I’ve hesitated to post this, not just because it’s rather personal, but also because it smacks a little of theology. I have neither the credentials nor the audacity to write anything remotely theological, but recent tragic events in the lives of a couple of friends have brought it to mind, and it has lingered there. Perhaps it should be written.

Years ago, I had occasion to seriously consider what ecumenism means, to get a personal understanding of it, not just a theological definition. My mother was a Baptist, and I knew that she was more authentically Christian than I am. When she died, knowing that she didn’t believe in Purgatory, I asked my priest if I should pray for her. He responded: “Well, what are you thinking? That Purgatory is only for Catholics?” Good point. My lack of personal understanding caused me to ask a dumb question.

I had to think about it. How do I perceive non-Catholic Christians? How do I perceive non-Christians? (Frankly, the most morally superior persons I’ve known personally were Jews.) Yet I must be clear that I do believe in “one, holy, Catholic, and apostolic Church,” established by Christ himself: the Roman Catholic Church.

I should also make it clear that I have no reason to believe that what I “saw” was of divine origin. Perhaps it might be called an intellectual vision—which would make sense because I was seeking understanding. I will say that it arrived to my imagination so instantaneously that it seemed more like a memory than something new, as though it had been there all the time. And it arrived all at once, not in bits or pieces; nor has any part of it ever changed. The important point, however, is that I discovered that any ecumenical question I could ask is answerable by recalling the “vision”.

I’ll try to describe what I saw. It was actually childish: space, the cosmos, an infinite darkness just like we see on Star Trek. And one great field of light in that universe, kind of like the way a galaxy is depicted in grade-school textbooks. There was one pathway leading to the light and disappearing into it, made of a long series of Roman arches. The arches had only one direction: the light. That’s it. It was very simple, but since then, the most complex question about ecumenism, about the place of the Church in the world (and vice-versa) has been instantly answerable by recalling that image.

Some examples of questions: Can you get to the light without following the path of arches? Yes. But there is a risk—a universe full of distractions. If you can see the light, can you also see the pathway of arches? Yes. It’s illuminated (and the source of the illumination is the light itself—many answered questions there.) Then, if you can see the pathway, why would anyone attempt to reach the light without following it? Several reasons: an anti-Catholicism (perhaps inherited), an irresistible preference for perceived personal freedom, a belief that you have a better or shorter way, etc. If you leave the pathway, can you return to it—or do you have to seek its beginning? You can leave and return at any point, or enter for the first time at any point, because the pathway is made of arches; it’s not an enclosed tunnel. But if you leave it, there is an obvious risk of getting lost, because there’s no other pathway given. The image also gives an understanding of the terror that “lost” would really mean, and how easily it could happen.

In short, I’ve never had an ecumenical question that couldn’t be answered by the image. And the more I contemplated it, the more answers it provided, even to questions I didn’t ask.

So—is my mother in heaven with Christ? Oh, yes. She was so in love with him she even talked to him in her sleep. She was not in the pathway, but her focus on the light was both strong and constant; it was never distracted for long, and then she would just shrug at the distraction and return to the light. When I tried to pray for her in Purgatory as the priest advised, I experienced a certainty that it wasn’t necessary, along with affectionate approval of the attempt.