He listened patiently to my plans for preparing myself for First Communion: a week of prayer to end with a three-day fast leading up to the Easter Vigil. He asked with gentle wisdom, “And where do Kimberly and the kids fit into all of this?”
I was embarrassed to admit that somehow they had been left out of my plan. Monsignor responded, “Scott, can I give you an alternate plan?”
“Sure”, I replied contritely.
“Why not lavish your love and attention on them all week long, ending it with a wonderful family picnic at the park on Saturday afternoon, right before I give you First Communion that evening?” Thank God for pastoral wisdom.
Easter Vigil 1986 was a time of real supernatural joy but great natural sadness as well. I received the sacramental “grand slam”: conditional baptism, reconciliation, confirmation and First Communion. I returned to my pew and sat down beside my grieving wife, whom I loved with all my heart. I put my arm around her, and we began to pray. I sensed how Christ himself, through the Eucharist within me, was reaching out to embrace us both.
It was as though the Lord was saying, “Scott, it isn’t up to your feelings. Because of my gift to you in the Holy Eucharist, you can trust me now more than ever. I am now abiding in you, both body and soul, in a greater way than ever before.”
I thank God for how he used Holy Communion to assure me that he would see us through the difficult times that lay ahead.
Kimberly:
Our move to Milwaukee was a move away from friends, family and church to a foreign place for both of us. We did not know anyone there before we arrived.
Though we went to a Protestant church together, I had the time that Scott didn’t have to develop friendships there. His involvement in a Catholic university gave him more opportunities to meet Catholic friends there. So we continued to grow apart from each other in some ways, developing a number of separate friendships.
Most of my time was involved with the care of, our two little sons. As we became more aware of the magnitude of the abortion and pornography industries around us—nine abortion clinics and five “adult” bookstores in downtown Milwaukee alone—I became very involved in activism. Consequently, I had very little time and less desire than time to study. I hoped that someone at Marquette would do what no one else so far had been able to do—stop Scott’s defection to Rome.
I never suspected that Scott would move the date of being received into the Catholic Church from 1990 up to 1986. It was only ten days before Easter when he came from his study and said, “Kimberly, Gerry and Leslie are joining the Church this Easter Vigil. I need you to hear my heart: Ever since I began going to Mass at the University, I have ached, ached to receive, the Lord in the Eucharist. And I am now so convicted of the truth of the Catholic Church that if I do not join the Church and receive the Lord in this way, I believe I’ll be disobeying the Lord. We both know that delayed obedience is disobedience.”
I was devastated! He had promised: “no sooner than 1990”! Yet I could see his deep conflict, between his promise on the one hand and his deepening conviction on the other. I could not stand in the way of his obedience to the Lord, no matter what questions it raised for his career or for our family’s well-being. Scott needed to grant me the space necessary for the Holy Spirit to open my heart, and I needed to release him from the promise of waiting until I was ready to join him so that he could move ahead in obedience to the Lord as he understood it.
That night I wrote in my prayer journal about the intense loneliness and sense of betrayal I was feeling. I wrote, “Lord, to whom can I go about my deep hurt?” Somewhat sarcastically, I added, “And don’t tell me Mary and the saints!!”
Easter was just ten days away. That meant we had only ten days to call family and let them know what we had basically kept quiet. We had just ten days to call theologian friends in the hopes they could unconvince him before he took the plunge into the Church. (The professors were put in a very difficult position—they were trying to answer objections Scott had spent years studying. But the fact that so few tried to stop him, when he could be plunging his soul into ruin and, later, with his gifts, plunging other souls into ruin, increased the sense of abandonment I felt.)
It was so difficult to know how to share in a way that did not challenge the loyalty we both needed. If I had shared with my family or Scott’s how deep the pain was, it could have caused a tremendous rift between them and Scott. It was a loyalty issue for each of us. We had, for the sake of our marriage and our family, to protect each other and not share with other people the tremendous pain that we were carrying. Yet that intensified the loneliness we both felt.
I had a very deep sense of betrayal. I had nothing against Catholics, but I would not have dated one. Now I was going to be married to one!
I went with Scott and one of my dear Protestant friends to the Easter Vigil Mass. Chris Wolfe was there as Scott’s sponsor. At one point, Scott leaned over and told me that Greg Wolfe (no relation) was going to be Gerry’s sponsor that same night when he and Leslie were received into the Catholic Church out in Philadelphia. I gave a wry smile but didn’t say anything; it seemed more than a little ironic that both men were being led by Wolfes into the Catholic Church.
On the one hand, much of the service fascinated me—there were numerous Scripture readings that followed God’s covenant-making throughout the Old Testament leading up to Christ. (I had no idea that Catholics ever read that much Scripture!) Many of the elements of the service reminded me of Old Testament Jewish worship, such as incense, bowing, an altar and a sacrifice. And the joy of the people was abundant (as if they really believed all they were doing and saying).
Yet, on the other hand, I was dying inside. Before my very eyes, Scott was vowing himself to a Church that would separate us for a while and perhaps even permanently. Never again would we take communion side by side unless one of us had a change of mind (and I could guess who that would have to be!). This great sign of Christian unity became our symbol of disunity. And the rejoicing of the people was like a dagger in my heart, for their joy was my unspeakable sorrow.
After Mass someone grabbed a camera and asked for a picture of everyone with Scott. I tried to step out of the group, but Scott insisted I be in the picture, too. I thought, why do I want to memorialize the worst night of my life? Though all of Scott’s friends were very kind to me at the party afterward, it was excruciating to see the delight of all for him when our marriage was in the midst of the greatest challenge we had ever had.
Easter Vigil, 1986. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Scott was received into the Church. Seen with concelebrants Fr. (now Bishop) Bruskewitz, Fr. Richard Roach and Fr. Donald Keefe.
7
The Struggles of a Mixed Marriage
Scott:
Curious friends began calling. The typical conversation would go something like this:
“Scott, I’ve just heard a vicious rumor—I know it can’t be true—that you’ve become a Roman Catholic!”
I would say, “Yeah, can you believe it!? By the grace of God, I have become a Catholic, and I can’t begin to thank him enough.”
At which point, the conversation would usually end rather abruptly: “Oh, I see. Well, Scott, be sure to tell Kimberly I send along my prayers and greetings.”
I suspect what they really meant to pass along were their condolences. For all practical purposes, I might as well have died and been replaced by a papist imposter, since that’s the way most of them treated me.
Close friends became distant. Family members grew silent and turned away. One of my fellow graduate students—a devout evangelical—became a former friend overnight.
The irony was that, not so long ago, I had been far more anti-Catholic than any of them. In fact, most of them did not regard themselves as being anti-Catholic in any way, though they would not have raised an eyebrow if I had simply joined up with the Lutherans or Methodists. Instead I was made to feel like a leper.
There was never any desire for dialogue, much
less debate. My reasons didn’t matter, for I had done the unthinkable. I had committed a foul and traitorous misdeed.
But the pain and desolation could not compare with the joy and strength that came from knowing that I was doing God’s will and obeying his Word. Compared with the privilege of going to daily Mass and receiving Holy Communion, my sacrifices seemed small. I also learned that such suffering can be united to Christ’s eucharistic sacrifice with real effect and much consolation. Through it all, I was drawn into deeper intimacy with our Lord and our Lady. The pain made the romance more real.
Meanwhile Kimberly and I were sailing through even rougher waters. Days and weeks would pass without us sharing anything spiritual together. She was anything but eager to hear from me about the benefits of daily Mass and meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary. As my spiritual life surged forward, my marriage tumbled backward. What made it especially painful was our having shared such rich times of ministering together in the recent past. I found myself wondering, Will it ever be the way it was? Will our marriage even survive this period of trial and agony?
It was only the Lord working through the grace of the sacrament of matrimony that kept us going, as we both would attest. I once heard a priest say, “Marriage is not hard; it’s just humanly impossible. That’s why Christ reestablished it as a sacrament.”
Kimberly kept hoping that someone would come along who would try to take me on. One Calvinist pastor named Wayne decided to meet with us. After a couple of four-hour sessions, Wayne told Kimberly, “The Pope will soon excommunicate Scott for being too scriptural.”
“Where are his weak points?”
“Well, I don’t know. His arguments are scriptural and covenantal. But they aren’t Catholic. They can’t be.”
I suspected that Kimberly was secretly wondering just how scriptural Catholicism might be, but she wasn’t about to share any such “doubts” with me. We had reached the point where we could hardly talk about anything without lapsing into a doctrinal quarrel; and yet most attempts to deal forthrightly with our differences would end in grief and frustration.
I encouraged Kimberly to eavesdrop on discussions I had with others about controversial aspects of Catholic doctrine. This indirect approach proved to be much less of a strain on our relationship than when we faced off alone.
To get away from the domestic strain and academic pressure, I taught a weekly Bible study at my parish, Saint Bernard’s. Monsignor Bruskewitz was more than supportive—naturally, since it was his solid preaching that whetted the parishioners’ appetite for more of the Bible. It was encouraging for me to see—and for Kimberly to hear about—their insatiable appetite for Scripture. What a privilege it was to open up God’s Word to share the treasures of the Church’s Faith with my new Catholic brothers and sisters. After finishing one particularly exciting session—on “A Biblical Explanation of Indulgences”—an older parishioner named Joe announced, “Yep, sometimes it takes an immigrant to explain it for the natives.”
A few months after my reception into the Church, a plague of doubt descended upon me; not about whether I had done the wrong thing in becoming Catholic, but rather about whether I had committed professional suicide, leaving myself without any vocational options. After all, I thought, how can I shift from being a master of evangelical theology to serving as a lowly apprentice in Catholic dogma? Not that I wasn’t enthralled with studying Catholic theology; it’s just that I didn’t see any practical way for it to put bread on our table.
I called up my father, in Pittsburgh, who was still running our family business, Helm and Hahn, a small company that designed and manufactured jewelry. A few years before, he had hired my older brother, Fritz. I was hoping that he might have an opening for some more family help.
“Dad, you wouldn’t happen to have a job in the shop for an erstwhile evangelical theologian, would you?”
He paused and then spoke with a tone of deep regret. “Scotty, I’d love to have you work with us. You know that. But I wouldn’t be able to hire you now. The economy here is weak and the jewelry trade is in a general slump across the country. We’re having to trim down and tighten up everywhere. I’m so sorry, Son.”
“It’s all right, Dad. I was just hoping to find a job doing something to support my family.”
“Scotty, what are you talking about? I distinctly remember hearing your college president say he wanted you back teaching theology there as soon as possible. And what about your professors at Gordon-Conwell? Didn’t they tell you to pursue a doctorate so that you could return to teach there as well?”
“Yeah, Dad, but that was before I went Catholic. Now I’m persona non grata at both places. Neither one would even consider hiring a papist pariah like me.”
“Scotty, I’m sorry to hear that. But there’s one thing I’d still say, and that is, don’t give up on theology yet. You’ve got a love for studying it and a gift for teaching it. If I were you, I would stick with it for a while longer.” Thank God for fatherly wisdom.
It was hitting me harder than ever before that here I had a growing family to support but no longer any craft with which to support them. It dawned on me that I might never have the time to master Latin, much less all the writings of Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventure, Cajetan, Bellarmine and a host of other worthies. How could I ever teach Catholic theology?
Help and consolation came from two sources. The first source was my previous undergraduate study of philosophy at Grove City College, where I had become enamored with and steeped in the philosophy of Saint Thomas. In spite of my anti-Catholic outlook, I had known a good thing when I found it, and, in my mind, no one could compare to Aquinas. I had naturally discounted anything distinctively Catholic in his writings. (Poor Thomas was born too soon, I thought, long before the light of Luther and Calvin could guide him.) But I had devoured his philosophical writings, especially his metaphysics, eventually acquiring the rather odd and unlikely reputation for being an “evangelical Thomist”.
Consolation also came from a second source, namely, one kindly old priest and emeritus librarian at Saint Francis Seminary named Father Ray Fetterer, who took pity on a poor Presbyterian graduate student reading his way into the Church. Whenever a Catholic convent, monastery, college or high school would shut down in the region, their libraries would be sent down to Father Fetterer at the archdiocesan seminary for sorting and stacking in an old basement gymnasium.
Tens of thousands of old books in theology, Scripture, philosophy, history and literature ended up on the shelves for interested folks to browse through and purchase at rock-bottom prices set by a philanthropic old priest. I discovered this gold mine by accident; it was not advertised and seldom open—usually by appointment only. Within a year’s time, I had acquired literally scores of boxes of books; and since he felt such pity for my plight, I paid only a fraction of the already low prices that he usually charged. For me it was like a dream come true—by God’s grace, a priest’s beneficence and a convert’s dumb luck!
For a few hundred dollars, then, I ended up with thousands of books, including such classics as the sixty-volume Blackfriars’ edition of Saint Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica (in Latin and English), more than two dozen volumes of the Works of John Henry Cardinal Newman, the monumental Dictionnaire de theologie catholique in fifteen enormous volumes, the old Catholic Encyclopedia, the New Catholic Encyclopedia, along with hundreds of volumes of Scripture commentaries and patristic writings, not to mention several decades of expensive theological journals, such as The Thomist, Theological Studies, Communio, American Ecclesiastical Review, Catholic Biblical Quarterly, Revue biblique, Biblica and Vetus Testamentum. By God’s grace, I found myself the owner of a personal library of Catholic theology, philosophy and history that a seminary would have been blessed to possess.
What was I to do with such a treasure—go into jewelry?
Instead, God used such consolations to restore my trust that he would make up for whatever I lacked in Catholic theological training. Bes
ides, I discovered there really were no Catholic institutions at the time where a layman like me could receive orthodox doctrinal formation in the Catholic Tradition, even if I had had the time and money to afford it. Still I wondered whether or not there was a niche for me anywhere in the Church.
One evening I received a phone call from Dr. John Hittinger, a philosophy professor at the College of Saint Francis in Joliet, Illinois. He represented a search committee that was looking for a qualified theology professor to teach lower- and upper-division courses the following year, mostly to Catholic undergraduates.
I did not feel particularly qualified, nor had I even compiled a resume yet, much less circulated one. Since I had not applied for this (or any other) position, I sat there wondering, as we chatted, where he had got my name. When I asked, he referred to a “reliable contact” in Marquette’s theology department who had recommended me. I was surprised but grateful.
At the time, however, I was still hoping to spend the next year as a full-time student working to write and defend my doctoral thesis. But finances were so tight that I was already wondering if that were an affordable option. It was looking more and more doubtful; but even if it did work out, I could still use the experience of going through a job interview at a Catholic institution. Besides, John let me know that there were over thirty applicants for the job, so I figured, what were my chances anyway?
The interview went very well; they wanted me. Maybe it was my enthusiasm as a neophyte. In any case, the situation there was attractive. Here was an institution whose president was interested in restoring the Catholic identity of the college after it had been seriously diluted through years of financial, academic and spiritual pressures. It sounded like an exciting challenge. After a second interview and considerable prayer, I decided to accept the position.
Rome Sweet Home Page 9
