By Steve Dabrowski
It Seems to Me
I am fascinated by World War II. I cannot recall how many books I’ve read from this period of history, but most of them are not about the war itself; rather, I am intrigued by the psychological and sociological impact of cultural influences on people of that time. I’ve read books about everyday German professors who joined the Nazi party to save their jobs in academia, only to find themselves conscripted into the SS to fight for an ideology they loathed. I’ve read books about Jews who were unable to process the brutality they encountered from those whom they once considered friends and colleagues, or worse yet, family. And, of course, I’ve read books about both political and military leaders, and the heart-wrenching decisions they had to make to save their countrymen from tyranny.
Last May, a new book was written about Winston Churchill and the forces that shaped his first year as British Prime Minister, so I rushed to purchase a copy. Buying a new book in the throes of the pandemic, I believed I would tear through it in no time, but as I type these words more than a year later, I still have nearly 200 pages to go. I’ve read several other books, not to mention blogs, newspapers, magazines and professional journals during the same time, but I just cannot read that Churchill book for more than a few minutes before losing interest.
The well-known author is recognized as a great writer who translates history into novel-worthy narrative. Having read a few samples of the book, I expected the same smooth prose, but instead, I found a book bogged down in unnecessary details having little to do with Churchill. Whole chapters are dedicated to nights out on the town by one of Churchill’s daughters, the friends she was with, and the romances and infatuations that developed among her fellow partiers. It is tedious, boring and disconnected from the supposed subject of the book. So much so that even I, an aficionado of WWII literature, have stormed its pages multiple times, only to be beaten back by poor storytelling.
It seems to me that something similar often happens in our evangelization efforts. I recently read a book about leading adult children back to the Catholic Faith, and I only encountered the name of Jesus a handful of times. The core of the book described all sorts of magnificent features of Catholicism. Many were things I found interesting, but I suspect a fallen-away Catholic would find these details about as applicable to their situation as the description of Mary Churchill’s nightclub soirees were to the Prime Minister’s war leadership. We, Catholics, sometimes forget that the story of Jesus is meant to lead others to Him and into the Church, not merely to a church building alone; after all, our parishes are full of Confirmed non-believers —those who have been introduced to the church without meeting Him from whom the Church sprang. Often those are the hardest folks to evangelize because, as an old mentor of mine used to say, “They don’t know what they don’t know.”
Evangelization must begin with Jesus. It must begin with the focus on His call for each of us to be in relationship with Him. In “The Screwtape Letters,” C.S. Lewis writes a marvelous passage where an older tempter counsels a younger one that he is unconcerned with whether someone attends Church on Sundays. He advises the younger tempter to always focus the unsuspecting human on the history and cultural trappings of the Church — this will keep them far from a relationship with Jesus that will win their salvation.
The story of Jesus is a love story beyond compare, and we must be careful not to bore people with tangential details instead of introducing them to the person, Jesus, who died to save them. No one, to paraphrase Lewis, can fall in love with a concept; we can only fall in love with a person. And when we fall in love with someone, we want to tell others. In us, the story of God’s love becomes real … as long as our storytelling is authentic and clear.