Knock and It Shall Be Opened Unto You
The cathedral rose massively from its city block like a monolith to tradition and ceremony. I had come to interview for a teaching position at a private Catholic choir school. That summer, I had interviewed for at least twenty teaching positions with no success. I had taken long-term substituting jobs, continued on to graduate school, and tutored in order to get my foot in the door—any door. What I couldn't fathom is how my path had led me to the imposing oak door of the cathedral.
“Are you willing to pray with the students out loud?” the new principal of the school asked me. She was a petite, dark woman with kind eyes. She and the school director leaned forward with interest.
“Yes, of course,” I answered.
“Do you pray regularly?” asked the director. Never having been asked this in any interview before, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“I am praying right now, sir.” The desperation must have shown in my eyes because I think that response got me the job.
I was very excited to finally teach and equally excited to share the gospel. The principal asked me to refrain from teaching Mormon doctrine directly to the students, but assured me that I did not have to hide that I was LDS. However, when I heard the repeated phrase, “Oh, you're the Mormon, aren't you?” I realized I was in for more than I bargained for. The Catholic community was tightly knit, perhaps even more so because it resided in a predominately Mormon area. Although I was still in the same city, I was in a new world. A Mormon had crossed the threshold into the cathedral.
Despite my feelings of separateness, I prepared for my students with enthusiasm. I decorated my small room with a “poet-tree” climbing up the walls—colored paper, and inspiring words. My final addition was a print of Del Parson's painting, “Jesus the Christ.” Little did I realize that the painting would cause controversy.
A few days into the school year, Catherine defiantly said, “My Mom says that picture is of the Mormon Jesus.”
I was taken off guard, but not too off guard to reply, “I didn't know there was a Mormon Jesus or a Catholic Jesus. I thought they were the same. But if it offends you, I am happy to take it down.”
After that, I never heard more about it. But I sensed some tension and caution toward me among the staff. Sometimes I would notice the principal listening by my classroom door. She told me later that there had been a group of parents who adamantly opposed hiring me. During particularly difficult days when I felt isolated or when I couldn't reach a student, I often turned to the image of Jesus on my wall and drew comfort from looking at His face, just as I imagine devout Catholics draw comfort from looking at the cross.
An understanding began to develop as we shared our love for the Savior. This was especially evident during morning devotional and prayer. I did not know the Catholic prayers, so on my assigned day I was allowed to pray as I had been taught. I was grateful that they would include me in school worship services. After the “Amen,” we said The Lord's Prayer together. When I gave the devotional, I sometimes quoted from the Book of Mormon as well as the Bible. I attended Mass twice a week and grew to love the peaceful reverence of the cathedral, the awe-inspiring music, and the ceremony of the service. We were steadily gaining tolerance and respect for one another's beliefs.
This respect extended to my classroom. Although I could not teach Mormon theology, there existed an open forum in my class where ideas were shared. Like a door swinging back and forth on its hinges, the students asked me directly about various LDS beliefs, and I likewise asked them about Catholic doctrine. I never anticipated such beautiful exchanges of spiritual ideas and feelings.
Once a week, I learned by listening to class discussions with the religion teacher. During one of those, Brent asked in a timid voice if animals have souls and if they go to heaven. The teacher answered no to both questions, which caused a ripple of dissent through the class. Multiple hands shot up, with each student proclaiming that his or her particular pet “has a soul.” As the students filed out, Brent lagged near my desk and said, “My dog died last night. What do you think? Does my dog have a soul and will he go to heaven?” I wanted to share with him what I believed about eternal spirits, but I did not want to contradict what had been taught nor break the trust the principal had given me.
I carefully worded my response: “I believe all living things on this earth have a spirit. I also believe that after we die we will see those we love and have the chance to be with them forever. I think dogs go to heaven. But, you have to listen to your heart and answer this question for yourself.” I don't know what Brent ended up believing, but on that day I felt a weight lift from his little shoulders.
As the year progressed, I grew to love the children as my own. They accepted me no matter what religion I was, how I dressed, or who I knew. They greeted me each day with hugs and smiles. They patiently bore the foibles of a first-year teacher with kindness. I watched them volunteer every day to make meals for the homeless and then kneel in worship on hard, wooden prayer stools. We worked through lessons together, cried together, and often laughed together. I listened as they struggled through countless liturgical musical arrangements until their voices sounded like angels. Day after day, they wove their spiritual beliefs into their daily lives. Because of them my relationship with Jesus Christ grew stronger. I entered their lives as a teacher, but ultimately I was the one who was taught.
My time at the school came to a close with a culminating experience in Italy. I traveled on a pilgrimage to Rome to hear my students sing at the Seven Hill churches in that grand city. On previous visits to the Vatican, I had walked past the colorful Swiss guards and through the giant brass doors of St. Peter’s Cathedral as though I were viewing a performance on stage. The first time I saw Michelangelo's Pietá resting in the nave I burst into tears because of its beauty, not as a representation of the Atonement. I had rubbed the worn gold toe of the statue of St. Peter for good luck, rather than seeing it as a symbol for the millions of pilgrim kisses which had worn the gold away. I had even studied the tombs of the many Popes lying beneath the cathedral as stone works of art. On each occasion I was an outsider to the sacredness, devotion, and traditions that built St. Peter’s. Because my students had opened their lives to me, this time was different.
I should have known it was different by the very door through which I entered the basilica. We were taken through an arched entrance that led down a winding passageway lined in white marble. It ended at a tiny, plain wooden door. As the guard opened it and I stepped through, I realized I had entered the basilica by a secret door hidden in a giant tomb face. I had walked past it many times before and never seen the door because the gilded carvings on its inner side blended perfectly with the mausoleum. The scene before me opened up to the enormous, golden apse where hundreds of people were seated for High Mass. The guard escorted me to the front row where I could look directly into the faces of my blue-robed students standing in the choir.
I used to think sharing the gospel was as simple as the outer door to the apse. During my time at the school I discovered an intricate, complex side to that plain door. Stepping through the doorway, I found a surprising sense of unity and an unexpected view of holiness. As I sat in that marvelous building and heard my students sing praises to God, feelings of awe and gratitude rose within me. Like the slanted Roman light shining through the basilica’s soaring stained glass window, I was transformed.
When not reading or beading, Melonie tries to catch the unexpected whiff of lilac in the air. She is married to Col. James Uhl of the U.S. Army. They have four beautiful children who all still believe in the tooth fairy.
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