Well, That Didn’t Work

One Baptist's First Visit to a Catholic Church Didn’t Go at All as I Had Planned

PEOPLE SAY that if you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plan. You would’ve laughed too if you had seen the way I unwittingly proved that saying true. Back in the early 1990s, I received a handwritten letter from a man named Bob, a Southern Baptist living in Chicago.

He’d heard a radio interview I’d done and disagreed so strongly with my comments about the Catholic Church that he felt compelled to write and set me straight. His letter arrived filled with page after page of biblical objections to Catholic teaching, everything from Mary and the pope to the Eucharist, purgatory, salvation, and more. You name it.

Despite his anti-Catholic convictions, Bob wrote with courtesy and good humor. That tone opened the door to a steady correspondence. Months later, I traveled to Chicago for a series of parish lectures, and Bob surprised me by inviting me to his home.

I arrived around 10:00 a.m., and after what felt like a gallon of coffee, we opened our Bibles and tackled each other’s claims with enthusiasm. For hours the conversation surged back and forth. Bob began the morning with a firm belief that the Catholic Church was, in his words, “wrong-about-everything.” But as the day wore on, his certainty softened. I began to notice small signs of openness — a shift here, a reflective pause there. I probably walked in with more confidence than was warranted that morning in assuming I could decisively rebut all of Bob’s arguments, but I couldn’t miss the fact that the needle on his internal “anti-Catholic meter” did seem to be creeping steadily out of the red zone where it had been when we started.

After Bob and I had gone back and forth over his biblical challenges for a solid hour or more, he mentioned that the senior pastor of his church planned to stop by and get in on the action, so to speak. When the pastor arrived, the three of us launched into a lively exchange that went on for more than an hour. He was friendly, and he was every bit as firm in his negative views about Catholic teaching as Bob was. None of that surprised me. Even so, the whole conversation stayed relaxed. We kept things loose, we kept things light. I was more impressed with my arguments than either of them seemed to be, but at least we all enjoyed ourselves.

Eventually the minister had to leave to conduct a funeral. We shook hands, and on his way out he invited me to visit his church on any Sunday if I ever found myself back in that Chicago neighborhood again. I found myself genuinely liking him.

What struck me afterward was Bob’s reaction once the pastor was gone. He grew quieter and a bit more thoughtful. I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d expected the pastor to flatten my defenses on Catholic teaching and was surprised when that didn’t happen. Maybe he even regretted asking him to come. I can’t say for sure, but I had the clear sense that something in Bob had shifted. His resistance seemed to relax, and for the first time that day, I thought maybe he was thawing a bit in his opposition to the Catholic Church.

That change emboldened me. As our time together drew to a close, I decided to try something bold enough to nudge him further. I asked whether he’d accompany me to a nearby Catholic parish to see some beautiful life-sized icons. I’d visited the church earlier that morning to pray before the Blessed Sacrament, and I hoped that if I could get Bob inside that building, the sacred art depicting a few of the Bible passages we’d discussed — and far more importantly, the grace of Christ present in the tabernacle — might complete, like invisible spiritual radiation, the work my arguments had begun. I was far more confident in that theory than I should’ve been.

To my happy surprise, Bob agreed.

On the drive over, he confided that as a Southern Baptist he’d never once stepped inside a Catholic church. His denomination had long emphasized “separation” from those they considered outside the Christian fold, and he’d grown up hearing that Catholics were exactly that. He added that Southern Baptists avoid dancing, smoking, drinking, gambling, and card-playing — activities they associate with Catholics, he said with a wry half-smile.

When we arrived at the parish, every single church door was locked. That didn’t deter me. We walked around the building and spotted a man entering the parish hall through a set of double doors. Surely, I thought, he’d allow us inside. I followed him eagerly, practically buoyed by the expectation that everything was lining up perfectly for Bob’s dramatic conversion. In hindsight, that was probably my second warning sign.

What happened next is frozen in my memory like a photograph.

“I hope you like what we’re going to see inside, Bob,” I said, optimistic to the core, as I opened the doors.

Neither of us was prepared for what hit us.

Inside, it seemed like roughly three hundred people were packed into the parish hall, playing bingo.

A thick cloud of cigarette smoke rolled out toward us in a wave. As if scripted for maximum effect, just then, a cheerful middle-aged man waddled right past us. He was clutching four plastic cups of beer in each hand — This guy had eight beers and a very contented grin on his face. There was no way to know if all that was for him or if he was planning to share it with his tablemates.

The hall buzzed with smoking, drinking, and boisterous gambling. I mean, all those Catholics were drinking, and smoking, and gambling, and carrying on. It was if I’d thrown open the gates of hell and said, “Bob, come on in to the Catholic Church!”

This was the exact opposite of the glorious and profound conversion moment I’d imagined and hoped Bob would have. I’d never felt more mortified in my life.

One look at his face said everything. His long-held prejudices came roaring back with tidal force.

We eventually made it through the bingo palace upstairs into the church itself, looked quickly at the icons, and left. The quiet spiritual progress I’d witnessed that morning had been overwhelmed in a matter of seconds. As far as I know, Bob remained a Southern Baptist for the rest of his days — no thanks to me.

Looking back, I realized what really went wrong. I’d slipped into the belief that I could convert him. I’d convinced myself that my persuasive skills, my biblical explanations, my debating strength — all of it — could and would, if given enough time, finish the job. I sure had expected to close the sale. Boy, was I wrong about that.

Scripture teaches, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” (1 Samuel 3:9). Instead, I realized that I had slipped into the absurd attitude of, “Listen, Lord, your servant is speaking. Once I finish convincing him, then You can take over.”

That dumb approach collapsed under its own weight.

The lesson the Lord gave me that day has stayed with me ever since: you can’t convert another person by sheer force of intellect or charm. You can’t pry open the human heart. You can’t speed up grace. You certainly can’t substitute your timing for God’s.

Only Christ can convert a soul. Not clever arguments. Not impressive presentations. Not even sincere zeal from someone who means well.

What I learned was simple: step back. Trust God’s timing, not my gameplan. Plant seeds faithfully and let the Holy Spirit do the heavy lifting.

Copyright © 2025 Patrick Madrid. All rights reserved. All text, images, and other original content are the property of the author.

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