Scott began to study liturgy more and made interesting changes in our order of worship. We changed to weekly communion, which, for a Presbyterian church, is rather unusual. Though we received communion more often, we still believed it was only a symbolic representation of Christ’s sacrifice and nothing more. However, Scott’s study in the Gospel of John and Hebrews in preparation for classes and sermons was giving him new questions to ponder, which, at times, were unsettling to him.
Scott gained many insights from the early Church Fathers, some of which he shared in his sermons. This was rather unexpected for both of us, because we had hardly ever read the early Church Fathers when we were in seminary. In fact, in our senior year we had complained loudly to friends about possible creeping Romanism when a course was offered by an Anglican priest on the early Church Fathers. Yet here was Scott quoting them in sermons!
One night Scott came out of his study and said, “Kimberly, I have to be honest. You know some of the questions I’m wrestling with. I don’t know how long we are going to be Presbyterians. We may become Episcopalians.”
I sank into a chair in the living room and began to cry. I thought: If I’d wanted to be Episcopalian, I’d have married one! And I didn’t want to be Episcopalian. How far was Scott going to go on this “pilgrimage”? I knew one thing for sure, he didn’t even think thoughtful Catholics could be Christians, so there was no chance that could happen.
And then came that fateful night when a student (an ex-Catholic, to boot) asked, “Where does the Bible teach sola scriptura?”
As Scott groped for an answer to give this young man, he shared with me his primary concern that the split between Protestants and Catholics at the time of the Reformation was based on two major tenets: We are justified by faith alone, and our authority is Scripture alone. Scott and I had already studied the issue of justification and no longer subscribed to the Protestant conception. But what if the authority of Scripture alone was not scriptural? What would that mean?
At the end of the academic year, the board of the seminary asked Scott to be dean. Dean! At the age of twenty-six! Yet Scott turned down this wonderful offer. He said he was not sure he could continue to be a pastor right then either because he had so many important and unanswered questions. He needed a place where he could study these issues that were troubling him so much, so that he could teach with integrity, convinced from the Word of God that he was teaching truth.
Though this was difficult to hear, I appreciated his integrity. No question about it—he had to be able to face Christ on Judgment Day and answer why he had taught what he had taught. This decision drove us to our knees.
Through much prayer we decided to return to our college town, Grove City. It was after we had decided to go—and even rented a house there—that the president of the college called Scott and offered him a position. We took this as a sign of God’s blessing on our decision to return to Grove City, and with that we packed our bags and left dear friends to begin a new phase of our family’s life.
Scott, Kimberly and Michael (age three months). March, 1983.
5
Scott’s Search for the Church
Scott:
We decided to return to the college town where we had met. We wanted to plant our family in a nice, small town where we knew many people, while I hoped to find a job that would leave my evenings free to study the difficult issues that were troubling me.
I accepted an offer to serve as assistant to the president of Grove City College. It was an ideal job. I worked nine-to-five in the administration, while serving as a part-time guest instructor in the theology department, teaching one course each semester. It left me with my evenings free for study.
One of my former college professors asked why we were moving back to town. He had heard that I had been a pastor of a growing church in Virginia, along with teaching at a local seminary. He was baffled by our move. I suggested that life around the D.C. beltway was too fast-paced. We wanted to raise a family. . . . I couldn’t tell him all the reasons why—because I still wasn’t sure myself.
Shortly after our move, on a visit to my in-laws in Cincinnati, I found a used bookstore that had bought out the library of a deceased priest who was also a well-known Scripture scholar. Over the next two years, I walked away with about thirty boxes of his theology books. I began intensively devouring these for five, six, sometimes even seven hours at night. I was able to get through at least two hundred books. For the first time, I was hearing Catholicism from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.
Sometimes, in the evening, I would play a game with Kimberly that I called “Name That Theologian”. On one occasion, I read a section from Vatican II and asked her, “Who is the author?”
She said, “That sounds like one of your sermons back in Virginia. You don’t know how much I miss hearing you preach!”
“That wasn’t me. That was Vatican II. Can you believe it?”
“I don’t want to hear that”, was her only reply.
I continued reading all kinds of books about Catholic theology. One evening I stopped in the dining room en route to my study and said, “Kimberly, I have to be honest. I’m reading a lot of Catholic books these days, and I think God might be calling me into the Catholic Church.”
To which Kimberly quickly replied, “Can’t we become Episcopalians?” Apparently there was something more dreaded than becoming Episcopalian—anything but Catholic.
I went to a Byzantine Catholic seminary just to attend their vespers liturgy. It wasn’t a Mass; it was just prayer, with all the prostrations, incense and icons, the smells and the bells. When it was over, a seminarian asked me, “What do you think?” I simply muttered, “Now I know why God gave me a body: to worship the Lord with his people in liturgy.”
I drove back home, searching and asking God for help. I still hoped to find one fatal flaw that would keep me from “swimming the Tiber”, as we say, or from “popeing”.
So I started looking into Orthodoxy. I met with Peter Gilquist, an evangelical convert to Antiochene Orthodoxy, to hear why he chose Orthodoxy over Rome. His reasons reinforced my sense that Protestantism was wrong; but I also thought that his defense of Orthodoxy over Catholicism was unsatisfying and superficial. Upon closer examination, I found the various Orthodox churches to be hopelessly divided among themselves, similar to the Protestants, except that the Orthodox were split along the lines of ethnic nationalisms; there were Orthodox bodies that called themselves Greek, Russian, Ruthenian, Rumanian, Bulgarian, Hungarian, Serbian and so on. They have coexisted for centuries, but more like a family of brothers who have lost their father.
Further study led me to conclude that Orthodoxy was wonderful for its liturgy and tradition but stagnant in theology. In addition, I became convinced that it was mistaken in doctrine, having rejected certain teachings of Scripture and the Catholic Church, especially the filioque clause (“and the Son”) that had been added to the Nicene Creed. In addition, their rejection of the Pope as head of the Church seemed to be based on imperial politics, more than on any serious theological grounds. This helped me to understand why, throughout their history, Orthodox Christians have tended to exalt the Emperor and the State over the Bishop and the Church (otherwise known as “Caesaropapism”). It occurred to me that Russia had been reaping the consequences of this Orthodox outlook throughout the twentieth century.
Ever since seminary, I frequently “talked shop” in late-night marathon phone conversations with my old friend from Gordon-Conwell, Gerry Matatics. He was a real kindred spirit who loved the Bible as much as I and hated the Catholic Church even more. At the time, he was pastoring a Presbyterian church in Harrisburg. Both of us shared the conviction that the Catholic Church was totally unlike certain Protestant denominations, such as the Methodists, the Lutherans or the Assembly of God—all of which we thought were a little off here and there, on this or that point of doctrine.
But if the Catholic Church was wrong, it was more than a little off, because no d
enomination on earth made the kinds of outrageous claims that Rome made for itself. For instance, the Methodists never claimed to be the one and only true Church founded by Jesus; nor did the Lutherans claim to have as their head a Pope who was Christ’s infallible vicar on earth; nor was the Assembly of God run by leaders claiming an unbroken line of succession going all the way back to Peter.
Like Cardinal Newman before us, Gerry and I could see that if the Catholic Church was wrong, it was nothing less than diabolical. On the other hand, if it was right, it must have been divinely established and preserved; but that was hardly a serious option for either of us.
To be honest, I dreaded the moment when Gerry would find out what I was reading and thinking about. But since we talked so much and so long, I figured that it was only a matter of time.
One night it finally happened. We had been talking about Scripture for over an hour when, all of the sudden, I got the urge to read him a passage from The Spirit and Forms of Protestantism, by Father Louis Bouyer. I wasn’t going to tell him the title, author or even his denominational affiliation. I just wanted to get his reaction.
After a long pause, he gasped, “Wow, that’s good stuff, Scott. Who were you reading from?”
His response really threw me off. I hadn’t planned on his liking it. What should I do now?
I replied rather weakly, “Louis Bouyer”.
“Bouyer? Never heard of him. What is he? An Anglican?”
“No.”
“That’s okay, Scott. I’ll read Lutherans.”
“No, he’s not Lutheran.”
“Well, what is he? Methodist?”
“No.”
“C’mon, Scott, what is this, twenty questions? Stop playing games. What is he?”
I covered my mouth and murmured, “Catholic.”
I heard Gerry knock his phone and say, “Scott, I must have a bad connection—I couldn’t make out what you said.”
A little less softly, I muttered, “I said, he’s a Catholic.”
“Scott, there must really be something wrong with my phone. I could have sworn you just said he’s a Catholic,”
“I did, Gerry. In fact, I’ve been reading lots of Catholics lately.”
All of a sudden it began gushing out. “I have to tell you, Gerry, I’ve struck gold. I don’t know why, but we were never told at seminary about the most brilliant theological minds of modern times, men like Henri de Lubac, Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, Joseph Ratzinger, Hans Urs von Balthasar, Josef Pieper, Jean Danielou, Christopher Dawson and Matthias Scheeben. It’s incredible—even if they’re wrong—it’s a gold mine!”
Gerry was stunned. “Whoa, Scott. Slow down! Wait a second. What’s going on?”
I sighed, “Gerry, I need your help.”
He said, “I’ll help you. Brother, I’ll help you. Give me a list of titles, and I’ll give you a list of the best anti-Catholic books I know.”
So I sent Gerry a list of the best books I had read on Catholic theology. When Gerry’s list arrived, I found that I had already read every title he recommended.
A month later Gerry called back.
Kimberly could hardly contain her excitement. She had been hoping and praying that God would send help.
She whispered to me as I picked up the phone, “Finally, someone is going to take you seriously, Scott. I’ll be praying for your conversation.”
In that month since our previous phone call Gerry had read every single title on my list and then some. Now he even asked, “Could you give me some more titles? I really want to be fair.”
For Kimberly, Gerry was a “knight in shining armor” sent by God to rescue her husband from heresy. And he had the credentials to do it. He was a Phi Beta Kappa scholar who had majored in classical Greek and Latin and studied Hebrew and Aramaic. He was more than ready for combat.
I said, “Sure, Gerry. I’ll send you some more titles. Gladly.”
About a month later, we talked for three or four hours, until around three in the morning. Afterward, I slipped quietly into bed so that I wouldn’t wake Kimberly.
She whispered, “How did it go?” She was wide awake.
“It went great.”
She sat up in bed. “Really? I knew the Lord would hear my prayers and Gerry would help.”
“Gerry is helping. He has read through every book.”
“Scott, he’s really taking you seriously.”
“Oh, he sure is.”
She asked, “So, what does he think?”
“Well, so far he says there’s not a single Catholic doctrine that he can’t find scriptural support for.”
These were not the words Kimberly had expected to hear.
“What?” she replied.
In the darkness I could feel her slump back into bed. She buried her face in the pillow and began to sob. I tried to comfort her, but she said, “Don’t touch me. I feel so betrayed.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Gerry’s still working on it, so don’t give up hope.”
Gerry, who was supposed to rescue me, ended up getting swept off his feet. He began his own in-depth study of Scripture, and, as a result, he saw how much sense the Catholic Faith made in light of covenant theology and the early Church Fathers.
We talked long distance a number of times, trying to figure out together how the Catholic Church was wrong. It had to be—that was the given. How could we prove it? Whenever we felt we had found the Achilles heel, not only would we discover an answer, but an unanswerable answer. We were getting nervous.
Meanwhile Kimberly had just given birth to our second child, Gabriel. Another son meant greater joy than ever; at the same time it intensified the need for resolution. As a busy mother, with little free time to study theology, Kimberly grew anxious and confused. But I kept pressing on like a zealot.
It was hard because Kimberly really didn’t want to talk about the Catholic Church. It was even harder because several priests I visited really didn’t want to talk about the Church, either. I would sneak out to find a priest to answer some of my remaining questions. I was discouraged by one after another.
I asked one of them, “Father Jim, how would I go about converting to the Catholic Church?”
“First,” he said, “please don’t call me ‘Father’. Second, I don’t think you really need to convert. Ever since Vatican II, it’s not ecumenical to convert! The best thing for you to do is simply to be the best Presbyterian you can be. You’ll do more good for the Catholic Church if you just stay put.”
Amazed, I responded, “Look, Father, I’m not asking you to twist my arm and force me to become a Catholic. I think God might be calling me into the Church, where I’ve found my home, my covenant family.”
He replied icily, “Well, if you want someone to help you convert, you’ve come to the wrong person.”
I was stunned.
On the way home, I prayed that the Lord would lead me to someone who would answer my questions. A thought came to me: perhaps I should enroll in theology courses at a Catholic university,
I applied to the doctoral program at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh. I was accepted and awarded a scholarship. Each week I drove down for classes. I was the only Protestant in some of my seminars and the only student defending Pope John Paul II! It was weird. I found myself explaining to priests (and even ex-priests) how certain Catholic beliefs were grounded in Scripture, especially in its theology of the covenant. It wasn’t clear that I was going to find answers to my questions there.
Sometimes a Catholic friend from Grove City would accompany me down to Pittsburgh, where he met with Father John Debicki, a priest of Opus Dei. I had never heard of Opus Dei before. All I knew was that this was a priest who took my questions seriously, gave thoughtful responses and let me know he was praying for me. He was such a humble man—I didn’t discover until later that he had studied theology in Rome, where he received his doctorate.
Several Catholics at Duquesne came to me on the side and said, “You can really make Scriptu
re sing. It sounds Catholic when you talk.”
I said, “I think it is Catholic.”
Later that night, I wondered aloud to Kimberly: “Why are Gerry and I the only ones to see these Catholic ideas in Scripture?”
Kimberly replied somewhat cynically, “Maybe the Church you’re reading about doesn’t exist any more.”
I wondered if she might be right. It was frightening. I knew Kimberly was praying for help for me. I was praying a lot, too.
Someone mailed me a plastic Rosary. As I looked at those beads, I felt I was confronting the toughest obstacle of all: Mary. (Catholics have no idea how hard Marian doctrines and devotions are for Bible Christians.) So many doctrines of the Catholic Church had proven to be sound biblically that I decided to step out in faith on this one.
I locked myself in my office and quietly prayed. I said, “Lord, the Catholic Church has gotten it right ninety-nine times out of a hundred. The only major obstacle left is Mary. I apologize in advance if you’re offended by what I’m about to do. . . . Mary, if you are even half of what the Catholic Church says, please take this specific petition—which seems impossible—to the Lord for me through this prayer.”
I then prayed my first Rosary. I prayed it again for that intention several more times the next week, but then I forgot about it. Three months later, I realized that from the day I prayed my first Rosary, that seemingly impossible situation had been completely reversed. My petition had been granted!
I was struck by my inattention and ingratitude. I immediately thanked God for his mercy, took up the Rosary and have been praying it daily ever since. It is a most powerful prayer—an incredible weapon, one that highlights the scandal of the Incarnation: the Lord took a humble, peasant virgin and raised her up to be the one who would give sinless human nature to the second Person of the Trinity, so that he could become our Savior.
Rome Sweet Home Page 6
