Why I Became Catholic. Part 1/4

I grew up in the eighties and nineties in a suburb of Chicago called Mundelein. It’s a suburb like a million others–except for its large Catholic seminary, Mundelein Seminary, and its sizable Catholic population. My dad was a Baptist pastor and seminary professor, and I often wondered: if he had known just how Catholic Mundelein was, would he have moved us there?

Most of my friends in Mundelein were either Mexican, Irish, or Italian–and yes, the stereotypes are true: if they practiced a faith, it was almost always Catholic.

I was taught all about Catholicism–or so I thought. Catholics worship statues and saints. Catholics believe you have to do good works to get to heaven. Catholics deify Mary and the Pope. I often wondered if my Catholic friends were even Christian. I’d argue with them about the “errors” of their religion. I always thought that, when it came to Christianity, I was the smartest kid in the room. I cringe now at the memories of twelve-year-old Ben “educating” his friends on sola scriptura and sola fide.

Even though my friends couldn’t answer my questions, I saw something in them. They had good families with loving parents. They went to church every Sunday. They prayed together. They loved God. I held on to my negative opinions about Catholicism, but I loved the Catholics I knew. I just assumed they’d been misled–deceived by their teachers.

In 1999, during my freshman year at the University of Iowa, my grandfather died. He was the person I loved most in this world. I had never felt such sorrow. I never had the courage–or the chance–to tell him how much I loved him. But I knew, deep in my heart and gut, that he could hear me in heaven, that he was praying for me, thinking of me, watching over me. But my Protestant friends, family, and mentors insisted this was impossible. “God can’t allow sin into heaven,” they said. “For your grandfather to know what’s happening on earth, he’d have to be exposed to sin–and that can’t happen.”

I wrestled with this “veil between heaven and earth” theory for a while, but eventually, it hit me like a hammer: that’s a bunch of bullshit. Our God–the Maker of heaven and earth–can’t figure out a way for those in heaven to pray for us? He’s bound by some loophole about sin entering heaven? What are the saints doing up there if not glorifying God by praying for us? What a crock of shit, I thought. If my grandfather is in heaven, in the presence of God, made righteous by God, how could his prayers not be heard? How could they not be powerful? Who’s more righteous–someone in heaven with God or a sinner here on earth?

Without realizing it, this was my first real step toward the Catholic Church.

When I moved to Colorado in 2006, I maintained my Protestant faith–but it had shifted from Baptist to non-denominational. I didn’t want a label; I just wanted to love God. (I realize now that “non-denominational” is a label too–it’s its own denomination.) I started attending one of the big megachurches in town. The pastor seemed like a normal, humble guy. His sermons were inspiring. I’d leave church feeling motivated, uplifted. The worship team was amazing, and although the smoke machines and multicolored lights scanning the crowd–er, congregation–aren’t my thing anymore, I enjoyed it back then.

But after a few years, the very things that first attracted me to that church started to wear thin. It began to feel more like a business than a place of worship. The goal seemed to be filling pews–not glorifying God. That’s when I began “church shopping,” attending all the latest, greatest churches with the most charismatic pastors, searching for the right fit.

I prayed a lot during that time. Reflected a lot. But I never felt like I got any answers–only that something was missing. It was a feeling. A quiet gnawing in my heart.

Even though I found churches with wonderful people and inspiring pastors–churches that temporarily filled that void–I left the Protestant church in 2008. I still attended a local church so I didn’t have to lie when people asked where I went, but by then, I had built my own little private church of one. Just me and God. And that was enough… for a time.

Then I met Stephanie. She was beautiful, funny, and she liked to do “guy things” like hunting and fishing. She checked all the boxes–but… she was Catholic.

From early on, I knew I wanted to marry her. Even though I wasn’t practicing my faith very seriously, I thought, One of these days she’ll realize the errors of the Catholic Church. I’ll guide her–I’ll be the light that shows her the way. It’s all part of God’s plan for her salvation.

Before I proposed, I went to the Protestant friends I trusted most. “Are Catholics Christian?” I asked. Most responses were lukewarm: “Some of them might be Christian, Ben. Just pray that Stephanie sees the errors of the Catholic Church. She’ll come around.” Some responses were outright hostile: “It’s a cult, Ben. Catholics aren’t Christians. If you marry that girl, you two won’t be equally yoked in Christ.”

When I brought these concerns to Stephanie, she never got defensive. She didn’t judge those who judged her. She calmly answered my questions as best as she could and quietly shrugged off my accusations that she might not even be a Christian. That humble yet confident faith amazed me. It attracted me to her even more.

Still, I wrestled with the idea of marrying a Catholic. I finally decided to talk to my brother-in-law, Charlie. He attended one of the major Protestant churches in town, but I’d always known him to be open-minded and a straight shooter. After laying out all my concerns, Charlie looked at me and said plainly, “Catholics are Christians, dumbass. Why are you asking Protestants what Catholics believe anyway?”

I laughed at his bluntness–but he had a point.

While we were dating, Stephanie was always reading the saints–Aquinas, Augustine, Polycarp. I had read some of them too. Many of my Protestant friends admired them. And they were all Catholic. Even J.R.R. Tolkien (every nerdy Protestant’s hero) was Catholic. I began to think: If these brilliant people were Catholic, maybe they weren’t duped. Maybe I’ve been misinformed. Maybe I’m missing something.

Stephanie’s humble yet steadfast faith, Charlie’s no-nonsense reasoning, and the legacy of 2,000 years of saints gave me peace about her faith.

We were married in 2009–even though I was sure I’d never become Catholic.