I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll keep saying it: being Catholic will always be an experience in my family. That’s not just because of theology—it’s because of my story.
I was raised in a traditional Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) church. My maternal grandfather was an assistant pastor at a small Pentecostal/holiness congregation, so my mom grew up in a deeply charismatic environment. Church was non-negotiable. If the doors were open, they were there. My dad’s upbringing was different—his father was a moonshiner, and while they went to church occasionally, it wasn’t regular or structured.
In between those two worlds—Pentecostal intensity and Baptist formality—I was raised. But what my parents gave me, more than any creed or custom, was a gift that I now realize was extraordinary: freedom. Not just the freedom to choose my own hobbies or pick out my clothes. It was the sacred kind of freedom—the kind that allows a child to ask hard questions, explore unfamiliar paths, and wrestle with big ideas.
My parents didn’t fear my curiosity. They didn’t silence my searching. Instead, they gave me room to explore other faiths, to think big thoughts, and—even if inadvertently—to begin walking the path that would eventually lead me to Catholicism.
They never allowed me to call people names just because they didn’t agree with me. They made space for discussion, for disagreement, and for discovery. In short, they allowed me to become who I am today.
That kind of upbringing didn’t always go over well with our SBC church. I was a quiet, nerdy sixth grader who preferred books over Carowinds or ski trips. That made me different. On a mission trip, I was left behind at a gas station that was later robbed. The high schoolers made sure their siblings had rides home—but I was left with no say in the matter. Other parents claimed I had volunteered to stay. I hadn’t.
On another trip, my clothes were thrown outside in the rain, and toothpaste was smeared in my hair while I slept.
Eventually, my family decided we had to leave. Why would we stay in a church where the child being bullied was treated like the problem?
That decision caused tension within our extended family. My grandparents—devout and well-meaning—believed I needed a stricter religious environment. I was carted off to various churches, often without being asked. Around age 16, I met a young woman whose parents ran a bakery and pastored a small Baptist church. I attended for about a year. Because I was homeschooled, I was “required” to read about world religions—specifically why they were wrong.
Still, I remained curious. At 17, I began exploring Judaism. A concerned aunt took me to dinner, hoping to talk me out of it. The evening was overwhelming. I told my mom, “Please don’t ever let that happen again.” Later in college, I joined a Messianic Jewish congregation. I’m still friends with that rabbi and his family. But I knew that wasn’t where I belonged.
After earning my bachelor’s degree, I developed friendships with Holocaust survivors and began attending the local Conservative Synagogue. The community welcomed me. When I graduated with both my bachelor’s and my master’s, they celebrated with me. It wasn’t just tolerance—it was belonging. My family was uneasy, but they softened when I explained that I was a journalist with a focus on religion.
Then I met someone I thought would be a lifelong friend, and I began attending her megachurch. When our friendship ended, she encouraged others to cut ties with me, and many did. I was eventually asked to leave the church—not because of theology, but because her husband was in the worship band, and it was easier to let go of the Sunday school teacher than the guitarist.
I left quietly, with a vow: I will never attend church again. I had been hurt too deeply.
Then one day, I went to a baby shower. A relative of the dad-to-be invited me to her small United Methodist Church. I said yes, intending to go just once. But I found something there—peace, community, a woman pastor who became a mentor and a friend. When I told her my story, she asked me, “Rachel, with everything that’s happened to you, why are you still a Christian?” It was a question I’d asked myself many times.
Things changed again when our church voted to disaffiliate from the United Methodist Church. The sermons began focusing on division. When it came time to vote, I abstained. I couldn’t cast a vote that would leave my LGBTQIA+ friends without a pew to sit in—or a church that would tell them the truth about sin with compassion. When the congregation voted to split, my friends stopped coming. “We don’t feel welcome anymore,” they said.
I couldn’t stay in a church where my friends weren’t even welcome to sit down.
Around this time, I was sitting in my dentist’s chair, and he said, “Rachel, you need to come with me to Mass. I want you to meet my priest—you’ll love him.” It wasn’t the first time I’d been invited. I had visited his church several times over the years. His family had become “my tribe.” They even tease that I’m an honorary member of the family.
So one Sunday, I said yes. I went. My dentist greeted me warmly: “I was about to text you, but you said you’d be here.” The next Sunday, I came back. He laughed, “What are you doing here?” And I told him, “You’re right—I like your priest.”
Within a month, I knew. I had found my place.
Now, I’m a Parishioner at a Catholic Congregation. And when I post about it online, some of my family members comment, “Read your Bible,” or something similar. But I don’t argue back. I don’t need to.
I don’t have many close friends. I’m a loner. A nerd. I hold a Master’s in Biblical Studies. I write a blog on Catholic theology—for Protestants, by a Protestant—and it’s been endorsed by my local diocese. I still get lonely. But when I’m at church, I feel like I belong. I can’t explain it any better than that.
And here’s what I’ve come to realize: My parents, whether they knew it or not, taught me how to be Catholic. Not in the narrow sense, not by doctrine or sacraments or the Catechism—but in the broader, fuller meaning of the word: Catholic as universal, as seeking, as rooted in tradition yet open to grace. They didn’t shove me into a box. They gave me the freedom to search, and in doing so, they laid the very foundation for the faith I now call home.
I didn’t come to the Church because someone told me I had to. I came because someone invited me. And when I arrived, I recognized it—not because it looked like home, but because I had already been prepared to find it.
So thank you, Mom and Dad. Thank you for the freedom, for the questions, for the grace, and for the space. You may not have raised me Catholic, but in all the ways that truly matter, you taught me how to become one.
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