A Catechumenate of Offences

There are two sorts of attacks against the Christian Faith. First, there is the attack of the persecutor. But there is another sort of attack, that may be better called a quarrel. This attack is not that of a persecutor, but that of a patriot, who has wandered abroad.

When the working man mutters over the mouth of his beer, “This country is a mess,” we would hardly call him a traitor. He often holds more authentic love for his country than the politician who praises it. The Speaker of the House may talk of, “our great Republic”, but our friend will speak to the bartender of “this damn country.” But it is his country, and he doesn’t want it to be damned; although he may want to see the politician hanged. But he really believes in the existence of his country, even though that belief is obscured by a cycle of venial complaining. The politician pays the country lip service, but his interest is in the padding of his pant pockets, not in patria.

To use another analogy, one man walks out of his house in the morning, his face red and his hands thrown up in the air in mild frustration. He grumbles a few words through the door as he shuts it with what he would call a sturdy hand. “that woman…”, he mutters, as he gets into his car. Another man walks out of a young lady’s house. He whispers affectionate names into the house. Gently closing the door, he walks back toward his car with a smirk on his face and yesterday’s clothes on his back.

Which man loves? The first man provides for and is faithful to his wife. He was arguing with her about the kids' sports schedule that weekend, and they had both shared a few sentences for which they will later wish to apologize. The second man turned a page in the book of a young woman’s life that was not his to turn. He will not see her again.

The patriot's berating and the husband's grumbling are evidence of two things. One, of an imperfect possession of the virtue of long-suffering. Two, of the existence of the virtue of faith, even though it be the size of a mustard seed, and concealed to the casual observer.

In one of G. K. Chesterton’s excellent Father Brown stories, a young Socialist with plans for violent revolution named Jake Halket rails against the Christians and their religion:

“Heaven never does anything but forbid this, that and the other; forbids us to strike, and forbids us to fight, and forbids us to shoot the damned usurers and bloodsuckers where they sit. Why doesn’t Heaven forbid them something for a bit? Why don’t your damned priests and parsons stand up and tell the truth about these brutes for a change?” —Incredulity of Father Brown, The Ghost of Gideon Wise¹

Halket continues his angry tirade, making him suspect to all the respectable members of society as the mystery story continues. Everyone believes he is angry enough to burn down a church. But, when the police begin to consider him as the perpetrator of a series of murders, our detective Father Brown presents a different opinion of him:

“My position is simple,” replied the priest. “I am here to look after the legitimate interests of my friend Halket. I think it will be in his interest, under the circumstances, if I tell you I think he will before long sever his connection with this organization, and cease to be a Socialist in that sense. I have every reason to believe he will probably end as a Catholic.”

“Halket!” exploded the other incredulously. “Why he curses priests from morning till night!”

“I don’t think you quite understand that kind of man,” said Father Brown mildly. “He curses priests for failing (in his opinion) to defy the whole world for justice. Why should he expect them to defy the whole world for justice, unless he had already begun to assume they were⁠—what they are? But we haven’t met here to discuss the psychology of conversion. —Ibid

Why should a man criticize priests for failing to stand up about something, unless he believes they have a duty to stand? Why should he criticize churches for focusing too much on asking for money, unless he believes they have an obligation to focus on something else? Why should he criticize Christians for being hypocrites and selfish, unless he believes that God has called them to live holy lives and to help the poor? Why should he call on Heaven, unless he had already begun to assume that it, well, is?

His moral senses are being brightened with the light of Reason, even as he gropes toward the Source of that Light, bumping into people and muttering imprecations along the way. He is in a Catechumenate of Offences. He takes offense at lazy presbyters, becasue he has subconciously come to believe in Ordination. He takes offense at the conduct of the baptized, becasue he is beginning to believe in Baptism.

Almighty God agrees with many of the accusations of such a man. Or rather, such a man is beginning to agree with Almighty God.

“Christians are hypocrites!” Jesus warned Christians to be on guard against hypocrisy², and taught us that, “not all who say to me, ‘Lord, Lord’, will enter the kingdom of Heaven.”³

“Churches are full of bad people!” Jesus said it would be so until the Final Judgment: “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field; but while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat and went his way”.⁴

“Too many churches just want money!” St. Paul told us that would happen: “For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy…”⁵

As he launches these sorts of accusations, a man may be ignorant of the factors that would render his targets less culpable. His attacks are often flawed in their application. They are uninformed about the details, but they are right about the subject: a moral universe, in which Christianity is somehow at the center of things. Our Lord told us a parable about two sons:

What do you think? A man had two sons; and he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ And he answered, ‘I will not’; but afterward he repented and went. And he went to the second and said the same; and he answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “Truly, I say to you, the tax collectors and the harlots go into the kingdom of God before you. —Matthew 21:28-31

The first son, who answered “No!”, later did the will of the Father. Many harlots, tax collectors, and even our exasperated fault-finder, are entering the kingdom of God.

The aloof agnostic who claims to “respect religious belief for its social and psychological benefits” is often further from the kingdom than the angry infidel who is mad at Christians for being hypocrites. C. S. Lewis’ liar, lunatic, or Lord trifecta is relevant here.

Our angry interlocutor who we are examining in this essay is drifting dangerously close to the mighty river of faith in Jesus. He is precariously close to seeing Jesus as Lord: not as a figure of societal good or as the topic of nice weekend orations, but as King to be obeyed. His zeal for obedience to Christ has already begun when he expects that obedience from His ministers. Soon, he may begin to expect it from himself. A sort of heavenly patriotism is forming in his heart, and charity is covering the multitude of his offences.

Christ Calling the Apostles James and John, the ‘Sons of Thunder’, by Edward Armitage

1. The Incredulity of Father Brown by G. K. Chesteron

2. Matthew 16:6

3. Matthew 7:21

4. Matthew 13:24

5. 2 Timothy 3:2