There’s a strange phenomenon on the internet.
You can post a picture of a sandwich and people will applaud you like you just negotiated peace in the Middle East.
“Looks amazing!”
“Recipe please!”
But post something about faith?
Suddenly everyone becomes a theologian, psychologist, and spiritual advisor with surprisingly flexible office hours.
A person can say, “I’ve come back to God.”
And someone they’ve never met, whose profile picture is a motorcycle and a Labrador, will respond like they’re defending a dissertation.
“Interesting. You might want to examine your intentions.”
Thank you, Professor Labrador.
I’ll bring a blue book next time.
Before I came back to my Catholic faith, I probably had quieter versions of those thoughts myself.
Nothing out loud.
But internally?
“Oh… look who found religion.”
“I bet something happened.”
“Classic come-to-Jesus moment.”
And in fairness… something did happen.
But here’s the part people seem determined to miss:
My faith didn’t begin the day my life fell apart.
It started before that.
A Mass here.
A rosary there.
An awkward prayer that felt like calling an old friend whose number you weren’t sure still worked.
The first time I went back to Mass, I forgot half the responses and nearly sat down during the Gospel.
Catholicism is beautiful, but there is choreography.
Stand.
Sit.
Kneel.
Stand again.
Apparently holiness requires strong quadriceps.
The woman beside me handed me a hymnal and smiled like she’d been expecting me.
Eventually, in what can only be described as either courage or a temporary lapse in judgment, I signed up to be a lector.
Standing at that pulpit terrified me.
My hands shook. My voice developed several new settings.
But something happens when you keep showing up scared.
Eventually fear stops being the loudest voice in the room.
I was already turning back.
Slowly.
Clumsily.
Like someone who had ignored God for most of his life and suddenly realized the door had never actually been locked.
That realization carries both relief and heartbreak.
Relief that He’s still there.
Heartbreak over how long you lived as though He wasn’t.
That part still makes me sad.
Not dramatically.
More like realizing how many sunsets you missed because you were staring at your phone.
So yes, I post about my faith.
The rosary.
Mary.
The saints.
Novenas.
Fasting.
All the beautifully strange Catholic things that would have made the old me raise an eyebrow and say,
“Well… that escalated.”
And lately, I’ll admit, I’m getting a little tired of people assuming there must be some hidden motive behind it.
That I’m performing.
Compensating.
Trying to convince everyone—or myself—of something.
Sometimes a rosary is just a rosary.
Sometimes a man goes to Mass because he wants to go to Mass.
Sometimes someone finds something that gives his life meaning and talks about it because—brace yourself—it means something to him.
Not everything requires a psychological autopsy.
And not every Facebook post needs a congressional hearing.
If faith isn’t your thing, that’s okay.
Keep scrolling.
The internet is a buffet.
Not every dish is for you.
I scroll past plenty of things myself.
Gender-reveal videos.
People filming themselves crying.
Anyone explaining their “morning routine” from a kitchen the size of a Costco.
Somehow I survive without commenting.
It can be done.
Because when someone talks about faith after being far from it, maybe they’re not recruiting.
Maybe they’re not performing.
Maybe they finally found water after wandering through the desert.
And people who find water tend to make a little noise.
Not because they want everyone looking at them.
Because somewhere out there, someone else might be thirsty.
So yes.
I’ll keep talking about God.
I’ll keep carrying the rosary.
I’ll keep showing up at Mass, hopefully standing and sitting at approximately the correct times.
And Professor Labrador is free to keep scrolling.
Because perhaps the reason another person’s faith sometimes makes us uncomfortable isn’t that they’re saying too much.
Maybe it’s because, underneath all our clever explanations, it leaves us alone with a question we’d rather not answer:
What if He’s been trying to find me too?
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