Church Bells and a Riptide

To my friends and readers who are Catholic: Please forgive me for sharing my disagreements with the Church.  I am struggling with the question of whether or not I should become Catholic.  To all my friends and readers: I would value your perspective.

On Thursday morning as I sat in church with a dear friend, the bells calling worshipers to weekday Mass took me back to hearing other church bells a few miles away.  On warm evenings, my parents and I ate dinner on our screened porch, and daily at 6 p.m., the carillon at the Methodist church out on the main road played hymns.  If we sat down early to supper, we might say, “Well, we beat the Methodists tonight.”

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The back porch on our “little white house”

As I listened to the Catholic bells this week, I could see in my mind the three of us on our porch at the back of our little white house.  I saw the scene from above; I was a ghost revisiting a place and time of joy from a life now past.  I wondered, “In some dimension, are the three of us still together, sharing evenings on our porch, listening to ‘the Methodists’?”

So much has changed—is changing—at least that is how existence feels to me.  In my spiritual life, too, the past seems to be a distant shore from which I am cut off on this ocean of being.  I had thought I was now among those whom the bells call to Mass.  I thought I’d found a new spiritual shore toward which to sail.  But I fear I am steering toward the edge of my world, of my understanding of God’s world.

The Riptide

I am distressed to find myself caught in a riptide in my spiritual ocean as I meet with the deacon who is dealing with me in the RCIA[1] process by which I am, perhaps, turning from Quaker[2] to Catholic.  The deacon is a kind man who does not abruptly reject my views that conflict with his; he even appears to give my opinions some consideration, at least out of courtesy.  So ours is not an adversarial relationship, but he and I are spiritually oil and water.  Engaging in a process that causes me to focus squarely on the swirling chasm between the deacon’s perspective and mine causes me to question the wisdom of the voyage I have begun.

My Reasons for Setting Sail

I was raised a Quaker and continue to resonate with the Quaker peace testimony, conviction that all people—and that includes men and women—are equal, belief that no ministers or priests are required to intercede between the laity and God, and rejection of rituals as a necessary part of worship.  But in the past decade, I have lost the sense of a Quaker home.  Like our porch at our family home, the Wilmington Meetinghouse filled with Quakers I knew and with whom I felt kinship has disappeared from my everyday reality.

Wilmington Meetinghouse
Wilmington Meetinghouse, drawing by Mason Hayek, from Growing to 80

The Meetinghouse is now frequented by new generations of Quakers, generations with whom I share the tenets of a spiritual philosophy but not the spiritual temperament and enthusiasm I used to feel in our Meeting.  When I lived in other places, I never found a Meeting that came up—in my mind—to our Wilmington Meeting.  And now the Wilmington Meeting I loved—and the inspired ministry of my parents, others of their generation, and the elders still with us then—lives in timeless eternity.  It has joined our little family listening to the Methodist hymns and the katydids as we sit together on our porch.

But through a dear friend, I have come to know the Franciscans.  Franciscans and Quakers share a similar social testimony and belief in the value and dignity of every human being.  Franciscans are warm and welcoming, as Wilmington Quakers once more vigorously seemed to me.  Franciscans love and care for the Earth and its creatures and growing things.  Franciscans notably live Christ’s teachings of love and kindness with devotion and sincerity.

And Franciscans sing hymns with a joy I haven’t known in congregational singing since my childhood, when the Wilmington Quakers sang with gusto, too.  Music is not part of a Quaker meeting for worship, but we sang enthusiastically beforehand, when Evelyn Young, of my grandparents’ generation, played for us children, and afterwards, when everyone, old and young, gathered to sing hymns.  We closed each week with “As We Leave This Friendly Place”:[3]

As we leave this friendly place,
Love give light to every face;
May the kindness which we learn
Light our hearts till we return.

Music no longer lights the hearts of the Wilmington Meeting, in spite of the kindness there.  And to me, music is the most thrilling and perfected way of praising God and creation, of expressing joy, gratitude, and the unity of us all.

I crave regaining a spiritual home.  I crave a spiritual community in which I find mentors and partners for trying to live the essence of Christ’s teachings: be kind to one another; love one another; act always through kindness and love.  I find such a community among the Franciscans, especially the Sisters of St. Francis and their Companions in Faith.

But to join them as more than a welcomed visitor, I need to work through a parish church—thus the deacon.  The Church has a need and a right, of course, to ensure that those joining are committed to Christ’s teachings and to being active members of the Church community.

I try to bridge the gulf between the deacon’s religion and my own by telling myself that rather than joining the Catholic Church per se, I am joining the Franciscans.  Within the Franciscans, the pieces of my spiritual faith and desires fall into place.  I also love the profound contributions of numerous other Catholic groups and individuals on behalf of suffering people around the world and on behalf of peace.  And I love the magnificent architecture, art, and music growing out of the Church’s two millennia of devotion to Christ.  There is much to love.  And the terrible actions of a few do not erase the good of multitudes.  But I would be a hypocrite to pretend that I am a fit within the religious picture the deacon is drawing for me.

Melrose Abbey, Melrose, Scotland
Melrose Abbey (12th century), Melrose, Scotland; drawing by Mason Hayek, from Growing to 80

Manageable Waves or Tsunamis?

I don’t expect a perfect Church.  Of course I know that like each human being, no human institution is perfect.  Nevertheless I am struggling to decide: Can I in good conscience join a church with which I have significant disagreements?  If I had been raised Catholic, I believe I would stay Catholic, revel in the Church’s great attributes and contributions, and work from within for necessary change.  Whether or not to sign on at this stage of my life feels like a different sort of decision, however, one that should be made based on a strong concurrence between the Church’s teachings and my own values.

I do not love the Catholic Church’s—and society’s—continued denigration of women.  Keeping women out of the priesthood is purely a continuation of many men’s ongoing desire and determination to retain power.  Those who don’t realize how much is being lost by barring the door to women priests should come listen to the homilies that our local Franciscan sisters sometimes deliver in their convent chapel.

And I do not love the Church’s placing priests above the rest of humanity, men and women.  Priests are not singled out by God, by Christ; they do not stand above us mere mortals.  Priests (and ministers and other religious leaders) contribute enormously to their congregations and the world when they are filled with love and wisdom conveyed through their ministry and lives.  But priests are not uniquely the descendants of Jesus’s Apostles and keepers of their responsibility to preach Christ’s message.  We all are.

I do not need a priest to intervene between God and me.  Every human being can commune directly with God.  Similarly, priests have no right to believe they alone among people can absolve me of my sins, and I do not intend to ask a priest to do so.

It bothers me deeply to see a priest sitting on a throne-like chair, holding himself physically and symbolically above all others present.  At Mass yesterday afternoon, we heard James 2:1, “My brothers and sisters, show no partiality as you adhere to the faith in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ.”  And Philippians 2:3 tells us, “Do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves.” Verses 5-7 continue, “Have this mind among yourselves, which was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.”

Yet within the hierarchy of the Church, the concepts of equality and humility are too often given mere lip service.  The position of conservative Church officials concerning LGBT members is another example of Church hypocrisy about equality within the Church and in God’s eyes.  In an additional example, the elaborate church vestments worn by priests and higher church officials, while perhaps aesthetically appealing, are certainly not symbols of humility and equality.  And, of course, as with any population feeling holier- or higher-than-thou, the sense of entitlement and superiority that some priests nurture within themselves helps to allow them to rationalize abhorrent behavior.

Friend deacon, among the other disagreements I have with you, I reject your message that deep knowledge and insight are infused in the individual through baptism in the Church.  Baptism can be a beautiful way of committing oneself to striving to live according to Christ’s example.  Through baptism, one symbolically becomes a part of the local and worldwide community of those who have made the same commitment.  God does not, however, dump knowledge, wisdom, kindness, and understanding onto the person along with the baptismal water.  Knowledge, wisdom, kindness, and understanding can develop only in the course of living one’s life with the guidance of the Inner Light, God’s blessings, and the example—not dogmatism—of others.

God loves each person infinitely regardless of his or her baptismal status.  Quakers, who do not believe in baptism, can be as wise and good as any Catholic—and so can Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Jews, agnostics, and so on.  And in determining our afterlife status, God doesn’t care one bit about whether we have been baptized.  Deacon, you are not wiser—or possessed of greater insight into Jesus—than I am simply because you have been baptized and I have not.  By seeming to believe that you are wiser, you inspire me to form a shell to protect myself from your message.

The position of the deacon’s Church on who can take communion is another source of distress for me.  (Some Franciscans, such as Father Richard Rohr in his insightful books, also disagree with the deacon’s version of the Church on this point.)  I believe Jesus likewise would have disagreed with the mainstream Church’s requirements for taking communion.  Jesus said, “. . . I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35).  Jesus’s teachings and example emphasize inclusivity.  But the deacon’s Catholic communion is too much about saying, “I’m in the club and you’re not.”

No One True Humanly Charted Course

I believe we are all seekers who can learn from each other, and some individuals are outstandingly wise, but I have never been able to accept the notion that anyone has a corner on the truth.  When I was a senior in high school, a member of the Meeting decided that in our Sunday school—which Quakers call “First-day school”—he would teach us young people exactly what we “ought” to know and believe.  In response, I immediately stopped going to First-day school.  I have not (at least as yet) decided to stop going to meet with the deacon because I still want to be among the Franciscans as more than a welcomed visitor.  But how can I join them without having to pretend to be in agreement with the deacon and the vast elements of the Church that he represents?

Deacon, here is what I would like to ask of you: Tell me that you are sharing the traditional views of the Catholic Church and your own interpretation of those views.  But then acknowledge that every human being must seek her or his own understanding.  Acknowledge that my own spirituality, while as flawed as the next person’s, is also as worthy of consideration and respect as the next person’s.  No one, and no religion, has all the answers.  There is room within the often-magnificent Catholic Church for a wide range of sincere and carefully considered understanding.  And there is room—and need—within the Church for evolution and change through ongoing conversion and continuing revelation, through deeper and deeper insight into God and Christ’s teachings.

Assisi_San_Francesco_BW_2
Basilica of Saint Francis, Assisi, Italy, by Berthold Werner – Own work, Public Domain, from Wikimedia Commons

The Wrong Direction Altogether?

When I am with the Franciscans, I feel as though I have found a spiritual home.  It is not the home of my earlier years, the home I will miss forever in this life, but it is a beautiful home, filled with love and deep satisfaction.  The bells and music of the Catholic faith are not the bells and katydids accompanying long-ago family suppers on the porch, not hymn-sings in the old Quaker Meetinghouse at 4th and West Streets, but I thought they could be welcoming and meaningful to me.

Am I going to have to turn back into the emptiness of living without a spiritual port, a spiritual home that counts me fully among its family?  Do I have to turn away because I am having profound difficulty accepting the lessons I am supposed to be learning in the RCIA sessions–conforming enough for the deacon and those he represents to let me in?  Should I join the Church feeling as I feel?  I want to be a Franciscan, but for now I am not sure I am suited to be a Catholic.

[1] Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults (even the name bothers me: I am already Christian).

[2] The formal name for the Quakers is the Religious Society of Friends.

[3] Vincent B. Silliman, 1935.

4 thoughts on “Church Bells and a Riptide

  1. Thank you Winnie for an engaging and inspiring essay. Theologian Paul Tillich entitled his biography, “On The Boundary.” His title describes much of my own spiritual experience as does your essay.
    Also, your words on music echo my feelings: “… music is the most thrilling and perfected way of praising God and creation, of expressing joy, gratitude, and the unity of us all.” I like to paraphrase “In the beginning was the word,” to in the beginning was the music.
    Again, thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

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