I Don't Have to Be My Own Pope

Swimming the Tiber, Part 4

Prayer in time of drought, by Grigoriy Myasoyedov (1834-1911) #

I promise I haven’t left this series out to dry. In fact, part of the reason I haven’t added to it in months is because I want to treat it seriously, with the respect I believe it deserves. Not a week goes by that I don’t outline in my head what I want to say in my next installment here.

…Which is why I need to let go of the idea that each installment must be a beautifully crafted treatise and logical play-by-play of all my thoughts tied up in a pretty apologetic ribbon. I’ve said so numerous times in each one I’ve written so far, but I still seem to believe this thing really has to be a tightly buttoned ship before I set sail (apologies for the mixed metaphors here, but this is what I mean —I'm just gonna let them slide. ...Look at me: growth!)

This is part of a series:

• Part 1: Lex Orandi, Lex Credendi, Lex Vivendi: Swimming the Tiber

• Part 2: Says Who?

• Part 3: Be Our Defense Against the Wickedness

From here on out, I hope to write more in this column with a bit more stream-of-consciousness freedom, trusting that you, the reader, are reading this because you're willing to come along for the ride, as bumpy as it may be. Here we go.

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I admittedly felt somewhat suffocated when I first became Catholic. It was in the middle of the pandemic, so we were already bereft of regular Sunday church attendance (which, deep down, I secretly appreciated because I longed for a break from ‘it all’ [gestures broadly at Christian culture]). We were in-between churches, as is often the case with Protestants—we loved the people at our Anglican church but we never quite felt at home there, and it was getting harder by the week to get the kids in the car on time without feeling like a hypocrite who required her children to participate while wondering why I myself needed to participate. The short-term break from ‘it all’ was a welcome relief.

I had already been nerdily deep-diving on all things Catholic by this time: mainlining YouTube channels, podcasts, books, and social media accounts, searching Google with any question I could think of, from “Why do Catholics make such a big deal about Mary?” to “Why do Catholics have more books in their Bibles?” When the pandemic hit, and we as a family were suddenly forced to attend ‘virch’ (our word for virtual church), it almost felt like God had given us a permission slip to truly look into this Catholic thing as the central path in our spiritual journey, and not just as a side quest disguised as a hobby.

I asked Kyle, my husband, if he was interested in joining me on all my Catholic theology deep dives, and he answered, without hesitation, “YES—let's do it.” He was also questioning all sorts of stuff, but his research was taking him down toward certain Eastern philosophies, like Buddhism—not really because he was questioning Christianity, looking back, but because he really did see merit in the maxim that “all truth is God’s truth.” He knew I was nerding out on Catholic stuff and was genuinely interested, but our two different personalities and skill sets meant we were working on ‘all this’ as a team (i.e., I’m a giant nerd and will happily spend weeks with my nose in books on doctrine, history, and philosophy, which Catholicism has in spades).

Back to my feeling suffocated. The pandemic hit, which meant we spent nearly a year in discernment over the idea of becoming Catholic. We started our local parish’s RCIA¹ program in September, but that lasted about five weeks; true to many well-intentioned RCIA programs, it wasn't geared toward us—Christians already solid in their faith and ready for deeper answers to the “weird Catholic stuff.” Those first long meetings were entirely focused on basic questions like, “Who is God?” and “Is God real?” Worthwhile for those who needed those topics answered, but those meetings felt like a poor use of our time and energy, considering they were scheduled to last through Easter of next year. Our questions, if they would be answered at all, wouldn't even be on the table until spring.

I’d expressed this to a new-ish internet friend of mine, Andrew Petiprin, a fellow writer and former-Anglican-priest-turned-Catholic (as well as fellow Texan). He suggested I look into the Ordinariate, a new (in the 2,000-year-old Catholic Church sense) diocese² whose cathedral was located less than 200 miles from us³, created by Pope Benedict XVI in 2009 and aimed toward Anglicans who wished to come into full communion with the Catholic Church. Skipping important details, let's just say that as soon as we discovered the existence of the Ordinariate, we knew we'd found exactly what we were looking for: fellow converts who would understand our particular path. Andrew introduced us to one of his fellow former Anglican priests,

Fr. Jonathan Mitchican

, who was now a Catholic priest within the Ordinariate. I DM'd him on Twitter, and he graciously agreed to chat with me.

We hopped on the phone, then eventually agreed to meet over Zoom. He was in Houston and was not only a high school teacher, but also a husband and father of two special-needs children—in addition to being a priest. To say he was busy is an understatement, yet he willingly agreed to meet with Kyle and me to hear our concerns about our slog in RCIA while still wanting a way to possibly discern a way into the Church. After hearing about our plight—which turns out is a very, very common one for long-standing Protestants who have genuine doctrinal questions that aren’t satisfied by their local RCIA’s ‘answers’—he suggested we create a sort-of jerry-rigged discernment program of our own, seeing as we were still mid-pandemic. Kyle and I would read the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and then Fr. Jonathan would meet with us over Zoom a couple times a month, when we could ask him any and all questions we had.

This was a massive answer to prayer and exactly what we needed (in my opinion, this is honestly how it should be for all already-Christians who are searching in good faith: read the Catechism; ask a priest questions). We could read for ourselves what the Church actually taught, directly from the source, then ask as many questions as we wanted from a priest who understood because he, too, was once Protestant. God was good and merciful, and our path was made clearer.

I’ll get to the details of our question-and-answer sessions soon enough, but it was near the end of our series of Zoom meetings when, after yet another deep-dive on a ‘weird Catholic’ topic (I don’t remember specifically which one), when I said to Fr. Jonathan, “It’s kinda wild to me that the Catholic Church has something to say about nearly everything, because it basically means the Church says a lot about the particulars about how I should live.”

“Yep,” he said. “The Church does have a lot to say about how we should live.” I was thinking about all the social issues and cultural mores Catholics are known for: abortion, not using contraception, going to confession, and the like. I’d also discovered that the Church considered it a sin to not to go church on Sundays—and not only on Sundays, but also on certain days of the year they called “holy days of obligation⁴,” which bothered my Americanized autonomous streak six ways to that Sunday. So much of my personality was wrapped up in individualism, a you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do trait that I nearly wore as a badge of honor (see: homeschooling, growing our own food, taking our kids around the world, working via the internet as a self-employed writer, living in an old small house, etc.). You’re telling me I couldn’t sleep in one Sunday and have a leisurely brunch, just because I felt like it, without then having to high-tail it to the confessional?

I really had to grapple with the idea of submitting to a tradition that wanted its tentacles in the day-to-day of how I lived my life. Our country’s entire foundation was built with the opposite mindset—freedom means getting to do what we want—and I was a byproduct of that worldview⁵, even if I didn’t want to admit it. Becoming Catholic meant submitting my will to a humble admittance that I didn’t always know what was best for me. As G.K. Chesterton said, “A Catholic is a person who has plucked up enough courage to face the incredible and inconceivable idea that something else may be wiser than he is.”

“But here's the thing,” Fr. Jonathan then said, “The Church has a say in how we live our lives not because it’s controlling, but because those ways it says we should live are how we should live. Living this way is what we’re made for.”

He was right. I knew he was right. …But I didn’t want him to be right.

He then helped me unpack my slippery-sloped misunderstanding that the Church also asks people to check in their brains, that it deprives us of creative freedom, or that it wants a bunch of cookie-cuttered automatons. Quite the opposite, actually; assenting to God-ordained authority provides the right kind of freedom, the freedom to do what we ought. Within that boundary awaits all sorts of beautiful, life-giving freedom, which is one reason there are untold various types of saints, from kings to soldiers to mystics to farmers (another topic to unpack soon).

“The Church tells people how to live because it wants us to experience actual freedom in Christ. Like a good parent, the Church guides its children into true obedience,” explained Fr. Jonathan.

“I get that,” I said, “But it still makes me feel suffocated.”

“Yep,” he laughed, “I get that. And it should. Our culture has indoctrinated us into believing true freedom is getting to do whatever we want.”

Kyle and I, as well as our three kids, all eventually entered the Church on February 6, 2021, making our final steps toward this obedience a 357-day journey of asking as many questions as we could think of and praying desperately for guidance. Our confirmation service was a beautifully small rite of passage at the Ordinariate cathedral comprised only of our family of five, Daniel and

Haley Stewart

as our confirmands, and Fr. Jonathan (thanks, pandemic)—and three-plus years later, I still remember the gist of how Fr. Jonathan ended his homily to us:

“Look around this cathedral: there's a lot of ‘stuff’ in Catholicism. There's statues, stained-glass windows, Rosary beads and all sorts of prayers, saints days and corresponding feasts, liturgies that tell us when to stand and kneel, encyclicals and Church councils, cardinals and committees, and even seven ‘extra’ books of the Bible. There’s a lot. ...But these things are all there for the sole purpose of pointing each of us to Jesus. And at the end of your life, that’s all it’s going to be: you and Jesus. On your deathbed, you’ll have to look him square in the face and say, ‘I submitted to your will and followed you.’ The Church feels like it bombards us with ‘extras,’ and in a way, it does. But every one of those things points us to the one thing that matters: Jesus himself.”

We were confirmed, then celebrated with tacos before heading back home a few hours away. And we continued to ask questions. Lots of them. We’d pore over the Catechism for the answers, use the internet for follow-up clarification, and occasionally text Fr. Jonathan for deeper insight. Soon after, Fr. Mike Schmitz released his Catechism in a Year podcast, which we slurped up like we’d found an oasis in the desert. And we continued to learn about the teachings of the Catholic Church, now as Catholic Christians. We still do.

Here’s my ultimate point: the fact that there is a Catechism means that there’s a definitive thing a Catholic can point to as to what he or she definitively believes (it’s one of the reasons I’m not Orthodox, as I briefly explained here). This Catechism explains the Church’s doctrine, definitions of terms, and dogma—and also how we should then live accordingly. Every bit of it is grounded in the Bible as its foundation, and every bit of it is clear as day.

This is why I truly believe that anyone who wonders what makes the Catholic Church distinctive should go to the source itself and read the Catechism. Don't listen to what Protestants say about what it is Catholics believe (which is what I did for the first 38-ish years of my life), but also don’t just hear from Catholics what Catholics believe. Go to the Catechism and read it for yourself.

This is what Fulton Sheen meant when he said, “There are not one hundred people in the United States who hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they wrongly perceive the Catholic Church to be.” The vast majority of beliefs from non-Catholics about what Catholicism teaches are either assumptions, hearsay, or misunderstanding: we don’t worship Mary, we don’t believe works get you into heaven, we don’t believe the Pope is sinless (all things I assumed for most of my life about Catholic doctrine).

The fact that there’s a Catechism is also why there’s such a thing as “bad Catholics.” There's no such thing as a bad Protestant, really, because there's no one set of doctrines a Protestant must assent to in order to be a Protestant. One can simply migrate to a new denomination or local church if your beliefs (or your local church’s beliefs) ever change. In 2,000-plus years, the Catholic Church hasn’t ever changed or wavered in its dogma (more later on the idea of development of doctrine). Yes, there are scores of bad Catholics, but at least we can point to why they're ‘bad.’⁶ There’s a Catechism that clearly spells out how we’re supposed to be Catholic.

And finally, the fact that there’s a Catechism points us toward arguably Jesus’ greatest desire for his followers: that we all be one. When he gave Peter the keys to the kingdom and said, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church⁷,” he didn’t say churches. He meant a singular church. And from St. Peter, and the other original apostles, the one Church was born: the Catholic (meaning ‘universal’) Church, which can only point to Jesus Christ as its founder, not any other namesake who created a new denomination. The Catechism’s existence reveals unity. There is a set of beliefs, clearly spelled out for anyone to read.

As someone plagued for years with the eternal question, “Says who?” about every single issue of Christianity, from doctrine like Sola Scriptura to cultural mores like why church services are structured the way they are, the fact that there was a definitive Catechism was a logical, inevitable nod in the Church’s favor. And the fact that there were definitive answers to the natural follow-up question, “How shall we then live?” was ultimately and admittedly a welcome relief. Even if it meant going to church every single Sunday.

As you’ve read from my first few installments, the two issues of how we worship matters and who’s in charge of all this were primacy for me.⁸ If these two issues—how we’re supposed to worship and says who—were the ingredients in the foundation upon which the rest of my conversion rested, then I suppose it’s safe to say that the existence of a Catechism I could definitively point to was the first layer of bricks sitting on that foundation.

I was never asked to be my own pope and decide for myself what was true. 2,000-plus years of wisdom said that there were others wiser than me in charge of that job. My job was merely to humbly submit and then live accordingly.

Which I did on February 6, 2021, somewhat kicking and screaming, but with mostly an overwhelming sense of relief and peace. Phew… I’m not my own pope.

Did I still have lingering questions? You betcha. Do I still have questions? Yep. We’re called to submit, but that doesn’t mean checking our brains at the door. The four Marian dogmas, the male-only (and celibate) priesthood, indulgences, confession, praying to saints, the role of the Bible’s inerrancy, and a thousand things besides? I’ll get to how those answers were made clear to me (hopefully soon). But I really can’t overstate just how important it was to understand, first and foremost, that the answers to those questions aren’t up to me in the first place.

1. If we’re made to worship in a particular way,

2. If Jesus established the first apostles as men who would then lay hands on future leaders and continue a line of apostolic succession, all the way to today,

3. And if those men, in their wisdom, were given discernment to know what’s true and how we should live accordingly—all found in the Catechism of the Catholic Church,

…then I must assent. And still ask all my questions.

More soon and very soon (fingers crossed),

- Tsh

p.s. The main helpful resources in this category for me:

• Catechism of the Catholic Church (here it is digitally)

• Fr. Mike Schmitz’s Catechism in a Year podcast

• Pope Peter: Defending the Church's Most Distinctive Doctrine in a Time of Crisis, by Joe Heschmeyer

1. Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. It’s now called the Order of Christian Initiation for Adults (OCIA).

2. Sort of. More details unpacked here, if you’re curious.

3. Where the cathedral is, there lies the ‘headquarters’ of a diocese.

4. I more or less understand this reasoning now, but I still wish they’d use a different word than “obligation.”

5. One could argue Protestantism is built entirely on that worldview.

6. This episode from Joe Heschmeyer unpacks this idea really well.

7. Matthew 16:18.

8. I know I still need to get into why we know that the answer to the question of who's in charge points to the Catholic Church as its answer (though I’ve hinted at its beginnings *cough* Peter is the rock *cough*).