Why I Became Catholic. Part 2/4

Stephanie and I had our two sons within three years of getting married. We agreed: we would raise them in the Christian faith. But which one?

I found the Catholic Mass extraordinary—the incense, the candles, the stained glass. The altar, not a pulpit, took center stage. I respected the reverence Catholics had for Scripture and the ritualism that was not legalism.

I followed along—kneeling, praying, standing, then kneeling again. But I skipped what I didn’t understand: praying to Mary or asking for Michael’s protection. I even edited the Nicene Creed in my mind, skipping “One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church.” I had developed a formula for attending Catholic Mass without, in my view, becoming a heretic.

Most of my friends in Colorado Springs were Protestant. To maintain appearances, I asked Stephanie to occasionally attend a Protestant church. She reluctantly agreed, which irritated me.

Nearly every time we left the Protestant service, Stephanie would be in tears. I’d ask what was wrong. She’d say nothing.
“You’re being selfish,” I’d snap. “You only want to go to the Catholic church.”
Still, nothing—until one day, after pushing too hard, she finally said, “Something is missing.”

My heart began to change in small ways. It started to bother me when people said things like, “Christians and Catholics need to work together,” as if Catholics weren’t Christian.
“Who gave them the right to judge?” I wondered.

When people attacked Catholicism, I got angry. I used to stay quiet or even agree, but now I wanted to defend Stephanie and her faith. I began reading about Catholicism, watching debates, and praying before I opened the Bible: “Lord, show me what’s true, no matter where it leads.”

Over five years, Scripture came alive in a new way. I noticed things I hadn’t seen before:

• I was taught to say the “sinner’s prayer” to become a Christian. But where in the Bible did it mention this?

• I was told baptism was optional, a symbol. Scripture says it’s essential, along with repentance.

• I’d heard “sin is sin,” yet Jesus speaks of different kinds of sin.

• I was taught “Bible alone,” yet the Bible mentions both “Word and Tradition.”
  How did early Christians worship for 400 years before the Bible was canonized?

When I brought these insights to Protestant experts—many personal friends—they didn’t refute the Catholic positions. Instead, they often deflected or rephrased my questions into strawmen.

I’d say, “Scripture supports asking saints to pray for us. Look here…”
They’d say, “That’s necromancy—praying to the dead.”
“No—it’s not. Those in heaven aren’t dead.”
“Well, Old Testament kings prayed to the dead for forbidden knowledge...”
“That’s not what Catholics are doing. They're asking for intercession, not divination.”
“I’ll need to look into Catholic teaching to properly answer your question,” they'd reply.
“No–no. I’m not asking about official Catholic teaching,” I’d say. “I’m asking what the Bible says. If I ask a friend on earth to pray for me, why not ask a friend in heaven?”

“That’s an interesting thought,” they’d say, “Let’s continue this talk another time.”

It always went like that. Even now, in debates between Catholic and Protestant apologists, I see the same pattern:

• Protestant: “Why do Catholics think they can earn heaven with good works?”

• Catholic: “We don’t. Good works flow from real faith. We’re saved by grace through faith.”

• Protestant: “But Christ’s sacrifice was enough—faith alone saves us.”

• Catholic: “We agree. But did you know Martin Luther added the word alone to the Bible? And James says faith without works is dead.”

• Protestant: “Well, as long as we worship the same God, it doesn’t really matter.”

But it did matter to me.
“You started this,” I thought. “You can’t just walk away now.”

Unless you've had your entire worldview challenged, it's hard to understand the cost of change. Even when every answer pointed me to the Catholic Church, it took me ten years to convert.

With my new understanding of Scripture, I finally said, “Okay, God. If Catholicism is true, and Mass is the best thing for my family, I’ll go.” And I did.

I stopped attending Protestant churches and went with Stephanie and our sons to Mass every Sunday. I felt close to God, connected to the worshippers. I hoped this would fill the spiritual gap I’d begun to feel—but it didn’t.

“Why now, Lord?” I’d been content in Protestant churches for decades. Why did I suddenly feel something was missing? And why was this calling not being fulfilled in the Catholic church, either?

In Protestantism, communion is symbolic. In Catholicism, it’s the real presence of Christ.
At first, that idea felt foreign—carnal. “Surely, Christ was being metaphorical,” I thought. Like when Jesus called himself a vine or a door.

But the more I read, the clearer it became. Jesus didn’t say, “This symbolizes my body.” He said, “This is my body.”
When questioned by his followers, He didn’t correct them. He doubled down:
“My flesh is true food. My blood is true drink. Unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood you have no life in you.”
Many disciples left—and He let them.

That struck me. Even today, when Scripture challenges us, people walk away. I didn’t. Not this time.

If God created the universe, He can transform bread and wine into His body and blood. I believed it. I wanted it—with my whole being.

I’d taken communion many times in Protestant churches. How different could it be?

This time, I stood, walked up with the congregation, and held out my hands like a throne. The priest placed the consecrated host into them.
“Amen,” I said, and turned to walk back to my seat, planning to eat it there.

Then I heard the priest shout: “Young man!”

Oh shit. Is he talking to me? I pulled up in my tracks.

“The Body of Christ must be consumed at the altar.”

Yep. Definitely talking to me.

I froze. Then my face began to burn. A thousand eyes turned toward me. It felt like a dream—no, a nightmare. I stood still, facing the exit, back to the priest. I thought about running out of that church and never coming back.