Not Just Spiritual: My Journey from Personal Religion to the Catholic Faith

People living in deep sin are not always the ones who are most in need of our help, but rather the people who think they’re doing well, when in actuality the opposite is true.

Before my conversion to Catholicism, I was that person—outwardly functioning but spiritually sick. I considered myself to be a “good person.” I opened doors for strangers, volunteered, gave blood, recycled bottles and cans, and limited my consumption of plastic goods. I once drove all over town in the middle of the night looking for an emergency-care veterinarian because a stray cat was dying on my front porch and I didn’t want her to suffer. That, I figured, certainly tipped the karmic scales in my favor.

I never did anything especially depraved, not by today’s standards. No murders or drunk-driving accidents. I wasn’t mean to people, and I enjoyed a nice relationship with my family. My vices were small and harmless. Coworkers laughed at my sneaking in late and slipping out of work early without the boss knowing, friends giggled at my retelling of casual sexual escapades, and boyfriends certainly didn’t complain about the use of pornography. My white lies either embellished stories to make them more amusing or kept other people from getting their feelings unnecessarily hurt. And if I used marijuana in my teens, it was just a tool to help me process the difficulties of life.

I had my own moral code, which was simply to live my best life without actively hurting other people. And if I did hurt other people? Well, that was more a symptom of where they were in their own life rather than a reflection of what I had done to them.

Looking back now, it’s plain to see that my self-image, my actions, and my morality were in deep contradiction to one another. How highly I thought of myself in no way reflected how I acted, and how I acted in no way aligned with anything but my subjective and changeable whims.

I know I was not unique or even special. Millions live as I did—deep in denial, functioning but spiritually sick, in a life of contradiction. Rarer, though, are those who are led to acknowledge that contradiction and rise from it. And that is how God led me.

For a long time, I didn’t see or accept how sick I had become. With just a little massaging, I could justify all my sins. The lie I told my mother? It protected her from knowing about the things I felt I had under control that she would needlessly worry over. The job I randomly stopped showing up for? The company would now be able to hire an employee who cared more than I did. The abortion I had at seventeen? An unfortunate necessity. Besides, when it came down to it, any of the things I did or experienced were all part of my spiritual journey. None of it could be “wrong” because I was working toward my ultimate end: becoming a beautifully realized spirit unchained by the prison of my physical self. Surely, a journey such as that couldn’t always be pretty or fun, especially for people who got in my way.

My beliefs (I hesitate to group them into a “system,” which would imply some sort of structure) were steeped almost entirely in emotion. No one could tell me what to do. I envisioned myself as a wild and free horse, untamable, and determined to reinvent everything to keep myself that way. I could believe something totally absurd one minute, and then if pushed to make a commitment, I could change to the exact opposite position. For the moral relativist, this flip-flopping is often the case. So, if it seems crazy to you (“How could anyone believe that?”), don’t try to puzzle it out. Know that I did believe crazy things and acted on them, and there are others who do as well.

I wish I could say that my shortcomings could be chalked up to peer pressure or the sins of youth, but truthfully, plenty of my friends were leading more wholesome lives than I. My poor choices continued into my thirties, even after I’d gotten married and had children—when I had “grown up.” The sins weren’t as dramatic then, but they were insidious. I was settled comfortably into a life of egotism, arrogance, and isolationism, based almost entirely on whatever emotion I felt in any given moment.

I followed my feelings and did basically whatever I wanted, so long as it wasn’t obviously atrocious, and my life choices reflected this selfishness. Despite my desire to understand my purpose and the ultimate meaning of life, I rejected any organized religion that might offer answers to my questions, instead favoring spirituality, where I could create my own Religion of One—in which I was both God and worshiper.

For those leading the “spiritual-but-not-religious” life—whether looking for answers in stars or crystals or dreams as I did or seeking some other secret source of wisdom—riding emotions seemed like a quick and comfortable solution. Whether a person holds stock in reincarnation or annihilationism, nirvana or naturalism, or if we believe Christ is a mythical character in a great cosmic play or if we refuse to acknowledge him at all, we devise our private piecemeal religions to keep suffering away, to elevate us beyond this valley of tears, to make sense of the pain we see and feel in this fallen world.

What my younger self did not understand is that our desire to make sense of suffering, to understand the world around us and hope in something greater, only exists because there really is something greater; the Greatest Good—God, who gives us the gift of that desire to draw us closer to him and enable us to know him. “Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee,” wrote St. Augustine. He couldn’t have been more right. Our restlessness directs us to know, love, and serve the Lord, and once there, we can find rest under his easy yoke. But stewing in this restlessness for too long, without any ultimate aim, without the guideposts that the religion of truth offers us, can cause despair and hopelessness. The burden here becomes onerous and damning.

How we respond to that gift determines whether we are right or wrong. Do we allow our emotions to rule us, to drive us to seek relief from pain despite being thrust deeper into the darkness, and to live in the restlessness out of which God calls us? Or do we allow truth and love to bring us into a lasting relationship with the One who created us?

This question, whether we acknowledge it or not, affects a growing number of people. As of 2023, nearly a quarter of Americans consider themselves “spiritual,” but they aren’t interested in religion. Practicing a specific set of rituals or attending gatherings just isn’t important to them. Another fifth doesn’t want anything to do with either spirituality or religion. These aren’t small percentages, and long has our society reflected these beliefs, which can be utterly disheartening.

If my story can do anything, I hope that can show that there is hope, even for the most stalwart of the anti-religious set. God draws us to him and even someone as stubborn and selfish as me can be drawn in. He is doing great things in our fallen world, and if through a part of my story, He moves you or a loved one to be transformed too, thanks be to God! With him, there are satisfying, wonderful, beautiful answers that our restless heart naturally seek.

We all know someone just like this. It might be similar to your story. Order your copy of Christine's new book Not Just Spiritual: My Journey from Personal Religion to the Catholic Faith