[Note from Magdalene: In other words, it was Vatican II and the post-conciliar church that inevitably led her to embrace this messed up belief system].


Why I Am Still A Catholic
by Suzanne Camino
 
gαy marriage? I'm all for it. Women priests? We need them desperately. Married clergy? It's time. Just war? Oxymoronic, from a Christian perspective.

And yet here I am, in the wake of the sɛҳuąƖ abuse scandals, in the shadow of politicians denied the body of Christ for their political stands, with the knowledge that some of my weekly tithe is being used to promote legislation that denies civil rights to ɧoɱosɛҳųαƖs, recommitting to the Catholic faith of my childhood and to the Catholic Church itself, with its looming, maddening, dangerous flaws. A gαy friend, not Catholic, asks politely a question that boils down to 'How could you?'

What's the deal? Why not find a nice, progressive Episcopal church where my young daughter would see women in leadership roles and where I could support the ongoing realization of the civil and human rights issues close to my heart?

Blame Pope John XXIII. He opened the first session of Vatican II on Oct. 11, 1962. The modern church and I were born in the same week. 'Let's open the windows,' Pope John famously said, and as I grew I watched the windows fly open and I took for granted the fresh air blowing in. I watched my young, devout parents embrace the new Mass, the new music, and the new architecture that focused on community, on inclusiveness, on the participation of the laity.

I went to catechism classes where they told me that being Catholic was about serving the poor and seeing Jesus in every suffering person. 'If you want peace, work for justice,' were the oft-quoted words of Pope Paul VI, the pope we prayed for and listened to while I was in elementary and junior high school.

Copies of the Catholic Worker newspaper were distributed in the vestibules of the conservative Midwestern parishes we belonged to as I was growing up. I learned that the Catholic faith that moved Dorothy Day to action was the same faith that I should be nurturing for myself. The local Catholic newspaper featured stories of brave young women working with victims of political violence in El Salvador, among them Jean Donovan and Dorothy Kazel, women we would eventually mourn and revere as martyrs and models of Christian faith at work in the world.

This was the Catholic Church I learned. It was a church that celebrated the reforms of Vatican II, that reached out toward other faiths, that focused on the needs of the poor and the oppressed, that looked at abortion as a social problem to be approached with great compassion and in the much larger context of the 'seamless garment' of respect for all human life, at every stage. This was a church where women were emerging from their invisible, supportive roles to become leaders, to preach the gospel from the pulpit, to offer the body of Christ to communicants, and to head the newly-empowered parish councils. It was a church determined to keep pace with the times and there was every evidence that the pace would continue.

Sometime after college I noticed that going to church was not the same experience it had been, and I started on the long, frustrating faith journey that led in a painful circle back to where I started. I stumbled upon an unusual Catholic parish, one where the commitment to community and social justice and vibrant liturgy were immediately tangible, where the pastor teaches that Jesus' way is a way of nonviolence and service to the poor, that women should be allowed to answer's God¹s call to the priesthood, and that ɧoɱosɛҳųαƖ Catholics must find a way to integrate their sɛҳuąƖity into their lives by consulting not only official church teachings, but their own prayer-informed consciences.

I felt immediately at home. I didn't know exactly why. Months later it hit me: This was what my catechism teachers, my pastors, and my own experience of church--the mainstream Catholic church-- had led me to expect. I knew that this congregation and their pastor would be considered radical Catholics by today's standards, but I couldn't stop thinking that what I observed there seemed so familiar and so beautifully commonsensical. Jesus was a nonviolent radical who served the poor and welcomed everyone to his table, and these people were behaving, quite reasonably, like his followers. Their celebration, their focus and their service to others are rooted in the history of the Church, a history that includes St. Francis, Pope John XXIII, Pope Paul VI, Dorothy Day, Archbishop Oscar Romero, Sister Helen Prejean, Kathy Kelly and Sister Dorothy Stang. This is the Church to which I am recommitted, the one I hold in my vision, the one I will pray for and work towards.

I didn't move away from the church; the church moved away from itself, and damned if I am going to let it get away. As one of the nuns at my new parish told me, following a frustrating series of decisions by the church hierarchy, 'Just because they're in charge doesn't mean it isn't our church too.' Amen, sister.

Suzanne Camino is a musicologist and piano teacher in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She is a member of St. Leo Parish in Detroit.
 

I didn't move away from the church; the church moved away from itself...

On the face of it, this is true - but we all know it is impossible.

So, one must ask:

If the impossible seems to have occurred, what is the most reasonable explanation?