What Does It Mean to Be Christian?

This question has followed me like a shadow since I was a boy. I grew up surrounded by people who were confident—certain, even—that they knew the answer. But the problem was, so many of them disagreed with each other. I watched people argue fiercely over their interpretations of Scripture, each convinced they had cornered the market on truth.

It always struck me as odd—how so many could read the same ancient book and come to such radically different conclusions. Wasn’t there one truth? One faith, one baptism, one Lord, as the Bible says?

In my early years, faith was presented to me like math. Logical. Precise. Black and white. This is true, and that is false. Simple, right? But as I grew, I realized faith isn’t as clean-cut as arithmetic. With math, 2 + 2 is always 4. There’s no debate, no interpretation. But with theology, interpretation is the battleground. And everyone, it seems, thinks their interpretation is the correct one—handed down from God Himself.

The thing is, so does everyone else.

At some point, I encountered another kind of thinking—this idea that all versions of truth are valid. That what’s true for you might not be true for me, and that’s okay. “Truth is relative,” they’d say. But that never sat right with me. If two people believe opposing things, and those things can’t logically coexist, how can both be true? Someone has to be wrong. That’s not mean-spirited; it’s just the reality of logic and reason.

And so, the question began to take root:

How do I know I’m right?

It’s one thing to ask that question once or twice in a philosophy class. It’s another thing to let it dig into your soul and keep you up at night. To have it whisper during quiet prayers or scream in moments of deep pain or doubt. Most people I’ve met never really wrestle with it. They inherit a system of belief from their family, their church, or their culture, and they settle in. They listen to voices that confirm what they already believe, read books that support their views, and dismiss or fear anything that might challenge them.

Any deviation from their inherited tradition is often viewed with suspicion—at best, it’s a distraction, and at worst, it’s heresy. I’ve even seen people rebuked or pushed to the margins simply for asking sincere questions.

But then there’s another group—those who pull the thread. Maybe it starts with a simple doubt, a question about doctrine or history, a crack in the wall of certainty. And as they follow that thread, everything begins to unravel. The foundation gives way. Their theology collapses like a house of cards. And for many, that collapse leads not just to a change in belief, but to the abandonment of belief altogether. Once bitten by disillusionment, they often can’t trust again. They trade in their former zeal for cynical detachment. Faith becomes a fairy tale. A relic of childhood. A myth, like Santa Claus.

I’ve envied both of those groups at different times.

There’s something attractive about the person who never questions, who walks in the calm waters of blind faith. There’s also a strange freedom in not caring anymore, in shaking off the weight of belief and walking away. I’ve tried to imagine myself in both camps. I’ve tried to convince myself that maybe I could just go with the flow—or stop caring entirely.

But I could never quite do it.

I’ve always been the restless type—the one who couldn’t stop asking questions, even when the answers scared me. I’ve never felt that warm numbness that fear sometimes brings. My fear has always come with fire, not silence. It pushed me forward, not backward. And that’s why I asked. Not to feel safe. Not to confirm what I already thought. But to test it. To hold it up to the light and see what burned away.

Because here’s the thing: I don’t believe truth is afraid of questions.

I think truth welcomes them. Invites them. Truth stands up under pressure. It may take time, effort, even pain to reach—but if it can’t endure the test, then it’s probably not worth clinging to. So I tested. I questioned. I studied—not just the parts that comforted me, but the parts that challenged me. I read outside the lines. I listened to voices from other traditions. I dug into Church history, not to win an argument, but to understand.

And over time, slowly, sometimes painfully, the pieces started to come together.

To my surprise—and perhaps to the surprise of many who knew me—I found myself becoming Catholic. I didn’t set out to do that. I didn’t have an agenda. But when you follow the questions with integrity, you don’t always end up where you started. Sometimes, the road takes you home through unfamiliar terrain.

Now, I can look back and see the value of the struggle. The sleepless nights, the theological crises, the emotional and spiritual unraveling—it all had purpose. It was the refining fire. And while I still don’t have all the answers, I know I’ve moved closer to the truth. Not because I feel it more deeply, but because I’ve tested it more thoroughly.

So wherever you are in your journey—whether you’re holding tightly to your tradition, letting go of it entirely, or hanging somewhere in between—I want to encourage you:

Ask the questions.

Do the hard work.

Don’t study to prove what you already think. Study to find out if what you think is actually true.

Be willing to change. Be willing to be wrong.

Who knows where that might lead?

You might end up like me—a Reformed Protestant minister who became Catholic.

And you know what? That road, as hard and winding as it was, felt a lot like grace.