John Gehring
The sounds, smells and symbols of the Roman
Catholic Church run deep in my blood. I’m a
former altar boy who went to Catholic schools from
kindergarten through college, a passage from
childhood into adulthood seemingly forever linked
with feast days and novenas, holy days of
obligation and stark Lenten Masses. I still
remember my eyes burning as I helped the priest
prepare incense. The fear of entering a dark
confessional. Strict nuns with their steady gazes
and tough love demands of impeccable penmanship
and perfect posture.
Nerves had been bubbling up in my stomach the
entire week before my eighth grade Confirmation
class went to confess our sins for the first time.
The thought of kneeling in front of a screen with
the outline of a priest’s head and shoulders
looming before me and putting into words all the
slights, large and small, I had managed to
accumulate against God and man in my fourteen
years had haunted me for days. Our class of
hormone-saturated, awkward adolescents had been
fully briefed in the church’s detailed ecology
of sin. Over the weeks leading up to the big day,
the list accumulated in my notebook like stones
weighing on my soul: venial sins, mortal sins,
sins of omission, sins of commission. You had to
give it to the church. They had this sin business
down cold. Centuries of practice. Whether it was
the prospect of sinning by not telling the priest
all my sins, or just a nameless fear that gripped
me, I never made it to Confession that night (I’m
sure also a sin), and I went to bed that evening
with a heart full of guilt.
Now that I am a twenty-something Catholic, that
night seems a long time ago, but I continue to
share a unique relationship with a Catholic Church
that in different ways nurtures me, at times
frustrates me, and always challenges me to be
counter-cultural. Indeed, if the Gospel message of
our market place, complete with its promise of
salvation through stock options and the other
sacraments of "stuff" preaches its own
brand of Good News from Madison Avenue, my faith
speaks of humble service and the blessed poor.
To
the message of rugged individualism—a "don’t
tread on me" American ethos of restless
self-reliance—my faith answers clearly with a
call for community and selfless discipleship. In a
culture where ethics are relative, carefully
crafted legalisms seem to substitute for honesty
and moral codes are subservient to personal
ambition, I can’t ignore an uncompromising
message of universal values and truth. And in a
world where instant gratification, the almighty
dollar and scientific certainty make up our
secular trinity, there again is my faith as always
in my ear and even deeper in my heart reminding me
of the Spirit, of self-denial, and that from dust
I came and to dust I shall return.
It’s not easy being a dual citizen. Like many
Catholics conflicted by a church they love but
sometimes see as a hierarchical, rigidly removed
institution where the marginalized, particularly
women and gays, have trouble finding a true home,
I wonder indeed how much of this church I can call
my own. I wonder even as I attend Mass every
weekend and feel the ache of a traveler who has
been too far from home when I miss it, how to
explain to non-Catholic or non-religious friends
why I remain committed to this church that for
them at best seems disconnected from the real
world and at worst is a source of hypocrisy and
divisiveness.
Bob Dylan famously remarked that everyday
people are leaving the church and finding God. His
sentiment is understandable and expressed in the
expatriates of my faith who have felt unheard,
unspoken for and worn down by a church they see as
an immovable rock—one very different from the
one on which they imagine Christ intended to build
his church. But for all the reservations I have
about the Catholic Church, I know I’m a part of
a body of imperfect believers who in myriad ways
try in their daily lives to walk a path Christ
laid out for them.
Even as we may disagree with
each other over positions on the death penalty,
papal infallibility, or the need for theologians
at Catholic universities to receive a mandatum to
teach, we are still one Body who belong to
something larger than ourselves. Like a family who
don’t always like one another’s company, we
still break bread together, struggle together and,
most importantly, keep the faith together in a
powerful way. Private spirituality has its place,
but participating in public worship is a visible
symbol of people working to make the kingdom of
God real in this world.
Searching for the words to explain why I remain
committed to the church and how my faith shapes my
cultural and political world-view seems like
fishing for experiences that swim in the
unconscious. It is something that doesn’t take
the bait easily. Being Catholic is simply a part
of who I am. It’s something that is subtly with
me as I walk to work and still, after all these
years removed from the Jesuit priests at Loyola
High School, say the prayer of St. Ignatius to
start my day. It is with me in the spirit of Rev.
Joseph Kerr, S.J., a wrinkled, white-haired man
who survived a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp so
that in his eighth decade of life he would be
around to scare my eighth-grade class into
believing that we should close our eyes in a movie
that showed a naked woman lest we fall into sinful
temptation.
My Catholic imagination informs my beliefs that
here in the richest nation in the world cutting
welfare to families with children or spending
millions on fighter jets that won’t fly in the
rain while corporate welfare swells and too many
students attend crumbling schools is small of
spirit. My Catholic imagination allows me to
envision a more just world where judgment is
tempered with compassion, and the divisions of
race, gender, and geography are bridged with
recognition of common humanity.
My Jesuit,
Catholic education in high school and four years
at Mount Saint Mary’s College taught me more
than how to evaluate literature or calculate
algebraic equations. By their lessons, but more
importantly their lives, my religious and lay
teachers instilled within me the value of being a
man for others and offered the great challenge of
dedicating my days Ad majorem Dei Gloriam (for the
greater glory of God). Every day I fail at
reaching those goals. But every day I work toward
them knowing I’m not alone, and that I stand
within a tradition that can help me move closer to
them. I have learned that being a part of a church
does not mean checking my conscience at the
cathedral door.
My opposition to the Church’s
teaching on women’s ordination or contraception,
for example, doesn’t mean I seek to leave the
church. The writer James Baldwin once said he
loved this country so much he insisted on the
right to criticize it perpetually. Thoughtful
dissent, the genuine struggle to understand for
yourself rather than accept blindly what you have
been told, is to be engaged with your faith in the
deepest possible way. "Leave the country if
you don’t like it!" some hissed at Vietnam
protestors. What knee-jerk patriotism misses, and
what a mind set that considers the Catholic Church
a monolithic institution misses, is that the
impulse to disagree is not always rooted in
disrespect but rather a desire to see what you
love live up to its highest ideals. Jesus saved
his harshest condemnation not for the scorned
adulterer Mary Magdalene but for the Pharisees—pious
men who were well versed in the letter of the
religious law but far from its spirit.
While I am free to disagree with and challenge
the Church, I also know she has important things
to say to me if I can learn to slow down and
listen to her wisdom. In the way any powerful
experience writes a story on one’s soul that is
a silent, indelible imprint, my faith is a
language all its own that often defies easy
translation. What I do know is I would not be the
same person today without the presence of the
Catholic Church in my life. Full of her rituals,
her opportunities for grace, her windows into a
world of humility and mercy, she is a nurturing
home in which to dwell. Together, I hope, we can
make each other better.
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other articles by John Gehring