The Church in Our Lives

Greetings. Thanks to the several readers who sent complimentary comments after having read last week's Letter. Flattery will get you anything. Here's this week's installment:

The Church in our lives

This month, Laura and I began our ninth year as members of St. Peter Roman Catholic Parish here in Greeley.

It has been an intense and fulfilling journey. It has strengthened us in our physical and mental health, broadened us intellectually, even enabled us socially.

I'm secure in the idea that Laura and I would still be married if we hadn't become Catholic and members of St. Peter. I think she'll agree, too, that the quality of our relationship is vastly improved. We are enhanced as a married couple.

All of this is to say nothing of the fact that Catholicism might well be the difference between salvation and un-salvation for us.

Here's how it all began:

In early December of 1999, a year after our dads died, I began to experience a drive, an internal motivation that was entirely out of character for me. (Laura's dad died Dec. 3 and my dad died Dec. 8, 1998.)

One evening during our dinner hour, I said something that seemed to come right out of the blue. I said, "We need to start going to church." Laura's jaw dropped open. I was surprised too. I had no conscious plan to say anything of the sort.

Since we met 1982, I had always held to a rather pedantic policy with regard to church. "You can go if you want. I won't stand in your way," I would tell her. (Implication being, I'm not about to come with you.)

Whatever swept over me in those cold winter weeks of 1999 had allowed me to see just how dense my thinking had been on this subject.

Could Laura reasonably arise on a Sunday morning, dress, start the car, drive to a church, climb the stairs, meet total strangers all by herself, and attend worship service alone? Fat chance.

Laura is a very spiritual person, and she had a lifelong dream that one day she would attend church with her husband.

With that mysterious influence assisting my little pea brain, I figured out that it is the man's duty to lead the spiritual life of a married couple. By failing to exhibit that leadership, I had failed in my obligation to her. "You can go if you want to" is a total cop-out, an evasion.

"But where?" we both asked. First, we found the United Methodist Church in downtown Greeley and tentatively settled on it because that was a church in which I thought I had some familiarity.

I was baptized in the Methodist Church in Fort Lupton, and attended the Methodist Church in Brighton through high school.

The last three weeks in 1999, we went to visit the Methodists each Sunday. After that third time, I worried I might have created a problem for myself. I thought maybe Laura was happy with the Methodist thing -- and I definitely knew I was not.

So when we got in the car I decided to bite the bullet, tell the truth, and clear the air. I said something real diplomatic like, "This isn't working for me."

Long pause. Heart pounding, I wondered how this jackpot would play out. Laura finally spoke. "They didn't even have communion.''

Right, I said. Nor did they talk about God or Jesus or the Bible. It must be the Methodists are some kind of minimalist cult. There were no pictures inside the church, no statues. Oh, one banner way up in front behind the podium read "Love."

I think they did have a small wall-mounted cross, the only evidence I saw that this was a Christian organization. It was very austere environment, apparently designed to offend the least number of people. Bland. Cold.

Having successfully crossed that sound barrier with Laura, I impetuously leaped right into the next one. As we drove around the block, I pointed and said, "Next week we're going there."

I was pointing at St. Peter, a Roman Catholic Parish. Another in a series of unexpected statements had come from my mouth. "But that's a Catholic Church," Laura said rather fearfully. Yep. It is. Sign says so right there on the front lawn.

The Methodists had been very kind to us. They brought giant oatmeal chocolate chip cookies to the house. They asked us to sign the guest list, and to consider whether we wanted to become members.

But the very next week, the first Sunday in the new century, we timidly climbed the north stairs at St. Peter and attended the 9 a.m. Mass. We sat next to Myron and Glenna Kallsen, listened to "Glory to God" sung by Cantor Dan Stoffler, and heard a homily by Fr. Bud Raney.

The Catholics read the scriptures, spoke about the Bible, offered Holy Communion several times on Sunday and regularly through the week.

Statues, pictures, books, stained-glass Christian scenes surrounded us. All the visual aids a guy could ask for and then some. Not austere, but rich.

We had arrived. We were home. Both of us. It was rudimentary at that point, but we did finally recognize the source of those out-of-character statements that had been issuing from me. We never looked back.

The next week, we went to the church office and became registered members in the parish. We bought a New American Bible -- the "Catholic" version that includes the deuterocanonical books. (As opposed to the King James, an expurgated translation that seems to fit more with the austerity mode among Protestants.)

By Nov. 15, 2001, we had been able to clear up some personal spiritual details and were brought into full communion with the Universal Church. Our marriage vows were solemnized by Deacon Frederick Torrez, and we were fully "Catholic."

These days, we often play the "What if we hadn't?" game. It's one of the ways we give thanks for the strange magnetic power that had drawn me to downtown Greeley. (St. Peter and United Methodist are only a block apart. We just overshot a little at first.)

It wasn't exactly a "demand" that had come into my little head. I didn't feel as if I was being "commanded" or "ordered" to go downtown to St. Peter.

It wasn't mean-spirited. I wasn't really given a choice, but then I wasn't looking for options. I didn't know it at the time, but I was looking for salvation, and the Holy Spirit was there to help.

We hadn't fit in the Harley Owners Group. We didn't bother to join the Chamber of Commerce. Elks Club ain't it.

But St. Peter? We're ubiquitous. After eight years, it's safe to say we weren't a flash in the pan. For good or bad, they're stuck with us now.

See you at Mass!

Why don't you stay . . .

You've probably heard the country song. A poor woman begging her boyfriend or husband not to go see his other woman. It's called "Why Don't You Stay."

It's a pathetic, whiny, self-centered lyric. The video features the singer with glycerin tears rolling down her cheeks. She has no self-esteem whatsoever, and bumps and grinds to prove it.

One day while I was standing in line at the Greeley downtown post office, a voice burst out from somewhere way in the back rooms. With all the syrupy hillbilly accent she could muster, she sang the entire song, "Wha doan' chew stie."

She knew all the words. I don't, because the song is so icky I change the station when it comes on. Singing that song could just be a new, nonviolent way of going postal. Hope so.

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As promised, two Words of the Week this time: Exegesis and Eisogesis.

Ex'e'ge'sis [ek-si-jee-sis] A critical explanation or interpretation of a text or portion of a text, especially of the Bible. The origin of the word is, as you may have guessed, Greek.

Eis·e·ge·sis [ahy-si-jee-sis] An interpretation, especially of Scripture, that expresses the interpreter's own ideas, bias, or the like, rather than the true meaning of the text. Again, Greek.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments below!