How God Hauled Me Kicking and Screaming Into the Catholic Church. Kevin Lowry
in our soul — in our self. It quiets our useless anxieties; it tempers our need to grasp at the pleasures of this world as a drowning man might grasp at a piece of driftwood. In short, it begins to put things in order.
That moment of grace is what we often call conversion. But, as I’ve already said, conversion can rarely be reduced to a moment. A decision to open our hearts to Christ is certainly the first step toward transformation, but only the first. It is the moment when we discover our true selves and recognize our true home, but we have not yet become our true selves nor have we entered that true home. How many of us can claim to be like St. Paul on the road to Da mascus, transformed in a moment of blinding clarity — so utterly changed that our old name no longer suits us and we need a new one?
Conversion may flare up and then fade away again, seemingly to nothing, but the truth is that once it has taken hold, it can never again become nothing. It can, however, become hidden, growing slowly and invisibly in your soul in a place that you don’t even know is there. Then, suddenly, conversion springs to life again in a way and with a force you could never anticipate, and then you’re back on the adventure, the one you only thought had ended.
By God’s grace, I was baptized at age twenty-five and entered the Catholic Church. That was the moment of my conversion. It’s recorded on my baptismal certificate, and I can tell you not just the date but even the time of day. Yet my conversion is still going on, and I hope it will continue until my earthly life comes to an end. Back when I was twenty-five, I had no idea that conversion was a process that would have countless beginnings but no end, that it begins anew every day. That was something I was startled and disturbed to discover. It made me feel like a failure, as if I wasn’t doing something right, something very important.
Since that time, I’ve grasped that I was not a failure but a human being. I have also grasped that the process of conversion — even for cradle Catholics — necessarily involves turning our hearts again and again toward Christ. It involves growing in our understanding and practice of the faith.
That’s the good part. The bad part was that I also learned that my heart was unruly and not always in the mood to turn to Christ; that despite my baptism, my heart remained stubborn and determined to turn in any direction but the one in which I wanted it to turn. In other words, I learned that I was not only a human being but also a sinful human being, whose understanding is partial and confused, one for whom practice can become rote and distracted. At times, it can seem almost empty.
And this is one of the reasons that conversion must be ongoing, why the adventure that God has begun in me and in countless others — continues. We are backsliders — all of us. We must constantly recommit. We must hunt for what we have lost and relearn what we have learned over and over again. This is an adventure that involves real work!
Like all Catholics, I have been given the tools to build a life of sanctity. But what good are tools if they are not used? The sacraments strengthen and feed me. They are the primary way God supports me on my adventure. The deep reality that lies at the heart of the Eucharist pulls at me when I am tempted to turn away. That reality urges me to turn back when I have turned away. It calls to me when I try to turn away, until once again I pick up my cross and follow the One whom I have found but still seek. I return again and again to prayers that have become rote, and eventually I am given the grace to find in them the meaning that seemed lost. I return to the confessional to discard the things that separate me from God, and I am renewed.
I have tried to walk the road of conversion for many years now, and I like to think I’ve learned a few things. In this book, I hope to share some of that knowledge with you. Let me make it clear that I am deeply thankful for my Protestant upbringing. It was both a gift and an excellent foundation upon which to build. I also have great respect and affection for non-Catholic Christians. Having spent a lot of time on both sides of the Protestant/Catholic divide, I understand what it is that makes the Catholic Church seem foreign and even threatening to the non-Catholic. I know what the big hurdles are, from where the roadblocks are likely to come.
Converts bring their own set of challenges to the Church. Much like immigrants to a new country, we must take time to learn the language, become culturally aware, and grow sensitive to the nuances of the faith. The richness, depth, beauty, and history of Catholicism are all vast, and we have varying abilities to assimilate them, to adjust to a new way of life.
For the last twenty years, I have been privileged to be associated with the Coming Home Network International. If you’ve ever watched The Journey Home television program on EWTN, you know something about the Coming Home Network. It was founded by Marcus Grodi — himself a convert, and a former Presbyterian minister. On his television program, Marcus has interviewed hundreds of converts and reverts about their journeys into the Church. As you might imagine, the stories are as diverse as the people, and I have learned a lot from them.
I want to share some of those insights. I hope this book will be helpful for converts, reverts, and cradle Catholics in whatever stage of the adventure they’ve reached. It is my greatest hope that it will also be read by RCIA groups and new Catholics. I especially hope that non-Catholics who are just beginning the adventure will take a look, for they are the ones who often stand outside the Catholic Church, yearning for a glimpse inside but unwilling to walk up to the door. I was once such a person, and I can vividly recall how strange the Catholic Church seemed, how off-putting it looked. Yet I can also recall the pull it exerted on me. I hope to speak to the person who is feeling that pull but still standing outside the door — or across the street or even down the block — and I want to let him know that his fears can be overcome, that her worries can be addressed.
So let’s begin. First let me tell you a little about myself and how talented I was at avoiding becoming a Catholic. Then we can have a look at the things that helped me on my journey into the Church. I hope they’ll help you, as well.
Part I
Sprinting to the Starting Gate
or
How God Hauled Me Kicking and Screaming into the Catholic Church Despite My Best Efforts to Avoid It
Chapter 1
Happy Easter! Now What?
Peter [said] to them, “Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you will receive the gift of the holy Spirit.”
— Acts 2:38
I remember that night vividly, and I know I always will. My heart was pounding with excitement: I believed — hoped, prayed — that I had finally come to the end of a long and complicated journey, one that had led me to the last place I ever expected to find myself, leaning awkwardly over a baptismal font in — of all places — a Catholic church.
But had I really arrived? Had I truly come to the destination that God had in mind for me? I have to admit that even at that moment of no return, I was still having a little trouble accepting my own decision. This had to be the right choice, I reassured myself as I stood there; it simply had to be, because I was betting everything on it. By my side was my wife, Kathi, her presence a minor miracle. Up until that very night I hadn’t known if she would be received into the Church with me, but here she was, and I was overjoyed. As I half stood, half crouched there, feeling rather foolish and working hard to bend my six-foot-four-inch frame into positions it was never made for, I could feel the warmth of her love and support. I can’t describe how important that was to me.
But it was not her love alone that I felt. Toward the front of the church sat my mother and Presbyterian minister father, holding our two infant sons. I stole a surreptitious glance at them and smiled a smile I hoped they noticed. I waited, feeling my parents’ improbable support as a source of tremendous comfort. In the midst of my lingering doubts, my uncertainty, I knew I had their blessing, and that meant a lot.
And I felt yet another kind of warmth as I waited that long-ago night, one that astonished and gratified me at the time. On my first visit to the church that was to become the place of my baptism, things had not gone very well. I had felt unwelcome,