Jeff Cavins - My Life on the Rock: A Rebel Returns to the Catholic Faith (Rev)

My Life on

the Rock

A Rebel Returns

to the Catholic Faith

Jeff Cavins

West Chester, Pennsylvania

Copyright 2000, 2002 Jeff Cavins. All rights reserved.

Revised edition.

Except for brief excerpts in critical reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form, printed or electronic, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Ascension Press

Post Office Box 1990

West Chester, PA 19380

Customer service: 1-800-376-0520

AscensionPress.com

Cover design: Kinsey Caruth

Printed in the United States of America

To Robert and Trish Cavins

and Andreas and Alice Tobler

Blessed John Paul II

Tertio Millennio Adveniente

Acknowledgements

M y sincere thanks to Mark Shea for assisting me in organizing my thoughts throughout the writing of this book. Mark familiarized himself with my entire story, then gave me invaluable advice that allowed me to stand back and see the story as a whole. I could not have done this without him. I would also like to thank Scott Hahn, who repeatedly reminded me that this story needed to be written. He has become the brother I never had. The writing of this book has been inspired by the works of Thomas Howard, who I believe will go down in history as one of the truly great writers of our time. Finally, I consider my lovely wife, Emily, to be the coauthor of this book. She my best friend, and her love, personality, prayers, and faithfulness are printed within every paragraph of my life. She contributed many hours, working hard to ensure the integrity of the story.

Searching in St. Huberts

I sat in the balcony looking down the single aisle toward the old altar and tabernacle of St. Huberts Catholic Church in Chanhassen, Minnesota. At the front of the church were statues on each side, with stands of candles flickering nearby. These comforted me somehow. I intently studied each statue, hoping and praying they would twitch or something. At eighteen, I had heard reports that sometimes statues cried and did other strange things, so I was anticipating a similar sign that would let me know I had made contact with God.

If anyone had observed me as I sat in the choir loft and silently contemplated the statues, they would not have thought I was in the midst of a serious spiritual search. Not even the priest who occasionally walked through the sanctuary was aware of my presence. No one was aware of my hunger for God: not my parents, my girlfriend, Karen, or even my best friend, Randy.

I was an average American Catholic boy. I had grown up in the western suburbs of Minneapolis, attending Sunday Mass and holy days of obligation. I went to confession with my family several times per year. I had a giant black rosary, but I dont recall using it for prayer. (When I was younger, though, it made a terrific set of reins for my imaginary horse at the end of my bed.) I also wore a scapular for a while, but I didnt know what it meant or what it was for. And I once had a little childrens Mass book I had received for first communion, and I used to take it with me to church. But, again, I didnt really know what it was all about, and I eventually lost it.

My parents were devoted to seeing that my younger sisters, Jayne and Leslie, and I would ourselves embrace our Catholic faith. They were founding members of a new parish in Bloomington, Minnesota, pastored by Fr. Paul Dudley. While my parents didnt pass on much content about the Faith, I was aware by listening to my mothers side of the family that leaving the Church was not a good thing. I had a general sense that what we believed was the real McCoy and that I neednt look elsewhere. I once attended a Lutheran service with a friend, and I soon discovered how opposed my parents were to that venture.

As a boy, I was fascinated with our parish church, especially the tabernacle behind the altar. I was drawn to it and liked to just sit near it. I had occasionally served as an altar boy, and I often tried to get a glimpse inside the tabernacle when it was opened by the priest during Mass. In an inexplicable way, it brought me a warmth and a comfort that I couldnt articulate.

When I was fourteen, we moved to a new home in Chanhassen, about fifteen miles further west. Though I was still intrigued by the mysterious holiness of the Church, a move to a new parish left me less inspired than I had been as a boy. I lost contact with Fr. Dudley and most of my friends from Bloomington. Instead, my attention began to turn toward typical teenage concerns: girls, motorcycles, and sports.

I was an odd combination of athlete, intense reader, and comedian. I discovered that I was a fast runner after an incident in my Bloomington neighborhood. I came across several boys from my school attacking a neighbor girl on her way home. They were trying to pull her tights off, much to their amusement. I was enraged that they would pick on her, so I pulled them off her and shouted at her to run. She didand they turned their collective urge to beat someone up on me. In junior high, I was smaller than most, and after that incident I became the target of that gangs revenge. Trying to outwit or outrun those boys became a daily experience. To get home I had to cross a small bridge over a creek secluded by trees. If I didnt get over the bridge before they reached it, they would beat me up. I was powerless against them. When they caught me, I would roll up in a ball and let them kick me and call me names until they tired of it.

In my mad dash to get home every day, I discovered that I enjoyed running. So I joined the track team, and competed throughout junior high and high school. I ran sprints and cross-country, and I won most of my events.

One of my great passions was reading. When I was in the sixth grade, my teacher, Mr. Knight, got me hooked on books. He gave a copy of Robinson Crusoe, and this launched me into a lifetime of voracious reading. At first, my dad would buy me any books I wanted, but after I devoured them in a matter of days he decided he would only pay half. I would mow lawns in the summer and shovel driveways in the winter to earn money to buy more books. One book I read over and over was My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George. It was about a boy who went to the Catskill Mountains and lived in a tree. The hero of the story would go into the city to get books and then return to his tree to read and think in peace. Influenced by this book, I used to take a backpack with books, a package of beef jerky, and a rotisserie chicken from the nearby convenience store out into a forested park where I would rough it until dinnertime. Books drew me into worlds beyond my own. My idea of a good time was inviting someone to spend the night in order to sit up late and read. I couldnt figure out why they didnt like this idea.

My love of books and for words ultimately led to an interest in journalism and broadcasting. I used to beg my dad to take me to radio stations so I could watch the DJs. I would go to the state fair and sit for hours outside the broadcast booths. As I looked toward college, I realized that this was the route I wanted to take. But I had a few insecurities to overcome first.