on faith

First of all, I’d like to be transparent: I’m Christian-Catholic. I was born into it, and in my adulthood, I chose to stay in it.

I realized that this isn’t something I can treat like a project. I can’t even define my goal. Find God? Find the truth? Find peace? Find meaning? I don’t know for sure. I just want to eliminate falseness. I guess that’s all there is to that search, if I’m being honest.

I had so many reasons to leave the Church, and I still do, but I only needed one to stay. For some time, I wrestled with my faith like Jacob. What I eventually settled on is something I doubt I can articulate. Maybe in the future. But for now, it’s mine to hold.

My life has been a series of miracles, and I could attribute them to my own courage or talent, but I know better. They came from my lived trust in His aid and the people He placed in my path.

But I’m not here to convince you of any of it. This is about what bothers me.

I think there’s too much pride attached to religion because believing we’ve found something true can quietly become believing we’ve found the whole truth.

I was maybe 17, just hanging out in the park one weekend afternoon. Two young missionaries approached me and asked if we could talk about God. I said, sure, I’m Christian, too. It started alright, declaring how God loves every single one of us, which is something I couldn’t disagree with. Until they started reading me this verse about the heavens only opening up to a certain number—a little over a hundred thousand people to be saved, declared as though heaven is admitting only a fixed number of lucky winners. Looking back, an experienced preacher must have a good script prepared to convince me that joining their church folds me into that number. But back then, I just asked, “If God is a loving God, how could he just refuse to accept everyone who deserves it just because they didn’t make it to the number?” Would he reject millions of souls as if heaven had a limited capacity? They left me alone.

They must have thought I was just posing to be a Christian to mess with them. But that’s exactly the problem: you cannot preach Faith with the Bible alone. You have to live it. When you live openly, you meet all kinds of people—people who will stir your understanding in ways no Scripture could. You can’t find that wrapped inside the comforts of your own parishioners.

And this is exactly why Jesus kept eating with tax collectors.

“What is the good of religion without personal spiritual direction? Without Sacraments, without any means of grace except a desultory prayer now and then, at intervals, and an occasional vague sermon?” — Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain

So many religious people try to convert others by quoting holy books and Scriptures. And yes, to somebody already longing for God, that would feel like nourishing water. That could work wonders, because sometimes, a soul only needs to hear the Words to be reminded. But for a person with nothing to anchor it with, that would just sound as ordinary as a motivational poster. Hollow.

I’ve met people who could quote Scripture effortlessly, yet never paused enough to ask another person what had broken them.

There’s so much loneliness in the world that a religious belonging can help with. But we have to strip away the ego and the pretense, because the only way to connect is to be as human as possible.

If you asked what my faith looks like from the outside, it’s this: It’s getting up in the morning even if I don’t want to, and surrendering the rest of my day. It’s staying up studying for things that I’m not even sure would help me. It’s always trying despite the rejections I’ve learned to see as redirections.

It looks like gratitude for the blessings that come my way, even when I felt I’d already given too much of myself. For the friends I can call anytime I need to. For the family who would always welcome me home, even if I no longer felt I belonged there.

For the body I honor by refusing what could poison it—in food, in thought, in company. For trying to make it stronger even if it’s uncomfortable. For not letting just any man touch me without first making my heart feel safe.

For surviving the years that should have broken me but made me a little more whole instead.

Our faith is beautiful when shared. And who wouldn’t want to share the joy and comfort of having something to believe in? But it’s delicate, and should be offered with as much humanity as possible.

That’s when you get to call them, Brother. It’s not a word casually thrown around, expecting to work like a lasso. Not because you want to convert them, but because you’ve truly seen them.

Let your kindness give them a good start on their journey.

Kneel with them long enough for them to walk again on their own, bearing their own cross.

Noravank Monastery, Armenia

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