How God Hauled Me Kicking and Screaming Into the Catholic Church. Kevin Lowry
What I thought I knew could probably be boiled down to this: Catholics, generically speaking, were a superstitious and backward-looking bunch who thought they knew everything and wanted to control everyone.
I imagined what my dorm room would look like if I had a Catholic roommate:
• Dark, illuminated only by the light of a few tiny votive candles burning dangerously on a wooden bureau that had been turned into a makeshift altar.
• Pictures of dour-looking saints glaring down at me accusingly from the wall.
• The mumbled sounds of repetitive prayers being recited endlessly, and at breakneck speed, while I tried desperately to get a decent night’s sleep.
• Clouds of heavy, sweet-smelling incense choking me, doing permanent damage to my Protestant lungs, and frequently setting off smoke alarms.
No, none of that was for me. I was a pro-active kind of guy, so I was going to do everything I could to make sure I didn’t have to room with one of them. I wrote a lengthy and impassioned plea to the housing department at the school, explaining to them in great detail exactly what my roommate needs consisted of.
The Protestant Island
Well, it worked, because I didn’t get a Catholic roommate after all. I was assigned to a room with a sophomore who was the son of an Episcopal clergyman. Jon was an easygoing guy, exactly the sort I had hoped for — and not only that, he was a TKE, proving that the people in the housing office really knew their business. I was proud of the results my requests/demands had produced. I guess it never occurred to me that assigning the sons of Protestant clergymen to room together might have seemed a logical thing to do even without my expert guidance.
While I considered Jon as close to the perfect roommate as anyone has a right to expect, I don’t know how suitable Jon’s father thought I was as a roommate for his son. When he and his dad arrived, luggage in hand, I was busily hanging up posters of rock bands on (what I had already claimed as) my side of the room. Outwardly, his father was kind, but I couldn’t help but notice the way he rolled his eyes when he caught sight of my Led Zeppelin poster.
Nevertheless, the arrangement with Jon worked well. Our room was a small non-Catholic enclave, an island of rationalism in a sea of superstition. Not only that, it was filled with high spirits, great expectations, and enough beer to keep afloat any party that might unexpectedly spring into existence (which they often did through a peculiar kind of spontaneous generation that can occur only on college campuses). We shared an enthusiasm for the social — if not the religious — aspects of university life. We talked about everything and nothing.
To this day I recall our slightly slurred conversations, the goal of which was to attempt to calculate how much beer we could buy if we were to sell all the contents of our dorm room. After a certain amount of discussion, we decided that we probably shouldn’t sell quite everything. We should keep a change of clothes each: it wasn’t all that cold in Steubenville, especially relative to Canada, but it could get chilly at times. Of course we would keep the fridge as well, as it was essential to the proper enjoyment of beer. Our friendship blossomed as many such friendships do. The college years are a unique time in a person’s life, a time when strong and lasting bonds can be forged. It is a time overflowing with possibilities, a time when you think the world is about to be spread out at your feet.
Jon would regularly play the song “More Than a Feeling” by Boston in the morning as we prepared to seize the day. It became a familiar accompaniment to our routine, to the point that we still call it “The Morning Song” with great affection.
Despite our best efforts, however, the Catholic spirit of the school did occasionally penetrate the heavy defenses of our little Protestant utopia. One night early in my first term, I was coming back to the dorm (from the pub, of course). I bounded up the steps to my floor, my long legs taking them three at a time, but I stopped dead when I got there. In front of me was a priest in full Franciscan habit, and he was throwing water at all the doors, one after another! If there was a fire, that little amount of water wasn’t going to be much help, I thought. I knew, of course, that there wasn’t a fire, but didn’t have a clue as what was going on. Was I supposed to do something in response to this bizarre activity? If so, what? Whatever it might be, I wasn’t going to do it.
Making a mental note to buy an umbrella as soon as possible, I made a dash for my room, ducking and weaving in a kind of ridiculous attempt to avoid the drops of water being flung in all directions around me. I didn’t want them to touch me, not because I didn’t want to get wet but for some other reason, one I couldn’t express — but it was strong, nonetheless. This was some Catholic mumbo jumbo; I was sure of it, and I refused to participate. Returning to the room as quickly as I could, I swooped low, managing to dodge a dousing just in the nick of time.
“What the hell is he doing?” I demanded of my roommate, as I slammed the door shut behind me. With an air of superiority, Jon was quick to explain it to me. “It’s holy water,” he said.
“Huh?” I responded.
“Holy water. You know. He’s blessing the floor and all the rooms on it.”
I nodded weakly, but I still wasn’t sure what was going on. As a Presbyterian, the notion of using holy water to help sanctify spiritually needy college students just didn’t register. I stared at my roommate blankly, vaguely wondering if he was a plant, a closet Catholic sent to trip me up. Even if I could have grasped what holy water was, I doubt that I would have thought it would help. But I didn’t want it to touch me, and I found myself wondering why. I couldn’t really come up with an answer that made sense.
The whole incident somehow made me feel out of place — or rather, it made me aware that on some level I had been feeling that way all along. It actually triggered a number of insecurities that I was working hard to ignore. Despite my outward determination, I was actually feeling uncomfortable in my new surroundings. Was there anything behind the courteous smiles that everyone seemed to give me? Was it apparent I was only sixteen — younger than everyone in my class? Would anyone care that I was of a different religion, from a different country? Would anyone care that I didn’t really belong?
You Take the High Road, And I’ll Take the Low Road
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