A FEW WEEKS AGO, Robert Michaels penned a column for The Herald in which he explained why he is a Protestant rather than a Catholic. He repeated some misconceptions about the Church that are common in Protestant critiques, such as the surpassingly strange idea that Catholics are not Christians; but because I’m no theologian, I thought that rather than address his critiques point by point I could better use this space to discuss my own journey with the Church — and perhaps address Mr. Michaels’s misunderstandings in a more personal way.

Some of my earliest and fondest memories are centered on the Church. I remember going to Easter Mass at St. Joseph the Worker parish in Berkeley in the 1960s, my family and I dressed in our Sunday best, the nave decorated out in joyful liturgical colors. I remember the priest sprinkling holy water on the congregation, and crossing myself when I felt the drops on my face. I remember stained-glass windows throwing multicolored beams of sunlight through a wafting smoke of incense, and the organ music swelling as we went out into the world to celebrate the resurrection of Our Lord.

There is a quote from Robert Frost that captures something of the character of my journey in Catholicism: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

I have spent a lot of my life trying to walk away from the Church, only to feel, time and time again, its gentle, persistent tug pulling me back.

I remember passing by St. Dominic’s here in town on a Sunday morning sometime in my late thirties, after having spent most of that decade of my life away from the Church. From inside I heard the Sanctus being prayed, and suddenly I felt an overwhelming emotion that I can only describe as homesickness:

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus
Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Pleni sunt cæli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis.
Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Hosanna in excelsis.

In English:

Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts.
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest.
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

It reminded me of those long-ago Easter masses, and more: it reminded me that in the Church I had a community that not only had much to offer me, but that also needed what I had to offer it.

I actually flirted with the idea of crossing over to the Protestant denominations when I was a younger man, but there would be so much I’d miss — the ancient history present in every Catholic Mass, and especially the awareness of the communion of saints that has been a big help in my own journey.

I have a particular attachment to St. Therese of Lisieux, who a Carmelite friend of mine describes as “my buddy.” Therese, called The Little Flower, was a Carmelite nun who lived in Normandy, France at the end of the 19th century. She died of tuberculosis at the tender age of 24, and followed what she called “the Little Way” to holiness:

“I understood that every flower created by Him is beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of the daisy. I understood that if all the lowly flowers wished to be roses, nature would no longer be enameled with lovely hues. And so it is in the world of souls, Our Lord’s living garden.

“… If a little flower could speak, it seems to me that it would tell us quite simply all that God has done for it, without hiding any of its gifts. It would not, under the pretext of humility, say that it was not pretty, or that it had not a sweet scent, that the sun had withered its petals, or the storm bruised its stem, if it knew that such were not the case.”

I began reading St. Therese’s spiritual autobiography, “The Story of a Soul,” about 15 years ago, and soon after opening her book I found myself in tears — not of sadness but of joy. Every page of the book shines with her love of God, and her every act was done out of love for her beloved Jesus.

She wrote of a fellow nun in her convent who treated Therese with something approaching disrespect, and in response Therese — taking seriously the command to “love your enemies” — went out of her way to be as kind and attentive as possible to that particular sister. Eventually, the sister was so moved by Therese’s compassion that she approached Therese in tears and apologized to her.

Therese’s way was all about love:

“I know of one means only by which to attain perfection: LOVE. Let us love, since our heart is made for nothing else. Sometimes I seek another word to express Love, but in this land of exile the word which begins and ends (St. Augustine) is quite incapable of rendering the vibrations of the soul; we must then adhere to this simple and only word: TO LOVE.

“But on whom shall our poor heart lavish its love? Who shall be found that is great enough to be the recipient of its treasures? Will a human being know how to comprehend them, and above all will he be able to repay? There exists but one Being capable of comprehending love; it is Jesus; He alone can give us back infinitely more than we shall ever give to him.”

Mother Teresa, who took her religious name from St. Therese, liked to say that the path to sainthood did not require doing great things; rather, one could walk the path by “doing small things with great love.”

I am — trust me on this — an ordinary sinner, but I like to think I’m at least on the path, and when (please God …) I get to Heaven, it will be due in no small part to the prayers of a Little Nun who preceded me there.

Matt Talbot is a writer and poet, as well as an old Benicia hand. He works for a tech start-up in San Francisco.