I found this article that was interesting: http://www.theologicalstudies.org/page/page/1572353.htm
Its written by an evangelical about the number of Christians converting to Catholicism. I thought it's list of top reasons ERC's (Evangelicals converting to Roman Catholicism) convert was very apt. I certainly identified with the top 3 reasons; not so much with the 4th. I grew to accept that.
In addition, ERC's are often led to Catholicism because of certain "crises." These crises may include mystical experiences, the need for healing, family tragedy, or dissatisfaction with life. The most common crisis for ERC's, however, is what McKnight calls "a desire for transcendence." This desire for transcendence usually takes four forms: (1) a desire for certainty; (2) a desire for history; (3) a desire for unity; and (4) a desire for authority.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Christmas Miricle
Okay, so I know its been a while since Christmas I just wanted to let ya'll know about this and I haven't gotten to write until now.
My mom came with me to the Christmas eve mass! She'd said she might go with me but I hadn't really expected anything.
She seemed to enjoy it too. I helped her follow along in the missel and explained the different parts of the mass and where they originated. We had fun giggling at the Knights of Columbus procession who, in their feathery hats and tin swords saluted the bread and wine as it was brought into the auditorium. She got to meet different members of my small group. The only catch was when--lets call her Ms. D-- shook hands with her and said in her extra surrupy voice, "I hope the Lord spoke to your heart today."
Oi dunno if I should say something to Ms. D about that. She's a sweet old lady and I admire her for all the volunteer work she does but she often thinks she's being more subtle than she actually is.
Anyways I just wanted to let yall know the good news!
My mom came with me to the Christmas eve mass! She'd said she might go with me but I hadn't really expected anything.
She seemed to enjoy it too. I helped her follow along in the missel and explained the different parts of the mass and where they originated. We had fun giggling at the Knights of Columbus procession who, in their feathery hats and tin swords saluted the bread and wine as it was brought into the auditorium. She got to meet different members of my small group. The only catch was when--lets call her Ms. D-- shook hands with her and said in her extra surrupy voice, "I hope the Lord spoke to your heart today."
Oi dunno if I should say something to Ms. D about that. She's a sweet old lady and I admire her for all the volunteer work she does but she often thinks she's being more subtle than she actually is.
Anyways I just wanted to let yall know the good news!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Rite of Welcoming
She knocks hard on the door, and it echos. Father Paul's voice calls out behind it, bidding us to enter.
We enter single file. Eliot's hand is warm on my shoulder and my stomach quiets, a little. Father Paul asks each of us, "What is your name, and what do want of the Church?" I was too nervous to say more than, "Alyssa Michie," and "To become a catholic" but what I really wanted to say was, "To become a part of God's universal family."
We line up in front of the congregation, our sponcers facing us. Eliot, makes the sign of the cross on my forhead, on my ears, mouth, eyes, heart, shoulders, hands and feet. Its not until they get to the shoulders that I remember to pay attention to Father Paul's words. I can't remember them now though. I just remember feeling sealed like a letter.
The other Catechumens and I verbally agree to our belief in the Gospel and the church. At a question from Father Paul, our sponcers say "Yes," they have found us to be genuinely seeking the truth. And then the congregation verbally agrees to help the rest of the chatechumens and I on our spiritual journeys. It was a little like a marriage ceremony, that part.
So, I am not fully, in writing, Catholic now. I am technically called a "Catechumin." But if I died tommarow I would get a Catholic burial.
It feels good. I'm not sure what else to say. All the glam and revelation happened before this and led me to this, so comparitively its not that exciting, but it leaves me feeling happy, and accepted. Like a strong sunny golden day. Simple and good.
I love my new family!
We enter single file. Eliot's hand is warm on my shoulder and my stomach quiets, a little. Father Paul asks each of us, "What is your name, and what do want of the Church?" I was too nervous to say more than, "Alyssa Michie," and "To become a catholic" but what I really wanted to say was, "To become a part of God's universal family."
We line up in front of the congregation, our sponcers facing us. Eliot, makes the sign of the cross on my forhead, on my ears, mouth, eyes, heart, shoulders, hands and feet. Its not until they get to the shoulders that I remember to pay attention to Father Paul's words. I can't remember them now though. I just remember feeling sealed like a letter.
The other Catechumens and I verbally agree to our belief in the Gospel and the church. At a question from Father Paul, our sponcers say "Yes," they have found us to be genuinely seeking the truth. And then the congregation verbally agrees to help the rest of the chatechumens and I on our spiritual journeys. It was a little like a marriage ceremony, that part.
So, I am not fully, in writing, Catholic now. I am technically called a "Catechumin." But if I died tommarow I would get a Catholic burial.
It feels good. I'm not sure what else to say. All the glam and revelation happened before this and led me to this, so comparitively its not that exciting, but it leaves me feeling happy, and accepted. Like a strong sunny golden day. Simple and good.
I love my new family!
Evangelism; Catholic and Fundamentalist Protestant attitudes
Sometimes I still feel like a goat in sheep's clothing; thinking in the pattern of a protestant. But when I go to Mass, or read about the saints or pray the rosary; whenever I remember the "great crowd of witnesses" around me, that's when I feel the most Catholic; the most universally connected with Christians around the globe and all throughout history and in heaven.
Still, the residual goat inside of me lets out a bleat sometimes. One particular thing that its found interesting to chew on is the catholic attitude towards evangelism. There is a direct rejection of fundamentalism, with all its culture and attitudes. This is not to say that there aren't Catholic Fundamentalists, they're just a minority. This rejection of fundamentalism stems from a deep-seated sense of persecution, both from the fundamentalists themselves, and from the secular world that paints the catholic church with the fundamentalist brush.
( The difference between Catholic Fundamentalists and Protestant Fundamentalists is that PF's take everything in the Bible to the extreme w/o always fully understanding the context and over all meaning, while CF's take everything in the Catachism to the extreme. I could talk more about this but thats for another blog. )
Simply said, catholics get made fun of on TV, in movies, in pop culture and history class, and catholics are afraid that if we start preaching on street corners people will start burning our churches instead of just using words. Its not as an acute a fear as perhaps the Jews. The last time christians were persecuted in the western hemisphere was hundreds of years ago, but the fear is still there, and its anxious, simmering, and unspoken. The KKK doesn't just hate black folks you know. For example, David, one of my RCIA buddies, just found out that he's been "disfellowshiped" by his family's church. No one in that church is supposed to talk to him, even his parents. Lucky for him though his family doesn't care. He's got one of those families with every different family member in a different denomination, so one extra catholic after a priest uncle isn't that big a deal.
Anyways, going along with this fear of stepping up on the soap box is the belief that this tactic doesn't work anyways. Which came first, the feeling or the belief is up for debate. Regardless though, these beliefs are coralated.
But what Catholic evangelism is, is service. The Catholic Church is the single largest charitable organization on earth. The catholic mission plan is to live within the community, and work on provideing for the needs of the that community while remaining open and willing to talk about the faith. In the catholic church its more of a priority that a young catholic know the location of the nearest soup kitchen he can help out at than knowing all the books in the Bible. This tactic can backfire, because it is helpful to know the books of the Bible, and our Human Relations Dept may not be as top notch as Donald Miller but at least we have the integrity part down. Besides, who needs Donald Miller when you've got Augestine or Thomas Aquinas?
(Donald Miller is the author of Blue Like Jazz)
Still, the residual goat inside of me lets out a bleat sometimes. One particular thing that its found interesting to chew on is the catholic attitude towards evangelism. There is a direct rejection of fundamentalism, with all its culture and attitudes. This is not to say that there aren't Catholic Fundamentalists, they're just a minority. This rejection of fundamentalism stems from a deep-seated sense of persecution, both from the fundamentalists themselves, and from the secular world that paints the catholic church with the fundamentalist brush.
( The difference between Catholic Fundamentalists and Protestant Fundamentalists is that PF's take everything in the Bible to the extreme w/o always fully understanding the context and over all meaning, while CF's take everything in the Catachism to the extreme. I could talk more about this but thats for another blog. )
Simply said, catholics get made fun of on TV, in movies, in pop culture and history class, and catholics are afraid that if we start preaching on street corners people will start burning our churches instead of just using words. Its not as an acute a fear as perhaps the Jews. The last time christians were persecuted in the western hemisphere was hundreds of years ago, but the fear is still there, and its anxious, simmering, and unspoken. The KKK doesn't just hate black folks you know. For example, David, one of my RCIA buddies, just found out that he's been "disfellowshiped" by his family's church. No one in that church is supposed to talk to him, even his parents. Lucky for him though his family doesn't care. He's got one of those families with every different family member in a different denomination, so one extra catholic after a priest uncle isn't that big a deal.
Anyways, going along with this fear of stepping up on the soap box is the belief that this tactic doesn't work anyways. Which came first, the feeling or the belief is up for debate. Regardless though, these beliefs are coralated.
But what Catholic evangelism is, is service. The Catholic Church is the single largest charitable organization on earth. The catholic mission plan is to live within the community, and work on provideing for the needs of the that community while remaining open and willing to talk about the faith. In the catholic church its more of a priority that a young catholic know the location of the nearest soup kitchen he can help out at than knowing all the books in the Bible. This tactic can backfire, because it is helpful to know the books of the Bible, and our Human Relations Dept may not be as top notch as Donald Miller but at least we have the integrity part down. Besides, who needs Donald Miller when you've got Augestine or Thomas Aquinas?
(Donald Miller is the author of Blue Like Jazz)
Friday, October 2, 2009
Progress- the unfair race where only God has feet
After I finally told my parents I was catholic, the first two conversations I had about religion with my parents, I didn't get a chance to say much. They were more like lectures than conversations.
It's been hard to have a deep conversation with them.
Being the good kid seems to have back fired on me. Neither of us can handle my "rebellion" if you can call it that.
There is so much hurt on both sides of this, and I haven't known what to do about it!
When they came to visit for parents weekend I had a lot of hope. For the most part it was nice. We talked, and had fun. It was good to be around them again. They even offered to come to church with me! (that fell thru due to a long game and sleeping in late but still!)
Its just when I tried to explain to my mother why she couldn't take communion in a Catholic church, the theology behind it and all that, she took it as a personal offense, and seemed to think it meant that we beleive only Catholics go to heaven. She got hurt, upset, and started spouting angry comments about things Catholics 'supossedly' believe and wouldn't let me speak. That was a bad day.
I've been calling them less often now. After bad days like that I just want to hole myself up in Knoxville with friends and school and I try my hardest to forget I even came from Memphis. It gets too depressing sometimes. Some craddle catholic friends tell me how brave I must be, and it feels nice to be complimented, even when I know its not true.
Converting isn't "heroic", it isn't "cool". It's just the shitty places life takes you through.
Today though it wasn't so shitty after all. I finally called my mom and dad. I told my dad how much it meant to me that they offered to come to church with me, and I apoligized to Mom for inadvertantly hurting her feelings. And you know what? We actually had a good conversation about the theology of the Eucharist/Communion and about Church traditions in general. It was really encouraging. It wasn't as awkward as I thought. It was civil, we both heard each other's opinions. I don't know how it happened.
Going through stuff like this, this summer has made me realize how little things depend on me. I've done practically nothing, I've not had much of a chance to regardless, but somehow, God has made progress in their hearts. I just stood by and got to watch.
The next bad day I hope I won't act like such a wuss. I hope I'll have more confidence in God's capability. Funny how that's so hard to grasp.
Thank you so much Lord, for this blessing!!!
It's been hard to have a deep conversation with them.
Being the good kid seems to have back fired on me. Neither of us can handle my "rebellion" if you can call it that.
There is so much hurt on both sides of this, and I haven't known what to do about it!
When they came to visit for parents weekend I had a lot of hope. For the most part it was nice. We talked, and had fun. It was good to be around them again. They even offered to come to church with me! (that fell thru due to a long game and sleeping in late but still!)
Its just when I tried to explain to my mother why she couldn't take communion in a Catholic church, the theology behind it and all that, she took it as a personal offense, and seemed to think it meant that we beleive only Catholics go to heaven. She got hurt, upset, and started spouting angry comments about things Catholics 'supossedly' believe and wouldn't let me speak. That was a bad day.
I've been calling them less often now. After bad days like that I just want to hole myself up in Knoxville with friends and school and I try my hardest to forget I even came from Memphis. It gets too depressing sometimes. Some craddle catholic friends tell me how brave I must be, and it feels nice to be complimented, even when I know its not true.
Converting isn't "heroic", it isn't "cool". It's just the shitty places life takes you through.
Today though it wasn't so shitty after all. I finally called my mom and dad. I told my dad how much it meant to me that they offered to come to church with me, and I apoligized to Mom for inadvertantly hurting her feelings. And you know what? We actually had a good conversation about the theology of the Eucharist/Communion and about Church traditions in general. It was really encouraging. It wasn't as awkward as I thought. It was civil, we both heard each other's opinions. I don't know how it happened.
Going through stuff like this, this summer has made me realize how little things depend on me. I've done practically nothing, I've not had much of a chance to regardless, but somehow, God has made progress in their hearts. I just stood by and got to watch.
The next bad day I hope I won't act like such a wuss. I hope I'll have more confidence in God's capability. Funny how that's so hard to grasp.
Thank you so much Lord, for this blessing!!!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
we hide things
I really hate jazz class.
I am always in a bad mood after class and today I went and cried in the bathroom in frustration and self hatred afterwards.
And yet this class may just be the answer to my prayers.
I just wish I felt I was getting somewhere. I'm sick of being bad at this!
There it is. I'm sick of being so stupidly inanely repeatedly bad at this. It's not even about embarressing myself in front of classmates anymore. We've gotten to know each other and even the little miss perfect at the front of the class has turned out to be such a good hearted, unjudging person. Its about me now. Its always about me. I am frustrated and disappointed at myself for not being even averagely smart at this, like I am with school and swimming.
A little before school started I started to realize how prideful I am. If I kept all the commandments I'd make up for it by breaking that one a million time over. So I foolishly prayed for humility and a repentant heart. Just goes to show you how dangerous reading the Imitation of Chirst (part of what made me pray that prayer) can be.
This Jazz class is turning out to be the answer to my prayers. I'm beginning to realize how much of my self esteem I derive from comparing myself to others. Most crumble under the weight of shame when they fall into this habbit but it just goes to show the strength of my survival instincts that I also developed an ego to supliment the comparison habbit. Coke and Heroin must be great together.
So here I am guys, at the pits; realizing my problem and having no idea of how to change the way I think. God's really got to work some miracles here. Here it comes! The big lolly pop of repentance in all its hairy self. They say it comes in two flavors; crow and foot.
Tickets to watch me eat it are on sale Tuesdays and Thursdays 2:30- 3:30 in the left hand gym of the UTK dance studio.
I am always in a bad mood after class and today I went and cried in the bathroom in frustration and self hatred afterwards.
And yet this class may just be the answer to my prayers.
I just wish I felt I was getting somewhere. I'm sick of being bad at this!
There it is. I'm sick of being so stupidly inanely repeatedly bad at this. It's not even about embarressing myself in front of classmates anymore. We've gotten to know each other and even the little miss perfect at the front of the class has turned out to be such a good hearted, unjudging person. Its about me now. Its always about me. I am frustrated and disappointed at myself for not being even averagely smart at this, like I am with school and swimming.
A little before school started I started to realize how prideful I am. If I kept all the commandments I'd make up for it by breaking that one a million time over. So I foolishly prayed for humility and a repentant heart. Just goes to show you how dangerous reading the Imitation of Chirst (part of what made me pray that prayer) can be.
This Jazz class is turning out to be the answer to my prayers. I'm beginning to realize how much of my self esteem I derive from comparing myself to others. Most crumble under the weight of shame when they fall into this habbit but it just goes to show the strength of my survival instincts that I also developed an ego to supliment the comparison habbit. Coke and Heroin must be great together.
So here I am guys, at the pits; realizing my problem and having no idea of how to change the way I think. God's really got to work some miracles here. Here it comes! The big lolly pop of repentance in all its hairy self. They say it comes in two flavors; crow and foot.
Tickets to watch me eat it are on sale Tuesdays and Thursdays 2:30- 3:30 in the left hand gym of the UTK dance studio.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dancing Feet
It starts with the feet.
I've never a noticed dancer's feet before. I was always comfortably fenced off a few yards from them, in a theater seat or bleachers- just close enough to admire the way their bodies swam through the air but never close enough to see their feet.
We were all sitting on the floor in a huddle at the start of my first Jazz Dance class. The instructor was taking role, and the gymasium was quietly humming with the nervous chatter of girls in their tights, and sweat pants.
A few of us sat with our feet hidden beneath our normally-proportioned thighs, others let them lay limp in front, using their wrists to support their back; our limp ankles leaving our bare feet to flicker with whatever tune passed through our head.
Other girls though, had brought real dance shoes with them. I had never seen dancing shoes up close. They are not beautiful. They hug the toe like latex, add unnatural padding to the bottoms of your feet and add at least and inch to the height of your arch. Your philanges, nails and veins turn into one smooth glob, like an animals's foot.
I looked at my feet. Speckled with the scars of this summer's moiskitos, faintly red around the ankle where I shaved to hard, I want to console them, and apoligize for not taking care of them more. My left big toenail- white fat and stubbly from an infection I got in 5th grade at Disney World- is particurly sullen. My teacher sits up straight and talking, with her legs twisted around her like thick dozing snakes. Her feet are pointed, sharp, hungry. She fingers them like a hunter fingers his gun, an artist his brush, a lion trainer his cats. She and her legs; the two are unconnected.
Then comes the lesson; "On your feet, everybody."
Pirouette, plie, pas jete, glisse, ligne, the vocabulary doesn't come as fast as the steps, as the basics. Spin to other side of the room, don't loose sight of the wall, go faster, else the others will run into you, now leap, but skip, do a split midair, don't bend your knees, faster now, faster.
Any Questions?
It's just me and the fat girl in the back of the class.
After school they come plying with their pity. Sweet swans in their simpering leotards.
The front girl, the one whose many runs in her "tard" number the amount of hours, weeks and years spent propelling her to the front, comes to "teach" you. "You'll get it eventually. I've been doing it since I was eight, but I'm out of shape now since I havn't danced since Nationals, Have you ever danced before?"
And I, trying not to hate her, change the topic.
School. "I'm double majoring in Psych and History, and Minoring in Language. Took so many AP courses I was only 4 credits away from a History major anyway.
Ok, lets try hobbies..
Hobbies? Not much. I'm the sorta girl who does her homework and the splits at the same time,.."
and we're back to dance again...
"You should really wear something better than jeans next time, I'll lend you some of my old dancing shoes."
Her long gold hair waives goodbye to me at the door of my domatory, and I know that I will hate her less after the extra practise lessons with my instructor. I look down.
My feet don't appear any better, red on the side of my big toe where I was spinning, and pumped full with lactic acid that extends to my hips. But wait,- look again.
Yes, they don't look much different, except that, they've already become a "them," a tool, a paint brush, that, however clumsily, will take me anywhere.
I've never a noticed dancer's feet before. I was always comfortably fenced off a few yards from them, in a theater seat or bleachers- just close enough to admire the way their bodies swam through the air but never close enough to see their feet.
We were all sitting on the floor in a huddle at the start of my first Jazz Dance class. The instructor was taking role, and the gymasium was quietly humming with the nervous chatter of girls in their tights, and sweat pants.
A few of us sat with our feet hidden beneath our normally-proportioned thighs, others let them lay limp in front, using their wrists to support their back; our limp ankles leaving our bare feet to flicker with whatever tune passed through our head.
Other girls though, had brought real dance shoes with them. I had never seen dancing shoes up close. They are not beautiful. They hug the toe like latex, add unnatural padding to the bottoms of your feet and add at least and inch to the height of your arch. Your philanges, nails and veins turn into one smooth glob, like an animals's foot.
I looked at my feet. Speckled with the scars of this summer's moiskitos, faintly red around the ankle where I shaved to hard, I want to console them, and apoligize for not taking care of them more. My left big toenail- white fat and stubbly from an infection I got in 5th grade at Disney World- is particurly sullen. My teacher sits up straight and talking, with her legs twisted around her like thick dozing snakes. Her feet are pointed, sharp, hungry. She fingers them like a hunter fingers his gun, an artist his brush, a lion trainer his cats. She and her legs; the two are unconnected.
Then comes the lesson; "On your feet, everybody."
Pirouette, plie, pas jete, glisse, ligne, the vocabulary doesn't come as fast as the steps, as the basics. Spin to other side of the room, don't loose sight of the wall, go faster, else the others will run into you, now leap, but skip, do a split midair, don't bend your knees, faster now, faster.
Any Questions?
It's just me and the fat girl in the back of the class.
After school they come plying with their pity. Sweet swans in their simpering leotards.
The front girl, the one whose many runs in her "tard" number the amount of hours, weeks and years spent propelling her to the front, comes to "teach" you. "You'll get it eventually. I've been doing it since I was eight, but I'm out of shape now since I havn't danced since Nationals, Have you ever danced before?"
And I, trying not to hate her, change the topic.
School. "I'm double majoring in Psych and History, and Minoring in Language. Took so many AP courses I was only 4 credits away from a History major anyway.
Ok, lets try hobbies..
Hobbies? Not much. I'm the sorta girl who does her homework and the splits at the same time,.."
and we're back to dance again...
"You should really wear something better than jeans next time, I'll lend you some of my old dancing shoes."
Her long gold hair waives goodbye to me at the door of my domatory, and I know that I will hate her less after the extra practise lessons with my instructor. I look down.
My feet don't appear any better, red on the side of my big toe where I was spinning, and pumped full with lactic acid that extends to my hips. But wait,- look again.
Yes, they don't look much different, except that, they've already become a "them," a tool, a paint brush, that, however clumsily, will take me anywhere.
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