We like to think of Christian initiation as a gentle journey. But the truth is a lot of people show up to our parishes deeply wounded. And many times, their pain is not that obvious. On first glance, they may seem perfectly fine. But sometimes, beneath the surface, they are hurting from addiction, loneliness, anger at God, or deep shame. In that moment, they’re not looking for a gentle journey. Nor are they looking for a curriculum. They’re looking for a reason to stay alive.
Last month, a woman came to Sunday Mass at our parish with two kids and asked if they could make their first communion. I don’t do first communion. I don’t really know how it works in our parish. So I almost said: “Registration starts next month — come back then and we’ll get you signed up.” But something about her eyes stopped me. She looked a little lost. Like she hadn’t slept in days.
So instead, I asked her to sit down and tell me her story. She told me about the shelters. The jobs lost. The father of her kids who vanished. She hadn’t been to church in years but something — she didn’t know what — made her walk through our doors that day. What do I offer her first? A class schedule?
Are we always evangelizing?
We say that we are always evangelizing. But we don’t always act like we believe that. We start by asking what doctrines people need to learn. What if, instead, we asked what wounds they’re carrying?
I’ve seen too many parish websites with curriculum lists for the catechumenate that look like we’re teaching a high school theology class. We forget that the first Christians didn’t have a scope and sequence. They had a body broken on a cross. They had a Spirit that showed up as tongues of fire.
If we shape our catechumenates around syllabuses instead of discipleship, we will keep producing well-informed people who quietly disappear after Easter.
Their first disciples didn’t form new disciples by registering them for classes. They started in the middle of life: meals, prayer, shared resources, shared pain, awe, worship, spontaneous joy. Acts 2 isn’t a look back at history. It’s a medical manual for healing the wounded.
If we shape our catechumenates around syllabuses instead of discipleship, we will keep producing well-informed people who quietly disappear after Easter.
Break out of the classroom
We are not classroom managers. We are first responders. But, as we said, a seeker’s trauma isn’t always visible. A seeker doesn’t usually show up saying, “Hey, I’m bleeding out here!” More often, they whisper, “I’m fine. I just need first communion for my kids.” If we think our job is to ensure that seeker is doctrinally sound before we address their wounds, we’re not doing what Jesus did.
I’m not pretending this is easy. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I almost sent that hurting mother away because I didn’t know how to “do” first communion for her and her kids. There is no playbook for this. There is only Jesus, who showed us that healing and conversion happens by touch, by presence, by loving people before they understand a thing.
So, what I pray I will do the next time someone walks through our church doors and asks for something, is to ask them to sit down. And tell me their story. And then shut up and listen.
Because sometimes, that’s the moment that saves them.
What would you do in that moment?
Have you ever been in a situation where someone asked for a sacrament or something else and you weren’t sure what to say? Have you felt stuck trying to come up with the right response?
Leave a comment and share your story. We need each other to figure out how to live this in real time, not just in theory.
👇 Scroll down to the comments — I’d love to hear what’s on your heart.
