holy defiance

I am now officially obsessed with the virgin martyrs.

I have been making a meandering sort of progress through Kathleen Norris’s The Cloister Walk. It is my habit to pick up a chapter here and there, waiting sometimes days or even a week or two between readings.

Yesterday morning I picked up the text and found myself at a chapter about the virgin martyrs. I was madly underlining, bracketing, and starring the text, making copious notes in the margins with blue ink. I was so inspired and while I wasn't quite sure why at the time, I wanted to stand up and cheer in response to what I was reading. Norris’s narrative of the virgin martyrs and her own observations and conclusions about their choices and behavior gave shape to thoughts and feelings to which I have been utterly unable to encapsulate with my own words: thoughts about beauty and womanhood, thoughts about identity and purpose, thoughts about the world and God’s place for me in it, thoughts about death to self and surrender to Christ, not to mention all the feelings I have about this crazy and unexpected path I find myself walking.

Over the last several weeks, there has been a lot of internal juggling going on (hence the silence): this whole amazing business of claiming my identity as a writer and attending a writer’s conference, of writing a thorough confession to my body: it all happened after I came to God with an attitude of complete surrender. His work in me is not primarily about the writing and yet, that's how a lot of this is being made manifest right now. I wrote on one blog about how frustrated I was with my single status, and came to God in prayer. Instead of asking Him to satisfy me with someone else, I told Him, Okay. For now, your answer to my request for a partner is either ‘no’ or ‘not yet’. If you’re not going to fill this empty space with someone, what do you want to fill it with instead?

He wasted no time in responding.

That is when the most amazing things started happening. I prayed that prayer on February 15. Just eight days later, I woke up earlier than normal on a Saturday morning with the compelling directive in my heart and soul: I need to confess my sins toward my body. I couldn’t say for sure at the time that I knew it was God prompting me; I didn't know where the injunction was coming from. All I knew at the time was that piece of writing was not one I ever intended to write. It was not coming from me. But write it I did, and posted it with the smallest measure of faith that doing so was an act of obedience.

And now I'm watching all sorts of unimaginable blessings spring forth. One of those blessings is that I've found a substantive piece of God’s design for me, which is in short to bring forth this confession, to invite and give permission to others to do the same, to be witness to what God does in the wake of affirming these truths, taking them out of darkness and bringing them into the light, and to surrender this wholly unexpected place in my heart through which God desires to minister to others in a very particular way. Whew! I receive confirmation from Him almost daily (sometimes multiple times daily) that I’m on the right path, that he intends me for this particular and not wholly formed ministry. I don't have the opportunity to lose momentum, so often is He putting wind in my sails.

One of the many unexpected byproducts of this is that the space in my heart that felt so empty and dried out is no longer vacant, but bursting with fullness, lush and verdant and teeming with new life. God has filled it to overflowing; the heart He's given me in exchange for the one I surrendered to Him is one that has eyes only for Him. His design for my life in the context of His grander scheme is unfolding before me and I find myself utterly caught up in it, unwilling to allow that anything or anyone should take me away from it.

I am open to new friendships, but where relationships of the dating/courtship variety (or whatever you want to call it) are concerned, I feel a clear and resounding “no” rising up within me whenever it is offered. It feels incredibly empowering to declare truly and with utmost conviction that I’m just not all that interested in that right now, period. I cannot knowingly declare that this is the way it's always going to be; but I can affirm that this is the way it is now.

I make no apologies for this.

While I understand some women are in the habit of saying things they don’t really mean, it is irritating when I’m not taken at my word. Remember when Elizabeth in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice refuses Mr. Collins’s offer of marriage? He repeatedly attempts to counter her refusals of his proposal by accusing her of playing coy and of trying to incite greater passion from him. She keeps reaffirming her refusal with noticeable and increasing annoyance. While my circumstances are different than Elizabeth's, I can appreciate her frustration in that moment: her "no" is not being heard, but is being taken for something else entirely.

A couple months ago, I told a certain would-be pursuer three times over the course of two days quite explicitly that I wasn’t interested in dating him (I actually said three times: I don’t want to date you). Just seconds after I said this a fourth time, he accused me of being "unclear". I wish I was kidding.

I realize that this is one of those rare instances where my feelings and decisions are counter-cultural both in a popular sense and where the culture of the church is concerned as well. Most everyone desires companionship and to pair off with another. It is expected that single Christian adults are in pursuit of a marriage partner. It would not surprise me in the least to find that there might again be a time in my life where finding a spouse will be more important to me than it is at present. But it’s not now. I am satisfied and filled with contentment in the relationships with those I consider to be my community. I do not lack for human connection.

So what does any of this have to do with virgin martyrs? I'm so glad you asked!

Depending on the historical context from which they are being evaluated, virgin martyrs have been accused of being “unchristian” in their refusal to marry, and as an impossible ideal of Christian womanhood. It would seem then, that married Christian women and “those who do not suffer enough, would seem doomed to be imperfect models of Christian faith” (Norris, p. 187).

What makes the virgin martyrs such powerful examples is that they refused to marry pagan men or to worship idols and false gods as required by Roman law. It wasn’t merely popular culture they were defying: aligning themselves with Christ as they did was to openly resist the authorities and invite a vicious and brutal death. It was to blatantly defy every accepted standard of female behavior. They weren't going to marry pagan husbands in order to produce children who would also be required to worship false gods.

It wasn’t only in their behavior that they defied the laws of the time. Many virgin martyrs lucidly vocalized their dissent, which only incited more vehement responses from the prevailing male authorities. One such martyr, Mahya, after being publicly stripped naked at the command of the king declared, “‘It is to your shame … that you have done this; I am not ashamed of myself … for I am a woman – such as created by God.’ Had she finished her scriptural allusion,’ the authors note, ‘Mahya would have added, ‘created by God in his own image, male and female.’ Typically, such speech angers male rulers … the more the martyrs talk back, the more they mock those in power by their allegiance to Christ and his invincible power” (Norris, p. 194).

And what about their virginity? Typically, virginity is thought of as referring to someone who has not experienced sexual intercourse; in this sense, it is seen as a passive state of being, one that precedes knowing and experience. But the virginity that the martyrs embodied had more to do with embracing and affirming their identities in and alignment with Christ. One Benedictine sister described virginity as having its center in the heart, such that it could be named “singleness of heart”. The same sister continues, “Virginity is a state that returns to God in wholeness. This wholeness is not that of having experienced all experiences, but of something reserved, preserved, or reclaimed for what it was made for. Virginity is the ability to stay centered, with oneness of purpose” (qtd. in Norris, pp. 200-201).

Norris makes the point that physical virginity of the martyrs is not the issue, “and it never was. Reading between the lines of the tortures the virgin martyrs endured, it seems obvious that they were raped. Scholars of the early church now confirm this. The real issue is that these unprotected women dare to make an outrageous claim – that as Christians, they have been made in the image of God – and are thus greatly feared by governing authorities and punished to the full extent of the law.”

She continues, “In reclaiming our virginity, women can reclaim our first selves. We can allow the fierce, holy little girls we were to cast judgment on the ways our adult lives do and do not reflect what we were made for” (Norris, p. 203). In this sense, virginity is for the married woman or the single woman; it is available to all women. At these words I want to stand up, raise my arms, and cheer!!

For the first time in my life, I can affirm I am as single-hearted in my devotion to God as I’ve ever been. I don't know how else to say it: I am enamored of Him and desire in my depths to honor Him with my obedience by being true to that for which He has called me. Right now, in this moment, I’m doing what I was made for. At last, I can affirm without a doubt and know deeply without tangible proof that I am exactly where He wants me to be, that I am conforming exactly to that “fierce, holy little girl” He always intended me to be. Finally, after years of donning masks and acting a part, I am learning what it means to be me.

Though I really do understand when incredulity is the primary response to this declaration, that like Mr. Collins, some might think I’m just trying to put would-be pursuers in suspense, it is frustrating not to be taken at my word. I understand that it might seem ridiculous for me to be complaining that someone wants to pursue a relationship with me. What a terrible problem to have, some might say (and have said). I’m aware of how this sounds, which is why it’s difficult for me to articulate and why even now, I’m hesitating at posting this at all.

But I here affirm that I am a whole being, created in God’s image. Jesus Christ has filled me with Himself and I want only to be filled with Him. I am wholly at His disposal; I am caught up in Him. He is the only one on whom I set my sights. While declaring this publicly won't put me in any danger of suffering sadistic tortures or dying a brutal death, I understand that what I'm saying puts me in an overwhelming minority. But the testimony of the unswerving and undivided devotion of these virgin martyrs speaks volumes to me these thousands of years later; their stories aid me in understanding my own heart better: that theirs was a defiance not for the sake of defiance. Their defiance of the laws and accepted standards of the times in which they lived was a natural byproduct of the single-hearted love and devotion they bore toward their Creator.

It’s outrageous to claim this, I know. I can't claim that I understand it fully. But I’m not going to stop surrendering to Him now, not when I've opened my hands to Him and have begun to receive my true self from Him. This is not defiance for its own sake: it is just too wonderful finally to begin to understand and embody His design and purpose for me. I'm willing to fight for and defend this, even if it means turning aside from every accepted convention of faith and femininity.

Martyrdom of Saint Agatha

Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547)

penetrating layers of memory

Perhaps I shouldn't be, but I'm continually surprised at how God is leading me down this new path: the things He points out, the places at which He has me pause and look and take in the landscape before me, the detail He points out, the stones He turns over. I'm closely examining places I've become accustomed to overlooking, finding myself drawn to examine memories of myself that were on dusty shelves of forgetting: memories that at first glance, have no apparent connection to what drove me to this path in the first place.

I'm studying memories of myself that I haven't thought of since I passed through them. I find myself curious in my remembering: not quite afraid, often tenatively comprehending the view. Making notes of what I observe there.

I'm surprised at what reveals itself when pen passes over paper, at the truth once buried so deeply in my consciousness coming so easily to the surface now. One memory leads to another, and to one before that. And so the layers of memory peel back like an onion, revealing the truth beneath. I hand each layer to God, sometimes tentatively, sometimes with eyes squeezed tight and face turned away. But each time His hand comes to my face, and I open my eyes. He gaze locks with mine and peers deeply into to the heart I am still coming to know. There is no reason to be afraid. There is no shame. Just grace and understanding. Love. And so I open my hands and hand these things over to His care.

Really? You want this? You can redeem even this?

I can trust Him with these things.

I can trust Him to lead to the next layer and the next, knowing that only He understands what needs to be uncovered and recovered, acknowledged and surrendered.

As I'm drawn deeper, I wonder what I'll find when the next layer peels away, and where all of this might lead: this journey deeper into knowing myself, this pulling off the white sheets that have been covering and hiding these spaces in my heart.

One day, it will be important for me to share what these things are with you; I know this. I can trust you with these things, too. But for now this path is sacred, the time for revelations still in the realm of not yet.

journal photo by kirsten.michelle

loving god is like ...

Tidal

I grew up on the ocean,
so the ocean did not hold the same romance
for me as it did for, say

a farmer's daughter in Iowa who grew up
playing hide and seek in rows of corn,
or someone who had always lived in

and never left the big city
skyscraperssmogandtrafficjams.
At age nine, I knew the ocean

as what tossed me
in a little boat in forty knot winds
like a beach ball; I sweated

and my tiny white body trembled
as I clutched the handles of a soup pot
for just in case I should vomit.

I know that a wind coming off the ocean
can blow right through you,
move clean through the pores of your skin

on one side, go through your body
and exit through the pores on the other side,
that there is not always

sandy beaches good for hand-holding, that sometimes
there is just the black ogre rocks
barnacles and limpets cling to,

good for scraping knees and elbow on.
I know the ocean smell and feel--
the sticky-salty damp and cleanness,

the sand underneath your feet evaporating
as waves crowd in ripples around your ankles
and pull it away. The breaths you breathe are deeper

when you're there. This same ocean
has turned us over in boats and swallowed us
ever since there have been boats and people to swallow.

I remember first hearing about
my Scandinavian heritage and taking pride
in the fact that my ancestry

was made up of explorers:
people of wanderlust and restlessness
who would spend months at a time

out of the sight of land,
no longer in love with what was tame.
The people I came from lived

on the ocean, and I still like to think about
how their bodies produced children
and their children had children

who made more children, and so on
until me, who would not have been made
unless men and women who lived

on the ocean (and in between times
on land) had continued in the making
that also made them. I like to think

that had they not slept on the swells and tides,
their bodies not learned to roll with a sometimes savage motion--
had they not allowed the wind to cut through them

I would not be me: I could not say this
and I would be docile as a nun, content
with what had already been leashed and tamed.

I would not lust for the ocean
which I know can swallow me whole.

kirsten, 1999

The Unknown

... never doubt in the dark what God has told you in the light.

Victoria Christopher Murray

I must confess that I'm not as certain and sure-footed as what I write here might indicate. I have my fair share of questions and doubts, moments where it seems like the most prudent thing would be to turn my back on the whole endeavor and return to what I know best.

I talked to the priest about this earlier this week; I was telling him how when I am there in the thick of my learning, surrounded by the faithful, I am so very certain. My intellect readily assents and my will is eager to follow. When I come home, I am no longer surrounded in the same way, I am no longer engaged in dialogue about the faith. I am in relationships where boundaries have been necessarily drawn so I may protect this infant thing that is so precious and still taking root in me.

He told me with sadness of how he's known many who have turned back from embracing the Catholic faith to keep the peace in relationships with family and friends. I told him that given the strain I've experienced in many of my relationships, I could understand the sentiment and empathize with those who were forced to forsake one for the other, but that I had no intention of abandoning what was so clear in front of me (while there is some relational strain and a gap in understanding where one did not exist before, I am not -- thank God -- in the unfortunate position of entirely forsaking one for the other). As I noted in a previous post, Christ made it clear that we have to love Him more, that we cannot allow even family relationships to be a cause of hesitation or of turning back. I've never before had to make that distinction; I've always had my family and many friends along the way with me. The fact that there is a measure of difficulty in making the separation does not give me a pass where obedience is concerned. The truth is that I'm scared to obey. But I'm more scared not to.

... to one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, to him it is sin.

James 4:17

No exceptions. No caveats.

I can't reverse this process, I can't unknow what I've learned. There are times where this would be a tempting option were it a viable one. And I know that it won't be a giving up just for the present; I know there will be sacrifices to be made down the road. It's no great secret I would love to get married; by embracing the traditional Catholic faith, I'm effectually cutting myself off from the overwhelming majority of single men who call themselves "Christian". Am I forfeiting this dream? I cannot know; I only know I must love Christ more and love Him first. I must deposit at the altar all those things I have now and all those things I dream of having (even those dreams God Himself has given), trusting that like Abraham received Isaac back from the dead, so may I receive back those things I sacrifice.

I know what I need to do, I know the direction in which I must continue. But so often in my heart there is a pulling back. This is really all I have to offer up to Him: obedience in spite of my feelings, moving forward when I feel most like staying put.

The Catechumen

Catechumen: In ecclesiology, a catechumen; from Latin catechumenus, Greek κατηχουμενος , instructed) is one receiving instruction in the principles of the Christian religion with a view to baptism.
[definition courtesy of Wikipedia]

Last week, I formally began instruction with Fr. C in the faith. Having professed Christianity as my religion for the greater part of my life, it initially (and very briefly) seemed odd to require formal instruction. But when making this kind of leap, it is crucial to know exactly what I'm getting into and precisely what is expected of me. By receiving formal instruction, not only am I moving forward with eyes wide open, but I am moving into a unity of belief with what the Church teaches.

Like all good instruction does, my own has started with some fairly foundational principles: creation, original sin, original innocence, definition of the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity as well as their respective excesses and defects. Nothing so far is brand new or especially surprising, but what I love about going through all this is is that I am learning: this is what the Church teaches. This is what we profess to believe. Period.

We see the command for converts to be instructed in the faith when Christ issued the Great Commission:

"All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you."
Matthew 28:19-20 (emphasis mine)

Christ clearly expected believers to receive instruction; it was never His intent that we should be in any way ignorant where our faith and its practice is concerned. There will always be mysteries, there will always be room to increase our knowledge. But part of what Christ commissioned His disciples with was instruction -- a faith education, as it were.

I know that practice amongst the various Protestant denominations varies, but growing up, I received no formal instruction as far as church doctrine and dogma were concerned. I participated in Five-Day Clubs, listened to the Bible stories played out by Sunday school teacher's hands with static feltboard figures, recited memory verses, and learned the requisite songs. I suppose in my young mind, I assumed that as far as professing Christians were concerned, everyone else's experience was the same.

As I grew up, I couldn't help but notice the wide variety of Protestant denominations: Baptists, Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians, Covenant, Pentecostal, Assemblies of God, Nazarene, non-denominational, and so on. Wikipedia lists several hundred Protestant denominations and within those, several more sub-denominations. Each has its own set of doctrine and beliefs that makes it different than another. Some have governing bodies, though many are self-governing.

So what do Protestants believe? I suppose the easiest way to answer that would begin with it depends: it depends on what church you go to, who the pastor is, what the denomination is, etc. No wonder belief can be so confusing at times.

Coming from an entirely Protestant background (raised from birth in a non-denominational church), I never thought of it that way before. I always just thought, we're all Christians and we believe different things about doctrine, dogma, and practice of faith, but we all claim Christ as Savior. Many Protestants will profess unity despite the wide variance and range of beliefs present under the heading of those who call themselves "Christian". I am coming to think that unity is reduced to a muddy abstraction as opposed to a concrete nitty-gritty way of living our faith when we claim "one church" but act as though we are churches unto ourselves, deciding on our own what we do and do not believe. I am so very guilty of paying lip service to unity as a concept while simultaneously failing to embody it. This is so very troubling to me; I am certain this disparity of belief and practice is not part of Christ's design, and it saddens me deeply. Have mercy, Lord.

One of the things that is drawing me toward the Catholic faith is the continuity and unity of teaching on every point of faith you can imagine. I'm not going to make the claim that there is never disagreement amongst believers in the Catholic church; they have experienced their fair share of division also. But regardless of this, the teaching of the Church stays the same. This is is the purpose of my going through the catechism; I am receiving the same instruction that has been given to other believers regardless of locale, the priest who is teaching it, or historical period. It should not be surprising that given the number of denominations out there, there is no uniform Protestant instruction. And really, many Protestant believers I know (myself included, at one time) seem perfectly okay with it being that way. We may disagree on just about anything: baptism, predestination, original sin, the roles women in the church, eternal security, what is necessary for salvation, you name it. And we all claim Christ as the head, naming many of these things non-essentials.

Do I dare to ask the question I asked myself when I started this learning process?:

What if?

What if I'm wrong, lacking, incorrect, deficient in my belief or in its practice? I am human and prone to error; that is a given. What if I'm wrong about what is and what is not essential where faith is concerned? Is this not a question worth examining? If I'm honest, the answer is an emphatic yes. That's really what this process is about for me: challenging myself, going through my beliefs with a fine-toothed comb, weeding out those things that when examined closely, simply don't make sense anymore or do not belong.

The Baltimore Catechism spells out quite clearly the dogmas and doctrines of the Church and explains what they mean. There is something comforting about having it all spelled out in black and white, knowing that this is what Catholics profess to believe. This is the teaching of the Church, this is the truth to which you submit yourself. It's not conditional on geography, on the instructor, on whether it's the year 1885 or 2007. I think it's fantastic that as someone seriously considering conversion, I must be instructed on these points of faith before I can be baptized or partake in the Eucharist. It's not simply a matter of walking in the door and goes beyond taking a membership class. It's an education that takes months to complete.

Something I have bumped up against with other believers as I've undertaken my study is resistance to the idea of Church authority (which began with the Reformation). Many believers take issue with the idea that they can be told what they can and cannot believe. It seems the prevailing opinion amongst Protestant believers is that each should be permitted to interpret Scripture and abide by it according to individual interpretation. While not even Catholics would disagree that each individual believer's mind and intellect should be fully engaged in the life of faith, and that each believer is individually responsible to study that faith, there is a clear understanding that the Church is the ultimate authority on doctrine, dogma, and the practice of faith -- not the individual believer. Whether or not I like, agree with, or am comfortable with a teaching of the Church, I must submit to that. As a member of the Church, I accept that it is more likely that I am in error than the Church fathers from whom the essentials of the faith were passed down.

If there is an authority in place, it is my duty as a believer in Christ to submit to that authority (Romans 13:1-3; Hebrews 13:17; 1 Peter 2:13). I do not want to debate the finer points of this particular topic since that is not the purpose of this particular post, but assuming Christ instituted a specific plan and structure of authority in order that the Church might accomplish its purpose of baptizing and making disciples, is it not my role to submit to Christ's plan? Since Christ was specific about submitting to the authorities He has set in place, I have to believe that this includes not just governments, not just employers, but the Church also. Or do we think He ascended into Heaven, gave the disciples a thumbs up, and said, good luck with the mission, guys! Quite simply said, I don't think the idea that Christ delegated His authority is up for debate (this is another topic for another post, perhaps), nor do I believe He left earth for heaven without implementing a specific plan by which the Church would fulfill the task of making disciples. And if I believe that, then the natural end of that belief is that I must be the one to bend myself to what Christ has already established.

In speaking of the requirements and appropriate behaviors for deacons of the Church, St. Paul writes to Timothy,

"...if I am delayed, you will know how people ought to conduct themselves in God's household, which is the church of the living God, the pillar and foundation of the truth."
1 Timothy 3:15

Paul himself calls the Church the pillar and foundation of the truth. The Church is the final authority on the truth, not the individual believer. The more I allow my mind and soul to marinate in Paul's words, the more I see how wrong I have been. Yes, the Lord wants me to know, to be instructed, to be fully engaging my faith with heart, soul, and intellect. But ultimately, the Church is the pillar and foundation of truth. If there is disagreement between me and what the Church teaches, it's up to me to submit. I'm not saying I like it, but I am saying that I believe this is what Christ wants of me. Of all believers, really.

There is so much more I could say, so many things where I barely scratched the surface that I could expound upon; perhaps in future posts I will. For now, this catechumen moves forward with full conviction, basking in God's goodness. It has seemed dark to me lately, but I trust these are the moments when He is hardest at work in me, making a stubborn heart tender, teaching humility by degrees to my prideful will. He's created a plan, provided a way. He's given us the Church to instruct and guide each us in order that we may please our Heavenly Father and join Him one day in heaven.

So with David, the prayer of my heart is, Teach me your way, O LORD, and I will walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name. - Psalm 86:11

Taking a Leap

I sat up in my room on Monday night, staring at it. I held my mobile phone in my hands and just stared at the number I had selected. Breathe in. Breathe out. I continued to stare, knowing I should call. I needed to call it. I wanted to call it. At least I think I wanted to. So why was this so difficult? Why the clammy palms, the racing pulse? Breathe in. Breathe out.

The phone wasn't going to dial the number on its own. Clearly, I had to be the one to press the button -- which I couldn't seem to get myself to do.

I tried to reason with myself: I knew my trepidation over this phone call was unduly exaggerated.

I had had Father C's phone number stored in my mobile phone for several days already. I knew that he knew who I was, and I knew that he knew about this faith journey I was on. He had to have seen me at the several Masses I had attended. But I had never spoken to him before. And I think I realized that calling him now was indicative of an internal commitment I had made to which I had not yet given any external expression.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The path before me was clear. Given what I had learned, what God had revealed, what He had convicted me of all pointed to the same place: conversion. A scary word, at least for me. But not when I considered that what I was committing to was fully embracing the truth as I now understood it. When I considered that I was committing to living in the fullness of faith, the correct decision was clear, no matter how overwhelming my trepidation might be.

And I knew I had to do this alone, independent of any other person.

In fact, whether I wanted to or not, I was going to be doing this alone. I feel anything but brave about it; in fact, I am altogether lacking where bravery is concerned.

After calling and talking to one of the two Catholic people I know and giving air to my insecurities, I was encouraged to call Father C. She assured me of his friendliness, and the ease with which she spoke with him when they first met. After hanging up with her, I called him right away.

After introducing myself, he knew exactly who I was. So, you're interested in the faith?

Yes, absolutely. I replied.

I grew more and more at ease as the conversation progressed; I discussed what I had learned and prayed through so far, and what some of my initial hesitations had been. I spoke of my family and my friends, and how I knew they were supportive, but could not really understand what I was doing. I told him about how I was learning to trust God with them. I am fully convinced this is the next step for me, I told him.

And before I knew it, we had arranged for me to receive instruction in the faith in order to be prepared to take the Blessed Sacrament. We discussed being conditionally re-baptized to ensure the correct words were spoken. We said our good-byes and I hung up the phone, relieved to have finally made the phone call.

And then it hit me: I am becoming Catholic.