Monthly Archives: November 2014

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

A storm is any disturbed state of an environment or astronomical body’s atmosphere especially affecting its surface, and strongly implying severe weather. It may be marked by significant disruptions to normal conditions such as strong wind, hail, thunder and lightning (a thunderstorm), heavy precipitation (snowstorm, rainstorm), heavy freezing rain (ice storm), strong winds (tropical cyclone, windstorm), or wind transporting some substance through the atmosphere as in a dust storm, blizzard, sandstorm, etc. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Storm]

Living in the desert all my life, I have been spared the hardships of blizzards, avalanches, hurricanes and tornadoes. In the Phoenix metropolitan area, we are lucky if we experience our average annual rainfall of ten inches.

With so few “weather events” to look forward to in the Arizona desert, we learn to recognize the signs of any approaching storm. The calm. The red sky. The eerie quiet. Put them together on any one day, and they are a dead giveaway. Tie down the house. A desert storm is on its way.

If only it were that easy when it comes to the storms of life.

In the past year, I had weathered the disappointments of RCIA. I had surveyed the landscape, counted the months and laid out the options. Like a traveler mapping out a ten month trip through Europe, I had marked the key points up ahead on my journey into the Catholic Church, calculated the time to finish, and set about gathering provisions.

But none of my plans took into account getting caught in a desert storm.

Easter had come and gone, new Catholics welcomed into the church. On the outside, I remained a protestant. Our garden was blooming. At home, my husband and I enjoyed eating outside on the patio and listening to the fountain. Looking ahead, we planned trips to visit our children on both the western and eastern seaboards of the country.

Spring, with its beautiful weather and flowers, is a generous season. Without any forewarning, one spring day, Vic and I ended up talking about churches, the Lutheran that we attended together and the Catholic that I sought. And what had seemed years away beyond the horizon suddenly lay at my feet. With equanimity and generosity, Vic said it was time. I should enter the Catholic Church. He was at peace.

I should enter the church? It was now April, after Easter. RCIA would begin again in September – six months away. Six months until the enrollment date for RCIA added to the six months to attend RCIA…this meant that I could enter the Catholic Church twelve months from now.

Twelve months. It wasn’t a lifetime. But it sure seemed like it. I figured I could hunker down and make it…except for one thing. Baptism. One year to wait for baptism?

One year?

As if God could read my mind, before the end of the week, He sent Melissa into my life. Leaving work one night, she noted my crucifix. She was a Catholic and assumed I was, too. Unable to restrain the torrent of words bubbling up from my heart, I led her through my story right up to the point of perplexity. One year. Did I really have to wait an entire year to be baptized, to become Catholic?

Melissa laughed. “Oh, no. I know a priest who worked with me on the college campus years ago. Students who came to the Newman Center wanted to become Catholic, and they didn’t have to wait. He will help you. Call Father Ron.”

In the anticipation of being baptized…of being Catholic…the signs of the coming storm never caught my eye.

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*All names have been changed.

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NEXT: FATHER RON – RCIA v.2

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SLIPPAGE IN THE TRANSMISSION

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DO NOT WORRY

²²He said to his disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. ²³For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing. ²⁴Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds! ²⁵And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? ²⁶If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? [Luke 12:22-26]

The One who I sought was the One who gave comfort. I would not worry.

I could not control the content or duration of the RCIA class last year. Nor could I control who in the Catholic world cared or didn’t care about my “insights.” The Church as the Body of Christ is built of imperfect people, I being chief among them. Time was on my side. My husband and I would eventually come to peace on this change in our lives; the years would see to that.

I had made it this far moving toward the Catholic Church. I could make it to the end. Calmly, in control, I navigated the days ahead of me, laying my years in the hands of God.

Years…what did that mean for baptism? Could I wait years to finally be baptized?

Driving down life’s highway, my hand on the gearshift, I felt an odd movement under my feet…a mysterious car feeling…new and unexpected. It passed. And I returned to my thoughts.

Baptism? Never being able to cite chapter and verse, I knew full well the significance of baptism in the life of a Christian. Repent and get baptized. Even Jesus, the Source of Faith, consented…no, he didn’t simply consent…he sought out and determined that He would be baptized. And He was.

And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. [Mat 3:16]

In all the many years when I thought I had been baptized, I knew my fellowship with Christ was secure. But what about today? Sure…I won’t be condemned. But then what?

The one who believes and is baptized will be saved; but the one who does not believe will be condemned. [Mk 16:16]

On life’s highway, the movement under the floorboard under my feet in the car returned…with a sound. It was not a good sound. Looking ahead to next year, I decided to ignore it…the sound.

RCIA? I could wait. Catholic Church? I would wait. Eucharist? I would have to wait. But baptism?

My thoughts were jolted. Another huge bad car noise. Not again! We had serviced the car before Easter…and here I was on a long journey…hearing strange sounds and feeling strange movements under the floorboard under my feet in the car.

Grabbing my cell phone, I called our mechanic. “The car. It’s making these new awful sounds under my feet. The car jerks. I’m going fast, and then the car slows down. I put the car into drive, but it doesn’t want to go into drive. It’s like it’s trying to make up its mind.”

“Slippage,” he said. “The gears in the transmission are slipping.” When you get home, bring the car in.

Two days later, a lesson from my mechanic on transmissions, and twenty minutes on Google, I learned a lot about the speed of a car. It can go fast. And it can go slow. Changes in speed are handled in the transmission with its gears and fluids and solenoids.

A car can change speeds, but there’s a lot involved in making it happen. Kind of like people when we change speeds. Especially like me.

I had programmed my spiritual future for years. But baptism required a speed adjustment. Just like my car…I was having problems of my own…slippage in the transmission.

Baptism? Was yesterday soon enough? Yesterday? Tomorrow? My transmission was grinding.

²²After this Jesus and his disciples went into the Judean countryside, and he spent some time there with them and baptized. ²³John also was baptizing at Aenon near Salim because water was abundant there; and people kept coming and were being baptized…[John 3:22-24]

That night, my head on the pillow, I kept thinking about the day in the future when I would eventually be baptized. I did not worry. But I could not rest.

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NEXT: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

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THE GIFT OF FAITH

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As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me. [John 17:21-23]

The gift of faith…so amazing…is given to us through the Holy Spirit, from God the Father, and his Son, Jesus Christ. But we each have our role to play. We can either invite people in…or push them away.

The language of division in the Christian faith is sure to build clouds of rain from the tears of God in heaven. Division is not divine. It resides in the condition of human beings, born of sin. Adam divided from God through disobedience. Adam and Eve divided from each other through temptation and blame. Cain and Able were divided through jealousy. In heaven, was not God weeping?

Loving us beyond our comprehension, Jesus gave his life to bring us together, both together as humans, and together with our Father. His suffering and his death on the cross, the supreme gifts making the resurrection possible…built a bridge home to the divine. And for our security on earth, He left us his Word, his apostles and his Church. Still…we are human. Born into sin.

It is tempting to blame our modern divisions on Luther and Popes, but the schism of the Reformation is only one break of many others beginning in the first days of Christian history. Mary and Martha divided over how to serve Christ and their guests. The disciples divided from the woman who anointed Jesus with expensive alabaster oil. [Mark 14:3-9] The disciples divided from the sons of Zebedee over who had the right to sit next to Jesus in heaven. [Mat 20:20-28] Peter divided from, even separated from Christ, denying him three times. And he wept bitterly.

Originally, Luther and his followers only imagined one division, a separation from the Catholic Church by those who were “not Catholic.” What Luther never envisioned was the scope and variety of beliefs and practices that would explode out of being “NOT”. Many claim there are more than 30,000 different protestant denominations. But who is to know? After all, if you are not Catholic, you are entitled to be anything…even your own denomination of one…yourself.

In its variety of denominations, protestants are generally open to banding together under the Christian tent. However, the tent is seldom large enough to include the Catholic Church. For her part, the Catholic Church has played a role in division with her claim to exclusivity in beliefs, sacraments, rituals, authority and salvation. In all of this, can we not see Jesus in heaven weeping?

Thus, few changes in church affiliation are as difficult as those for people entering the Catholic Church. The general impression is that the person is moving out of Christianity into Catholicism. Sadly, it can become the source of even more division, separating the convert from family, friends and, tragically, spouses.

Gratefully, as I moved toward the Catholic Church, my husband accepted this change with charity. I knew he would not follow me. Neither would he deny me.

Still, in the little changes of our Sunday routine, I sensed his apprehension. Even as I left the house early to go separately to mass, I committed to attending our Lutheran church as well so that we would have common experiences in our faith lives. Yet, in the finality of my eventual conversion, we would no longer share the sacrament of communion (the Eucharist).

Choosing the Catholic Church had put us on different sides of all the wrangling that takes place among Christians and Catholics. Who is right? Who is wrong? Who is closer to Jesus…who gets to sit at his right and at his left? It was easy to see that my choice could be taken as a rejection of my husband’s church and his Christian faith. He continued to push me forward on the road to Rome, but I felt a quiet hurt that doesn’t escape a wife’s attention after sharing forty years of life together.

Talking briefly, I assured him our marriage is too important for it to be undermined by Christian divisions. And I vowed to my husband that I would not make any change until he was confident that his faith would not become “less” for the sake of my faith becoming different. I would wait…weeks, months or years. For now, we would continue to worship Christ together.

This made it easy to walk away from the past September’s RCIA program. I had already mentally programmed myself for years of waiting. The following year, on March 31, Easter arrived, and the catechumens joined the Catholic Church right on schedule. Vic and I shared Easter at our Lutheran church. And having full confidence in God’s timing, I reset my RCIA clock for the coming year.

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COUNTING TO TWENTY

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When you are disturbed, do not sin;
ponder it on your beds, and be silent.
Offer right sacrifices,
and put your trust in the Lord. [Psalm 4:4-5]

Ten was never far enough for me. My impulse to anger being what it is.

So I counted to twenty…and twenty times I counted…until perspective set in, and clarity arrived.

Firstly, I wasn’t prepared to enter the Catholic Church, even if I had chosen to stay in the RCIA class. Given that reality, it certainly was inappropriate for me to meddle in the structure of the program, disrupting the class for those in attendance. Next year, after Easter, would be soon enough to approach the priest.

Secondly, the Church had her protocol. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And now that it had been built, Rome wouldn’t be changed in two days.

Thirdly, a few good things came out of attending the first class. I could be thankful. And I could pray for the leaders and catechumens.

Fourthly, I could take time to get my house in order. I could get my baptism information and be ready for next year.

Time passed, and with emotions finally under control, I picked up the phone, calling the Presbyterian church of my youth. A woman answered, and I set about asking her how to get a certificate of my baptism. She took my information and promised to look into it.

A few days later, she called back. She took pains to confirm with me the details of my family, my relatives and the years of our attendance. Yes, she had found the membership and baptism records for my aunt and uncle and their five sons. Apologetically, she said she had no information on my family or myself. None. Thus, there was no record of my baptism and no chance of a certificate.

It took a few minutes for this to sink in. I did my best to ask her multiple times, “Are you sure?” She was, indeed, having gone over records for more than twenty years. “Thank you,” I said and put the phone back in the charger.

I sat in silence. Puzzled. Either the church forgot to record my baptism…or I had never been baptized. How could I have been so certain I had been baptized?

Then slowly, a new realization began to develop. I had never been certain of my baptism. I had taken it for granted that I had been baptized because I had attended the church for a few years and had attended their confirmation classes for students.

What did I really remember? Candlelight midnight Christmas services. Sitting in confirmation class, second row back. Sitting in the forest under a pine tree on a high school church retreat. Driving to teen group events in the family Olds.

But I had not one iota of a memory about baptism. I remembered clearly being “not baptized,” explaining our family Presbyterian/Baptist beliefs to my junior high friends. “My parents want me to be baptized when I know what it means, and I can make the decision for myself.” If we had gone the way of the Baptist church in Tennessee, I certainly would have remembered being plunged into the water.

But we were Scottish Presbyterians. I remembered parents holding their babies over the font for a few sprinkles. But adults? I could not picture any adult ever going to the front of the church to be sprinkled. Never. Not any adult…including myself.

Had the memory grown dim? My participation in the teen youth group was short-lived. Eventually, our whole family quit attending church. A few years later, arriving on the college campus, I dispensed with faith altogether…for twenty years…God was unprovable, unbelievable and irrelevant. I had no desire or reason to remember any aspect of my former church life.

Reflecting on the faith of my parents, it started to make sense. My mother took my sister and me to church as an effort to expose us to church, a duty to educate us about what other people believed. On Sundays, my Dad stayed home. Several years of church and Christmas services had assured my Mom that she had done her duty, and we settled back into our loving secular home, respectful of believers and visiting church on occasion. But there had never been a pressing desire for my parents to seal us as children of God, followers of Christ.

I had no memory at all, ever, of being baptized. And it all made sense. Encountering God and Christ as an adult, I had simply plugged that mental hole with the assumption that I had been sprinkled many, many years ago.

First the realization dawned.

Then…the realization sank in.

Thoughts of RCIA faded, receded and disappeared.

Only one thing mattered.

I believed. I loved Jesus. He loves me.

I didn’t just want to be baptized. I thirsted for baptism. The longing for baptism took over every cell in my body.

As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God? [Psa 42:1-2]

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TEACHING TEACHERS

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My poor Dad.

I sat down for dinner, and he turned to me. “My last column in the magazine…you got me into so much trouble.” I looked at him quizzically. “You know that joke you told me.” No, I didn’t. “You remember,” he said, attempting to jog my memory.

Those who can…do.
Those who can’t…teach.
Those who can’t teach…teach teachers.

“Oh, Daddy. You can’t print that joke!” I cried out. “I’m a teacher. I get it. But you can’t expect other teachers to laugh.” And I broke out in laughter.

Teachers are a tough crowd.

At a meeting long ago, I waited for the teacher up front to get rolling. He was digging for pencils and trying to find his notes. The person next to me, rolled into her rant. “I can’t believe he didn’t come with pencils…sharpened pencils! What a waste of time…blah, blah, blah.” I asked, but I didn’t have to. Yes, she was a classroom teacher.

Teaching teachers is not for sissies. For more than ten years, I flew around the country teaching other teachers the principals of elementary math instruction. Teaching teachers…it kept me humble…or as humble as I am capable of being.

Thus…with all the humility I can possibly muster…It’s NOT that hard! Teaching RCIA is not that hard. Really!

The BASICS are basic:

Welcome everyone. Remember to tell them how freakin’ excited you are that they are here tonight.
Pray. Start the evening in prayer, showing how important Jesus is in the class and in your individual lives.
Get their names. Of course, this means that you are so freakin’ excited that they are here that you are going to get in touch with them over the next week to get to know who they are, where they are, and what they care about. Learn their names!
Ask them. Why are they here? Are they freakin’ excited about Jesus or are they just trying to make their spouse happy by joining the church? Either answer is great! It just helps to know.
Tell them upfront what the seven sacraments are and that next week you will help them fill out the enrollment form…because…now…
The most important thing for the first class is to share questions about Jesus and the Catholic Church that they hope to answer in the weeks (not years) ahead.

After that…it’s still not that hard. For one thing…you have a fully outlined curriculum, the Catechism of the Catholic Church. And, after the first week, you will know the individuals in your class. Just pick the 10 essential topics of the Catechism, refer to student/participant questions and go from there.

It was absolutely inconceivable to me, after trying for months, reaching out to RCIA authorities in order to find the fountain of inspiration for RCIA, to learn that there was no fountain. In the most important job of the Church, evangelizing new believers, lambs of the flock of Christ…the manner of reaching and shepherding these lambs home was left up to chance. A compass with no needle. A sign with no arrow.

Most disconcerting was the fact that the Catholic Church, as evidenced by its Catechism of the Catholic Church leaves very little up to chance concerning the Catholic faith. It’s all spelled out. Every scintilla. Except when it comes to RCIA.

In the case of RCIA, it’s all up for grabs. Whoever shows up to teach the class, given their best effort, is left to pick and choose the goals and materials. It’s not that they are doomed to failure. It’s just that they are not guaranteed success, either.

Again, needing humility, I beg to put forward my own life experience in teaching as a vision of what is possible for RCIA.

For more than ten years, during summer breaks, I traveled around the United States to teach classes on mathematics. I was one of a cadre of over one hundred teachers from all parts of the U.S….all of us leaving our home states during the summer on a mission to change math instruction. Our parent instructor (our “Vatican pope” of math) resided in California. The math “Vatican” gave all instructors a set of lesson plans in a three-ring binder which included a list of materials required for the lessons.

We instructors learned from each other. In our first years, we traveled to observe and work with experienced leaders from California. In succeeding years, we broke off to teach in teams. And finally, secure in our abilities, we went solo. Every year, all the instructors came together at a national meeting where we discussed our individual challenges and confirmed the essentials of and improvements to the workshop.

For better or for worse, a workshop in Oregon could be expected to mirror another in Florida, each taught by two different people. If an instructor in Virginia had devised a more effective way of demonstrating a lesson on fractions, you could know with certainty that in less than a year this would be shared to all of our instructors across the U.S.

We were all on the same track, bound by our shared mission, but we were not mindless robots. Quite the converse. We devised a way of building and maintaining an effective curriculum across fifty states that was fluid, yet held in place by a core curriculum and the very real experiences of workshop leaders and our students.

To think that the Pope or his representative from the Vatican, would be unable to nix charging RCIA participants $60 just to learn about Christ and the Church…well…to think that…was unthinkable.

Of course…I am a teacher…a tough nut to crack.

Still…if a little ol’ California company founded in a basement can lead a national revolution in math instruction, it boggles the mind to think of what the Vatican could do in the wisdom of its leadership and those who love and serve the Church around the world.

Teachers teaching teachers…challenging, yes…but not impossible.

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