I was naive to think I had ever “arrived” in my Christian journey. I’ve thought I found my permanent place, my forever spiritual family, many times throughout adulthood, only to have schisms tear apart the church. Or have close friends move away. Others got married or had babies long before I did, and virtually disappeared. Or maybe I let them disappear because I didn’t do my part to stay involved in their lives, I’m not sure.
Sometimes the schism was internal, as questions and doubts bubbled up, making others uncomfortable. I’ll never forget the Bible study where I was basically asked to either leave or be quiet, because my questions were a stumbling block to others. I’d never felt so betrayed by a church before.
I think that’s why I’ve made myself stay in places I knew I’d long outgrown, like the “seeker friendly” groups that were intended to draw new believers in, but weren’t equipped to handle the ups and downs of long-term discipleship. Aside from being introverted and having social anxiety, the stress of starting over and rebuilding a church family from scratch didn’t seem worth the risk to my emotional well-being.
But the Christian journey isn’t supposed to be stagnant. In church, as in life, some relationships are long-term, while others are seasonal, serving a purpose of pointing you in the right direction, but for various reasons just don’t last.
Sometimes it’s not the people at all: sometimes it’s sitting quietly in the silence before communion, realizing that you don’t know exactly what the people next to you believe they are about to consume: is it the body of Christ? Is it just a symbol? And why does it matter?
Sometimes a little mystery isn’t a bad thing. Diversity, on the whole, is not a bad thing. But then there are issues that are too important to be neutral about, and they refuse to leave you alone.
And that is how I found myself in RCIA class at a local Catholic parish, because the questions wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to explore them, like scratching an itch.
But on the first day, when asked to stand up in a room of 30+ people, introduce ourselves, and briefly explain what brought us here, I panicked and thought of leaving.
It’s possible that nobody would stand out in such a large group, but first impressions can last a while. My awkwardness, not to mention my scratchy throat from a lingering covid cough, would ruin this.
At the same time, I’ve made these introductions so many times, I practically have a script. From new Bible studies, small groups, and speaking engagements promoting the memoir of my conversion, I know what to say – I just struggle to say it calmly, without giving away my fear.
When my turn came, I tried not to let my voice shake as I said, “My name is Beth, and I’ve been intrigued by Catholicism since I was ten years old, when I found a book about Joan of Arc at the library. I hid that book, and other saint biographies, under my mattress from my Jewish parents like teenage boys hide their Playboys.” Giggles tittered throughout, while something inside me said, Stop trying too hard! Why are you so dumb?
I took a breath, and continued: “But I was eventually found out. And despite family members telling me I was helping Hitler do the work of erasing more Jews, Jesus wouldn’t leave me alone, and I started following him in college.”
That’s quite a lot of story for one introductory minute.
I felt, once again, like the “too much” girl: the one with all the drama, always one crisis or heavy burden that made others uncomfortable. You will alienate yourself and get kicked out. You will ruin another group that could have served you well if you’d just kept your mouth shut. But if I did that, I wouldn’t be getting the full benefit of what the class is intended for, would I?
I’ll be sharing more of what I’m learning in the coming weeks, so stay tuned!
Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash
