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When I first announced my relationship with my now-longtime boyfriend to my parents, the first thing my dad said was, “Really? The least Catholic person you know?”

This was rich coming from a man who was not Catholic when he married my very Catholic mother and then converted 25 years later when he had truly and personally come to the faith (this was the crux of my rebuttal to his comment). In truth, his comment was the response I knew many of our friends and family shared but didn’t have the courage to say.

From the start, my boyfriend and I were drawn to each other because of our shared passion for leadership, learning, and serving others. We have always had fantastic conversations at the intersections of our scientific and theological studies. As we got to know each other more deeply, we discovered shared difficulties in our family lives growing up, a shared desire for self-improvement, and shared political beliefs.

From the start, my boyfriend and I were drawn to each other because of our shared passion for leadership, learning, and serving others.

Over the course of four years of friendship and dating other people, we discovered the uniqueness of our trust and honesty with each other, and attraction naturally grew. We have learned how to communicate effectively through three years of long distance dating and, through personal tragedy, we have come together to mourn and ask big questions about what “beyond” looks like. It seems to me that, if you removed the outside personas of “church girl” and “agnostic scientist,” our inner selves would look pretty darn similar.

We also still share many essential beliefs: that the ordering of the natural world implies the existence of an all-knowing, first-motion Creator; that there are mysteries that science cannot explain; that miracles happen; that we are both soul and body; and that service to the poor is the crux of the Gospel.

This is not to say that there have not been important conversations surrounding topics like marriage, sex, and children. It is with these subjects that most Catholics begin and end the conversation about dating a non-Catholic. The Catechism tells us:

“In many countries the situation of a mixed marriage (marriage between a Catholic and a baptized non-Catholic) often arises ... A case of marriage with disparity of cult (between a Catholic and a non-baptized person) requires even greater circumspection. Difference of confession between the spouses does not constitute an insurmountable obstacle for marriage, when they succeed in placing in common what they have received from their respective communities, and learn from each other the way in which each lives in fidelity to Christ. But the difficulties of mixed marriages ... arise from the fact that the separation of Christians has not yet been overcome. The spouses risk experiencing the tragedy of Christian disunity even in the heart of their own home. Disparity of cult can further aggravate these difficulties. Differences about faith and the very notion of marriage, but also different religious mentalities, can become sources of tension in marriage, especially as regards the education of children. The temptation to religious indifference can then arise” (CCC 1633-1634).

Because of the sacramental orientation of the Church, and because of how we as women have been conditioned to view marriage as the be-all end-all of our vocational stories, we often jump to these things immediately when testing compatibility. They are foundational — and for good reason. We should desire a sacramental marriage, because we should desire that special grace from God, and we should strive to belong to the Church community and lean on it for support.

We should desire a sacramental marriage, because we should desire that special grace from God, and we should strive to belong to the Church community and lean on it for support.

Expectations about Faith and Conversion

When dating someone of a different faith, there are also expectations to discuss. Do you want your partner to attend Mass or Adoration with you? Do you want to pray together, and, if so, in what form and how frequently? Are there certain beliefs that, if your partner does not share them, you feel would inhibit your growth in faith and therefore “make or break” your relationship?

A question that often arises from such discussions is whether or not a partner should convert. Some people and/or their families may have expectations that a partner join the Church before or during marriage. I caution against having this expectation. We live in a world where more and more young people are falling away from the Church because of a lack of personal connection to the Faith. Converting to Catholicism based on feeling the need to do so is not a good way to build up our Tradition. Take my dad as an example: He came to the Church 25 years into marriage, because he finally found a priest and community who helped guide him. Now, his faith is flourishing. My mother never expected or demanded his conversion; she just led by example. On this, The Catechism says:

“In marriages with disparity of cult the Catholic spouse has a particular task: ‘For the unbelieving husband is consecrated through his wife, and the unbelieving wife is consecrated through her husband.’ It is a great joy for the Christian spouse and for the Church if this ‘consecration’ should lead to the free conversion of the other spouse to the Christian faith. Sincere married love, the humble and patient practice of the family virtues, and perseverance in prayer can prepare the non-believing spouse to accept the grace of conversion” (CCC 1637).

I want to be clear that it is OK to have certain expectations about participation and for those expectations to change along the way, so long as the partners communicate them. I used to not care whether my boyfriend prayed or went to Mass with me. Now, because of how much his presence and perspective matter to me, and because of the ways in which he is now exploring his faith, it is important to me that he attends Mass with me once or twice a month. We also pray or meditate together every evening.

Also, remember that this is a two-way street: You must consider the ways in which a person who doesn’t share your faith can support you in your spiritual growth, but you must also consider the ways in which you may or may not be able to support him in his faith. What are your partner’s expectations? Does he want you to attend weekly service with him? Are there holidays he wants to celebrate?

As you try and lead by example to point your partner to Christ, are you open to your partner’s also leading by example for you? Your non-Catholic partner can lead you in faith at times, and we have much to learn from our non-Catholic brothers and sisters.

Your non-Catholic partner can lead you in faith at times, and we have much to learn from our non-Catholic brothers and sisters.

When Difference of Religion Isn’t the Problem

The most important thing to consider is that none of these concerns, discussions, or questions is exclusive to dating someone who doesn’t share your faith. In fact, assuming that they are is where pitfalls can occur.

Let’s say that you told your significant other that attending Mass together every week is important to you. Attending Mass does not otherwise violate his religious beliefs, nor does it conflict with the timing of his own faith’s religious services. Regardless, he is unwilling to attend Mass with you even once.

Or, maybe you were drawn to your partner because of the fantastic conversations you can have together. However, whenever religion is the subject, he criticizes Catholicism as nonsensical but won’t engage you in a dialogue that allows you to share or justify your opinions. You may even express how this hurts you, and he may respond with comments like, “You’re trying to convert me, and you’re not going to”; “Why does this matter so much to you? You know I’m not Catholic”; or, “We just shouldn’t talk about it anymore, then.”

None of these examples is a “difference of religion” problem. The first is an example of an unwillingness to compromise, a behavioral tendency that will probably pop up later on in other contexts. The second is an example of a willingness to openly criticize or brush off things that you have made clear are important to you, with no consideration for your perspective. This is a big red flag that will also return later. These patterns are behavioral, not religious.

It is important to note that problematic behavioral patterns are possible even when you and your partner share the same faith. Just because a man is Catholic doesn’t mean that he is the man for you (or even that he is a good man).

Just because a man is Catholic doesn’t mean that he is the man for you.

There is nothing to fear about going on dates with someone who does not share your faith. Differences in belief and behavioral red flags won’t become visible if you don’t give someone time and the opportunity. Open communication is vital in any and all circumstances, regardless of whether your religious beliefs are shared or different.

In an increasingly globalized world, it is more important than ever to cultivate openness to loving people of different faiths and non-faiths. The Truth of Christ is present in the whole-hearted pursuit of the goodness of the Lord; in service to those in need; and in the anticipation of a world to come full of peace, rest, and light. May our dating relationships and marriages be microcosms of this beautiful vision.

The Truth of Christ is present in the whole-hearted pursuit of the goodness of the Lord; in service to those in need; and in the anticipation of a world to come full of peace, rest, and light.

Read part one here.

According to the March of Dimes, the premature birth rate in the United States has been increasing over the past several years. In response, researchers focus on the prevention of this issue, as well as on treatments and solutions. Among these solutions is the potentially life-saving artificial womb. Although it is still only a theoretical possibility for human gestation, artificial wombs have been successfully tested in animal reproduction, and advanced incubators already save thousands of infants born prematurely every year, with some of these infants surviving when born as early as 18 weeks (David S. Oderberg, Applied Ethics: A Non-Consequentialist Approach 5). Some Catholic thinkers argue that, as this technology advances, it may provide an alternative to abortion.

In his article “Could Artificial Wombs End the Abortion Debate?” Catholic philosopher Christopher Kaczor highlights the potential of artificial womb technology to save lives that might otherwise be lost to abortion. He argues that although the Church explicitly condemns the use of artificial womb technology in Donum Vitae, it does so only in connection with the illicit practice of in-vitro fertilization (IVF). Donum Vitae denounces the production and growth of a human person entirely outside of the human body. What remains officially unaddressed by the Magisterium is the question of whether the use of artificial wombs might be permissible as a treatment or form of rescue.

What remains officially unaddressed by the Magisterium is the question of whether the use of artificial wombs might be permissible as a treatment or form of rescue.

While Donumn Vitae argues against the artificial reproductive practices of IVF and surrogacy, Kaczor offers examples that demonstrate the significant differences between these practices and the use of artificial wombs. While artificial wombs could theoretically be used for artificial reproduction, the technology itself is not inherently wrong, and has potentially monumental benefits as a form of healthcare. When viewed as a treatment, artificial wombs are not a form of surrogacy. Donum Vitae condemns surrogacy as a violation of the dignity of the person; artificial wombs - merely a medical intervention - could uphold it. Certainly, the Church would agree that the use of incubators to save prematurely born infants is laudable, as are attempts to relocate embryos from the fallopian tube to the uterus in cases of ectopic pregnancy. Might not we view artificial wombs through the same lens?

Artificial wombs might also be acceptable under Catholic teaching if developed for a patient’s healing and restoration of wholeness. As a medical treatment, artificial wombs might restore health for patients who suffer from uterine pathologies; for example, to replace a cancerous uterus that required removal. In this case, the artificiality of the womb is no more an ethical problem than the artificiality of a knee or hip replacement. If we regard artificial wombs as a form of life-saving technology that restore the physical integrity of the patient, we can be optimistic about their acceptability under Catholic teaching.

In light of this optimism, it makes sense to consider whether artificial wombs might be considered as an alternative to abortion. Certainly, some women face grave medical risks during pregnancy. In cases where abortion might now seem to be the only alternative to facing grave peril, artifical wombs could provide a ground-breaking alternative. 

[I]t makes sense to consider whether artificial wombs might be considered as an alternative to abortion.

The concept of an artificial womb provides us with new ways of understanding abortion. Currently, the termination of a pregnancy is also the termination of a human life; one is not possible without the other. Artificial wombs could separate the two by providing a way to end pregnancy without ending the developing life. As Kaczor highlights, these are two distinct moral acts. Prominent defenders of abortion such as Judith Jarvis Thompson and Mary Ann Warren have argued that the right to terminate pregnancy is distinct from the right to kill the fetus. The existence of artifical wombs could change the conversation around abortion by shifting the focus from the body of the mother to the dignity and rights of the fetus.

In arguing for the personhood of the fetus, many pro-life thinkers agree that the moment of birth is not relevant; why should it matter whether the fetus is located in or outside of a woman’s body? The location does not change the substance of what and who that creature is. While I agree with that argument, something important does change at the moment of birth: relationship.

Prior to birth, any interaction with the fetus by third parties is mediated by the mother. Kicks are felt through her skin. Ultrasound images are seen through her body. Prior to birth, the mother is the only individual with the capacity to sustain the life of her child. Without her cooperation, no one else can bear moral responsibility for the child. At birth, the location of the child changes such that he can now interact in a way unmediated by his mother. Thus, birth signifies the process by which a human being enters into relationship with every other human person. Birth is the moment at which the moral responsibility for that child no longer falls solely on the shoulders of the mother.

To understand this, imagine a pregnant mother and several others in a room when they all suddenly hear a fire alarm and begin to smell smoke. The only person who can “save” the fetus is the mother, who has the moral responsibility to exit the building and save both herself and the fetus. Imagine the same scenario after the birth of the child. If all adults including the mother were to exit the building leaving the infant inside, all of them would be guilty of grave moral error. While we might still argue that a mother has a special duty to her child, any of the adults present could have saved the child. Their ability to intervene places a moral impetus to do so on all of them. Birth represents the moment at which a person enters into a moral relationship with the rest of the human family, becoming, to some degree, the responsibility of us all. 

Birth represents the moment at which a person enters into a moral relationship with the rest of the human family, becoming, to some degree, the responsibility of us all. 

The existence of artificial wombs could change the nature of our moral responsibility to the unborn. The fetus would no longer be entirely dependent upon the body of its mother, but rather immediately possess the possibility of surviving with the proper treatment and support. Given the sheer number of abortions in the US alone, this could pose many social and economic problems such as the need for more foster and adoptive families. As Kaczor points out, however, these are not moral problems; the difficulties they pose are not justification for ending lives.

Or are they? In the U.S., abortion is most often used as a method of “birth control” when contraception fails. The impetus behind many abortions is not to avoid pregnancy, but rather the reality of parenthood. Some women choose abortion not because of the burden to their bodies, but to avoid the existence of a biological child. Few reasons that women cite for why they have abortions (e.g. financial difficulties, demands of parenting, interference with studies or career) would not be solved by adoption, the current alternative to abortion. Given the choice between a medical procedure that either preserves or ends the development of a “potential” person who might one day come knocking on her doorstep, many pregnant women will still choose abortion.

The reality is that neither abortion nor an artificial womb provides what many women in crisis pregnancies need. Our society is ill-structured to support single mothers and even families with multiple children. Working women enter a male-dominated realm with policies and prejudices that make the very fact of being a woman a stumbling block to success. Even when entering fields that give preferential hiring treatment to women, maternity leave policies and concerns over child care often pit women’s desires to have children against professional advancement. More and more, women are rejecting the notion that “success” means removing our fertility, a key component of the feminine identity. We are told that the fight for contraception is the fight for equality. Large companies offer benefits like egg freezing, encouraging women to delay child-bearing (entailing greater health risks for both mothers and their children).

The reality is that neither abortion nor an artificial womb provides what many women in crisis pregnancies need.

Policies that truly affirm women do not erase our capabilities; they must enhance them. A society that respects our dignity helps us achieve full flourishing as ourselves, not by diminishing integrative aspects of ourselves. Solutions that truly offer choice to women are solutions that remove fear and foster confidence in pregnancy and motherhood. Women need better solutions to the barriers that make pregnancy and motherhood causes for anxiety rather than joy. Society will not change unless we demand it. This is a fight not all of us are equipped for. Those of us who can speak out must speak out.

In 1933, Aldous Huxley imagined a Brave New World in which human reproduction was entirely artificial. No longer science fiction, the use of “artificial wombs” is news of the past. Researchers demonstrated the capacity to gestate animals in 2017, when a team at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia published the results of their study growing fetal lambs in what they termed a “biobag.” Their research showed at least the potential for artificial wombs to push back the age of viability for prematurely delivered human infants to 24 or even 22 weeks. As tests continue and technology develops, it is feasible to imagine that, one day, it may be possible to join the technology of an artificial uterus with that of in-vitro fertilization (IVF), providing a reproductive alternative to natural pregnancy.

The widespread use of artificial womb technology has incredible implications. As the technology develops and improves, the ill effects of premature birth on families and infants — including trauma and anxiety, lasting birth defects, and even mortality — could be ameliorated. One day, the danger of premature birth could become a thing of the past.

On the one hand, given the potential magnitude of these positive effects, optimism about the development and use of artificial wombs for human gestation is understandable. On the other hand, technology of this nature comes with serious risks.

As the development of new technologies accelerates, we are hard-pressed to keep pace in considering whether these developments are actually good for humanity. What we can do far outpaces our ability to consider whether we ought to do it. While the life-saving benefits of artificial wombs may be immense, it is worth pausing to consider whether, overall, the development of this technology will help or harm women, their infants, and the human family as a whole.

What we can do far outpaces our ability to consider whether we ought to do it.

The “Pharmacracy”: Making Women Superfluous?

Feminists have already expressed concerns over what Gena Corea calls the “pharmacracy,” the increased tendency of the field of medicine to dominate fertility, which is traditionally the realm of women’s power. Childbirth is less often an experience of empowerment for women than it is one of submission. Women are encouraged or even coerced to defer their agency in childbirth to the medical expertise of highly trained physicians who oversee the process. The introduction of artificial wombs further removes childbearing from the feminine domain. If scientists choose to join artificial wombs with IVF and cloning, women could become superfluous to reproduction and seen as entirely unnecessary for the creation of new human beings.

The introduction of artificial wombs further removes childbearing from the feminine domain.

It may sound far-fetched, but with IVF eliminating the need for sexual intercourse, and efforts already underway to alter gametes to allow for same-sex reproduction, it is becoming less of a stretch to imagine that human reproduction may eventually take place entirely within a lab, rather than within the human body.

Would that be so terrible? Morning sickness, mood swings, backaches, preeclampsia, and gestational diabetes are only a few of the tolls pregnancy takes on women. Bearing a child imposes even life-threatening risks on some women. Mortality rates for women in childbirth remain high, even in developed countries such as the United States. Prior to pregnancy, many women suffer the great emotional impact of infertility and miscarriage. Even preventing pregnancy through hormonal contraceptives is dangerous to women, posing serious risks like blood clots, stroke, and cancer. With all of the potential physical and emotional risks that fertility carries, moving the process of childbearing to a lab could mean eliminating a great deal of suffering for women.

The Consequences of Eliminating Pregnancy

However, we should be careful about embracing this technology with unbridled optimism. While it might have life-saving effects for babies and mothers who face serious medical complications, replacing a woman’s uterus with a machine also carries potentially devastating consequences.

Replacing a woman’s uterus with a machine carries potentially devastating consequences.

When it comes to infants and even young children, research points to the great power of human touch. Touch has the potential to improve health outcomes for premature infants. Conversely, it has tragic consequences when withheld. Some research even shows that infants deprived of human touch die from the lack of it. In the 1980s, observational studies on Romanian orphans demonstrated that children who are deprived of touch suffer intense developmental and social consequences. If the power of human touch is so great for an infant whose body has been separated from its mother, how much more power might it hold for the developing human in utero?

Scientists still don’t know all of the components in breastmilk, and the most advanced formulas have yet to measure up to its benefits. It is arrogant to imagine that we can know and mechanically reproduce all that a mother’s womb has to offer. We can only guess what kinds of risks an artificial uterus exposes to the person growing within it. With such grave risks and so great a gap in knowledge, research that involves developing human beings is unethical in all cases, save those where the child would otherwise perish.

With such grave risks and so great a gap in knowledge, research that involves developing human beings is unethical in all cases, save those where the child would otherwise perish.

It is also worth considering the kinds of suffering mothers face during pregnancy and whether some degree of this suffering might actually be beneficial for both mothers and babies. From the earliest stages of pregnancy, women’s bodies alert them that something is different. The challenges of pregnancy can be great, but they also serve as a time of preparation and virtue-building for mothers who enter into a vocation of sleepless nights and selfless giving. Adoptive mothers face a similar period of suffering throughout the adoption process, with its inherent uncertainty, waiting, and potential heartbreak, that prepares them for the rigors of motherhood. In both cases, great personal investment — emotional and physical — provides a liminal space for virtue and gratitude to grow. If the investment involved in becoming a mother were to drop to that involved with having a tooth pulled, the depth of relationship between mother and infant would suffer. Like the way of the cross, there is beauty and meaning in the suffering that gives way to new life.

Like the way of the cross, there is beauty and meaning in the suffering that gives way to new life.

Still, it seems reasonable to support the use of artificial wombs as a life-saving measure, a sort of extension of the type of care already provided to premature infants. Is there still cause for concern if its use were to be limited to the rescue of infants who would otherwise perish?

Sociologist Barbara Katz Rothman argues that the existence and use of this technology is inherently coercive. In her book The Tentative Pregnancy, she relays the consequences that the use of amniocentesis has had on the experience of motherhood. Using the analogy of a horse-drawn carriage in the automobile age, Rothman argues that as a technology grows in popularity and its use becomes widespread, the option to do otherwise becomes untenable. The option to opt out disappears. This is true in a number of ways; society is structured to support the majority. How many families can no longer afford to opt out of a two-income lifestyle?

When Life Is No Longer a Gift

As the technology of the artificial uterus advances, its use will become more prevalent. Intended parents will no longer need to rely on exploitative practices like surrogacy as alternatives to natural pregnancy. Women will be able to “opt out” of pregnancy for the “health of the mother,” which we know includes ailments great and small. The fertility industry will profit greatly, finding ways to make the technology even more affordable and accessible. And when our children ask, “Where do babies come from?”, we will have a far more clinical story to tell. In this story, new life is no longer a priceless gift from God to be received with joy and gratitude. It is just another product with a price tag.

Part two of this series will look at more explicitly Catholic perspectives on this technology, including the optimistic possibilities that artificial wombs might one day not only save the lives of premature infants but even provide an alternative to abortion.

I have written before about my husband and I losing our first baby, Lawrence, to miscarriage at 11 weeks. Since that day, I’ve spent a lot of time processing the loss and coming to terms with the different person I am now. Learning more about miscarriage has comforted me and made me realize how many women walk the earth carrying this wound. Like any other loss, miscarriage isnt an experience you “get over.” Even though wounds heal eventually, you’re left with a scar reminding you of your loss. Suffering changes who you are, mostly because you have had an experience that marked you as wounded. However, we are all wounded in one way or another, and our woundedness binds us, rather than separates us. We resemble our wounded Savior when we suffer and draw closer to him by remembering the redemptive purpose of this suffering.

We resemble our wounded Savior when we suffer and draw closer to him by remembering the redemptive purpose of this suffering.

If someone would have told me that I would have a miscarriage one day, I wouldn’t have believed her. Before I lost my son, I only knew a little bit about miscarriage through scattered stories of friends and family who had experienced it. A close friend lost her second baby to miscarriage around eight weeks; my sister lost her second baby at 14 weeks. I was convinced that miscarriages only happened in successive pregnancies and to older women, but the reality is that one in four women have a miscarriage at some point in their lives. Ten to 25% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. Most miscarriages occur before 12 weeks, but it’s possible to have one later. While the mother’s age does play a role, it isn’t the sole factor. Having one miscarriage doesn’t substantially increase the risk of having a second, and women may be more fertile in the months immediately following a miscarriage.

The most important fact I learned about miscarriage after my own was that most miscarriages aren’t the mother’s fault. While it might seem like an obvious conclusion, taking responsibility for a miscarriage is common. How else do you explain something so cruel? You begin to wonder whether you missed your prenatal vitamin, ate something you weren’t supposed to, or overdid it at the gym. The truth is that most miscarriages occur because of chromosomal or developmental abnormalities in the child, over which the mother has no control. The lack of control is both healing and terrifying, welcome and unwelcome.

Even though it’s beneficial to know the statistics, nothing can prepare you for the aftermath of a miscarriage. No statistics make the nursery any less empty. No amount of knowledge makes it easier to swallow the questions about when you’re going to start a family. Having other children doesn’t bring back the one you lost. It is unspeakably difficult, and the road to healing is long and winding. Perhaps the only blessing along the road is meeting other mothers who have walked the same path. After I lost my son, other women who had lost their children came out of the woodwork. New friends, old friends, and acquaintances who became friends all stepped forward to share their stories of loss with me. Given the stigma surrounding miscarriage and pregnancy, it was almost as if these women felt they had permission to share their grief with me. And it was so welcome. It was heavy at first, hearing about late-term miscarriages and stillbirths, but soon, I felt lifted by the support of so many women around me. Men also stepped forward to share their stories of miscarriage and what it was like to feel so powerless next to their wives’ visceral pain. I recognized the suffering Christ in these men and women and was reassured over and over again that our wounds do not have the last word. Our suffering does indeed have a redemptive purpose, as painful as the path may be.

Our suffering does indeed have a redemptive purpose, as painful as the path may be.

Loss is paradoxically an individual and communal experience. It is individual, because no one person’s experience of loss is the same as someone else’s. It is communal, because similar stories of loss bring strangers together on an unintended path of grief. However, the communal and redemptive nature of suffering and loss doesn’t make the experience any easier. For weeks after I lost Lawrence, I fell silent. Words were insufficient, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around having my child suddenly taken from me. I struggled to find the words in prayer and hoped my tears would be an adequate substitute. Starting a routine of morning prayer brought me immense comfort. Praying through the psalms and praying for Lawrence during the intercessions was a beautiful reminder of his short life and his presence in our family. Above all, it reminded me that God would hold me close throughout the day, whatever sufferings would befall me.

If you’re reading this blog and have suffered a miscarriage, know this: You are no less of a mother. Your baby knows you and loves you and will always be yours. No set of circumstances can change that. Also know that you are not alone. Whether you realize it or not, you are surrounded by kindred souls on this journey. Find them and reach out when you feel ready. You may not have to look very far. I promise that healing will come.

If you have suffered a miscarriage, you are no less of a mother. Your baby knows you and loves you and will always be yours

While studies show that religious affiliation has decreased significantly over the past few decades, there is no shortage of people who identify as spiritual, but not religious — and who are increasingly attracted to New Age practices. There is a rise in women who identify as “witches” and people who rely on popular apps like CoStar for daily horoscopes to guide them. And yet, they reject organized religion and its practices. What does our Church say about this phenomenon, and how do we respond? I write to share my own experiences with some of these practices and my realizations about them, as well as to unpack a balanced, Catholic feminist perspective.

As a little girl, I was fascinated by magic. Like Matilda, I wanted to make things move with my mind. Like Harry Potter, I longed to attend a special school and study magic. I grew up with movies and TV shows like Hocus Pocus, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and Charmed. I was attracted to those images of powerful women with supernatural abilities to affect and control a myriad of things in their lives.

Looking for Answers

Although I was raised Catholic, conversations about zodiac signs were normal in my home, and I grew obsessed with learning about astrology and its assessments of different personalities. When I experienced bullying and felt the pain of unrequited love interests, I wanted to understand why, and astrology seemed to offer solutions. The night sky mesmerized me, evoking a sense of wonder and awe as I looked up at something so much bigger than me. Though small and powerless in the context of the cosmos, I felt a sense of significance and connectedness to it all.

The night sky mesmerized me, evoking a sense of wonder and awe as I looked up at something so much bigger than me.

Astrology claims to makes connections among our identities, the events of our daily lives, and the vast expanse of the universe. Astrology posits that your personality is shaped by the location of the sun, moon, and other planets in the sky at the time of your birth and that the continuous movement of the celestial bodies across the path of the sun affects your daily activities. By learning the zodiac signs of my bullies or love interests, I believed, I could understand and predict their behavior. I devoured monthly horoscopes in the hope that they would provide wisdom that would help me navigate my social and emotional lives.

By the time I was in college, I had turned to tarot cards, oracle boards, and star charts to find the answers to my most pressing questions about the future. Ultimately, I sought self-awareness so I could develop as a person, and I believed that those things would help me. All the while, I was attending Mass and participating in a weekly Bible study. I knew that my Catholic Faith condemned participation in witchcraft and the occult, but somehow, I rationalized that these other things were more innocuous. I wasn’t making potions or casting hexes; I just wanted answers to questions in my life.

Eventually, I began to recognize that the cards, boards, and horoscopes never gave me answers, resolution, or peace. I was left with more questions and an increased need to know the future, rather than with a sense of contentment and trust.

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Eventually, I began to recognize that the cards, boards, and horoscopes never gave me answers, resolution, or peace.

Our Deepest Longings

The first of the Ten Commandments that God gave to Moses is, “You shall not have other gods beside me” (Exodus 20:3). God created us for relationship with Him, and He knows that nothing except Him will fulfill our deepest longings. The first commandment is not just an arbitrary rule but, rather, an orientation that will lead to the proper worship of God and the satisfaction of our restless hearts. The Catechism unpacks this commandment, saying:

All forms of divination are to be rejected: recourse to Satan or demons, conjuring up the dead or other practices falsely supposed to “unveil” the future. Consulting horoscopes, astrology, palm reading, interpretation of omens and lots, the phenomena of clairvoyance, and recourse to mediums all conceal a desire for power over time, history, and, in the last analysis, other human beings, as well as a wish to conciliate hidden powers. They contradict the honor, respect, and loving fear that we owe to God alone. (2116)

When life brought hard questions and I sought answers, I didn’t want to put everything in God’s hands; I tried to take matters into my own. Astrology and tarot readings made me believe I had some kind of control, but they only left me anxious. One of the leaders of my college faith group often counseled me with words from Psalm 23 and Isaiah 55, reminding me that God wanted me to come to Him for the richest wine, milk, and bread, to have my cup overflow, because of His great love for me. In seeking answers from cards and stars, was I really trusting in Him? Did I really believe that God loved me and desired my greatest good? As I reflected on these questions and grew in my relationship with God, my attraction to divination started to wane.

God wanted me to come to Him for the richest wine, milk, and bread, to have my cup overflow, because of His great love for me.

Ultimately, my intellect and my heart made me confront this desire for a supernatural ability to predict and control things in my life. If I really believe that God loves me, wants good things for me, and has my best interests at heart, why don’t I go to Him directly? Why go to the stars for answers and consolation when I could go to the One who made them? In 2003, the Vatican released a document presenting a Christian reflection on New Age spirituality. The heart of the document is this statement:

The success of New Age offers the Church a challenge. People feel the Christian religion no longer offers them – or perhaps never gave them – something they really need. The search which often leads people to the New Age is a genuine yearning: for a deeper spirituality, for something which will touch their hearts, and for a way of making sense of a confusing and often alienating world (Jesus Christ, the Bearer of the Water of Life 1.5).

In our desire for guidance and wisdom, we need look no further than the voice of God speaking in the depths of our own hearts (so long as we learn to listen). While He does not answer every question or offer us every explanation, God Himself satisfies all of our deepest longings. It is in Christ alone that we find peace.

God Himself satisfies all of our deepest longings. It is in Christ alone that we find peace.

In some circles, “feminist” is almost synonymous with a mean woman, someone cold and harsh who doesn’t care about your feelings. That stereotypical cold-hearted feminist certainly isn’t who I am; if anything, I care too much about others’ feelings. Furthermore, as Catholic feminists, that isn’t who we are. We are called to love — specifically, to practice the virtue of charity - and love isn’t for the faint of heart.

Charity is “the theological virtue by which we love God above all things for his own sake, and our neighbor as ourselves for the love of God” (CCC 1822). The Catechism goes on to explain that “charity keeps the commandments of God and his Christ ... [and] demands beneficence and fraternal correction” (CCC 1824 & 1829, emphasis added).

Living out the virtue of charity isn’t the same as “being nice,” and my feminism recently helped me navigate a situation in which I had to realize that the most loving thing to do was not the most gentle option.

Living out the virtue of charity isn’t the same as “being nice.”

Until this moment, I had always believed (as I have been implicitly taught by the culture around me) that if I am accommodating, friendly, and “nice” enough, I will be treated well. This belief means that I risk being treated well when I speak up to defend myself. As a result, I have learned to be careful about doing so.

One day, I ordered groceries through a delivery app. I’m always a little bit on my guard when I do this, because I am often home alone with two little kids, I look very young, and I’m visibly pregnant. Some men who encounter me in this situation — the boiler repair man, the mailman, the neighbors — are inclined to be condescending (I hope unintentionally so). I simply don’t fit their idea of a smart, strong, adult peer.

When a delivery man arrived at my home with the groceries, I asked him to please leave them outside the house and said I’d bring them in myself. He protested and tried to walk into my house. I raised my voice slightly and asked him again, “No, I really need you to leave them here on the porch.” He protested again, I insisted again, and he finally put the bags down. I was frustrated and flustered by that point. As I hurried to empty the bag he needed back, I felt him put his hand on my shoulder. He was standing behind me, which I hadn’t even realized.

“Slow down!” he said, “There’s no rush! I would never rush anybody.”

I wanted to tell him not to touch me, but my toddler was there, and I didn’t know how the man would react. Instead, I jumped away, rushed through the rest of the bags, and hurried him out the door. And then locked it and shuddered.

I told myself, “He was just trying to be nice,” and that might be true. At the same time, I don’t need to know what his intentions were in order to know that it’s not OK for a stranger to touch me without my permission — especially when he has already shown some level of disrespect for my “no.”

It happened, and I didn’t like it, and I was ready to move on with my day when the app asked me to rate the service I’d received. I wondered, “What’s the loving thing to do here?”

All of the training I’d received from the culture told me that he should receive the usual five stars and a tip. I’m well aware that people who make money through these delivery apps generally aren’t well off and don’t have the same benefits that others receive through their jobs. They’re at the mercy of a system that doesn’t need to pay them a fair wage, since there are plenty of other people waiting for the same work.

I started to wonder whether love isn’t as simple as I’d been told. I do have a duty to act with love and mercy, not on an impulse of revenge — and this duty extends to all people, not just the ones in front of me. What was my duty, in love, to the people this boundary-pushing person would serve in the future? My duty was to love them, too, which means that this individual’s feelings couldn’t be my priority.

I started to wonder whether love isn’t as simple as I’d been told.

The sweet, nice, gentle, non-confrontational thing to do would have been to shake it off, make an excuse, and send him away with a high rating. Furthermore, that would have been the easiest thing for me, too, because I’ve developed a lifelong habits of not rocking the boat. I struggle with confrontation. I’ve heard all my life that my voice is less important than other people’s comfort and that my right to respect for my body only exists so long as it doesn’t step on anyone else’s toes. When it’s a choice between my own boundaries and somebody else’s comfort, I should do the “nice” thing and laugh it off. No one likes an uptight woman, right?

That day, I realized that those habits are built on fear, not on love — fear of being perceived as overreacting or inflexible. I don’t want to be fearful; I want to be brave, and choosing love is always the most courageous choice.

I gave him a low rating and a direct note: “It’s never okay to touch another person’s body without permission; it made me extremely uncomfortable. It’s not okay to ignore somebody’s request that you not enter their home. It’s important to me that you know to not do that again.”

Building these habits takes time, so hopefully, I’ll find the voice to say that to someone in person, should there be a next time. For now, though, that day was a big step in the right direction.

I assume that he read the note and thought, “Good grief, I was just trying to help! I was just trying to be nice!” But we don’t need more niceness in the world; we need more love. Love isn’t always comfortable, but it is always the answer.

Love isn’t always comfortable, but it is always the answer.

When I decided to attend midwifery school, I knew my pro-life values would likely be challenged. Even though I chose a Catholic institution, I began graduate school thinking that my biggest obstacle would be trying to fit in among my avidly pro-choice colleagues (and somehow convince them that I'm not weird). While they might think I’m weird for other reasons (see: niche birth memes), they generally respect my choices to publicly identify as pro-life, to endorse natural family planning, and to protect the sanctity of human life. In fact, our differences have led to productive and thought-provoking conversations. I was shocked when I realized that one of the biggest threats to human dignity actually happens in my favorite place in the world: the delivery room.

The Culture of Death in the Room of Birth

I’ve witnessed, assisted at, and guided hundreds of births over the last seven years. It’s a sacred space where new life enters the world, but this room — filled with the sights, smells, and sounds of new life — is horrifically tainted by the culture of death.

This room — filled with the sights, smells, and sounds of new life — is horrifically tainted by the culture of death.

The fundamental belief of the pro-life stance is that every life has the same value, no matter how big or how small. As Scripture (Genesis 1:26-28) and tradition (Catechism, 2nd ed., 355) teach us, every human being is made in the image and likeness of God. Every person is a unique and essential part of the Body of Christ. Looking upon another is looking upon the face of Our Lord, and we should treat our bodies and the bodies of others with the dignity they deserve by virtue of their very existence. While these beliefs are extrapolated to apply to intrauterine life, somehow, they are completely lost during birth.

Women make themselves and their unborn children vulnerable during childbirth, and obstetrics essentially treats the birthing body as secular. The respect of each woman’s free will, values, and reason are often abandoned during impending delivery.

In a recent international study, one-third of women reported feeling exceptionally vulnerable or abused throughout their labor and delivery process. Notably, women felt these feelings most acutely in the 15 minutes before and the 15 minutes after delivery. Unfortunately, I’m not at all shocked by this study. Labor can be unfamiliar — even frightening — for women, and there is gravity in a body bringing a new life earthside.

Just as in the first moments before gestation begins, consent is imperative in the final moments before gestation ends. Frequently, health care providers (nurses, midwives, and physicians) use violent language when talking to and about women in labor. Women are told, “You're going to feel my touch,” as if they have no choice in the matter. They hear language like, “Break her bag,” or “Let’s get her on her back.” If labor doesn’t go according to plan, it’s often called a “failed trial of labor,” “failure to progress,” or “failure to descend.” But the woman giving birth is not the one failing.

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Just as in the first moments before gestation begins, consent is imperative in the final moments before gestation ends.

Fighting Nature

The sad reality is that women are told to lie flat on their backs, with knees and feet up in stirrups, and to hold their breath and “push for ten.” This method of delivery has one purpose: to shorten the pushing stage which, conveniently, shortens the amount of time a provider has to be in the room. When women push how and when their body expresses the need to do so, they experience less genital trauma and fewer abnormalities in the fetal heart rate.

However, women are often asked to abandon the natural desire to lie on their sides, or squat and push through their feet, or get on all fours. They are denied the urge to yell, or even verbalize what they want, where they feel comfortable, and what their bodies are telling them. They are made to close their mouths and do as they are told. Women are told how to meet their child as if our Creator made every pelvis, fetal head, contraction, and push identical.

In the delivery room, women are made to close their mouths and do as they are told.

Timelines, interventions completely unsupported by evidence (hello, bedrest during labor), and the convenience of health care staff are too often favored over the woman’s values, choices, privacy, voice, and dignity — with no regard to potential trauma in the delivery room. One of the powerful gifts of the human body is that the body and mind remember. They remember everything from the gentle touch of the beloved to the force of intervention. The frontal lobes of the human brain will replay traumatic moments and sensations over and over, triggering the fight or flight response in the brain and causing uneasiness and panic long after the pushing is done, the sutures knotted, and the gloves and drapes removed. This memory can turn into postpartum or permanent anxiety, depression, and PTSD.

The Pro-Life Responsibility

Valuing human life is important now more than ever before, but we must think about what we ask of women in the delivery room. Without explicit acknowledgment and action in areas such as maternal trauma, we are asking women to enter into pregnancy and birth vulnerable to the culture of death. We who stand up in the name of human life, autonomy, peace, and dignity sometimes do so without recognizing that, unfortunately, the body bearing life is not always given these basic rights. The responsibility falls on each of us — pro-life or otherwise — to ensure that every woman feels safe as the last minutes of her child in utero give way to the first moments of her child in the world.

Valuing human life is important now more than ever before, but we must think about what we ask of women in the delivery room.

Over the last 15 years, I have attended more than my fair share of retreats and conferences, and consequently I have heard plenty of talks — including “women’s session” talks.

Often, the session goes something like this: “You are the daughter of the King and therefore a princess. You are dainty, longing for love, and the Christian version of a damsel in distress.” After these declarations, the topic changes to chastity, modesty, or purity, including the task of all young girls to keep young boys from sinful thoughts.

Due to these types of discussions, women’s sessions always fell short for me. I am not a girly girl who desires to be a princess, nor am I dainty and in need of a hero. What I needed from women’s sessions, instead, was a way to understand who I am, what God desires for me, and how to live out an authentic femininity that honors God’s image in me.

As a high school theology teacher at an all girls’ school and mother to three girls, the topic of bad women’s session talks is no longer just another soap box. I am convicted to address this issue and work toward a solution. To that end, I asked several of my friends, colleagues, and students, “What do you wish you had heard in women’s session talks?” Based on my conversations with them and with members of the FemCatholic community, here are six things that we actually need to hear in women’s sessions.

1. Jesus Was a Feminist

Girls who are starting to form their identity and who rightfully seek to root it in Christ need to know how He approached the women he encountered. In the debate about whether one should be a Martha or a Mary, we often miss the fact that being a Mary at all in this situation was a radical affirmation of women’s inherent dignity. Mary was allowed to sit at the feet of the rabbi, to listen to him and to learn — a position usually only given to men at the time.

Girls who are starting to form their identity and who rightfully seek to root it in Christ need to know how He approached the women he encountered.

At the well, Jesus spoke not only to a Samaritan, but to a Samaritan woman, with compassion, justice, and mercy. He extended to her the task of evangelization, to share the good news of the coming of the Messiah with her community, who “began to believe because of the word of the woman who testified” (John 4:40).

We know St. Mary Magdalene as the “apostle to the apostles,” because Jesus chose to appear to her first and gave her the task of spreading the good news of the Resurrection to the men He left in charge. In the Acts of the Apostles, we read that all of the apostles “devoted themselves with one accord to prayer, together with some women, and Mary the mother of Jesus, and his brothers” (Acts 1:14, emphasis added).

Jesus not only recognized the dignity of the women He encountered, but He also empowered them to spread the Gospel. We have that same mission as women in the Church today. He speaks the words of Mark 5:41 to all of us “Talitha koum! ... Little girl, I say to you, arise!”

2. Be Who God Meant You to Be

I always came away from women’s session talks thinking that there was only one right way to be a good Catholic woman. This reaction continued into college, where I struggled with having other goals in addition to being a wife and mother, surrounded as I was by a “ring by spring” campus culture that focused too much on the transition from college life to marriage and SAHM life. There is nothing wrong with any of these goals, but the message I usually received was that they should be the goals of all Catholic women.

Look at many a Catholic Etsy shop, and you will find a print with this quote attributed to St. Catherine of Siena: “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.” God created us as different kinds of women and, more specifically, as unique individuals with our own gifts, interests, and vocations. One of the best things we can do for young girls is encourage them to discover who God created them to be in a world that often tells them to fit into a specific mold. They need to see, hear, and experience different ways in which women live out their faith. They need women’s sessions that focus on discerning their gifts and how God calls them to use those gifts in the world.

God created us as different kinds of women and, more specifically, as unique individuals with our own gifts, interests, and vocations.

Girls need to hear from women with a variety of experiences: those who had a great conversion experience and those who didn’t, but who have done the everyday work of maintaining their faith; those who work in ministry, and those who live their faith in a secular professional setting. They should hear from artists, musicians, engineers, and scientists. They should hear from stay-at-home moms, work-from-home moms, work-outside-the-home moms, and women who are not moms.

3. God’s Radical Love and Mercy Have a Transformative Power

Girls often struggle with allowing and accepting God’s mercy into their lives. The more problematic women’s sessions leave too many girls with the impression that there is an ideal they have fallen short of and that, consequently, they are less-than in some way. This issue is especially prevalent in talks that focus on chastity. More and more girls are involved in sexual activity at a younger age, ranging from exposure to pornography to sex. When chastity is presented as a standard of behavior without including and emphasizing the reality of God’s mercy and healing, it can lead to deeper shame and a feeling of being rejected by God for their choices.

When chastity is presented as a standard of behavior without emphasizing God’s mercy and healing, it can lead to a feeling of being rejected by God for their choices.

Some speakers bring these topics together well by directly addressing ways in which women can find God’s mercy and healing when there is a lack of chastity in their past and by encouraging their audience to not let their past define them. The sessions I attended did not take this approach, and the perpetuation of purity culture has done a lot of damage.

Furthermore, talks on mercy should extend beyond sexual morality and speak to any young girl who feels deeply shamed and unloved by God for whatever she has in her past. God has a radical love for them which can heal and transform them. Grace builds upon nature, changing us from the inside and conforming us to be more like God — but we have to accept that grace. Girls have to believe that God loves them individually and that Jesus would endure his Passion and Crucifixion for them alone.

4. There Is Beautiful Variety Within the Feminine Genius

When I asked my students what they wish they heard in women’s session talks, they said that they would love to hear about the female saints — not in a general way but in a way that specifically addresses their femininity. They want to hear about how the feminine genius was lived out by these women. A session on female saints is a great way to present diverse examples of what it means to be a woman (and a saint).

A session on female saints is a great way to present diverse examples of what it means to be a woman (and a saint).

Girls want to know how to be brave on the battlefield like Joan and in a doctor’s office like Gianna. They want an example of how to live out social justice like Dorothy Day or Mother Teresa and how to be holy in everyday life like a young Thérèse. We should show them how to be an academic like Edith Stein, how to do it all like Hildegard, or how simply serve your family like Zélie. As C.S. Lewis writes in Mere Christianity, “How monotonously alike all the great tyrants and conquerors have been; how gloriously different are the saints.”

5. How We Can Cultivate True Friendships and Community

We live in a culture of comparison where girls are often encouraged to bring each other down. This tendency continues into adulthood, where women can feel that they are in competition with each other over the slim opportunities for advancement that come their way. My students want to hear more about how to support each other, what true friendship is, and how to cultivate true friendships and supportive communities with their peers. They want to be able to celebrate each other’s gifts and victories rather than live with envy and resentment.

Girls want to be able to celebrate each other’s gifts and victories rather than live with envy and resentment.

They suggested the Visitation as an example: Mary has something incredible happen to her and yet, when she receives the news about Elizabeth, she “makes haste” to be with her cousin, share in her joy, and support her. In return, Elizabeth congratulates Mary and speaks of the greatness that comes with being the “mother of my Lord.” Both women respond to these incredible, divine gifts with humility and an attitude of service and love.

6. Marriage Is Not the End-all, Be-all of Who We Are as Women

Some Catholic talks can make women feel like finding our vocation is a race to the altar and the only way to be joyful and fulfilled. While it is true that many of us will be called to marriage and motherhood, some will not, and it is dangerous for any of us to turn marriage into an idol. Too much talk of marriage creates the impression that being single is unfulfilling, but there are many women who live full and joyful lives as singles. The high school where I teach has great examples of this reality in the consecrated lay women of the Focolare movement who work at our school in various capacities, demonstrating what a fulfilling life in Christ looks like and sharing their spiritual maternity with our students.

While many of us will be called to marriage and motherhood, some will not, and it is dangerous for any of us to turn marriage into an idol.

The next time we have an opportunity to plan or give a “women’s session” talk, let us be bold by highlighting the diversity of our universal Church; giving young women permission to be themselves; and empowering them to use their gifts, love radically, and follow God’s call.

Read part one and part two of this series.

Just as our Catholicism must be informed by an understanding of race, racism, and privilege, so, too, must our feminism.

Stepping Forward, Stepping Backward

I attended a retreat in college that was aimed at addressing diversity. At this retreat, we participated in an exercise that I will never forget. We all stood side by side, blindfolded and holding hands with one another. We were asked a series of questions and told to step forward or backward as the statements applied to us. We were instructed to let go of the hands we held if our steps created too much distance for us to maintain our grip.

Take a step forward if you had 50 or more books in your home growing up.

Take a step backward if you were ever discriminated against for your race.

Take a step forward if you have never had to worry about money.

Take a step backward if you have ever been sexually harassed.

As the questions continued, I stepped forward at times and backward at others, and I felt my grip break from those beside me. After all questions had been asked, we were told to remove our blindfolds and to only look forward; we weren’t yet allowed to turn around. I could see the backs of the heads of a few friends ahead of me, the people who had taken even more steps forward than I could (mostly fellow white friends and mostly male).

My feminism is largely shaped by my own experiences of sexism. But, as a white woman, I do not always recognize the experiences of gender discrimination, enmeshed with racism, that women of color often face.

I do not always recognize the experiences of gender discrimination, enmeshed with racism, that women of color often face.

In addition to seeing which of my classmates were ahead of me, I saw people on my immediate left or right. When they invited us to turn around, I saw a majority of my friends standing behind me: my friends who were people of color, differently-abled, and of different sexual orientations. This simulation effectively illustrated the many dimensions of the effects of privilege and the need to be an intersectional feminist.

What Is Intersectionality?

Intersectionality is defined as “the view that women experience oppression in varying configurations and in varying degrees of intensity. Cultural patterns of oppression are not only interrelated, but are bound together and influenced by the intersectional systems of society. Examples of this include race, gender, class, ability, and ethnicity” (The Telegraph).

When we have some privilege but lack other privilege, we can only see people who have more or just as much of it as we do, unless we choose to remove our blindfold and turn around to listen to others’ experiences. And, when we have privilege, we get to choose whether we remove our blindfolds. When you’re the one standing behind the majority of other people, you don’t get to choose where you’re standing or who you can see ahead of you, nor do you have control over who turns around to acknowledge where you’re standing. You see the table, but you don’t have a seat at it.

Catholic Intersectional Feminism: Building the Kingdom on Earth

To be faithful, Catholic, intersectional feminists, we must choose to take off our blindfolds and listen to the pain, anger, and experiences of women (and men) of color, as well as those with disabilities, those of different sexual orientations, and those of other religions. As we listen, we are not only invited to grow in self-awareness and examine our faults and failings but also to rely on God’s grace and be moved to act.

To be faithful, Catholic, intersectional feminists, we must choose to take off our blindfolds and listen.

We need to ask the Holy Spirit to lead us in the work of creating equity and dismantling systems that privilege some while disadvantaging others. By using our voices and privilege to lift each other up — with hope in God’s promise of justice and mercy — we will take steps toward building the Kingdom on Earth.

The first time I remember praying the rosary as an adult, I offered it for a silly, vain intention: My wedding date was approaching, and I prayed for a beautiful, sunny wedding day. My mother has always been close to the Blessed Virgin Mary, and she gave me a small how-to card with the rosary prayers and mysteries. She told me to pray for an intention and make it something big. That way, if God saw fit to answer it, I would know that my prayers were aided by this particular devotion.

At that point, I had only been back in the Church for a couple of years. Even though I hadn't fully come to terms with Mariology, I decided to give the rosary a try. I was hesitant, at best, and terrified, at worst.

Femininity and Christianity

The other Christian churches I attended taught that Mary was no more special than anyone else in the Bible: She was just a vessel, an ordinary human woman whom God used to become incarnate. Her role in salvation history was minimized, and her place in daily life was nonexistent. In fact, in the other Christian churches I attended, most of the feminine aspects of Christianity seemed to be repressed, especially Mary and the Church as Mother. There seemed to be no purpose for me as a woman, apart from aiding men on their missions from God. It never felt quite right to me, but, sadly, I found comfort in the dethroning of the feminine genius.

It was so much easier for me to seek Jesus than to look to Mary. He was entirely unlike me in His sinlessness, perfect love, and obedience — and even gender. Mary was not only a woman but the antithesis of my own broken femininity. She changed the world through humility, patience, and obedience. I was a prodigal daughter who was more likely to grab someone’s shoulders to shake some sense into them and speak my mind without thinking first.

It was so much easier for me to seek Jesus than to look to Mary. He was entirely unlike me in His sinlessness, perfect love, and obedience — and even gender.

Walking With the Rosary

At the time when I first prayed the rosary, I was working in a medical office and often walked the trails around my building during lunch. One afternoon, when I reached into my pocket for my keys, I found something else: the rosary card.

I went outside and stared at the card, leaning into the gentle stirring in my soul. Before I took another step, I prayed the act of contrition. My heart still bore the wounds of a false Mariology. I was afraid of offending my beloved Jesus by looking to someone else. I couldn't imagine turning my attention away from Him, as if He weren’t enough.

Yet, I walked and read the mysteries, which, to my relief, were all about Jesus. I prayed the first Hail Mary with hesitation, but on my lunch break each day afterward, I walked and prayed. Soon enough, I started looking forward to those midday strolls.

That time in my life was so busy. I was engaged, working, going to school, and raising my daughter. The consolation of my meditative walks gave me respite among all the uncertainties I faced. With Mary by my side and Jesus leading us both, I walked confidently forward.

It snowed into early spring that year, but our wedding day, April 18, was a perfect, sunny, 70° day.

Mary’s Spiritual Motherhood

What I came to learn about Mary was that she never led me away from her Son; rather, she led me closer to Him than I ever thought possible (John 2:5). I learned that Jesus meant what He said when He gave her to us at the foot of His Cross (John 19:26). And I learned that her humanity did not lessen her value; instead, it was used in a singular way to carry out an unrepeatable mission that was undeniably feminine (Luke 1:38).

Mary never led me away from her Son; rather, she led me closer to Him than I ever thought possible.

I don't regret the years that I spent with just Jesus, but I couldn’t grieve what I didn’t know was missing. The rejection of Mary’s spiritual motherhood left me without the guidance I needed as a young believer, and it divorced me from the sibling-like intercession of the Saints.

Turning back to the Church as Mother also made me uncomfortable at first. Eventually, I realized that this home of ours isn’t there just to dole out discipline but to nurture, help, and hold space for people — just as God created women to do.

When I stopped ignoring the feminine parts of my own divinity, I became empowered and at peace with my identity as a daughter and woman of God. I began to see my worth and dignity in a whole new way. I wasn’t just some afterthought following the creation of man; no, I was a woman created for a purpose that only I could fulfill.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned much more about our Mother and realized that my love for Jesus wasn’t jeopardized by, but rather grew through, her prayers for me. She stands out because God, in His goodness and mercy, set her apart for us. He gave us the gift of a perfect mother, a sinless woman. She is the new Eve, the Mother of our King, the Undoer of my Knots — and my missing puzzle piece.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, give it to no one...” (C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves 823).

“Pregnant.”

That one word on the digital pregnancy test stood out like neon letters on a billboard. We were surprised but not shocked, excited but not overjoyed. Not yet, anyway. My husband, David, and I had only been married for one year, and we had only recently talked seriously about starting our family. We were going to begin “trying” over the next few months, unsure whether we could even conceive in the first place.

Because we use NFP, we found out early on that we were expecting. I had been charting for almost five years at this point, so I had a feeling we were pregnant. We were on a family vacation, and I was more tired than normal. I was experiencing frequent headaches, and I just felt different. The first test was inconclusive (don’t buy the cheap ones), and the next test was negative. Although I was disappointed, I resigned myself to that reality. The next test was positive — and it changed everything.

Joy planted itself firmly in my heart as soon as I saw that one telling word. I carefully picked out my prenatal vitamins, made a mental list of everything I couldn’t eat, and started to prepare. I felt lighter than air, effervescent even, and I loved carrying our joyful secret. After our first doctor’s appointment at eight weeks, we bought gifts for our parents to announce the news. We bought my parents a “Made in Nevada” onesie and David’s parents a “Little Cubs Fan” bib. They were just as overjoyed as we were, and the number of people sharing our joyful secret grew. We started making plans to tell my siblings, aunts, and uncles, and we looked forward to the ultrasound at our next appointment.

“[F]or the greater the love, the greater the grief, and the stronger the faith, the more savagely will Satan storm its fortress” (C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed 678).

At 10 weeks pregnant, I experienced some bleeding and was advised to go to the ER because we hadn’t had an ultrasound yet. David was on a work retreat and rushed home, meeting me at the hospital. We hadn’t had any problems up to this point, and I had been lulled into a false sense of security that nothing would go wrong.

After an ultrasound, the doctor told us he couldn’t find our baby. There were three possibilities: I had a blighted ovum and would eventually miscarry; our pregnancy was ectopic, and I might need surgery; or our baby might be fine after all. Hanging onto the sliver of hope provided by the third possibility, we went home and mustered up the energy to go to Mass.

Despite David’s optimism and hope, I dreaded the loss of our baby. I started sweating profusely during the Eucharistic prayer and knew something was wrong. After we asked our close friend and priest to bless me and the baby, the miscarriage started. We gradually began to realize we weren’t going to bring home our baby home in March.

The next morning, I thought the miscarriage was over. While I was still cramping off and on, the bleeding had stopped. We tried to occupy ourselves by hanging up the pictures and crucifixes we hadn’t hung up since moving into our house. We wandered around Barnes & Noble, as we do every once in a while. Without any warning, I was in excruciating pain and began bleeding uncontrollably. We drove home as fast as we could and tried to stop the bleeding. I started to feel weak and lightheaded, and we both knew we had to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

At this point, we weren’t sure whether I was miscarrying or our pregnancy had been ectopic and my fallopian tube was now ruptured. We were terrified. David half-carried me into the ER waiting room and then into the bathroom as I prayed for the bleeding to stop. It was all I could do to climb into a waiting room recliner, cry, and pray the contractions would stop.

As soon as we were escorted to a room, it was over. The doctors confirmed we had lost our baby and tried to console us. Instead of grief, I felt relief that I had survived and was no longer in pain. Then, I felt guilt because I felt relief. Then, more relief. The physical pain had finally ended after three excruciating days. But the emotional pain was just beginning to set in.

“Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection: the fact that you don’t merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only live each endless day in grief but live each day thinking about living each day in grief” (C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed 660).

We drove home that night grateful that I was in good health but knowing that we were missing the most recent addition to our family. Sorrow crashed into me like waves on rocks and brought me to my knees over and over again. It hit me hardest when I least expected it — like when I looked into our backyard while doing the dishes and realized I would never see him play there, when I wandered into his nursery knowing I would never hear his little cry from that room, or when I picked up the “Made in Nevada” onesie he would never wear.

Grief is a strange and inconsistent emotion. At the same time you want to withdraw from others, you feel drawn closer to them. Grief erects tall walls and then demolishes them in seconds. It makes you want to insulate yourself from the pain of others and simultaneously run into it head-first. Your heart hardens a little when you meet someone who has never experienced your pain; it softens when you meet someone who has and you recognize a fellow traveler on this lonely road.

Grief is a strange and inconsistent emotion.

“If a mother is mourning not for what she has lost but for what her dead child has lost, it is a comfort to believe that the child has not lost the end for which it is created” (C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed 667).

Becoming parents changed us. Losing our child changed us, too. Our hearts were opened to this baby, only to be broken. Others have shared their painful miscarriage stories with us, and empathy for others has flowed through our brokenness. While the grief is crushing at times, losing our child brought David and I closer. The week after we lost him, we barely spent a minute apart. We cried together, smiled together, and laughed together, realizing the immense joy of being together and the incredible gift that our marriage is. Joy is truly magnified in sorrow.

I still have many unanswered questions. Why our first child? Why so early into our marriage? Will we ever have the family we have always dreamed of?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. The two things I do know are that my son is in the arms of our Creator, and he is interceding for us.

The two things I do know are that my son is in the arms of our Creator, and he is interceding for us.

Rest in peace, sweet Lawrence. Thank you for the joy and the honor of being your parents. We love you, and we can’t wait to meet you in Heaven.

Abigail Rine Favale's spiritual memoir Into the Deep chronicles her conversion to Catholicism from her evangelical Christian upbringing as a child and embrace of postmodern feminism as a young academic. As she moves through these different worlds, she becomes disillusioned with how these traditions fail to fully affirm her dignity as a woman. Her journey into the Church delves into the questions of sin and reconciliation, the significance of the body, the self and relationality, submission and authority, and the mystery of grace at the heart of every conversion. Favale’s account radiates the beauty of an ongoing search for truth and the workings of Providence that allow her to surrender herself fully to God and discover the richness of her femininity.The theme of sacramentality is central to Favale’s understanding of God and herself. She captures the sincerity of her childhood faith but recognizes her “nascent Catholic sensibility” (Favale 5). She harbors doubts about the “Sinner’s Prayer” as a guarantee of salvation and instinctively perceives the need for ongoing, sanctifying grace. As a teenager drifting in her faith, she seeks reconciliation with God through a second baptism, yet she longs for it to mean more than a symbolic gesture of private faith: “I wanted to plunge into the cold waters of that alpine lake and emerge a new creature; I wanted to be overpowered by something stronger than my faltering will” (15). Her hunger for the sacraments eventually draws her into the Church.

Purity Culture and Sexual Morality

Favale’s encounter with the purity culture that reduces a woman’s worth to her sexual history is spiritually damaging. The promise of “once saved, always saved” robs sin of its power to endanger the soul, and yet sexual sin is treated as a different category for women. Favale describes the all-too-familiar, degrading metaphors of chewed-up gum and unwrapped lollipops used to dissuade girls and women from becoming “damaged goods.” Chastity is not taught as an active, lifelong virtue but is reduced to mere virginity.In contrast to this shame-based morality, Favale recalls feeling the presence of Christ in the midst of her sin, gently reminding her that she is made for love. Without the sacramental grace of Confession, however, there is no sense of the necessity of healing and restoration. In feminism, she seeks to escape shame, move beyond sin, and reclaim her integrity.

Without the sacramental grace of Confession, there is no sense of the necessity of healing and restoration.

A Postmodern Feminist Interpretation of the Bible

The question of Biblical interpretation and authority is significant in Favale’s progression from evangelical Christianity to postmodern feminism. In both traditions, she comes to view the self as the highest authority of determining meaning. Without a tradition to guide one’s interpretation of Scripture, the ultimate authority becomes oneself.As a college student, Favale studies Scripture through the lens of feminism, trying to reconcile seemingly misogynistic passages, but then eventually dismisses them altogether. Without a holistic view of Scriptural narrative, it is difficult to make sense of stories like the rape of Tamar that stand silent on the subject of violence toward women. She rejects masculine language for God as a product of the patriarchy, and she prays to God as mother. Favale’s early experience of Christianity pushes her to reconceive of her faith on feminist terms:

When I look back at my birthright evangelicalism, it’s as if the feminine aspects of the faith have been lopped off: there’s no Mary, no genealogy of heroic female saints, no visible Church as our mother, no Mass with its iconography of the bridegroom and bride, no sacramental understanding of our bodies as sacred signs. I rightly sensed that something was amiss in this version of Christianity, that it was too monolithically masculine, that anything feminine was sidelined and relegated. In that religious context, the masculine metaphors, in isolation from their female counterparts, were harsh and unremitting, like banging out a melody using only the lower keys on a piano (122).

The marginalization of women in evangelicalism makes Favale cynical and suspicious toward religious authority. However, she confesses the hollowness of trying to force God into her own image: “In fashioning God according to my desires, I had made him impossible to worship” (46).

The Experience of Motherhood

After years of working as a feminist scholar, Favale becomes a mother. Amidst the physical realities of pregnancy and birth, she is faced with the tensions of her ideology. Her feminism valorized the virtues of autonomy and independence, but the experience of carrying a vulnerable, dependent child reminds her of the interconnectedness of human beings. As EPPC fellow Erika Bachiochi has remarked, “The self-interested economic man is not normative; rather, it is the maternal figure in the mother-child relationship that models human life.”Like many women, Favale fears losing her freedom and identity in motherhood. Yet, she also experiences the paradoxical happiness of giving one’s self in love. Favale sees the self at the center of her feminism: the pursuit of achievement and power. Rather than narrow her sense of self, motherhood enlarges and ennobles it in the service of another.Throughout her memoir, Favale contrasts the image of the untethered self with the surrender of will exemplified in Mary’s fiat at the Annunciation. Mary’s receptivity captures the essence of woman as an icon of humanity. Favale experiences the one-sidedness of submission in fundamentalism and affirms that feminists rightfully reject the concept when it is reduced to an instrument of control by men. Yet, by discarding the idea altogether, she warns, we lose the important truth that all men and women are creatures who must kneel before their Creator. Favale comes to understand that “surrendering of the will does not obliterate it, making us some kind of automaton—no, it sharpens it, heightens it, by redirecting it toward the good, the beautiful, the true” (85).

Mary’s receptivity captures the essence of woman as an icon of humanity.

Two Conversions

Favale’s formal conversion to Catholicism is sudden, a response to the prompting of the Holy Spirit. Her interior conversion, however, is slow and arduous. She enters the Church with skepticism toward its teachings and is comfortable with dissenting. Her initial surrender allows her to wrestle these teachings with her heart and mind and to open herself to truths that were unintelligible to her for many years. Her conversion echoes Simon Peter’s:

Christ shows up, invades your small, ordinary world. You somehow choose to trust him, rather than your own assumptions. You obey an unlikely command—Put out into the deep—even though it seems risky, improbable. And then: abundance. Abundance beyond expectation that unmasks the presence of the divine in your midst, and at once you yourself are unmasked, and you fall to your knees, covered by awe, overcome with dismay, and you are changed (70).

Into the Deep is an important work for Christians due to Favale’s rich exposition of the Faith as she articulates the significance of a sacramental vision of reality in which our bodies bear witness to the divine. Her struggle to understand and accept the Church’s teachings is a hopeful reminder that God never fails to satisfy the longings of our minds and hearts.While some may wish that she would reclaim the label of feminist as a Catholic, Favale's work upholds the Church’s ethos of new feminism. She rejects the model of second-wave feminism that glorifies autonomy at the expense of vulnerability, and she recognizes the irony that by devaluing sexual difference, progressive feminists have lost the ability to champion womanhood as a meaningful category. To her surprise, Favale’s lifelong search for the affirmation of her dignity as a woman is fulfilled, at last, in Catholicism.

While some may wish that she would reclaim the label of feminist as a Catholic, her work upholds the Church’s ethos of new feminism.