ROAD TO CONVERSION

by Eric Slaughter

Baptist Born and Bred
In some ways my journey began in March of 1999, the day my father died. That event
brought to mind age-old questions: Why am I here? What is my purpose? What is the
meaning of life? But I also began to wonder why I should want to continue living.
Someday everyone I love will die and I will be alone, so why continue to live in this
world of pain, sadness and suffering? Be assured those were in no manner suicidal
thoughts, but simply feelings of loss, of emptiness. Ever since 1992, when I had been
raised to the degree of Master Mason, the third generation of my family to be so, my
father and I were inseparable. We attended lodge meetings at least three times a month.
We talked constantly about lodge business and activities. Freemasonry had allowed me
to get to know my father in a way I had not known him before.

Before I became a Mason we didn’t have too much to say to each other. I am grateful
that our parents taught my older brother and sister and me to say, “I love you.” My father
had no problem expressing his love for us, but still he was distant, at least from me. I
never saw my father cry, except later in life when his sister died, or express any emotion
other than happiness, or of course occasionally disappointment at my failure to spell a
word correctly or figure out the correct answer to a math problem. In fact the only time I
saw him angry was when I refused to study with my math tutor during a full hour for
which he had to pay, and even then each slap of his belt on my body was painless. He
didn’t seem to know how to whip me. Whippings were not the way my father
commanded respect and obedience from his children; he simply gave us a certain look.
But after I became a Mason that all changed. We traveled to conventions together
sharing ideas about how to help the lodge improve. Together we complained about this
or that member of the lodge who didn’t fulfill his duties. We became friends and
brothers. But as our friendship grew my father’s health weakened. His youthful walk
turned into a shuffling struggle due to lower back pain. He suffered a stroke, heart attack
and bypass surgery, but still he attended every lodge meeting and went to church on
Sunday.

Growing up Baptist we three kids learned to dress appropriately to worship the Lord.
Every Easter we received a new suit or dress, in my sister’s case, which we would wear
to church, our Sunday best. I remember sitting between my mother and father, Momma
occasionally raising her voice as the Holy Spirit moved her. I learned to lean away
toward Daddy to avoid her flailing arms. And then at the end of the service Daddy would
sing along with the choir: “God bless you and guide you wherever you go, to tell of a
savior whom sinners may know. Keep working for Jesus ‘till the close of the day. God
bless you and keep you always.” The rumbling of his voice made me feel safe and close
to God.

Our entire family was Baptist as far as I knew. My grandfather, on my mother’s side,
was pastor of New Era Baptist Church for many years. Church was a big part of our
family life. Mom and Dad both made it clear, not so much with words but actions, how
important church, God and Jesus were. After getting married Momma left Grandpa’s
church to join Daddy’s church, Mt. Zion Baptist. Although Mt. Zion was not a foot
stompin’, tambourine shaking kind of church, we had our share of good old gospel music.
Our pastor would often ask, “Do you know you’re saved?” It seemed everyone held up
their hand. I often wondered if everyone with their hand in the air really knew they were
saved or if they just did it because everyone else did. I didn’t hold up my hand. I didn’t
know if I was saved. I didn’t understand how Jesus would save me in spite of myself.
There had to be more to salvation; otherwise when Jesus returned, would he judge only
by who believes and who does not believe? What about the actions of my life? What
had I done for Jesus? Did I feed the hungry? Did I cloth the naked? Did I give drink to
the thirsty? Did I visit the sick? And if I didn’t, did it matter? Jesus said it did, but
should I raise my hand anyway?

At a crucial point in my journey as I considered leaving Mt. Zion, I sought the guidance
of the new pastor of the Baptist church my grandfather had helped establish some fifty
years before. He related a story to me about an Asian monk he and his young daughter
had met. The little girl later asked if the man would go to heaven to be with God. The
pastor explained that because the monk had not accepted Jesus he could not be saved.
The pastor hated to say this to his daughter because he knew the monk was a very kind
and good man. The pastor went on to explain to me that if one accepts Jesus Christ as
Lord and Savior he will be saved. “Even someone who lives a terribly sinful life will be
saved?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, asking “Do you believe the scripture?” “Yes, I do,”
I said to the pastor. But how will we be saved? This I asked of God.
“Once saved always saved” was the idea I couldn’t get out of my mind. After “shopping
around” for a church-home I decided to join Covenant Community Church. Covenant
was essentially a non-denominational Christian Church. There I met people of various
denominational backgrounds. I worshiped with Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians,
Catholics, and at least one Lutheran. This had to be what Jesus meant when he prayed
for the unity of all those who believe. For about one year I served as an usher before
finally agreeing to join the choir. I enjoyed singing praises to the Lord, and Rev. Shields,
our pastor, preached the Word of God with such love and devotion. Three years later I
began to question the purpose of our Church. We had no creed or declaration of belief.
We believed in Jesus Christ. Yes, we believed in loving and helping our neighbor, but
something was missing. We seemed to embrace a formless, general kind of Christianity
with little room for discussion of doctrine and very little structure. I soon realized that
there could be no talk of doctrine because this would cause division among the various
backgrounds making up our congregation. Our Christianity was a feel good Christianity
that needed to be so politically correct and needed to be so inclusive that any talk, which
could mean one might have to think beyond the “surface” of Christianity, could disrupt
the harmony of the congregation. The surface wasn’t enough; I needed to know what I
believed.

Catholic? No way.

In the meantime my wife, Rebecca, a Catholic convert since her teens, had returned to the
Catholic Church. I never really knew her reasons for leaving the Church, but after a trip
to Turkey, with me cat-sitting at home, she came back a changed person. Every Sunday
she went to church. Occasionally she even went to church during the week. She started
going to church on Friday nights for what I later found out was Eucharist Adoration.
Thankfully she didn’t try to explain that one to me at the time. Now that she had returned
to the Catholic Church I learned that we needed to be married in the Church so that she
could receive Holy Communion. This of course was all very strange to me, but being the
dutiful husband I agreed to take the steps necessary to dissolve my previous marriage
while Rebecca sought an annulment of hers. Question after question from the
Metropolitan Tribunal about the most embarrassing failure of my life had to be
painstakingly answered. Strangers were going to read this and judge my failed marriage
as being valid or not. How dare they decide whether or not I was married! I hated it and
I hated my wife for making me do it. After several weeks I received word that the
Vatican had declared my marriage dissolved, but it took some months longer for my
wife’s to be annulled. Then we were married at the chapel of the Bishop’s Cathedral.
The wedding was in Latin. Although most of the wedding was in English much of it I
didn’t understand and neither did my family and friends, but we were married, again, and
Rebecca could now receive Holy Communion.

Although the process of dissolution of my first marriage had been hard, it had a profound
impression on me. What was marriage? When asked by the Pharisees, in the Gospel of
Mark, if it is lawful for a man to divorce his wife, Jesus says, “…a man shall leave his
father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh. So they
are no longer two but one flesh.” Jesus says that no one can separate such a joining, and
he goes on to say, “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery
against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery.”
I had to ask myself what was the meaning of this statement. I had been divorced and
remarried, but nothing had ever been said to me about this declaration on marriage made
by Jesus himself. As a Protestant I thought it proper to be married by a minister, to be
married before the eyes of God and man, and yet all I needed for the divorce was civil
acknowledgement. Somehow in light of Jesus’ statement something felt wrong here.
The church was concerned about performing the marriage ceremony, but ignored the
consequences of remarriage. The Catholic Church on the other hand said differently.
The question became whether or not the first marriage was valid, not whether or not I had
been married. Marriage was more than just a contract between partners. This thought
stayed at the back of my mind as my journey continued.

Having been raised to go to church I believed strongly in a family worshipping together.
I realized my wife preferred to attend her church, but hoped we could alternate
occasionally and visit each other’s church. Now when I say my wife preferred to attend
her church I should clarify what I mean by that. Rebecca would not even walk into a
Protestant church unless it was for a funeral or wedding. In fact she would not attend a
Mass in English if one in Latin were being celebrated. You see my wife was a religious
snob. Once we had a very heated discussion over her refusal to visit my church. This was
no small barrier to my attempts at our worshipping together.

Feeling frustrated and unsure what to do to bring us together I decided to take an
introduction to religion class at a nearby university. During the class we touched on all
the major religions, Islam, Judaism, Jainism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, and,
of course, Christianity. While studying I slowly came to the realization that all religions
have the same purpose. Since the beginning of time, when man first began to think
beyond himself he started asking questions like: Who am I? Why am I here? What is the
meaning of life? These questions, I found, were similar to my own. Questions that all
lead to the ultimate question of man’s desire to seek, find and dwell with God.
While reflecting on my Christian faith I realized that I didn’t really know what I believed
or more importantly why I believed it. On the next stop along my path I decided to learn
about the Reformation and do a general study of Protestantism. I learned that the
Reformation started long before Martin Luther, and that those who wanted reform were
not originally desirous of dividing the Church, but rather “reforming” the Church. After
deciding it would be appropriate to study the Reformation from the other side, I was
surprised to learn that there were people who remained within the Church while at the
same time calling and working for reform.

As for Protestantism I soon began to realize how many different Christian denominations
there are in the world. It boggled my mind that upwards of 25,000 to 30,000 had come
into existence since Martin Luther was excommunicated. With that many denominations,
that many differences of opinion, how could anyone choose the right one to join? Ever
since the Reformation churches have split off to start other churches and over a period of
500 years that’s a lot of churches. I learned that the Catholic Church claimed to be the
Church founded by Jesus, but so did the Eastern Orthodox Church. I also discovered
that several Protestant churches made the same claim, but that was too far fetched for me.

Because my wife was Catholic I chose to start there and find out why she was so devoted
to the Catholic Church. My first step was to attend a series of talks given at my wife’s
church. The theme of the series was “How the Catholic Church and other churches are
similar, and how they are different.” Most of the talks were lead by the Pastor,
Monsignor Joseph Schaedel. At that time I refused to call priests father. I would either
avoid addressing them by name or refer to them as Reverend. I wasn’t sure I liked Rev.
Schaedel. It was hard to give him a chance because two of the three other priests I had
previously met came across to me as arrogant snobs, just as I believed all Catholics to be.
Thankfully I was not raised within a family or church with an anti-Catholic attitude.
However, in grade school I recall one of my best friends saying that all Jews were going
to go to hell and so were Catholics because they weren’t Christians. Now I couldn’t
believe that my friend, Paul, who happened to be Jewish, was going to hell because all
religions have some of God’s truth. Certainly not all Jews would go to hell. I wasn’t so
sure about Catholics, so I asked my father. As I said before my father didn’t talk much,
so when I asked him if Catholics were Christians he simply said, “Yes.” Knowing that
Catholics were Christians helped somewhat but not a lot. After “Rev.” Schaedel covered
how the Catholic Church and other churches are alike then came the differences: Mary,
the Real Presence, praying to saints, and the toughest one of all, confession to a priest.
What I really needed to know was what, as a Christian, I would have to give up to
become Catholic. The answer was…nothing. I would not have to give up anything, but I
would need to pick up so much more.

Completion

This gift of Grace, my conversion, can best be summed up like this:
At one time I stood in a lighted room seeing what I believed to be all there was to see
around me, yet realizing that something was missing. Studying the history and teaching
of the Catholic Church opened the door that began my journey. The more I learned the
further down the hallway I walked until I noticed another light. At this point I had only
been inquiring, hoping to gain some insight as to my wife’s deep devotion to the Catholic
Church. Shouldn’t one be devoted to Jesus rather than to an organization?
The Catholic Church taught about authority, this was the key. Don’t all Christians
believe that Christ set up his Church and chose the apostles to continue his ministry after
his return to the Father? What were his intentions after those he had chosen died? In the
Gospel according to Matthew, Jesus said to Peter, “I will give you the keys to the
kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever
you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." What did this mean? In the Gospel
according to John, Jesus breathed on the apostles and said, "Receive the Holy Spirit.
Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained."
Authority! Jesus had not only passed on his ministry to his apostles, but his authority as
well! His authority to forgive sins! Was this right? Was I reading this scripture
correctly? Jesus couldn’t lie, and if my understanding was right, could it be that Jesus
meant for this authority to die out with the apostles? No, of course not. Why give such
authority to men and have it exist only during the first century of the Church he founded?
With this revelation the light at the other end of the hallway began to outshine the old
light. This brighter light was clearer and I could see things I had never see before, but
still I was afraid. I had no intention of becoming Catholic. My God, not one of those
arrogant, know-it-alls. Even though I had joined a non-denominational Christian church I
was Baptist to the bone. Catholic? No, never. I stood in the darkness of the hallway
afraid to go forward, afraid to go back.

I knew I couldn’t remain in the hallway. I had to make a decision. Going back I would
feel like a hypocrite, and pretending to profess something I didn’t believe was out of the
question. I had to face the obstacles, those things that were alien to the experience of my
life. The first was the notion that the Catholic Church was “the white man’s church.” I
learned about St. Moses the Black from Ethiopia, St. Anthony the Great of Thebes, St.
Augustine of Hippo (present day Algeria) and his mother St. Monica. There was Pope St.
Victor I, Pope St. Gelasius I, Pope St. Miliades I, all popes from the region of North
Africa. I learned about St. Martin de Porres, the first Black American Saint, SS. Felicitas
and Perpetua, and Pierre Toussaint. These were only some of the people of African
descent I met along my journey that contributed to Christianity and the Roman Catholic
Church.

The second obstacle was the Eucharist. I had never considered whether or not I really
received the body and blood of Christ at communion. To eat the body and blood of
Christ was impossible. Communion is a symbol of our unity with each other and with
Christ, nothing more and nothing less. I was familiar with the Gospel verses of Jesus
saying, “This is my body… this is my Blood… Do this in remembrance of me.”
Symbol? Well…, what about John 6 where Jesus said, “Whoever eats my flesh and
drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day.” Six times Jesus
makes reference to the need of those who believe in him to consume his flesh and his
blood. Jesus said the bread from heaven was his flesh and that, “...my flesh is true food,
and my blood is true drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me
and I in him.” Again I wondered if I was reading this correctly? Am I missing a word?
Nowhere did I read the word “symbol,” and Jesus offered no explanation as most of his
disciples walked away. Jesus can’t lie. God can do anything. Jesus is God. Jesus said

“This is my Body.”

This was it. God, in his mercy had opened my mind and my heart. I no longer had a
choice when God, through his grace had shown me his truth. With no more fear, no more
trepidation, I walked toward the brighter light, the clearer light and gave myself to the
Lord. Now I realized what I had interpreted as arrogance on the part of some Catholics I
had met was really an assurance of God’s revelation to his people.
Farewell

It would be wrong to leave out a very important part of my conversion. Freemasonry was
a big part of my life, a part of me. There are many negative things said about Masonry,
although in my experience I can’t say I ever found anything negative about it in relation
to its moral teachings. A Mason is to be an honest man, a believer in God, (the god of his
choice), a good citizen obeying the laws of the land and helping his fellow man.
Freemasonry taught me how to be a responsible man. The Catholic Church, long an
adversary of Freemasonry, has taught that Masonry teaches religious indifferentism, that
is to say, that it makes no difference what religion one professes as long as one is a
believer in God. I realized that this idea that one religion is as good as another conflicted
with my belief as a Christian. As a Christian one must believe that the truth of Jesus
Christ is the full and complete revelation of God, the Word of God. Although I believed
Freemasonry to be an honorable and worthwhile organization I could not reconcile what I
knew as a Christian with what Masonry professed. Leaving my Masonic lodge was one
of the most difficult decisions of my life. When I told one of my closest friends, a
member of the lodge, that I intended to become Catholic and leave the lodge he accused
me of turning my back on my heritage. But in truth, I knew I had found my heritage.

 

Eric Slaughter
Holy Rosary Parish
Indianapolis, IN