Becoming a Channel of Grace in Catechesis

The OCIA class I was leading was about to enter the period of the catechumenate, and it was time for a talk on human sexuality and Christian anthropology. This talk had been looming in my mind for weeks prior, causing me no small amount of anxiety. I felt reasonably confident in my ability to communicate the Church’s teaching on these controversial topics, but it is always somewhat daunting for me to get up in front of a group of people and talk about sex, gender, and other “theology of the body” topics. As my audience was composed of adults who were seeking to become Catholic, I knew there was a good chance that many of them were still in need of conversion on these topics. They had all made some concrete step toward becoming Catholic, but nevertheless, the Church’s teaching on human sexuality can be a moment for some to walk away. In my mind, the stakes were high.

My first instinct when preparing a talk has always been to go to the Catechism or some other authoritative resource. For this particular topic, I turned to the great St. John Paul II’s Man and Woman He Created Them: A Theology of the Body. While I was well acquainted with the Church’s teaching on human sexuality, I had never actually taken the time to read John Paul II’s catecheses on these topics. I was immediately struck by how thoroughly driven by Scripture each catechesis was. While Man and Woman He Created Them is by no means light reading, to me it read like an extremely well-done Bible study. The doctrinal conclusions that John Paul II arrived at seemed almost obvious because of the way in which he used Scripture to drive his arguments. Reading through his teachings was like being led by a highly skilled guide through a treacherous mountain range. And while John Paul II was the guide, the path was laid out by God himself. Reading Theology of the Body was like being in conversation with God. It was prayerful. I was so captivated by the book that I tore through it far quicker than I ever imagined I could.

The modern ethos regarding sin is a perplexing one. On the one hand, it seems that everything is morally okay, so long as it does not hurt anyone else. Yet, on the other hand, there are very strange and strict social sins that are virtually forbidden unless one wants to end up ostracized by the modern (and oftentimes online) community. Sin today is treated with an increasingly permissive attitude. What stands out as the overarching theme of this new morality, however, is a law of radical individualism regarding sin. Everything is acceptable if it feels good for the individual, as long as social norms are not violated.

Our Communal Lord and Savior

This strange and ambiguous moral philosophy espoused by our modern world stands in sharp contrast to the revelation of Scripture and the teaching of the Church. Particularly, the law of radical individualism stands in opposition to our belief in the “Communion of Saints,” professed in the Creed. The Catechism is beautifully succinct in its identification of this entity: “The communion of saints is the Church” (946).

The Second Vatican Council emphasized the Church as the “People of God,” a descriptor that is very fitting in our age.[1] The Communion of Saints, therefore, must be seen in light of this community of persons around Christ, their head. This Communion of Saints is a true communion—a sharing among persons of what is held in common. The Catechism proceeds to express that what is shared in common are spiritual goods, which are shared among the People of God both on earth and in heaven. The antiphon of the Eastern liturgies captures this: “God’s holy gifts for God’s holy people” (CCC 948).

What emerges from this basic structure is the antithesis of radical individualism. As members of the People of God and of the Communion of Saints, we do not merely have a personal Lord and Savior but a God who, in gathering us into a community, acts within this communion. Jesus Christ saves us personally, but not alone; his work is mediated by the action of the entire Church, of which he is the head. Lumen Gentium, Vatican II’s Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, expresses this beautifully: “God, however, does not make men holy and save them merely as individuals, without bond or link between one another. Rather has it pleased Him to bring men together as one people” (no. 9).

God has illuminated his work in my life as a catechist in many ways. Perhaps the most enlightening of these experiences happened when I was about 30 years old. A sophomore in my Sacraments class asked, “Mr. Digmann, did anything change for you after your confirmation? Did you feel any different?” I am always very open and honest with my students, and after a moment of pause to consider, I replied, “No. However, God is at work in our lives whether we notice it or not, or whether we feel it or not.” I encouraged them to continue to be open to God and his work in their lives during their own confirmation preparation process, even if they didn’t notice that work right away.

But my answer really bothered me. It was a day or two later when I was mowing my lawn, continuing to wrestle with this question and my response, that it hit me. I stopped the mower, literally lifted my hands to God, and praised and thanked him for revealing to me how he had worked the most significant spiritual experience of my life without me even realizing the sacramental root of it all.

Anyone paying attention to recent trends within catechetical programming is sure to have noticed that video-based resources are becoming more and more prevalent. This is true for both adult and youth catechesis. Video resources are now nearly as ubiquitous as textbooks. In many cases, textbooks even function as a supplement to videos, which constitute the greater part of the lesson. Now, more than ever, it is necessary to make a clear-eyed assessment of video presentations as a catechetical methodology.

Videos certainly have a number of advantages. The use of new media in catechesis runs lockstep with Pope John Paul II’s call for a new evangelization. Through digital media, students are able to learn from some of the greatest catechists and evangelists this new century has produced. Video-based programs are often more affordable than traditional textbook series—a major relief to a cash-strapped parish program. Furthermore, with the advent of streaming, catechesis is no longer confined to the traditional classroom. Students can now access catechetical materials from home and alongside their families. Finally, many of these programs are both thoroughly orthodox and incredibly well-produced. It is now possible to have a program that is on the “cutting edge” methodologically without being enslaved to passing fancies of theological speculation.

On the other hand, videos also have their drawbacks. Linda Stone, a former consultant for tech giants Apple and Microsoft, coined the phrase “continuous partial attention” to describe how many of us go about our day-to-day lives.[1] Our attention is constantly divided between many different, simultaneous objects: we watch the news while checking our email, making breakfast, and talking on the phone. Without a doubt, video media, especially with the rise of short-form content, has exacerbated this condition. Catechists should carefully consider whether it is wise to adopt a form of content that is nearly synonymous with distraction. Additionally, there is a temptation to let the personalities on screen replace the personality of the catechist. A catechist cannot be reduced to someone merely pressing play on a video; they must be an active agent and a witness to their students.

About three years ago, I purchased two small citrus plants. Their tags said “trees,” but they were barely big enough at the time to be considered blades of grass. They were just two small plants, each in its own black three-gallon bucket. As a Midwesterner born and raised in and around Chicago, I had moved to Southern California only six years prior. One day in the patio of a local retreat center, I came upon a dozen or so orange trees growing in planters. They were full of succulent fruit—ripe, plump oranges ready to be seized and waiting to have someone’s teeth sunken into them. Inspired, I decided I should try my hand at citrus cultivation at home. This would be my first attempt at growing anything of the sort. I placed the two newly purchased infant plants on my balcony in the sun, watered them, and hoped for the best.

Any gardeners reading this can imagine how my little experiment turned out: Not well. Two years later, the trees hadn’t produced a single bud. They were just enthusiastic little plants trying to look like grown-up trees slowly inching taller in their black pots in the balcony sun. Thankfully, though, that’s not the end of the story.

Several trips to the local nursery later, including long conversations with one of our neighborhood’s most green-thumbed arborists, I learned some of the secrets to turning my fledgling plants into real fruit trees. Bigger pots, better dirt, more strategic placement for the right amount of sunlight, and regular fertilizing all combined would turn my barren citrus branches to high-yielding, fruit-filled foliage. It’s taken conventional wisdom, expert advice from someone with proven know-how, time, and a lot of patience, but my inaugural journey into the agricultural world has finally paid off.

Pope St. John Paul II once said, “Evangelization is often referred to in agricultural terms. Saint Paul in fact calls the Christian community ‘God’s field’ (1 Cor. 3, 9).”[1] Those of us who work in the vineyards of Catholic schools have firsthand experience with this reality. Apostolic work, especially with young people, demands many of the same things required of farming. Every time we meet a young person or a colleague, we know not whether we are planting a seed, watering it, or harvesting it. Each requires strategy, skill, and most of all, like the farmer in one of Jesus’ parables, patience. “[He] would sleep and rise night and day and the seed would sprout and grow, he knows not how” (Mk 4:27).

It was a Sunday just like any other. At the end of Mass, the priest said, “Next week, bring a non-Catholic to Mass.” I turned to my wife and whispered, “I have someone in mind.”

I had a Chinese coworker whom I will call “John.” He and I often talked about philosophical topics such as the meaning of life. At first, John was an atheist, but through our conversations, he had moved into agnosticism. Accepting Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of God wasn’t too hard for John because he often praised Aristotle, and Aquinas seemed like a continuation of Aristotle.

Discussing Aquinas was good progress in our conversational catechesis, but getting from Aquinas to Jesus seemed far off. So one day I decided to jump right to it and asked point-blank:

“Who do you say that Jesus is?” John was surprised by my question.

“My understanding is that he founded Christianity,” he responded politely, “but I need to read more about his philosophy.”

Not knowing where to go from there, I told John that I would find some material and get back to him. But I felt lost. Should I talk about the historicity of the Gospels? Should I explain that Jesus is the only person in history to be preannounced? Should I tell John that Jesus is God?

Before I could find the material that I had I promised to give John, I found myself at church, at that liturgy, with Father encouraging us to bring a non-Catholic to Mass. So, back at work, I took the plunge and said to John, “The best way to understand Jesus is by taking you to Mass next Sunday.” He didn’t hesitate to accept my invitation.

When Sunday came, I waited for John in the parking lot, and then my family and I accompanied him into the church. I could tell he was curious about the reverence parishioners showed toward the altar. As the Mass began, I waited for the priest to say something along the lines of, “Welcome all non-Catholics; I will explain the Mass.” However, he began celebrating the Mass as usual. It was a beautiful liturgy, as always, and the priest gave a wonderful homily—but he made no special mention to acknowledge any guests.

The catechetical aspect of the Order of Christian Initiation of Adults (OCIA) is inseparable from the practical reality it seeks to inform. It is the work of teaching the faith so as to empower people to truly live it in their daily experience.

Christian writings between the apostolic age and the third century are extremely rare. At the turn of the first century AD, both Pope Clement of Rome and St. Ignatius of Antioch underscore the jurisdiction possessed by bishops over the forgiveness of sins. For most in those early years of Christianity, sin and repentance were simply accepted as a normal part of the average life of every Christian and needed no formulas or procedures to deal with it.

However, in the third and fourth centuries, the rise of certain heresies provoked a greater development and precision on doctrinal matters and practice. This certainly was the case in relation to sin and forgiveness. Approaching Confession became a definitively rigorous and public act. Led by the bishop, the entire Christian community would be involved as all prayed for the penitent.[1]

In the early Middle Ages, Irish missionary monks who came to the mainland brought with them a different form of the sacrament: private confession—that is, confession strictly between the penitent and God’s representative, the priest. Although the monks were certainly not lenient in the handing out of severe penances, they did effectively mollify the more terrifying features connected with public confessions.[2] In short, confessions were beginning to be practiced in generally the same way as they are today. However, though they had undergone significant changes in attitude and procedure, in essence the official canonical features of Confession remained: the honest recounting of one’s sins, the Church sitting in judgment in the person of the priest, the penalty administered, and final reconciliation.

This is not to be marveled at since the Church is as living and dynamic as is Christ himself. She is, after all, the extension of the risen, glorified Christ in space and time. Consequently, the Church has always been able to adapt herself to the special needs of the people of God at a particular time and circumstance. She has therefore periodically changed her approach to Confession—and can possibly change it again in the future.

My first Christmas Eve as a priest, while I was putting the finishing touches on my Midnight Mass sermon, the rectory office doorbell rang continuously with devoted parishioners dropping off many gracious gifts. I opened the door for the umpteenth time, and there appeared before me a college-aged guy . . . without a present or card. “Are you a priest?” he asked. My collar was apparently not tipping him off. “Yes,” I confirmed. “I want to be Catholic!” he eagerly rejoined. It was a far better Christmas present than any other I would receive.

The technical term “care of souls” sadly remains almost unknown outside of clerical training. The concept encompasses serving the spiritual needs of all: reconciling the wayward, evangelizing the unchurched, serving the suffering, challenging the staunch—in short, everything that makes the life of the Church fruitful from the parochial level on up. An older translation renders it “cure of souls,” highlighting the hope of health for the spirit from the disease of sin with which we are plagued. For that reason, it applies specifically to the responsibilities of bishops and parish priests, the holy doctors of human hearts, but all the faithful have a share in its spirit of pursuing the salvation and sanctification of souls. No devout Catholic can be without a long prayer list for special cases in need of conversion or reversion. Imagine including the ones we’ve not even encountered yet!

At the origin of human history lies a pivotal moment—the fateful bite from the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. However, this profound narrative doesn’t conclude with the original sin; it finds its ultimate fulfillment in the taste of the Eucharist. Through the sense of taste, which once led to humanity’s fall, we now receive spiritual nourishment and the grace of eternal life, all made possible through the loving sacrifice of Christ.

In the Garden of Eden, God placed two trees—the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. While Adam and Eve were commanded not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, they were free to partake of the Tree of Life, which held the gift of immortality and eternal communion with God.

Tragically, temptation lured Eve into believing the serpent’s deceitful words—that eating the fruit from the forbidden tree would make her wise like God. She tasted the fruit and shared it with Adam, thus disobeying God’s command.

As a consequence of their disobedience, sin entered human nature, and God, in his mercy, expelled them from the Garden of Eden. This act of divine love spared them from eternal separation from God in their fallen state. Eating from the Tree of Life while in a state of sinfulness would have meant an eternity estranged from him. God had angels guard the Tree of Life in his infinite wisdom, ensuring that Adam and Eve would not eat from it on their way out. “He expelled the man, stationing the cherubim and the fiery revolving sword east of the garden of Eden, to guard the way to the tree of life” (Gn 3:24).

This denial of access to the Tree of Life foreshadowed the need for a Savior to redeem the human race from sin and open up access to eternal life through faith and grace. That Savior is Jesus Christ, whom the New Testament calls the “last Adam” (1 Cor 15:45). Just as Adam’s sin brought death into the world, Christ’s sacrificial death on the Cross brings redemption and the promise of eternal life. Thus, the image of the Tree of Life profoundly connects to the Cross on which Jesus was crucified—a Cross made of a tree, symbolizing the tree of the Fall being redeemed by the tree of the Cross.