Last weekend, a chunk of my OCIA class were baptized at the Easter Vigil, and became Catholic. This weekend, on Divine Mercy Sunday, another group of us who have already been validly baptized will be confirmed.
At tonight’s class, we broke into discussion groups to share how we’re feeling during these final days before Coming Home.
It’s hard to say what I’m feeling, being seven weeks postpartum. I could be feeling deep joy one moment, and sudden flashes of anger the next. I wander in a perpetual sleep-deprived fog. Throw in this second major life event after bringing home my son, and emotions are a bit slow to catch up. I didn’t plan for it to happen this way, but God has never operated on my time table.
I think back to my baptism at a nondenominational college church, and the sadness I felt as students hugged family members when they emerged triumphant from the gymnasium pool. My Jewish family members naturally did not see the occasion as anything to celebrate, and it was incredibly difficult.
This time around, I’m not the only one struggling to reconcile disapproval from friends and family. Plenty of classmates raised Protestant are carrying the burden of knowing their closest relationships are now fractured. I, too, have faced accusations of heresy and general ignorance from well-meaning friends who think I’m forfeiting my salvation.
Fulton Sheen once said, “There are not over a hundred people in the United States who hate the Catholic Church. There are millions, however, who hate what they wrongly believe to be the Catholic Church—which is, of course, quite a different thing.” I learned the truth of that statement simply by announcing my plans on social media.
I am also entering the Church with my husband’s full support, but not his participation; he will remain Protestant. It’s not an unworkable scenario, but not without challenges.
In many ways, I’ve been walking a solitary spiritual path my whole life. I’ve never once had my whole family on board with me. I believe God has sovereignly prepared me for that loneliness by guiding me to saints with similar experiences. I read about them and learned from them, not realizing they were part of a larger communion – a heavenly network so to speak – praying for me the whole way.
For some friends, this transition seems abrupt, just like my initial decision to follow Jesus did back in 2008. But the inner work had begun long ago, before I felt confident enough to talk about it. That journey never ended after I prayed the “sinner’s prayer,” joined a church, and got dunked in a pool. It never ended when my car broke down near an Anglican church parking lot, and I decided to be confirmed there. And it still won’t be over after I receive the sacraments this Sunday.
People have joked with me that I’m just a “spiritually promiscuous” person, changing up churches and worship traditions like some people do with bed partners. Maybe I’ll get bored of Christianity and become Muslim or something. And when I lose interest in that, Buddhism will be next.
But this journey has only ever led in one consistent direction: first non-denominational, then Episcopalian, then Anglican, and Catholic. What’s more, Christianity and Judaism share a path in history that cannot be said of any other two faiths: not even Islam, despite shared roots in the biblical Abraham.
I try not to dwell on the negative. I still struggle with emotional distance between friends who just don’t get it, and perhaps never will. The decreased number of online “followers,” whatever those are worth, are an exercise in humility.
Eyes on the prize: a Church that spans history and the globe, united by one Body, one universal mass. What I am gaining is worth so much more than what I am losing.
Photo by Urban Vintage on Unsplash
