I’m not a Catholic, but watching the jubilation that greeted the election of Pope Leo XIV—the white smoke curling from the Vatican chimney, the bells pealing, the throngs rejoicing, the sheer exultation of the moment—I couldn’t help but feel that this was a radiant day for all of Western Christendom. And perhaps, in this hour of growing shadows, the West has never needed Christendom more.
That moment, with its ceremony and gravity, its sense of continuity and awe, stirred something in me. I am an Evangelical Christian, and there are real doctrinal differences between my faith and Catholicism—differences I don’t minimize. But over the years, and especially as I’ve grown older, I have developed a deep respect for the Catholic Church. In a world that is ever changing, and mostly for the worse, there is something profoundly reassuring about the steadiness of Catholic tradition. Something that does not bend with the times but remains anchored. Something that stands not only against the wind but because of it.
I attended Catholic school from kindergarten through second grade and was taught by the most wonderful and loving nuns. My maternal great-grandmother was a devout Catholic and a saint of a woman. But my greater appreciation came later in life, not from nostalgia, but from observation. In a time of perpetual upheaval, the Catholic Church has remained, however imperfectly, a rock. It is something you can measure yourself against precisely because it does not change. And only by measuring ourselves against something fixed can we see whether we are truly making progress, or simply drifting.
Tradition, I’ve come to realize, is not the enemy of faith, but its foundation. It binds us to the past, stabilizes us in the present, and extends a hand to the future. It connects us to the disciples, to our ancestors in the faith, and to the countless missionaries and martyrs who gave their lives so that we might worship in freedom today. Those stone cathedrals, those whispered prayers in basements or hotel rooms—all of it was bought dearly. It deserves reverence.
It has also taught me something about simplicity—not to be confused with shallowness. In times of distraction, I find myself returning to the basics of Christianity. For reasons I can’t fully explain, the faith is often most profound when it is most simple, and somehow the most obvious things are also the most hidden. That paradox runs deep in the spiritual life: some truths can only be seen when we are still and that stillness, that peace, is itself a blessing. Catholicism understands this. Its rituals and traditions do not obscure the truth—they clear the space for it. They cultivate silence, reverence, and attention. The difference between simple and simplistic is the difference between clarity and reductionism. The more we add, reinvent, repackage, or dilute, the further we drift from the source. But simplicity—true simplicity—brings us closer. God is not in the earthquake or the fire, but in the whisper; He is “the still, small voice.” And Catholicism, through ritual and tradition, strips away the noise and substitutes stillness so the whisper can be heard.
Ritual, when properly ordered, is not a substitute for the living presence of God—deus in nobis—but it can provide a sense of consistency and stability, especially in an age marked by constant upheaval. There’s a fine and important distinction between the ritualistic and the perfunctory, and when ritual dominates a service, it risks becoming the latter—reducing what should be transcendent and personal to something scripted and mechanical. But when woven thoughtfully into worship, it helps tie us to what has endured. It fosters a sense of solidarity across generations and cultures, uniting believers in a shared rhythm of faith. Ritual helps the ship stay on its moorings. And in turbulent times such as these, that’s not only appealing—it’s imperative.
No denomination has done more to advance the Christian causes of education, care for the poor, and the defense of the unborn than the Catholic Church. From the founding of hospitals and schools to the tireless work of pro-life advocates, the Catholic Church has carried the burdens of Christendom on its back with remarkable endurance. In many parts of the world, where the Church is the only organized institution standing between the vulnerable and despair, it is Catholic clergy and laity who remain.
At a time when many churches have been tempted to water down their doctrines to fit the spirit of the age, or to simplify their theology in order to be more marketable, the Catholic Church—again, not flawlessly, but courageously—has resisted both. And in doing so, it has preserved the moral and intellectual high ground that much of modern Christianity has forfeited. If the Church offers nothing higher, nothing deeper, than what the culture already offers, then it has nothing at all.
Scripture tells us that God hates division among the brethren. The Apostle Paul pleaded with the early Church not to fracture into sects and cliques. And while I do not believe that doctrine is negotiable, I do believe that unity in Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection—and the sufficiency of His atonement for sin—ought to be enough to bind believers across traditions into one global body. We do not need uniformity. But we desperately need unity.
Evangelicalism has much to be proud of, but it also has much to learn. It doesn’t need to adopt Catholic hierarchy or theology to benefit from the Church’s example. But it does need to recover a sense of substance—a faith that is deep, not just wide. That is built to last, not just to trend. The Catholic Church, for all its flaws, still believes in weight. And weight, in the end, is what keeps you grounded.
We are living through an age of decline—culturally, morally, spiritually. But across the centuries, through plagues, wars, persecutions, and revolutions, the Church has remained. Not because it evolved to match the moment, but because it held fast to what mattered. In an unsteady world, there is something immeasurably valuable about that kind of steadiness.
Before his election, Pope Leo XIV said, “We must be careful not to make the Church a mirror of the world; she is called to be a sign of contradiction.” And in that simple conviction, he captured something every Christian—Catholic, Evangelical, or otherwise—should be able to affirm. We are called to be in the world, but not of it. To love it, as God so loved it, but never to conform to it. To be, in the truest sense, a people set apart. That may look different in different traditions, but the essence is the same: to stand athwart the world, not in contempt, but in witness. That is our common mission. And it is one worth standing together for.
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