I've Found My Tribe

Tim Stanley writes:

There’s a great post doing the rounds on Facebook that deserves to be distributed by missionaries in the streets. It’s written by an American called Max Lindenman and it seeks to answer the question “Why I am a Catholic” in 200 words or less. The Telegraph’s good manners prevents me from reproducing his language exactly, but his conclusion is that he did it because “I’m a screw-up”:

After earning a degree and a half from a third-rate university, I figured I’d never lead a life that fulfilled me, either materially, sexually, or intellectually. And yet, some escapist part of me thinks I’d have fit in just dandy at Versailles.

In the Church, I network with smart people who have tried to introduce me to philosophy, theology, and the works of all sorts of writers … Living simply and asexually, though not necessarily ideal, is no mark of dishonor. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting some nut who walks around fully convinced he is living at Versailles, the Escorial, or in Middle Earth.

In other words, I’ve found my tribe.

Here’s why I stay Catholic: Whenever I find myself wanting to walk out the door, some inner voice tells me, “Nah, stick around. It’s just about to get interesting.” I like to think that’s the voice of God.

This speaks to me. There’s often a presumption – because of our line on sexual morality – that Catholics are prudes and bigots who wouldn’t know a good time if it booked them a room for two with Monica Lewinsky at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. The reality is quite the opposite. Catholicism is a community of sinners seeking grace, taking strength in each other’s company – a sort of Alcoholics Anonymous for screw-ups. As such, I’ve never known an environment more compassionate and comfortably eccentric.

I converted to Catholicism not because I was full of religious chauvinism or intellectual conviction but because it offered hope to someone who was very alone. I was burnt out and mostly drunk. I had struggled to find a church that would help me; all of them seemed either compromised or hopelessly idealistic. Slowly I was drawn into the Catholic community. Here was a place where monks drank beer, priests smoked like chimneys and filthy jokes were at a premium. It wasn’t hypocritical, just human. And behind the humanity was a concern with encountering the divine – made possible by a very practical, step-by-step approach to salvation. Go to Confession, make penance, take Communion at Mass, buy the priest a pint afterwards. As soon as I understood Catholicism, it became second nature. I converted and my soul was saved. I suspect that my life was saved, too.

Since then, I have never once doubted the Truth of the Church’s teachings, but I have struggled to be faithful. If I skip Mass it’s usually because the petty minutiae of the rest of my life distracts me. Things go wrong, hope is lost and it feels like Jack Daniels is the only man who understands me. But something wonderful always draws me back. A few weeks ago, I visited my favourite priest in his rectory. I saw the light glowing under his kitchen door, tasted the smell of Marlboro Reds on my tongue and heard a babble of mad voices discussing what’s wrong and what’s right about this Argentine Pope. I opened the door and walked in to love, knowing that I was returning home to my tribe. The tribe of screw-ups.

Happy Easter and may God bless you and your family.