How Catholics Broke My Heart This Week

A voice crying in the algorithmic wilderness.

This isn’t a rant. It’s a lament.

Alright—who am I kidding? It’s a bit of both. But not to stir up drama, and not to invite more arguments.

I’m writing because I love the Church. Because I love Christ. And because I feel like I’m watching something sacred rot in real time.

Over the last week, I’ve felt my heart break again and again. Watching how far we’ve drifted from the goal. How often we miss the point entirely. How much noise we make in His name, and how little of Him I actually see in it.

This isn’t for pity or sympathy. If I’m honest, it’s just me trying to name the heaviness I’ve been carrying. Maybe writing it down will help me make sense of it. Maybe it won’t.

But here are a few moments that stung this week. Moments that left me tired, confused, and grieving. Not because I have answers—just because I care.

And it’s only Tuesday, which feels both absurd and on-brand.

This Isn’t Apologetics. It’s Ego.

Earlier this week, I came across a video that left a sour ache in my spirit. A self-proclaimed Catholic apologist—arms crossed, posture smug, eyebrows raised—had stitched a short clip of my friend speaking about her wedding. In the clip, she explained how she chose “saintly bridesmaids”—a beautiful and playful phrase meaning she selected patron saints to accompany her on her wedding day in prayer.

But before she could even finish her thought, the video cut. And then came the scoff. The eye-roll. The mockery. “This is cringe,” he declared. “Disturbing.”

No theological engagement. No pastoral insight. Just derision. A man on a platform sneering at a woman’s joy.

This is the kind of apologetics that wounds. Not because it’s sharp with truth—but because it’s void of love. It’s not about fidelity to the Church. It’s about performance. Posturing. Appearing right, clever, strong. Ego dressed in the costume of orthodoxy.

And let’s be clear: this was not a correction. This was not fraternal charity. It was a takedown. A humiliation. A drive-by of mockery, aimed at a fellow Catholic who dared to publicly love the saints with warmth and imagination.

I’m tired of this.

This isn’t apologetics. It’s aesthetic bullying. It’s insecure men with ring lights and microphones who think wielding doctrine gives them license to publicly belittle the very people they claim to shepherd.

And what does this style of “defense” actually defend? Not the Church. Not the Gospel. Not the Tradition that tells us again and again—through saints and councils alike—that evangelization must flow from love, that correction must restore communion, not crush it.

This kind of apologetics does not convert. It clobbers. It does not catechize. It conquers.

And worse—it makes people afraid to love God out loud.

It makes the faithful afraid to have devotions that look a little different. Afraid to speak about intimacy with Christ unless it fits a certain rigid mold. It makes tenderness suspect. It makes reverence cringe.

My friend, in her honesty and joy, dared to reveal something deeply personal—something that helped her draw close to Christ and His saints. And she was publicly sneered at for it. Not because it was heretical. Not because it was dangerous. But because it wasn’t cool enough. Because it didn’t match the flavor of apologetics that thrives off mockery and algorithmic outrage.

That is not tradition. That is not fidelity. That is not Christ.

People like him are not restoring reverence. They are suffocating it.

And this kind of Catholicism? It’s breaking my heart.

The Vineyard of Performative Piety

I made a video reply to the aforementioned “influencer.” In it, I said he was acting like a jackass.

And that—that—is what scandalized people.

Not that he mocked a devout Catholic woman for choosing saints as patrons for her wedding. Not that he twisted her joy into something “cringe.” No, what really riled the righteous was that I used a bad word.

If you're more offended by my tone than his mockery of a woman’s licit and beautiful practice of faith, then maybe you don't actually care about reverence—you just care about control.

This is what we’ve built in the Catholic internet: Creators can spend weeks spewing unfiltered hatred toward Muslims, Jews, Protestants—calling names, spreading stereotypes, drenching their rhetoric in bile. But because they slap a Latin chant over it or quote a saint, you call it “orthodox.”

You’ll scroll past TikToks calling Protestants dumb, laughing as others are “owned” in debate, and you’ll hit like. You’ll post fire emojis and say things like “based.” But say the word jackass? Suddenly, that’s the sin that must be addressed.

You’re not scandalized by sacrilege—you’re scandalized by your aesthetic being disrupted.

This isn’t piety. It’s performance.

It’s a curated religiosity, where as long as the Latin is tight and the snark is aimed at someone you already dislike, you’ll excuse anything—even cruelty.

Let’s be honest: you don’t want holiness. You want dominance.

You want the applause of your tribe, not the wounds of Christ. You want to keep their vineyards, to parade orthodoxy before others, but your own vineyard—the interior life, the charity, the broken and tender heart—you have not kept.

Be your authentic self, please. Because this act? This false sanctity? This pearl-clutching outrage over “tone” while you baptize pride, mockery, and spiritual abuse with incense and Latin? It’s exhausting.

And it’s not Jesus.

Where Has Christ Gone?

Where has Christ gone in all of this?

Because when I scroll through Catholic content, what I mostly see isn’t Christ—it’s correction.

It’s content that implies Jesus is more concerned with your theological zingers than with your capacity to love. It’s videos that prioritize winning an argument over welcoming the broken. It’s a tone that suggests holiness looks like intellectual dominance, not humility.

We’ve mistaken the sharpening of swords for the spreading of the Gospel. We’ve replaced “Come to Me, all who are weary” with “Let me tell you why you’re wrong.”

And yes, I’ve heard the response— “But these videos bring people to Christ!”

Maybe. But what kind of Christ are we showing them? What kind of Church are we inviting them into?

Because if the front door to your version of Catholicism is paved with mockery, sarcasm, and pride, don’t be surprised when people enter carrying the same weapons. And don’t be shocked when they never learn to pray—only to pounce.

If Christ has been replaced by your need to be right, then it isn’t Christ you’re preaching.

We’ve Forgotten Beauty

A few weeks ago, I wrote a reflection on receiving the Eucharist in the hand. It wasn’t a theological defense. It wasn’t a hot take. It was just an attempt to hold something sacred—something quiet and intimate—and invite people to wonder with me.

But it didn’t land that way.

Instead, people treated it like a thesis to be graded. They showed up with red pens. With citations. With suspicion. As if the act of contemplating beauty was somehow dangerous unless it came with a bulletproof apologetic.

That’s when it hit me: we’ve trained ourselves to consume Catholic content—not contemplate it.

We’ve forgotten how to feast. How to dwell. How to weep over a mystery without feeling the need to dissect it.

And the online world has flattened our expectations. We’ve gotten so used to content that tells us who to fight or what to fear, that we don’t know what to do with something that simply invites us to feel. To be still. To be moved.

We’ve replaced the mystics with mouthpieces. We’re discipled by influencers who don’t know how to weep. Who talk endlessly about truth but seem allergic to anything that stirs the soul too much—lest it make them look uncertain. Or “feminine.” Or simply human.

They crave clarity but not contemplation. Orthodoxy without awe.

But what I wrote—what I try to write—isn’t modern fluff. It’s older than all of us. This way of reflecting, of reading the world through symbol and sacrament, is ancient.

It’s Origen. It’s Augustine. It’s Bernard. They didn’t reduce Scripture to proof texts. They let it haunt them. They let it feed them. They let it undo them.

We’ve forgotten how to let ourselves be undone.

Now it’s all about looking solid, sharp, and certain. But that’s not holiness. That’s branding. It’s a performance of piety with no tears in it. No garden moment. No “Take and read.” Just takes.

And I think it’s making us shallow.

If the content you consume only teaches you how to argue, then wonder will start to feel threatening. Mystery will feel weak. Beauty will feel like a waste of time.

But it’s not. It’s what we were made for.

We were meant to eat the Word like honey, not frame it like a museum piece. We were meant to lose ourselves in Christ, not just memorize talking points about Him.

And if our content, our influencers, our conversations aren’t leading us back to that—then what exactly are we doing?

Because whatever it is… it’s not making us saints.

On “RadTrads” and the Devil’s Favorite Game

After I posted one of my reflections, someone asked me, “Was this intended for RadTrads?” And I won’t lie—that question broke my heart. Not because it was mean or accusatory, but because it revealed just how deeply tribal our faith has become.

That word—RadTrad—means very little to me. There’s no real definition. It’s mostly a moving target used to insult or defend, depending on who’s speaking. But here’s the thing: I go to the Traditional Latin Mass. I pray the monastic Divine Office. I love the Church Fathers, the councils, the saints. Am I a RadTrad?

And yet—I also speak about tenderness. About beauty. About mystery and imagination and how to love God with your whole aching heart. Does that suddenly put me on the other side?

The question itself misses the point.

Yes, there are real ideological divisions. Yes, certain online groups spread harmful views that need to be called out. But I don’t want to live in that framework. I don’t want to speak into that framework. I don’t want to carry that burden every time I open my mouth.

It’s a distraction. And I think the enemy loves it.

Satan doesn’t just love sin—he loves discourse. He loves it when we talk in circles. When we divide ourselves into camps. When we spend more time policing tribe lines than sitting at the feet of Christ.

He loves it when we think every post needs a label. He loves it when we ask “which side are you on?” instead of “what is Christ saying in this moment?” He loves it when we stop seeing souls and start seeing factions.

All of it—all this online tension, this pressure to pick a camp, to market your Catholicism like a brand—it’s not helping us become holier. It’s helping us become more performative. More paranoid. More tribal. And less like the saints we claim to admire.

I don’t want to spend my life commenting on Catholic Twitter factions. I want to spend my life commenting on the Gospel—with my hands, my words, and my love.

And if I speak about reverence, it’s not because I want to take sides. It’s because I want people to fall back in love with Jesus. If I write about beauty, it’s not a shot at one group—it’s a call to every group to remember that God is not impressed by aesthetics if they aren’t paired with mercy.

We don’t need more tribes. We need more tears in prayer. More longing. More repentance. More Christ.

Because I promise you—at the end of this life, He’s not going to ask which corner of Catholic YouTube you posted in. He’s going to ask if you loved Him. And if you loved His people.

That’s the only side I ever want to be on.

To Say I’m a “Breath of Fresh Air” Means the Air Is Toxic

Oh, my soul—what have I done?

Am I playing into the same toxic drama I claim to speak out against? Maybe. Maybe I’ve inhaled just enough of the smog to cough back fire.

Because here’s what haunts me:

So many of you have said,

“You’re a breath of fresh air.”

“I’m so glad to find a channel that’s about Christ—not politics.”

“Thank you for speaking of prayer, not outrage.” “We’ve got enough apologists. We need mystics again.”

And I’m grateful. Deeply.

Because yes, that’s the mission—to re-center Christ. To help us fall back in love with Him, not just argue in His name.

But if I’m a breath of fresh air… that means the rest of the air is poisoned.

And I think it is.

One of the creators who helped bring me back to the Church now spends his platform slandering Muslims. Another voice that once led me to prayer now pours venom toward the Jews.

What are we doing? What have we become?

I used to log off feeling lit up with love. Now I leave these channels feeling tight-chested and sad.

Yes, Christ flipped tables—but He also washed feet. He wept. He healed. He died for His enemies.

If my channel feels different, it’s only because so many have forgotten Him. The culture war has swallowed the Bridegroom whole—and left us with snarling in His place.

And here’s what I’ll say last:

If I’m your breath of fresh air, know this—I’m choking too.

I miss the Jesus I met when I first came back. The one who welcomed me, not weaponized me. And I hear Him knocking again—not to fight, but to dwell.

Open the windows. Let Him in. The air is heavy with smoke—and we need to breathe again.

Oh, but what’s a soul to do?

Remember what we’re really here for.
Not to know all the right things perfectly. Not to win every debate.
But to reveal Christ—to bear Him in our lives with trembling hands and a sincere heart.
To let even a flicker of His love break through the fog.
And maybe—just maybe—that small, imperfect light will be enough to guide one soul home.

Still aching, still hoping, still His,

W.