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Catholicostalism December 3, 2007 by Chantell Smith
An unlikely pair engaged in animated conversation made its way towards the foreign language building on campus. At first glance, they were polar opposites in almost every aspect. He: a short, overweight, bespectacled white man; age gracing the forties, gray gracing his thinning hair, and to top it off, a Catholic priest. She: a taller than average, thin, 20/20-visioned young black woman; still enveloped in her twenties, not a speck of gray in her brown-black waves of thick hair, and to top it off, well, quite Protestant (and of the laity). Being a man given to sweating profusely, the priest was relieved to feel the cold blast of air hit him as he held the door open for the young woman. She, a cold-natured soul, immediately folded her arms for warmth as she stepped inside. But they were also similar in curious ways. Both of them were single and celibate (or ‘abstinent,’ as the young woman would define herself. She’d read her fair share of Christian self-helpish books for singles which point out the difference), both very devoted to their faiths, and both in love—with the Spanish language. They rode the elevator up together and sat down in the same row once inside the classroom. That’s how these two opposite paths crossed. In a graduate-level Spanish class. Good and evil. The seven deadly sins. Anti-clericalism. Naturalism. Positivism. The professor bandied these ideas and terms about in preparation for reading a 19th century Spanish novel. The young woman felt badly for the priest. She inwardly winced at the prospect of his having to read a novel in which some of the main themes are church corruption and the hypocrisy of the clergy. The main character gets caught up in a liaison with the priest she confesses to, for goodness sake! The professor made a point about the belief of one of the famed authors of the Spanish Golden Age, Pedro Calderón de la Barca, concerning free will. “Free will is not the choice between good and evil, but rather the freedom God has given man to choose to do good.” It illuminated the young woman’s mind. Good and evil are not equal opposites. She wrote that thought down alongside the characteristics of Positivism, making a mental note to mention it to the priest during the break. The priest listened, doodling in the margins of his notes. He noticed a stray brown-black hair on the back of the young woman’s shirt and discreetly plucked it off without her ever stirring. As his mind wandered, he remembered a conversation they had about a ‘message’ versus a ‘homily’: “So, do you like, write your own messages?” the young woman had asked, “Or do you follow, like, a set thing? I mean, I don’t know that much about Catholicism, so I was just wondering—“ “Well, actually, we call them homilies—“ “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t kn—“ “No, it’s okay. There is a passage of scripture for each week I give my homily,” he had explained. “You see, a message, or sermon, is like a religious speech given on a certain topic or theme. But a homily is centered on expounding upon that particular passage of scripture. There’s a calendar I go by, and the scripture passages rotate in a three year cycle.” “Oh, okay, cool. Well, I’m Pentecostal, and my pastor usually preaches on a topic, rather than a set passage of scripture, but there are a variety of scriptures he uses to support his point. You know what I mean?” He remembered having nodding with an amused half-smile. At the start of their present 20 minute class break, the young woman turned around to offer the priest some of her trail mix. She’d noticed him with a Snickers bar earlier and thought he might’ve wanted something a little healthier. He demurred, patting his portliness. “I know you’ve probably already reached this conclusion through your theological studies,” she began, weighing each word as she often did, “But I was thinking about what Dr. Ramirez was saying about what Calderón de la Barca thought about free will. It just struck me that good and evil aren’t equal opposites. Good is the . . . substance, but evil is nothing but the lack of it. It makes so much sense that free will is really the freedom to choose good. It’s like evil isn’t really a substantial choice, it’s more a simple result of refusing to exercise that God-given freedom.” The priest studied her for a moment with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure you wouldn’t ever consider becoming a nun?” Her eyes grew wide for a moment, and then they both burst into laughter. “Get thee to a nunnery,” she sputtered between chuckles. “I remember you saying you were Pentecostal—“he began, changing the subject. “Oh, no, we don’t do nuns,” she giggled, still recovering from the earlier comment. The priest shook his head in mock reproach. “Well, what do you do?” The young woman sobered. She thought about retorting, “Why don’t you come to church with me and find out?” but remembered that he had to give homilies and hear confession on those days. Before she could speak any more weighed words, Dr. Ramirez returned and resumed class. Of course, the priest already knew what Pentecostals did. He did attend seminary for four years. During those years, he spent a lot of time with his friend Sam, who is now Father Samuel Nichols, a Pentecostal Catholic, or rather, the leader of a parish birthed from the Catholic Charismatic Renewal. “Catholics speaking in tongues,” he’d speculated aloud to himself one night after reading another one of Sam’s exuberant emails. And this “resting in the Spirit” business? He couldn’t help but picture a TBN crusade. He could never watch more than five minutes of Benny Hinn’s knocking people out into spiritual oblivion before flipping the channel in disgust. It’s not that he had anything against Sam for his interest in what he called the spiritual gifts. It’s just that he saw it as almost an aberration. TV evangelist theatrics. It had nothing to do with the sacraments, nothing to do with holy devotion, nothing to do with following Jesus’ example and doing good works to help those in need. He didn’t get it. “Be careful of rejecting what you don’t understand simply because you don’t understand it,” Sam wrote in a previous email. “This is an experience you wouldn’t understand until you’ve experienced it yourself.” Sam had a habit of speaking and writing in a sphinx-like manner. It was a part of his intrigue. He seemed to have an intangible grasp on something that had always escaped everyone else. Interestingly, the young woman reminded him of Sam, in a way. It had to do with the way she offered comments in class that nailed down the point of the professor’s circular ruminations; how she often shared insights (sometimes spiritual) she had that impressed him. And when she offhandedly mentioned that she was Pentecostal, it further cemented the association in his mind. As Dr. Ramirez continued to lecture, the young woman thought about the priest’s question. “What do you do?” It was the flip side of the question she remembered being asked of her in her undergrad days by guys who were trying to pick her up. They’d usually start out asking what she did for fun, and she’d usually mumble something about not really being a party girl and being involved in her church. Some, puzzled, would then follow up with, “What do you do?” She never knew how to answer it. Doing something worthwhile always varied in definition depending on who you were talking to. A frat boy certainly had a different idea in mind than a priest. Her difficulty in answering others was that she couldn’t really answer it within herself. What did she do that was worthwhile? Get all dressed up to go to church every Sunday? Sing in the choir? Speak in tongues? Eschew the Trinity? Wear denim skirts with flair? She gave a self-deprecating snicker. Maybe focusing so much on what she did was a part of the problem. A scripture came to mind: Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? And in thy name have cast out devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works? Yeah. And then God gives you an eternal blow-off, she thought. After class, the priest and the young woman walked back to their cars together, guided by the eerie cast of streetlamp light. “I was uh, thinking about your question,” she began. “My question.” He stated it rather than asked. “Yeah, you were like, ‘What do you do?’ Remember? Well, I was thinking and I realized that it’s not so much what I do that solidly defines my faith. It’s more like, what I experience.” “Oh?” “Well, take the phenomenon of speaking in tongues for example. Classically Pentecostal—“ “You don’t foam at the mouth or anything, do you?” he broke in. She rolled her eyes. “Um, no.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, I know many people are skeptical of it, and that’s why I was using it as an example. It’s one of those things you wouldn’t understand unless you experienced it. It’s—it’s not so much something that I do as it is something that happens to me. And besides, well, since meeting you I’ve done a little bit of research. On Catholicism. Just out of curiosity. And I found that there is a Pentecostal movement within Catholicism—“ “Right you are. The Catholic Charismatic Renewal. A priest friend of mine is the leader of a Charismatic Catholic parish not far from here.” The young woman’s words about not understanding for lack of experience uncannily echoed Sam’s admonition. Silence ensued. Just before the priest could bid the young woman good night and walk the rest of the way to his own car, she spoke. “I don’t think I’ve told you this before, but when I was younger, my family lived in Italy. My dad was military, and I went to school on base. We had an enrichment teacher we’d go to once a week or so who would teach us Italian and about Italian culture. Ms. D’Alessio. She’d tell us stories about saints, in particular I remember St. Francis of Assisi, and would tell us about statues and other icons that would cry during certain times of the year. I remember having a dream about a crying crucifix, and I woke up teary-eyed with the thought that the reason why these things were crying was because God was sad. Because He was hurt and disappointed with humanity. Even though I’m not Catholic, I really feel like the exposure I had to Catholicism made me sensitive towards God at a young age. I think meeting you has caused me to reflect on where it all started for me. You know what I mean?” The priest nodded. “I must admit that meeting you has caused me to reflect on where I’m going.” He paused. “I’d like to learn more—even if it’s about something I’m skeptical of. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with a healthy skepticism, but I’m beginning to wonder if my skepticism has at times prevented me from attaining something—something meaningful somehow. You know what I mean?” The young woman smiled at the priest’s adoption of her overused concluding question. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
ninetyandnine.com
© 2007, Chantell Smith
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Chantell Smith is in her third year of stamping out ignorance as an Elementary and Middle School Spanish teacher in Montgomery, AL. This is her first short story attempt since Intro to Creative Writing in undergrad.
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