Wouldn’t Let Go of Me
I was raised Catholic in Chicago in a blue-collar family. My father was not religious, but my mother is a devout Catholic. Or believes she is. As she has aged, her Catholicism has taken some awkward, unorthodox twists and turns, including a claim she made recently, saying that it wouldn’t surprise her if Jesus turned out to have been gay. This followed a rather heated discussion we had regarding “gay marriage.” But it wasn’t said out of frustration with me — we’ve battled before; instead, maybe, it helps her understand why Mary Magdalene never became Mrs. Christ, or why women were never ordained as priests. Whatever the case may be, I’m wise enough to not push the issue with her, knowing full well that I won’t change her mind.
Of course, she still thinks she can change mine. Even though I’m fifty and pretty settled in my ways as well. Wasn’t always this way. I had my falling out with the Church in my early twenties, right around the time I moved out. By then, not only had I become “politically aware,” but I’d discovered punk rock. Dyed my hair, bought a leather jacket, went to gigs, learned about anarchism. In other words, I rebelled. A little later than some, but I’d like to think my version was a little more mature, a little more thoughtful. More thorough — as I broke ranks with not only my family, but my faith, too. Never became a full-blown atheist, though. An acerbic critic and agnostic instead, who spent more than a few weekend nights debating “born agains” in Bughouse Square, often reducing them to tears. Not my proudest moments….
After a rather lengthy flirtation with radical politics of the left that ended with my knocking holes in arguments that I’d made for myself, I guess you might say I hibernated for a few years, returning to a life of study that I’d haphazardly embraced from time to time in my late twenties. Read lots of books: philosophy, social theory, history, politics, and even a little theology. I did so because I was confronting the big questions, wondering the usual wonders. The sort of stuff prompted by self-reflection, the mounting of regrets, loves lost and found, and political disillusionment.
Three authors proved key to my moving on. They were Christopher Lasch, Charles Taylor and Alasdair MacIntyre. By the time I read Taylor, I’d read everything Lasch had written up until “The True and Only Heaven,” ( http://bonald.wordpress.com/book-reviews-politics/the-true-and-only-heaven/). Lasch had provided all the ammo I needed and more to develop a critique of the left, and to set me on a course that eventually had me landing on the shores of reading the work of the post-structuralists and post-modernists, along with their critics, which included the editors of a magazine called “Telos” and the writings of Charles Taylor. Taylor’s “Sources of the Self” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sources_of_the_Self) was instrumental in having me re-examine my refutation of religion, challenging me to find something better that best explains who I am and who I’d become, along with the what upon which I had found/founded myself. I had no easy “secular” answers to these profound questions.
As I look back now, I can see that I could have benefited from a eureka moment, an epiphonic episode, instead of the intellectual slog I took before reading MacIntyre’s “After Virtue.” (//en./Aft/whttp:wikipedia.orgikier_Virtue). MacIntyre’s critique of the Enlightenment was similar to that of the Frankfurt School critics, but his embrace of Aristotle held out hope for me and mankind. The Frankfurters did not. But more importantly, after reading MacIntyre’s classic work and a couple of his related texts, I began feeling the floor of my disbelief falling out from under me, the proverbial scales slowly but surely falling from my eyes.
Not too long after my self-imposed hibernation ended, I attended a conference hosted by “Touchstone” magazine. I can’t recall the title but it addressed a lot of the same questions I’d been asking myself. This event also followed hot on the heels of my decision to become a revert to Catholicism. Secular answers to “the Big Questions” would no longer do for me. The Church seemed like a welcoming place to seek what I sought. And I knew that I would be making the biggest mistake of my life if I turned my back on an opportunity to re-explore what I’d condemned.
While at the conference, I met a fellow by the name of Dennis Martin, who turned out to be not only one of (if not) THE most intelligent men I’d ever met but also one of the holiest. We hit it off right away, as it turned out that he was Catholic and a parishioner of St. John Cantius, one of the few parishes still celebrating the Latin Mass in Chicago. I’d heard whispers about St. John’s, and it was on my list of parishes to visit. Dennis invited me to attend Mass with him, which I did the following Sunday, launching my full return to the Church. I’ve never looked back.
One last thing I’d like to mention. It was at the Touchstone conference where I had a very engaging discussion with an older woman. Again, a very devout Catholic. Again, very knowledgeable. What struck me most about her, however, was her interest in me, an imperfect stranger, whom she soon realized was carrying around a LOT of baggage. She listened patiently to the details of my journey back to the Church; my still ongoing struggles with my faith. With my family. With my soon-to-be wife. She asked questions, but never embarrassing ones. And when I finally finished, with her eyes glistening, she gently took my hand and said, “John, I guess God just wouldn’t let go of you.”
I pray He never will.
