By Jeri Westerson

“Don’t come back Catholic!” My husband called cheerfully to me as I drove away to the Benedictine Monastery for research. I guffawed. Who me? Catholic? I was a Jew in name only. I called myself an atheist and felt that way. I was raised in the tradition of American Judaism: a lot of religion but no faith. I was content. My life was going well. My marriage was great and we had a smart, loving son.

I’m a writer, but my current novel about medieval monks was foundering. The notion came to me to interview real monks to get a better handle on the main character, and so I got up the nerve to locate a monastery within a day’s drive. I wondered if I would be welcomed, not only for the frivolous purpose of writing a novel, but also because I am a woman and a Jew.

“Of course!” said Abbot Charles of Prince of Peace Abbey in Oceanside, California. “To really get the feel of it, how would you like to stay a few days as our guest?” Immediately I agreed, but worried about being in such an alien environment.

Disturbing reality

It was a long first day, I interviewed the monks, walked the grounds and familiarized myself with the reality of monastic life. But at the end of the day while I readied myself for bed, many ideas ran through my mind. I knew that these men found comfort in their utter devotion to God, and it struck me how completely they surrendered their lives to an idea and a Being that did not exist for me, I considered. What was I missing? Why did I feel so comfortable here and so alien with other Jews and Judaism? There was always something missing in the Old Testament. I couldn’t relate to its message no matter how much I pondered it. This, in itself, was a disturbingly frank revelation. It turned everything I believed about myself on its ear.

But wait a minute, I thought. Wasn’t this supposed to be about monks? When did this become about me?

Over my shoulder there was a metal crucifix on the wall. Years ago, the presence of such symbols would have made me nervous. I wasn’t nervous now. Was it a mature appreciation? Familiarity? Something else? It might have been the place, so quiet and dignified. It was also the monks: confident, certain. There is comfort in that, even to an outsider. It was in the midst of these strained reflections that it happened. It is difficult to describe in feeble human terms and I have tried ever since in many different ways. Plainly, it was this: There was a sudden, distinct feeling of an immense presence coming from outside and all around, but also deep within the empty shell of me. It prodded and pushed from the inside outward. A voice that was not a voice said two humble words, but did not actually use words: Wake up.

Tiny voice inside

In that instant the atheist, the Jew, knew with every ounce of her frail humanity that this voice was that of the Holy Spirit. Quite literally, it scared the hell out of me. I could now see the hollow emptiness with which I live my life; the reason goals, once met, had no real meaning; how one had to keep striving for the next thing, the next rush, and sometimes – though this was not part of my vocabulary at the time – the next sin.

My mind whirred with the incomprehensible. I simply couldn’t be thinking what I was thinking. Was I having a religious experience? Worse, was I having a Christian religious experience? But even back in the Divine Office the next morning, it was becoming difficult staying objective. “Behold the cause of our joy,” the monks chanted in the church, and I could not help but gaze at the modern Byzantine painting of Jesus behind the altar.

The sky was getting brighter through the windows behind the monk’s choir, but I still saw the sparkle of lights in the distance. The playful crows and crickets were loud in the early morning light. “I will hear what the Lord God has to say…”

Mind over heart

I had been an objective observer, documenting, listening and always writing. Yet later at Mass my objective heart and mind were inexplicably opened wide, and in flooded a newness of emotion that I was unable at that time to comprehend. I stood there and wept without understanding, without truly realizing the full magnitude of what the Holy Spirit had done as He slowly drew me in.

On the drive home I wondered what my husband – a Christian in name only – would think about these feelings I was having. I decided to say nothing. I knew I was impressionable and that the feelings would probably dissipate in a month’s time. All would be forgotten like an agreeable dream, and only the sensation of something pleasant would remain.

Reluctant yielding to truth

But to my surprise the feelings were more intense even after that generous month. Like a persistent salesman, God had gotten his foot in the door and now it was pried wide open. I finally confronted my husband. “Umm . . . I’ve been thinking about converting.” Dead space. It’s interesting how many configurations the silent face can go through with all its many muscles. Cautiously, he said, “You know that means accepting Jesus as the Messiah, right?” “Yes. I do. At least I think I do.” And then the next bombshell. “I’m … also thinking about becoming Catholic.” “Catholic?” My husband’s sentiments reflected my own. How could I accept being Roman Catholic? “Do whatever makes you happy, but don’t do it for the wrong reasons,” he cautioned, meaning I shouldn’t get carried away with my love of history and pomp. I had done my research. I knew that the Catholic Church was the apostolic Church, the direct line from the apostles, and all other churches from that. The Catholics also had a Mass every day. That was important. It meant they took it seriously, and now that this had happened to me in the way that it happened, I took it seriously, too.

But, Catholic? I began to re-read the liturgy I had accumulated for research for my book. I started to read the Gospels. A month went by and I realized that the only way to solve this once and for all was to go to Mass and talk to a priest.

I found the nearest Catholic Church, noted its address, and then hesitated. What was I doing? Was I going to turn my back on my ancestors, on all that I had known? Couldn’t I just be inspired to be a better Jew now that I believed in God? But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the ship had sailed. What did I believe?

Struggle of a lost heart

I drove by the church at every opportunity, even if my errand took me in the opposite direction. For a solid month I drove by that church. Finally, I got the nerve to go. I parked on the street, not yet willing to even park my car in the church parking lot. I crept in and sat in the back. The reading that day was from Paul about the conversion of the Jews. All right, already! I said to God. I’m here, aren’t I? And there I was again at Mass, tears of joy streaming down my face as they had been at the Monastery. Joy of the Mass, the words of welcome, the love and openness that I was just beginning to understand to be Jesus.

I went immediately to talk to the priest who, after a neutral conversation, gave me some books. Once home I pored over them. Everyone knows that Catholics are against this and that, but I never before wondered what they were “for”. With all my misconceptions and knowledge of medieval history, I – like many people – still viewed the Church in that medieval, stilted light. I honestly didn’t think with my liberal background that I could accept becoming Catholic. I’d start here, I thought, and then go “church shopping”, find one whose philosophies I could accept.

Thinking man’s religion

I leapt at Bishop Wuerl’s The Teaching of Christ and challenged it. “I bet Catholics don’t believe in this,” I said with some vehemence, and, when I looked it up and saw that they did, I frowned. “Okay. But I bet they don’t believe this.” Again, I was foiled. I read on. I was truly surprised – and incredibly pleased – to discover that the Church is indeed the “thinking man’s” religion.

This was not the Catholic Church I ever heard of. Where had I been? I couldn’t accept everything right away, though. Like faith itself, God reveals slowly, illuminating through experience, waiting for the ripe opportunities for acceptance. Much of it was very hard. It took a complete turnaround in my thinking. I attended daily Mass but had to go further. Growing more comfortable in the new skin of Christianity, I came to long for the Eucharist, but I also came to the realization that I would have to be baptized first. It is the reality of the Jew that he is a Jew at birth. To believe suddenly in Christ is a hurdle in itself. That, in my eyes, made me a Christian irrevocably. I had already been baptized with the Holy Spirit, I thought. All I needed now was a little water.

Old and New Testaments

I saw in the church bulletin something about adult baptism classes. Classes? At first I thought, “Why can’t I just go down to the river and do it?” Yet the more I thought about this physical acknowledgement which most Christians take for granted, I became extremely frightened. Once baptized there was no backing out. This was the Big Commitment. My fear and hesitation only made me realize how unready I was for such a step. My history gathered around me. The voices of my ancestors groaned in my ears. Never had I been so Jewish as when I thought I was giving it up.

But then Deacon Ron, the teacher of my RCIA classes, pointed out that Scripture has two testaments. It’s not that we abandon the old, he said. It’s that the new is the fulfillment of the old.

Finally, the spiritual bath

No wonder I couldn’t embrace the Old Testament before. It wasn’t finished!

Since I had started RCIA late, I was to be baptized at Pentecost. To bind me to this new journey along with the old, I asked my priest if it would be appropriate if I were baptized in my father’s Jewish prayer shawl. He saw no reason against it, and so I waited early in the church by myself, enveloped by my past while hoping in the future.

The baptism itself was startlingly gentle – no thunderclaps. It was receiving the chrism and then the Eucharist that overwhelmed me with emotion. I believe heaven smells like chrism. I could look back with awareness at all the stages of my life like a string of beads and how God led me to the only moment where I could accept him.

I sit in the front pew now, no longer the stranger in the back, and I take Communion with my Catholic brethren. My son was baptized six months after me, and two years later, my husband has expressed an interest in becoming Catholic. Today, I am a lector, a Eucharistic minister to the sick and homebound, the youth choir director, confirmation teacher, and am now in the process of learning to assist in teaching the adults in the RCIA program.

It feels like a lot. Sometimes too much. But I don’t worry. At last, I have faith.

Salamat sa THIS ROCK