Why I haven’t lost my religion

In thinking about the crisis facing the Church, I keep hearing the line from the REM song, “Losing My Religion”: ‘Oh no, I’ve said too much … I haven’t said enough.’ I want to share what the Church means to me today because of what it meant to me in the past.

I am aware that many people reading Bishop Robert Barron’s book, “Letter to a Suffering Church” are overwhelmed midway by not only the magnitude of emotions that come with this subject matter, but also by a rare, painful analysis of scandals that have been caused by Church leaders throughout our 2,000-year history. Like King David of the Hebrew Scriptures, many of the greatest atrocities have been committed by our leaders, including members of the papacy. I could never have imagined this in my youth. 

I remember a powerful line in the author’s notes for the play, “Death of a Salesman.” Arthur Miller described the tragedy of Willy Loman as the moment when the sons see their father with a “public eye.” I am paraphrasing, but Miller said his story essentially was about the sons losing their innocence and trust in the hero they had idolized. They not only felt betrayed but their world was shattered. At a painful requiem in the later moments of the play, the boys’ mother challenges her sons, despite herself being an injured party, to have respect for the flawed man who loved them. 

When I was finishing my first year of theology at the seminary, I have to say I was disillusioned, in part, by the frank, honest Church history that opened my eyes to issues I had never seen before. I expected to fall short of the holiness of my environment, only to find the same tensions that existed everywhere among students, faculty and staff. I was overwhelmed at the end of the semester and questioned whether I had a vocation. 

That summer, I met resistance to my vocation for the first time. Friends and family were not afraid to tell me what they thought was wrong with the Church or how they had felt often betrayed and rejected. Some questioned whether, in good conscience, they would even be able to attend my ordination. I had expected something so different in the reactions of those whom I trusted and relied on for support. I felt that I was questioning everything, and then something happened that would change everything. 

On Aug. 14, 1990, my mother would be diagnosed with a terminal illness that would take her life months later. On Oct. 10 of that year, her mother, though elderly, would die unexpectedly – and my family gathered with my mom to mourn, celebrate my grandmother’s life and lay her to rest. For my mother to experience this, and for us to experience this with her, was unbelievably painful and indescribably beautiful. 

It was the Church, women and men representing the Church, guiding us as true healers and disciples that got us through our journey. Pastoral care from hospitals, parishes, and hospice rooted us in our faith and gave us healing strength. Christian rituals helped us navigate the choppy waters and reach the next shore. The Sacraments transformed us as we experienced my mother’s Anointing of the Sick together as a family and knew how much she felt relieved and free in the sacredness of the moment. 

I remember the exact day of her diagnosis, because the next day was the Feast of the Assumption. I was finishing my first summer assignment as a seminarian, and after the Holy Day masses, for the first time in my life, I brought my mother Communion. As I did so, we cried. The powerful tears that we shared brought me an amazing sense of how important the Eucharist was in our lives. Sharing the Eucharist with my mom was the greatest gift I could bring her. Receiving this sacrament from me was the greatest gift she could have given her son. 

That’s just one of the reasons I stay. That’s why I haven’t lost my religion. 

This is an edited version of Father Fleming’s blog post from Aug. 23.