I am a 33-year-old
cradle Catholic. When I left my parents’ home at 18, I stopped
going to Mass. The reason was simple—I didn't understand the
Mass, and I didn't have a clue what it meant to be Catholic.
Thanks to the Holy Spirit, I now
understand both.
You see, in the summer of 1996,
I found myself somewhere I couldn’t have even dreamed I’d
be—in national media talking about, of all things, secondary
virginity. How I got there is as strange as how I was put on earth
in the first place—literally! Let me walk you through
the gist of it.
In the wee hours of February 14, 1995, I awoke in a
place I ought not to have been (if you know what I mean). And, no
doubt, through the intercession of St. Valentine, I also awoke with
a sick feeling in my stomach. And it wasn't a stomach virus. It was
one of those spiritual stomach aches—the sort you get when you
know you've done something really, really wrong. I got up, walked
to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and said, “What
are you doing? Don’t you care about anything? You’re using
this guy as much as he is using you! You know you don’t love
him. You know you’ll never marry him. And you wonder why you're
not happy? This is getting you nowhere! No, you’re not going
to do this to people anymore—until your wedding night, you are
a born-again virgin.”
Thank God for infant baptism!
That, my friends, was none other than the Holy Spirit
hard at work. Of course, I didn’t know it was the Holy Spirit,
because I couldn’t have even told you what the Holy Spirit was.
At that time, I was a full-fledged pagan who worshiped many gods—TV,
politics, men, recreation, possessions, Scorpio, friends, work, self.
I lived and breathed for these things; they were the center of my
universe. I didn’t even know how to pretend to be Catholic!
It is very difficult to articulate what happened that
February morning, because it was just so out-of-this-world. All I
can say is that up until my conversation with the mirror, changing
my ways was the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, I thought I
had been doing everything right—no one ever told me otherwise,
anyway. The TV didn't tell me; the movie theatre didn't tell me; my
friends sure as heck didn't tell me! Or maybe I just wasn’t
listening to the right People.
Without waking him, I left my boyfriend’s house
vowing never to see him again. It may seem cruel, but I knew I was
doing us both a favor. And I somehow had all the confidence in the
world that I could live a life of chastity. Mind you, the word "chastity"
wasn't in my vocabulary. I just knew at that moment that I had some
far-out power under me that was going to help me. No, it did not dawn
on me that perhaps it was God.
Back in the world, I found my new stand more liberating
than restrictive. It was a powerful means of shielding my heart and
soul of unneeded pain. You know the sort of pain that God that doesn't
want us to have because it's self-inflicted and self-damaging and
leaves a person very self-ish. Still there's no such thing as fruitless
pain. Whenever necessary, I told potential suitors right away that
I was “born again.” Because it sounded sort of funny,
it was a light way to inform them of my intentions. And, yes, once
some of them realized my sincerity, it also served as an excellent
weeder-outer.
But how did I end up confessing
to the world?
Well, a friend had told me about
this woman named Dr. Laura who had a “fabulous” radio
show that I “just had to hear.” It took awhile, but I
did finally tune in. Whoa! If you've never heard Dr. Laura, she is
one hard-hitting, pull-no-punches kind of mama. I couldn’t believe
my ears and thought: "Is she for-real? Are these people willingly
calling in to get a royal beating or are they paid actors?" Oh,
but the more I listened the more I knew that oh, yeah, baby, Dr. Laura
is very for-real and the people calling in were as real as our American
society is wounded and messed up. Caller after caller sounded as miserable
as I had been and for the same reasons. I had empathy.
On July 4, 1996, probably through the intercession of "St. George
Washington", I was inspired to dust off the old typewriter and
write Dr. Laura of my newfound freedom. My hope was that, in her own
words, she would tell people that they could reclaim their virginity;
instead, she read my letter on the air.
A very long story made short—the
response was so overwhelming that BAVAM! a movement
began—“Born-Again Virgins
of AMerica”, the local chapter —“Sexless
in Seattle.” That was when Seattle was a real hotspot on the
map, and the media ate it up, and I was asked for interviews all over
the country (and even the world) in every medium—radio, TV,
newspaper, magazine, Hollywood even called with a contract for a movie.
Please! Apparently, it was big news that anyone could live this way.
I hated it. I was not the public-speaking
type nor had I ever been interested in becoming so. Even today, I
lose comfort once a group exceeds three people. And to talk publicly
about something so private was not exactly a walk in the park for
me. But I had to do it. I had to do it because so many souls responded
wanting "BAVtisms" of their own. They needed a voice telling
them it was okay to want more, to expect more; they needed to know
that it was not only okay but that it was good to be countercultural.
Still, I was scared to death,
and I myself had to know...was this from God?
“Dear God, are You
there? If this is from You, please, I need your help. I can't do
this by myself; I have no idea what I am doing! Whatever this is,
I surrender—it's all Yours! What do You want me to
do? How do You want me to do it?”
I was northbound on Seattle’s
Aurora Avenue Bridge when I prayed that little prayer. My brother
and his girlfriend were taking me back from a Seafair engagement (Seafair
is a weeklong summer festival, in case you were wondering). About
five seconds later, my brother said, “We’re going to Mass,
do you want us to take you home, or do you wanna just come with us?”
The next thing I knew, we were
in the parking lot of St. Alphonsus Catholic Church in Ballard. It
was the beginning of my journey back to the Eucharist, but the journey
might have been longer had my brother not done one selfless
act:
As we were walking through the
side vestibule to enter the church, he stopped me and said, “Oh,
little sister, I need to, uh, tell you something.”
He was really nervous.
“Um, well, uh, I am responsible
to tell you that if you're not in a state of grace, you can’t
go to Communion.”
I must have had a dumb look
on my face—he continued,
“…like if you missed Mass last week and haven’t
been to confession…?”
Oh, my, what a shocker! I thought
to myself, “How dare he tell me something I already know!”
I just looked at him and disrespectfully said, “Yeah, whatever,
I know.”
Of course, I had no idea what
he was talking about. In my pride, in my pride, IN
MY PRIDE, I stood through the beginning of Mass thinking,
“Nobody's gonna tell me I can’t go to Communion. I am
not gonna be the only fool sitting way out here while everyone else
goes up there. Besides, he doesn’t know what he’s talking
about—‘state of grace’—sounds like a country
song. And 'miss Mass'? Of all the sins he knows about, he gives me
'miss Mass'? What the heck’s the big deal?"
It was driving me nuts. It was
so unlike my brother to say something that would make him unpopular.
I couldn’t stop talking to myself about it. What was
the big deal? Why would he say something like that if he didn't mean
it? Apparently, Someone was listening in on my internal conversation,
because during the first reading, I was overwhelmed with an understanding
that I had better not go to Holy Communion
and that I needed to get to confession as soon as possible.
The next Saturday I stood in a
long confession line only to chicken out at the very last second.
The next week, my chicken thighs did the exact same thing. Third try—success!
Ahhh, I made it all the way to the insides of the confessional, confessed
my sins, got direction, and was told to go (in peace). I didn’t
have to stay there forever, and the priest didn’t beat me over
the head with his chair. In fact, he was very kind, and I could hear
in his voice a certain joy that one of his spiritual daughters had
come home. I felt like a new person; I felt a new freedom; I was truly
at peace.
It became a healthy sort of addiction—the
more I went, the more my conscience grew and the more I came to understand
the Eucharist. I didn’t even read—through the grace of
the Holy Spirit and of the Sacraments, it seemed to just come to me.
Of course, once I realized what I was realizing, I developed a strong
desire to learn more and more, which was accomplished through reading
and listening.
If ever you find yourself not
understanding why the Church asks non-Catholics
and Catholics who are not in a state of grace to refrain from receiving
the Eucharist, remember that she is only doing for them what my brother
did for me. It does us no good (and actually does us much harm) to
receive the Eucharist unworthily. The Church, in her wisdom, is only
protecting us and inviting us to a deeper understanding of what it
is we are receiving—Jesus’ own Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity.
Yes, for a moment I was angry with my brother for pointing out that
I was a sinner in need of reconciling with God but only because my
pride wouldn’t allow me to see that he was just loving me. His
telling me the truth could have cost him a lot—it could have
cost him my love. He took the chance. Certainly he would survive without
my love, but isn’t he better off with it?
The same is true with the Church—she
has a lot to lose by telling us the Truth—our love. Many, many
people have turned away from the Church, even people from within it—yet
she stands as tall as ever. No one can doubt, however, that she would
be better off with all the love she could muster, for that would only
benefit all humanity. This is why she continually invites us to come
home to know her love and mercy.
I thank God for infant baptism
because without it, I’d probably be dead. It’s sort of
funny—it seems that through the Sacraments of Confession and
the Eucharist, I have come to understand the Sacrament of Baptism.
Although, what is really true is that through baptism, I have come
to understand everything that I understand.
I like to think of it this way:
At baptism, the Holy Spirit comes
down and, as a gift, makes Himself a nice little fire inside the soul.
For the rest of the soul’s life, He keeps the fire at a constant
rate. He never leaves—not even to add another log.
But He gives the soul the inspiration
and freedom to toss on as many logs as it wishes and promises that
He will stay to keep it burning.
He also gives the soul the freedom
to throw sand on the fire but promises that He will stay and make
sure the sand is never enough to extinguish the underlying coals.
He sits there for the soul’s
entire life, encouraging it to stir up the ashes, to get to the coals,
to add some kindling, to throw on more logs so that what the soul
has, so that what the soul becomes is one gigantic bonfire
with sparks so brilliant that it can’t help but start more fires.
But it’s all up to the soul
to cooperate with the grace of the Holy Spirit. After all, a gift
isn't much of a gift if no one bothers to open it.
