Autism as a gift

I took my ten-year-old son with me to the grocery store last night. He pushed the cart himself. He cheerfully helped put things in the cart and then put them on the belt when it was time to check-out. He even helped me load the car and close the trunk. It was beautiful. I almost cried.

That probably sounds like a strange reaction to parents of typical kids. Many kids would have been doing what he did tonight ages ago. For my son, though, this was extraordinary and wonderful. Because he is severely autistic, there is much that he cannot do for himself, much that is a struggle. For that reason, whenever he is able to do something, our family receives it as a tremendous gift. It is incredibly gratifying to his mother and I to see him doing something independently, and it is also deeply gratifying for him when he finds that there are things he can accomplish on his own.

I imagine that every parent experiences some version of this. As a child reaches new milestones, there is a bitter-sweet kind of letting-go that parents do over and over again. For typical parents, the hard part of that is the realization that some day they will have to let go completely and allow the child to flourish all on his or her own.

My experience is different. My children will probably always need me to help them do even basic things. There is a kind of bitterness that can creep in with that, a despair that perhaps our children will never be able to function on their own, and a befuddlement as to what life means and what it is for when it is so perpetually limited.

Yet scattered amidst the strenuous and monotonous trials of daily life, there are these incredible moments when the joyful truth of who my children are breaks through. It is often something like a trip to the store, but it does not have to be. It can be something even simpler, like a shared laugh. It can be the way one of my sons moves to sit in my lap or touch the back of my neck. It happens in the rare but increasing number of moments in which my boys interact with each other.

My children are a gift. That gift includes their autism. That is a difficult thing for me to say. Frankly, much of the time their autism feels more like a curse. It is a hard life. I fear for them. And in my selfishness, I often pity myself for the things I do not get to experience as a father and the things I have to give up in order to care for them. But their autism really is a gift, not because autism is a good thing in and of itself, but because it forms part of the reality of who my children are, and I am a better man because I get to be their father.

Autism is not a separate reality from my children. It is not something that happened to them nor something added to them. There is not a real them that lives somewhere behind their autism, as if you could take the autism away and reveal a truer version of my children that was previously hidden. They are autistic. So to love them, in some sense, is to love their autism.

The limitations that come with autism are a great burden, both for my children and for their mother and I as parents. Nonetheless, there is a sheer joy that comes in realizing and knowing the humanity of my children, especially in those moments when they suddenly seem capable of engaging the world. I do not know that I would be moved to tears watching my ten-year-old push a cart if he were a neurotypical child, at least not every single time.

I write a lot about how hard all of this is. And it is hard. But when every day is a struggle, every victory becomes a tremendous sweetness. I wish people understood better what it is I experience as a parent and what my children experience in trying to engage with a society that was not made with them in mind. Yet I never want to be pitied and I would not want my boys to be pitied either. There is nothing pitiable about them. They are human beings, fearfully and wonderfully made, bearing the image and likeness of God. And because of that, I grow closer to my Lord every day when I serve them.

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Why prayer is hard

Delicate is not a word that people often associate with God. Strong, loving, nurturing perhaps, but not delicate. In addition to sounding precious and far more feminine than many people are comfortable with, it is also a word that suggests fragility and by implication weakness. Nonetheless, while it may be too much to say that God is Himself delicate—He is after all the Lion of Judah who roared all of creation into being—it is completely fair to say that the way that we relate to God in a fallen world is delicate.

Sometimes waiting on God will make you sweat. It is possible to sit in front of the Blessed Sacrament for hours and be completely unable to focus. That danger is even greater if you are trying to pray and reach out to God in your home, at work, or while driving a car. Distractions abound. And just at the moment when you finally sense God, just as quickly you may lose it, like a bubble that pops the second you touch it.

Knowing God takes work. This ought to be a fairly obvious thing to reason out. Knowing anyone or anything takes work. You can neither learn math by simply putting a textbook up close to your head nor build an intimate and close friendship without ever inviting someone into your life. Why would it not be the same with God? Yet we often assume that it should be. We expect knowing God to be easy and obvious. Many people who say they want to know God turn and walk away the first time they realize that it is going to be hard.

Distractions are not the only difficulty either. Even the most committed monks and ascetics find it challenging to stay in and with God throughout prayer. It can be overwhelming to be in His presence and aware of Him. Sometimes we reach for the distractions as a defense mechanism because the full weight of really knowing God is too much to carry.

Why all the difficulty? It is, at least in part, because when we pray we are essentially trying to hold lava in a paper cup. It is easy to forget the radical otherness of God, especially because as Christians we sometimes take  the Incarnation for granted. But really, if we understood the implications of the miracle of God taking on flesh, we would be in constant fear and awe. God is so much more powerfully real than we are that Moses could not be permitted to see anything but His hindquarters lest he die. Almost every encounter with an angel in the Scriptures begins with human beings falling down in fear because the glow of the angels is so overpowering simply because they have been in the presence of God. Yet today we expect there to be not the least bit of friction when, as sinners and weak creatures, we ask the God of the universe to speak directly into our hearts and minds.

Of course, God wants to be with us. The good news of Jesus is rooted in that truth. The Sacraments communicate the full reality of God to us by the most ordinary and unobtrusive means. The Eucharist particularly makes it possible for us to take the full reality of God in the person of Jesus into us, His Body given into our bodies, His soul and divinity touching us deeply, regardless of whether we feel it or not, or whether we are distracted, or whether we are in the mood for it. In that sense, knowing God is easy. All we need to do is show up.

But even if we are rooted in the grace of the Sacraments, there is still a longing in our hearts to know God further in prayer. We want to feel Him, to know He is present. It is a natural desire, but it is not something that can be forced. God is not a high we can induce or a tame pet we can invite onto our laps. He is sovereign and moves as He will. But His desire is to be with us. He delights in knowing us and He delights in us reaching out to know Him.

God does the heavy lifting when we pray. We stress over finding the time to pray, fighting back the distractions, and focusing our minds. We think that means we are working hard. But think about all that God must overcome in order to enter into a place of intimacy with us in prayer. His Holy Spirit has to traverse the great gap that exists between us and Him. He has to make it possible for the paper cups that are our hearts to be able to hold the lava. Everything we do seems like small potatoes in comparison with that.

We cannot be fully aware of the fact that God loves us all the time, at least not on this side of eternity. If we were so aware, we would never be able to do anything but be struck dumb in adoration. We would not be able to drive our cars or brush our teeth or pay our taxes. But the more room we make in our lives for quiet prayer, the more that the realization of God’s love begins to color and shade even those moments of profound boredom or sadness that mark our lives. The more we pray intentionally, the more the whole of our lives become offerings of prayer.

Creating the space for adoration is tough. There is no way of knowing before we begin how God will show up to us or if He will even show up at all (at least in a way that we recognize through our limited perception). Yet the need for such prayer is deep in our hearts. We need to learn the art of prayer, to adjust ourselves to receive that which God has for us. The most difficult things we do in life are often those which yield the greatest rewards. Prayer is the most difficult thing we will ever do, but it is only when we give ourselves to prayer that we really begin to live.

A purgatory of love

There is an allegory often falsely attributed to C.S. Lewis that in the life to come we will only be able to eat with spoons, forks, and knives that are more than a meter long. Those who are in hell will be tortured by this because they will never be able to feed themselves, while those who are in heaven will feed each other.

The fairly obvious point is that hell is made of selfishness while heaven is made of selflessness. Those in hell see only themselves, while those in heaven see only each other. The big problem with the illustration is that neither group seems all that interested in seeing God. Presumably, if anyone is getting fed at all in heaven, it is the Lord who will feed us.

That said, as I was pondering this image recently, it occurred to me that it works far better as an image of purgatory rather than heaven.

I went back and forth on my thoughts on purgatory before I was Catholic. I could accept the idea that there might be a state in which God removes from us the remaining stains of sin before we are able to come into His presence. This was, in fact, the understanding of purgatory that Lewis held, as he wrote about in his Letters to Malcolm. It did not distress me that such a state was not explicitly described in Holy Scripture (or at least not described in a part of Scripture that would be acceptable to Protestants). It seemed to me to fit well with the general thrust of how the Bible describes God’s interaction with us. God’s holiness is so bright and powerful that we sinners cannot walk into His presence lest we be destroyed. It is only when we are transformed and our sin is removed that we can stand before God.

But what still bothered me, at least for a time, was the gnawing suspicion that purgatory as the Catholic Church describes it adds to the completed work of Jesus Christ on the cross. If we can serve time in some sort of supernatural prison to shave off our guilt, did the sacrifice of Jesus really atone completely for us? If I can say prayers that somehow help a soul in purgatory along the path to heaven, am I not adding my own effort to that of Our Lord?

“That there should be some fire even after this life is not incredible,” said St. Augustine in the Enchiridion of Faith, Hope, and Love, “and it can be inquired into and either be discovered or left hidden whether some of the faithful may be saved, some more slowly and some more quickly in the greater or lesser degree in which they loved the good things that perish, through a certain purgatorial fire.” Love lives right at the center of the doctrine of purgatory, but it is not only the love that comes directly from God but the love that God diffuses in and through us. The extent to which we have given and received love determines the degree to which we suffer as we move towards our ultimate union with God.

Believing my prayers for a person in purgatory are effective is no more an addition to the work of Jesus than it is to believe my prayers for a friend in the hospital are effective. It is my own union with God, forged in His love, that makes such prayer effective. I operate not as an independent agent, dispensing my own graces, but as a part of the Body of Christ, humbly assumed as an instrument of His love. Could He do it without me? Sure. But He chooses to do it through me, by means of my prayers, and in so doing He purifies me as well by making me look outside of myself. As I become more loving in this life, I grow closer to a fully realized communion with God in the next.

Sometimes we envision the purifying fire of God as something external, burning away impurities in much the same way that a flame burns off rust or melts wax. But if all purgatory is good for is changing our external appearance, to hell with it. The purity we need is in our hearts, as Our Lord so aptly points out (Matthew 15:10-20). That is a transformation that cannot happen in an individualistic way. It cannot just be me and Jesus. It must be me in Jesus, loving those whom He loves, losing all sense of self-possession in favor of a new identity as one who loves in Christ.

I have dear friends who have died who were true and lively believers. They may already be in heaven. Or they may be in purgatory. I do not know. I rejoice for them either way since either ultimately leads into God’s embrace. Sometimes I pray for them and sometimes I ask them for their prayers for me. If they are already in heaven, I imagine my prayers for them do them no harm. If they are in purgatory, perhaps my prayers for them might do them some good. But even if they are in purgatory, I am sure that they benefit from the opportunity to offer prayers for me and others. Every calling out of the self, every calling to use the long forks and spoons to feed others, is a small act of purification, offered not in competition with the completed work of Jesus but in continuity with it as a genuine fruit of the Spirit.

That Jesus would live as one of us and die for us is the ultimate blessing. That we get to participate in the manifestation of that grace, not only in our own hearts but in the hearts of others, is as deep a love as I can imagine.

What if Bishop Barron read Goodnight Moon


Let me preface this by saying that I love Bishop Robert Barron’s work. If you don’t believe me, just click here and see how often I reference him. He is one of my heroes. He is a leading light in the Church today and a true gem. I would not be Catholic right now if it were not for him. So the following satire is meant to compliment, not to insult in any way.

The idea came to me after watching one of the bishop’s newer videos with my wife. We talked about how soothing the bishop’s voice is and how wonderful it would be if we could get him to read us a bedtime story (because basically it would be wonderful to get him to read anything). And this bit of silliness just came rolling out of my brain. So have a good laugh. And if you don’t already know Bishop Barron’s work, do yourself a favor and head on over to his YouTube channel, his podcast, or read one of his many wonderful books.


Silence.

Beautiful and evocative music begins to play as a number of images of nature and beautiful churches roll across the screen. Each image is in such perfect high-definition that you feel as if you could walk right into it.

After a minute, a voiceover of Bishop Barron begins:

Many people will tell you that the way in which you tell the moon that it is time for bed is inconsequential. A lot of modern people think that saying “Goodnight” to everything in your room does not matter. And besides, what business do anthropomorphic rabbits have saying much of anything? But from the earliest days, Christians have understood the importance of the filial act of greeting their surroundings at bedtime.

Music intensifies. An image of Bishop Barron in a long coat, walking between rabbit cages at a petting zoo, observing the bunnies. Another image of him strolling through a cathedral with a whole set of board books stuffed under each arm.

Fade to black. Slowly, as the music hits a crescendo, the words come up on the screen, “Catholicism: The Pivotal Bedtime Stories.” Fade to black again. Looooooong dramatic pause.

No, really, it’s a looooooong pause.

Ok, fade back in. As more images of beautiful places pass by, a single violin begins to play. Suddenly, the camera pans to Bishop Barron, sitting in a chair in the middle of the Sainte-Chapelle. He has a large board book in his hands that he opens carefully and begins to read:

In the great green room, there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of the cow jumping over the moon.

Now notice how the cow jumps so carefully, moving through the air with such precision. See how the artist has rendered her lithe, bovine body to be for us a symbol of the lifting of the spirit. In many cultures, this would have been evocative of something pagan, but for early Christian readers of this text, the image intimated something so much deeper and richer, a connection to the divine and to a faith that would never allow pigs to fly but would always honor the soaring aspirations of beef.

And there were three little bears sitting on chairs, which as we all know are symbols of authority, meaning that these bears were about to teach the gathered people.

And there were two little kittens. And a pair of mittens.

And a little toy house. And a young mouse.

And a comb and a brush. And a bowl full of mush that was invented by people on the internet who do not know how to have a proper argument.

And a quiet old lady, symbolic of the Church, whispering “Hush.”

The camera pans out for a moment and the image becomes unexpectedly choppy, letting us know that someone off camera is about to engage the bishop in “real talk.” The bishop nods thoughtfully for a few moments, listening to something that sounds strangely like the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons. Then he begins to make his reply:

See, there are a lot of people today who hear that “hush” from the Church in a negative way because they assume, you know, that the Church is just being a buzzkill or something. But nothing could be farther from the case.

You see, the Church occasionally says “hush” not to end all conversation but to allow us to enjoy a kind of eloquent silence in which we can experience the utter transcendence of God. I’m with Thomas Aquinas who said that “When the Church hushes you, the simplicity of the divine being can warm the cockles of your heart.” Of course, he’s talking about the cochleae cordis, the strange warming that John Wesley rightly identified as the Holy Spirit but wrongly attributed to grape juice instead of to the divine life of the Church.

I’m with Henri de Lubac, who said, “A single hush from the loving bunny-mother of the Church is worth more than a thousand utterances from drunken theologians.” I mean, after all, that’s what Vatican II was all about.

Fade out. More music, this time with some kind of pleasant flute joining the strings. Fade back in on the bishop continuing to read:

Goodnight room.

Goodnight moon, you wonderful symbol of Our Blessed Mother who reflects the light of Christ.

Goodnight cow jumping over the moon, which now that I think about it is kind of weird imagery, given what I just said about the moon.

Goodnight light which shows us the utter transcendence of God and the fact that God is not an object competing for space with the other objects in the room.

And the red balloon which symbolizes… um… red balloons.

Goodnight bears.

Goodnight chairs.

Goodnight kittens.

And goodnight mittens. Think about Dorothy Day for a second. Think about St. Francis of Assisi or even John Paul II. These figures were very different from one another, yet each one likely wore mittens at some point.

Or how about Mother Teresa. She’s a great example of someone who didn’t often wear mittens, because she lived mostly in a pretty warm climate, but she understood the importance of mittens as part of the Catholic ethos and made sure that others had mittens, even when she herself did not have them. That’s Catholicism, friends. That’s what so many people miss.

Goodnight clocks that express the timelessness of God. And goodnight socks that express the comfiness sin qua non of warm feet.

Goodnight little house. And goodnight mouse.

Goodnight comb. And goodnight brush.

Goodnight nobody. And do not think for a second that by saying goodnight to nobody, the Church is advocating that we ignore the intrinsic value of personhood. On the contrary, the Church does not for a moment ignore that value. When we greet all persons, even those considered nobody by others, we acknowledge a deep and holy truth about the presence of the divine light in each one of us.

Goodnight mush, most of which probably originated with that windbag David Hume.

And goodnight to the old lady whispering “Hush.”

Goodnight stars.

Goodnight air.

Goodnight noises…

Sudden flash through all the places we have been. Rising music. Now the entrance of timpany drums, then a gentle sound of water flowing over a single oboe as the bishop quietly says:

Everywhere.

Fin.

Theo-babble

On Star Trek: The Next Generation, there was a frequent employment of a sci-fi trope known as techno-babble. The actors were given highly technical sounding jargon to say in order to talk about how the ship worked or why a particular phenomenon was taking place. Scientists were often hired to help make this jargon sound more realistic, but it was still basically nonsense. The writers would use techno-babble as a way to get out from under a particularly difficult plot. They would give the actors lines like, “Maybe if we [tech] the [tech] then we can [tech] and we just might get out of this one!” The scientific consultants were left to fill in the blanks later with something that sounded plausibly futuristic.

In science fiction, this sort of story-telling technique, while artificial, can actually work if it is used sparingly. When characters speak in complicated jargon, we assume that they are doing something that would be almost impossible for us to understand. We can accept that this is so because we assume that the future will be full of unfamiliar things that yet unknown to us.

We can accept techno-babble in science fiction, but we should not have to accept theo-babble in theology.

Theology means words (logoi) about God (Theos). We cannot know God if He does not reveal Himself to us. True theology, therefore, always comes from God’s revelation of Himself in Jesus Christ, a revelation that is made manifest for us in Holy Scripture, the Holy Sacraments, and the tradition and teaching of the Church. We have theology because we have a God who wants us to know Him. He has given us the words with which we can think about Him, speak of Him, and thereby draw closer to Him.

Many Christians today are skeptical of theology though. In parish ministry, I ran across this attitude frequently. In the same strangely incongruent way that people used to say, “I’m spiritual but not religious,” a self-proclaimed Christian would tell me, “I believe in God but I don’t buy into all that theology nonsense.”

There are likely many causes of this antipathy, but at least part of the motivation is fear. Christians are afraid that if they do not understand what the experts are saying about God, they might not really know God at all.

In the last hundred years, the western Church has become more and more dependent on the academy, which has meant that theology has largely been farmed out to experts. During that same time period, the academy has become more skeptical of revelation and the truth of religious claims. This has resulted in a growing division between those who are theologically educated and those who are not.

Those who have been schooled, either through seminary training or Christian formation programs, in the historical critical reading of Scripture, the various source theories for how the Bible was written, and creative new theologies that find complicated ways of explaining away centuries of moral teaching, have become the brahmin of the ever-progressing, ever-shrinking western Church. Meanwhile, people who pray emotionally and simply, say rosaries every day, and speak about God primarily in personal, relational terms are considered simple folk who can be laughed at, pitied, or ignored. We are living through a new kind of clericalism in which the clergy’s supposed spiritual advantage over the laity comes not from a deeper life of prayer but from a greater access to secret knowledge that the simple folks with their backward faith can never understand.

None of this is to suggest that theology needs to be dumbed-down. Every discipline has its own grammar, and theology is no exception. Theology often deals with rich complexities. Theological language is necessary to talk about those complexities.

Likewise, I do not wish to suggest that the academy is not a proper place for theology. As Jordan Hillebert helpfully explains in a recent article on Covenant, “Christian theology may offer itself as one of a number of rival traditions — opening itself to rational critique but offering in its turn a critical rejoinder to other intellectual traditions. It may be that one’s theology ultimately folds under the pressure of such scrutiny. It might also be the case that theology finds itself capable of resolving certain tensions and contradictions in other traditions in a way that demonstrates its inner coherence and explanatory power.” As part of a whole, theology grounds our educational pursuits in something stable and grounded, God’s revelation, but it does so in a way that allows for a creative synthesis between all the other disciplines, all of which ultimately find their root in God’s design as well.

Theology needs its own language, but that language should not be used to create a barrier to theological reflection to keep out those who are less academic and cerebral in their approach. Padre Pio and Brother Lawrence are as worthy of the title theologian as Karl Rahner and Karl Barth.

Reading the early Church Fathers is a great way to break free from the grip of theo-babble. It is surprising just how accessible the Fathers are, despite the tremendous language and culture gaps that exist between their time and ours. The Fathers were largely preachers and pastors. They did their theology with an eye towards what was happening in their communities, always keeping in mind the need of the people to come to know Christ. This does not mean their works lacked sophistication. I defy anyone to find for me a work of theology more sophisticated than St. Augustine’s City of God. Nevertheless, even read now, their theology still feels fresh and close to the life of the people. Take for instance something like St. John Chrysostom’s sermons on marriage and family life. They are as relevant now as they were when they were written and with only minor adjustments they could be handed to any young couple preparing for the married life even today.

In some ways, the birth of theo-babble can be traced back to the scholastic period (roughly 1100 AD to 1700 AD). It was during this time that theology became an academic rather than purely spiritual pursuit. Critical thought, often in contradistinction to Scriptural reflection, became the dominant mode in many forms of theological exploration. Theological treatises often became long, weighty tomes.

Yet despite these generalized tendencies in the work of the scholastics, there is a genuinely mystical heart to medieval theology. While a St. Anselm or a St. Thomas Aquinas might be difficult to understand without a heavy philosophical background, the heart of their writing is clearly their own lives of prayer and their desire to move the reader, in an ordered way, towards a deeper realization of God through prayerful reflection. In this way, they anticipate great twentieth century theologians like Hans urs Von Balthasar and Vladimir Lossky, writers who require a bit more intellectual heft to read but who deliver as much divine poetry as they do scholastic prose.

Theology is unavoidable. Anyone who has ever said anything about God has engaged in theology. The question is not if we will do theology or not but whether our theology will be true or false, helpful in bringing us deeper into the mystery of God or a blockade that keeps God at arm’s length. Far too often today, what we hear in our churches is theo-babble, offered to obscure the truth rather than reveal it. Leaders in the Church, clerical and lay, have a responsibility to impart good theology to the world. Pastors have a responsibility to offer good theology to those whose souls have been entrusted to them. Parents have a responsibility to raise their children with the kind of theology that will ground them in the truth. Instead of building locked doors with our words, we ought to be giving the people we love words shaped into keys.

At the end of the day, all we have is theology – words about God. That is all that God has given us to know Him with and love Him. It is all that we need. God’s Word became flesh for us, that our flesh might be redeemed in Him. “I have decided to know nothing among you except Christ and Him crucified,” said Paul (1 Corinthians 2:2). Our words may be made simple because the God who gave them to us is ultimately quite simple, even in the mystery of His unknowable essence. Simple, elegant, and beautiful. God spoke but one Word, and the world bent the knee and tasted the glory.

Learning empathy from my autistic children

I like to think of myself as an empathetic person, but I am not. At least, I am not yet.

I do care about people. I worry about friends and family. I feel bad for people who are down on their luck. I sympathize with fictional characters in movies and cry at the drop of a hat.

But when I look inside of myself, what I find more than compassion is blatant self-centeredness. I want others to be happy, but their happiness comes second to my own. I feel bad for others in their suffering, but really I think they should feel bad for me because I have it so much worse. I deserve a break from the mean, cruel world that does not get how hard things are for me, but other people really ought to learn to suck it up and deal.

I need to learn empathy. Fortunately for me, the Lord has given me two able teachers in the form of my children.

I love my boys, but I do not understand them. Their autism frustrates their attempts to communicate and largely keeps them locked in a world to which I do not have access. I am happy when they laugh, but I almost never understand the joke – Was it some funny word I said? The way the light is falling on the floor? What’s so funny about that?

Even more distressing is that I rarely understand what is upsetting them. And something is always upsetting them. Rarely does a day go by without several major freak outs. These go far beyond the tantrums of typical children. They can be long and sustained, sometimes even violent, often lasting for hours on end. When my oldest gets upset enough, he will even bite his own arms, leaving massive bruises.

It is very tiring to live in this environment. It is like living in a war zone. You never know when the quiet will erupt into chaos. And even when things are stable, there is little I can do to connect with my children. I cannot have a conversation with them. I cannot share in their interests  because they largely do not have any. My nine-year-old son’s main interests are showering and baby toys that make noises. How do I connect with that?

So instead I go into my own head. It is surprisingly easy to do. I play on social media, or watch television, or when all else fails I simply turn ideas over in my mind. I become a self-contained unit. I do my best to survive the long afternoons, ignoring as best I can the behaviors of my children that I find most frustrating. I even have the nerve sometimes to accuse my children of lacking empathy because they interrupt my mind wandering with their demands!

What I do not do–what never even occurs to me–is to put myself in their shoes and imagine living in a scary world in which people are constantly talking but I cannot understand them, in which I have many needs and wants but no way to express them, in which the only things that are calming and make any sense are things like the droplets of water coming out of the shower head or the predictable sound effects made by a toy.

Fr. Michael Rennier recently wrote a piece about the great Edith Stein and her advice on cultivating empathy. Stein was a German Jew who became a Catholic nun in the 1930s, taking the name Sr. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. She was sent to a concentration camp by the Nazis where she died in 1942. Today the Church recognizes her as a saint and a martyr. She was known for her great compassion and kindness even in the concentration camp. Earlier in life, she had written extensively about empathy.

Rennier says that one piece of advice on how to be more empathetic that can be gleaned from Stein’s writing is to get out of our own heads. “Empathy is, among other things, a way of learning to appreciate foreign experiences,” he says. “In the same way that travel broadens the mind, so too does looking at the face of another person and glimpsing another beautiful, mysterious, unique mind. The effort is always worth it.”

Is it worth the effort though? Sometimes it does not feel like it. As my wife says, “Sometimes the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.” Hours upon hours of behavioral therapy, trips out to places where they freak out or refuse the bathroom, controlled environments, medications, repetitive movements, attempts to teach things like simple play let alone something like brushing teeth or tying shoes, and the simplest spark of connection still feels elusive.

But then the tiniest victory in the world melts my heart. My nine-year-old manages to push the cart for a while at the supermarket. My five-year-old walks into a room, looks up at the Captain America action figure on the shelf, reaches out his hands and says clear as day, “I want Superman.” These are moments that are more precious than gold. They are moments when my children move just a bit into the world I inhabit, creating a slightly larger space in the center of the venn diagram in which our worlds overlap. When this happens, I realize for a moment how hard they are trying, how difficult it must be to be them. It is not all about my frustrations or what I hoped parenting might be. It is not about me at all. It is about them. They are the people God has given me to care for. They need me to help them to survive in a world that largely has no place for them. If the only thing I ever do in my whole life is to love, serve, and protect them, it will be a life well lived.

What my children have been teaching me without me realizing it is that my own mind is a closed and lonely place if I do not push past the borders of my comfort. Caring for my kids is not simply a matter of providing them with a roof and three square meals a day. It involves a deeper kind of work in which I make an effort to discover what it means to live in their worlds just as they struggle with how to navigate in mine. If I did not have severely autistic children, I do not know that it would ever occur to me to look at things this way, not just from another person’s perspective but from the vantage point of someone marked as radically other than “normal.” But my children constantly challenge me, which blesses me, because it makes me see that there are so many other people in this world than my limited scope of vision would like to let in. When I see the marginalized, the poor, the oppressed, I see something of my children in them and it opens my heart in a way it never did before.

I am not yet the empathetic and compassionate person I want to be, but with the help of Langston and Micah I am learning.

Why I am becoming Catholic

This August, I will be entering into full communion with the Roman Catholic Church. It is the culmination of many years of God working on my heart and at least two years of intense prayer and discernment.

I confess that this is how it feels for me right now: Beautiful but scary, a giant leap into the unknown, and in many ways very sad. I have spent my entire adult life in The Episcopal Church. It is in The Episcopal Church that I first came to believe in Jesus. The Episcopal Church is where I married my bride and baptized my children. I learned much of what I know about the Catholic faith from wonderful Anglo-Catholic friends and mentors, not to mention from the lives of great Anglican saints. Heck, I spent five years blogging about how totally awesome Anglicanism is. It is not easy for me to leave all that behind, especially when I know that there will be many people who will be disappointed by what I am doing.

About a year ago, I spoke with a friend and fellow Episcopal priest about the fact that I was considering becoming Catholic. In response, he asked me, “What’s the fatal flaw in Anglicanism then?” I was surprised by the question because that is not what this is about for me. I am not becoming Catholic because I want to reject Anglicanism. This is not about escaping the turbulence of life in the modern Episcopal Church or about some piece of doctrine or practice that got stuck in my craw. For me, this is about only one thing: Following the Lord Jesus Christ to where it is He is leading me.

When I first heard God calling me to the Catholic Church, it was during a period of fervent prayer. I was aware that there was something spiritually lacking in my life, but I could not put my finger on exactly what it was. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, God revealed to my heart that I needed to be Catholic. And I objected rather strenuously, “But I’m already Catholic!” The Lord did not argue with me. He did not lay out a five or ten point plan to try to convince me of the error of my ways. He just quietly, insistently, repeated Himself. The more I struggled against this calling, the more calmly and consistently the Lord repeated it.

In the months that followed, I began to explore the Catholic Church in new ways. I already knew the work of many Catholic theologians, of course, but now I broadened my search to try to understand what it means not just to think Catholic thoughts but to live a Catholic life. Many of you are aware that I was baptized Catholic and spent a good portion of my childhood in the Catholic Church, but it was under a somewhat strange set of circumstances, in a place that did not stress Catholic identity, and so I never really understood what being Catholic really meant. It was only after I became an Episcopalian that I discovered things like sacramental theology, liturgy, Catholic spirituality, and the lives of the saints. I figured that these things were the common heritage of all Christians (as indeed they are, at least in a sense). But now, as I looked at the Church again as if for the first time, I realized what I had missed before. My wife and I watched Bishop Robert Barron’s Catholicism series, which shows in a lovely way not only the depth and history of Catholicism, but also the rich cultural landscape of how the faith is practiced all over the world. The breadth of the Catholic Church–from Africa to Calcutta, from medieval European cathedrals to the beautiful stone chapels of the new world, from the priest at the altar to the beggar at the mission door–is simply breathtaking. One night, after watching one of those videos, I turned to my wife and said, “It’s like I’ve spent my whole life in a pond and only just now realized that there is an ocean.”

It is hard to explain, but there is a difference between reading St. Thomas Aquinas and being in communion with St. Thomas Aquinas. There is a difference between knowing that a common Baptism unites us as brothers and sisters in Christ and actually seeing the footprint of that in history. There is a difference between loving the tradition of the Church, even trying very hard to apply that tradition to new circumstances, and recognizing my place as just one sailor on a sea of tradition that I cannot control but that will always carry me home.

St. Thomas Aquinas

Naturally, there were doctrinal and practical issues that I needed to work out before I could enter into the Church, though not as many of the former as I might have suspected. Perhaps some time in the future I will talk more about these. Or perhaps not. For the moment, all I can do is approach the cross with wonder and wait upon the word of the Lord.

One thing that struck me pretty heavily in the last two years of discernment is how much more ecumenical my thinking has become. As I have come to accept God’s calling for me to come into the full communion of the Catholic Church, I have become far less defensive of my own theological turf. As an Anglican, I have always felt that I needed to justify Anglicanism’s continued existence, which sometimes led me to feel the need to bash others. But as I prepare to become a Catholic, I don’t feel that same need. The Catholic Church does just fine without me. She doesn’t need me to make the case for why she should exist. I can relax and embrace the fact that Baptists and Methodists and others are my brothers and sisters through Baptism and the cross. It is not my job to figure out the mechanics of unity amongst all Christians. It is, rather, my job to be faithful to the teaching of the Church and to love my neighbor as myself.

There are many challenges that face my family in the months to come. It will be difficult and heartbreaking to lay down my priesthood and to leave behind my beloved parish where I have spent almost a decade as Rector. But it is not really my priesthood. It never really was. All priesthood belongs ultimately to the one true priest, Jesus Christ Himself, who this day is inviting me and my family into the richness of His sacrifice and the depths of His heart. May each and every one of us come to know His saving embrace.