I didn’t walk into RCIA (now commonly called OCIA) on a whim. I came with decades of spiritual seeking, theological study, personal sacrifice, and a firm belief in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist—something I’ve held since childhood, even while sitting in a Southern Baptist pew. I wasn’t looking for religion. I was longing for home. I believed I had found that in the Catholic Church.
But as the months passed, something unexpected happened. Instead of being drawn deeper into the mystery and richness I had long admired, I began to feel something missing—a disconnect between the beauty of Catholic theology and the way it was being presented.
In many ways, the OCIA program I experienced felt like it was built for those brand new to Christ—those unfamiliar with Scripture, uncomfortable with tradition, or uncertain if God was even real. But for someone who had lived and breathed the Bible for years, held a Master’s degree in Religion, taught others, and written extensively about the Apostles' Creed and the Nicene Creed with approval from a diocesan bishop… it felt like spiritual regression.
The Conversations That Never Happened
Week after week, I hoped for deeper discussions—on the Eucharist, the saints, the role of Mary, salvation, grace, the Mass, the Church Fathers. Instead, we spent weeks learning how to look up Bible verses, as if flipping to 1 Corinthians 11 was somehow a mystery. (Ironically, that very chapter was what had convinced me of the Real Presence years ago.)
I don’t say this with pride, but with sadness: OCIA never met me where I was. It didn’t challenge me, engage me, or invite me to go deeper. It tried to teach me how to walk when I was already running.
A Hunger for Depth
It wasn’t arrogance that made me hesitate. It was hunger. A hunger for reverence, awe, theological engagement, and spiritual growth. I longed to hear the voices of the early Church—Ignatius of Antioch, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus—not just quoted once in a workbook, but wrestled with. I wanted Eucharistic Adoration, not icebreakers. I wanted liturgical richness, not coloring sheets.
Instead, I felt like I was constantly being told to slow down, to sit back, to wait, to "just trust the process." But that process was draining me. It wasn’t feeding me. And in the end, I had to ask myself the hardest question of all: Is this truly helping me grow in Christ?
The Church Is Bigger Than the Program
Leaving OCIA didn’t mean I stopped believing in the Catholic Church. I still affirm so much of what she teaches. But I also believe in listening to God’s voice when He says, “This isn’t the right path for you right now.”
Sometimes the people administering the process don't reflect the depth and beauty of the Church herself. And that’s okay to acknowledge. There’s no shame in stepping back to breathe, pray, heal, and ask hard questions.
"Online Catholics" and the Division They Cause
There’s also a deeper, more troubling issue that drove me away from the Church—one that isn't often discussed in polite circles: the toxic presence of “online Catholics.” These individuals are constantly harassing Protestants, acting as if their job is to tear down anyone who isn’t Catholic in exactly the same way. While passionate defense of the faith is important, there’s a fine line between defending the Church and becoming a digital bully. These online “Catholics” need to spend less time attacking others and more time focusing on their own faith—taking a hard look at their personal relationship with God instead of raging against anyone who disagrees with them.
What’s worse is when they write something inflammatory, not to enlighten or invite discussion, but to “rage bait”—to provoke and cause division. It’s exhausting and damaging, not just to the Protestant community, but to those of us within the Church who are trying to build a more loving, respectful, and unified body of believers.
Converts Can Be Just as Bad
But it’s not just online Catholics causing division. Converts can often be just as bad. They come out of RCIA thinking they know everything, like some Scott Hahn books somehow make them experts on the entire history and theology of the Church. While enthusiasm for the faith is wonderful, there’s a real danger in assuming that after a few months of classes and a stack of apologetics books, they’ve got it all figured out.
I’ve seen converts, fresh out of RCIA, acting like spiritual authorities, lecturing lifelong Catholics as if they’re the ones who haven’t done their homework. Worse still, they scare away potential converts by acting as though they’ve reached the summit of theological knowledge, pushing others into a corner with their newfound “expertise” rather than inviting them to explore the richness of the faith. Being a convert doesn’t automatically make you more "right" or "wise"—it just means you’re on a different part of the journey, and that’s okay. But let’s not forget that we all have much to learn, and humility is key in any faith walk.
God Isn’t Done
Maybe I’ll return to the Catholic Church one day. Maybe I’ll find a parish or a mentor who sees where I am and walks with me—not ahead, not behind, but beside. Maybe I’ll be able to share my story to help others who feel like they’re “too deep” or “too theological” for a one-size-fits-all approach to faith formation.
But for now, I’m still on the journey—with Jesus, with Scripture, with reverence, and with an open heart.
The Catholic Church claims universality—and I believe she can live up to that. But if we want seekers to stay, we have to meet them where they are, not where we assume they should be. And if we want to build a unified, loving Church, we have to stop letting the loudest voices online dictate the narrative and start showing the world the depth and beauty of a faith that welcomes, challenges, and loves—unconditionally.
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