From the Bible Belt to the Catholic Church: How History Led Me Home- Part 1

In the heart of the Bible Belt, a kaleidoscope of denominations paints the landscape, each with its own distinct identity. Within a mile, you may find Baptists, Methodists, Pentecostals, Holiness churches, and more - a dozen steeples piercing the sky within a few blocks. Each steeple stands as a testament to the town's spiritual diversity. Roman Catholic churches, however, are confined to bigger cities. If they exist in smaller towns, they are usually on the outskirts. There was never more than one Roman Catholic church in the smaller counties, if there was one at all. I never knew anyone who attended one.

Each building claims the same New Testament, the same Jesus, and the same promise of heaven. However, none of them worshiped together. Unity was a myth, and division was the very air we breathed. We were taught to see it as proof of conviction, each congregation holding the line against error. As I grew older, the clamor of differences began to resemble echoes in a canyon - repetitive and unyielding, the same words bouncing off the walls of our own certainty. Why did Jesus demand that we be one, yet we were many? This question seemed unanswerable.

When I first studied the Protestant Reformation, I thought I had found the source of the echo. The story was presented as a straightforward battle between good and evil, with Martin Luther challenging the corruption of the Roman Catholic Church. John Calvin sharpened doctrine’s edges. Both men were portrayed as rescuing truth from a fallen church, praised for bringing light into darkness. I cheered for them. Their courage was undeniable, and their story filled me with pride.

However, as I delved deeper into primary sources, the glorified narratives began to unravel. They revealed complexities and contradictions that had previously been glossed over - differing theological interpretations, political motivations, and historical tensions. The tale suddenly felt too neat, too tall. Where had the rest of the story gone? What events and developments had shaped the Church in the 1,500 years before these men existed?

I began to sense that history itself had been divided. It seemed split down the middle like a cracked chalice. In my textbooks, the narrative of reform shone brightly, overshadowing the centuries that came before it. Perhaps dramatic events were simply easier to teach than gradual developments. But a chalice, I thought, is meant to hold wine, symbolizing the unity and continuity of faith - not to be broken. Its fracture seemed to mirror the fragmentation within the Church itself. If the Church was the vessel of faith, what essential elements had been lost or transformed in its breaking?

The more I studied, the more I saw how sola Scriptura had become both torch and sword. It brought light, but it also cut away the memories that once held believers together. In seeking purity, we had lost continuity. By studying the Bible alone as our only authority, we had forgotten the practices of the Church that preserved it.

I would stare at timelines of councils and schisms, tracing the thread backward to its snapping point. Names blurred into centuries: Wittenberg, Zurich, Geneva - all promising renewal, each leaving smaller pieces behind. I wanted to believe reform was healing, but the divisions only seemed to grow deeper and more painful, festering with each attempt to mend them.

Yet even amid the fracture, I could hear something faint and persistent. It did not sound from any single steeple but from the distance of time itself. It was steady, sorrowful, and unbroken - a quiet reminder that He still moved over the face of the deep.

Discovery

It wasn’t until 2013 that I learned what the word Catholic meant. I did not learn it in a classroom or from a book. I learned it from a podcast while cleaning the house. The host was discussing the history of the early Church- background noise as I folded laundry. Then he said something casually: “The word Catholic means ‘universal.’”

I do not even remember who I was listening to, but that moment changed everything. I stopped mid-sweep, feeling something settle deep inside me. A door I had never known existed had quietly opened.

“What do you mean, universal?” I thought.

That was the moment I began unlearning what I thought I knew and rediscovering what the Church truly was. It would be a strange journey.

After that first revelation about the meaning of the word Catholic, I did not run toward Rome. Instead, I plunged headfirst into what I called “truth-seeking,” determined to challenge, not understand, the roots of Catholicism. I devoured articles, watched videos, and read blogs about the supposed pagan roots of Catholic practices. My research carried an obvious bias.

Even Christmas became suspect. For years, we refused to have a Christmas tree in our home. Our family pushed back strongly, which only confirmed in our minds that we must be doing the right thing. After all, pastors often say you receive the most rejection when you stand firmly on God’s side.

Instead, we celebrated Hanukkah because Jesus had celebrated it. I even wrote blog posts warning others about the pagan roots of holidays, convinced I was being faithful.

Church itself became uncomfortable. Every sanctuary, hymn, and stained-glass window looked Catholic to me. So much within Protestant churches had been inherited from Catholic tradition, yet many people did not recognize it. That realization bothered me deeply. Because I believed Catholicism was a distortion of the Gospel, I felt surrounded by compromise.

Finding a church became increasingly difficult, and eventually I stopped attending altogether for several years. “I can do this on my own,” I reasoned.

Only later would I realize how backwards that thinking was. I was standing inside the cracked chalice - within the fracture itself - clinging to the wrong side.

Even during that season of suspicion, God was at work - powerfully at work in me. I became convinced that the Lord’s Supper was not merely symbolic. At least in that instinct, I was right. Without knowledge of tradition, I tried to piece it together myself. I began observing Passover, reasoning that if this was the meal Jesus celebrated, then I should celebrate it too.

Looking back, I can see that God was leading me closer to the truth of the Paschal mystery. Yet I was relying heavily on my own understanding. My map was incomplete. I was searching with only half of it. Or better yet, seeing through a mirror dimly ( 1 Corinthians 13:12).

I knew almost nothing about the practices of the early Church Fathers, the Jewish roots of Christian worship, or the deeper meaning of the Last Supper. My sincerity was genuine, but my framework was fragile. I held a broken mirror like a child, trying to reassemble the shattered reflection, unaware that the original image had never been lost. It had been preserved in plain sight within tradition.

Years passed, and I still could not find a church that felt like home. My soul was restless like Augustine’s, circling the same unanswered longing. I visited congregations, but nothing settled my heart. Every sermon echoed familiar fragments, and the hollow space between them only widened.

Why could I not be satisfied? My faith remained strong, yet I could not find peace.

Fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te. Translated, this means: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you" ( Augustine, Confessions).

Relocating

In 2022, we relocated from eastern Tennessee to Montana. The vast, untamed landscape felt different from the culture I had grown up in. For example, no one I met in Montana had heard of a Cumberland Presbyterian or a Missionary Baptist. The horizon stretched differently here - both in landscape and in spirit.

Everywhere I looked, Catholicism was etched into the land: the missions, the settlers, and the saints whose names marked the mountains and rivers. To understand the story of this land, I realized I would need to understand the faith that shaped it.

That curiosity led me back to the early Church Fathers again - this time through the Eastern door.

Orthodoxy requires deep study to understand what it truly means. I began researching Orthodoxy, wondering how it differed from Roman Catholicism and what it meant to call oneself “Orthodox.” There was an Orthodox church in town that sparked my curiosity. What exactly was Orthodoxy? It was a foreign concept to me. I had only seen one Orthodox church before in a larger city and had assumed you could only attend if you were Greek.

I eventually discovered a podcast on Ancient Faith Radio called At the Intersection of East and West. The host, Deacon Michael, shared his own journey from Protestantism to Orthodoxy. His tone struck me immediately. It was peaceful, steady, and filled with gratitude - not defensive or angry.

I remember thinking how rare it was to hear someone speak about faith without contempt for where they had come from. Ironically, I had never been Catholic myself, yet I carried a great deal of contempt toward Catholic history because of what I had been taught.

I could not stop listening.

The podcast was based in Nashville, Tennessee - not far from where I once lived. Something about that detail made me smile. It felt as though my old world and my new one had met at a crossroads. I had moved all the way from Tennessee to Montana only to find myself being enlightened by an Orthodox deacon back in Tennessee. The irony was not lost on me.

What began as curiosity soon became fascination.

My husband might say it bordered on obsession. I ordered books, filled notebooks, and chased footnotes late into the night. I learned about icons. They were not idols but windows. Veneration was not worship but reverence. Icons told stories for those who could not read. What a beautiful truth!

In the teaching profession, we call this differentiation. In many ways, icons were differentiation before its time - a way for the illiterate to encounter Scripture through images. People kissed them not because they worshiped them but because they loved what they represented. They loved Who they represented.

I also learned that the saints were not gone but alive with God. They interceded for us like beloved elders praying for their children. This idea was surprisingly easy for me to accept. I had always believed that when we die we enter heaven or hell. If the faithful are alive in Christ after death, why would they not still pray? If I could speak to my deceased relatives when I missed them, why could I not speak to the saints as well?

Orthodox worship engages every sense. Worshiping God involves the whole body. Each discovery felt both surprising and strangely familiar. It was as if the dark centuries I had once been taught to fear were slowly lighting up- one candle at a time.

The more I studied Orthodoxy, the more I felt a profound connection to spiritual truths that resonated with my soul, though I still struggled to articulate them. What was an Orthodox when compared to Roman Catholicism? The Fathers I read- Ignatius, Chrysostom, Basil, Athanasius- were the same men cherished in Catholic tradition. The farther back I traced the line, the less divided the story became. East and West were not enemies; they were brothers who had grown apart. In their earliest words, I kept hearing the same refrain of unity, communion, one faith, and one baptism.

I loved the reverence of Orthodoxy. I loved the stillness, the mystery, and the sense that heaven leaned close during prayer. Everything was beautiful. The one Vespers we attended felt as though heaven itself had opened and we were there too. Questions began to rise like small, persistent tides. If the Church had once been one, which side had kept the fullness of that unity?

It was an uncomfortable realization that I had been misled my entire life about Catholic practices. Sadly, many who speak harshly about the Church from behind pulpits do so out of ignorance themselves. I wanted to rest within Orthodoxy, but every new discovery only widened the map. I compared the writings of the Fathers with the timeline of history and saw how every road, every reform, and every restoration seemed to splinter further from the center.

The word universal returned to me like an echo. Something in me still yearned for the wider embrace of the word I had first heard years earlier while sweeping my floor: Universal. Catholic.

Seek First to Understand

I found myself drawn back to Rome’s history, this time without suspicion. I returned with the desire to understand rather than condemn. I wanted to know what Roman Catholics believed about unity, authority, and apostolic succession. What did it mean that Peter had been given the keys? Had I been told the truth about that? Was it only a symbolic gesture? Why did Catholics believe that the Eucharist was the real presence of Jesus?

I began reading sources such as An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine by Newman and Ratzinger’s writings on the liturgy. Their logic startled me. It was not triumphal but tender, rooted in the idea that truth grows like a tree - always the same living thing, unfolding over time. The Church, they argued, was not an invention but an organism, still alive and still guided by the Spirit who hovered over the waters in the beginning.

The more I read, the more familiar it all became. The prayers, the sacraments, even the reverence for Mary that once unsettled me carried the same pulse of love I had been chasing my whole life. I realized I was not walking in circles; I was being led in a slow spiral toward the center.

“Seek and you shall find” took on an entirely new meaning for me.

It felt as though I had been blindfolded my entire life, searching for truth, only to discover it waiting in the one place I had once despised.

Each discovery resonated with a deeper spiritual truth, drawing me into a contemplative stillness. What had begun as research was becoming a relationship - a relationship I had once believed I already possessed. The Church was no longer a subject I examined; it was something that seemed to be examining me.

The more I read, the more I recognized its voice. It carried the same cadence that once called to me from revival tents and Sunday hymns - only now it sounded deeper, older, and steadier. The stories of the saints began filling spaces that had once stood empty in my childhood faith. Their lives were not merely legends; they were answers to questions I had not yet learned how to ask.

I realized that the Church had never disappeared into darkness between the apostles and the Reformers. It had been there all along - praying, writing, serving, suffering, and believing while quietly carrying the Gospel forward.

The “pagan roots” I once feared began to look less like corruption and more like continuity, the Church taking up the symbols of the world and redeeming them. I began to see that the human story and the divine story had never been separate; they had always been woven together.

I stopped writing about what I believed was wrong with modern Christianity and began listening to what had endured.

When I read the Nicene Creed’s words - one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church - they no longer sounded distant or suspicious. They sounded like belonging.

All the divisions I had grieved, all the searching and striving, had not been wasted. They were part of the same long mercy that had followed me since childhood: from the cat on the living room floor to the whippoorwills in the trees, from revival tents to ancient cathedrals.

God had been guiding me through every echo, every silence, and every question.

I had spent so long chasing certainty that I almost missed the truth that had been constant all along: the Spirit had never stopped moving over the waters.

And the Spirit had never stopped moving me.

To be continued...