In which I show my geek side.

                Today I’m finishing up the Divine Mercy Novena in honor of Divine Mercy Sunday, which is tomorrow.  This is the first novena I’ve ever prayed (it wasn’t so long ago that I didn’t even know what a novena was). Judging from the name, I thought novenas were certain prayers that you did for nine days, but apparently it can be nine anything: days; weeks; years; or perpetuity, which doesn’t really make it nine anything anymore if you ask me. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Divine Mercy Chaplet is a pretty cool prayer. It’s easy to memorize, which is great for those of us who still have to use a cheat sheet for the rosary sometimes, and the words themselves have a really profound meaning. And I’m a fan of linguistics, so for me the words, “For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world,” just have a really nice ring to them. (Also it’s short. I don’t have anything against long prayers, but I pray before bed, and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I’ve been known to fall asleep before finishing a rosary. Now the rosary makes me yawn. It’s very Pavlovian.)

                Divine Mercy Sunday is one of those things I’d heard of but didn’t really know anything about until, you know, today. I was around for it last year, of course, but seeing as it was about a week after I’d decided to become Catholic, I was more worried about what was going on at Mass and kneeling at the right time than I was about what feast day or solemnity it was. (Is this a feast day? I don’t even know.) But this afternoon I was watching live coverage of the prayer vigil in Rome for the beatification of John Paul II, and they had a little segment on Divine Mercy Sunday and St. Faustina, a Polish nun, who had a vision of Jesus with two beams of light emanating from His heart, “one red and one pale.”

                “Oh, so that’s who St. Faustina is,” I thought to myself. And then the segment went on to say that a painting of Faustina’s vision had been commissioned. “Oh, so that’s where that picture came from,” I thought. You learn something new every day.

                I happened to go to the vigil Mass today because I have to be at the Methodist Church tomorrow for a Pioneer Club anniversary celebration and I didn’t want to wait until the end of the day tomorrow to go. Plus I just like going to Mass, so I’ll probably end up going at the end of the day tomorrow anyway. Father M. had Mass at the cathedral downtown, and he mentioned the Faustina painting, of course. We have a print on display in the church. He said the red light coming from Jesus’ heart represents blood and the white light represents water. These, in turn, represent Christ being both God and Man. There’s a lot of that going on, I’ve found.

                Father M.’s homilies are always fantastic. Today he talked about the readings, when the risen Christ breathed on the apostles, establishing through the priesthood the sacrament of Reconciliation and how this institution relates to His Divine Mercy. He pointed out that there are only three instances in Scripture where it says that God breathed: during creation, when God breathed life; on the cross, when Jesus breathed His last and accomplished reconciliation between God and mankind; and in the upper room, when Jesus comforted the apostles and breathed on them. That, Father M. said, is how you know it was a really big deal.

                I always get really excited in a super nerdy sort of way when I realize how much sense the Bible makes in the context of the Catholic Church. 

The Beginning (part three)

                That night I became a practicing Catholic. I went to the Easter Vigil on Saturday night and watched as two people received Confirmation and First Communion. I knew I wanted that to be me. On Father’s advice, I spent the rest of the semester writing down questions and pestering T. and E. for answers during all of our free time. I learned to pray the Rosary and to say The Creed and what it means to genuflect. I read any book I could get my hands on. I attended Mass every Sunday and waited and waited for RCIA to start in the Fall.

                I had a lot to learn. I’m still learning. Every day I discover something new about Catholicism, almost as if The Church is a kaleidoscope. With every turn there’s a new beauty to behold.

                One full liturgical year (plus one week) since my first Catholic Mass, with seven months of RCIA, one terrifying confession, two nerve-wracking Rites of Welcoming and Election, and one Chrism Mass (during which I carried the balsam and managed not to drop it) under my belt, I stood before the bishop at the Easter Vigil and professed my faith in unison with another candidate. Then we were joined by a third person for the Sacrament of Confirmation. We had practiced this with the parochial vicar that afternoon. I knew exactly what to do and had Father N. the pastor and Father M. the vicar near at hand, with supportive smiles and hand motions to direct me. I had my sponsor’s hand on my right shoulder for encouragement, and I told myself I wasn’t nervous even as my fingers clenched the fabric of my dress. As the bishop spoke, I flashed back to my seventh grade choir director informing us that if we locked our knees during a performance we’d surely pass out. I tried to subtly unlock my knees.

                The bishop laid his hands on my head, and I was calmed and ready. I was the last of the three of us to kneel before him. He pronounced my name, paired for the first time with my saint name, and said, “Be sealed with the Holy Spirit,” as he anointed me with Chrism oil. It smelled fantastic. “Amen,” I replied.

                “Peace be with you,” he said and shook my hand.

                “And also with you,” I said with a confident smile.

                Those of us who were confirmed were charged with presenting the gifts. Father M. directed us to follow the candles and incense and crucifix to the back as a hymn swelled up from the congregation and choir. “You did great,” he called over the music when he handed out bread, wine, and the collection basket. He directed us where to stand and reminded us what to do when we reached the sanctuary. “The hard part’s over,” he said, and we smiled.

                If I thought being received into the Catholic Church through Confirmation was the greatest experience ever, nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for my First Communion. Or, for that matter, for any subsequent communion. Early on in RCIA I had struggled with the concept of transubstantiation. I read everything I could that would explain the sacrifice of the Mass; I spoke to people and asked questions; I wanted to believe but was afraid that I didn’t. How could I just know Jesus was really actually present in the Eucharist as easily as everyone else seemed to know it? T. asked one night if there were anything he could do to help me, and I, in tears, said for the first time, “Pray for me.”

                After that I went to adoration at my alma mater. In that chapel, in the presence of the Lord, I felt the beginning of something greater. It was beyond thought, and I knew I would just have to have faith, and so I did. And then everything came to fruition at the Easter Vigil when the bishop placed the Body of Christ on my tongue and I sipped the Blood of Christ from the chalice. Back in my pew, I knelt just as I always knelt during communion, but this time my life had changed.

                I cannot possibly sufficiently describe the feeling of receiving the Lord. It’s like inside-out warmth, like music, like light, like Love personified. There’s nothing so beautiful, so tremendous, so breathtaking. I know now how everyone else seems to just know Jesus is there and what that means for us. How could I not know it after that?

                It’s been a wild ride since my decision to join The Church. I’ve been welcomed, embraced, ridiculed, and forced to defend my faith, sometimes all in the same day. Apologetics isn’t easy when you’re only just learning, but at least it’s all fresh in my mind this way. Some people in my life, such as my family, have been nothing but supportive of my decision, even when they don’t quite understand why I would want to be Catholic. Others, namely the Catholics I know, have been overjoyed. Still others have been less than enthusiastic. I lost some relationships because of my decision, but I wouldn’t change it for anything, because I’ve gained so much more, including new friends, a new understanding of the world, a new respect for The Church, an opportunity to be truly in the presence of the Lord, and an ever changing kaleidoscope of beauty.

The Beginning (part two)

             An opportunity arrived after my church purchased a projector. Methodists place a lot of emphasis on music as worship. John and Charles Wesley were two of the greatest hymnists in the world, and my brother and I were in charge of the music in our church. We took our jobs seriously. I was staunchly against the projector purchase, but I was in the minority. With the projector came a hookup for a laptop. With the laptop came poorly made youtube videos set to poorly written contemporary Christian music. Our traditional hymns and live music were summarily replaced.

                I lamented to my three friends at lunch one day. Palm Sunday was the following weekend. “I don’t want projector music to ruin Palm Sunday,” I whined.

                One of the guys, E., offered a solution. “Come to Mass with us,” he said. He would be serving (whatever that meant), and the young lady, M., would be singing with the choir (she promised decent music), but T. would be free to sit with me (so I’d know when to sit, stand, and kneel).

                I was nervous at first, but my friend T. coached me through it. He explained what was going on when he could and he helped me follow along in the missal. And so it happened that after four years at one of the most Catholic schools in the country, I found myself at the cathedral downtown. I went to Mass and I liked it.

                I had been discouraged at my own church because with the projector music, no one knew the songs and no one was singing along. We were becoming passive observers in our own worship services. There was something participatory and together in the Mass. Even though I didn’t know the music or the words or the responses, I still felt included. I was fascinated by the Liturgy. I wanted to know what the priests were doing during the Liturgy of the Eucharist and why. I wanted to know why the Bishop took his miter off sometimes and why the bells were rung.

                I couldn’t deny that the Catholic Church seemed to have the answers to all my nagging questions. They had the history, they had the crazy stories of Eucharistic miracles and incorruptible saints, they had the scripture references to back up their theology, they had freedom within their spirituality.

                On Tuesday during Holy Week, I sent a facebook message to the three friends who’d gotten me to Mass. “I think I want to be Catholic.”

                We met for lunch the next day. When I brought up my missive, T. and E., the future priests, smiled knowingly. T. said, “What are you doing tonight?” That night I skipped my night class.

                M. was singing with the choir again. E. would be MC for the Tenebrae service. T. met me in the vestibule and took me to his usual pew. I watched E. extinguish the candles one by one as the Easter story was read. We left the church in silence as the choir sang Were You There. Outside, T. turned to me and said, “So what did you think?”

                I wiped the tears from my eyes and replied, “Where do I sign up?”

                "Let's go talk to Father," he said.

(to be continued)

The Beginning (part one)

               The most common question I’ve been asked in the past year is a variation on, “What made you decide to become Catholic?” The tone has differed, depending on the asker. I’ve dealt with excitement, curiosity, hostility, confusion, warmth, happiness, surprise, and disrespect.

                I’ve also asked the question of others. It’s not so surprising to hear the myriad conversion stories when you think about the universality of the Catholic Church, and sometimes I’ve been a little embarrassed that I didn’t have an exciting adventure of religious epiphany to relate. My answer to the question is, in short, “I went to Mass and I liked it.”

                Of course it took a lot to get me to Mass in the first place.

                I grew up United Methodist, although I never attended Sunday services as a child. I made my way through Pioneer Club (a scout-like Methodist program) every school year and Vacation Bible School every summer. After I aged out of VBS, I continued on as a counselor and puppeteer. I lived at home for college and attended the local university, which happens to be one of the most Catholic schools in the country. The people there were very nice, but the charismatic lifestyle was a little off-putting, and most times I felt completely misunderstood as a Protestant. (This was usually accurate, but I came to find that I misunderstood Catholicism just as often.)

                When I was a freshman, my brother and I were invited to sing with the choir at the United Methodist church in our hometown. We began to attend Sunday services regularly. By the time I was a senior, I had become a Sunday School teacher, I had been baptized in the Methodist Church, I was a member of  the Pastor-Parishioner Relations Committee, a regular deliverer of children’s sermons, the new director of Vacation Bible School, and I shared Choir Director/Accompanist duties with my brother.

                I took theology classes and had philosophical discussions at school, but I never went to Mass. I had respect for my Catholic friends’ beliefs, and I was frustrated when professors and students alike would spout misinformation about Protestants, but I never went to Mass. It didn’t matter to me whether someone was Methodist or Presbyterian or Catholic or Russian Orthodox: we were all Christian, so what difference did it make?

                That began to change. I don’t know when, exactly, but little niggling thoughts began to curl around the back of my mind. I spent most of my free time during my senior year with three very close friends. Suffice to say it’s hard to hang out with two seminarians and a young woman who lives her faith without entertaining a few Catholic thoughts. When my Sunday School students asked difficult questions, my answers usually came from my theology classes at school. When I had difficult questions, my Catholic friends always had an answer for me. I thought perhaps I’d raise my future children in The Church, even if I didn’t convert. Then when a friend from my Methodist church mentioned he’d once been Catholic, I thought to myself, “If you’re already Catholic, why would you leave?” This thought brought me up short.

                At that point, I thought perhaps I should go to Mass.

(to be continued)