If you had met me when I was in high school, I would probably be one of the people that would have been in the yearbook (had there been such a category) as “least likely to ever be Catholic”. I had grown up in various non-denominational Christian churches, some changes due to moves, others to doctrinal strife within the churches in question. My father had been an elder in most of the churches to which we belonged, I started playing piano for worship services when I was 14. I’d been a rather precocious child, who’d completed her first cover-to-cover read-through of Scripture in 1st grade and was baptized when I was 7. Due to my father’s position in the church, we had a lot of fairly deep (theologically speaking) reading material in the house, and I’d read through it all before I was 17. Whether I understood what I was reading or not might be argued, but there simply was no keeping me from reading–I’d read through everything at home, in the church library, and the town’s public library.
Still, I found myself in the state of mortal sin when I was 21. (The specifics of which are not needed.) At this time, I began making those daily drives I mentioned in the “praying out loud” thread, but instead of comfort, I began to hear voices in the car with me–clearly demons whose principal message was that I could never be forgiven for the particular sin, and since I belonged to them I might as well quit fighting and kill myself. (Yes, I realize that some might take me for insane at this point. However, I believe that demons are quite real and can try to exert influence over people. This was not possession, though, but rather what I think is more common–demonic oppression–they remain outside, but do not leave their target alone.) I don’t think that I’m particularly special, but that anyone who is in such a condition of sin can be targeted since if they get the person to seal that state of sin with despair, they’ve won a soul for hell. Needless to say, this quickly came to a head–I could not continue with the situation as it was, and the engagement that I was then in broke off, and not wanting to face questions about why we were no longer a couple (having been the only couple of marriageable age in that congregation), I decided to attend a different church the Sunday after the engagement was broken.
The church I settled on was an Episcopal church, chosen because it was a cathedral–and I figured that a cathedral had to be so big that I could go in and be anonymous. Instead, this particular church was a very friendly community, and I was near instantly recognized as someone new. This was a bit frightening, as I started to recognize the same sort of “identify a prospect” behavior that I knew from the church I grew up in (identifying a new person, making sure that an “old-timer” sat with them during worship, invitations and urging to return). The life-changing moment came during the worship service, during one of those rote prayers that I’d always been taught were meaningless (somehow, the possibility that ritual prayer could also be heartfelt had been overlooked)–the Confiteor (“I confess to Almighty God…”). During the silence between the prayer and absolution, I added my own prayer for forgiveness, that if I could be forgiven that I would be given a sign that I had been forgiven. As the bishop spoke the words of absolution, I literally felt a weight roll off my back. The next day when I returned to those daily drives, the demonic voices were gone–and never returned.
For some time after, I wavered between the two churches. I had never experienced God’s presence in such undeniable, dramatic form in the church I’d grown up in. Still, my parents would be hurt if I left that church for the Episcopal church, and so for some time I attended in both places. In the Episcopal church, they had a new round of the Inquirer’s Class start up right after my first visit, and I began attending. A whole new part of Christian history opened up in front of me. The final break with the church I grew up in came midway through the Inquirer’s Class, when I was headed into the church to practice the piano (I was going to accompany a friend singing a solo, and we’d arranged to meet there to practice together, but I’d arrived first). As I walked up to the piano, I noticed the carpet in front of the table where the communion trays were held during church services. The carpet was blue, but stained from many small spills, and I wept that something so precious could be treated with so little care. At this point, I realized (though not yet using the term “Real Presence”) that I did not believe in a symbolic-only presence, and at that point, my goal in the Inquirer’s class changed from “information only” to desiring to join. I officially joined the Episcopal church three months after my first visit.
(continued next post)