Who gave you authority …?


One issue which I thought about often before becoming Catholic is authority. This is one of these issues like Mary and the saints or confession which polarises people either for or against the Catholic church.

When I began to investigate the Catholic faith, I found many blog articles on authority, from both Catholic and Protestant viewpoints. I’ve read complex articles by Protestants explaining how their own particular church traces its apostolic authority back to Jesus and the apostles.

I’m not going to get into arguments about which church has the best pedigree. To be honest, I don’t know much about theology or church history and a lot of these arguments go over my head. I also feel very uncomfortable about arguing along the lines of ‘we have authority and you don’t.’ More and more, I feel that this blog should be about building bridges rather than digging chasms.

A year or so before I began thinking about becoming Catholic, something happened related to church authority which really shook me to my core. However, I haven’t told the story until now, because it involved other people. Because it isn’t just my story, I can only tell the bare bones.

The bare bones of a story

Someone close to me was in hospital fighting a difficult illness. A lady, also known to me, paid a visited and delivered a religious message laying the blame for the illness on events in the past.

I believe the lady really thought that her message could ‘fix’ what she saw as the cause of the illness. However, her words caused the sick person distress and anxiety. Within a week, their condition had deteriorated to the extent that they had to be moved to a different ward. Although they eventually recovered, the road back was slow and difficult, and it was a long time before I stopped wondering, ‘What if this hadn’t happened …?’

Church responsibility

It turned out that the lady had taken the message to the hospital with the approval and perhaps even the encouragement of her church. It also turned out that this church was an independent, recently-formed organisation.

Although I wasn’t one of the main players in this story, I was deeply affected because someone I loved had become sicker. I confided in an Episcopalian priest (the Anglican church in Scotland). Her reaction was not quite what I expected. She shared my anger over the incident. However, most of her anger was directed, not at the lady who visited the hospital, but at the church which had sent her.

The Episcopalian priest saw the problem as one of authority. She thought that the church had acted very irresponsibly by encouraging someone to share a frightening message with a sick and vulnerable person.

This incident went through my mind when I began thinking about becoming Catholic. Who gave authority to come up with this message, send someone with it, start the church in the first place? By a strange coincidence, I had known one of the people who started the church.


My mind got stuck in a loop of questions. On the one hand, I had Father K telling me about apostolic succession: Jesus laid hands on his disciples and gave authority to them, they in turn laid hands on others and passed authority on to the next generation of disciples, and so on, all the way to the present day.

On the other hand, I knew that the number of different Protestant denominations had reached thousands and counting. I was brought up in a church which had branched off many times, becoming thinner and weaker with each break. Some of the things we believed seemed eccentric and out-dated to people in mainstream churches.

In Scotland, and in the Highlands in particular, people tend to break away and form new churches rather than staying, talking to each other and trying to heal their divisions. Was this Christian?

I remember thinking about the church which sent the message to the sick person, and the strange coincidence that I knew one of the people who started it. What was to stop me starting my own branch of Christianity? The thought made me giddy, but the answer was nothing but time and energy if I remained Protestant and unaffiliated to any denomination, and well, an awful lot, if I became Catholic.

Which way to go?

I became confused and distressed thinking about authority. I couldn’t return to the church of my childhood, where there had been undue emphasis on God’s judgement rather than God’s love. If I didn’t go there, which of the plethora of Protestant churches should I try next?

The incident at the hospital was frightening, not because anyone had intended evil. Quite the opposite. The church believed that they were doing good. However, the effect was harmful. It is possible to take parts of the Bible out of context, giving too much emphasis to one thing rather than another, and come up with dangerous messages.

Safer with authority

As I investigated Catholicism, it was a relief to learn about the Magisterium of the Catholic church, authority and teaching based on the Bible as well as church tradition handed down from the church fathers. Teaching can evolve from what’s gone before, but no-one, not even the Pope, can make a total break and ignore 2000 years of tradition.

Some people might prefer to be totally free to make their own interpretation of the Scripture. Catholics are also encouraged to practice Lectura Divina (reading the Scriptures and asking the Holy Spirit for guidance). However, as someone who couldn’t read the Bible for many years without encountering an angry, unforgiving God on every page, I found it reassuring to enter a church with a central authority and body of teaching.

Part of the reason I became Catholic was that I felt safer, like a child who prefers rules and limits to being left alone to do my own thing.

I realise that it’s not only the Catholic church which has a system of authority and teaching. This was clearly an important issue for my Episcopalian friend when I shared this story with her.

In the end, I’m glad I can’t just start my own church, even if I wanted to!


Good Friday

Why is the day marking Christ’s death called Good Friday? What is Good about someone suffering a horrific death? Are we meant to be good on Good Friday? Or are we meant to think of God’s goodness in giving us His son. Is it because death was necessary in order to reach the greater good of the resurrection? When I was Protestant or agnostic, Good Friday, simply meant, ‘Great, a day off.’

My train of thought was started by the realisation that today is simply Dihaoine na Ceusta in Gaelic (Friday of the cross), which just tells us what actually happens. This is another example of language throwing a different perspective on things.


I’m also thinking about how the joy of the resurrection makes no sense without the sorrow of the cross. At the same time, the cross is just a meaningless loss without the resurrection. I’ve reflected before on how the emptiness of the church on Good Friday has helped me to recognise the presence of Christ at other times.

We’ve had a very difficult year, perhaps the hardest of our lives. As I look forward, sometimes I just anticipate more suffering. To be honest, I often just want to curl up in a corner and not even try, because living is so darn hard.

When I was thinking about Gethsemane and Jesus anticipating his suffering and death, I wondered if he only saw suffering, or if he also looked forward to joy. Perhaps he didn’t know exactly what God was going to do. Maybe he didn’t know that after his body was broken, it would be raised to life. However, I think he knew and trusted that God would bring good out of his suffering.

That’s the challenge for me right now: to look ahead in the hope that God will give us strength and also to trust that God knows what He’s about.

Sally Read’s poems

I want to share two things. First of all, I’m sharing a link to Sally Read’s website on which she has a poem about the crucifixion. Sally is a Catholic convert and I really enjoyed reading her book Night’s Bright Darkness, an honest account of her conversion.

A short piece on Easter

Secondly, here is a short reflection on my different experiences of Easter:

We don’t do Easter in our church, but the minister tells us about Christ’s agony on the cross. I feel sad, because it’s my fault Christ had to die, and the nails must have hurt a lot.

Mrs Higgins tells us the Easter story at school. I draw a picture of the stone rolled away from the tomb, but I can’t see Jesus.

I attend a different church when I go to university. My friend’s plump cheeks glow with joy on Easter Sunday as she sings about being saved. I feel angry. What right have these people to be so happy? We could never be sure God would save us.

I’ve stopped doing church altogether by the time I spend Easter in Spain. On Good Friday, I wake in the night, and see men walking down the street in silence, bowed down by the weight of chains. I think of my childhood, dragging the weight and guilt of my sins without hope of relief.

Many years pass. Easter is marked as no more than a holiday, a few days of freedom. I begin to let go of the guilt and pain. Perhaps, just perhaps, God created me for joy.

My faith is no bigger than a grain of mustard seed when I begin attending Mass with my husband. I’m taken aback by Easter. I see the joy of the resurrection in the faces around me, feel it in the water splashed on my cheeks, smell it in the incense, and hear it as we once again sing, ‘Glory to God in the Highest, And on earth peace to people of good will’. I don’t yet taste it.

Over the next few years, I learn the rhythms of the church: forty days of fasting and prayer, the solemnity of Holy Week. On Good Friday, I find the tabernacle open, the statues hidden in purple drapes. Jesus is dead and in his tomb. I weep in the empty church, feeling as if I have lost a loved one.

Easter comes, but it feels as if Lent continues. My daughter is ill and her condition worsening. As I kneel in church early on Sunday, I don’t look for Easter joy. How can it come this year? Something catches at my heart, opens it a chink and God’s love floods in. Later, we drive up the mountainside and take a hike. My daughter has a few hours reprieve, and Easter Sunday feels like a taste of heaven.

My daughter’s condition worsens. She spends most of the summer in hospital, and things slowly turn around. I learn a new rhythm in the hopes and disappointments of caring for someone with a long-term health condition. In each small sacrifice, I share in Christ’s death, and in her tiny steps towards recovery, I see signs of resurrection.

I am learning that Easter is present every day, in suffering and joy, in the death of self and worn out dreams, and in the slow turning of my soul to God.