The inbound red line train, or “T,” pulls its passengers through an underground maze from the suburban city of Cambridge through the heart of downtown Boston. I travel this route often. The train cars have a dull interior of warn silver metal and passengers with tired, wandering eyes. And from our seats we stare out the car windows onto the black walls of the underground tunnel as we rush past them. That is, except for one stop. When the redline approaches the Charles River (which also winds itself through the metropolis), the cars shoot out from underground into the daylight and onto the high tracks of the Longfellow Bridge, offering a few minutes of natural light before descending below the city again.
While the contrast of the dark tunnels and the light of day are enough to shake passengers from their subterranean daze, on sunny days we have another reason to perk up in our seats during this part of the ride. As the T crosses the Charles, passengers turn around in their seats to capture a view of the city skyline and the sun reflecting off the tall windows of its high-rises. We can see a flock of white sails shifting on the river and its verdant bank speckled with pedestrians and cyclists.
On sunny days, the T passengers get a lovely, elevated glimpse of all this—which makes dreary days on the redline a bit heartbreaking. Lately, we arise onto Longfellow Bridge surrounded by low gray clouds and the sticky mist of Boston summer rain. The cars fill with light, yes, but a heavy, dim glow instead of the summer rays we long for. We don’t turn around in our seats because we know that the sails are still folded in their boathouses, and the pedestrians probably walked to the cinema instead of the riverbank below.
But yesterday, amidst another damp afternoon, the young man sitting next to me turned around in his seat anyway. As his gaze lingered across the river for those few long minutes, I found myself surprised and no longer so interested in the book resting on my lap. And as I eventually turned with him to watch the skyline before us, I thought about conversion.
The word “conversion” has its origins in the Latin verb “convertere”—to turn around. Pop culture often portrays religious conversation as it is understood in Christian evangelical traditions where it is a one-time, dramatically life-altering event in a person’s life. Surely, this is the experience of conversation for many people, and surely, one could understand this as a “turning,” a sort of dramatic pivot in the path of one’s life. But I never experienced a religious conversion like that. For me, religious belonging was not a one-time decision as much as a recurring experience. I constantly struggle to turn toward Catholicism—to continue to convert.
Yet, as this young man turned around in his seat, he reminded me why I do continue. “This guy doesn’t want to miss a potential glimpse of that beautiful view, so he even turns around on the ugliest of days, just in case,” I surmised. I think I continue to convert because of the glimpses of beauty, and truth, and goodness I have seen in Catholicism—visions that somehow sustain my hope and faith through the very dark days of the Church. Certainly, there are days when I think the hope that sustains my conversion might just be naïve. Catholicism has had some very, very ugly days, and I think it is important to take that seriously. But, surely, it is also important to take seriously the goodness that I witness in my experiences of Catholicism, too. And for the time being, they keep me turning back to the Church.
Suddenly, the redline sunk below the street level and into the darkness again. The young man and I turned back around, and I began to collect my things. The next stop was mine. But as I departed the train into the bustling station of raincoats and umbrellas, I smiled to myself. I was thankful to know that in only a few hours, I would be boarding the train back home, and once again it would ascend to the Longfellow Bridge where I could turn to take in the view, rain or shine.
thank you for this post. It really gave me a different way to look at something that I have been struggling with and your words really provided something new to my conversation. So thank you….happy turning.
It’s quite a sight isn’t it? I look every time.
This makes me long for my days in Boston and all the T rides I had to endure, yet those moments seem enjoyable now, being on the west coast with terrible transit.
“Yet, as this young man turned around in his seat, he reminded me why I do continue. “This guy doesn’t want to miss a potential glimpse of that beautiful view, so he even turns around on the ugliest of days, just in case,” I surmised. I think I continue to convert because of the glimpses of beauty, and truth, and goodness I have seen in Catholicism—visions that somehow sustain my hope and faith through the very dark days of the Church. Certainly, there are days when I think the hope that sustains my conversion might just be naïve. Catholicism has had some very, very ugly days, and I think it is important to take that seriously. But, surely, it is also important to take seriously the goodness that I witness in my experiences of Catholicism, too. And for the time being, they keep me turning back to the Church.”
^^This is the discussion that I am most interested in. This conversation of what it means to, and different ways of practicing hope. I find it curious that you parallel your own quest for hope and that glimpse of “light” and truth to such a physical symbol- that of light breaking through the clouds. Perhaps I am not meant to take this metaphor quite so seriously, but rather as a simple writing technique. But I think that in simplifying your relationship with the catholic you are not doing it any kind of justice. It is a beautiful image to be certain, but such benign imagery fails to address the significance and the stakes of your own struggle to find hope within such a large and controversial institution. The only repercussions for that man hoping to see sun is that he might not see sun. For you, it is your continued participation in an institution that is morally and, in many ways, physically responsible for millions of lives.
You say that you continue to convert because of the glimpses of beauty and truth see you through the most difficult times. But this seems less to me like a train breaking daylight and more like the dark world of addiction. You continue your participation, chasing this high of enlightenment, despite all the negative repercussions and all that is at stake. Those “rainy days” of the catholic church have destroyed millions of lives over the course of its history. I understand that this is an extreme analysis and conclusion for me to draw based on one paragraph of writing but those struggles that you are dealing with go beyond naivety and weather metaphors and deserve real analysis and discussion.
Perhaps I have overstepped the goal of this blog but I feel that you were touching on something that is so immense and worth discussion and yet you barely scratched the surface.
Oops, I meant barely scratched the surface of your own struggle with this.
Kate, thanks for reading and for your thoughtful response. While I suspect we do have divergent views on the usefulness of metaphor, I find your concerns about “what’s at stake” in conversion to be important ones. You are right that there is much at stake—ethically, existentially, communally—in my religious affiliation. By charging that this affiliation is an “addiction” I sense you are assuming I hold shallow reasons for being Catholic (or at least that I have portrayed my faith as such by using this metaphor)…as if the stained glass windows and the communion of saints are some quick fix that I’ve simply grown accustomed to? In fact, the “beauty, truth, and goodness” that I witness in my experiences with Catholicism are not shallow, in my mind.
You rightly point out that the Catholic Church has destroyed many lives throughout history, and the aim of my reflection was never to excuse that. Meanwhile, though, some of the people in my life who are most passionately committed to non-violence, economic justice, mercy, political action, and compassion are Catholics. Unequivocally, the people I know who are most committed to justice, healing, and reconciliation in response to the wrongdoings of the contemporary church leaders are Catholics. They are the “beauty, truth, and goodness” that sustains my conversion. Thus, the aim of my post, as in much of my writing, was to reflect on this tension: How do I relate to a community that houses both people who carry out unimaginable evils and people who exemplify unimaginable goodness?
I regret if figurative language detracted from that. I found it to be a helpful framework for my thinking, but in writing I find I always run the risk of an inadequate metaphorical portrayal. Thanks for inviting me to reflect a bit more.
My metaphor of addiction was probably (definitely) just as superficial I suppose. That is the problem with metaphors in general though. They can never catch all the specifics, just shed light on lesser seen aspects of a situation. I did not mean to imply that your faith or reasons for being Catholic are superficial or casual in any way- and that is where my metaphor broke down and failed to accurately reflect my concerns and interests.
I really appreciate your response and I think it got to the heart of what my concerns were about. How do you navigate between the extremes of what humanity is capable of. Our entire world is filled with contradictions but they much more difficult to ignore in such large institutions whose works, for better or worse, are always in the public eye.
Also I didn’t mean to dismiss or discredit the rest of your post, which I think does an excellent job of addressing how being pulled between those two poles makes your faith an ongoing process. One in which you must “convert” each day.
There is still much more I’d wish to discuss with you on this topic but the blessing and curse of the internet is that it gives access without much context and ability to follow up in depth. But, after reading many of your posts I can say that this blog has made me question many of my own views on the Catholic Church. This discussion specifically has required me to look internally and reexamine my beliefs or non-beliefs.
I look forward to reading more of your works.
“We are an imperfect Church with a Perfect Savior.”
Stumbled across your blog while looking for an image of Mark Salzman’s “Lying Awake” to pin on Pinterest.
Absolutely love this entry, as it is so similar to my own daily thoughts regarding our faith. I pray often for Christ to bring me closer to Him and often wonder why it is so difficult to see the light some days. Thank you for your post, very eloquently written.