Why I Became Catholic. Part 3/4
As the entire church stared at me, I turned slowly on my heels, head hung low in embarrassment, walked up to the altar, and quickly shoved the wafer into my mouth. I scurried back to my pew. Why did the priest have to single me out like that? What was the big deal? Why couldn’t I receive Communion unless I was Catholic?
For our tenth wedding anniversary, Stephanie and I went to Italy. She wanted to see the Vatican and attend a papal audience. I wanted to experience Italy’s history, beauty, and of course, its food. Although I was interested in the architecture and art of the Vatican, I agreed to the papal audience mostly to appease her—I had little interest in seeing the pope.
But when Pope Francis rolled through the crowd, kissing babies and blessing people, something unexpected happened. He was arguably the most famous person in the world, yet he seemed patient, approachable—ordinary. An imperfect, sinful man, yes, but also a servant. I didn’t see a king. I saw an apostle. I saw Peter.
My last name, Sabo, is Hungarian for “Tailor.” I imagine my ancestors hemming the pants of both aristocrats and commoners. Names tell us something about a person’s role. And when a name is given by God, it signals a mission. In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus changes Simon’s name to Peter, meaning "rock," and says that on this rock He will build His church. It seemed pretty clear and simple to me—Christ was founding his earthly church on Peter, right?
But when I asked other non-Catholics about it, I was told I was misinterpreting the verse. “The rock is Peter’s faith,” they’d say, “not Peter himself.” I could accept that to an extent—surely Peter’s faith played a role—but it still felt like a stretch.
I was also told by some that Jesus used the word for “pebble” when renaming Peter, not “rock.” But a simple linguistic study shows that’s not true. In Aramaic, Jesus said “Kepha,” which means rock. In Greek, it's “Petros.” In either language, He was calling Peter a rock—not a pebble.
Again, I saw the intellectual gymnastics some of my early Christian teachers performed to avoid any interpretation that pointed to the Catholic Church.
It really is quite simple: Jesus changed Simon’s name to Peter because He was giving him a new role. Objectively, nothing else makes sense. Once I accepted that, I could also see that Peter was given authority to “bind and loose” on earth, with the assurance that God would honor those decisions in heaven. I saw no place in Scripture where the Reformers were given this same authority. Where did Luther get the right to add words to Scripture or remove books from the Bible? I still believe God used Luther to reform the Church—but not to re-create it. And I saw how Luther’s borrowed authority was passed on to his successors. Where did Calvin and Zwingli get their authority to reshape Christianity into what we now call American Christianity?
This realization deepened when I looked at the disunity across the non-Catholic churches. Tens of thousands of denominations, each forming its own rules and interpretations, splintering further whenever they couldn’t agree. Is that what Christ meant by one Church? Why would God wait 1,500 years and then say, “Actually, I meant the Church to be divided into tens of thousands of separate groups”? That doesn’t make sense. Even if the Church isn’t perfect—and no church is, because it’s run by sinners—division wasn’t the plan.
As human beings, we resist authority. I used to think of myself as a modern-day Martin Luther, a rebel within the ranks. We want to do our own thing, especially when it comes to God and certainly when that involves submitting to a human institution. But over time, I began to accept the authority of the Church—even when I didn’t fully understand or agree with all of its teachings. If something didn’t make sense to me, I had peace in knowing it wasn’t all up to me. If official Church teaching—meaning doctrine, not individual opinions—contradicted Scripture, then I’d know it was wrong. But I don’t think that will happen. Two thousand years of continuity and Christ’s promise that the Holy Spirit would guide His Church—that’s enough for me.
I remember when Pope Francis arrived at the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica and led the crowd in prayer. Tens of thousands of believers from all nations, all tongues, saying the same prayer—The Our Father—to the same God. That day in Italy, standing next to Steph, I saw the communion of saints. I saw one Church. Words can’t capture what I felt.
When we returned home, I joined the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults (RCIA), now called OCIA—the formal path to becoming Catholic. By then it felt more like a formality. I still had questions, but I knew I wanted to enter the Church. My first question was obvious: “Why do I have to be Catholic to receive the Eucharist?”
Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians explained it. Those who eat the bread and drink the cup without discerning the body bring judgment on themselves. If you’re in a state of sin, or if you don’t truly believe the bread and wine have become Christ’s body and blood—not symbolically, but actually—you risk spiritual and even physical consequences. That was a hard teaching to accept.
In my former tradition, it seemed like we focused almost exclusively on the comforting words of Jesus and ignored the hard ones—the commands, the conditions, the responsibilities. Christ’s “hard sayings” didn’t get much airtime. The teaching on the Eucharist was one of them.
Yes, Jesus is love and grace, but He is also just in His judgments.
Yes, we’re free from the Mosaic Law, but He commands us to love as He loved.
Yes, He forgives, but He also calls us to confess, to be contrite, and to strive for holiness.
Yes, He said, “Eat my flesh and drink my blood”—but He’s God, so He can mean what He says, even if it sounds strange.
Yes, He wants us to love Him—but love is shown in obedience.
Yes, He died for all—but we must still choose Him.
As RCIA wrapped up, we prepared to receive the sacraments of initiation: Reconciliation (Confession), Eucharist, and Confirmation. I had already been baptized in a former church, and since it was done with water in the Trinitarian form, the Church recognized it. One box checked. Easy. Next: my first confession. Not so easy.
I asked my RCIA instructor, “Why can’t I just confess directly to God?”
“You can—and should,” she said. “But we’re also told to confess our sins to one another.”
I didn’t like that answer.
For my first confession, I made a list of all the sins I could remember from the first 40 years of my life. It was… extensive. When I confessed, the priest didn’t even flinch but it felt strange and uncomfortable to say my darkest secrets out loud. And maybe that’s part of the power of confession: I don’t want to keep repeating sins I have to confess face-to-face. It has helped me sin less, and strengthened my resolve to “go and sin no more.”
On June 16, 2020, I was confirmed and officially entered into the Catholic Church. I received the Eucharist for the first time in a state of grace, believing fully that it was the real, resurrected body and blood of Christ.
I know it’s not all about feeling. A priest once told me the sacraments still work even if you don’t feel anything. But I felt something that day. And I can’t help but think that those who leave the Church maybe never understood what the Eucharist truly is. How could anyone walk away from such a personal, intimate gift from our Lord?
After receiving Christ’s body and blood that day, I returned to my pew and prayed. I knew, without a doubt, that the Eucharist was what I’d been missing—and what God had been calling me to receive. It is His gift. And I accepted.