This is probably just an audacious start to the academic year, but I hope to begin blogging again to record some of my thoughts and observations about life as a learning theologian in the Bronx. My perspectives are my own, but the result of a pile of different influences and ways of thinking. If you’ve ever been to a Catholic Church you know that, upon entering the sanctuary, there’s usually a small container of holy water on the side to dip your hand into. Most Catholics do just that and, with fingers wet, make the sign of the cross on their forehead in a ritual that says, “Here I am, God, ready for Mass.” A Catholic understanding of sacrament means that this water is sanctified—made holy—by a priest’s blessing. In effect, touching holy water and making the sign of the cross is sort of like a rebaptism, or anointing, for believers to receive divine blessing and renew/remember their Christian identity in preparation for an encounter with God through the Mass. Last Sunday, as I went to Mass at a local and largely Latino parish, I saw a variation on the tradition I’ve known. Instead of each member of the family dipping their hand into the water and making their own sign of the cross, the mother—or maybe abuela—took it upon herself to make sure that each of her children was properly prepared to enter the Church. Lavishly dipping her hands in the bowl of holy water, she took them out to give each of her children a generous washing in the sign of the cross. It reminded me of when I was young and my mom would give me spit baths before church. In the course of childhood the time between Saturday evening baths and Sunday morning church was an eternity, and certainly plenty of time to get muddied in the great outdoors or smeared with the leftovers of breakfast. I still remember the way my face would scrunch up when Mom gave me a certain look: I could tell by the way she eyed me that there was something on my face —probably a piece of egg— that she was going to wipe off to make me presentable for church. All of this goes to say I smiled in knowing recognition of what these kids were going through. I was taken aback, though, when one—probably twelve or thirteen—received an especially thorough holy water scrubbing. I imagined this poor adolescent’s situation: probably in the midst of finding her identity, with all the complexities and difficulties involved, and here she was, in public, getting a face bath. I’m sure the matriarch knew more than I did, so I didn't want to judge her actions. Maybe the daughter had been out late the night before, or spoken filthy words and needed some special cleansing before entering the sanctuary. It all made me smile, but it also made me consider the importance of mothers in our lives. They were the ones who made sure that we were ready to go out into the world; that we were outwardly presentable in appearance, but also that we were inwardly spiritually prepared to face life's challenges. How many mothers, my own included, have spent years teaching their children the truths of faith and relationship with God? How many have fretted when their sons and daughters have sullied their childhood innocence with youthful rebellions and sinful follies? And how many have interceded on their behalf, approaching the throne of God for their children’s sake, to beg for the forgiveness of sins and a right relationship with God? None of us became believers on our own. We have a community of faith who encouraged us on and helped us along the road to Christian discipleship. Many of us have our sins forgiven because God used holy men and women to point out to us our dirty state when we couldn’t see it otherwise. And many of us are clean and able to enter God’s sanctuary because we’ve received a holy washing through graces God’s given by way of our mothers.

Why I'm Catholic Now

Dear friends and family,

Here is a short synopsis of how I came to be Roman Catholic. It is an abbreviated version of the story of my conversion, and by no means represents all the myriad ways that God has worked in my heart and the countless doctrines with which I have wrestled, but it does offer a starting point for conversation. As many of you may know, I am more than happy to talk about it and to share about God's calling on my life. Just let me know, and we can get coffee or a meal for the longer story. Thanks, and God bless,

Jason



I am originally from Westfield Center, where I was blessed to have been raised in a Christian home. Growing up with both parents and five younger siblings in an evangelical church, I heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ preached often and learned of my need for a personal relationship with God. When I was in sixth grade, I realized my sin separated me from God; wanting to avoid the consequences of sin and be forgiven, I asked Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior. I trust that was when I first converted and began to live a life of faith.

At the age of 13, I took another step of faith and asked for baptism. At my evangelical church, this sacrament was only considered an outward sign and symbol of salvation's work already finished in my heart. It was tied to church membership and a public confession of faith, much like Confirmation in churches that baptize infants. I saw God's blessing for following His leading to baptism, though, even though not many people in my church were baptized as young as I was. The testimony I gave before my church in a public proclamation of faith gave me a dear community of encouragement and accountability throughout high school. God used my evangelical church to grow me spiritually in countless good ways.

College found me at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, a Jesuit school where I was committed to studying political science in preparation for law school and a life of public service. Before leaving home, though, I was genuinely worried that my faith would not be able to stand up to the pressures and temptations of college life. Georgetown is technically a Roman Catholic university, but very few students actually take their faith seriously. Shortly after arriving, however, I joined several interdenominational Christian fellowship groups for community and accountability. God worked through Bible studies, service opportunities, and fellowship with other Christian believers to protect me from losing faith and my Christian witness. My faith truly became my own at Georgetown, and, praise God, grace carried me through all four years.

It was at Georgetown that I first met Catholics who were serious about serving Jesus. Growing up, I had several Catholic friends who only attended Mass on Christmas and Easter. Their lack of understanding and living out of faith seemed to confirm the negative stereotypes that I had been taught at my Protestant church about Catholics. Thankfully, however, through interdenominational ministries at Georgetown, I came into contact with Catholic believers, and had the chance to see their faith manifested in lives of Christian witness before I even knew they were Roman Catholic. I was completely taken aback, for example, when I learned that a prayer partner in my freshman dorm, who shared my evangelistic concern for our lost friends, was a devout Catholic. I thank God, though, that the anti-Catholic stereotypes with which I had been raised melted away in the first few months at university.

My sophomore year I added a theology major focusing on biblical literature to my course of studies. The classes, taught from a secular and academic perspective, de-constructed as social and cultural commentary all the scriptures that I considered sacred and revealed by God. Faced with new (and unchristian) opinions of my Christian faith, I started to question what was essential to belief. Was a literal understanding of the Bible necessary? Could I ever really find the truth in a specific church, creed, or interpretation of the Bible? I was still actively involved in an interdenominational campus fellowship, so I was being exposed to the whole spectrum of Christian belief and practice. God was calling me to find Christian Truth; a Truth that I knew should not result in the plurality of sects and multiple interpretations of scripture. My Protestant convictions, however, told me that I was the abiter of my own truth and reality: that I could choose my denomination, my specific beliefs, and the way I wanted to follow God.

Junior year I had the chance to visit Israel for a semester of study abroad in the Holy Land. There, God worked in my heart in many ways. First, I was exposed to the beauty of liturgy and the importance of the Christian liturgical year. Concerning the liturgy of the Mass, I realized for the first time in Israel that I felt more comfortable and at peace in a Roman Catholic Mass than I did in an evangelical Baptist service. Living as a foreigner in a dangerous country far away from home, the words of scripture and ancient truth in the liturgy gave me the comfort and peace for which my soul hungered. Secondly, I had the first chance of my lifetime to really live out the liturgical year. Raised in an evangelical faith, we understood Lent as a papist practice, and were lucky if we got hear about the Resurrection on Easter morning. Being in Jerusalem, however, I took full advantage of the opportunities to celebrate Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, with the liturgical Protestant and Catholic communities in Jerusalem. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday from a Catholic Bishop in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I fasted from meat during Lent for 40 days near the desert where Christ himself was tempted in the wilderness, I joined in with the throngs waving palm branches to welcome our Lord and King on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, I kept vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane on Maundy Thursday, I was kneeling at the sight of the true cross when the church bells rang out at 3:00 pm to remember Jesus' death on Good Friday, and I got up before dawn to remember our Savior's resurrection for a sunrise service at the Mount of Olives on Easter Sunday. I found that the experiences of Christian holy days strengthened immeasurably my faith in Christian Truth and my relationship with God.

It was also in Israel that I got to see and interact with churches of Orthodox and Catholic origins. These churches, many of them being in the Holy Land since the time of Christ and the apostles, claimed an authority of faith through apostolic succession from Jesus himself. Seeing the land of the scriptures, that I had studied eagerly as a Protestant, so closely tied to these apostolic churches and traditions, spoke volumes to me. I realized that in the land where Christ lived, the truth about Christ continued to be made manifest in these churches.


Returning to Georgetown for my senior year, I still was not convinced to become Roman Catholic. Although I wanted to believe in a sacramental understanding of reality (as a Protestant I believed only in symbols and faith), I still did not believe in the Real Presence in the Eucharist or the literal washing away of sins by baptism. My soul longed to trust Catholic doctrine and to believe God's use of physical objects as the means of grace for me, so I began to pray for faith to accept the Catholic understanding of the sacraments. A dear Catholic friend and mentor of mine was patient every step of the way to answer questions, and explain the significance of Catholic teaching. He encouraged me to go to a Catholic chapel on campus and spend time praying to the Blessed Sacrament, asking, "Jesus, is that you there?"


After much time spent praying in the Catholic chapel, I began to feel a peace and presence that I did not find in Protestant worship spaces. I began to spend more and more time there, going to prayer several times a week, and began genuflecting and crossing myself when I entered the chapel, out of respect for the Catholic tradition. Somewhere along the way, another friend shared with me the scriptural grounds for belief in the Real Presence and, thank God, by the end of my senior year I was a believer.


My senior year, I also took a course taught by an excellent professor and dedicated Jesuit priest on the teaching of Saints Augustine, Bonaventure, Anselm, and Aquinas . Explaining Catholic doctrine through the lens of these fathers and doctors of the Catholic Church, Fr. Fields showed me more and more the great continuity and treasure of faith passed on through the Roman Catholic Church. I realized that if these teachers were alive today, they would probably be Roman Catholic, and, as a Protestant, I would probably be at odds with them. I felt a growing longing to be united with the doctors and traditions of the Catholic faith, while the division caused by the Protestant Reformer seemed to make less and less sense to me. I remember one day trying to justify myself as a Protestant and to tell myself at what one point the Catholic Church "went wrong," so as to require the Reformation. I realized that I probably ought to become Catholic when I could not think of anything.


After Georgetown, I decided to spend some time doing missionary work as an English teacher in Paraguay. I went to serve with the evangelical denomination in which I was raised, believing that if my interest in Catholic faith continued throughout the year, it really was something from God and not something I was doing on my own. While at Georgetown, I was worried my conversion to Catholicism might be the result of peer pressure or my own pride, so I decided to give the choice a time of discernment in South America. There, I reckoned I would see (and indeed did) the worst stereotypes of Catholicism-- that is, Catholic faith polluted by folk traditions in a society where very few actually faithfully practiced their religion. The evangelical church where I served was full of ex-Catholics, all very eager to share their negative opinions of the Catholic Church. I wanted to make sure I got every perspective before I became Catholic.


I realized in Paraguay more than ever, though, that God was calling me to become Roman Catholic. Although much of what I saw in South American Catholicism was not good, I realized that the heart of the faith and the teaching of the Church was good and true. Although many Paraguayans are not faithful to the Church and the society in many ways has fallen fall short of God's ideal, the Church remains the Church and holds the fullest revelation of Jesus Christ for salvation in the world.


Upon return, I knew for certain that I had to join the Catholic Church. I began attending St. Francis Xavier, contacted Jenny Bonarrigo, and, after a few meetings with her and First Reconciliation with Fr. Hollis, was received into full communion with the Catholic Church on February 15. I praise God for the way He has worked in my heart along the way, and it gives me such great joy to consider how He's finally led me here. For years I have thought about becoming Catholic and imagined the joy of being able to share in the Holy Eucharist, and now it feels as if all the gifts of Heaven are mine through Jesus Christ and His Church.

I Thank God

Thank God, the travel is all over. It's a privilege to be back home with family and friends; to realize there is a country, a state, and even a family where I belong. There are people who dress just like me, speak just like me, and eat just like me. I hear familiar music play on the radio, and I watch familiar programs on tv. It's good to be home.


Thank God, my flights from South America went well. Not a single piece of luggage lost or damaged, not a single flight delayed or connection missed. I arrived in Miami for a splendid visit with Mrs. Moxley, then continued on to Nashville to meet up with Luke. After a short visit to Music City, we flew northward to meet up with our family for Thanksgiving Day.


Thank God, everyone was able to be together the Friday after Thanksgiving for my Grandpa's funeral. All my mom's family, much of my dad's, and a whole host of old friends from church came to offer sympathy and pay their respects. I officiated my first funeral service, and I trust that God used it as a tribute to both my Grandpa's life and His faithfulness revealed in it. It was a cold, cold, day, but one filled with many warm memories and the sweet consolation of grace.


Thank God, following a very short weekend search, an affordable and well-working car was provided for my use. It's a black 97 Toyota Corrolla with only 98 K miles, and a splendid first car for a very-recently-returned missionary. It runs smooth, and, when the day comes to sell, ought to fetch a good price as a used vehicle, too.


Thank God, after a busy weekend, I was able to travel on a university-touring expedition with my new car. With gas prices so low, it cost next-to-nothing to visit Notre Dame with Dad on Tuesday, and Boston College and Yale on Thursday. Along the way, I had the chance to visit with a dear friend from high school in Boston and a dear friend from Georgetown in New Jersey.


Thank God, last weekend I spent a wonderful time in Washington, DC, where I got to meet up with every one of my good friends from university. Most have stayed in the greater DC area, and the weekend was filled with sweet reunion after sweet reunion. Old friends hosted me at their houses, and several fed me as well. Highlights from the weekend included an early morning hike with old roommates and a midday lunch at the Jesuit residence at Georgetown with a dear priest, mentor, and professor friend.


Thank God, Sunday was spent congregating with Georgetown Baptist Church. I was invited to sing in the choir once again, and was overjoyed to find Pastor Carl in good health and cheerful spirits. Truly, God was faithful and good to this congregation, and faithful in answering so many petitions prayed on their behalf.


Thank God, this week has been much more laid back. The family is passing through a rough time, but I've been able to spend time with each one sharing and listening. A job search continues, with a possible opening and interview set for Monday morning. God-willing I'll be able to work next week and settle into a good healthy routine.


Thank God, because it's good to be home.

Bitter Sweet Homecoming

As many of you may have heard, my Grandpa Donahey passed away yesterday (Sunday) at 5:00pm. He was as prepared, both spiritually and physically, as he possibly could have been to go Home. As a family, we count many fond memories with Grandpa over the past few years, and have been blessed with plenty of time to prepare for his departure. Thankfully, I got to talk to him on Friday and say goodbye and tell him I love him.

As many of you may not know, for the past half year I´ve also been intending to fly home early and surprise my family for Thanksgiving. So, surprise! God-willing I´ll see you on Thursday for Thanksgiving, or on Friday at 10:00 am for my grandpa´s funeral. Viewing hours start at 10:00 am with the actual funeral service at 11:00 am at Waite and Sons in Medina. I hope to see you there!

Argentina!

Argentina, when compared with Paraguay, is a really big country to get to know. For that reason, along with my limited time and pocketbook, I chose to visit only three major cities in the middle part of the country.

The first leg of my trip was to Buenos Aires, the most European major city in South America. After an 18 hour through-the-night bus ride from Asunción, I arrived to the most Western civilization I’d seen in more than a year. Since Buenos Aires was settled and populated by Spaniards and Italians, the architecture, parks, and beauty of the city reflect Western and especially Western European styles and ways of living. There were beautiful old buildings and imposing ornate churches, flowing gothic fountains and clean Victorian parks.

I also arrived to the most materialism I’ve seen in a year. The first day I spent wandering around wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the shopping district, visiting store after store and mall after mall. I saw brands of clothing and food and entertainment that I had almost forgotten about in my year away from American culture. The best surprise was a man dressed up as a sandwich who led me to Subway.

Sunday in Buenos Aires I went to San Telmo, a neighborhood world-famous for its antiques shops and street fair. I bought a small $10 religious painting a couple centuries old that had been ripped out of a church in Peru.

Monday saw me visiting Palermo, the ritzy part of town, and buying a ham and cheese sandwich for $10. In my defense, I was really hungry after walking around and visiting the Recoleta, a little city-cemetery where all of Argentina’s famous folks are buried (including Evita).

Tuesday I went back to Palermo and Argentina’s National Fine Arts Gallery, where I saw paintings by as many modern artists as you can name. Picasso, Monet, Manet, Rivera, Van Gogh, Degas--- everyone was there, and all their paintings saw me trying to be an artsy fartsy arts aficionado. I figured just standing and staring long enough would make me look like I appreciated art, and I think it worked.

Wednesday morning I arrived in Mendoza, a mountain city on the other side of Argentina and in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. It reminded me much of Boulder, Colorado. The city has a complex system of canals which channels melting snow from the mountains to water its thousands of beautiful sycamore trees. The city would be a desert without this genius system, which also provides the necessary irrigation water for surrounding vineyards and orchards.

My first full day in Mendoza, I took a trip high into the Andes Mountains to the border with Chili and an altitude of about 11,000 feet. I saw snow there, and took my picture with Mount Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. I met on the tour two American men who were both former contract security officers with American military forces overseas. We had a hearty lunch, since it got really cold so high up in the mountains.

Day two in Mendoza saw me on a bicycling vineyard tour of the surrounding countryside. I don’t know who ever thought mixing bicycles with wine tastings and crazy Argentinian traffic was a good idea, but thankfully I survived the afternoon along with my two new friends from Tufts University that I met along the way. Perhaps it was God’s will to protect us on the roads and to keep me from getting into trouble, but we started off late and were only able to see two vineyards and one specialty liqueur shop. Around a dozen vineyards were originally on the tour schedule. I ended the day dehydrated and with a literally blistered behind.

The last day in Mendoza I went to visit La Difunta Correa Shrine, the center of a folk cult to a woman who, a century and a half ago, was found dead in the desert with her live baby still sucking at her breast. Although the cult is condemned by the Catholic Church, many Argentineans believe La Difunta Correa, or the Dead Lady Correa, can perform miracles for people who ask. Thus, at her shrine, people bring models of their houses to ask for La Difunta’s blessing, leave parts of their cars for safety in travel, and climb the stairs to an altar with a statue of her dead body and suckling baby to ask for good health and prosperity. The idolatry and paganism of it all, along with a bad raw ham sandwich I ate for lunch, made me soul- and stomach-sick the rest of my trip.

Monday I arrived in Córdoba, a beautiful colonial city in central Argentina nearly as old as colonialism itself. With several beautiful churches downtown, I was impressed that native Cordobans nearly filled each one to capacity for mass on a weekday morning.

Besides seeing a few churches a few blocks away from my hostel, I was too sick to do anything else in Córdoba, and ended up passing two days indoors close to the toilet and sink. Fed up with being far away from home and with no one to take care of me, I arranged to leave my hostel early and zoomed on a bus back to Asunción.

Experiencing Argentina, although much bigger and perhaps with many more exciting things to do than Paraguay, was nothing like experiencing home again in Lambaré. I went away to foreign lands only to come back appreciating even more the community of dear friends and Christian brothers and sisters that I have here in Asunción. I missed them all so much while I was gone, and I’m even thankful now that my sickness in Mendoza and Córdoba gave me good reason to return home early to spend more time with them these last few weeks in Paraguay.

Nightmares

I have never been one to think too much of my dreams. In our over-analyzed post-Freudian world, what ought to be taken as innocent dreams are often twisted around and interpreted to tell us that we have very dark desires and are actually very bad people. As for me, I don’t think that what I dream is necessarily always what I want to do, and I know that if I dream about trees and buildings and people and normal things that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m 100% repressed.

In my spiritual life, my dreams have never been a very big part of my relationship with God. Although I once met the pope in a very lively night of dreaming, I can’t recall meeting God or an angel by way of vision, and I’ve certainly never received any clear instructions for my life while asleep. Although I’ve dreamt of Christian reconciliation between people who have been separated for a long time and of the spiritual salvation I so greatly desire for many friends and loved ones, I claim no prophetic vision and write it off more as wishful thinking on my own part than the reality of God’s workings in the world. I’m generally very skeptical and uncharismatic when it comes to interpreting dreams as revelations from God.

All this goes to say that I’m really surprised at myself for being so impacted by what’s been going on in my dreams the last two nights. I’ve had terrible nightmares for two nights straight: nightmares where everything around me in my bedroom—my blankets, my clothes, the fan, and even my roommate, turn into menacing demons and grotesque diabolic forms. The room swirls with evil, an endless maze of altered reality and torment. I cannot explain it well, but it has terrified me at night and left me feeling completely helpless.

Last night, when the nightmare was at its worst two or three times, I had no recourses left but to cry out to God with the Lord’s Prayer. I didn’t speak with any authority as one rebuking demons, but instead, as a lost and terrified child crying out to his father, I prayed for salvation from what I dreamt was evil all around me. As I recited the “Our Father," the incubus world quickly receded and I was left quiet, alone, and trembling in my bed.

I’m really at a loss as to how to interpret what actually is happening. Perhaps I just am eating too much chipa, and my dreams the result of too much Paraguayan cheese in my system. Or, perhaps I have a lot of subconscioius transition stress and it’s working itself out in nightmares. I’m tempted to believe, though, that it really is some sort of spiritual warfare going on and a very real vision of the constant fight going on within my soul between good and evil and light and darkness. Whatever it is, though, it’s shaking me up, and I’m coming out of it able to testify to the power of God in the midst of demonic terror, and of the presence of divine peace in the struggle with very dark dreams.

Some pictures from Argentina...

Some pictures from my journeys in Agentina.

All goes well.