I said I would be back in a few weeks, but I can’t let a certain part in that article I linked to yesterday go. It was this quote:
“I’m not a Catholic anymore,” said Hammond, the woman who left when the church’s school began to change. “Not even a little bit.”
And a part of my response:
I spent eight years learning about the Church and her dogma and doctrine.
I felt that I’d like to give her a decent parental whack upside the back of the head, a “Gibbs” for NCIS fans. Or to consider the story false. And partly I wanted to change my response to the poor woman who must have had a very tenuous grasp of being Catholic in the first place. Her quitting (again, assuming this part of the article is even real) over non-doctrinal issues at one particular parish (and not even the parish, but the, supposedly, parish school) shows such a shallow commitment to the Church one almost wants to view it as no loss.
The part of my response that I couldn’t let go of either reflects the partial argument for the Church. I did spend eight years pondering over the dogma and doctrine of the Catholic Church.
I also spent eight years falling in love with her.
And that is why I find this lady’s seemingly flippant dismissal of the Church so appalling. Nowhere in the article is there a mention of unorthodoxy, nowhere is there mention of actual real disturbing changes.
I fell in love with the clarity of the Church’s positions, I also fell in love with the Both/And resolution on many issues. This was a marked departure from the Either/Or that so marks the world. Her art, her history, her architecture, her saints. I fell in love with her life which is life in Christ. I likened it to a big metropolis versus a tiny little one gas station town. The Catholic Church is like a metropolis, it teams with life all around the clock, throughout the week. Most denominations are 2 hour churches (some throw in a Wednesday evening service as well). They come on Sunday morning and the place is vacant the rest of the week. Although some rent it out for other functions during the week – that doesn’t help in my opinion.
Our main church (it is a two parish community, one is only on Sunday morning) is open seven days a week. You have nine chances to attend Mass during a regular week. Six hours a week our priest sits in the confessional. One hour a week for Eucharistic Adoration with a 24 hour first Friday Adoration available every month. And the main church itself is open at least ten hours seven days a week for you to pray in, read in, meditate, contemplate, whatever additional spiritual activity you may need, even if it is only to sit in front of Mary and say the Rosary. Only, like that is a small thing.
And I’ve looked at other Catholic parishes in the surrounding area (I live in Western North Carolina so the surrounding area I have to look up is quite large – boonies and all that) and, besides the bountiful opportunities our priest offers for confession, most Catholic churches are like this.
One of the things I really fell in love with was her writers. Particularly her contemporary writers, Percy, Flannery O’Connor, Lafferty, Greene to name a few. Then it started to seem every time I particularly loved something, I found a Catholic underneath it.
I love her position on the Eucharist. I love Flannery O’Connor’s famous response to someone who said the Eucharist is merely a symbol. She retorted, “If it is merely a symbol, to hell with it.” Damn right. That’s Catholic with spunk, right there.
I even love how the Host tastes. I mean just the physical taste of it. I am sure there is a lot making me like “just the physical taste,” but it is the best darn thing I have all week.
I love her commitment to the truth despite consequences. It probably seemed at some points to Pope Clement VII to give into the Henry and grant his divorce. I love how Paul VI shocked the world by not giving into the pressures of the sexual revolution. Man, I would have loved to been alive to see that! Most importantly all the martyrs from St. Stephen to Bl. Miguel Pro.
I love the sacraments. I love the sacrament of Confession. Forget self-help tapes (showing my age there) or going to a shrink. Go get yourself shriven, do it fully, do it honestly.
I could go on and on and on. Nothing would ever make me not Catholic. I don’t care if my parish was taken over by the F’ing Village People, with homilies of Jesus’ hot bod. I’d drive 50, even a 100 miles to a different parish. But the absolute last thing I would do is leave the Church.
There are accidentals I do not care for. But they are just that – accidentals.