I'm sorry, I'm not Catholic

By Saturday afternoon word had gotten around camp that I was not in a twelve step program. Oh, and I wasn't Catholic.... (I was the only one, as far as I know, in our group of about 50 that wasn't in some way involved in a twelve-step program.)

During a conversation with a few people someone asked me, "What do you know about twelve-step programs?" I responded, "Well, last week I Googled twelve-step program and read the twelve steps. That is what I know."

(BTW the twelfth step is:

Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

So that explains a little.)

Not that it really mattered, I found all the materials, discussions and topic to be completely relevant to my faith and Christian walk,

nonetheless...

I don't know the Serenity Prayer by heart, or the stations of the cross or The Apostles Creed. (Rich Mullins put the words to music and I could sing the Apostles Creed. Oh, Rich Mullins, now that is an amazing legacy.)

I don't believe in purgatory or going to confession. And stigmata, man, that is something we never discussed at my East Texas Baptist Church.

I don't know why candles are lit (for $2.00 each) to various saints, nor do I know what each saint represents or is symbolic of or reflects. And praying for the dead... I've never done it.

I'm pretty ignorant in ways of Catholic traditions. And while I think I should read and become knowledgeable in some of these things, I'm fine with our differences. For now anyway.

At Graymoor there were so many marble statues and shrines and crosses with Jesus still hanging there. I don' t know, I simply feel that if I had to look at that all the time heaviness might start weighing me down. Guilt perhaps? Just plain old sadness.

....

Saturday morning I was headed to breakfast and I entered the first door above which I read the sign, Dining Hall. The door was ajar. Inside I could see people sitting eating, pouring coffee. I walked right in and made a bee line to the nearest water pitcher to fill up my water bottle.

"No. You can't be here. No. What do you need?" This five-foot tall frizzy haired woman approached me. Wiping her hands on her apron she reached toward me, as if to direct me back toward the door through which I just walked.

I was taken aback. My eyes widened. I felt that lump in my throat like I had just done something horribly wrong. Perhaps this breakfast was for the youth group that was here on retreat as well & we were eating elsewhere.

"I'm sorry. What?," I replied, thinking about just running out the door and eating the dried apricots and almonds in my bag upstairs.

"This is the friar's end of the cafeteria," she said through pursed lips. "You can't be here. Everything you need is on the other end of the dining area. Everything that is down here is down there too."

"I am so sorry," said over enunciating each syllable as I looked around wondering who saw me commit the most obvious of sins.

As I walked toward the beverage and food tables that I could partake in I thought how I really had wanted to say, "I am so sorry. I'm not Catholic. I didn't know."

So, for each meal going forward, I walked passed the first entrance down the hall about twenty more yards to the second entrance so I could eat with the common folk and sit at their table. Honestly, I had no idea...