A COVID Conversion

“With Christian obedience I shall follow what the Bishops, as authentic doctors and teachers of the faith, declare, or what they, as those who govern the Church, establish. I shall also — with due regard for the character and purpose of my institute — faithfully assist the diocesan Bishops, so that the apostolic activity, exercised in the name and by mandate of the Church, may be carried out in communion with the Church.“

— 1989 Oath of Fidelity on
Assuming Office in the Name of the Church

If you had told me a year ago that I was going to be confirmed into the Catholic Church, I’d have laughed at you. Well, perhaps I wouldn’t have laughed, but you probably would have been met with some degree of incredulity. On the other hand, if you had told me the same thing six months ago, I would have been enthusiastic in my agreement. But if you had told me then that my confirmation was going to be delayed until Pentecost as a result of a global pandemic, I probably would have laughed as hard as I would have a year ago for being told I would end up as a Catholic.

As a graduate of the class of 2020, I had ample reason to be upset at the turn of events this past March. It felt like an injustice to have worked so hard for my graduation only for it to be so rudely taken away. Though I understood the necessity of the various safety measures my school (and our society as a whole) began implementing, I loathed the prospect of finishing my classes this spring over Zoom without any fanfare or significant “ritual celebration” with which to mark the beginning of the next season of my life. What cut deepest, however, was not the postponement of my graduation. Though irksome, I figured I could get over myself about the inconvenience and move on with my life without the pomp and circumstance. When I heard that Mass would only be held privately, though, I felt specially betrayed.
 


Over the course of my long journey to Catholicism, I had come to a very high understanding of the Eucharist. During my time as a catechumen, I especially devoted myself to the recognition of the true presence of Christ—body, blood, soul, and divinity—in the sacrament. Though I dared not partake until I was confirmed, my appetite had been whetted, and there seemed to me nothing I looked forward to more than the moment when I would be able to receive our Lord myself. So, once I heard that public Mass was being suspended, I was beyond disappointed, and the longer I dwelt on it, the angrier I became. Why did this have to happen right as I was going to enter the Church? And why should the Church follow suit amidst all the fear of our culture? Shouldn’t we have been seeking to gather together  more in light of the pandemic?

Eventually, such frustrations began to boil over into some less-than-respectful questions. “Is the true Body and Blood of our Lord contaminable? Are all these Catholics really so scared of getting physically ill that they would deprive themselves of the Eucharist? And what about the bishops? Are they scared? Even if one were to physically die from COVID as a result of going to Mass, don’t Catholics believe that the spiritual needs met at Mass are far more important than the physical health risked?” In wrestling with these issues, I came to seriously reconsider my conversion to Catholicism. I wasn’t keen on joining a Church that (seemingly) had such spineless leadership.
 


Fortunately, my borderline-slanderous attitude was checked by an online sermon which called for submission to Church leadership. The priest explained that God was fully in control of not only the pandemic, but the Church as well, and that, ultimately, the suspension of public Mass was within God’s power to prevent, if He had wanted. That little sermon made me pause, and begin to rethink my attitude towards the whole situation. It also challenged me to something which I had been theretofore neglectful of: prayer.
         
As I began to pray about the issue, I began to take a few clumsy steps towards reconciling the things I had been taught of the Church on the one hand, and the actions of that same Church on the other. I had recently read Aquinas’s discussion on the distinction between truths belonging to faith and truths belonging to reason. Aquinas says that truths of reason are believed because we can “see” them to be true, while truths of faith are believed because we “hear” that they are true from God Himself. Faith, then, brings with it absolute certainty, even if we cannot apprehend the truth we are certain of firsthand.
        
This, in turn, reminded me of Chesterton’s chapter in  Orthodoxy where he discusses the “paradoxes of Christianity”. Chesterton explains that, historically, the Church has always held polar extremes side-by-side, in stark contrast to each other. She has both fierce warriors and ardent pacifists, firebrand preachers and meek confessors, celibate monks and fertile mothers. For Chesterton, this defining characteristic of the Church challenges every extreme vice that man could fall into with an equally extreme virtue.



In reflecting upon these things, it became clear to me that I had been going about the issue all wrong. Aquinas taught me that I was trying to make logical sense of two truths of faith—the truth of the presence of Christ in the Eucharist on the one hand, and the truth that God is truly guiding the Church on the other. Rather than trying to make some sort of logical connection between the apparent contradictories, I began to realize I needed to deepen my faith in  both truths. Their paradoxical nature wasn’t a bad thing—in fact, per Chesterton, it was a sign that  I was deformed. I had yet to experience the Eucharist for myself; how could I hope to truly appreciate it? I needed to cultivate a fidelity to the hierarchy of the Church that Christ established; what better opportunity to practice submission than when I really didn’t want to?

These ideas really helped to reshape my attitude towards the situation. Rather than trying to formulate  my opinion on the Church’s internal affairs (like the arrogant little catechumen I was), I began to pray for faith and the ability to abide with the tension. And—lo and behold!—my humility and teachability were well rewarded. Most immediately, my anger and frustration at the Church hierarchy gave way to a twofold gratitude; a gratitude that there are people to lead Christ’s flock with the help of the Holy Spirit—and that I wasn’t the one that had to do the leading! And so I began to work my fledgling Catholic muscles and practice the humility and grateful submission that so many saints before me have emulated.

But the change of heart wasn’t the only thing that happened. I took the opportunity to regularly attended my parish’s online services (including my first Triduum!). In the process, I learned so much more about the Church than I could have otherwise. I learned about other times in history where devout Catholics were unable to celebrate Mass regularly, such as during the Crusades or as new missions were started to foreign people groups. This knowledge allowed me to gain a much bigger perspective on things, and showed me just how narrow-minded I had been in my understanding of Catholicism. (And now I’ll be able to learn even more, now that I’ve been given the opportunity to work with the Alcuin Institute!)



To say that the past few months have been a bit unusual would be a gross understatement. Despite this, they’ve presented me with a tremendous opportunity to grow in my faith and my appreciation of the Church. In a year’s time, if you were to tell me that this season has been one of the most crucial for developing my Catholic faith, I’d like to think I’d laugh—but this time in agreement.