“The Catholic faith is archaic and irrational.”
“The Catholic Church hinders progress in science and medicine.”
“The Church drains and opposes everything that makes life rich and meaningful.”
“The Church demeans women and gay people.”
“The history of the Catholic Church is bathed in blood, full of atrocities committed by hypocrites.”
*****
For many years, the above sort of thing was my creed. G.K. Chesterton famously wrote that “There are two ways of getting home; and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place” (The Everlasting Man). My walk away from the Catholic Faith began in ignorance and indifference and passed through the barren wasteland of worldliness and atheism before I found my way back home.
I was born to a Catholic family in the Central Valley of California just a few years after the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), baptized on the very day the “new Mass” took effect around the world. Like so many Catholics of my generation, I never learned the faith and my family didn’t talk about or live it at home beyond going to Sunday Mass. I went to public schools and was enrolled in the parish religious education program, but as often as not, I would run to a friend’s house to play as soon as my mom’s car disappeared around the corner. Later on, I served as an altar boy, but by the time I approached Confirmation age, my parents were no longer making me go to Mass, so I simply drifted away.
During high school, I taught myself to play the bass guitar and formed a band with some friends. Music and girls were my passions, the twin poles around which my life revolved, though I was far more successful with the former than I was with the latter. I wanted to be a rock star and had no intention of going to college, so I regularly cut class and got into trouble on occasion. I let my hair grow long, and my rebellion against whatever I perceived to be ordinary was always on quiet and brooding display. Underneath it, however, was a quest for authenticity and purpose. Like most teenagers, I wanted to be fully alive and to burn brightly.
Probably due to teenage rebellion against everything my parents represented, I grew hostile toward Christianity, especially toward the Catholic Church. On one occasion, some Christians were on the corner outside the school, handing out little Bibles. Always eager to make a statement, I took one and silently tore out the pages as I walked away. To my mind, religion in general, and Christianity in particular, deserved no less than this.
Death and Atheism
One Christmas when I was in college, my oldest brother, Erik, came home and delivered the devastating news that he was HIV-positive. He was a talented actor and Juilliard graduate living in New York. It wasn’t long before he became too sick to stay in New York, so he returned to California, and my parents converted a spare bedroom into a hospice. My father and other brother took magnificent care of him, but I couldn’t face it; I spent as much time as possible with my girlfriend, away from the house. Erik died at home late one night in 1993, with most of the family standing around his bed, just a few weeks past his 30th birthday.
Erik’s death was a strangely unemotional experience for me. I remember kneeling on the floor and placing my head on his pillow after he had passed, looking into his face. Though it was clear that whatever had made him him was gone, I concluded that there could not possibly be a God and that, since this is the only life we have, we’d better make the most of it. I believed that Erik had been snuffed out, as all of us will be one day, and that life itself is absurd and even a cruel joke. I made an affirmative choice for atheism that night. Ironically, looking back, his death was actually the beginning of my slow return to the Church, because for the first time I began to think about the bigger questions of life and death. Archbishop Fulton Sheen was exactly right when he noted that “Atheism is not a doctrine; it is a cry of wrath” (Fulton Sheen’s Wartime Prayer Book). Over time, I became an angry and militant atheist, even mocking and attacking my mother’s faith whenever she would gently tell me that I needed God in my life. If the “new atheists” had been active then, I have no doubt that I would have become their disciple. Instead, I found ammunition in the works of older atheists, such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Samuel Beckett, and others. Existentialist philosophy held a particular appeal to me.
The Old Country
While in college, I also had the opportunity to spend a summer studying in Rome, and as a budding historian minoring in Classical Civilization, I happily lost myself among the ruins of that ancient city. We visited a lot of churches too, of course, and I was awed by the sheer scale of St. Peter’s Basilica and the faith that went into its construction. Michelangelo’s Pietà brought tears to my eyes, and I found the crypt beneath the church of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini — decorated with the bones of hundreds of Capuchin friars arranged in elaborate patterns — fascinating and grimly thought-provoking. Death had been very much on my mind since Erik’s passing, and I was stopped in my tracks by a placard in the crypt which read: “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you will be.”
I went on to a graduate program at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland in 1995, and two people in my dorm quickly caught my attention. One was a physician from Nigeria, probably in his 60s, pursuing a doctorate in the School of Divinity. He was the most joyful person I’d ever met, with a mile-wide smile and a deep interest in people, and he had a way of speaking very naturally about God, as though the truth of faith was the most obvious thing in the world. The other was a young Australian who was studying philosophy. She was the first person with whom I could talk about God and faith without growing defensive or antagonistic, and I was captivated by her childlike sense of wonder about everything. Neither of these good people tried to convert me, but for the first time I got to know serious Christians who were not only genuinely happy but intellectually sharp, and that in itself began to chip away at the stereotypes I’d long been content to rely upon.
Many other things happened in Europe which led me to examine my life with new eyes, such as a mysterious experience of Erik’s presence on a bus in Edinburgh and an intense, painful relationship in Stockholm one winter that made me realize for the first time that I would never find the fullness of joy in romantic relationships, where I had long sought it. Still, I resisted all of this and kept insisting that religion is a pack of lies fit only for gullible weaklings. I did not want to believe.
Collapse
Returning to the US in 1997, I took a job teaching history at the local Catholic high school (of all places!), but given the confused state I was in, taking on five sections of sophomores was bound to be a disaster. The kids rolled over me, and I fell apart and resigned at the end of the first week. Defeated and exhausted, with no sense of direction or purpose, I sank into depression and began to experience frequent panic attacks. In God’s providence, however, teaching turned out not to be the reason I had taken the job. I was noticed on orientation day by an elderly priest who had just retired from teaching at the school: Fr. Clark Kelley, a member of a religious order called the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales. I liked him right away — he was a very jovial man with a sharp sense of humor and a passion for history.
At first, we talked only about our mutual interests, such as movies, books, and history, but in time I grew to trust Fr. Kelley and began to share with him the existential crisis in which I found myself. He gently and patiently responded to my questions and invited me to come to Mass at a local parish, where he would help out on Sundays. I would sit in the back pew and simply listen, not taking part in any other way. I loved to hear him preach, and he introduced me to the writings and spirituality of “the gentleman saint,” Francis de Sales (1567–1622), who would later become my patron at my Confirmation.
The Real Presence
My mother was at this time the coordinator of the Perpetual Adoration chapel in their rural parish of St. Michael’s, where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed 24 hours a day. People signed up to spend an hour or more each week with Jesus in silent prayer. Since I wasn’t working, she frequently called upon me to substitute for people who, at the last minute, could not make their assigned hours. I would pace uncomfortably in the little chapel, debating aloud with the God I said I didn’t believe in. I knew what, or rather Who, Catholics believed the Eucharist to be, but I thought it nonsense. And yet, I was very much aware that I was not alone in that chapel and found it unsettling. When I had a panic attack, which always happened at night, I got into the habit of driving over and sitting in the front pew of the main church. I was drawn to it, knowing only that I felt better when I left. It was a place of refuge, where the panic attacks would be lifted for the moment, and that was enough. As long as no one else was around, I was able to relax and let the peace of the dark church quiet my unsettled heart.
Over these months, while meeting regularly with Fr. Kelley and frequenting the church to sit in silence, I read a great deal from my father’s extensive library: G.K. Chesterton, Hilaire Belloc, Christopher Dawson, Mortimer Adler, Frank Sheed, Thomas Howard, Ronald Knox, C.S. Lewis and others were my guides. Night after night, I would drop a book in my lap and admit that Christianity made a great deal of sense. Nevertheless, I could not take the next logical step.
Finally, one night, early in 1998, I had a particularly intense panic attack and went to the church as usual, where I wept in the front pew and fell to my knees in front of the altar and tabernacle, saying aloud, “I can’t do this anymore. I need you.” When I left the church that night, I knew something had changed. I knew also that someone else had to know about it and hold me accountable or I would dismiss it as a dream the next morning. I drove across town in the rain and rang Fr. Kelley’s doorbell. He later told me that as soon as he opened the door, he knew I’d given up the fight. He heard my confession, and just like that, I was back in the fold.
Wrestling with God
I was not, however, happy about what had happened. It had the feel of a defeat, of having to admit my weakness. I could accept that God exists, but I didn’t regard Him as loving or merciful, nor did I experience His love in any personal way. I imagined instead a rather stern authoritarian who would surely get back at me for all that I had done over the years. Authenticity remaining important to me, I knew that my life would now have to change because I had no desire to approach faith halfway or in a casual manner as I had seen so many Christians do.
The problem was that, although I wanted desperately to be at peace, I didn’t really want to change in certain ways. I was still deeply attached to my sinful way of life, unwilling to let it go, because I didn’t believe that God could offer anything to match those moments of real transcendence I had experienced through music and relationships with women. I imagined that being a Christian meant saying “no” to everything that made life rich — I had no concept yet of the deeper “yes” underlying each “no,” nor much more than a dim awareness that my unhappiness was directly connected to the way I had been living. I didn’t yet see the connection between Jesus and the Church He established, regarding the latter as something separate and strange, a sort of add-on to the Gospel.
I still clung to the very things that made me miserable because they were familiar, and I could not imagine my life without them. I did not yet understand that grace sets us free, whereas sin enslaves. When you have lived with tightly clenched fists for so long, indulging your baser passions, it can be very difficult to change.
I struggled with the Church’s moral teachings in particular. Mine were not objections about the Trinity, the sacraments, or the liturgy, but rather what I understood to be the Church’s view of sex, abortion, artificial contraception, homosexuality, and the like. It had not occurred to me that my assumptions could be wrong, so Fr. Kelley suggested that I study the faith in greater depth, noting that, after two millennia of pondering these things, the Church might just have something to say. I agreed and set my objections aside, allowing God to speak through His Church, and that was indeed a turning point. Rather than place each teaching of the Church on trial and demand that God satisfy me on every point, I let Him put me on trial and gave His Church the benefit of the doubt.
Through many conversations with Fr. Kelley, reading Scripture and the Catechism of the Catholic Church, going to Mass, spending time in the Adoration chapel at St. Michael’s, and watching EWTN, I came to understand that I had been wrong about what the Church teaches and why. I discovered that the Catholic faith is a richly textured tapestry, each teaching intimately connected to every other and that, taken together, it was like a glorious symphony. It was incredibly consistent, solidly rooted in the nature of who we are as men and women made in the image and likeness of God, and I found that deeply compelling and satisfying. Perhaps most importantly, I saw all the threads of my life coming finally together and realized that my deepest desires could be fulfilled after all.
The School of Silence
By this time, I had decided on an academic career path. I was set to return on a scholarship to Scotland to begin a doctorate in ancient history when Fr. Kelley stunned me by suggesting that I might be called to be a priest. I dismissed it with a laugh, but it wasn’t long before I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I consulted with another priest who lived at our parish; he was a good friend of the family and highly educated, and he suggested that I not start my doctorate until this question was settled. He advised spending time with religious communities to see how those who have made such a commitment live and to be able to talk with them.
It happened that an old knee problem reappeared at this time, requiring surgery and three months of recovery, and that gave me the excuse I needed to postpone Scotland for a year. Following recovery, I would have six months before I would be expected at St. Andrews, so while laid up I read Butler’s Lives of the Saints every day and wrote to a lot of different religious orders.
I was particularly drawn to monastic life, especially the Trappists, having read and enjoyed Thomas Merton’s Seven Storey Mountain. When back on my feet, I decided to take some time driving across the country to visit some of the religious communities I’d heard from. I had booked a week in the guest house at Assumption Abbey in Missouri as my first stop, and when I turned off the highway and onto the country road, I experienced a strong wave of anxiety, realizing that I had no idea what this place would be like or what I would do there for a week. I had to talk myself out of turning back, but I pressed on and was greeted by Brother Fidel, a very kind and hospitable monk from the Philippines.
It was winter, and darkness descended early. After dropping my bags off in the simple guest room, I made my way to the little abbey church for Vespers (evening prayer). It was completely dark except for the light of an emergency exit sign. Shadowy robed forms began shuffling quietly into the choir stalls, and suddenly the sound of chant rose up out of the darkness. I was transfixed. I might as well have been among the Benedictines of Solemnes in France, it was so beautiful to my jaded ears. After Compline (night prayer) that night, I stepped onto the porch of the guest house and looked out at the woods, and all at once I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of peace and an awareness of God’s love unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a personal love, and I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be and that He would be with me throughout this cross-country trek.
What had been primarily an intellectual conversion up to this point now reached my heart. All my life I had been something of an insomniac, my mind forever racing, but that night I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I have never slept so deeply and securely as I did that night. In the days that followed, I had wonderful conversations with an older monk while walking together in the woods, providing a great foundation for what was still to come that spring.
After leaving Assumption Abbey, I continued on, and in the end, it turned out to be a five-month journey that took me to many more monasteries and active religious communities around the country (too many in retrospect!). I quickly learned that settling the question of my vocation was not at all the purpose of this trek. Rather, God led me out into the desert to meet Him face to face. Like St. Paul, who disappeared into Arabia for three years following his first encounter with Jesus, God was drawing me out of my familiar surroundings in order to teach me how to pray and to show me the meaning of all that had happened. This was work that would not have been possible while working, playing in a band, dating, and preparing for the start of a doctoral program. It had to be done in the school of silence, especially in the cloisters that were my home during those beautiful months and which remain for me, to this day, precious places of refuge and restoration. I found the gentle rhythm of monastic life, with its balance of prayer and manual labor, to be deeply human and life-giving. One of my favorite sounds, even now, is the call of a monastery bell.
It was also a time of great interior struggle, and my journals were filled with the turbulence of coming to terms with what I had been, who I was now, and all that I yet longed to be. As C.S. Lewis said in The Case for Christianity, when you are on the wrong road, progress means turning around and going back the way you came, and that is not easy. It was a time in which my old desires were laid bare and the disordered state of my soul became painfully apparent. My desires had to be educated and reshaped. I had to learn to see, as if for the first time, not only women — in whom I had sought my identity for so long — but all of reality, and the cloister offered a safe haven in which to do this work.
Many of my lifelong assumptions were revealed to have been illusions and lies. It was shocking and exhilarating, discovering that life had meaning and direction, and that joy was possible, but looked nothing like I had expected. It was at the same time a period of sadness, because of what had been, and of great hope, because of what was yet possible. I was guided along this path not only by the wonderful monks and priests I met, but by St. Augustine, Thomas a Kempis, St. Francis de Sales, Thomas Merton, the Desert Fathers, and the medieval Cistercians, among others. St. Augustine’s Confessions had an especially profound impact, the voice of a kindred spirit calling across fourteen centuries as though living in my own time. It was an extraordinarily rich time of grace, mercy, healing, and truth.
Home Again
When I returned from this spiritual desert in the summer of 1999, I knew that mine was not an academic path. I gave up my place in Scotland, took a job on the east coast, and was finally confirmed. Not long afterward, I entered religious life for a time, first the Trappists and then the Dominicans, but the Lord revealed that mine was not a priestly or religious vocation. While completing a graduate degree in theology, I met my beautiful wife, Colleen, who was doing the same. She was immensely patient with me in a time of real transition, even waiting through a period when I returned to a monastery for several weeks because I thought I might actually be called to that life after all. She was able to do that not only because she had also discerned a monastic vocation and understood its appeal, but also because she loved me and wanted me to follow the path to which I was called. We had read together a book called Spiritual Friendship by St. Aelred of Rievaulx (1110–1167) and wanted that to be at the heart of our relationship, wherever it might lead. I was able finally to settle the question of my vocation, and we were married in 2007, just a few steps from the tomb of St. Junípero Serra (1713–1784) in an old Franciscan mission on the central coast of California, where we’d had our first date and where I proposed to her — a mission I had visited for the first time after Erik’s death.
As I look back over my life, I am filled with gratitude and wonder at the ways of God’s providence. St. Paul speaks of the foundation laid by Christ, on which others build over time, and I can point to many who have done that work in my life, patiently laying stone after stone upon the foundation of the baptism I received as an infant. The rotting timbers and broken stones I had tried to set up had to be cleared away first, however, and that is always a painful process. But at every step, no matter how faulty or wrong-headed I might have been, God was there. He was there, too, in every moment of longing, every moment of despair and crying out to what I thought was a void. All my desires, in spite of the sinful ways in which I expressed them at times, were really my heart reaching out to Him, and He used them all to show Himself to me in His own time.
I have found the Christian life to be difficult but incomparably rewarding, and although I continue to stumble, I know in the depths of my soul that there is always hope, and that God is forever extending His hand to us, even when we can’t see or feel Him in the moment. As Pope Francis wrote, “The Lord does not disappoint those who take this risk; whenever we take a step towards Jesus, we come to realize that he is already there, waiting for us with open arms” (Evangelii Gaudium, 3). I can affirm from personal experience that “with Jesus life becomes richer and that with Him it is easier to find meaning in everything” (EG, 266). I sought a meaningful life down the wrong paths for many years, groping in the dark, rejecting the only One who could truly give what I most wanted. And yet, “God shows his love for us in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).
