A thought has been rolling through my mind.
Next week is the start of Holy Week. A time when we remember the events leading up to Christ’s crucifixion. And it got me thinking about faith, Christianity, and religion in general.
Believing in something greater than yourself is normal. People have been constructing ideas of God for ages. It is almost like our minds naturally lean toward worship, toward finding someone or something beyond ourselves. A greater purpose. A reason.
Religion, in many ways, stabilizes that wandering feeling that can leave us adrift. When you believe there is a guiding hand, or even just a conscious presence that sees, you move through life differently. You move forward believing that something is holding your future and directing your path.
I have said before that even without the revelation of Christ, I am bent toward religion. And oddly enough, I find that it grounds me. To believe that someone wiser, someone greater, exists, whether or not everything is directed specifically toward me, brings a kind of order to my thinking.
Among all religions, Christianity is different.
Its stories, books, and artifacts stretch across time, across people groups, across entire civilizations. The fact that it began with what we now call the Old Testament is remarkable. For those of us who did not grow up with the teachings of the Old Testament, the idea that God would come down to His creation, walk with them in the garden, speak with them, teach them, is astonishing.
So when it comes to religion, Christianity stands in a category of its own.
And faith itself is powerful.
Do I believe that Catholicism is the one and only way to know God?
The quick answer is no.
But I do believe that Christ is the one and only way to God.
Still, there is a kind of enlightenment in the Gospel that leads to eternal life with the Holy Trinity and with all who believe. At the same time, I think there are ways people experience peace, alignment, and truth without fully knowing where it comes from. I believe people can encounter God, the real God, and not even realize it.
Wisdom comes from God. And there are wise people all around us.
Faith, in its simplest form, is powerful. The ability to believe, not just to hope, but to almost see it, to reach toward it as if it is already there. That kind of faith fuels you. It quiets doubt. It pushes you forward.
If nothing else, it shapes who you become.
I think about my younger self. I believed with my whole heart that I was a good writer. So I wrote. All the time. And over time, that belief met practice, and practice made it true.
But that kind of faith, the kind we stir up ourselves, is only the beginning.
The real thing is different.
The kind of faith that comes from God cannot be manufactured. It is given.
It is the faith that causes you to love Him even though you have not seen Him. To follow Him even when only the next step is visible. It produces a kind of love in you that is steady and enduring. A love that forgives, that covers, that trusts, that stays.
This kind of faith binds believers together. It is the quiet thing we all share.
I believe religion plays a crucial role in our lives, even in our mental and emotional stability. Not just Christianity, but any faith that calls a person to prayer, reflection, and devotion.
And I think if we are honest, we would see that those who are deeply rooted, not performative but sincere, often carry a certain kind of peace.
But for me, it did not stop there.
Because at some point, the search for peace turned into something more personal. Less about structure, and more about encounter.
And that is where Christ met me.
I am a Catholic convert, and I am not ashamed of that.
For me, it is more than a religion. It is a life of worship centered on Christ. The Mass, the sacraments, all of it points back to Him.
And there is a rest in that.
Here I am, an ordinary, broken woman with nothing noteworthy to offer. No platform. No credentials to make me worthy.
And still, I am invited to the supper of the Lamb.
A seat at the table.
No more striving. No more standing outside, looking in through the window.
Just this quiet, steady welcome.
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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A novel about love, grief, and what is remembered and misunderstood.
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