Living in a post-Christian culture—one used to our discourse, vaguely familiar with, and thus dismissive of, our theology—calls for a delicate approach to the salvation of souls, an approach little embodied in mammoth Facebook posts about the Whore of Babylon. We must bring to bear the elements handed down to us by the Apostles and ask—what precisely is most effective in this day and age, times when our religion is associated with bigotry, condemnation, and bondage?
For us, I believe, it must start with joy in action, before it is ignited by angry (often Latinate) calls to repentance. This reality is both empirically and anecdotally the case. Large numbers of Americans are “ex-Catholics,” and anyone not married to the GOP can tell you that Christianity has an unfortunate image problem. As for my own personal life, anyone who meets me needs little time to discover my Christianity. I wear a cross around my neck almost all the time; closer friends who have been in my bedroom have seen my icon corner. Many of these people are not Catholic, let alone Christian. Yet, many are curious, interested in how I balance my living in the world with my faith, my chastity with my age, and my social beliefs with my fiscal ones. What too many Catholic apologists and evangelists forget is the curiosity lurking beneath the indifference or hostility of the multitude. When you tell someone you think bread and wine can become a body and blood, that you have voluntarily chosen to live without the sexual contact so integral to yours peers, and that you actually spend time in silence, meditating on an ancient collection of histories, sayings, and stories, they stop to listen.
But their curiosity only emerges when they trust you to not judge them for being different, when you offer to help them—giving up time and personal comfort for all others, regardless of creed—when you admit your own failings and condemn your own transgressions. I do not just mean feeding the poor, nor do I expect all Christians to heal like Peter. No. To listen to the bereaved or the upset is a miracle. To sit, eat, and talk with the lonely is a miracle. To show a human being love even when at your own personal inconvenience is a miracle. These are the small things—the little paths—that lead to the softening of hearts and the circumcision of souls; these are the means to the end of salvation in an age equal parts hostile and latently curious about Christian life and dogma.
I am tired of seeing words spilled decrying the world and its mistakes, tired of hearing the Gospel proclaimed, but not lived or evinced in everyday interactions with non-believers. To act so is to be no better than pagans or tax collectors. I do not judge my brethren; I merely think we can all do better, always and everywhere.
These are not times for the lukewarm (and those who preach but do not spend moment after moment with the least, or feeling bad they are not doing so, are lukewarm). The love of Christ is spread miraculously, not just through healings and declarations but also through the attentive will of individual Christians, whose lives themselves are effective witnesses to the Gospels. These times especially call for this witness, for, as Simone Weil wrote: “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”
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