Let the Church Form You
“When the people heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and the other apostles, “Brothers, what shall we do?”
There is something striking about that line.
Peter preached.
They heard.
And then the Word did something to them.
He did not begin by asking what kind of message would resonate with the crowd. He proclaimed what God had done in Christ, placed them inside that story, and called them to respond.
Some heard it.
Some did not.
But the center was not the listener’s mood.
The center was Christ.
For a long time, I think I approached faith the same way we approach almost everything else...
For a long time, I think I approached faith the same way we approach almost everything else.
What does this do for me?
Does this homily speak to where I am right now?
Does this reading motivate me?
Can I apply this to my marriage, parenting, work, stress, suffering, or whatever problem happens to be loudest today?
None of those questions are necessarily bad.
Christianity should change our lives. Scripture should penetrate the heart. A good homily should help us live the Gospel.
But I am beginning to see that the posture can still be backwards.
The Church does not exist merely to find the right message for whatever version of me walked through the doors that morning.
She is showing me something.
Christ.
His Body.
His teaching.
His saints.
His Sacraments.
His suffering, death and Resurrection.
A story that began long before me and will continue long after me.
The question slowly changes from:
“What can I get out of this?”
to:
“What is the Church showing me, and how am I allowing it to form me?”
That is a very different posture.
Take the homily.
I used to think primarily in terms of application. Give me the lesson. Give me the story. Tell me whether I am the prodigal son or the older brother. Tell me how to forgive seventy-seven times. Tell me how the Good Samaritan applies to the annoying person in front of me at the bank.
Again, none of that is wrong.
But the Church can give us something deeper than a weekly motivational speech.
Why did she give us this Gospel today?
What has she understood this passage to mean?
How did the Fathers read it?
How did the saints live it?
What doctrine grew clearer through centuries of prayer, argument, councils, suffering and worship?
What does this reveal about Christ before I make it about myself?
Sometimes the answer will hit my life immediately.
Sometimes it will not.
Sometimes I will hear about purgatory.
Sometimes angels.
Sometimes a saint I barely knew existed.
Sometimes a priest will spend forty minutes unpacking something I thought needed five.
And maybe that is okay.
Because formation is not always immediately useful.
A father understands this.
My son does not need only the lesson that feels relevant to him today.
He needs things placed inside him before he knows why he needs them.
Manners.
Prayer.
Truth.
Responsibility.
Forgiveness.
Reverence.
A sense of what is good and beautiful.
He may not understand the purpose when I teach it.
Years later, life may explain it for me.
Maybe the Church mothers us in a similar way.
She does not simply wait for us to identify a problem and then provide spiritual advice.
She forms a person.
Slowly.
Through Scripture.
Through repetition.
Through seasons.
Through saints.
Through fasting and feasting.
Through confession.
Through the Eucharist.
Through teachings we did not know we needed.
And through truths that sometimes irritate us before they heal us.
That has been a change in me.
I am becoming less interested in asking whether every part of Catholic life immediately “speaks to me.”
I want to listen long enough for the Church to teach me how to hear.
That means I am not the center of the liturgy.
My reaction is not the measure of the truth.
My emotional response is not proof that something was fruitful.
And my lack of immediate inspiration does not mean nothing happened.
The Body of Christ is larger than me.
I do not need the Church to constantly shrink the faith down until it fits neatly inside my current circumstances.
I need to be enlarged.
Formed.
Corrected.
Strengthened.
And drawn closer to Christ.
That posture has started changing fatherhood too.
I do not have to manufacture some perfect lesson out of every moment.
Sometimes my job is simply to place my son inside something good.
Bring him to Mass.
Teach him to pray.
Show him reverence.
Tell him the truth.
Correct him when necessary.
Forgive quickly.
Let him see me repent.
Give him a foundation larger than his mood, my mood, or whatever happened that day.
Then trust that God can work with what has been planted.
Maybe that is one of the quieter lessons of fatherhood and faith:
Stop demanding that everything immediately impact you.
Receive what is good.
Let it remain.
Let it work.
The Church has been forming people for two thousand years.
I do not need her to become more relevant to me.
I need to become more receptive to Christ.