True Conversions No.11: Faith Interrupted

Faith Interrupted: A Spiritual Journey
Eric Lax
Alfred A. Knopf: New York
c. 2010 275 pp. illus. US$26.00
ISBN: 978-0-307-27091-7 (hardbound)

“I came to the obvious but difficult-to-accept conclusion that my son’s perception of his religion was not at all unusual for a young person, and that what I wanted for him—a personal sense of the excitement of Christianity—was something he would have to learn for himself…. He would have to discover it and test it—verify it…and make it his own, in his own life, in his time, through his own encounter with the living God.”

So opines author Angelo Matera (Faith on the Edge), when confronted with the discomfiting knowledge that his teenaged son did not share his own religious convictions. Faith, we are given to understand, is a gift. Yet it never ceases to surprise and befuddle us that what we cannot seem to impart the essential DNA of our deepest beliefs to the next generation. The discovery and acceptance of faith must, ultimately, be a free, conscious and personal decision.

Author Eric Lax has written a deeply personal memoir on precisely this subject. He wrestles with the enduring conundrum of conscience and consciousness: that while he deeply respects the religious faith of others, he cannot accept that same faith for himself. In a way, this is not a memoir of Lax’s own faith journey. More aptly, perhaps it is the spiritual biography of the two people in his life he appears to admire most: his father and Episcopal priest John Martin Lax, and his best friend, George (Skip) Packard. The course of Lax’s narrative is partly a “coming of age’ narrative and partly a description of these parallel and simultaneous journies: Lax’s own gradual drifting away from belief, and his father’s (and Skip’s) increasing embrace of and commitment to the Christian faith.

Lax provides a loving description of the Episcopal liturgy which has framed and informed his worldview from his earliest memories as an acolyte assisting his father at Holy Communion at their parish in El Cajon, California, through his experiences at church school, then summer camp, and student years at Hobart College. Lax’s hold on the Anglican tradition is a heavily aesthetic one: the beauty of the liturgy captures his senses, imagination, and emotions. (There are several, unnecessarily long descriptions of liturgy as well as verbatim citations from the Book of Common Prayer) But, apparently, the aesthetic attraction has worn away with time. The faith of his father/s is not sufficient to address his deeper longings for meaning and understanding.

At the same time that Lax charts his own drift from Anglicanism, he records in admiring detail the growing faith of his college friend, Skip. Coming of age on the cusp of the Vietnam War, Lax struggles with the decision to request “conscientious objector” status based upon his religious beliefs, and serves a two-year stint of duty in Micronesia as a Peace Corp volunteer. Skip, meanwhile , joins the US Army, attends Officers Candidate School, and sees active combat. Upon his return from Vietnam, Skip enrolls in seminary and is ordained first as an Episcopal priest, and ultimately as a bishop.



The figure of Lax’s father, the dedicated, humble, and kindly priest, is always within close reach. Lax appreciates the depth and strength of his father’s (and Skip’s) convictions, but cannot embrace them himself. Doubt about dogma stands in the way. For his part, Lax gradually disengages from church attendance over time: the more he consults the creedal statements of the Church, the less willing he is to give assent to its doctrines. “… shortly after I turned thirty I noticed a drift away from my secure faith. It was a course of omission, not commission—of what I happened not to do rather than what I decided to do.” Lax’s stance is neither rebellious nor condemnatory of the church. It is simply a matter that the church is no longer relevant to his life: “I felt part of the Church, an insider in a genteel and socially prominent faith. Unfortunately, this meant that I found comfort more in feeling connected to the establishment than to the Holy Spirit.”

Interestingly, he seems to draw comfort and consolation from the wry wit of Woody Allen (Lax has written two books on the comedian’s life and work): “Woody’s conviction (and annoyance) is that as much as we might like there to be a personal God in a universe where wrongdoing is punished and virtue rewarded, we only kid ourselves into comfort by believing it. His aphorisms and observations about God (e.g., “I think the worst you can say about (God) is that basically He’s an underachiever.” ), religion and faith are widely quoted, in part because they’re pithy and funny and in part because they lead to reflection.”

The trajectory of Lax’s spiritual journey is not unique to his generation—women and men reared in a mainline Christian denominations who realize that the church no longer holds the hope, promise, or consolation of their formative years: “I wasn’t looking to lose it; I just suddenly noticed there was a separation I had never known. I was like a car whose tires all have imperceptible leaks. Everything runs smoothly, until suddenly four flats bring you to a halt.” The separation from that tradition and grounding elicits more nostalgia than bitterness; there is a quiet sadness and recognition of loss: “I still find myself at home in a church, but now it is more like revisiting the home in which I grew up.”

This is an honest account of one man’s spiritual experience, but it still leaves one wanting to push, delve, and discern more deeply on the nature of belief. “For all my childhood,” Lax writes, “it was as if faith were part of my DNA, determining but unseen.” “Faith, I guess”, he concludes,” is like love: It withers when unattended.”

True Conversions No.10: Faith At The Edge

Faith at the Edge: A New Generation of Catholic Writers Reflects on Life, Love, Sex, and other Mysteries
Angelo Matera, editor
Ave Maria Press: Notre Dame, Indiana
c. 2008, 224 pp. US$15.95
ISBN: 978-1-59471-140-4

“Just about every Catholic I know collects conversion stories, “ observes contributor Eve Tushnet, herself a convert. “… These stories usually have recurring patterns and themes… They’re often love stories; they’re often stories in which a sense of disturbance and inadequacy provokes a search for answers and the ‘answer’ to the questions is found in another person—or Person. They’re often stories in which an encounter with beauty forces an often unwanted recognition of a truth about oneself, one’s identity, and how one needs to relate to others.” Tushnet’s observation also serves as an apt commentary on this group of essays edited by Angelo Matera. It is a collection which on the whole describes, at times quite poignantly, aspects of both search and encounter central to the process of spiritual transformation and growth.

While not a compilation of “conversion stories” per se—themes run widely and sometimes wildly from young married life and parenthood to natural family planning, corporal mortification (!) and even a tongue in cheek consideration of exorcism—this volume nevertheless expresses in a significant way the spiritually transforming experiences of people who have in one way or another been challenged, confronted, and even surprised by faith at various moments in their spiritual journey. The conversion process here is less frequently a ‘once and for all’ struck-by-lightning kind of event, than an ongoing struggle and unfolding of actual, lived experience and engagement.

Religious experience and conversion are not the property of any one class, community or interest group. The Spirit blows where it will, whether right, left or center. According to editor Matera the seventeen writers whose work is represented in the 20-odd essays in this survey comprise “a new generation of Catholic writers.” While they may well represent part of a generation of Catholic writers, I wonder whether they actually comprise the full cohort. Many of the authors represented in this book are also in some way with the website GodSpy.com, inspired by the Communio/ Faith and Liberation movement with its roots in postwar Italy. Their perspective is that of a self-conscious orthodoxy and identification with the magisterium (official teaching authority) of the Catholic Church. There are very few strays. “What unites the writers of these essays, “ notes Matera, “ is a singular vision: a paradoxical desire to live according to the firm doctrines of their church while at the same time freely expressing the truth of their experiences, and the judgment of their consciences.”

That said, I found this collection of essays to be at times a fascinating melding of traditional theology with a remarkably fresh and free-- sometimes even a bit too free—expressive style. The insights may be traditional, but the voices are clearly those of contemporary Americans, often well-read, articulate and world wise. In the main, they tend to be artists rather than theologians.

The (perhaps unintended) leitmotif of personal conversion in this collection is present throughout the book. In the introduction, editor Matera notes: “I remember the specific moment that sparked my interest in the Catholic Church. It came from an unlikely source—a review of Pope John Paul II’s encyclical Veritatis Splendor by gay writer Andrew Sullivan in The New Republic…. Sullivan was repelled by what the pope wrote. But as a sincere Catholic he also found it difficult to resist the pope’s ‘bracing’ argument…. I was fascinated by the idea that anyone as traditional and doctrinaire as a pope could be intellectually challenging.”

“New Orleans made me a Catholic, or at least the kind of Catholic I am, “ writes Jessica Griffith in her poignant reflection on life in the Big Easy post-Katrina. “It always seemed to have body and soul—the sacred and the profane locked in constant embrace.” For Brian Pessaro, the experience of a Marriage Encounter weekend provided a spiritual epiphany: “I don’t remember much from that weekend, but I do remember one specific statement that the husband of one of the presenting teams said. ‘Love is not a feeling. Love is a decision. You have to decide to love your wife each day.” Pessaro continues later in his essay: “There was no theophany, no burning bush or pillar of fire. But over the course of the next year things began to change.” Paula Huston, describing her decision to complete the RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) process for full membership in the Catholic community despite some initial obstacles, concludes “I could have gone to another church… but an easier church might not do the job, might not be able to tame this thing in me that needed taming.”

The accounts and reflections in this survey are most convincing and powerful when they come directly and candidly from the people’s lived experiences. They are less persuasive when they appear to be polemical, rigidly self-justifying, or just a teensy bit “out there.” This is a mixed bag, but the mixture is interesting and worth exploring.//

True Conversions No.9: Thomas Merton: The Seven Storey Mountain

Thomas Merton
The Seven Storey Mountain
c.. 1948 (Anniversary Edition: 1999), 496pp.
Harcourt Brace: New York
ISBN-13: 9780156010863

I first read Thomas Merton’s now-classic spiritual memoir in 1980, when I myself was 30 years old. I had just arrived in New York City for what was to be a three-year stay; it was a geographic move that also coincided with an earnest spiritual search. Earlier that same year, I had made the decision to become more actively involved in my faith after a lengthy sabbatical from regular participation. Spiritually, I was eager, curious, hungry, and a bit scared. Serendipitously, I lived in the same Morningside Heights/ Columbia University neighborhood that Merton had inhabited four decades previously. And as I delved into his spiritual autobiography, I could trace my own personal Merton Trail down the spine of Manhattan: from Corpus Christi Church and the Columbia campus on the upper West Side to the depths of Greenwich Village. It was a wonderful journey: for myself, and no doubt for many others, Merton’s Manhattan served as a helpful point of reference and entry into the passionate quest of one of the great spiritual writers of our time. A quest which paralleled my own personal path of spiritual rediscovery and connection.

Since its publication in 1948 (Merton was himself 33 years old at the time and preparing for priestly ordination at the Trappist Abbey in Gethsemani, Kentucky), The Seven Story Mountain has sold more than three million copies—600,000 hardcover copies in the first year alone-- and is still in print. This summer, at the age of 60, I decided to re-read The Seven Storey Mountain to see what kind of impression it would leave this time around.



The Thomas Merton of 1948 was a passionate, even somewhat uncritical apologist for Catholicism. He maintained all the fervor of the neophyte—a spiritual enthusiasm which led him from a promising literary career ‘in the world’ to an equally fulfilling literary career while a Trappist monk. Merton’s early life as described in this memoir is a mixed tale of privilege, struggle, suffering, numerous detours, constant searching and ultimate satisfaction in a religious faith and identity. He was born in France in 1915, the first child of an artistic family—his father was a successful painter. His parents were of Canadian/New Zealand nationality with strong connections to both England and America. His was a childhood and youth marked both by tragedy (the early deaths of both parents) and frequent familial disruption and upheaval. Merton’s formal academic education in English public schools and later at Cambridge and Columbia University, was rounded out by ongoing travel and family visits through Europe, England and the United States. As studies and travel involved an intimate immersion into European culture, young Merton moved gradually from an early attraction to Catholic culture to an eventual embrace of the Catholic faith.

Merton’s spiritual ambit, however, was no perfect trajectory by any means. Rather it was marked by painful periods of confusion, reticence, and self-doubt—with heavy doses of adolescent angst and self-absorption. By his mid-twenties, however, Merton had found his spiritual home and entered into the protracted spiritual honeymoon that resulted in this memoir. His was the pre-Vatican II Church— frequently perceived by its faithful as a morally impregnable fortress and bulwark against the seductions and depredations of a decadent culture. It was a world that spoke of certainty, security, and order to its denizens— an environment no doubt especially attractive to a sensitive and intellectually precocious young man who had experienced precious little real stability during his own tumultuous upbringing.



Today, Merton’s narrative stands on its own—even at a distance of six decades-- as a poignant prelude to the ongoing search and spiritual growth of a man who, even from the distance of the more than 40 years since his death in 1968, continues to be admired for his soaring intellect and deep spiritual insight. Its abiding strength and appeal lies perhaps in Merton’s utter sincerity and dogged determination to plumb the depths of his own soul.

I tried, in my own re-reading of Merton, to put aside anything I had heard or read about him in order to have as fresh and unbiased experience as possible. I found myself full of admiration and respect for a young man who, obviously, had suffered so much in his early years. Yet, I could also see the somewhat spoiled and entitled youth of the British and American upper classes who, seemed to sail effortlessly (and literally) across the Atlantic at a time when most Europeans and Americans were struggling to keep body and soul together during the depths of the Depression. Merton’s first direct experience of genuine poverty, in fact, came as a volunteer at Harlem’s Hospitality House, founded by the celebrated Catherine (Baronness) deHoeck just a few years prior to his entry into the monastery. His conversion occurs at a rather high altitude as well: exposure at Columbia to a gifted teacher and mentor, literary critic and anthologist Mark van Doren: his collaboration and friendships with other budding young writers at their periodic encampments in Olean, New York; his rapturous embrace of William Blake work as a topic for his master’s thesis.

But Merton is certainly more than the sum total of his class and relatively privileged background. His initial immaturity and naivete notwithstanding, there is something more to Merton—“something’ which impels him further in his spiritual journey. This is the part of SSM that not only ‘reads’ well today; it also continues to move and inspire the contemporary seeker even at a distance of more than a half-century.

I have to mention, by way of a postscript that there is also a Franciscan dimension to Merton’s spiritual journey. Initially attracted to the Order, he discerned with the friars, but withdrew his application to postulancy after having been dissuaded by his would-be superiors. Merton is rather vague about his reasons for not joining the friars, but the decision did not deter him from teaching for a while at St. Bonaventure’s University before his eventual entry into the Trappists. I can’t help thinking how both Merton and the Franciscans might have been affected had he decided to become a son of St. Francis. We’ll never know!//

Joseph P. Chinnici: When Values Collide: The Catholic Church, Sexual Abuse, and the Challenges of Leadership

When Values Collide:
The Catholic Church, Sexual Abuse,
and the Challenges of Leadership
Joseph P. Chinnici
Orbis Books: Maryknoll, NY
$25.00 236 pp., paperback
ISBN: 978-1-5075-873-7

On November 29, 1993, in Santa Barbara, California, the Provincial Minister of the Franciscan Friars (OFM) of the Province of St. Barbara, stood before a room filled with media representatives as well as some “fifty victims, parents, and concerned parishioners” to release a study report revealing that “eleven (Franciscan) friars had abused thirty-four students at St. Anthony Seminary from the period 1964-1987.”

That signal event marked a particularly Franciscan moment in the unfolding of the clerical sexual abuse scandal and concomitant institutional crisis that has rocked the Catholic Church in the United States over the past two decades. It is estimated that between 1950 and 2002, more than 10,000 victim/survivors have come forward. More than 4,000 priests and male religious have had allegations of abuse made against them. The total cost of settlements to date is estimated to be about $3 billion. The cost to the lives of victim/ survivors, their families, friends, and loved ones in terms of pain, suffering, and humiliation is inestimable.

The Franciscan Provincial Minister who stood before the world to announce and acknowledge the serious misconduct of some of our confreres was Father Joseph P. Chinnici, ofm, the author of this book. Today, some seventeen years later, Chinnici offers an extraordinary account and penetrating analysis of the events in which he himself was a primary participant and player. More than that, as a highly regarded historian and observor of the Catholic Church in the United States, he also offers something of equal, if not even greater importance: a call to create new “pathways”of dialogue out of the crisis in order to effect lasting healing and reconciliation. In doing so, the author taps deep into the wellspring of Franciscan spirituality for inspiration and direction by referencing the lives and writings of Sts. Francis of Assisi and Bonaventure (with relevant material from St. Augustine of Hippo).

This is a dense, difficult, demanding, and even exhausting book— but one which, at the same time, provides rich rewards for the reader who is willing to engage the subject matter and stick with it. Be prepared to take your time; this is not easy or light reading.

The entire issue of sexual abuse by clergy has been so highly charged emotionally and polarizing socially and institutionally, that voices of reason and reconciliation have been reduced to whispers and largely ignored in public discourse. Chinnici breaks new ground in this neglected area, charting a course that is both intellectually rigorous and ethically demanding. One hopes that this work will help to usher in a new period of calm discussion and dialogue as a counter to the sensationalism that has dominated treatment of the issue.

Chinnici’s introductory remarks provide a helpful aerial overview of the territory to be explored. Initial chapters provide a summary of the development of the sexual abuse scandal in both the American Church as a whole as well as in the particular case of the Province of St. Barbara. From there, the author moves into the broader field of interpretation. “The sexual abuse scandal can be healed only through the cultivation of trust, affection, mutual exchange, and the preservation of people’s individual dignity, ” he asserts. He argues that “a fundamental consequence of the abuse crisis has been the loss of a shared ethical space of reciprocal exchange between people.”



To help recover that shared ethical space, Chinnici refers to both Francis and Bonaventure for guidance and inspiration in a search for new avenues of communication and healing. The Franciscan value of “fraternitas”— the acknowledgment of the essential brother/sisterhood of all creation—he observes, was an important factor in breaking the deadlock of protracted social conflict between individuals and groups in medieval Italy. “Francis’s task was medicinal, one of soothing the relationships between people so that more peace could reign in the society and the Church.” (p.104). In a similar mode, Chinnici examines the concept of the Order of Love proposed by St. Bonaventure, which is “encapsulated in the Great Commandment (of Jesus)… a freely given bestowal of gifts and a bond of trust between people.” Both Francis and Bonaventure avoid the perils of a direct assault upon societal norms. Rather, they urge the more patient approach of convincing all parties to recognize and embrace those essentially transcendant values which serve to modify relationships. The Gospel imperative of love, mutual care and promotion trumps the struggle for power and domination.

Fine, but what does any of this have to do with a way out of the personal/ institutional impasse presented by the contemporary sexual abuse crisis? “A key means of healing this wound,” Chinnici asserts, “ is the discovery of a framework for faith that releases our energies to love again.” A uniquely Franciscan contribution toward the charting of that pathway “is not discovered through intellectual parsing but through companionship, humility, dispossession, lamentation, and the practice of pietas (the virtue by which one recognizes, in true humility and reverence, God’s primacy in all things-ed.).” The author is reaching deep into the Franciscan story both to recall and to remind us that this movement is essentially a penitential one. We need to recognize both our own fragility and woundedness: “Life’s center of gravity needed to become not the perfection of Christendom but the following of Christ and the embrace of his presence in his disfigured body on earth, the Church.” (p.178). In support of this argument, he provides a particularly powerful reflection on the conversion of Francis himself— in which the saint moved in his own life from an attitude of utter disdain to the recognition of the “sweetness” of his full embrace of the lepers.

Chinnici does not offer quick or facile solutions to what is, at heart, not simply the cumulative effect of private behavior-- individual wrongdoing writ large-- but rather, what he considers to be the profound breakdown of a fundamental sense of community. “The Church will be challenged… to create a consistent communal ethic of repentance, humility, … respect for a common human dignity dictated by the terms ‘brother’ and ‘sister’, obedience to the order of love, and the daily practice of pietas.” In other words, genuine reform both necessitates and impels a process of deep and ongoing personal conversion as well as meaningful institutional change.

In his concluding chapter, Chinicci writes that “the sexual abuse of minors in the Church has begun to fade from the height of its institutional charge….” Sadly, the unfolding of events in Ireland and western Europe this past spring and summer would tend to indicate otherwise. The scandals are not going away. If anything, they continue to point to the woeful inadequacy of personal and institutional responses to wrongdoing that are still essentially reactive and self-protective. Chinnici concludes by challenging us “to re-member the scandal, and by this re-membering, insert into our public discourse and life a Gospel vision of God’s goodness and who we are called to be together.” The call to conversion remains and is more compelling than ever. Chinnici’s work gives one hope that this call may, finally, be heeded.

Read this book.

POSTSCRIPT: Several of the events described in this book have been part of my own lived experience as a Franciscan friar. On the day of Father Chinnici’s public revelation of evidence of sexual misconduct, I was in the postulancy (entry) program of the Province of St. Barbara. The ongoing process of fraternal healing, reconciliation, and restitution has coincided with my formation as a friar ever since. The journey has been a long and painful one for all of us, but I believe we have emerged as a stronger, more united brotherhood as a result.—ct.

True Conversions No. 8: The Crying Tree by Naseem Rakha

The Crying Tree
By Naseem Rakha
353 pp. $22.95
Broadway Books: New York
ISBN: 978-0-7679-3140-3

For the most part, I’ve been consulting spiritual memoirs—actual auto/biographical references- as a point of departure for an exploration of the phenomenon of spiritual conversion and transformation. But a friend suggested this novel, so I thought: "Why not? What can we learn of this process from the perspective and experience of a work of fiction?"

September 20, 1983. Irene Stanley of Carlton, Illinos, will never forget the date she lost her only son, fifteen year-old Shep to a violent death: For the following nineteen years, she and her family (husband Nate, a police officer; daughter, Bliss) struggle to come to terms with his passing. During this same period, after a steep and prolonged plunge into deep depression and listlessness, she emerges energized and transformed interiorly. She not only makes the decision to forgive Shep’s putative killer, quondam drifter Daniel Robbins, but is willing to move heaven and earth if necessary to achieve her ends. She decides-- and against all odds-- succeeds in completing the process of reconciliation by meeting Robbins face to face on the eve of his execution in Blaine, Oregon: October 28, 2004

In between these two key dates, the reader is moved back and forth over time and across the continent, charting the separate development—character development, if you will—of Irene, Daniel, and prison superintendent Tab Mason (himself a victim of violent crime in his youth at the hands of his own brother). Shirley struggles valiantly: alternately rising, coasting, sinking, floundering, drifting in and out of a woozy despair only to emerge victorious at last— triumphant over her own hatred and desire for revenge.

What is the catalyst for Irene’s spiritual transformation? Novelist Naseem Kakha depicts a scene in which Irene finally hits bottom, deciding and attempting to take her own life. Somehow, in that botched effort, she experiences a spiritual awakening. For the reader (like this one) who is looking for the “God in the details”, the author offers rather slim pickings in terms of a thoroughgoing reflection or explanation. At this critical juncture in the character’s transformation, she becomes curiously vague and imprecise. If Irene is, finally, so certain that the execution of her son’s putative killer represents an act of revenge rather than one of justice, what are the underpinnings of her reasoning? What is the basis of this fundamental, life-changing insight? What is the source of her newfound strength and courage—and how does it sustain her in her subsequent struggles?




While we are left in the dark about the character’s motivation, it becomes quite clear to the reader what Irene does not believe in. The spiritual leader of her small, rural community, Pastor Samuel White is certainly kind enough as a person. With courage, determination and perseverance, he jumps to the ready to assist victims of a freak tornado which has ravaged the area. But despite his courage and display of apparently genuine Christian charity, he is ineffectual as a spiritual mentor. He responds to Irene’s insistent questioning and demands with pat and patronizing responses and a single, stubborn conclusion: a merciful God would certainly forgive someone like Daniel. But by the same token, a just God would not contest or impede the literal execution of this capital punishment. End of story.

Bereft of spiritual consolation, Irene seeks her own counsel. But what exactly constitutes her inner world? Who or what inhabits it? What principles—ethical, moral, philosophical, religious—guide and direct her subsequent decisions and actions? Granted the character has experienced a genuine life-changing transformation—a clear rupture with the habits of her own heart and a willingness to stand apart from the traditional values of family, friends, and community. But what directs and sustains all of this? Midwestern gumption alone does not suffice.

In the Reader’s Guide which follows this engaging narrative, the author poses two crucial questions in this regard: “Do you think it is necessary to have a belief in a God or a higher power to have made the choices Irene made? Do you think the ability to forgive can be learned?” Great questions. I just wish the author had dealt with them more directly in the story. This is a “true conversion” for sure—but what makes it “true”? //

True Conversions No. 7: Julia Scheeres

Jesus Land 

By Julia Scheeres 

Counterpoint, $24 
288 pages 

ISBN 1582433380

True conversions? This chilling, “coming of age” memoir by author Julia Scheeres, is more in the nature of True Confessions. Scheeres writes intensely-and graphically- about her adolescent struggles against both an abusive home situation and the strict upbringing she experienced in the Christian Reformed Church, a denomination with its roots in historic Calvinism. This book covers the period of her transition, in the early 1980’s, from the sheltered haven of a private Christian elementary school to the ‘secular’ world of public high school in quasi-redneck Lafayette, Indiana.

This is not an idealized, “Leave it to Beaver” American family. Sheeres’ father, a prominent surgeon, reportedly beats his male children on a regular basis, often on the flimsiest of excuses. Two paddles—one named “Spare the Rod”, and the other, “Spoil the Child” tell the story. Her mother spends most of her time involved in church-related work—support of foreign missionaries is her passion. She appears to be utterly indifferent to the affective needs of her children. When she does give them attention, it is usually to criticize. Her parents have adopted two African-American children to rear alongside their own biological offspring. One of the adopted children, David, is the same age as the author, and becomes her literal soul mate. The other stepbrother, Jerome, exhibits violent and self-destructive tendencies from an early age. In addition to his other behaviors, he has sexually assaulted his sister on multiple occasions.

To fill out this grim portrait of domestic dysfunction, teenagers Julia and David are shipped off to hellhole of a Christian reform school in the Dominican Republic where, according to the author, they are subjected to a daily regimen of humiliating mistreatment. Only the mutual love and concern of the brother and sister make their psychic survival possible. Eventually both siblings are liberated from their banishment, but David is killed some years later in an auto accident. The author herself ends up being excommunicated by her church and shunned by her community for her unorthodox views and conduct.

This is not a tale about religious conversion; it’s a story about survival. Survival from a loveless childhood and adolescence; survival from apparently indifferent, and even violent parents. Survival from a religious community which apparently accorded these young people little, if any, acceptance, support, or affirmation.



This grim memoir straddles precariously between necessary truth telling and compulsive self-disclosure. The reader does not really need a lengthy blow by blow description of routine abuse and humiliation to get the picture. It’s pretty clear what’s going on from the get-go. What is less clear is what is happening to the young Julia Scheeres internally, spiritually, if you will. She writes about the beliefs of others, but not about her own. Although the author describes extensively the religious beliefs and attitudes of her family and church community, she reveals very little of her own worldview or spiritual beliefs. We know what she’s ‘a-gin”, but we have no clue about what she’s “fur.” At present, Scheeres half-jokingly describes herself as a “devout hedonist, agnostic, (and) secular humanist.” Not a surprising response from someone who appears to have experienced only a mean, petty, and vengeful God as a child. Exposure of deep and still-raw wounds to the light of day may be the requisite first step in her healing process. “True conversion” may well have to wait.

June 14-21: A lot can happen in a week

About this time last week, I drove up the Coast to Santa Barbara from our friary at Old Mission San Luis Rey (Oceanside, California) to witness the priestly ordination of our brother, Luis Alberto Guzman, ofm. Since we friars all have different work schedules, I hitched a ride with Mark Beglin and Kay Sempel, two of our volunteer lay Covenant Members who live at the Mission and assist in our work and ministries. We had a great time together and made it to Santa Barbara in just under three hours-- record time-- in Kay's cool yellow Mustang convertible.




Our newly ordained confrere, Father Luis, 44, is a native of Tamaulipas, Mexico, and has been a member of our Province for more than a decade. A year ago, he finished his studies at our Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley, before being assigned as deacon at the parish of Old Mission Santa Barbara. Luis is a fine man, and a friend, so I was keen to attend his ordination. Not only that, he has been assigned to our parish starting in July, so I had a professional interest in his ordination as well.



The beautiful twilight liturgy on June 15 was attended by hundreds of parishioners, family, friends and friars. Bishop Alexander Salazar, auxiliary bishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, was warm and personable. He spoke directly to Luis and indirectly to the assembly, stressing that priestly ordination rises from our baptism in Christ Jesus. Everything a priest does is an act of service, he emphasized. Service expressed most profoundly through our sacramental life as Catholic Christians: the service of baptizing, the service of presiding at Eucharist, of hearing confessions, of witnessing marriages, of anointing the sick. As I sat in the sanctuary of the Old Mission church, I could not help but reflect upon my own priestly ministry a decade ago. Where has the time gone? But more importantly, how can I reclaim and keep alive in my own heart the tremendous feeling of peace and gratitude I experienced at my own ordination?

I stayed overnight at the Old Mission so I could attend Father Luis' first Mass at the monastery of the Poor Clares the next morning. Here, the setting was more intimate and familial. Flanked by three other Franciscans at the altar, Luis was well supported as he made his way through the liturgy. The chanting of the nuns-- unseen, cloistered behind their grill-- gave a formal and austere feeling to the event. But when the Mass was ended, everyone broke out into warm and enthusiastic applause. Luis just stood there for a moment, taking it all in, beaming.

After the ordination, I drove back to Oceanside with Friar Adrian Peelo, the third member of our team of sacramental ministers. We gave a ride to our new friar-to-be, Sam Nasada, who will enter our novitiate program at the beginning of July. We dropped Sam off in Los Angeles, stopped at Ikea for lunch, and chatted away about our plans and hopes for the parish now that we have a another priest to help out.



When I got home, I met with Brother Vincent Nguyen, who is staying with us for the summer. Brother Vincent has been commissioned to produce a full-scale interpretation of the celebrated Franciscan, or San Damiano Cross for our sanctuary. We hope to have the work completed by the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary on August 15. Meanwhile, we placed the blank form in the sanctuary this first weekend so that people would have an idea of the scale of the project. Vincent is making great progress and is generous in explaining the iconography of the Cross to parishioners and others. This is a very concrete way in which we hope to plant the Franciscan identity in our faith community.



I had scarcely unpacked when I learned that our three novices-- Friars Philip Polk, Michael Minton, and Ryan Thornton, along with their assistant novicemaster, Father Tom Frost, had stopped by to spend the night. The novices explained that they had been on the road for 19 straight days, visiting friars and friaries in Arizona and southern California. They were both exhausted and elated; they had learned a great deal during their site visits and were eager to share their insights. At the same time, they were more than ready to return home to Old Mission San Miguel (California) to prepare for their first profession of vows on July 2.



Once the novices left, there was no time to spare in preparing for weekend liturgies (we have 6 Masses-- 2 in Spanish; 4 in English). Everything looked fine until we discovered that we had no water pressure-- there was a break somewhere-- but where?-- in the line. So, we had to close all the bathrooms and shuttle people back and forth via golf cart to the Mission next door so they could use the facilities. Luckily, by noon on Sunday, we were able to plug the leak. Always something!



Today is Monday, June 21. Six of us friars decided to take our day off (yes, we get one whole free day a week) as a Fun Day. So, Friars Larry, Kelly, Andres, Mo, Adrian and myself piled onto the northbound Amtrak train together. We got off at the very next station to spend the afternoon visiting one of our sister missions, San Juan Capistrano. We were given the royal treatment by the staff at both the parish and Mission. San Juan is compact and easily accessible. Even though it welcomes more than 300,000 visitors annually, it has succeeded in retaining its identity and spirit as a place of prayer, reverence, and spiritual refreshment. We friars never seem to have enough time together, so this was a rare treat. We strolled through the Mission and its adjacent basilica , gazing and grazing. Savoring the gorgeous grounds. After an early dinner, we caught the next train back to Oceanside.



It's late. I'm tired and need to rest. It's been a great week; it's been a while since I've been able to spend this much time with the friars. But I have to admit I'm looking forward to some quieter days now to catch up with office work at the parish. Enjoy your week.