I think more about being Catholic now that I’m Methodist.
I joke that my intolerance of repetition comes from my years of liturgy, never unpacked. When I read the bible, sometimes I hear the organist singing hymns from the Catholic songbook: Jean, the organist, always singing these words I had no idea came from Isaiah or a psalm. It’s still bizarre that I could spend close to twenty years immersed in liturgy and still think Habakkuk was a typo, not a book in the bible.
My bible-marinated friends were so patient the first time I read it cover to cover. “And when the Israelites were in the desert, it’s JUST LIKE ME,” I went on and on, drowned myself in these similes and metaphors. Really, it was kind of embarrassing how enthusiastic I was over this book I’d had in a Rubbermaid container since my first communion in second grade.
I’m so grateful for that experience, and all that’s happened since, and the Methodists who don’t blink at this — but I’m also coming to term with what my baptism in the Catholic faith has given me, too.
Last weekend I was with a group of mostly evangelical writers, who very passionately and honestly used phrases to describe their work that were heavy with “it was laid on my heart,” and “God gave me a burden for.” I tumbled those over and over in my mind: laid on my heart; a burden on my heart; broke my heart for.