Liz had declined my persistent invitation to Youth Group with the excuse that her father wouldn’t let her go to any church except Holy Rosary. Finally, according to Liz, Dad relented and said she could go one time only, for the experience. “What’s it like?” she asked.
I tried to explain how friendly, how Bible-centered, how TRUE our church was without actually putting down her church. I figured if Liz came to our church she’d get saved and find out for herself about the false teachings of Catholicism. That was my goal. I wanted Liz to know Jesus, and although she was a nice girl from a nice family, she was Catholic; and the Catholic Church didn’t teach salvation. Getting my friend born again was my sole and sincere goal.
Afterward I asked her what she’d thought.
“It was different,” said Liz, who was known for her frankness. “Your church is so plain-looking. Nobody kneels. And don’t you have Communion?”
“Once a month,” I said.
“That’s it?” Liz said in amazement. “Dad said you guys would speak in tongues. How come you didn’t?” I was quick to dispel the myth.
“We aren’t Pentecostals,” I said. “We don’t believe in that.”
“Oh,” said Liz. “I thought all Protestants were alike.”
“We go by the Bible,” I said, thinking immediately of my Pentecostal friends who also went by the Bible. “Pentecostals get some interpretations wrong.” I could see that my feeble explanation wasn’t registering. No wonder. I was certain that, as a Catholic, Liz knew nothing about the Bible.
Most Catholic kids liked our youth group and came back, getting “saved,” asking for prayers for their non-Christian parents, and sharing about the persecution they were facing for accepting Jesus and reading their Bibles every day. One boy even boasted that he’d been excommunicated. In fact, Liz is the only Catholic I know of who didn’t return; my only defeat. After high school, she married a guy from Bellarmine Prep and before long they had five kids. It wasn’t until I became Catholic that I stopped feeling sorry for her.
Now I’m the Catholic parent with a teenager whose nice friends are not all Catholic. My son is the only kid who isn’t allowed to go to the Assemblies of God youth group meetings. Even the other Catholic kids get to go, and I shudder when I hear about it because I know the subtle but constant pressure they’ll encounter.
“Mom,” Kelly told me one day, “they have a fog machine at the Assemblies. The kids get to use it.”
“What don’t they have?” I asked. He picked up the cue.
“The whole truth. I know, Mom.”
“Do you feel ripped off for not being allowed to go?”
“Nope. It isn’t real church.” He grinned and foraged in the refrigerator. Business as usual at the Franklins.
Unlike Liz McDougall’s dad, we won’t allow even one excursion to another youth group. I spent much energy as a teenager trying to get my Catholic friends out of their church and into mine. I know the mindset from having lived it for 35 years and together with my husband, I’ve decided that my kids will have to do without the experience, at least while they’re under our roof.
Thanks, Liz.
(This article originally appeared in the June 2000 issue of Envoy Magazine.)
