It’s Just Tuesday for Catholics

The first time I walked into a Roman Catholic church, St. Jude’s in Redmond, Washington, I thought it was all pretty damn weird. I was an atheist in my early forties wrestling with a return to faith, and had never set foot inside a parish before. The standing up, the sitting down, the kneeling—call and response—I couldn’t follow any of it. The whole thing felt foreign in a way that made me self-conscious, like walking into someone else’s vaguely cultish family reunion.

With lots of incense.

Then at one point the priest held up the… cracker? and wine and said, “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.”

And my heart dropped as every single person in the chapel said, in unison, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”

I started ugly crying like a baby and had absolutely no idea why.

As it turns out I’d found my home. It just took me seven more years to figure it out.

I need to back up.

I was raised Mormon. Not casually Mormon—seventh-generation, mission-serving, priesthood-holding, temple-going Mormon. My fourth great-grandfather William J. Bennett received his Nauvoo initiatory ordinance as a High Priest in 1846, the same year he died from exposure during the Mormon persecutions and exodus. His widow crossed the plains to Utah with their children in 1851. Seven generations of faith, sacrifice, and identity followed.

Between 1995 and 1997, I served a full-time mission in the Navajo Nation. I bore testimony. I baptized converts. I laid hands on the sick and gave blessings of healing and comfort. I witnessed miracles. I didn’t just believe—I knew.

Fast-forward ten years and I didn’t know what I knew anymore. I’d been slowly falling away, year over year ever since I’d stumbled across Dawkins, Dennett, Sagan—not anti-Mormon literature, just science and philosophy—and the foundational claims of my faith weren’t surviving contact with it. I eventually spent over seven years as what I referred to as an apathetic agnostic. Not militant. Not angry at God. Not even angry at the LDS Church. Just convinced the foundation of my religion was sand and the discovery it was really the only thing holding God up for me.

I’ve written about my path back to faith and into Catholicism before. What I want to talk about now is what I found on the journey.

---

In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the most sacred things are kept behind a locked door.

To enter a temple, you need a recommend—a card issued after passing interviews with your bishop and stake president confirming you meet the requirements. You’re paying a full ten percent tithe. You’re keeping the Word of Wisdom. You’re sexually pure. You’re sustaining the prophet. You’re wearing the garments. You’re answering every question to their satisfaction as they interrogate your personal life. The tithe alone is verified in a literal financial audit, by an accountant, and if you stop paying—or aren’t paying enough—you can lose access to ordinances the Church teaches are required for your salvation.

Behind that door are the things Mormons hold most sacred. The endowment—receiving spiritual knowledge, power, and the titles of Prophet, Priest, and King. The new name, given in the temple and kept secret. Celestial marriage—sealed to your spouse and children for eternity. Baptisms for the dead—proxy ordinances performed on behalf of ancestors. The second anointing, reserved for senior leadership, essentially guaranteeing exaltation.

Along with continuous revelation, these are the crown jewels. The things no other church has. The plain and precious truths lost after the original apostles were martyred and the church fell into apostasy. The things that make Mormonism the restored gospel. The things you earn through obedience, compliance, and yes… money.

Over the years I was investigating Christian traditions, I sat down many times with both Orthodox and Roman Catholic priests and fired off litanies of everything I believed I’d lost when I left Mormonism. Sacred things. Things I’d valued, things I mourned—even as an atheist. Things I assumed no other religion could offer.

They kept saying the same thing.

But we have that.

Baptism for the dead? Mormons build temples and send volunteers to perform proxy baptisms for deceased ancestors by name, pulling from genealogical databases—it requires the temple, the recommend, the worthiness interview, the tithe. Catholics believe in the Baptism of Desire and pray for the dead. Directly. At every Mass. The entire Church prays for all the faithful departed, no proxy ritual, no database, no names required. It’s just part of the liturgy.

The endowment—receiving the fullness of spiritual power and the titles Prophet, Priest, and King? That’s just baptism in Catholicism. Every baptized person participates in the priestly, prophetic, and kingly office of Christ, and that’s not a metaphor—it’s Vatican II. The new name given secretly in the temple? Catholics receive a new name at confirmation, chosen freely, carried for life, given in any parish.

Mine is Francis, by the way (not a secret).

The sacred garments worn as a constant reminder of temple covenants? No equivalent and no equivalent needed. The covenant is internal. Other necessary proxy ordinances for ancestors who died without the gospel? Again, the Catholic Church prays for all the departed, trusting God’s mercy to reach beyond the boundaries of the visible institution—no genealogical database, no proxy rituals, just prayer and trust.

What about the second anointing? The pinnacle of LDS ordinances, reserved for senior leadership, essentially a guarantee of exaltation. The Catholic equivalent? The Eucharist. The body and blood of Christ. Available at every Mass, every day, everywhere, to every baptized Catholic who approaches with a contrite heart. The thing Mormonism reserves for its most elite members, Catholicism offers to every single person at every single liturgy every single day.

I kept going back to priests, year after year, interrogation after interrogation. They kept answering like I was asking them whether water was wet.

Then I dropped the bomb.

Continuous revelation. This is the one Mormonism builds its entire authority structure on. The heavens aren’t closed. God still speaks. He speaks through a living prophet, and that prophet can receive new scripture, new doctrine, new commandments — things no other church claims.

Except since Joseph Smith’s death in 1844, the Church has only canonized a whopping… one vision and two policy reversals. The last revelation added to the Doctrine and Covenants was recorded in 1918. The two Official Declarations—ending polygamy in 1890 and the racial priesthood ban in 1978–aren’t even classified as revelations in the D&C. They’re announcements that a revelation was received, without including the revelation itself. Everything since—the Family Proclamation, handbook changes, missionary age adjustments, two-hour church—is administrative policy. The President and CEO of the Corporation of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints—prophet, seer, and revelator—doesn’t prophesy, see, or reveal anything. He just… administers.

For the Pope that’s just Tuesday.

Catholics don’t claim continuous revelation because they don’t need to. The claim is simpler and, I think, more honest: Jesus Christ is the final revelation. The fullness was given. Nothing was lost in an apostasy, so nothing needs restoring. The Church’s job isn’t to receive new scripture but to deepen its understanding of what was already given—and it’s been doing that actively through councils, encyclicals, and theological development for two thousand years.

The church with the open canon has functionally closed it. The church that claims the canon is closed defined Mary as the Mother of God in 431, proclaimed her sinless nature in 1854, and declared her bodily assumption into heaven in 1950–and is still going.

I kept pressing, waiting for a priest to say no, we don’t have that one. They never did. Every single thing Mormonism locks behind a paywall and a surveillance system has been standard equipment in Catholicism (and Orthodoxy) for two thousand years.

It’s just Tuesday for them.

As man now is, God once was; as God now is, man may be.

Lorenzo Snow, Fifth President of the LDS Church

Becoming gods. This is the one that really gets people.

In Mormonism, exaltation is the whole point. The popular version—the one most people think of, including most Mormons—is ruling your own planet, creating spirit children, perpetuating the cycle. But that’s not what Joseph Smith actually taught. In the King Follett discourse, Smith made a genuinely radical metaphysical claim: that God and humanity share the same nature and trajectory, that intelligence is co-eternal with God, that the path God walked is open to us. That’s a serious philosophical argument, not a cosmic rewards program. What the LDS Church did with it afterward is what it does with everything on this list—took something real and transcendent and buried it under institutional apparatus until it became transactional. Theosis became a multilevel org chart with planets and quotas.

Which is ironic, because Mormonism’s entire foundational claim is that the Great Apostasy took the plain and precious truths of the gospel and suffocated them under centuries of philosophical complexity and institutional corruption. I spent seven years hunting for proof of that Apostasy—evidence that Christianity had lost the truths that needed restoring. What I found was worse. Every single plain and precious truth Mormonism claims was lost has been sitting in Catholicism for two thousand years, accessible to anyone who walks through the door. And every single one of them, Mormonism found, overcomplicated, and locked behind a paywall.

Strip away the LDS cosmology and underneath Smith’s claim of godhood is something Christianity has been teaching since the beginning.

For he became man that we might become divine.

St. Athanasius of Alexandria

That’s not a Mormon quote. That’s a fourth-century Church Father, venerated by both East and West.

The Orthodox call it theosis—deification. It’s not a fringe mystical concept. It’s the entire point of Orthodox soteriology. Salvation is theosis. 2 Peter 1:4 says it plainly: we are called to become “partakers of the divine nature.” The purpose of human life, in Orthodox theology, is union with God—not as metaphor, not as legal status, but as genuine participation in the divine life.

What’s remarkable is if you remove just one claim from Smith’s teaching—that God was once a finite mortal being—what’s left is theosis. If God is infinite, then becoming like God is an eternal journey toward the infinite. Mormons already believe in Eternal Progression. Strip away the claim that God himself was once where we are, and that’s just theosis in different vocabulary. Smith was right there—one assertion away from what Athanasius taught in the fourth century. He just added something that breaks it. And on that specific point—that God was once a man—I think the other Christians are right to call it heresy.

But the underlying hope—that human beings are made for union with the divine, that we’re not just saved from something but transformed into something, that the goal isn’t merely forgiveness but participation in the life of God himself—that’s not Mormon innovation. That’s Athanasius. That’s Irenaeus: “…our Lord Jesus Christ, through his transcendent love, became what we are, that he might bring us to be what he is himself.” That’s Maximus the Confessor, Gregory of Nazianzus, the entire Eastern theological tradition. And it’s Catholic—paragraph 460 of the Catechism quotes Athanasius directly. Aquinas taught that “full participation in divinity” is humanity’s true beatitude. The West buried it under legal and juridical categories—sin, punishment, satisfaction, justification—but it never disappeared. It’s right there in the Catechism, gathering dust.

When I left Mormonism, I thought I was leaving the most audacious claim in all of human religion—that we can become divine. Turns out Christianity has been saying it for two thousand years. Just with better theology.

Again, just Tuesday.

---

In Mormonism, the priesthood is the thing. It’s the power structure, the authority, the reason the Church exists as it does. Every worthy male receives it, starting at age twelve. Aaronic priesthood as a deacon, Melchizedek priesthood as an elder. It’s the mechanism for everything—blessings, sacraments, governance, authority over your family. You baptize. You bless the sick. You bless the sacrament. You receive revelation. You preside.

And it’s exclusively male. Women are excluded from it entirely. They can pray, nurture, teach children. But the laying on of hands, the formal blessing, the exercise of priesthood power—that’s for men. Period.

When I was investigating Catholicism, I learned that the common priesthood of all the baptized is a foundational doctrine. Every baptized Catholic—man or woman—participates in the priestly, prophetic, and kingly office of Christ. A father can bless his family—and, yes, so can a mother. My wife blesses our children. Not because someone ordained her. Because she was baptized.

The thing Mormonism treats as its exclusive, restored-to-the-earth crown jewel—priesthood authority—is the default state of every Catholic who’s been through a baptismal font. Man or woman. You don’t need a recommend. You don’t need to fork over ten percent of your income forever and pass interviews to be a Prophetess, Priestess, and Queen and bless your own home and children.

Just get baptized.

The Catholic ordained priesthood—the sacramental ministry of priests and bishops—is something else entirely. But it’s not about patriarchal authority. It’s not about presiding over families and meetings or managing a ward. The ordained priest is configured to Christ in a specific way that allows him to act in persona Christi—in the person of Christ—at the altar. He’s not a manager. He’s an icon. He exists to make the sacraments available. That’s his function.

And this is the argument for why only men are ordained—not because of patriarchy, but because the role is iconographic. The priest stands in the specific person of Christ at the altar. Christ was incarnated as a male. The priest is an icon of that specific incarnation. The maleness isn’t about authority or superiority. It’s about the icon matching the person it represents. And the debate over male-only iconography is active, ongoing, sanctioned, and—I found this shocking—Pope Francis even allowed it at the Synod on Synodality. Meanwhile, the highest human being in all of Catholic theology isn’t a pope or a priest. It’s Mary. A woman. A mother. The greatest person in the entire Catholic framework is a female layperson.

The Mormon priesthood makes men into managers. The Catholic priesthood—the ordained one—makes men into servants of something vastly bigger than themselves.

In Mormonism, women are excluded from the priesthood because the system runs on male authority. Full stop. In Catholicism, all women already hold the common priesthood, and the woman who outranks every pope in history by several orders of magnitude never held a title beyond Mother.

---

In Mormonism, there’s a Heavenly Mother. Or Mothers. It’s left somewhat vague. She exists in the theology, but as a footnote. God’s wife, one of them anyway, the mother of all spirits. But you’re not supposed to talk about her. The leadership actively discourages inquiry. You’re certainly not supposed to pray to her. She’s there but behind glass—a divine woman who exists to validate the eternal family model but who has no voice, no story, no relationship with her children.

Some Mormon women pray to her anyway. Quietly. Secretly. Knowing it’s forbidden. Knowing other members consider it heresy and it could risk excommunication. They do it because sometimes you need a mother and sometimes because the idea of praying to a man is far too much.

A close LDS friend of mine is one of them.

Catholics? We have Mary. Not hidden. Not forbidden. Not behind glass. She’s the Queen of Heaven and Mother of God—front and center, in every parish, on every continent, with her own feast days, her own prayers, her own rosary. An adoptive spiritual mother you can talk to, cry to, who intercedes, who shows up—sometimes literally. The highest and most venerated human being in all of Catholic theology is our mother.

I bought my friend a rosary for Mother’s Day one year. I just casually said, “I pray to Heavenly Mother every day.”

I wasn’t trying to convert her. I was telling her the truth. The thing she’d been doing in secret, with guilt and fear, is the thing over one and a half billion people celebrate openly. Every day around the world. For two thousand years.

She wears the rosary sometimes. I doubt she prays with it. That’s not the point. The point is permission.

---

One of my sisters told me recently that she thinks everyone will eventually have full knowledge of the harm they caused and how it made the other person feel. Maybe, she said, that’s hell. At the very least it’s justice.

She’s pulling at something Mormonism has that’s somewhat adjacent—Joseph Smith taught that departed spirits suffer by knowing they fell short of the glory they could have enjoyed, that “they are their own accusers.” But that’s regret for what you missed. What my sister described is different. Not falling short of glory but facing what you actually did—full empathetic encounter with the consequences, feeling what the other person felt. That’s not regret. That’s accountability through love. And I agree with her 100%.

And Catholics have that too.

It’s called Purgatory. Not the medieval cartoon of fire and punishment—the real doctrine. The full encounter with the truth of yourself, experienced completely, as a necessary step on the way back to God. The pain is real but it isn’t punitive. It’s purifying. You feel the weight of what you’ve done, and that knowledge doesn’t damn you. It heals you.

My sister arrived there on her own. No catechism, no doctrinal formation—just her own moral reasoning and her own instinct that real accountability means knowing what you did, fully, and that the knowing is both terrible and necessary. And that it leads somewhere.

I told her we have a name for that.

It’s just Tuesday.

---

My mom asked me once if she’d have to do anything special to visit the cathedral in Salt Lake City. The Catholic one—the Cathedral of the Madeleine. She’d heard it was gorgeous and wanted to see it.

I said, “Yeah. Walk through the door. That’s it. Doesn’t even have to be during Mass. It’s open all day long.”

No recommend. No interview. No tithing settlement. No one checking your worthiness. No one asking about your underwear. Just walk in.

If you’ve never been Mormon, you might not understand why that’s remarkable. In Mormonism, the most sacred spaces are locked up. The temple is closed to anyone without a current recommend. If your tithing settlement didn’t hit the right sum, if you didn’t answer a question the right way, if you had a mocha—you sit in the parking lot while your family goes inside. Mormons who haven’t been through the temple or don’t hold a current recommend can’t attend their own children’s weddings.

Every Catholic church on earth is open. To everyone. No questions asked. The most sacred thing in Catholicism—the Eucharist, on the altar, in the tabernacle—is in a building with an unlocked door. You can walk in off the street, sit down, and be in the presence of what Catholics believe is the literal body of Christ.

No paywall. No gatekeeper. Just an open door.

---

For over forty years I carried one sentence in my bones, even as an atheist: “For we are saved by grace after all we can do.”

That’s 2 Nephi 25:23. It’s the engine of Mormon soteriology. Grace exists—but you only get it after you’ve done everything you can. Pay your tithing, keep the commandments, serve your mission, attend the temple, magnify your calling, fulfill your duties. Do all of that, and then—maybe—grace covers the gap.

Can you imagine what that does to a person over forty years? It means you’re never done. Never enough. The finish line keeps moving because how do you know when you’ve done “all you can do”? You can’t. So you just keep grinding, keep performing, keep trying harder, and the fear never stops.

I carried that into atheism. I carried it into my career, my relationships, my writing. The performance engine doesn’t shut off just because you stop believing in the theology that installed it.

I told the most patient priest I’ve ever met, Father Kevin at Mary Queen of Peace, “I’m not ready to be baptized. I’m not good enough.”

And he laughed. A lot.

Then he said, “Of course you aren’t. That’s kind of the whole point, Ryan.”

Grace in Catholicism isn’t a reward for effort. It’s a gift you can’t earn and don’t deserve and it comes anyway. Not after all you can do, but in spite of all you’ve done. You can stop performing your way to God because performance was never the mechanism of salvation in the first place.

That’s not “don’t bother”—it’s not the cheap grace of the evangelical bumper sticker. Your actions absolutely matter. But as the evidence of transformation, not the price of admission. Not the cause of grace but the fruit of it. You’re already loved. Now become the person that love is making you.

“Saved after all we can do” versus “saved in spite of all we’ve done.” That shift is the difference between a religion that installs a performance engine you can never shut off and a faith that says the engine was never the point.

---

Before I was baptized, I asked Father Kevin what I had to believe? What I couldn’t disagree on? Where’s the absolute, non-negotiable line?

He said: the Nicene Creed.

That’s it.

Essentially everything else—every encyclical, every catechism paragraph, every apparition, every relic, every doctrinal position on any topic you can name—is downstream of that. Important. Worth engaging with. Worth wrestling with. But not the bar you have to clear to be worthy.

If you’ve been Mormon, you know why this matters. In the LDS Church, the list of things you must believe and do and cannot do or even disagree on is functionally endless. Tithing (gross, not net). Word of Wisdom (not everything mind you, just specific items Brigham Young disliked). Sustaining the prophet. The Book of Mormon’s historicity. Joseph Smith’s prophetic calling. Patriarchal blessings (fortune-telling). The somewhat awkward origins of the Book of Abraham. Magic undergarments. Tattoos? (unclear). No coffee (that’s just cruel). God marking people with melanin for sin. No tea. No alcohol, not even wine (don’t tell Jesus). Seer stones in top hats? (that one’s new). The tidy ahistorical restoration narrative. No smoking (probably good advice, I’ll consider it). No eternal marriage or families for black people (at least not before 1978). No loud laughter (my wife’s screwed). How many piercings you can have in which ear (females only). Accepting or denying Joseph Smith had at least 34 wives depending on what year it is (saying he did would get you excommunicated in the 80’s but saying he didn’t will today). No Coke and Pepsi (in my day, maybe okay now, dunno). Mountain Dew? (unclear). Native Americans becoming white and delightsome. How you dress, both at church (white shirt and tie for men) and elsewhere (sleeveless dresses above the knee are right out, ladies). Speaking evil of the Lord’s Anointed (i.e. criticizing any and all men presiding over you, including the nursery teacher). Absolutely no facial hair (but only after 1951). Priesthood ban for black men (1852–1978). Temple worthiness (all of the above). And of course polygamy (temporarily suspended but totally in force for eternity, like it or not). Every item on that highly abbreviated list is load-bearing because questioning any of it is questioning the prophet, and questioning the prophet is questioning God.

For Catholics it’s just the Creed (and like five papal clarifications, mostly about Mary being awesome).

That’s the contract. That’s it. Period. Everything else is a conversation. Sometimes even rigorous disagreement and debate—but that’s welcomed and has been for two thousand years.

The freedom in that is staggering. Not freedom to do whatever you want—freedom to think. Freedom to wrestle honestly with the tradition without being branded apostate. Freedom to disagree on matters where the Creed is silent and still receive the Eucharist on Sunday.

---

But it was celestial marriage that mattered most and was the greatest loss when I left the LDS Church.

In Mormonism, this requires a temple sealing ceremony, accessible only to recommend-holding members. And the sealing is the whole point—without it, your marriage ends at death. Your family ends. No temple, no eternity together.

Catholic marriage is a sacrament, performed in any parish church, open to any Catholic in a state of grace. No paywall. No worthiness interview. Just two people, a priest, and a covenant before God.

But the eternal part—that was the hardest thing for me. Because Rome’s official position is that the sacramental bond of marriage dissolves at death. “Till death do us part” is literal in the Latin tradition. I wasn’t willing to accept that. I believe my marriage to my wife is forever, and I wasn’t going to join a Church that told me I had to believe otherwise.

This is where Orthodoxy gave me something Rome underplays. The Orthodox wedding ceremony contains no “till death do us part”—in fact, it contains no vows at all. The climax is the crowning, where crowns are placed on the bride and groom signifying an eternal union, sacramentally projected into the Kingdom of God. Orthodox theology insists on the sacramental eternity of marriage rather than merely its legal indissolubility. St. John Chrysostom—the greatest homilist in Church history—taught that married Christians are known to be such in the Judgment and in the Kingdom.

Love never ends.

So before I was baptized, I asked several Roman Catholic priests directly: can I bring this with me? Can I hold the Orthodox conviction that my marriage persists beyond death?

Every one of them said the same thing: that’s not incompatible with the faith at all. And by the way, Ryan, there’s a Byzantine Catholic parish in Federal Hill you should visit.

Eastern Catholics. Full communion with Rome, Byzantine liturgy. The same theology, the same crowning, the same eternal dimension of marriage—inside the Roman Catholic Church. The thing I thought I’d have to smuggle in was already there, with its own parishes, its own priests, its own tradition. Rome already contained the East. It just doesn’t advertise it well.

Frankly Catholicism doesn’t advertise much of anything very well, probably because it’s just Tuesday for them.

They could learn a thing or two about marketing from the Mormons.

---

There’s an old parable about blind men and an elephant. Each one touches a different part—trunk, leg, tail, ear—and each one describes a completely different thing—hose, column, rope, fan. They’re all touching something real. None of them are holding the whole thing.

I believe God is the elephant. And every religious tradition is a blind man with a genuine handful of something true.

People will call that relativism. It isn’t. A relativist shrugs and says it doesn’t matter. I spent fourteen years investigating, chose a specific tradition after rigorous scrutiny, and I now profess the Creed every Sunday. That’s not a shrug. That’s a commitment.

But I also believe my commitment doesn’t require everyone else’s tradition to be false. I feel the spirit when I read the Book of Mormon. I feel it reading the Tao Te Ching, and the Koran, and Morihei Ueshiba’s Art of Peace. Truth is everywhere, because if God is real then truth is a property of reality itself, and you’d expect to find it in every honest attempt to describe what’s real.

My friend and former missionary companion Adam Miller, an LDS philosopher and lay theologian, was once asked if the LDS Church is the One True Church. He replied: “It is—in the sense that my wife is my One True Wife.”

That’s not relativism. That’s covenant. My wife is my One True Wife doesn’t mean all other women are false. It doesn’t mean no one else’s marriage is real. It means this is my covenant, this is where I committed, this is the relationship I built my life inside, and it is true because I gave myself to it fully. Someone else’s covenant isn’t a threat to that.

I believe Roman Catholicism has the best grasp on the elephant. I also believe it’s still one hand on something too vast for any human institution to hold entirely. The greatest Catholic theologian in history—Thomas Aquinas—looked at his life’s work at the end and said it was all straw compared to what he’d glimpsed. If Aquinas can say that, I can hold my tradition with both hands and still leave room for mystery.

---

I’m not trying to convert anyone. I don’t have a quota to fill. There’s no Ward Missionary Leader tracking my numbers.

I just love being Catholic. I love what it gave me—grace after a lifetime of performing, an open door after a lifetime of paywalls, a Heavenly Mother after a lifetime of her being hidden, freedom to think after a lifetime of compliance.

An eternity with the woman I love without a dollar figure attached.

And I talk about it. Freely, openly, passionately, the way you talk about anything you love. When someone says something about their own faith that resonates, I get excited and say “me too—and that’s why I became Catholic.” Because it always maps. I don’t even have to reach.

But if Catholicism isn’t someone’s path, that’s fine. Not politely fine—actually fine. I believe in a God whose mercy is wider than any institution’s walls. The Church has confirmed thousands of saints in heaven. It has never—not once, in two thousand years—confirmed a single soul in hell. That asymmetry isn’t an accident. It’s a theological commitment to the possibility that Love gets the last word.

So if someone finds peace in a synagogue, a mosque, a Shinto shrine, on a meditation cushion, or in honest atheism—I hope they find it fully. Whatever framework helps them see the truth they’ve been given, however much of it they can see.

My door’s open. So is the cathedral’s. No recommend required. Walk in anytime.

It’s just Tuesday.