My only hope for Heaven…

 My personal theological journey rests in between the hymnals of a Baptist church somewhere east of Oswego, Illinois in the late ‘80’s and my current, morning ritual of an 11-minute commute that’s only complete with the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. I am a Believer. I believe in life everlasting in Heaven above, and that our earthly sins were paid for by my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. For that I am grateful.

I was saved in that nondescript Baptist church at some point in my teenage years. Initially I only attended at the invitation of my buddy, Dave. His family was much more traditionally devoted. Truthfully, I probably went just to get out of the house, hang out with a buddy or chase Baptist girls. Either way, at some point, the “word” moved me. I accepted the terms of salvation and confessed my sins. Never traditionally baptized, I still feel that my relationship with Christ is recognized and try to live by the Good Book, although I’m not yet dunked. Like all sinners, I stray. Usually, a good Tyler Childers or Johnny Cash gospel song is enough to redirect my attention to the Golden Rule.

As kids, mom taught us to pray and insisted on it before every meal. In the Marine Corps, “Bootcamp Christians” who will do anything to avoid the wrath of a Drill Instructor for an hour, sought sanctuary, if not salvation, at the Chapel. Seeking a break from training stress, I lined up with the Protestants for no other reason than, I didn’t understand the Catholics. For the next few years, I periodically attended Church both on base and aboard ship. When other Marines were napping, lifting weights, or wasting their lives away, you could find me, Steve Morris and a dozen or so African American sailor, shipmates of ours, belting away songs of the Southern Baptists in the ships’ library. During our second Deployment, I was even the Protestant Lay Reader.

When I found the woman of my dreams and got the courage to put a ring on her finger, it was important to us to be wed in a church. Out of convenience, I was teaching a student whose father was the local pastor. Our relationship with Pastor Dave soon followed and we spent many evenings in premarital counseling listening to Dave’s biblical teachings and aligning our beliefs and expectations. Michele and I were married at the Rush City Baptist Church on a bland, warm, and snowless December day. Nowadays people regularly exchange nuptials in an old barn, or on a beach, at a courthouse or in Las Vegas. Luckily, we tied the knot long before our Vegas Days. Otherwise, I’m convinced Michele might have opted for the sun and Elvis to do the honors.

We started our young family, and initially lugged the kids back to Rush City Baptist. We took our turn at Awana’s. In no order and for no particular reason, we bounced around a little, searching for a church. We switched to the Lighthouse, otherwise known as the Pine City Evangelical Free Church. Gave it a shot at Journey North. Sent Emma to pre-school at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church. Although grateful for our time there, we discovered we’re not Lutheran. Volunteered for summer Bible School and sang our hearts out for a couple of years at the Evergreen Community Church. We taught our children to pray. We raised them under the guidance of the Golden Rule, but long-term attendance never really stuck for our family. Once the two youngest were placed at “the altar” of USA Hockey, our Sunday morning commitments changed for the next 14 years.

The paternal side of Tyler’s family plays the part of the traditional Catholic oligarchy well - always attending on Christmas and Easter, baby baptisms, God parents and First Holy communion as youngsters. Nieve at best, I remember questioning my eldest son’s belief system. Stating at one point that a street sign may be more Catholic than he. Politely, we attended Tyler’s First Communion and years later, we proudly attended his graduation from Saint John’s University. Perhaps he is more Catholic than I once realized. Neither Michele nor I were raised in regular, church going families. However, I am comforted in knowing that we laid a foundation of belief for our family and have modeled good choices because we have raised good people.

And now our second son is becoming Catholic.

Tomorrow night, after months of preparation and sacramental instruction, Logan will receive his First Communion at the Easter Vigil. For over two years, he has been attending the Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Rush City with his girlfriend, Cady, and her family. There, Father Matt has been instrumental in Logan’s developing relationship with God. On a cold afternoon in the pheasant fields last winter I asked my youngest son, why? Why was he pursuing the Catechism? Logan assured me that he was interested and invested. He said that he enjoys going to church and learning more about it. He enjoys the people that he’s come to know through attending and serving alongside Cady. I surmised that he felt no real pressure and was there on his own Free Will. Our father/son conversation concluded that if Catholic conversion made him happy and that made Cady happy, then his mother and I support him.

Recently, my own curiosity has led me to reading up on Catholics, Mormons, Jehovah’s Witness, and other religions of the world. It’s sparked several open and honest conversations with friends of differing beliefs and rekindled counsel from my own parents and grandmother. The thing about religion is that none of us really know… it’s about faith – about belief in a higher power. Can we afford to be wrong?

Thankfully for Emma, Michele, and me - I’ve learned that Catholics believe that God’s mercy may reach others outside of the Church.

Catholic Boys – pray for us – you’re our only Hope for Heaven!