The More Religious I Become, the More Ordinary It Gets
“On the subject of mutual charity you have no need for anyone to write you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another. Indeed, you do this for all the brothers throughout Macedonia. Nevertheless, we urge you, brothers, to progress even more, and to aspire to live a tranquil life, to mind your own affairs, and to work with your [own] hands, as we instructed you, that you may conduct yourselves properly toward outsiders and not depend on anyone.”
For a long time, I think I expected becoming more religious to make my life more extraordinary.
Learn more. Understand more. Decode more.
Learn Hebrew. Study the ancient world. Understand every symbol. Take another course. Listen to another teacher. Find the deeper meaning. Discover something everyone else missed.
And somewhere underneath all of that can be a very subtle idea:
If I found God, something important must now happen to me.
I must become
A teacher.
A preacher.
A writer.
A person with a message.
I must build something around it.
People should know.
There should be some visible transformation of identity that announces I found God.
But the strange thing is that the more Catholic I become, the more ordinary my religion seems to make my life.
Not empty.
Not boring.
Ordinary.
Go to work.
Be a father.
Pray.
Go to Mass.
Go to confession.
Receive the sacraments.
Try not to lose your temper.
Forgive people.
Tell the truth.
Keep your responsibilities.
Come back Sunday.
That is surprisingly difficult for the ego.
Because the ego would almost rather become an expert in Christianity than simply become Christian.
It would rather understand the signs than obey what they point toward.
It would rather talk about fatherhood than patiently be a father.
It would rather study humility than quietly accept being unnoticed.
It would rather create a new religious identity than allow Christ to slowly purify the identity already there.
I am starting to understand that conversion did not mean I had been promoted into some new class of person. It meant I had been given grace to finally live the life God had already placed in front of me. That has been one of the most sobering parts of faith. The answer was not hidden. There was no secret level. There was no technique I had failed to discover.
The Church basically says: here is Christ, here are the sacraments, here is prayer, here are the commandments, here is your vocation.
Now live.
And maybe that very simplicity is part of why we resist it.
We want something added.
A mission statement.
A platform.
A new personality.
A dramatic testimony.
Some visible proof that we are now different.
We even begin adding religious things to ourselves the way the world adds labels, brands, politics, careers, hobbies, and identities.
But Christianity does not primarily ask me to add another label.
It asks me to die.
And dying to self can look remarkably unimpressive.
Sometimes it looks like keeping your mouth shut.
Sometimes it looks like going to work.
Sometimes it looks like sitting on the couch with your child.
Sometimes it looks like admitting you were wrong.
Sometimes it looks like letting someone misunderstand you without immediately preparing your defense.
Sometimes it is simply going to Mass when nobody is impressed that you went.
I recently broke my foot, and there was something almost funny about how ordinary that became too. You tell people you broke your foot and eventually somebody asks the obvious question:
Where are the crutches?
Where is the boot?
Because a broken foot eventually has practical consequences. Faith is similar. At some point, it cannot remain merely something I announce. If I say I found Christ, eventually the question becomes very simple:
What changed?
Not what new arguments did I learn? Not what religious content did I produce? Not what signs did I discover? How do I treat the person standing in front of me? How do I behave when I am tired?
How do I respond when I do not get my way?
Do I pray?
Do I forgive?
Do I show up?
Do I obey?
Do I love?
That is harder than building an identity because there is nothing glamorous about it.
I can speak about faith publicly and still avoid being formed by it privately.
I can know theology and remain impatient.
I can defend the Church and neglect the people God has actually entrusted to me.
I can study Scripture for hours while avoiding the commandment sitting plainly on the page.
There is nothing wrong with study. Nothing wrong with theology. Nothing wrong with learning languages or history or apologetics. Those things can be beautiful gifts.
But they are aides. They are not the destination. The destination is communion with God. And communion with God starts changing the ordinary life. That may be the part I am only beginning to appreciate.
I spent years trying to get the world into my religion.
Produce.
Broadcast.
Explain.
Prove.
Build.
Become.
Now I am beginning to want the opposite. I want to get the world out of my religion.
To let prayer simply be prayer.
To let Mass simply be Mass.
To let fatherhood be fatherhood.
To let work be work.
To allow silence to remain silent without turning it into content.
To allow something beautiful to happen without immediately asking what I should do with it.
Maybe holiness is less about constructing a religious version of ourselves and more about allowing God to remove everything that was unnecessary.
Less performance.
Less self-importance.
Less fear of being ordinary.
More fidelity.
More patience.
More obedience.
More love.
The more religious I become, the less I feel like I need to look religious. And oddly enough, that feels like progress. Christ did not call me to become interesting.He called me to follow Him. For me, right now, following Him looks increasingly simple:
Be a dad.
Go to work.
Pray.
Receive the sacraments.
Love the people God actually put in front of me.
And, God willing, I will see you Sunday.