Originally published at National Catholic Register
Like many converts, I didn’t learn my way into Catholicism. I fell in love. The learning came later. I’m still learning, of course.
My marriage came about the same way, incidentally. The sound of my wife’s laughter plunged me into the depths of love before I knew her middle name or her favorite ice cream flavor. All that came later.
Long story very short: Just after graduating college in 2006 with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy, God lifted the veil for a few precious moments — and I fell hard. I became Catholic in my heart before I knew the equivalent of the Church’s middle name.
The priest at the nearby parish, an elderly Capuchin named Father Barnabas, understood this well. When I told him I wanted to join RCIA, he didn’t dive into an explanation of the Monophysite heresy. He just welcomed me home. I can still see the look of delighted surprise on his face. He knew what it meant far better than I did.
My RCIA experience did little to fill in the blanks, however. Priests I met later were scandalized by what I didn’t learn. I never learned to pray the Rosary, for instance. Nor did
