The Catholics Who Wouldn’t Leave
I did not find my way back toward the Roman Catholic Church because I won an argument.
I found my way back because of people.
That may sound strange coming from a former Anglican priest.
Especially one who has spent a good portion of the last decade wrestling with institutions, writing about institutions, and occasionally fighting with institutions.
But age has a way of simplifying things.
You stop asking who won.
You start noticing who wouldn't leave.
A few years ago, a former Roman Catholic priest named Murray Watson helped edit Redemptive Trauma.
That manuscript was a mess.
Not because it lacked honesty.
Because it contained too much of it.
Trauma. Addiction. Failure. Ministry. Shame. Faith. Family. Collapse.
Most people would have found reasons to walk away.
Murray didn't.
He stayed in the room.
He read carefully. Challenged gently. Corrected firmly. He never seemed particularly interested in protecting an institution.
He seemed interested in protecting the truth.
I understand that better now than I did then.
Last Sunday, I stood in a Roman Catholic Cathedral during a Confirmation liturgy.
At Communion, Cardinal Francis Leo placed his hand on my head and prayed for me.
It lasted only a moment.
Yet I found myself unexpectedly emotional.
Not because every question had been answered.
Not because every wound had healed.
But because I suddenly realized how many Catholics had carried me over the years.
Irish Catholics.
Italian Catholics.
Maltese Catholics.
Filipino Catholics.
Scottish Catholics.
Latin American Catholics.
Catholics from all over the African continent.
Different histories. Different accents. Different politics. Different stories.
Yet somehow the same instinct.
To stand in the breach.
Families that never allowed me to stand alone.
Mothers who remind me that Rory will always have family.
A grandfather whose witness still shapes the people who loved him.
A former priest who helped a broken one tell the truth.
The Church has many sins.
God knows I have spent enough years writing about them.
But the Church has also given the world people like Romero.
People like Francis.
People like Leo.
People like Mother Teresa.
People like Kateri Tekakwitha.
Not because Catholics are better than anyone else.
But because every generation somehow produces men and women willing to remain at the foot of the cross when everyone else has gone home.
That is what I have come to admire.
Not certainty.
Not power.
Not purity.
Presence.
The willingness to stand beside the wounded.
The willingness to stand beside the crucified.
The willingness to refuse abandonment.
Perhaps that is why Trinity Sunday feels like the right day to write these words.
Not because I have arrived.
Not because all doubts have disappeared.
Not because every wound has healed.
But because I find myself increasingly grateful for the people through whom God has carried me.
The older I get, the more I suspect St. Patrick understood something profound when he prayed:
Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me.
Sometimes Christ comes to us through Scripture.
Sometimes through prayer.
Sometimes through sacrament.
And sometimes through ordinary people who refuse to abandon the wounded.
The people who wouldn't leave.
Perhaps that is the Church at her best.
Not triumphant.
Not powerful.
Not victorious.
Simply unwilling to leave.
