Journeys Home (3 page)

Why would Jesus Christ want to throw a wrench into the lives of
seemingly contented and effective Protestant clergy and their
families? From the beginning of the Coming Home Network International,
as the members began sharing their reasons for
coming home
to
the Catholic Church, we discovered that our journeys were amazingly
similar, though in details very diverse. So we began sharing our
stories as words of encouragement as well as guideposts for others
along the way.

The longer, more detailed conversion stories of many of the CHNetwork's
members, such as the Hahns, Woods, Howards, Rays, and Curries,
are available on tape or in book form (see "Resources" for these
and other titles). These detailed accounts have served as the
spiritual spark for many non-Catholics on their journey home,
as well as to rekindle the faith of thousands of lifelong Catholics.

The following shorter testimonies, first printed in the CHNetwork's
monthly newsletter, are collected here for your spiritual encouragement
and possibly as a challenge to those who have never openly considered
the witness of the Catholic Church.

As you read, please remember that the decisions made by these
men and women in Christ were compelling and life-changing. The
challenge was considerably more difficult than, say, considering
whether to change to Chevys after having driven Fords all their
lives.

The decision to become Catholic often means not only leaving a
familiar and comfortable religious tradition and culture, but
also losing friends, family, career, and ministry. I invite you,
then, to read these stories with prayer and charity, as well as
an open heart.

former Presbyterian minister

A BREACH IN MY DEFENSE

CONSIDER THE SPARROWS

"MUCH LEARNING HATH MADE YOU MAD!"

A FINAL FEW WORDS

I am a former Protestant minister. Like so many others who have
trodden the path that leads to Rome by way of that country known
as Protestantism, I never imagined I would one day convert to
Catholicism.

By temperament and training, I'm more of a pastor than a scholar,
so the story of my conversion to the Catholic Church may lack
the technical details in which theologians traffic and in which
some readers delight. But I hope I will accurately explain why
I did what I did, and why I believe with all my heart that all
Protestants should do likewise.

I won't dwell on the details of my early years, except to say
that I was raised by two loving parents in a nominally Protestant
home. I went through most of the experiences that make up the
childhood and adolescence of the typical American baby-boomer.

I was taught to love Jesus and go to church on Sunday. I also
managed to blunder into most of the dumb mistakes that other kids
in my generation made. But after a season of teenage rebellion,
when I was twenty years old, I experienced a radical reconversion
to Jesus Christ. I turned away from the lures of the world and
became serious about prayer and Bible study.

As a young adult, I made a recommitment to Christ, accepting Him
as my Lord and Savior, praying that He would help me fulfill the
mission in life He had chosen for me.

The more I sought through prayer and study to follow Jesus and
conform my life to His will, the more I felt an aching sense of
longing to devote my life entirely to serving Him. Gradually,
just as dawn's first faint rays peek over a dark horizon, the
conviction began to grow that the Lord was calling me to be a
minister.

That conviction grew steadily stronger while I was in college
and then afterward during my job as an engineer. Eventually I
couldn't ignore the call. I was convinced the Lord wanted me to
become a minister, so I quit my job and enrolled in Gordon-Conwell
Theological Seminary in suburban Boston. I acquired a Master of
Divinity degree and was shortly thereafter ordained to the Protestant
ministry.

My six-year-old son, JonMarc, once memorized the Cub Scouts' oath,
which says in part: "I ... promise to do my best to do my duty
to God and my country." This earnest boyhood vow rather neatly
sums up my own reasons for giving up a career in engineering in
order to serve the Lord with complete abandon in fulltime ministry.

I took my new pastoral duties seriously, and I wanted to perform
them correctly and faithfully. Then, at the end of my life when
I stood face-to-face with God, I could hear Him speak those all-important
words: "Well done, good and faithful servant" (Mt 25:21). As I
settled down into the rather pleasant life of a Protestant minister,
I felt happy and at peace with myself and God -- I finally felt
that I had arrived.

I had not arrived.

I soon found myself faced with a host of confusing theological
and administrative questions. There were exegetical dilemmas over
how to interpret difficult biblical passages correctly, as well
as liturgical decisions that could easily divide a congregation.
My seminary studies had not adequately prepared me to deal with
this morass of options.

I just wanted to be a good pastor. But I couldn't find consistent
answers to my questions from my fellow minister friends, nor from
the "how to" books on my shelf, nor from the leaders of my Presbyterian
denomination. It seemed that every pastor was expected to make
up his own mind on these issues.

This "reinvent the wheel as often as you need to" mentality that
is at the heart of Protestantism's pastoral ethos was deeply disturbing
to me. "Why should I
have
to reinvent the wheel?" I asked myself
in annoyance. "What about the Christian ministers down through
the centuries who faced the same issues? What did they do?"

We were taught in seminary to view the "triumph" of the Reformation
over "Romanism" as Protestantism's emancipation from Rome's "manmade"
laws and dogmas and customs that had "shackled" Christians for
centuries. However, that "emancipation" began to look a lot more
like anarchy than genuine freedom.

I didn't receive the answers I needed, even though I prayed constantly
for guidance. I felt I had exhausted my resources and didn't know
where to turn. Ironically, this frustrating sense of being out
of answers was providential. It set me up to be open to answers
offered by the Catholic Church. I'm sure that if I had felt I
had all the answers, I wouldn't have been able or willing to investigate
things at a deeper level.

In the ancient world, cities were built on hilltops and ringed
with stout walls that protected the inhabitants against invaders.
When an invading army laid siege to a city (as when Nebuchadnezzar's
army surrounded Jerusalem in 2 Kings 25:1 - 7), the inhabitants
were safe as long as their food and water held out and their walls
could withstand the onslaught of the catapult's missile and the
sapper's pick. But if the wall was breached, the city was lost.

My willingness to consider the claims of the Catholic Church began
as a result of a breach in the wall of the Reformed Protestant
theology that encircled my soul. For nearly forty years I labored
to construct that wall, stone by stone, to protect my Protestant
convictions.

The stones were formed from my personal experiences, seminary
education, relationships, and successes and failures in the ministry.
The mortar that cemented the stones in place was my Protestant
faith and philosophy. My wall was high and thick and, I thought,
impregnable.

I became worried, however, as the mortar crumbled, and the stones
began to shift and slide, at first imperceptibly but later on
with an alarming rapidity. I tried hard to discern the reason
for my growing lack of confidence in the doctrines of Protestantism.

I wasn't sure what I was seeking to replace my Calvinist beliefs.
But I knew my theology was not invincible. I read more books and
consulted with theologians in an effort to patch the wall, but
I made no headway.

I reflected often on Proverbs 3:5 - 6: "Trust in the Lord with
all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your
ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths." This
exhortation both haunted and consoled me as I grappled with the
doctrinal confusion and procedural chaos within Protestantism.

The Reformers had championed the notion of private interpretation
of the Bible by the individual. I began to feel increasingly uncomfortable
with that position in light of Proverbs 3:5 - 6.

Bible-believing Protestants claim they
do
follow the teaching
in this passage by seeking the Lord's guidance. The problem is
that Protestants feel the Lord is directing them to travel down
thousands of different paths of doctrine. And these doctrines
vary widely according to denomination.

I struggled with several questions: How do I know what God's will
is for my life and for the people in my congregation? How can
I be sure that what I'm preaching is correct? How do I
know
what
truth is?

In light of the doctrinal mayhem that exists within Protestantism -- each denomination staking out for itself doctrine based on
the interpretations of the man who founded it -- the standard Protestant
boast, "I believe only in what the Bible says," began to ring
hollow. I professed to look to the Bible alone to determine truth,
but the Reformed doctrines I inherited from John Calvin, John
Knox, and the Puritans clashed in many respects with those held
by my Lutheran, Baptist, and Anglican friends.

In the Gospels, Jesus explained what it means to be a true disciple
(see Mt 19:16 - 23). It's more than reading the Bible, or having
your name on a church membership roster, or regularly attending
Sunday services, or even praying a simple prayer of conversion
to accept Jesus as Lord and Savior. These things, good though
they are, by themselves do not make one a true disciple of Jesus.

Being a disciple of Jesus Christ means making a radical commitment
to love and obey the Lord in every word, action, and attitude,
striving to radiate His love to others. The true disciple, Jesus
said, is willing to give up everything, even his own life if necessary,
to follow the Lord.

I was deeply convinced of this fact. As I tried to put it into
practice in my own life (not always with much success), I did
my best to convince my congregation that this call to discipleship
is not an option, but rather something for which Christians are
called to strive. The irony was that my Protestant theology made
me impotent to call them to radical discipleship, and it made
them impotent to hear and heed the call.

One might ask: "If all it takes to be saved is to 'confess with
your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God
raised Him from the dead' (Rom 10:9), then why must I
change
?
Oh, sure, I
should
change my sinful ways. I should strive to please
God. But if I don't, what does it really matter? My salvation
is assured."

A newspaper reporter in New York City, so the story goes, wanted
to write an article on what people consider the most amazing invention
of the twentieth century. He hit the streets, interviewing people
at random, and received a variety of answers: the airplane, the
telephone, the automobile, the computer, nuclear energy, space
travel, and antibiotics. The answers went on along these lines
until one fellow gave an unlikely answer.

"It's obvious," he said. "The most amazing invention was the thermos."

"The
thermos
?" queried the reporter, eyebrows raised.

"Of course. It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold."

The newspaperman blinked. "So what?"

"Well, how does it
know
?"

This anecdote had special meaning for me. Since it was my duty
and desire to teach the truth of Jesus Christ to my congregation,
my growing concern was simple: "How do I
know
what is truth and
what isn't?"

Every Sunday I would stand in my pulpit and interpret Scripture
for my flock, knowing that within a fifteen-mile radius of my
church were dozens of other Protestant pastors. They all believed
that the Bible alone is the sole authority for doctrine and practice,
yet each was teaching something different from what I was teaching.

Is my interpretation of Scripture the right one or not?
I'd wonder.
Maybe one of those other pastors is right, and I'm misleading
these people who trust me.

I also had the knowledge -- no, the gut-twisting certitude -- that one day I would die and stand before the Lord Jesus Christ,
the Eternal Judge. I would be required to answer for how I led
the people He had given me to pastor.

"Am I preaching truth or error?" I asked the Lord repeatedly.
"I
think
I'm right, but how can I know for sure?"

This dilemma haunted me.

I started questioning every aspect of my ministry and Reformed
theology, from insignificant issues to important ones. I look
back now with a certain embarrassed humor at how I fretted during
those trying days of uncertainty.

At one point, I even wrangled with doubts over whether to wear
a clerical collar. Presbyterian ministers have no mandatory clerical
dress code. Some wear collars, some business suits, some robes,
and others a combination of all.

One minister friend kept a clerical collar in the glove compartment
of his car, just in case donning it might bring some advantage
to him. "Like getting out of a speeding ticket," he once confided
with a conspiratorial grin. I decided not to wear a clerical collar.
At Sunday services, I wore a plain black choir robe over my business
suit.

As for the form and content of Sunday liturgy, every church had
its own views on how things should be done, and each pastor was
free to do pretty much whatever he wanted within reason.