewish virgin who lived in her parents' home. She was engaged to Joseph and had a cousin who was the wife of a priest. I knew Mary was present during some of her son’s teaching ministry. She instigated His first miracle at the Cana wedding, and she watched Him die on a cross. I knew she was in the upper room and was active in early church prayer meetings. But none of these facts told me what her spiritual relationship was to her God or why my husband, along with many Christians, held her in venerable honor – or what my response to her should be.

The Holy Spirit drove me to re-read the scriptures, and in so doing, I discovered more about the sweet Virgin. I realized Mary had found such favor with God that He trusted her with His precious gift, His son. Indeed, with the angel’s visit, the Father announced to her that she was the virgin of Isaiah’s prophesy (Isaiah 7:14). Yet, from her reaction to Gabriel, Mary showed us the humility and steely resolve only God had known to be in her heart.

Mary was probably in her mid-teens when Gabriel greeted her. I thought how phenomenal this teenager’s response was! I knew very well the self-centered nature of young adulthood. As I contemplated this, I saw the Virgin in a new light.

I wondered if St. Mary’s humility sent theologians of the past to pour over the New Testament texts that spoke of her. Did they realize the Father’s plan for mankind’s redemption centered on the response of a teenager? Had they also pondered her astonishment at the presence of an angel, and his unprecedented message to her? Did they marvel that she acquiesced without hesitation to receive the mantel of motherhood? Were they amazed that no hint of the well-used human qualifier---- “But” --- passed through her lips?

Scripture and Sacred Tradition give us no sense of a selfish will standing against that of the Father's. There was no, “Will people think I’m a liar – or crazy? And what about Joseph? What will he do when he learns I am with child?” She didn’t say, “What about my parents?” or, “What will happen to me when the town learns I am pregnant?” St. Mary knew she could be stoned for that offense. Engagement in her culture was as binding as marriage, and Mary’s pregnancy would be considered a defilement of the marriage bed. Yet, Mary offered up her life to the One who called her “blessed,” and He commanded His angel to encourage her with these words, “For with God nothing is ever impossible, and no word from God shall be without power or impossible of fulfillment” (Amplified Bible).

Yes, those questions might have filtered through her mind, yet the young Virgin only asked aloud how she would conceive. And, satisfied with the angel’s answer, she responded with humble acceptance.

Is it any wonder the church, from its beginning, has viewed Mary, the mother of Jesus, as the Blessed Virgin Mary? Is it any wonder she would be called by the early church, Theotokos, “bearer of God?” After all, St. Mary bore Messiah, very God and very man.

So, it seemed to me a reasonable thing that devotion for the Mother of God did not dissipate even in the lives of reformers such as Luther and Calvin. Though they took issue with some of the practices and theology of Rome, they continued nonetheless to honor the Blessed Mother. Martin Luther said, “The veneration of Mary is inscribed in the very depths of the human heart.” And John Calvin wrote, “Elizabeth called Mary Mother of the Lord, because the unity of the person in the two natures of Christ was such that she could have said that the mortal man engendered in the womb of Mary was at the same time the eternal God.”

After a time, I began to see why, out of a heart full of praise to God, Roman Catholics turn loving eyes to the tender teenage girl who was the sweet vessel for our salvation.

Though I could not feel comfortable with some of the concepts attributed to the Blessed Virgin, I could at least understand the fervor of thankfulness and respect accorded to so courageous and faithful a servant of the living God. St. Paul tells us to address older women in the faith as “Mother” (1Timothy 5:2). Thus, I consider it a privilege to add my own respectful praise to my Savior by calling His mother, my mother.

The Two Shall Be One

Rich, my husband, professed himself a Roman Catholic at the Easter Vigil in 2005. I was heart sick for us and furious with the Roman Catholic Church’s insistence we would not share communion unless I converted as well. Hoping for some agreement, I accepted the offer of receiving a blessing, but resented it because I thought it to be a humiliation instead. What seemed equitable from a Catholic standpoint seemed to me unfair and divisive. I could not receive communion, but like a preschooler, I could receive a blessing.

I was resolved. I would not leave my husband’s side. He’d been drawn into the Roman Catholic Church and I would be there with him. If I was denied Communion, somehow, I would deal with it.

In late July of 2005, the loving hand of Christ reached out to my aching heart. When I accepted Jesus’ invitation to open my blinded eyes, the Holy Spirit instructed me that Jesus was indeed present at the Mass. Christ’s loving favor revealed anew His centrality to my salvation and my dependency upon Him. With this instruction came Christ’s gift of welcome to receive a spiritual communion from Him in place of the actual elements of bread and wine. Later that year I began to understand the privilege Christ had given me to ask for and receive a blessing. I found in what had seemed at first a humiliation, a valuable lesson in humility.

My pain diminished. But Rich’s pain did not. He endured the grief of our forced disconnection at Communion, suffering in quiet resolve to be faithful to his calling.

In 2006, Pope Benedict called marriages like ours “laboratories of unity.” He enjoined us all to observe how Christian unity might be fleshed out in inter-churched families. Surely, Pope Benedict has seen into the heart of this laboratory, rife with the past sins of our forefathers.

In our own laboratory, we needed to clear out the failed experiments of the past, such as our favorite points of theological argument, and the well-rehearsed history lessons of Christians on both sides of the theological aisle who fought, and killed others to prove their doctrinal correctness. Unless these failures were dumped into the incinerator, our laboratory would be contaminated with putrefying fraternal carnage and the decaying remnants of hurtful words, unrighteous anger, theological pride, and unforgiving attitudes.

We learned the love of Christ nullifies these contaminants.

By fall 2006, we had lived almost two years in our “laboratory of unity.” Jesus was still the center of our home and we were in love with Him and united in our resolve to remain, as we had always been – one in Christ.

Rich and I may have taken our place in unity’s laboratory in spring 2005, but our original experiment began in 1975 when our pastor pronounced, “Whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.” When he introduced Rich and me as a married couple, he declared us “one in Christ.” We stood before the congregation as one-flesh, a dual oneness, and a biblical view of marriage.

God saw us as one. Yet we needed to mature into His vision for us in our daily life as husband and wife. And so, God took two people, committed to Him and to each other, and worked through our divergent cultural backgrounds. Rich was from New York; I was from the rural Midwest. He was of Jewish background; I was mainline Protestant. His cultural heritage hearkened to Jewish and Italian; mine, to Scotch/Irish, French, and Norwegian.

Our differences loomed immediately. But, as a friend commented after we married, our common bond was our total commitment to Jesus as our savior.

After thirty years of iron sharpening iron, clinging together and to Christ, the Holy Spirit led us though poverty, parenthood, prosperity, sickness, loss, and multiple moves across the globe. Jesus took the sinfulness of our lives and the clash of our wills – and by His grace continued to turn us toward His will.

Rich and I learned to cherish our marriage covenant, and we worked hard to reach agreement in each major issue of our life as a couple. This facilitated our growth as a one-flesh couple. But when Rich joined the Catholic Church and I did not, our conundrum in 2005 was how to reach an accord. Our accord would need to include very different theological points of view, while still preserving the richness and emotional supportive elements of our oneness.

The Catholic/Non-Catholic maelstrom had eased considerably by the fall of 2006. At this time, Rich shared with me his desire to serve our church congregation as a Eucharistic minister.

Neither of us realized the sword this simple act of ministry would send into our marriage. Once Rich had been instructed in his duties as a Eucharistic minister, it dawned on him that he would need to refuse to give me the body and blood of Christ. The realization broke open the wound he had thought was healed. The joy of being one flesh again had strengthened Rich in his commitment to follow Jesus in his Catholic faith. It had brought peace and spiritual growth to me as well. But now, the immutable nature of our oneness seemed in danger of being despoiled.

Rich pondered with me this new challenge. How would we mitigate this sorrow and remain strong and maturing in our relationship as husband and wife? Our priority was to set aside our angst. We remembered some Protestant churches do not offer Communion to non-members. The Roman Catholic Church was not the only Christian body that practiced “closed communion.” No doubt we would have been divided by the same rule if one of us were a member of such a Protestant community while the other was not.

To diminish the potential for new divisiveness, we agreed that I would never be in a line to receive from Rich’s ministrations. Should I find myself in line to receive a blessing from Rich, I would move to a different part of the church, or if this was not possible, I would remain in my pew. Meanwhile, Rich would try to place himself in a part of the sanctuary that was far away from me.

The unintended consequence of the rules surrounding the Eucharistic celebration has been a furnace burning off some of the dross that clung to our oneness. In our laboratory, externally applied dictates forcing us to be separate, strengthened our resolve and purpose to live for Christ. What looked at first like another point of difference has only added strength to our life together.

Shared pain binds us deeper and stronger than easy harmony.

Hospitality and the 40 Days for Life Prayer Vigil

I haven’t added anything to the blog for the past few weeks because I am involved in an ancient tradition of the Church called hospitality. Hospitality has been fundamental to the Father’s embrace and the Christian life of faith in Jesus since the beginning of the Church.

I am currently reading a book on this subject, Making Room: Recovering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition, by Christine C. Pohl. Through it, I’m discovering the importance of extending hospitality to all human life, and how a person’s life of faith will either flourish or shrivel in relation to our expression of hospitality.

Pohl writes:

“When a person who is not valued by society is received by a socially respected person or group as a human being with dignity and worth, small transformations occur. The person’s self-assessment, so often tied to societal assessment, is enhanced. Because such actions are counter cultural, they are a witness to the larger community, which is then challenged to reassess its standards and methods of valuing. Many persons who are not valued by the larger community are essentially invisible to it. When people are socially invisible, their needs and concerns are not acknowledged and no one even notices the injustices they suffer. Hospitality can begin a journey toward visibility and respect.”*

Christians have always been on the forefront of inclusion and welcome to the least of society’s members. Until I read this book I didn’t consider a prayer vigil to end abortion a practice of hospitality. Certainly, our welcome must include the pre-born. It is such a Christian thing to do.

I’ve been too busy to add to my blog because I am currently extending hospitality through the 40 Days for Life prayer vigil. This vigil will last through the month of October.

Should you desire to become involved in your local Prayer Vigil, log onto the 40 Days website: http://www.40daysforlife.com/about.cfm




*Making Room, by Christine D. Pohl, chapter 4, page 62.

"To God Be the Glory..."

In 2006, I stared at the rosary beads in my hands and wondered how that string of beads could help me talk with my Father in heaven. How could something so foreign, so symbolically Catholic, be useful to a child of the Reformation? Unknown to me, those beads would let Christ’s bright mirror shine into a hidden place that had crippled my walk with Him. Moving the beads through my fingers, I pondered what I was about to explore and how strange it was that I had kept those beads, a reminder of my visit to Rome in the 1970s, for over 30 years.

As I began to pray, I felt uncomfortable using the Marian prayer of a traditional rosary, because it reflected the Catholic mind set I was unfamiliar with, loving Jesus with Mary’s heart, and because addressing the glorified Saints in heaven was prohibited to me for conscious sake.* Furthermore, I did not I want to repeat some phrases I might make up in my own mind. However, I wanted to honor the historic sense and use of the Mysteries (explained below) and the five (what are called) Decades of prayer that separate the Mysteries. (A Decade is comprised of ten beads).

I reasoned that since the rosary became a popular substitute for the Paternoster prayers early in its history, it seemed only right to center my rosary prayers on the Trinity. The three beads at the beginning of the rosary seemed an ideal place to start my prayer to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Using a small reference card I’d bought in a local Catholic bookstore, I noted the basic elements of the rosary: making the Sign of the Cross to begin; on the crucifix, the Apostle’s Creed; recited in order on the next five beads, the Our Father (the Lord’s Prayer), three Hail Mary prayers, and the Glory Be (the Doxology). For each Decade, beginning the circuit with the Center (defined below), there is a reflection on the Mystery, an Our Father, followed by ten Hail Mary prayers (one Hail Mary on each bead), and, finally, a Glory Be. This pattern continues for all five Decades. The rosary ends at the Center with the prayer, Hail, Holy Queen, where additional petitions can be added as desired. Last of all, a person makes the Sign of the Cross.

I began my rosary with the Sign of the Cross and then I recited the Nicene Creed (instead of the Apostle’s Creed). I said the Nicene Creed because I was most familiar with it, since we repeat it at each Mass. Then, on the first bead, I said the Our Father. On the next three beads, I addressed the Trinity saying:

“Dear Father, Creator of the Universe, my God and King, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Lord Jesus, Savior, Lamb of God, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Sweet Holy Spirit, Teacher, Paraclete, have mercy on us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Then I said a Glory Be on the fifth bead (next to the Center, which is usually a small metal image of Mary, Jesus, or a Saint). On the Center, I stated my petition for whomever I was praying the rosary (prayer intentions). At first, I prayed only for Mother Angelica because it was for her health I had promised to say the rosary, but soon I had a list of many prayer intentions.

On the Center, I recited the first Mystery. (The Mysteries are based on the life of Christ and take us through the Joyful, Sorrowful, Luminous, and Glorious sets of five mysteries. For example, the Joyful Mysteries take a person from the annunciation of the angel to Mary, the visitation of Mary with Elizabeth, the birth of the Lord, His dedication in the temple, and the Lord in the Temple when he was twelve. The Glorious Mysteries take us through the resurrection of Christ, His ascension to heaven, the descent of the Holy Spirit, Mary’s assumption into heaven, and the crowning of Mary among the saints in heaven). These last two Glorious Mysteries were difficult for me to consider at the time. I had no idea how I could relate to them as they were beyond my Protestant tradition. In their stead, I found it easier to reflect on the first preaching of the gospel at Pentecost and the first Gentile conversions at the house of Cornelius.

Since the card did not tell me that it was a common practice to say a particular set of Mysteries on certain days of the week, I initially chose to reflect on only the Luminous Mysteries: Jesus’ baptism, the wedding at Cana, Christ’s three-year earthly ministry, the Mount of Transfiguration and the institution of the Last Supper -- or, the Eucharist.

For the five sets of ten beads (Decades) I chose scripture passages because I remembered how often in Protestant Bible studies I had been encouraged to pray the Scriptures. After much thought, I chose five portions of Scripture that seemed random at first but which I now see fit me perfectly. For the ten beads of Decade one, I prayed Romans 8:28-39, Decade two, I Corinthians 13:1-13, Decade three, I John 4:7-21, Decade four, Ephesians 6:10-20, Decade five, Matthew 6:1-15. On some beads, I prayed two verses so that I could complete my Scripture recitation in one Decade. After each Decade I recited the Glory Be but opted not to recite the Lord’s Prayer at the beginning of each Decade. However, by the end of that year, I’d finish my rosary with one last prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord for Mary, her willingness to embrace the will of the Father and her steadfast resolve to accept her role as the mother of Jesus the Messiah.

True to my pledge, I prayed each day, or if I missed a day, two the next.

I was surprised; the rosary prayers did not generate boredom. In fact, I found nothing boring about them. My concentration was on Jesus and reflection on the words I was praying. Hour by hour and from day to day, I discovered my familiarity with the prayers allowed me to explore their nuances. For example, each word of the Our Father became a topic of reflection in relation to my attitude and life as a Christian. How and why did I address God as Father? What was my responsibility to the body of Christ when I acknowledged that relationship with the word Our? Did I honor the Father’s Personhood and His reality when I voiced the word Who?

I found the rosary to be not only a string of prayer beads, reflections on the Mysteries, praises, and petitions, but a prayer during which I contemplated Jesus, and my life in Him. I discovered a deeper connection to His Passion and ministry. Time seemed to stand still as I met with Jesus over the rosary beads, and I was energized to live a more circumspect life for Christ after each prayer circuit.

The Holy Spirit is relentless in His instruction. He so enjoys teaching us. He delights to share with us all good gifts and wisdom that are ours in Christ Jesus. Each time I prayed, I learned something new about my life in Christ. I was often convicted of my sins and instructed in the virtue of godly love.

Then came a particular evening as I prayed the rosary… a deep heaviness filled my heart.

As clearly as looking into a mirror, I saw the fear that tormented me. It was the fear of being different that had been planted in my heart as a child and nurtured by the unkind acts and words of others. Their sins had buried a barb deep in my heart, crippling its native abilities. The Lord made me aware that the tainted splinter had festered, that it influenced my self-image, and fostered a timid, fearful nature. That fear was keeping me from expressing my love for Christ to others and it was a barrier to my developing friendships within the Catholic community.

This experience came at a time when I was reeling from yet another foray into Catholic culture. Rich and I had recently returned from a retreat among Charismatic Catholics. We believed that our shared experiences in Pentecostal worship and in the blessed presence of the Holy Spirit would make us both feel “at home” at the retreat. It was not so. While Rich was surrounded and engaged in friendly conversation and making new friends, I was politely tolerated by some, and cautiously engaged by others. Even though a few people genuinely tried to interact with me, the temptation for me to think negatively about the experience overwhelmed me. And the fear of being different blotted out any positive elements of our weekend. I became stressed and physically ill by the time we left.

Thomas a Kempis, in his classic, The Imitation of Christ, wrote, “As long as we live in this world it is impossible for us to be without trials and temptations. Thus, Job writes: Is not man’s life on earth a drudgery? (Job 7:1). Everyone, therefore, should show great concern about his temptations and watch and pray lest the devil, who never sleeps but prowls about, finds an opportunity to ensnare him (1Peter 5:8). No one is perfect or so holy as to be without some temptation; nor can we ever be totally free of them.”

Jesus offered me a way out of the snare, the fear of being different. His wounded hands, feet, and side testified to His concern and desire that I should be restored to health. Jesus could see what I could not; under the influences of that barb, I continued to receive its poison keeping me isolated from the good offered me by my loving Lord.

I was helpless, but He had prepared a way for me.

Prompted by the Holy Spirit, I was instructed to attend weekday Mass the next morning. I believed Jesus would heal me there. I waited in expectation through the opening, the homily, and the consecration. When I returned to my seat after processing forward for a blessing, I stood in the pew and watched others going forward for the Eucharist. Suddenly, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. An unseen hand seemed to reach into my chest and pull that ugly splinter from my heart. I actually felt it being drawn out. And in a moment, it was gone! I immediately knew I was free! My fear of being different was gone. I experienced at once, peace and quiet joy.

I remember walking to my car…stunned.




*See my post: Saints, Beads, and Me

Saints, Beads, and Me

St. Catherine of Siena, in her book, The Dialogue, tells us,” For just as you can better see the blemish on your face when you look at yourself in a mirror, so the soul who in true self-knowledge rises up with desire to look at herself in the gentle mirror of God with the eye of understanding sees all the more clearly her own defects because of the purity she sees in Him.”

When I began to say the rosary, the gentle glow reflected from the mirror of my Savior’s glory began to open my understanding of who I am in Him. This “self-knowing,” often mentioned by St. Catherine, becomes clearer when we see ourselves from Christ’s point of view.

My Protestant faith tradition is as plainspoken as a mid-west farmer, and my prayers are spontaneous, simple and modeled after the tradition I found in the Holy Scripture.

I praise God for His goodness, greatness, and glory. I repent of my sins, petition Him for my needs and for those of others, and I gratefully acknowledge His loving kindnesses. And I trust Him to answer my prayers. I know I am welcomed into the Father’s presence by the grace given me through the sacrificial blood of His beloved son, Jesus.

And because of my confidence in the Father’s love, and in His desire to answer, I never thought to question my method of prayer . . .

Until I set about to say, “Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Long before I became a Christian, I dabbled in philosophies and meditation techniques of Hinduism and Buddhism, calling their gods and founders “Lord.” To my shame, I equated the Lord of Glory with them. Perhaps it is the memory of that sin that causes me to shy away from the rosary’s Marian petition. Or, perhaps my Protestant upbringing and formation makes me uncomfortable to address my prayers to someone other than the Trinity.

Whatever the reason, as I pondered the Hail Mary prayer, I realized anew that my prayer-life is as much worship as it is simple communication. Until then I had never thought much about how I prayed. But now, our Lord’s instruction to His disciples to guard their attitudes while they prayed (Matthew 6) became His instruction to me.

What was my attitude in prayer? For me, prayer is a piercing of eternity through the help of the Holy Spirit. It is a response to the Lord’s invitation to enter into His presence. It is the opportunity to have the same mind as Jesus toward the Father.

Yet Rich assured me that a prayer to any of the Saints in heaven is not like prayer we make to God. Rather, it is like asking a brother or sister in Christ here on earth to pray for us. Prayer to Saints is more a petition – a request. It is not worship. He told me the Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church states very clearly, that worship is restricted to the Trinity alone.

Looking for more information, I picked up a book from Rich’s stack of Catholic books. I learned the rosary is a set of prayers (petitions) to the Blessed Virgin, the mother of Christ. I also learned that the rosary was developed to encourage lay people in their Christian faith. Prior to the rosary’s “invention,” Christians recited a series of prayers, such as the 150 psalms or repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer (Paternosters) as a daily devotion.

I also listened to Catholic believers talk about the rosary, and I developed an understanding that prayers directed to the Blessed Mother are really said in reverence for her Son. In petitioning Mary for help, Roman Catholics believe she is eager to respond, and because of her special relationship with Messiah, she has a unique and singular access to Christ.

This Catholic concept is a mystery to me.

However, as I grew in my understanding of Catholic faith-tradition, I thought if the Father welcomes someone who prays to Him through the Blessed Mother, who am I to object? Likewise, if I feel I should refrain from any such communication and He welcomes my petitions to the Trinity alone, who am I to question?

Nevertheless, the more I thought about these mysteries the more I realized I was already participating in them. For many years, as the occasion would arise, I had cried to the Lord that He might choose someone to pray with me. I asked for His help because of the many times I had heard others tell how the Holy Spirit prompted someone to pray for a particular missionary in need. In fact, many times I also had felt prompted to pray for someone who later confirmed he or she had been ill or in trouble. So as I pondered what Rich told me about Catholic thought on the Communion of Saints, and what I had experienced about prayer, it seemed reasonable that the Saints in heaven who cheer us on (Hebrews 12) might indeed be praying for us and with us.

For conscience sake, I still could not address this glittering congregation, but I realized I could ask the Lord to have one of them pray for me. And because I was helping Rich in the sixth grade Sunday school class where we were studying patron saints, (a special saint who is chosen by a Catholic Christian as a special prayer partner), I decided to choose one for myself, too.

When I committed myself to pray the rosary that summer of 2006, I did not have a clue what a mirror it would be to my soul . . .

Or how doing so would change my attitude about Catholic prayer.

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.