Stand Up, Sit Down, Kneel...Growing Up Catholic

My mother in a church in Rome

Growing up in a Roman Catholic household, there was an oil painting of Pope John XXIII, which held a place of honor on our walls and which was painted by my father’s maternal grandmother, a Protestant, after that pope died in 1963. Though the painting got moved from place to place over the years, we were always under the watchful eyes of this great man as children. My dad, as a new Catholic convert in the 1960s, had a special attachment to this pope for his role on the Vatican Council, which he felt brought a spirit of inclusiveness of all faiths. Years later, though no longer a Catholic myself, I’ve recently had the bounty of experiencing a very spiritual time with my parents, the first to teach me about God and His love for me, and suddenly this painting became more meaningful. 

My parents standing in St. Peter's Square at The Vatican

Michelangelo's work

This month, I had the great privilege of accompanying my parents on their Christian pilgrimage to The Vatican in Rome, and then to the Holy Land in both Jordan and Israel. After fifty-one years of marriage and raising five children, my parents finally realized a dream by being able to go on pilgrimage together. For me, it was surreal at times as I trailed behind them a short distance to document their experience for them. It was touching to see their 
devotion to each other, to their 
faith, and most importantly, to God.

We shared a hotel room in both Rome and in Jerusalem, and while it was a bit strange to find myself in such close quarters with my parents after 25 years, it made the trip even more memorable. At the end of the day, while we rested tired, aching feet and legs, we discussed highlights of our days and shared any observations, realizations or insights that had come to us as we toured the Holy Lands.

My mother kept saying that she and my father were preparing themselves, but there was no gloom and doom in the way she said this; rather, it was matter of fact. Nobody knows the time or the place when our earthly existence will end, but we agreed that the important thing is to know and love God and to prepare ourselves to return to Him one day. 

We visited several basilicas in Rome’s Spagna neighborhood as well as several others in Vatican City and throughout Rome. The artwork, in the form of mosaics, sculptures, stained glass and paintings was beautiful beyond description. Some churches allowed photography, but the photos cannot possibly capture the awe-inspiring reality of the actual works of art. Though I took many photos, my favorite experiences in retrospect were when I just stood back and took in the beauty and allowed myself to quietly reflect and meditate on the inspiration of the artists: God. 

My parents and I attended Easter Sunday Mass at a Catholic church in Amman, Jordan

Jordan, where I currently reside, is part of the Holy Land. My husband and I were able to take my parents to ancient mosques, churches and basilicas in Amman, Madaba, and Petra. Through a somewhat unfortunate turn of events, we were unable to enter Israel by land due to the closing of the border bridges, so we had to turn back to Amman on Easter Sunday morning, a bit disappointed not to reach Jerusalem on Easter morning as planned. Even that, though, was serendipitous, for we found ourselves in a beautiful Roman Catholic church in the Khalda neighborhood of Amman, and attended a very reverent and uplifting Mass. Then, right in the middle of the service, the clouds broke open and showered Amman with refreshing rain, a rare treat, and we heard it pattering against the open stained-glass windows of the church. The whole Mass was said in Arabic, with the exception of a few songs sung angelically in Latin, which we recognized. Regardless of the language barrier, the familiarity of Catholic Mass came immediately back to me, especially since I was seated next to both of my parents, and I found it very comforting and nostalgic.

Once we finally arrived in Jerusalem on the evening of Easter Sunday, we had a different experience altogether. Now, we were actually walking on hallowed ground, where Christ and His disciples walked, and many other holy men and women before and after Him. Jerusalem is a complicated place, and not just holy for Christians, as most realize. There, we saw Hasidic Jewish families celebrating Passover­– parents dressed in their finest clothes with large families in tow. 

We saw North African Christian pilgrims celebrating in large groups, all robed in white. We saw Jews, Muslims and Christians from all over the world, some dressed reverently and modestly, and some who looked more like tourists for whom the Old City was just another interesting stop along the way. I am certain there were many non-religious people among us as well. And there were religious minorities, even Baha’is like me, enjoying this very historical and spiritually charged city. It felt united; despite the spiritual differences, the endless political strife and the ethnic prejudice, the Old City of Jerusalem had a sense of peace within its walls. Since I had already been there before, I was able to take in the experience in a whole different way on this visit. I was a silent bystander, watching not only my parents’ experience through their eyes, but that of others surrounding us. It was magical, beautiful and peaceful. And that is the whole point, I believe. Religion should unite men, not divide them. 

My parents go to pray at the Western Wall

Pilgrims in The Jordan River at the Baptism Site in Israel

The Church of The Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem

The Dome of the Rock, visible from the Mt. of Olives

A sign at a church in Cana announcing the Pope's upcoming visit

In today’s news headlines, we read that Pope Francis has canonized two Popes, declaring them Saints, Pope John Paul II and Pope John XXIII. Next month, Pope Francis himself will make an historic visit to the Holy Land in Jordan and Israel. These are not uncommon events in the history of the Catholic Church, but for us to have just been in both of the places where the events are taking place somehow gives them even more meaning. The goodness my parents found in Pope John XXIII who protected our home with his soulful gaze is now being formally recognized, albeit posthumously. Even this timing seemed fortuitous and fitting.  

It feels to me as if my religious journey has come full circle somehow, but a circle never ends, does it? I began life as the child of Catholic parents and was shaped by them and was taught to have a great reverence for God, for which I am so very grateful. I was encouraged by them to think for myself and to try to continuously improve my character, which I always strive to do. As an adult, I chose a different path, that of a Baha’i. Though I know this must have been difficult for my parents to accept, they have never stopped loving and supporting me. To end our tour of the Holy Land, we barely made it to see the Baha’i Gardens, which sit majestically atop Mount Carmel in Haifa, Israel at The Baha’i World Centre.

The Baha'i Gardens in Haifa, Israel 

Terraces to the Shrine of the Bab in Haifa, Israel

The visitor gates were going to close at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and our driver had taken a few wrong turns. In the end, we made it with five minutes to spare, and my parents were able to walk in the Baha’i Gardens for just five precious minutes, and take photos there. 
For them to share this experience with me was a dream come true, especially since it fell during the Holy Festival of Ridvàn for Bahai's around the world. It was the culmination of a spiritual journey that carried with it great significance and interconnectedness. During the Holy Week, spent in this glorious place, I was made even more keenly aware of Christ’s love and why He gave up His life for mankind. Whatever one’s religious or spiritual beliefs, I think we can all agree the world would be a better place if there was more unity, tolerance, peace and love. Christians celebrate Easter all over the world, in hopes of fresh starts and new beginnings, and prayers for a better world, all through the promise of God’s love, a love that is nameless, timeless, and matchless. 

In the Garden of Gethsemane in Jerusalem

 

My mother, Hope, staring at the word "Peace" in the Garden of Gethsemane in Jerusalem