Navigating Faith

A little over a month ago, I lost my mom. I won’t lie—losing her has been the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. Some days, it feels like I’m moving through fog, trying not to collapse under the weight of it. Grief has a way of reshaping everything, including how we see our place in faith communities. Recently, my priest returned from a month-long vacation. Before he left, he asked me to tell him my confirmation date when he came back. I told him I would pray about it—and I did. I prayed really hard. But tonight, the first time I saw him since he returned, he asked again. I told him I didn’t know, because honestly, I don’t want to be confirmed. His insistence left me feeling frustrated, ashamed, and exhausted. The truth is, I was verbally attacked by members of OCIA leadership during dinner one evening. That moment has stayed with me and made me realize I don’t want to join the Catholic Church. I just want to sit in a pew and be present quietly, without anyone telling me where I bel...

 I ’ve been thinking a lot lately about Communion — the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist — and who it’s for. Most churches teach that it’s for   Christians only.   Some go further: it’s for baptized, confirmed, and in good standing Catholics only. If you’re not in the club — even if you believe in Jesus — you’re asked to stay seated. Or walk up for a blessing. Or make a spiritual communion instead. And I can’t help but ask:   Is this really what Jesus intended? Because I’ve read the Gospels. I’ve read about Jesus breaking bread with tax collectors and sinners, feeding thousands with no theological questionnaire, and saying things like: “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” —   Matthew 11:28 That doesn’t sound like a Savior who fences off grace. The Language Problem: “This Is My Body” A lot of debate about the Eucharist centers on the word “is.” Jesus said,   “This is my body.” But in the original Greek (ἐστιν) and the Aramaic J...

This morning’s daily reading from the Catholic lectionary— Jeremiah 1:4–10 —hit me hard. It’s one I’ve read before, maybe even skimmed. But today, I slowed down and took it in. Jeremiah was afraid. He thought he was too young to be used by God. Too inexperienced. Too small. And in response, God didn’t entertain the excuse. He said to him,   “Do not say, ‘I am too young.’ To whomever I send you, you shall go; whatever I command you, you shall speak. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you” (Jeremiah 1:7–8). That struck a chord in me. Later, I saw an Instagram post from a local church. In the photo, a little girl—my former friend’s daughter—was sitting in Children’s Church with her Bible and highlighter on her lap. She looked like she was studying. I don’t know if she was just following instructions or if something deeper was happening in her heart. But either way, I found myself praying for her. In that moment, I understood something: God isn't interested in how q...

I recently found myself in a conversation with someone who was shocked that I wasn’t convinced by a Marian apparition I had seen, and even more taken aback when I said I didn’t feel a personal need to take communion. “If Jesus said you have no life in you unless you eat His flesh and drink His blood,” she asked, “why would you say you have no need to obey Him?” That’s a fair question—one worth unpacking carefully. For many people of faith, especially within the Catholic and Orthodox traditions, John 6:53 is taken as a literal and non-negotiable instruction from Christ: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” John 6:53 (ESV) This verse is deeply powerful—and understandably, it shapes Eucharistic theology for millions. But how should we read it? Is Jesus giving us a literal command, or is He teaching something deeper through the art of language? Let’s look closer. Jesus and the Art of Hyperbole Jesus frequentl...

This morning after Mass, one of the OCIA teachers walked up to me and asked, “When are you going to do right?” I laughed, caught off guard—I genuinely didn’t know what she meant. She smiled and said,   “We just have to bust down those walls so you can officially become Catholic!” I replied kindly,   “Well, I am a catholic.” She responded,   “I think you mean little ‘c’ catholic.” I nodded and said,   “Yeah, but that’s what Jesus founded—a universal church. I don’t believe it was the capital ‘C’ Catholic Church. That structure came years later.” She kept pressing, and in a moment of genuine curiosity I asked, “If we’re truly apostolic, then why aren’t we Jewish?” Silence. She followed with,   “Well, you have to be Catholic to take the Eucharist.” Then I gently asked,   “Where does the Bible say that?” More silence. I added,   “Ya know, that’s just not important to me. Besides, you can’t prove Jesus was speaking literally when He spoke of the Eucharist. ...

In May of 1999, CBS aired a miniseries about Joan of Arc. I was just a teenager, but something in me knew I had to see it. The cast was impressive—Leelee Sobieski as Joan, alongside Peter O’Toole, Olympia Dukakis, Shirley MacLaine, Neil Patrick Harris, and Jacqueline Bisset. My parents weren’t too eager about it, but I recorded it on our old VCR, expecting a dramatic story about war and valor. What I encountered, though, was something far deeper. Through that film, Joan’s life awakened something within me—something holy. Yes, I knew parts were dramatized, but her courage, her steadfast faith, her willingness to walk into the fire for what she believed—those things stayed with me. Joan of Arc wasn’t just a heroine from a history book anymore. She became a companion in my own spiritual journey. Over the years, I kept returning to her story. And as life unfolded—its trials, doubts, and moments of quiet struggle—Joan’s example began to shine more clearly. She wasn’t just brave on the battl...