Last Word

The Good Bad Catholic

By Diogenes

"I might not practice the Catholic faith very well," John confessed. "But I believe it. And I can't stand all these phonies."

Noon was approaching, but John had only just arrived at work. He tapped lightly on my office door, then--while he waited for me to get off the phone--slid into a chair and began glancing my newspaper.

John was a charming young man, and I counted him as a friend. But John also enjoyed life, in ways that St. Augustine would not have endorsed--although, come to think of it, the younger Augustine had followed roughly the same pattern. On this particular occasion, the bloodshot eyes and the very black coffee clutched in his free hand told me that, once again, John had enjoyed a late and lively dinner. On the mornings after such occasions (and they were not infrequent), John had a tendency toward philsophical musing.

This morning was no different. Many years have passed, and now I forget exactly who was in that day's headlines. But I do remember that the story involved a Catholic theologian who dissented from the teachings of the Church. Even more vividly, I remember that my friend John was incensed.

Barely waiting for me to put down the phone, John hurled the newpaper across the room, pounded my desk with the flat of his hand, and sprang to his feet. Then, as all that violent activity took its toll on his delicate head, he collapsed back into the chair, and fixed me with a serious gaze.

"I might not practice the Catholic faith very well," John confessed. "But I believe it. And I can't stand all these phonies."

John was no hypocrite. He did not follow his own beliefs, but neither did he adjust those beliefs to salve his conscience. By his own admission he was a "bad Catholic," but he would never be an apostate. He was an orthodox bad Catholic; he resented any departure from the faith which he had ceased the practice.

THE CHURCH TRIUMPHANT

Not long after we had that conversation, John left the firm to take a new job in another city. Several months later, I moved on as well. We exchanged a few phone calls and postcards, and then I lost track of John entirely. But I still find myself thinking of him often; I hope and I pray that he has finally settled down, mastered his desire for wine and women, and made peace with his own demanding conscience.

Back in those days when we worked together, John and I also lived in the same parish. From time to time I would see him at Sunday Mass, kneeling (always kneeling, never sitting or standing) in a pew near the rear of the church, with his eyes downcast. Occasionally--perhaps just once or twice a year--I would see him in line to receive Communion. On those rare occasions, I felt a special surge of pride.

Why would I feel pride, as opposed to any other emotion? Certainly it was not because I took credit for "converting" John; I knew that I held no influence over him. No, I felt pride because when I saw John prepared to receive the Eucharist, I knew I was--for that moment, at least--in the presence of a saint. Knowing John as I did, I was quite certain that he would not receive Holy Communion without first having made a good confession. When he marched down the aisle, with his head held high and his conscience finally clear, John was a walking manifestation of God's abundant grace, and of the triumph of the Church.

TAKING NOTHING FOR GRANTED

More to the point, I felt pride because this was a triumph of my Church--not just that little suburban parish (although that was part of the thrill too, I suppose) but of the whole glorious universal Church. I was proud to belong to that Church, and proud of the spiritual bonds that tied me to John. As I think theologians might put it, I was rejoicing in my communion with John and with the Church.

Now I live in a different parish, in a different state. One prominent member of this new parish owns a shopping mall, where one large store specializes in X-rated books and videos. I have urged him to end his lease with the pornographer, and find a more suitable tenant; he is unmoved by my pleas. I have spoken with the pastor; he seems to think the issue does not concern him. But when I see this man at Mass, I'm afraid I feel no joy in my communion with him. And of course I have heard more striking stories: of parishes where abortionists (not to mention the politicians who sponsor them) regularly come forward for Communion.

When I hear of these cases, I think of John, and the effort he must have made to prepare himself for the Eucharist. I think of him, too, when I stand in line behind adults in ragged sweatpants, or teenagers in T-shirts that bear obscene slogans. How can I experience that thrill of spiritual communion, when all the available evidence suggests that the people who surround me feel nothing at all?

Isn't it true that our pastors have a duty to safeguard the sacraments, by withholding them from people who are obviously not properly disposed? Aren't they obligated to us, the ordinary parishioners, to preserve our confidence that we can truly share in full spiritual communion with those who stand beside us waiting to receive the Eucharist?

I don't mind sharing the Lord's Table with sinners, because I am a sinner myself. But I do resent sharing with people who simply don't care.