When I was in college and registered for a philosophy course called “Faith and Doubt,” my father did not hesitate to respond: “What doubt?”
My parents taught at a Catholic high school in Queens, N.Y., for over 50 years. In their minds, there was never any time or room for doubt. Their faith was a clear-cut, clean-lined proposition.
I, and many of my generation, however, landed in a grayer zone — where conviction and dogma collide and Catholic doctrine at times evoked more concern than comfort. Doubt and debate had defined my experience of the faith — leaving me to wonder at times what kind of Catholic I can be with all my questions.
Then along came Francis.
Pope Francis demonstrated that he would be doing things differently from his first moments as pope. Before offering the traditional papal blessing to the crowd in St. Peter’s Square, he asked the people first to bless him. In one swift move he introduced a tone of humility and revolution that the papacy and the church had never seen. And in doing so, he gave me and millions reason to feel hopeful for the future of the church — or at least for our place in it.
Unlike many Catholics who have walked away frustrated and fed up, I chose to remain beneath the, at times, sheltering umbrella of the church — simultaneously defending and doubting all that it stands for.
This balancing act can be exhausting.
Yet Francis made it less so — seeming, at the very least, to understand and to empathize.
“Don’t worry, I am twice a month in crisis,” he told a nun who confided she had been experiencing a crisis of faith in the church, but experienced a revival since his election. This glimmer of papal doubt gave me hope and reaffirmed my faith.
So in the church, for better or worse, I remain — and on paper it would seem I am all in. I met and married a Catholic. I had four children baptized in the church. And as my father succumbed to dementia, I was grateful for the solace that he, my mother, we all found in the ritual of mass and the prayers that never slipped away.
When my children were young, I taught religious education at Resurrection. My Catholicism, however, felt a world away from the lessons I received at Our Lady Queen of Martyrs grammar school where Sister Barbara ruled with an iron fist and a heavy hand.
When I taught, we adhered more to the golden rule than the wooden ruler. Semantics aside, at the heart of every lesson I tried to emphasize forgiveness, gratitude, kindness, and love. And while I see the value in mooring children to a faith and an institution that feeds, clothes, and houses more than any other in the world — and that sustains and comforts in the worst of times — I wrestled with the knowledge that Mathew, my “go to” in the front row, might one day be locked out of the class should he grow up to love a man instead of a woman. And what would happen if I aspired to move beyond my role as a second-grade religion teacher and felt called to be, oh say, a priest?
But when Francis said things like: “Who am I to judge?” he helped to mitigate the struggle.
When he ministered and advocated for the marginalized — the homeless, the disabled, and the incarcerated — when he softened the church’s stance on homosexuality and contraception and recognized the role women have and should play as Church leaders, when he spotlighted the importance of environmental stewardship and social justice, when he addressed the sexual abuse crisis and promoted interreligious dialogue, he threw open the Holy Door and stained glass windows of St. Peter’s, welcoming all.
The night he was ordained, Francis toasted the cardinals who had elected him. With a wink and perhaps a nod to those beyond the Vatican walls he said: “May God forgive you for what you have done.”
Since that day, with every word and gesture the pope reminded the cardinals and all within earshot — and a twitter feed — including the stalwarts and the discontented, that the Catholic Church is composed of much more than clerics and cardinals, marble and stone. It has people, men and women, with hearts and souls and minds. And he knew that many hearts are heavy, and many souls tarnished — and that minds do not always agree.
Francis knew that his people and their lives can be messy. We come with problems and crises, questions and doubt. Yet he refused to remain on the altar and turn his back on our mess. Instead, he visited and engaged. He encouraged discussion and debate. Pope Francis said he “wants things messy and stirred up in the congregation.”
For me and all my doubt, there has never been any clearer path to faith.
