Fr Andrew Apostoli, C.F.R.

If your spiritual life is to develop properly, you must learn how to meditate — the foundation of mental prayer. A great deal can be said about meditation, but we’ll have to limit ourselves to some basic points. I’d like to approach it by sharing something of my own experience.

When I first entered the seminary, I was already used to saying formal prayers, such as my morning and night prayers and some devotional prayers out of a little prayer booklet. But somehow, the idea of meditation seemed complicated. There was talk of different methods and steps in the meditation process. Even the meditation book from which a reflection was read daily to the community in the chapel listed “meditation points” to consider. I felt a bit apprehensive!

Nevertheless, after going to a few organized meditation periods, I realized that this basic form of mental prayer came quite naturally. There was nothing to be afraid of! I began by simply thinking about Jesus in the Gospels, about His words and actions, or about some important part of my Catholic faith, such as the Mass or God’s mercy. Then I found I wanted to talk to the Lord about what I was reflecting on.

In this way I came to realize that my thinking or reflecting (that’s the actual meditation) was leading me to new awareness and insights about Jesus and the truths of my Catholic faith. These insights, in turn, were stirring up various feelings within me (such feelings are called sentiments or affections). The more I meditated and came to new insights, the more I was led to speak with the Lord in my own words, having a loving conversation heart-to-Heart (mine with His). And that, quite simply, was mental prayer.

The Rosary and Stations of the Cross
In fact, I came to realize that I’d actually known for a long time what it is to meditate. For example, I’d done it for years whenever I prayed the Rosary. When reciting each of the fifteen decades, we meditate on one of the joyful, sorrowful, or glorious mysteries or significant events in the life of Jesus and His Blessed Mother.

As I constantly meditated on these mysteries, they became more meaningful for me. I began to see Jesus’ and Mary’s love in each mystery, and gradually realized they have that same love for me, too. By meditating, I was growing to know and love them more personally.

A similar thing was happening when I made the Stations of the Cross. Meditating on fourteen scenes from the passion and death of Our Lord, I experienced feelings (those sentiments or affections) of deeper gratitude to Jesus for all He suffered for me. There were feelings of deeper sorrow for my sins as well, since they caused Jesus to suffer so much. This, in turn, moved me to be more resolved, with the help of His grace, not to commit these sins again in the future.

Judging, then, from my own experience, I would say that many of us Catholics first learn to meditate by simply reciting the Rosary or making the Stations. As we seek to deepen this part of our mental prayer life, a few practical points about meditation and mental prayer may be helpful.

Formal Prayer vs. Mental Prayer
First, mental prayer (also called the prayer of the mind) usually develops naturally from formal prayer (or the prayer of the lips), as my own experience shows. A comparison between these two types of prayer can be useful. Recall St. John Damascene’s famous definition of prayer as “the raising of the mind and the heart to God.” In formal prayer, when we focus on the words of the prayer with our minds, the heart is then moved to love God with the sentiments contained in those words.

For example, if we recite an “Act of Faith,” the words prayed would logically stir up feelings or sentiments of faith in our hearts as we say something such as this: “God, You are all-knowing, and You reveal to us what we need to know and do to get to heaven. I believe in all that You have revealed to us! Please grant me a strong faith so that I will always believe what You teach us through Your Church.”

In mental prayer, however, the focus is not restricted by the words of a prayer formula. Rather, the focus of meditation is usually on a story, such as an event from the life of Jesus; or a teaching He gave, such as a parable; or something from the life of a saint, such as St. Thérèse; or something contained in a good spiritual book. My mind isn’t limited to the words, but moves through various details of the story or ideas contained in the teaching.

The mind, by reflecting on these details, can produce a far wider range of insights, which then stir more sentiments in the heart. The mind is freer to roam through this spiritual landscape. Thus the difference between formal prayer and the meditation of mental prayer is like the difference between reciting a poem, where each specific word is already given, and telling a story freely in your own words.

The Benefits of Meditation
Meditation as form of mental prayer has many benefits. One is a greater understanding and clarity regarding the teachings of our Catholic faith. By meditating, we go deeper into these realities and discover many valuable new insights that weren’t obvious at first sight.

St. John of the Cross used the image of mining for precious metals to describe this spiritual activity. If “there’s gold in them thar hills,” then the more you mine, the more you’ll find! The treasures of the Sacred Scriptures and other truths of our faith aren’t always obvious on the surface, but they’re limitless for those who bother to search for them.

Another benefit, as we’ve seen, is that our reflections stir up the vital sentiments of the heart so needed for loving and serving the Lord faithfully. These sentiments are really the most important fruit of mental prayer. They lead us to talk to God!

In fact, without these sentiments, we’d end up with a purely intellectual exercise, a mere reasoning process. Prayer requires talking with God, and that requires the sentiments.

In this regard, we should mention that beginners practicing mental prayer typically do much more reasoning or reflecting in the mind than speaking from the heart. But as time goes on, less reflection is needed to produce more sentiments. It’s like the growth of a human friendship.

When friends first meet, they need to ask lots of questions and share lots of facts about themselves to get to know each other better. After the friendship has grown, however, there are fewer questions but a deeper knowledge and more intense love for each other. In fact, when the reasoning in prayer becomes significantly less and the sentiments in the heart begin to predominate, it’s usually a sign that we’ve come to the third state or kind or prayer, called affective prayer (or the prayer of the heart).

Finally, the meditation of mental prayer helps us form the resolutions we need to grow in the love of God and our neighbor by a more conscious and consistent practice of the Christian virtues. Our meditations, in the light of the Holy Spirit and with the assistance of His grace, give us insights into how to apply the values of the Gospel, Church teachings, and the wisdom of the saints to our own daily lives. For all these reasons, the meditation that provides a foundation for mental prayer is a must for growth in Christian holiness!

Fr. Andrew Apostoli, C.F.R., is a priest of the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal, St. Felix Friary, 15 Trinity Plaza, Yonkers, NY 10701; 914-476-7279

A Catholic on National Talk Radio | Daily News | NCRegister.com.

A scan on the radio dial at just about any time of the day will surface a handful of radio talk shows with hosts clamoring to be the voice of reason and to have the answers to solving problems of all types.

One host, however, is very confident that he truly does have something to offer as he unabashedly gives his Catholic take on today’s headline issues. His name is Allen Hunt, and his show, the Allen Hunt Show can be heard each weeknight on 150 stations across the nation.

His viewpoint wasn’t always Catholic, however. He recently sat down to talk about his conversion to the Catholic faith and how it has shaped his radio platform.
Tell me about your journey from Methodist pastor for 20 years to entering the Catholic Church.

I grew up in a culture of Methodist pastors. My uncle, grandfather and great-grandfather were all Methodist pastors. I didn’t know much about the Catholic Church when I was growing up. After I finished seminary at Emory University in Atlanta, I went on to do some graduate-level work at Yale University on early Christian history and the New Testament.

My first exposure to the Catholic Church came while I was there in New England. Much of it came from my friendship with a Dominican friar who was also in the graduate program. That was in the 1990s, and many seeds were planted then. In the next decade or so, God used a number of experiences to bring me home to the Church. I became Catholic on Jan. 6, 2008, on the feast of the Epiphany.
What finally brought you home?

There were three big things that led to me entering the Church. First was a growing sense of Christ’s real presence in the Eucharist. Secondly is what I call doctrine by democracy. In general, in the Protestant church, everything is up to a vote every few years. For instance, in the Methodist church, every four years we would get together to vote whether or not homosexual behavior is acceptable or not and whether it was time to ordain openly gay pastors.

The third area of reflection was Jesus’ prayer in John 17. There, Jesus pleads for unity in the body of Christ. The Protestant church has split into 33,000 different strands. What message does that fractioning send to the world? As well, how much this division must grieve God’s heart.

I am only one person, but am trying to repair some of that damage by coming home to the mother Church.
At the time of your decision to pursue the Catholic Church you were leading a megachurch in Atlanta. How did your congregation react to your decision?

I had stepped down from my role as senior pastor July 1, 2007, to go into full-time radio ministry. Once I had left the role of pastor, it gave me the freedom to explore and discover the faith.

By and large, most people were supportive of my decision. As is typical of many megachurches, a lot of the members are ex-Catholics. I got a lot of e-mails and phone calls from people who were asking, “What do you see that I don’t see?” There were only a handful of people who were hostile towards me. But after years of being a pastor, I was used to people being hostile towards me.

Tell me about the Allen Hunt Show.

We started the show in 2006 with just a few hours on Sunday afternoon. We didn’t plan on being on Christian or Catholic radio. The show began as a way to engage the mainstream on all the issues of life through the lens of faith.

We want to come at things with a moral compass and engage people of all walks of life. I am unapologetic and non-defensive on who I am, what I stand for and where I’m coming from. It is mainstream radio done for you by a very Catholic guy.
Is there an evangelization element to your program?

I share my Catholic faith, but I don’t promote it — and I think that is at the heart of the show. I am who I am, and I am comfortable with who I am. I want to engage people who agree or disagree with me in a grace-filled way, as opposed to bomb throwing, which seems to be the standard these days. 

I think a lot of people find it very heartening that there is someone like them on mainstream radio. Then there is another group of people who find this fact strange to them. And then there is a small, vocal group who can’t stand my faith, but they keep listening. As long as they are listening, I’m content with that. Let’s talk and have a civil conversation.
What’s the future for you and the program?

We need to continue to do what God wants us to do. I think what that means is to continue to engage the culture with a reasonable voice of faith. Our long-term goal is to be on over 300 stations each week, Monday through Friday.
What is your take on the debate on whether or not conservative talk radio was to blame for the Tuscon shooting, the assassination attempt on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords?
Neither talk radio nor inflamed political rhetoric caused a mentally deranged young man to indiscriminately shoot people in Tucson any more than they caused the Virginia Tech massacre or even the silly Dunkin Donuts drive-through tirade last month regarding the lack of sprinkled donuts.
As you talk to America, day in and day out, what are two or three issues or themes that come up again and again? What is the temperament or the mood of the nation, so to speak?

In general, there is a self-confidence crisis in America. We have forgotten who we are. People are concerned and feel like we have lost something, even though they cannot always pinpoint what that is. Part of this is a natural response to a very long recession that has drained a lot of people’s passion and optimism. They worry we may never emerge from it. Part of this is a response to the lack of moral compass that we now routinely experience in our public life together, in our entertainment and even in our public schools.

Register correspondent Eddie O’Neill writes from Green Bay, Wisconsin.

In Search Of The Full Gospel

By Deborah Danielski

Like many converts to the Catholic Church, Deborah Danielski wandered through a variety of back roads and cul-de-sacs on her way home. Her search for the full gospel was a frustrating one, filled with wrong turns and complicated by a drinking problem and two abusive marriages. But Christ calls His sheep by name, and Deborah heard His voice and followed Him home to the Catholic Church. She recounts for you the details of her conversion story and how she found the fullness of the Christian Faith where she least expected it.

As my husband Ed and I drove down a quiet rural Illinois highway one day, we passed a large wooden sign at the side of the road. The hand-painted lettering on the sign proclaimed, “Full Gospel Church —1/2 mile.” “What is a ‘full gospel’ church?” Ed asked. As I attempted to explain, a light came on in my mind, and suddenly I knew. The “full gospel” was what I had been searching for all of my adult life, at times actively, at other times without even being aware of what it was I sought. ”

Almost immediately, I sensed a brilliant light that seemed to move toward me. I felt immersed in God’s presence and love. I simultaneously laughed and cried and when I opened my mouth to speak, I was singing praises to God in a language I had never learned.” 

Apart from a brief encounter with Jesus at age 6, I grew up pretty much without religion. When I got to my teens, I took the route all-too-common in the ’60s, “looking for love in all the wrong places.” Just before my 17th birthday, I found myself pregnant and standing before a minister, vowing to “love, honor and obey” my 17-year-old boyfriend, while thinking about the red-checkered tablecloth I’d buy for our tiny new kitchen. 

By the time I reached my mid-20s, I was into my second abusive marriage and was the mother of three. I’d messed up my life just about as much as I possibly could. Near despair, I determined it was time to make some effort to change my miserable life. I began by seeking counseling. That was when a series of incredible “coincidences” began to occur through which the Spirit of the Lord led me to the gospel.

“How much do you drink?” the counselor asked only a short way into the first session. “What does that have to do with anything?” I wondered to myself. “Oh, not too much,” I responded. “Maybe about a six-pack a day.” He raised his eyebrows. ” ‘Not too much?’ Six beers a day is ‘not too much?’ ” Had I been completely honest, I would have told him that I often drank more than that. Much to my surprise, he referred me to an alcohol abuse counselor. I was pretty sure drinking wasn’t my problem, but knowing I had exhausted my own resources, I made the appointment.

“The first thing you have to do is admit the problem is beyond your control and submit it to God,” said the counselor. “Oh great,” I thought. “This will never work.” Sure, I could admit the problem was beyond my control, otherwise I wouldn’t have been there, but submit it to God? No way.

“I don’t believe in God,” I countered. “It doesn’t have to be any particular god,” she said, “but some form of ‘supreme being,’ however you understand Him.” I shook my head. “I don’t believe in any supreme being.” The counselor smiled. “You consider yourself a pretty open-minded person, don’t you?” It was exactly the right question. I felt I was the most open-minded person I knew. “Definitely,” I shot back. “But you’ve closed your mind to God,” she suggested. She was right. I had closed my mind and heart to God. Perhaps I could give it a try, I thought. I had nothing to lose. My stress goes down but my curiosity goes up. 

Out of hand, I rejected Christianity as too “traditional.” So, in search of a more palatable option, I went to the local library and checked out a couple of books on yoga and Hinduism and began my search for “God.” Soon I was practicing transcendental meditation at least 20 minutes a day. I was more relaxed, less stressed out about my problems, but I hadn’t found God. And I knew it.

At the same time, my husband Melvin was commuting to work with a man who was a Jehovah’s Witness. Every day Melvin would come home from work telling me something new John had said about God, Jesus, and the Bible. I had never read the Bible and we didn’t even own one, but I was sure what John was telling Melvin couldn’t possibly be true. Nonetheless, I found myself getting more and more curious. Then one day I was reading a book about yoga and came across the following claim, “Truly spiritual people are always vegetarians. Even in the Hebrew Bible, God gave man the fruits of the trees to be their food, not the animals of the field.” I was puzzled. I’d known many Christians over the years, and not one of them had been a vegetarian.

My curiosity got the best of me. I went out to the store and bought a Bible. I just had to know if what that author and the Jehovah’s Witness were saying was true. That night, I began to read the Gospel of Matthew, and immediately fell in love with Jesus. I knew without a doubt that no mere man could have invented the stories I read. If man were even capable of imagining God would become human, he would at least have Him born in a castle, I thought, but never in a manger. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” Jesus told me in Scripture. “Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” 

These were definitely not the words of a mere man. In my experience, the meek never inherited anything but trouble. I lay there in bed, reading all night long, continuing into Mark, Luke and John. Just before daybreak, I rose, knelt by the side of my bed and began to pray. As I prayed, I experienced an overwhelming sense of Christ’s presence. It was as though He stood at my side with His hand resting on my shoulder, and I was nearly overcome with a feeling of love more powerful than any I had ever imagined. I knew without a doubt that Jesus loved me, and I knew my sinful past was forgiven as I surrendered my life to this incomprehensible God/Man Who captured my heart. St. Paul knew what he was talking about.

“Coincidentally,” my children were attending Bible school that week with our Baptist neighbors. That Sunday morning, I attended a worship service at their small, independent Baptist church and publicly professed my faith in Christ. The next week I was baptized by immersion. For the next year, I seldom missed a Sunday morning, Sunday evening or Wednesday night service. And I seldom allowed a day to pass without spending some time reading the Holy Scriptures and in prayer. I had tasted that the Lord was good, but I began to sense there was more to Christ than I had found. There was something missing. I sensed that I had not yet found the full gospel.

A friend and fellow Baptist, Marsha, began to tell me about the “baptism of the Holy Spirit” and the gifts of the Spirit. I searched the Scriptures and read every publication I could find on the subject. Marsha was involved in the “Women’s Aglow Fellowship,” an interdenominational women’s group associated with the “Full Gospel Businessmen’s Association.” I attended their next monthly meeting and was excited by the freedom with which this group praised God. 

Expecting to feel uneasy if any of the gifts of the Spirit were manifested, I was amazed when the group began to glorify God in a host of other languages and the only things I felt were joy, peace and fulfillment. “Yes, this is it,” I thought. This was what I had been missing. 

At the end of the service, I went forward for prayer. More than anything in the world I wanted this “full gospel.” As I knelt at the altar with my eyes closed in prayer, the leader laid her hands on my head. Almost immediately, I sensed a brilliant light in a far corner of the room that seemed to move toward me, and I soon felt immersed in God’s presence and love. I simultaneously laughed and cried and when I opened my mouth to speak, I was singing — singing praises to God in a language I had never learned.

Those were some of the best years of my life. I loved God, I loved my family, I loved everyone. Certainly there were trials, but I had the Spirit of God to uphold me through anything, or so I thought. Since my Baptist pastor did not believe in the gifts of the Spirit, I soon moved my membership to an Assembly of God. After a while, I came to believe that as a child of God, I had the “right” to walk always in divine health and material prosperity. With God as my Father, I believed nothing evil could touch me. I was satisfied that I had found the fullness of God and was convinced I was beyond reproach. I still avidly read Scripture, but I must have missed St. Paul’s warning: “Therefore let any one who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Cor. 10:12). Did God betray me? There was a major fall in store for me and when it hit, the entire structure of my new life was shattered.

For six years Melvin and I had prayed for a child. I had my two children from my first marriage with me only on weekends. When Melvin’s brother had been tragically killed two years before, we adopted his 3-year-old son. But Melvin desperately wanted a child of his own. One Wednesday evening as I stood praising God at the end of a worship service, I felt a sudden pain in my lower abdomen. I “rebuked” it, as I had been taught. But nothing happened. In fact, the pain grew worse. I went forward to the altar and asked two friends to help pray for my healing. We prayed and prayed. Still the pain worsened. The pastor was closing the church, so seven friends and I went to one of their homes, where we continued to pray and rebuke the pain in my abdomen. Still it did not yield. Finally I asked someone to take me to the hospital. I was experiencing my second tubal pregnancy. The tube burst and immediate surgery was required to save my life. Nothing that was tried could save my baby. I was devastated. Not only had my faith failed to heal my body, but it was now evident that I would never have another child, and my husband would never have one of his own — at least not with me.

As soon as I was released from the hospital, I was back in church, just in time to hear a sermon I will never forget. “Anyone who claims to be a Christian,” the preacher roared, “and would willingly go into a hospital and let someone cut on them with a knife is deluded!” I sat through the remainder of that sermon about “true faith,” but when it ended, I left that church, never to return. I wasn’t sure whether their theology was skewed or I had just utterly failed, but it put me into a tailspin. What had it all meant?, I wondered. Was what happened to me really due to a lack of faith? Was it my own fault? What could I have done differently? Or could all I had previously experienced — all the joy in praying, the warm feelings, the power I felt in “rebuking” sickness and evil, and speaking in “tongues” — could all that have been nothing more than wishful thinking?

I never spoke to that pastor again and my friends just didn’t seem to have the answers I needed. I soon stopped reading Scripture and stopped praying. I felt God had betrayed me, and I had no idea where to turn. I still believed in Him. I still believed in the gospel, but I no longer knew what it meant for me, and frankly, I was no longer inclined to find out.

I left my husband and found my mother. Melvin soon returned to his excessive drinking and abuse. My faith was shattered, but a spark of self-esteem remained. For the first time in my life, I felt I could make it on my own. Though I made far too little money to support myself in the manner to which I had grown accustomed, that no longer mattered. All I wanted was a little peace. I knew I would rather live in a hole in a wall in peace, than to continue the nearly constant battles with my husband. It was not easy to admit to another failure, but after 13 years in my second marriage, I left Melvin and obtained a second divorce.

Three years later, God gave me one of the greatest gifts I would ever receive from Him, my current husband, Ed. Though I had turned my back on Him, Christ had not abandoned me. Not long after my marriage to Ed, a series of “coincidences” began to occur in my life that made it impossible for me to ignore Christ and His full gospel any longer. My friend Judy, a Catholic with whom I had never discussed God or religion, unexpectedly gave me a book for my 43rd birthday. One glance at the cover of the book made me question her sanity. The book was about apparitions of the Virgin Mary, and the cover bore her picture. Though I knew nothing about apparitions, I had strong convictions about the Virgin Mary. I knew she had existed and I knew she’d given birth to our Lord, but apart from that, I’d rarely given her a second thought, except to condemn Catholics for “worshipping” her.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Judy said as I held the book in my hand, looking incredulously at its cover. “It’s . . . spiritual.” I was polite. “Oh, I like spiritual books,” I said, all the while wondering what could ever have possessed anyone to give me a book about Mary. My being polite was a big mistake. It opened the door for Judy to spend the next hour-and-a-half telling me all about her new and wonderful relationship with the Virgin Mary. She told me Mary had become her dearest friend and closest confidante. I thought she’d gone over the edge. “Lord, help her,” I prayed. But I reluctantly accepted the book and out of curiosity, went home and began to read it.

Almost immediately, I felt the Holy Spirit move in my heart for the first time in years. I continued to read, and soon sensed Christ asking me to open my heart to His mother. My life was not such a mess as it had been when I first began to seek the Lord. Considering my past mistakes, I was relatively happy and successful. I hadn’t consciously felt a need for anything more. But God in His infinite wisdom and mercy stirred again in me that lifelong yearning to know Him in His fullness. In my hands that day was the answer. How better to learn the “full gospel” than from the very Mother of God? Who could more effectively lead me to the fullness of Christ than the human being who carried our Lord in her womb, nourished Him at her breast and lived physically and intimately with Him every moment of His life — the one who not only bore witness to the Word, but actually bore the Word? “And immediately something like scales fell…” 

I finished the book Judy gave me and proceeded to read everything I could get my hands on about apparitions and visions of the Blessed Mother. I devoured anything I could find regarding Fatima. I came to believe there was a profound message behind these Marian apparitions. “There will never be peace for individuals or mankind until you turn your hearts back to your Creator,” Mary seemed to be saying. “God loves you. Repent and pray for your own conversion, and for the conversion of the world.” I began to do just that, and many of my misconceptions about Catholicism were soon unmasked. Catholics didn’t worship Mary, I realized. They were devoted to her as the Mother of Christ. They reverenced Mary as the first Christian. They embraced Christ’s precious gift from the Cross — the gift of His mother to His body, the Church (cf. John 19:25-27). Statues of Mary in Catholic churches were no more “false idols” than were the pictures of my beloved husband and children in my home. 

I fell in love with my spiritual mother. I studied the Roman Catholic Faith. I read books by Scott Hahn, Alan Schreck, Karl Keating, Mark Shea, Patrick Madrid and Thomas Howard. I reread chapter six of the Gospel of John. “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life in you,” Christ said to the skeptical Jews. I realized Holy Communion could be much more than symbolic of the Last Supper. By the power of the Holy Spirit in the Catholic Mass, Christ is truly present and imparts His life through the bread and wine. 

While wrestling with the Catholic meaning of the communion of saints, Christ’s words to the Sadducees in Matthew 22:31-32 came to life. “Have you not read what was said to you by God, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not God of the dead, but of the living.” It excited me to learn that the saints who lived before us had not been cut off from the Body of Christ just because they had died. I was as free to ask any of them to pray for me as I was to ask anyone here on earth. As I learned more about our covenant relationship with God, infant baptism took on a whole new meaning. Why wouldn’t our Father provide a means for our newborn children to enter that relationship, just as He had for the Jews in circumcision? In direct contrast to what I’d previously believed, I found Catholics had an objective faith totally absent from any other church I’d attended. I learned God always imparts His grace through the sacraments, regardless of the recipient’s faith. Sure, faith was necessary for the sacramental grace to flourish, but it was God Who acted first, not man.

“Catholics don’t believe in reading the Bible,” I’d been taught. But when I began to attend Mass, I heard far more Scripture read at every service than I had ever heard at any Protestant church.

“No priest can forgive sin,” I’d previously believed. But if Christ were present on earth, would I choose to sit in my own home and confess mentally to Him, hoping and praying I’d been forgiven? Or would I go to Him in person and hear the words of forgiveness directly from His mouth? That is exactly the reassurance the sacrament of reconciliation offers, I realized. Christ is indeed present and available to forgive sin, in His Body the Church, and in His representatives, the priests. It all began to make sense, and it was all found in the Catholic Church, the one Church on earth I had believed I would never enter. Much to my surprise, everything I learned about the Catholic Church expanded and enriched my faith, but I continued to have one major concern. Would I have to give up my belief in the baptism and gifts of the Holy Spirit in order to become Catholic? One final obstacle to the fullness of truth and grace.

I was still struggling with that dilemma when Ed and I attended a Marriage Encounter weekend (I’m currently going through the process prescribed by the Church of having my marriage situation regularized). At the closing Mass, the couples formed a circle as Father Tom Griffith distributed Holy Communion. Having not yet committed to or been accepted into the Catholic Church, I gently shook my head when Father Tom came to me. Rather than passing on to the next person, he stopped, laid hands on Ed and me, and prayed. When Father Tom prayed, I felt so overwhelmed by the power of the Holy Spirit that my knees grew weak and I nearly fell over. I was astonished. I had never believed a Catholic priest could pray with such power. I was delighted to discover the Holy Spirit was indeed alive and well in at least some members of the Catholic Church.

Having come this far in my journey toward Catholicism, I had to know immediately what my own parish priest believed about the baptism and gifts of the Spirit. “Is it okay for a Catholic to believe in the baptism and gifts of the Holy Spirit?” I nervously asked Father Tony Nugent. “Of course!” he responded. “Though we receive the Holy Spirit at baptism, we don’t always experience a full release of the power of the Spirit until much later,” he continued, relating his own experience of “the full release of the Spirit” as an adult priest. “Praise God,” I gasped. Relieved and encouraged by his incredible response, I poured out my soul. I told Father Tony all about my previous spiritual experiences, including the one that had led me to abandon my faith in God. “Do you believe it is always God’s will to heal?” I asked. “Yes,” he responded. “But He may not always heal in the way we want or expect. If God had granted you the physical healing you sought that day, you would not be here with me today,” he said, assuring me I was on the right path. “He healed you spiritually instead.”

In that moment, I recalled Romans 8:28: “We know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.” What had seemed to be the worst experience of my life, God had worked for my ultimate good. Another enormous burden was lifted from my soul. Finally, I knew I had it all. I had a loving Heavenly Father Who called me out of darkness and offered me life through the Body and Blood of His only begotten Son, nearly 2,000 years ago in the crucifixion, and today in the Holy Eucharist. I had the Son, Who humbled Himself, became man and was obedient unto death to give the power of the Holy Spirit to His Body, the Church. I had the Holy Spirit, Who enlightens, cleanses and empowers. I had His spouse, my spiritual mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary, to show me the way. I had Christ’s Church, built upon the rock, led by the Holy Spirit into all truth and against which the gates of hell will never prevail. And within that Church, I had priests and the fellowship of a group of believers who embraced both the gifts of the Holy Spirit and devotion to our Blessed Mother. At last, the full gospel was mine.

All Information Highways lead to Rome

By Diane Kamer

A cradle Catholic, I’d spent my early years in an Irish-American ghetto in inner-city Boston. Here, during the pious ’50s, I’d developed an awed fascination with Catholic culture. I loved its mysterious milieu: the statues, votive candles and stained glass…the Latin hymns, May processions and novenas…the dimly-lit churches filled with incense during High Mass and Benediction. I eagerly read Lives of the Saints, borrowed from the public library’s bookmobile. And like many little girls of that era, I dreamed of becoming a nun.

But after we moved to the suburbs when I was eight, the Catholic influence faded. My mom, who’d always inclined toward skepticism, gradually withdrew from parish involvement. By my teens, I too had become a skeptic. I stopped attending Mass and drifted into unreflecting agnosticism. Then, in my late teens, something happened. After a disastrous semester at an “experimental” college, I was living at home, listlessly looking for a job. On weekend nights, my hippie friends and I hung out at a “coffeehouse” sponsored by the local Congregational church. Soon several friends invited me to a Bible study at the home of a local lady who’d helped organize the coffeehouse. I had nothing better to do, so I tagged along. In the weeks that followed, as we plowed through the Synoptic Gospels, I found myself powerfully attracted to Jesus. I argued, balked, objected; but I kept coming back for more. Finally, our hostess took us for an overnight trip to a Christian coffeehouse in western Massachusetts. There, when the youth ministers asked if I was ready to receive Jesus, I surprised myself by saying yes. The next morning, on the trip back home, I felt elated, freed. I knew little about the faith I’d just embraced, but I did know I’d passed a turning point. Everything seemed fresh and new. A few months later, when I returned to college, I discovered that some of my classmates had also “accepted Jesus.” But after flirting with Pentecostalism, these friends had hankered for a richer, more liturgical tradition. Now they were attending a local “high church” Episcopal parish. Under their influence, I too journeyed from Fundamentalism to Anglicanism — and eventually back to Catholicism.

Near the outset of my return to the Catholic Church, I received the “Baptism of the Holy Spirit” at a Full Gospel Businessmen’s Meeting. I began praying in tongues, and soon I was involved heavily in the local Catholic charismatic renewal. Unfortunately, my grasp of Catholic spirituality was weak. Although I was studying medieval history, I knew and cared little about prayer traditions that predated Vatican II. Caught up in the post-conciliar spirit, I neglected the Rosary and other age-old devotions in favor of more spontaneous worship. And, hungry for a deeper experience of God, I often focused on “feelings” — what the mystics call “consolations” — rather than on Jesus Himself. After college, back in big, impersonal Boston, I hung onto my faith for a while. But gradually, under the pressure of the sexual revolution, I abandoned both my beliefs and my chastity. I remember once sitting in the passenger seat as a colleague with whom I was carpooling raced helter-skelter down Route 128. “We’re going to crash,” I thought, “and I’m going to die in mortal sin.” The thought scared me — but not enough to drive me back to Confession.

Ironically, I reached a low point during my mid-20s, while I was studying Church history at Harvard Divinity School. I suppose I must have still believed something — otherwise, why study Church history? — but I certainly didn’t live my faith. I spent only a year at Harvard before deciding to rejoin the real world. But the Lord was accomplishing His will in me even then, for at Harvard, I met the man who would eventually become my husband. Steve was working toward his doctorate in Byzantine history at Harvard’s Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. We took a class together, then lost touch. A year after I’d left school, we ran into each other outside the subway kiosk in the center of Harvard Square. We exchanged phone numbers, then launched a stormy dating relationship. Some months later, we moved in together and set up house. In fall 1980, while I was working at a well-known Boston publishing house, I became pregnant. At the time, Steve was earning scanty wages as a non-resident tutor at Harvard’s Leverett House. I was making nearly as little at my publishing job. Depressed and anxious about my career, I opted for abortion. Steve accompanied me to the feminist-run clinic and held my hand as I writhed in pain during the agonizing suction procedure. Afterward, I felt no remorse, only relief. It would be years before I would face the consequences of my “choice.”

Still, the Lord refused to give up on me. Even as I persisted in terrible sin, He kept drawing me gently to Himself. A year or so later, I formally joined the Episcopal Church. Here, I thought, I’d find Catholic ritual and richness, without Catholicism’s “rigid” moral strictures. Translation: I could be an Episcopalian in good standing and still live with my boyfriend. In 1982, Steve and I were married in an Episcopalian ceremony at Harvard’s Memorial Church. The following summer, we headed down to rural northwest Louisiana, where Steve had taken a teaching job. Over the next six or seven years, we moved up and down the East Coast: first to north-central Vermont, then to southern Vermont, then back south to North Carolina. Early on, we’d agreed to remain “childless by choice,” and through the years, we consistently practiced birth control — a barrier method, the diaphragm, since I was afraid of the Pill. Off and on, we kept attending Episcopal churches. Sometimes, fed up with politically-correct Anglican theology, we’d wander into the local Catholic church. Yet we always felt like interlopers. Usually I would shuffle down the aisle at Communion time. But I’d make sure to receive the Sacred Host from the lay Eucharistic minister, not from the priest. Superstitiously, I feared that the priest could look into my soul and see my mortal sin — my past abortion and my present contraceptive practices. Despite my outward bravado, I felt inner shame. Even when I curtly told a Catholic friend that her objections to birth control were “hogwash,” deep down inside, I knew I was sinning. By the time we settled down near Winston-Salem, N.C., I knew I couldn’t return to Anglicanism. Steve and I both felt turned off by our Episcopal Church experiences. We were tired of watered-down, left-wing teaching. But where could we go from there?

Steve started exploring Evangelicalism — an easy thing to do here in the Carolina Piedmont, a Southern Baptist stronghold. But while I too felt the lure of Baptist theology — get saved once, and you’re set — I couldn’t be comfortable in a stark, bare church, with no liturgy or tradition. During an illness, Steve experienced a profound conversion to Jesus. He began avidly reading the Bible and listening to Evangelical radio. One day he was struck by Christ’s words, “Whoever receives a little child for My sake, receives Me.” Soon afterward, on New Year’s Day, he announced that we could try to conceive. I was overjoyed. At age 40, I felt none of my earlier aversion to motherhood. Now I yearned for a baby. I was suffering from undiagnosed Graves’ Disease — overactive thyroid — so it took me awhile to get pregnant. But finally, that November, I noticed unmistakable symptoms. Then a home pregnancy test turned out positive. Memories of my abortion flooded my mind and heart. Deeply penitent, I felt unworthy of this precious new gift the Lord had graciously given me. I started longing to go back to Confession. At the time, we were attending a tiny Catholic mission church not too far from our backwoods home. Largely run by its lay members, it was extremely “laid back.” No stained glass, no kneelers. No rigorous moral demands. Just plenty of feel-good fellowship.

During the Advent penance service, I made my first Confession in at least 15 years. Father listened sympathetically as I confessed the abortion. Then I hesitantly brought up the issue of artificial birth control. I knew Steve planned to return to contraception once I’d delivered the baby. How could I honestly confess something I fully intended to keep doing? Father let me off the hook. Natural Family Planning, he said, was the Church’s “ideal,” but we can’t always live up to ideals. Besides, my relationship with Steve was of prime importance. The Lord didn’t want us bickering over birth control. If we honestly couldn’t abstain during fertile times, so be it. Artificial contraception, he implied, was the lesser of two evils, preferable to marital discord. I left Confession convinced I could keep using the diaphragm. Even in retrospect, however, I can’t fully blame Father for this. He had told me what I wanted to hear, but it was my fault for wanting to hear it. Now I was “officially” back in the Catholic Church, but I still didn’t feel at home. My prayer life was a mess. I couldn’t connect with God. My faith seemed to make little or no difference in my life. Why couldn’t I live like a “new creature,” in the joy, peace and freedom of the Lord? This question haunted me. Yet it never occurred to me that the answer was my disobedience. Like so many others, I’d become a cafeteria Catholic. Deep inside, I knew better, but I just couldn’t bring myself to submit wholeheartedly to Church teaching. Unfortunately, Steve felt even more strongly than I that it was okay to pick and choose among Catholic beliefs. He pooh-poohed my suggestion that perhaps we should play by the rules — all the rules — rather than decide for ourselves which ones to obey.

Again, though, I have only myself to blame. Steve’s views suited my own inclinations, so I took the path of least resistance. Our son John Michael was born in July 1992, on the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. As soon as my fertility returned, I went back to the diaphragm. But now I was a mother, and what a difference that made. When I rocked my baby in my arms and lost myself in his gaze, I gained a whole new perspective on birth control. Who was I to roadblock the miracle of life? How dare I thwart the Creator? Gradually, I began to believe contraception was wrong. Torn between Steve and God, I started taking secret chances. Sometimes I “forgot” to apply spermicide to the diaphragm. Occasionally, I just plain “forgot” the diaphragm. I figured at my age, the risk of conception was low. Yet 19 months later, I was pregnant again. Our son Paul Stephen was born in October 1994. Once more, I returned to the diaphragm, but this time with strong reluctance. I began to pray that Steve would agree to Natural Family Planning (NFP). Yet I had little hope of this. Every time I broached the subject, he flatly refused. And I do mean flatly!

It was in this context that I began to explore cyberspace. At the time, I was still nursing Paul off and on, although I’d returned to my copywriting job at a local advertising agency. In the evenings, I’d sit at the computer, cradling Paul in one arm as he placidly nursed. With the other hand, I’d bang out e-mail notes and bulletin board messages. Still a Net novice, I started with the easy stuff: America Online’s message boards. Right away, I delved into the Religion and Culture forum, where I discovered Christianity Online. But after a few forays into cyber-Evangelicalism, I gravitated toward the Catholic boards. Even at the time, I felt the Holy Spirit’s powerful pull toward the true Faith. From the start, the Catholic message boards shocked me, for they were crowded with postings from Catholics half my age. Here were these hip Gen-Xers eagerly discussing theology and arguing doctrinal fine points. But that wasn’t the most startling part. No. What really shook me was their orthodoxy. At our little mission church, with its ’60s-redux atmosphere, orthodoxy was considered passe. Yet these youngsters took it for granted. For them, Catholicism was cool. They weren’t talking about cafeteria Catholicism, however, with its tendency to throw out the baby with the post-conciliar bathwater. They meant the genuine article, complete with total loyalty to the Magisterium and absolute submission to Church authority.

Sick of their parents’ compromises, these kids were busy recovering the heritage they’d lost: the ancient devotions and prayers, the Eucharistic and Marian piety. Browsing among their messages, I could feel the Catholic atmosphere of my childhood and sense the awesome mystery of our Faith. Whatever these youngsters had, I wanted it. I craved a strong, sinewy alternative to theological mush. I longed to adore God totally and obey Him unreservedly. With a sense of exultant freedom, I realized I didn’t have to buy into the tepid liberal Catholicism favored by my Baby Boom peers. In fact, the liberal boomers were behind the curve. Orthodoxy was back in style. I began to post messages agreeing with the more orthodox postings. I found myself defending positions I didn’t even know I held — the necessity of both faith and works for salvation; the crucial role of Mary. Yet while I did so, I had a nagging sense that I was an impostor. After all, I myself was not an orthodox Catholic in good standing. What would my cyber-chums say, I wondered, if they knew I still practiced birth control? That’s when I ran smack into Blessed Faustina.

I was browsing through AOL’s Catholic message boards one evening, when one subject line caught my eye: “Divine Mercy.” Well, I certainly needed that. I’d always had a hard time believing God truly loved me. I clicked on the subject line, and the message bloomed open. As I scanned it, I began to breathe faster. Here, allegedly, were the actual words of Jesus, spoken in private revelation to a little Polish nun more than 60 years ago. “I am Love and Mercy itself,” He had reportedly told Blessed Faustina. “Let the weak, sinful soul have no fear to approach Me, for even if it had more sins than there are grains of sand in the world, all would be drowned in the unmeasurable depths of My mercy.” Could it be true? Could Jesus love me so ardently? I knew the Gospel spoke of Our Lord’s endless mercy, but somehow I didn’t believe it. The words were so familiar, they hardly registered. Besides, it seemed different people could interpret them different ways. The local Evangelicals, for instance, often promoted the Calvinist view that God washes His hands of hardened sinners. After all, He has predestined the reprobates to wrath, right?

On the conscious level, I rejected Calvinism, yet this fearful view of God still haunted me. What if it was correct? What if God wasn’t willing to lavish His grace on a persistent sinner like me? Now, suddenly, this fear evaporated. As I re-read the electronic message, I realized God is Love. He yearns to save every soul on earth, and He does everything in His power to draw each one to Himself. It is only we — with our free will — who frustrate Him. We choose hell. As Faustina noted, “God condemns no one.” What a liberating message! Awed, I zinged back an e-mail reply to the young man who’d posted the “Divine Mercy” excerpts: “Wow! Please tell me more!”

Soon the young man and I were corresponding. At his suggestion, I purchased Divine Mercy in My Soul, Blessed Faustina’s diary, recording Our Lord’s words to her. I read it cover to cover and still hungered for more. So I began praying a novena consisting of the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. (Recited on ordinary Rosary beads, the Chaplet is comprised of two basic prayers: “Eternal Father, I offer You the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, of Your dearly beloved Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world,” and “For the sake of His Sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.”) One of my novena intentions concerned birth control. As always, I figured my husband would never agree to NFP, yet I prayed for it anyway, just on the off chance he would. At the end of the novena, I once again asked Steve if we could switch to NFP. I fully expected another “No.” To my shock, he said “Yes.” Thrilled, I reported this unexpected response to my cyber-acquaintance. In passing, I mentioned that Steve and I had been practicing contraception, with my confessor’s apparent okay. In my own defense, I stressed that I’d merely been “obeying my husband.” It didn’t occur to me that I was not obliged to obey Steve when his demands contravened faith and morals.

My cyber-acquaintance responded promptly. He was glad Steve and I were no longer contracepting. But he picked up on my stunning ignorance of Church teaching. Sin was sin, he said. We must honestly acknowledge our sin in order to receive Divine Mercy. God can’t forgive a sin we insist isn’t even there. Whew! Just a few months before, such a response would have offended and angered me. But now it convicted me. I realized that — despite my novena prayers — I still regarded NFP as an “option,” rather than something that was required. This was wrong. To experience the freedom I longed for, I must renounce mortal sin entirely. So I did. I even cut the diaphragm into ribbons. That was the beginning of my long spiritual journey back into the bosom of the Church — back to the Eucharist and frequent Confession, to the Rosary and Marian devotion. In the process, my prayer life has blossomed, and my relationship with Jesus has deepened. I feel closer than ever before to His Merciful Sacred Heart. And I feel closer to my neighbor, too, since I can finally see every person through the prism of Christ’s boundless love. I have also discovered the power of redemptive suffering — the joy of offering up hurts and annoyances for the salvation of souls. And I have only scratched the surface. Conversion is a continual process, involving frequent setbacks, spiritual warfare, daily repentance and renewal. But I cannot imagine life any other way. And I can never return to the cafeteria Catholicism that trapped me just a few years ago, before I encountered God’s marvelous mercy in cyberspace.