I was visiting Block Island the summer after my sophomore year with my best friend Kirsten. This, in my mind, will always be the summer of Catholic theology-- I read maybe five novels, as opposed to the usual minimum of twenty. Instead, the works of the saints and sinners of the Church occupied my mind, my time, my heart.

It must have started with Thomas Merton. I had first become acquainted to him through his poetry, which immediately sparked my interest. "It is like being awakened by Eve," he cooed in "Hagia Sophia." "It is like being awakened by the Blessed Virgin. It is like coming forth from primordial nothingness and standing in clarity, in Paradise. In the cool hand of the nurse there is the touch of all life, the touch of Spirit." Fascinated and excited, I bought a copy of The Seven Storey Mountain. I tried to start it in the spring, outside on the swing, surrounded by ivy and maple trees. It was so hard to catch onto, with so many mentions of sacraments and the Church. What did I care about the Church, then? I only begrudgingly accepted the idea of a gender-neutral Creator, and I had yet to accept God the Father as part of my spirituality. I had just recently begun to entertain the idea of Christ as literal God in literal flesh, and my beliefs about Mary were beginning to sound less convoluted and neo-Pagan and more conventional. It was only that Easter, with my mystical experience on the way home from my step-great-grandmother's house, that I finally accepted the term "Christian" and not "eclectic Pagan with interests in Christianity." Catholicism was the farthest thing from my mind-- estranged from Gnosticism, I was a little disoriented, but not desperate.

My stumbling blocks to the Church were myriad-- and I still have a handful. Many were obvious-- my (then) pro-choice stance, my mistrust of authority, especially religious authority, my knowledge of less-than-flattering Church history, my opposition to traditional Catholic eschatology, and, of course, issues with sexuality. Other stumbling blocks were phantoms and bogeymen-- my misunderstandings of the Catholic faith. "There are not 100 people in the United States who hate the Catholic Church," Archbishop Fulton Sheen once declared. "There are millions who hate what they wrongfully believe to be the Catholic Church." Karl Rahner, the German Catholic theologian, must have known this when wrote that the leading cause of atheism was Christians. I learned about Catholicism from the Catholics I knew-- their actions, their professed beliefs, their views. I learned about Catholicism from my ex-Catholic mother, who explained to me that it was a religion of rote memorization, of question and answer Catechisms with no room for rational beings like ourselves.

So Seven Storey Mountain was put aside for the time being. I wasn't ready. Instead, I inhaled the perfumes of a perfect spring. I can't tell you if it is the seasons themselves which have become more beautiful in this past year, or my perceptions of them. I feel as if I am being softened in the inside, letting the One who heals loosen the muscles which grasp so tightly onto pain and spiritual hunger. He loosens, and He heals.

And in time I was ready to start Merton, ready to start to contemplate the meaning of the word sacrament. It was confusing for me, these sacred mysteries. Nothing in my Reform Jewish upbringing compared to them. But the Mass was calling me.

Even while I was still hanging feebly onto neo-Gnosticism, I accepted the doctrine of transubstantiation. I can't tell you why; I can't explain it. I only knew that this was truth, that Christians ate of the body of Christ, drank of His blood. It was like being reminded of a name I had nearly forgotten. I accepted it, making me a minority among Pagan Christians. I took that with patience-- after all, I had been a minority among Gnostics in insisting that Jesus must have died on the cross, that he must have been a human being. Later, I realized that if I had gone up to some members of the early Church and said, "Yeah, I'm a Gnostic, but I dont believe in dualism and I believe that Jesus was fully human and died on the cross," they would have looked at me like I had two heads. If they then asked me what I got out of Gnosticism, and I explained the idea of mystical experience and spiritual transformation, they would have just laughed. I didnt understand that that was Christianity, orthodox Christianity no less.

It must have been Thomas Merton, then. It was during a blissful break from the Internet that I reopened The Seven Storey Mountain and bore with the harder things to accept until I began to love them. And without realizing it, God the Father began to come to me.

It was raining one day, and I was in my room. My window is rather large and looks out at the front yard, giving me a nice view ours and our neighbors trees. The rain was pouring down, pulsing against my window, shaking the trees with awe. I was reading the Book of Job, putting away, for the time being, my copy of Merton. I didnt believe in God the Father. If He existed, I noted, He was unjust. If He existed, He was the Demiurge that the Neo-Gnostics talk about. After all, how could He allow such suffering? How could He act as He did in the Old Testament? I don't remember what drew me to Job that day, but it was one of the more important points of my spiritual journey. Job demanded that God answer my same questions. He decried the injustice and pulled his hair out, begging God to explain His ways. And without introduction or apology, God took Job's question, which was my question, and turned me around 180 degrees, made me listen to something else. It swept me up from the rationalistic, legalistic inquisition going on in my mind and plopped me down in front of Divine Mystery. He told me that my question was irrelevant, that all this theology was irrelevant, that I was missing the point, that there were things holding me back. He answered Job's question about his personal dilemmas with poetry about His intimacy with the Creation and in every single aspect of life, from the depths of the sea to the heaven of heavens to the feeding of ravens to every molecule of frost that pours itself over the earth during winter. And the rain pulsed against the windows, my heart beating along with my Creator. God! I recoiled, realizing to whom I was silently praying. I would never accept Him, I whispered to myself. Never, I thought, squinting my eyes out at the utter majesty of the green crystalline wonder, the storm over pine trees.

And Thomas Merton helped me to accept Him. It was late in the autobiography, when he explained his eventual acceptance of the Catholic conception of God. For him, like with me, it was Aseitas that changed his view of the situation. "Aseitas," he wrote, "the English equivalent is a transliteration: aseity- simply means the power of a being to exist absolutely in virtue of itself, not as caused by itself, but as requiring no cause, no other justification for its exception except that its very nature is to exist. There can be only one such Being: that is God. And to say that God exists a se, of and by reason of Himself, is merely to say that God is Being Itself. Ego sum qui sum. And this means that God must enjoy complete independence not only as regards everything outside but also as regards everything within Himself." Merton went on: God was perfect. He was omnipresent. He was the Pure Act of Existing. All things that are not God are imperfection in existence and take away from the Pure Existence of their Creator. I realized, like Merton did, that I had been accusing Christians of believing in a God who truly didnt exist: a vengeful, crooked little man living in the skies, counting sins like a banker instead of a father.

Later, as I dug deeper into theology, the apophaticism of the Fathers helped me see the flaws in the idea of God as "Aseitas"-- God is beyond being itself. But at the time, the idea of God as more than a supposed individual, vengeful, emotional, and cruel-- was so different from what I had learned that it made a huge impact on me.

"I believe in one God, Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible," their creed began. This God was a God of strength, of mystery, of beauty, and, most noticeably, of love. We apply the names of all things that are good and attribute them to Him, offering what little sacrifices we can to the One who loved us. Is He truly Love, in His essence? Or Wisdom? Or Peace? Certainly He is all these things, but how can we comprehend Him? We give Him the names of the things we love best, because all we know fundamentally, purely, simply, passionately and painfully, is to love Him. He is. He is the Reality that we hunger for, everything that is real- and therefore everything that is good. When we want something to be good, we are really saying that we want something desirable. The ultimate desire of all living beings is the pure Reality that is simply the Ousia of God. I am who I am, God told Moses. I AM. He is. I believed it, then, reading that book.

Catholicism began to look different to me. So much that I had accused the Church of believing, it didn't believe. So much about love and suffering and beauty I thought that I had made up, but it was dogma. I had already been praying the Rosary since the winter before, but now I prayed it sincerely, understanding its roots in the Source of All Being, this majestic God who sent rain against the windows as I read a confusing Old Testament book.

I began to read Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Thérèse of Lisieux- the latter of which I had originally despised for her seemingly saccharine sentimentality. Despite some theological problems which still remain to this day, I began to be able to understand the religion. I loved her God, the God of all Christians. I didnt accept everything she taught- there were a few things I couldnt stomach. Catholicism's legalistic, scholastic, rationalistic approach to faith I shun even now; I've never been able to stomach Thomas Aquinas. Papal infallibility and beliefs in eschatology were foremost still, and below that were social and political beliefs that I disagreed with the Church's stances on. But I dutifully put those aside in understanding of the remnants of truth in what I was reading. I believed in Tradition. I saw that this living history of mystical, contemplative, active life was indeed the Body of Christ in the world. Later, after finding Orthodoxy, this began to make more sense to me.

I was in Block Island, and I was halfway through The Interior Castle by St. Teresa. I was walking through the town with my best friend Kirsten as I saw a small white building with a cross on top: St. Andrew's Catholic Church.

"Come to me," I thought I heard it beckoning.

Kirsten is from a Catholic family, and is not religious. At the time, her family was working on getting her confirmed, despite her hate of her religion. She is mostly agnostic in beliefs, and had little use for Christianity. I can't blame her-- I've been to her church many times, a particularly Protestantized post-Vatican II church, and found nothing there to awe, inspire, or spiritually nourish.

But I needed to go into this church.

"Hey, let's go into the church," I laughed.

She raised her eyebrows.

"No," she mouthed back, her eyes widened in amusement.

"Fine," I squinted at the building, "I'm going in, I'll meet you at the ice cream place in ten minutes."

"Marjorie, don't be dumb," she complained.

I laughed and walked up to the church.

I was in there for over an hour. Light poured in through the stained glass windows, depictions of the life of Christ with French titles below them: "Madeleine aux pieds de Jésus," "Jésus guérit un paralytique." The rich brown wooden pews were empty and drenched in light. Above the altar, a crucifix, a bent and sorrowful Christ looking up to Heaven-- my heart dropped. I fell to my knees. Scripture flooded into my mouth: "One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple." I did not want to leave! I emptied my heart in front of the table on which Christ each day appeared in glory and pain, where each day the Liturgy of Heaven was mirrored in the Lamb's Supper on Earth. I was breathless. How I believed! It was stronger than anything I had ever felt.

On a pew lay a hymnal, which I opened up to a random page, and was greeted with these words: "Here is your God, be not afraid."

I loved him so dearly then, staring at his face, looking over the Stations of the Cross, kissing the image of his Blessed Mother. I had no question about it then: this was where I belonged. Maybe not in this church, maybe not even in this Church, but I knew that this was my God, and I knew that in this small building Truth was shining through as sure as the light through the windows. I fell to my knees before Him, and couldn't get up.

I told Kirsten, who had waited at the ice cream place the whole time, that I had gotten lost. I had to lie-- she wouldn't have understood. I felt bad; she was sunburned. She had waited outside for so long. What could I have done? I should have told her. I couldn't. I had to act similarly later this year, in a twin experience.

St. Virgil's is a pretty church I used to drive by on the way to Hebrew school. I used to stare at the windows, intrigued, feeling superior to the Christians, as always. It was after a terrible day of school that my mom went to go shopping in Morris Plains, just one busy intersection away from that scary, beautiful building. I was reading The Confessions in the car as church bells began to ring, slowly and clearly, and I closed my eyes and took in some joy of my Lord.

"Come to me," they said, and I sighed. I couldn't just walk up and go to the church-- my mom would probably be back within ten or twenty minutes.

"Come," they insisted. Augustine's words suddenly looked drab and boring. Scribbling a note to my mom about taking a walk on the back of a yellow receipt and placing it on the steering wheel, I ran across the clogged streets and flew to the glass doors, with their translucent white silhouettes of the apostles. Locked. I choked back tears, and was surprised at my outrage. It was just a church-- and I could walk back now. But I refused. Something in me needed to get inside those doors. Moving my hands behind my neck and looking up to the sky, pierced with sun and blueness, I tried to think. I walked around the brick building, trying to find anything I could fall before in wonder. Off towards the side, I smiled. A statue of Mary stood farther down the path, a garden planted at her feet. Surely this was better than nothing, I knew, as I walked on. Reaching Mary, I looked off to the side for a second, where she seemed to be directing me. And there was an entrance to the church. Blowing a kiss her way, I joyfully walked into the building.

I can't explain this experience. All I can say is that I hope that all reading this have at some point felt what I felt, so that they can understand. It wasn't the stained glass windows, towering up to the heavens, or the crucifix over the altar with a nearly life-size figure of Christ, stretching himself over those who were created through him. It wasn't the little statues of Jesus and Mary on both sides of the church, where I prayed in earnest, my knees on cushions and my heart floating somewhere above me. It wasn't the realization that what I saw as a communion wafer in a golden monstrance was my God right before me, drawing me to him quickly and effortlessly. It wasn't prostrating myself on the ground, kissing it sweetly, or even the sensation surrounding my entire self that God was with me, God was here, God was soaring through this church like a thousand eagles.

It wasn't any of this. Anyone who has been in the presence of his God will understand.

I wanted to pray the Creed. I had to. I didn't know it yet, and it was all I wanted to say right now, before my Christ, his hand gently pointing to his Sacred Heart.

I found a book in the pews and rummaged through it-- there it was-- not Nicene, just Apostle's-- but I devoured it surely and quickly all the same.

I believe in one God, Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, His only-begotten son, our Lord.

I went on, letting the words flow out of me in freedom and purity, as blood flowed out of the side of my God.

I finished in near-tears: I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting.

Amen! I exhaled, and again fell before the crucifix.

Here is your God, screamed the walls, be not afraid.

Flowing through me was an awareness of sacramentality, the distinctive point of Roman Catholicism. Heaven on earth. The Church as the Bride of Christ. It's not just something nice to believe in, it's not just being good or believing in something good. It's a force sucking out your breath and replacing it with the Holy Spirit. It's a consciousness beyond consciousness, a time beyond time and a space beyond space.

And all of that is there on that crucifix. God became man for us. Let man become God for Him.

On the way out, I dipped my fingers in holy water and placed my hands on my eyes. I want to see, I thought. I want to see with my true eyes, with the eyes Christ intends me to see with.

Outside, I knelt before Mary a second time. She had brought me here, dragged me through Paganism and Gnosticism and finally to that lonely cross, stripping me of my intellectual pretensions and my pride. Everything I have, I knew then, I owe to her. Thomas Merton pretty much stopped writing poetry about Mary after ten years. I pray to God constantly that I will not let this happen, that I will never let my devotion to my Mother fade. Of course, devotion to Christ is, in a way, a devotion to Mary, who gave him her flesh to live and die with.

I looked out towards the street, sated. I am at peace, I thought. "Peace I leave with you," Jesus told his disciples, "my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." Leaving the two Catholic churches that won my heart, I knew that Christ's peace is not inaction or a cessation of hostility. His peace is substantial. His peace is a soul-condition, a heart-condition, a change inside, a paradigm shift from being in the image of God to becoming in the likeness of God. This Catholicism never perfectly explained to me-- only later, Eastern theologians would do that-- but I felt it-- God, I felt it-- in those little churches, in those sacred gems. This was His peace. It is found in monstrances and on altars, and found in hearts beating against crucifixes. His peace is found in silence and laughter and the way light looks in the morning. His peace is not a negation, but wine used to fill our empty glasses, purified by prayer and repentance.

It was only a few months after accepting Catholicism that I found Eastern Orthodoxy, and began to debate with myself over which was my true path. Now it seems clear to me-- only Holy Orthodoxy allowed me to fully accept a complete orthodox faith. Yet Catholicism still, even with all its faults and all that I find troublesome, even repugnant, has some sort of attraction to me. I don't know if I can fully reject Catholicism, and even more than that I doubt that I could ever reject Orthodoxy. I must, someday, reject one, either while being immersed three times in a font of water or as that same life-giving water is poured down over my head. I am not yet decided. The greatest factor tying me back to Catholicism is how I was transformed in those two Catholic churches.

I watch EWTN, the Catholic channel, and see the broadcasted Mass.

The priest holds a wafer, and stares at it intensely, finally lifting it up confidently: "This is my Body."

I don't like the church that this Mass is being broadcasted in; it looks so Alabama, where it is located. I'm not sure how I feel about the priest, who has never particularly interested me. Yet I watch this, and all of my boredom melts away.