The marble hit hard against my
knees. I had knelt—though it could be described as a slight fall—upon the cold
floor of this cathedral. I felt compelled to do so, not by anyone in the room
but by a recognition of something. I had knelt in front of relics of the cross.
I had knelt like a Catholic would kneel before relics. I wasn’t Catholic, not
by baptism, not even by faith if I was being honest. Before kneeling, before I
had boarded a plane to Rome, before I had walked the silent hills of Assisi, I
had wrestled with the Church. But I was not Catholic. I was a Protestant
confronted by the deep historicity of the Church, by the internal continuity of
Catholic theology, and mostly by Scripture. Before I knelt here, I had
acknowledged that I was probably missing something that the Catholic Church
possessed. But here before the Cross, that privation struck deeply into me,
almost breaking me in half. And I wept. That moment in Rome was not the
beginning of a conversion; it was the end. It was the finale to a year and a
half of reading and arguing and obsessively asking every priest, pastor, and
mentor I could find endless questions. At the beginning it was intellectual—and
it still is, by and large. But the power of Christianity is its transcendence.
If you approach a mystery, expect to be entranced by it. And that mystery
possesses me, which is something I didn’t realize before I hit the marble floor
in a side chapel of the Basilica Church of Santa Croce in Jerusalemme. It was
the moment when I knew I had not assented to a series of dogmas, although I
had, but that these dogmas had ingrained themselves into me. I was Catholic and
content to be so.
I have never really loved conversion
stories the way others seem to love them. They do not function on an
evidentiary basis; they are stories, nothing more. I did not come to understand
and appreciate their power until people began to ask me for my own story. It
was then that I saw they are more than stories: they are testaments. That is
their power and the reason for their attraction. We ask to know how people
changed their minds because it tells us that such a thing is possible. So, we
ask, how did you become Catholic? I suppose that question has easy answers for
some. My answer is not succinct.
I grew up in a staunchly and
faithfully Protestant family. It was a living, informed, and deeply prayerful
faith. My mother taught me the Scriptures and those words fostered in me a love
for Christ. I read His words and loved Him for them. I heard “Blessed are those
who mourn, for they will be comforted,” and my soul leaped within me. I read
Saint John’s account of the Crucifixion and knew the profound cost of sin. I
began praying when I was young and grew in knowledge and love for God. My faith
was sustained by the words of Scripture, by the conviction of Lutheran hymnody,
and by a deep love for God, to Whom I prayed nightly. While all of this deeply
Protestant formation was underway, I was going to Catholic schools.
Despite, or maybe because I went to
Catholic schools, I became more and more convinced that
Protestantism—specifically Lutheranism—was true. It was biblical, and Scripture
was my litmus test for truth. Eventually I found my way to university, and in
my first year something quite radical happened: I began to find objections to
the Christian narrative that I had never heard. I was meeting atheists who knew
what they were talking about; they had read C. S. Lewis
and Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas, and had remained unconvinced. I
had never experienced that before. My conviction faltered. I slowly stopped
praying. There was no clear moment at which I became conscious of no longer
believing; faith slipped away from me. It is surreal to find oneself living
Lewis’s observation that the “safest road to hell is the gradual one—the gentle
slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without
signposts.” And so I walked, without fully noticing, into nowhere.
Atheism settled on me slowly but
resolutely. I was content to admit that the faith of my youth had been naïve. I
surrounded myself with those who repeated back to me the truisms that nourished
my new convictions. God was dead. He had been crushed under the mighty force of
reason. My theological questions could be answered with evolutionary science,
psychology, and a sprinkling of Nietzsche’s claims about the nature of truth.
It was about power. Nothing more, nothing less. I looked back over my shoulder
at the history of Christianity and I found ample evidence for these claims. The
Church was a vehicle for the powerful to control the weak: cf. Pope Alexander
VI. This was enough evidence for me.
And yet sometimes, usually when I was
alone, I felt dread, a cosmic and profound loneliness. I would remind myself
that before me lay an odd seventy years and then nothing and my heart trembled
within me. After some time, I began to ask with the Psalmist: “Why are you cast
down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me?” I wondered why the
inevitability of oblivion shocked me. If I was the natural result of a series
of unguided biological processes, then why would my natural end bother me so
deeply? How was it that I could know the difference between purpose and
purposelessness? And why did one strike fear into me while the other hinted
toward a hope I longed to know once more? Others have answered these same
questions throughout the ages: “You made us for yourself, O Lord, and our
hearts are restless until they rest in you”; “O supreme and unapproachable light!
O whole and blessed truth, how far art thou from me, who am so near to Thee”;
“Then you shall call and the Lord will answer, you shall cry and he will say,
Here I am.” I began to reconsider the views that had seemed to be so clearly
true before.
I asked myself how I knew the distinction between purpose and void. God had put me in a place where I could ask these questions and get real answers; my faith returned. I had answered my objections, but mostly I had crucified my pride. I believed again. But I did not grasp hold of Christ until one evening I will never forget. I went to the Anglican church I had been attending. Prayers were said, hymns were sung, and tears fell. It was in no way a saintly remorse. These were the tears of agony. This was Saint Peter crying until he wore valleys of grief into his very face. I was returning to find that Christ had never left me, when like the Apostles I had abandoned Him. I had turned my back. I asked, begged, that I could just eat the dust off His feet and was welcomed into an embrace that burned with holy love. He had waited for me and I was crushed by it. Saint John of the Cross speaks about experiences like these in his Dark Night of the Soul. He doesn’t, however, mention that feeling—that shame. I had not known it and haven’t known it since. It is something etched into my soul, and I find myself often whispering the comfort, “My grace is sufficient for you.” I wonder whether Saint Peter ever repeated those words to himself, startled awake by a memory, a visage of Christ looking across a crowded square with tears in his eyes: “I do not know him.”
I took up my newfound faith with vigor
and excitement. I prayed and worshiped and thought that the pieces had come
back together again. I had resurrected Christ within me. I took new objections
in stride, confident that an answer existed. I threw in my lot with the
mystics. I realized that you probably won’t really know; in fact you can’t. I
do not understand God. I cannot conceive of the love of Christ. I do not
understand the Incarnation. But I do know that in these mysteries all knowledge
and reason is consummated. I am content to love Him though He confounds my attempts
to understand Him. That particular admonition, I think, led me to the Catholic
Church; without it, I would have found the entire enterprise too bound up in
its own mystery.
A university neighbor and I spent late
nights discussing Catholicism, politics, liturgy, and similar topics. These
conversations became something of a lifeline. I sat up into the small hours of
the morning, demanding answers. I interrogated these new ideas, which probably
gave the impression that I was interrogating my friend. (Apologies, if you read
this. You were patient and I appreciate it.) I pored over every argument, from
the centrality of the Eucharist to the Catholic Church’s teaching on
contraception. I read and reread passages of Scripture that had so long seemed
clear. Work out your salvation with fear and trembling no longer seemed like a
literary exaggeration. “My flesh is true food and my blood true drink, whoever
eats of this food or drinks of this cup shall not perish but shall have eternal
life”—suddenly and shockingly this seemed like divine law rather than a complex
metaphor. After a fair amount of convincing, I attended Mass. I filed into the
pew, made a point not to bow, and sat down. I cooperated easily enough. The
Mass was candlelit, dark, quiet. The silence was deafening.
As the Mass began it seemed palpable. There was something hovering above the darkness. As incense billowed up into the black ceiling above, tears fell onto my cheeks. The words my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault rang out. I looked up to the crucifix. The suffering, humble face of Christ looked down on me, and I was shaken by its terrible beauty. With all my arguments, my intellectualism, my confident refutations, I was not expecting this superstitious sect to compel me. Yet it did. Mass continued, beautiful and reverent. I left and returned to my books, especially the Bible. I continued reading. I sought out patristic writers and read every Catholic theologian I could find.
Eventually, I began speaking to priests and pastors. I now remember one of my most trusted spiritual leaders, a Presbyterian clergyman, saying maybe I was called to be Catholic. To me it seemed impossible. When I thought about it, I didn’t feel Catholic. I didn’t see myself swept up by the beauties and mysteries of this Church. I was not a mystic sitting in prayer for endless hours, neither eating nor drinking. I was not enraptured by the sound of polyphonic Latin. I loved Scripture and the Christ Who had become familiar to me, the one spoken of in Lutheran prayers. I felt the impassioned zeal of the Reformation. Marian prayer made me uncomfortable. I felt Protestant. But as I considered and prayed, I begged God to show me which was right. I so desperately didn’t want to believe lies about Him. I made a list in my head, a list of beliefs. If these were true, I would submit to the whole thing.
My list was these: the Blessed
Sacrament, Purgatory, Marian devotion, and the Catholic understanding of
sanctification. Each of these I came to believe in time. Saint Augustine, Saint
Justin Martyr, Benedict XIV, C.S. Lewis, and Sister Fiat (a less famous but
equally important friend of mine) contributed slowly to my change in opinion.
Mostly, though, it was Christ. He gently guided me, offering answers as I asked
questions. It was never forced, and it was graciously, mercifully slow. I then
reported my change of heart to my family. It took time, and it was difficult.
At times it was very lonely. But now I think they respect it. I love them and
am immensely grateful for all the things they have given me, formation in my
faith chief among them.
At first I was excited by the novelty
of my faith. It felt like I had finally grasped something that had hitherto
been beyond my reach. I was comfortable with what the Church taught, but still
rejected most of Her practices. I didn’t like sacramentals, relics, rosaries,
or much in the way of devotional or penitential practices. So long as the
Church did not bind me to practice them, I didn’t. Still, I looked forward to
the day of my first Communion. I yearned for it. Afterward it became common for
me weep when the time for Communion came at each Mass. I wept with longing. I
wept because I knew it was Him, that here in these elements, my Lord had come
to meet me. He so ardently loved me that He reached out to be physically
intimate with me, to be in my mouth, to be consumed, to be loved. And I
couldn’t love Him in this way. Again the Church had answers. So I waited.
Eventually the date for my confirmation and first Communion was set. The months
passed and I grew in excitement.
In a meeting with the university student program director, he mentioned a pilgrimage to Rome. The timing seemed more than providential. I decided to sign up. When the collection of pilgrims arrived at the airport, I realized something startling: I didn’t know anyone. My friend who had brought me into this community wasn’t as close as he had once been. As for everyone else, I had either met them once or not at all. Nonetheless, we boarded the plane and I found my seat. As I was getting comfortable, our priest sat down next to me. At the time, priests made me uncomfortable. How do you talk to them? What do they want to talk about? What if I watch something he thinks is inappropriate? Will he notice I’m reading C.S. Lewis? Would he care? Has he read C.S. Lewis? Anyway, I was uncomfortable. Our plane landed and we boarded a bus to Assisi where our pilgrimage would begin. When I think about Assisi, I think about breathing. I think of the way the air seemed to nourish my lungs. It did not simply fill them with the oxygen which is necessary for living—it gave them a new sort of life altogether. It felt as if I were breathing something in and feeling it circulate throughout my body. It felt like peace. My mind was stilled by the air in Assisi’s hills. As I walked, I could almost see the figure of Christ, half hidden by trees. Holiness moved through these woods, caressing the cheeks of the visitors who walked here.
I carried this quietness with me the
rest of the day. Evening came, its own silence enveloping the earth, and I sat
among my company, listening as they spoke. The conversation was full of
memories, questions, the usual things. But then it changed: everyone in the
group began to speak about Protestants. They spoke about how flawed the whole
system was; how the Protestant movement was ever fractioning into more
unrecognizable slivers; even that Protestants could not have the same love for
Christ they knew, the same deepening passion to love and know Him. I stared
straight ahead, tears welling in my eyes. My throat grasped for air. I choked.
As soon as the opportunity arose, I made my escape. I walked down the hall
until someone caught up to me and stopped me, a friend of a friend. “I just
wanted to make sure you’re okay. That was a bit rough.” I nodded and, to my
embarrassment, I cried. We talked about conversion. We talked about longing for
the Eucharist. We talked about feeling Catholic. The conversation finished and
I went back to my room. I stood on the balcony, looking over the city, and I
asked God what He was doing. He was silent, but He was there.
The trip continued mostly in the same
vein. Each massive basilica felt like an overpowering confrontation with some
foreign institution. This was not mine to claim. It was not built for me. It
was theirs. As I beheld this beauty, I felt unfit even to clean the grime from
the walls. We celebrated Mass and I cried. We walked down the streets, and I
cried again. (I’ll admit it was slightly melodramatic at this point.) I felt
that I had made a grave mistake. Whatever I had thought about theology seemed
not to matter. Catholicism could not be embraced in parts. I could not have its
theology without its practice or its simplicity without its grandeur. I could
not have the hills of Assisi without the columns of Saint Peter’s. Rome and all
her majesty pulled me to my knees. As I sat in each marble hall or listened to
the ageless litany of every cardinal and king who had been here, I thought
about my own churches. I thought about the simple country Protestant churches
that had graced my life. I thought about the carpets that I had crawled on, the
coffee hours I had served, the choir lofts filled with untalented but committed
singers, the long-winded sermons, and I missed it. I finally began to mourn. I
mourned the faith that I was leaving behind. These cold marble buildings were
so alien in comparison with the comfortable familiar sanctuaries of my old
faith.
I began to cling to small recognizable
elements of each basilica or holy sight. Every cross I found held immense
comfort. It was a familiar symbol. As I found my place in all of this
overwhelming beauty, I also found myself reciting prayers. I was saying the
rosary; I was certainly falling to my knees before the altar. Something had
shifted. The last day of the trip arrived and a small group of us set out for a
few last visits. Among them was a visit to the relics of the Holy Cross. The
day was enjoyable, light and easy. We walked all across the vast expanse of
Rome, finally finding ourselves in the presence of the relics. And here I fell
before them. I responded to them as I would respond to Christ Himself. In so
doing I realized that Rome had grabbed hold of me. She had challenged,
confronted, and entranced me. The rhythms of Her liturgical, mystical Church
inhabited my very self. For the first time, I felt Catholic. I felt the
patterns of holiness etching themselves into my mind. I saw finally that the
Church was much more than Her theology; She is Her art, cathedrals, music,
prayers, people, clergy, and devotions. And She cannot be had in parts. To love
Christ is to love His Church in Her fullness. I kissed the ground before I
stood and smiled; a year ago I would’ve thought that superstitious and a little
foolish.
We left the church and the trip
continued without much of note. When I returned, I found faithful and kind
friends whom I missed. I told them about my pilgrimage and what I had learned,
and found their responses full of wisdom. One said, “Of course it would be
painful. You’ve thought about being Catholic, but you hadn’t thought it meant
you had to stop being Lutheran.” It’s an important point. Catholicism cannot be
grafted onto something else. Try as one might, one finds that to be Catholic is
to have a singular attitude towards life. It affects everything we do and
everything we conceive. I am often surprised that there is a Catholic way to
dress, a Catholic way to eat, a Catholic way to rest, a Catholic way to work, a
Catholic way to love, etc. It was in Rome that I realized I could not be a
Protestant Catholic. I was Protestant and now I am Catholic, and that has
fundamental implications for everything I am.
The last month before my reception
into the Church passed almost without significance. Late on a weekday evening,
I was confirmed and received Communion for the first time. It was an altogether
different experience than I had imagined. In my imaginings I would receive the
Body of my Savior and be transported to the foot of His Cross. I would weep
with the Virgin. I would cling to the bloodstained cross with Saint Mary
Magdalene. None of this happened. Instead, I received my Lord on my tongue and
began to laugh. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of joy. The small
collection of nine friends laughed in the pews. Our priest laughed. After these
years of struggle and consternation the Eucharist transported us not to the
Cross but into the apostolic joy of heaven.
And here I find an appropriate place
to end the story. God has been good to me. His kindness has led me through
every question and trial I have yet faced. As I ran the race, my eyes set upon
the Author and perfecter of my faith, I have found this road to be altogether
more difficult and more joyous than I had imagined. I am Catholic. I am happy
to be so. In the end the answer to all my wonderings was found there laughing
before the altar. For me the experience of Christ has always been thus. It is
never what I expect. Even my recounting of the story ends with another surprise
of providence: once again I thought I would find myself weeping, but as I write
this, I laugh.
Emma Mutch is pursuing a Ph.D. in animal genetics at the University of Edinburgh.