I slowly started getting a sense of voices from the medieval past; it was as if they were trying to communicate with me through the paintings and statues they’d left behind. I began to wonder if the structures they’d erected stood as a testimony to something, perhaps something other than the patriarchal Church-state I’d always disdained. I developed a nagging sense that evil could not be the creator of such beauty.
At this point, God injected Himself pointedly into my life, revealing His truth through conversations with devout Catholics and the writings of long-dead Saints. Sadly, I could only find reasoned arguments for Catholicism and encouragement to convert amongst my American acquaintances. My German friends seemed clueless.
I’ll never forget that first shy inquiry I made to a German about going to Mass -- and my shock when she told me they weren’t going to Mass that Sunday or pretty much any Sunday after that. Most of my German friends who’d appeared so very Catholic to me in their customs only attended Mass on holidays, or for baptisms and other sacramental rites.
I had to go to my American Catholic friends to find unabashed, joyful evangelization. Still, the seeds of my conversion were planted amidst the remnants of truth radiating through the beauty of German Catholic culture. I will be forever grateful to that country and its people for striking the spark that ultimately illuminated my life though Christ.
Photo: by Harry Stevens, Bamburg, Germany
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