Works and Prayers of a Fils Prodigue

Recently I have been reflecting on the nature of the Protestant church, and to be honest, the thing still perplexes me. Pierre Bayle is quoted as saying: “I am a good Protestant, and in the full sense of the term, for from the bottom of my soul, I protest against everything that is said, and everything that is done.” This, more than anything else, confers to me the essence of Protestantism. But before I speak about the Protestant church, let me describe my spiritual history, as it unequivocably colors my views.

I was born into a non-denominational, read: full Gospel, church. Victory Worship Center was a break-away sect of a larger baptist church, Faith Temple; the break-away being a result of pastoral division, i.e. board vs. pastor. My father attended Faith Temple under the auspices of the factioning pastor, and subsequently was one of the founding members of Victory Worship Center. My dad worked the soundboard. My mom led the worship and balanced the books. You get the idea here.

I grew up intensely involved in my faith, and consequently, deeply devoted to my church. I made my way through the different age-related ministries: day-care, pre-school, ACTS club (children’s church), Nite Vision Cafe (youth group, now “The LP”), finally graduating from all the extra-curricular ministries into the adult church. I was part of the Nite Vision Band for over a year; I occasionally DJ’d for the Sunday morning junior services; I attended weekly bible-studies; I worked as a landscaper for the church one summer. Again, you get the idea: I was involved.

However, throughout high school, I began my spiritual journey. Having ingested large amounts of C.S. Lewis early in my high school career, and after being inundated with Existentialist mumbo-jumbo in my English courses, I was positively lost. The old non-denom’ explanations weren’t sufficient. Victory, then, was teaching what I percieved as a watered down Gospel, full of flash, affluence, and rhetoric, while lacking real substance (to the credit of Victory, there was a wave of the “Prosperity Gospel” heresy present in the church which, to some extent, has subsided). I was a malcontent, angry with what I saw the church preaching. Yet, I was hopelessly bound up by ecclesial and familial ties to the church with which I no longer felt an affinity.

I then began to turn from the protestant realm to more exotic sources (exotic being quite ironic, as it turns out, for what I turned to was not exotic, but authentic). I delved into the monastic teacher, St. Benedict of Nursia, and his simple, unassuming rule about how to be a poor, obedient, stable little Christian. I was bewildered and challenged by the great Seraphic Father himself, St. Francis, who taught me to love “Lady Poverty” and revel in the beauty of Creation. I sat at the feet of the profound, contemplative mystic, the trappist monk named Thomas Merton. If you’re an astute reader, you’ve probably noticed one common trend: these men are catholics. St. Benedict and St. Francis founded monastic and gyrovagic orders; Br. Thomas Merton was, in many ways, a strict orthodox priest.

It was, of course, no accident that I was not even in my native land when this transformation was in full-swing. Quite appropriately, I was in a country in which everyone spoke another language and lived another culture; I was in an arid, lush, magnificent and dangerous place, which to this day, has continued to woo me to return. I was in Guatemala. Guatemala provided me the isolation I needed to discern. Far away from parents and friends, I could truly be alone, even when surrounded by people. While the family I was with was of the most gentle and charitable disposition, I prefered solitude. I sat with Merton, Benedict, and Francis. They talked and I listened. In fact, they nearly talked me into become a monk (something I would struggle with for quite a while).

Upon return, though, little had changed spiritually. I began to date, Kelli (who, as it turns out, I am now engaged to). Kelli and I went weekly to her non-denominational church, Christian Life Fellowship. Nearly her entire family was non-denominational and attended Christian Life, and so this was a perfect and comparable church to plug into. Nevertheless, the seeds which had been laid by the great fathers of the faith lay silent and still in the cold soil of my soul. Still, I ran into the same road-blocks as before with Victory. What was being taught by the fathers, to me, wasn’t lining up with the weekly teaching. I was intensely discontent, perhaps even unfulfilled, and after months of gentle proding (if there is such a thing) from my good friend, Brian Visaggio of Saint Superman, I decided that I would move to a liturgical church*. The first try, of course, was the Catholic Church.

I had little experience with the actual church outside of the literature I’d read, save one profound experience. Sarah Miller (who would ultimately accompany me to my first mass) invited me to the Holy Saturday Mass at her home church in Sulphur. The sights and sounds were enough to bewilder even the staunchest protestant, weaned on an austere liturgy. The smell, the burning incese, made a footprint of sanctity in my mind; the sounds both terrified and threw me into a state of reverance; the quite procession of genuflection, kneeling silently and piously before a rugged, splintered cross encapsulated the entire Christian life. I came home in a daze, and after expressing my delight and amazement at the liturgy, was quickly instructed (by way of question), “you aren’t going to be catholic, are you?”

I called Sarah Miller (present then, throughout RCIA, and finally at my confirmation). Sure, she said, she would be glad to accompany me to a mass. I went. I can say nothing of the homily, the music, the sights and sounds, the smells, the congregation. Nothing of this day has weathered the barrage of time except the immense peace, the serenity, the calm I felt. It was the feeling of walking into the home you grew up in; a place where you were not questioned, not an outcast, not a stranger; no, in that church, I sat with God. Rather than moving in me, he stilled all things which moved. This, for me, was the sign. I was to become Catholic. I was to embark on a mystagogia, a journey, which would alienate me from many, bind me to some, and leave me feeling as though I had only seen the shadow of God on the cave-wall for 19 years; now I stood in the sun.

The rest, as they say, is history [this is admittedly a very incomplete history, lacking my affair with Buddhism, my struggles over monasticism, the pains of joining the Church, all the wonders and blessings of being Catholic, and so on -- but again, another day].I must admit that this foree into my history today was unplanned and unexpected. I had planned to expound upon the perplexities of my protestant bretheren! And yet, that can be another day. In fact, the Bayle quote is perhaps more appropriate for me than for many of my protestant brothers and sisters. My protest was not against the ancient and eternal truths; no, it was against the protest. I realize, now, that Jeremiah was as prophetic in Ancient Israel as He is now:

Thus says the LORD: Stand beside the earliest roads, ask the pathways of old Which is the way to good, and walk it; thus you will find rest for your souls (6:16, NAB).

I rebelled against the rebellion, and Jeremiah was right: I found rest.

*Brian, to his credit, has never been a “conversion monger,” and I am eternally indebted to his patient with me in this matter — in fact, to all of you who helped me along this path, I am indebted to you (especially Kelli, who has been so understanding); thank you. I know God because of you all.