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Family Heirloom

It was like the apologetics version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire: I had spent over two hours during an airplane ride home fielding question after question about the Catholic faith from two Pentecostal preachers. I enjoyed the discussion so much that I decided to share it in an article for a popular Catholic apologetics magazine. The article hadn’t been out long before my telephone began to ring. Some people called just to tell me they enjoyed the article; others shared their own traveling apologetics stories. But one call in particular had an impact on me for years to come.

It was a call from a woman in Kansas, only thirty minutes from my home. She relayed the story of a Protestant pastor who, according to her, was stealing her friends and family members from different Catholic parishes in the diocese. She was deeply disturbed by this pastor’s ability to “charismatically remove” people from the Church founded by Jesus Christ, and she wanted to know if I could help.

I told her I didn’t know what I could do, but she asked if I would listen to a taped sermon of his and tell her what I thought. I was impressed by her fraternal concern and agreed to listen to the tape.

As I drove home one evening from work, I popped the cassette into the player, anxious to hear what this Protestant pastor had to say. His name was not foreign to me. I had heard good things about him from Protestant friends who attended his church and even from some Protestants who didn’t. He was drawing huge crowds and had embarked on a building project that would make his church the “cathedral” for his denomination. His staff consisted of over 120 employees. But many Catholics in the area feared that his popularity was fueled by ex-Catholics who were not fully grounded in their faith.

As I listened to the tape, I became excited. This “Protestant” pastor was the most Catholic Protestant pastor I had ever heard. He quoted the Church Fathers, he explained the sacraments, and he quoted the liturgy of the Mass. My only immediate concern was that he seemed to minimize those things that separated Catholics and Protestants. At one point, as he was explaining the sacraments, he said that, although his church acknowledged only two sacraments (baptism and the Lord’s Supper) versus the seven recognized by the Catholic Church, “we do those anyway.”

“I mean, we have confession when someone comes to us with their troubles, we confirm people in the faith, we ordain, we pray over and anoint the sick with oil (extreme unction), and we certainly marry people.”

His sincerity was disarming. He made it seem as if there were nothing of any real significance that separated Catholics and Protestants of his denomination. As I mentioned, the first wave I felt was that of excitement. But then a much greater wave, more like a tidal wave, swept over me. It was a wave of fear. I could hardly contain myself sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I wanted to get out of my car and run home. I wanted to sound an alarm, call the bishops together, do something! The danger I saw so clearly was a familiar danger. This Protestant pastor, I thought, was using the truths of the Catholic faith and presenting them as though they were those of his own denomination.

I recalled reading some Jehovah’s Witness material that said, “You cannot have Jehovah as Father without the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society as Mother.”

When I first read that statement, something just wasn’t quite right. That quote originated from a Catholic bishop by the name of Cyprian of Carthage, who lived in the third century. The unadulterated quote reads, “You cannot have God for your Father if you do not have the Church for your mother. . . . God is one and Christ is one, and his Church is one; one is the faith, and one is the people cemented together by harmony into the strong unity of a body. . . . If we are the heirs of Christ, let us abide in the peace of Christ; if we are the sons of God, let us be lovers of peace” (The Unity of the Catholic Church).

The Church that Cyprian was referring to was the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church. The Jehovah’s Witnesses had hijacked his statement and used it as though they invented it. To the unsuspecting person, they did invent it.

I wondered if perhaps this Protestant pastor was attempting the same thing. As I was stuck there in traffic, a story formed in my head, one that I had never heard before. I felt like God had told me this story and that I was supposed to share it with Catholics in and around the area in which this Protestant church was flourishing.

For the next year or so, I sought parishes in the Kansas diocese in which I could speak about the Catholic faith and, in some small way, try to stem the flow of Catholics leaving the true Church. Although I was receiving very gracious invitations where I did share the story God had told me, I felt I wasn’t close enough in proximity to the parishes most affected.

Finally, I grew weary of waiting for the invitation and did what any self-respecting apologist would do: I invited myself. I called the parish that sits in the shadow of this Protestant pastor’s church and asked if they would be interested in a five-part apologetics series on the Catholic faith. Coincidentally, the staff was looking for an adult education event and was thrilled with my offer.

On the first night of the series, I told the group of forty-five people that I felt a unique call to be there and that I had a story I wanted to share as we got deeper into the series. The series began with the topic of “Born again (through water and the Spirit),” then the papacy, the Eucharist, the communion of saints, and the final installment was about Mary.

The first three topics went smoothly. I was speaking to people who asked insightful questions and absorbed the information about the faith. Then I made a mistake: Sunday morning three days before I addressed the topic of the communion of saints, I packed my family into the van and attended Mass at the parish at which I was speaking rather than my own parish.

I was sorely disappointed by what we encountered. That weekend the senior priest of the parish gave a homily on hell. In his rendition, we should not fear the Day of Judgment because no one is in hell!

“Many theologians,” he said, “think that we’ll all be confronted with the final decision and choose Jesus.” This final choice seemed so painfully obvious in his view that everyone accepts Christ and is saved.

I wondered how many people were bothered by his message. After all, there were easily 1,500 people at that Mass. That week in class, as I explained the union that exists between the Church Triumphant, the Church Militant, and the Church Suffering, it was inevitable that someone would recall the priest’s words. Class was winding down when a woman raised her hand and asked me what I thought about his homily. Rather than attack the senior priest, I simply presented the teaching of the Church, quoting the Catechism of the Catholic Church, Sacred Scripture, and the writings of Pope John Paul II.

“Hell is a reality that does grasp people,” I said and quoted Matthew 7:13–14: “Enter by the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is easy, that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard, that leads to life, and those who find it are few.”

I went on to read from Pope John Paul II’s book Crossing the Threshold of Hope: “Preachers, catechists, teachers . . . no longer have the courage to preach the threat of hell. . . . In point of fact, the ancient councils rejected the theory . . . according to which the world would be regenerated after destruction, and every creature would be saved; a theory that abolishes hell.”

“So you see,” I said, “it doesn’t matter what I think or even what Father thinks about the reality of hell. It’s what the Church teaches.”

The result from my response was swift. Within twenty-four hours I received a phone call asking me not to return. The whole incident left me perplexed. I had given this same series of talks at numerous parishes in two dioceses and had never experienced this kind of negative feedback. I thought this was where God wanted me to speak! This particular parish was under fire (no pun intended), being as close as it is to the charismatic Protestant pastor’s “cathedral,” and I not only wanted to be there to help but felt God had called me to be there.

As I reflected on the whole incident, I recalled the story God had told me well over a year earlier as I sat in rush-hour traffic listening to that Protestant pastor’s tape. I always thought the story was about this Protestant pastor hijacking the Catholic faith, when in fact it is more poignant than that. The story is this:

* * *

There once was a man whose father had given him a family heirloom. It was a watch that had been passed down from his father’s father and his father’s father before him. The watch was beautiful and ornate but not gaudy. It held diamonds and rare precious stones in it. The gold was like nothing else you had ever seen before. Whenever you cast your eyes upon it, it seemed to sprinkle rainbows reflecting from the light.

Sadly, the son didn’t appreciate the watch. Even though people complimented him on it wherever he went, he couldn’t have cared less. He did not take care of the watch, and he frequently lost it. He wore the watch out of respect for his father, but even that motivation faded quickly after his father passed away.

One day he realized that he hadn’t seen the watch for months. He went looking for it but never found it. In his mind, he quickly dismissed it. But then he thought to himself, “You know, that watch kept pretty good time, and I did enjoy that,” so he went to a store and purchased a cheap replacement.

A few months later he was driving through a small town and decided to stop and get some food. As he stood in line waiting to place his order, he noticed a man in front of him wearing a watch that looked exactly like his family heirloom. Finally, curiosity got the best of him and he asked the man if he could see the watch. The man folded his arm in the shape of a V like a superhero, proudly grinning from ear to ear.

“Where did you get that watch?” the son inquired.

“The jewelry shop on the corner,” the man replied. “I took one look at this watch and fell in love with it. The more I stared at it, the richer the gold appeared.”

Other people in the restaurant overheard the conversation and began to gather around. All were impressed with the watch. The man went on, “The jeweler gave me the first one,” and he showed him a number inscribed on the band, 00001. The son was dumbstruck. He got his food and began to drive home, but he couldn’t eat and he couldn’t seem to get the watch out of his head. With a quick jerk, he turned the car around and went back searching for that small-town jewelry shop.

Upon entering the store he saw his watch placed up high on a pedestal in the front window with red plush fabric surrounding it, gleaming under a spotlight. He inquired of the owner, “Where did you get this watch?”

The owner repeatedly deflected the question, and the son grew impatient. Finally, under duress, the owner admitted that he had found the watch.

“I have been a jeweler for over fifty years and have never seen a watch of such beauty,” he said. “I knew I couldn’t copy it exactly without suspicion, so I tweaked it just a little bit, made it my own, and began mass production. I have produced many thousands to date. It’s the best-selling piece of jewelry I have ever had.”

In a panic, the son tried to explain that the watch was his.

“It was a family heirloom!” he cried. “You had no right to copy it and mass produce it!”

The jeweler was unmoved by his pleas, so the son stormed out of the shop and drove home recklessly. When he entered his house he went straight to his favorite chair. His wife passed by and saw her husband flush with anger.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You’ll never believe what just happened to me,” he replied. He went on to recount the whole story. “Can you believe it?” he said. “The gall of that jeweler to take a family heirloom that was so precious to me and replicate it. And then to have the nerve to pass it off as authentic! I mean, that watch has been in my family for hundreds of years!”

The wife sat quietly and listened, but there was no comfort in her eyes. Her silence caused him to snap at her.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You didn’t care for that watch,” she said. “You didn’t even know where it was half the time. For that matter, it took months before you realized it was lost. Now, when someone else has recognized its beauty and claimed it as his own, you’re upset and want it returned.”

A guilty silence filled the air.

* * *

We as Catholics have an awesome gift in the Bride of Christ, the one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic Church. It is with her that the fullness of faith resides, a faith that she has faithfully guarded and handed down from generation to generation. We can study and draw close to that faith, or we can disregard it, perhaps even change it to fit our own ideas. But if we do, when a counterfeit is presented, cloaked in partial truth, we will lose our family and friends to its lure—and have no one to blame but ourselves.

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