I recently exchanged messages with a member of the church I used to attend in my homeland. I have been living abroad for decades now, and we have not met face to face during that time. After many years, we had the chance to reconnect online. Our shared background in the same mainline Protestant congregation still gives us a common language when we speak about faith.
In one of our recent conversations, she mentioned my regular attendance at Catholic Mass. She was simply curious. From her perspective, seeing my life from a distance, it may have looked like something significant. For me, however, it had gradually become part of ordinary life.
That exchange made me stop and think. I had not consciously considered whether my participation in Catholic liturgy might raise questions for those who know me primarily through our Protestant context. What feels routine to me might appear like a shift when viewed from another setting.
Her question simply invited clarification. Where do I stand now? What has changed, and what has not? These are not dramatic questions, but they are worth answering carefully.
Where I Stand: Mainline Protestant Identity
If I were to locate my faith within the spectrum of Christian traditions, I would still identify myself as belonging to mainline Protestantism. My theological formation was shaped by that world. The habit of reading Scripture carefully, engaging historical and critical scholarship, and appreciating doctrinal development within a broad intellectual framework remains central to my way of thinking.
Mainline Protestantism has often emphasized theological reflection, institutional responsibility, and engagement with society. In recent decades, however, many mainline churches have experienced declining membership and aging congregations. Their public influence has waned in many regions. In contrast, Evangelical movements have expanded, particularly through independent congregations and megachurch structures.
I understand why some find Evangelical communities compelling. They offer clarity, energy, and a strong sense of identity. Yet I also recognize within Evangelicalism a structural tendency toward multiplication and fragmentation. Protestantism began historically as protest, a movement that resisted centralized authority. Within Evangelical expressions of Protestantism, especially in contexts that emphasize individual salvation and personal conviction, new communities can form rapidly. A pastor may gather followers, establish an independent church, and cultivate a distinct theological emphasis.
This dynamism partly explains why Evangelical churches have grown while mainline denominations have declined. The strong articulation of belonging and the clear demarcation between saved and unsaved can generate momentum. At the same time, that sharp boundary-making can produce unease for those who value theological breadth and historical continuity.
My own hesitation regarding certain Evangelical tendencies is not directed at individuals. It is rooted in concern about exclusivist language and structural instability. When salvation is framed primarily as a dividing line between those inside and those outside, the temptation toward fragmentation increases. This is not inevitable, but it is a recurring pattern within Protestant history.
Recognizing this pattern has not weakened my Protestant identity. It has clarified the context within which that identity exists.
Fragmentation and Structure: Two Ecclesial Logics
The contrast between Protestant and Catholic ecclesial structures becomes especially visible when considering fragmentation. Protestantism, by design, resists centralized authority. Its theological logic encourages local autonomy and interpretive responsibility. This has produced both creativity and division.
In many parts of the world, especially in the United States, thousands of independent churches now exist, often emerging from internal disagreements or new theological emphases. The so-called emerging church phenomenon illustrates this tendency. A community forms around a charismatic leader or distinctive vision. Over time, new branches continue to appear.
By contrast, the Catholic Church operates within a Vatican-centered hierarchical framework. Authority flows through a structured episcopal system. While various spiritual movements arise within Catholicism, many are eventually incorporated into the broader institutional structure as recognized religious orders. The Franciscans, Benedictines, Jesuits, and other communities developed distinct charisms, yet remained within the communion of the larger Church. Even newer movements, such as the Missionaries of Charity founded by Mother Teresa, were absorbed into this ecclesial framework rather than forming separate denominations.
This institutional capacity to absorb internal diversity has limited fragmentation, though it has not eliminated division entirely. Historical separations such as the Anglican Communion and the Philippine Independent Church, often known as the Aglipayan Church, demonstrate that schisms have occurred. The latter emerged as a national church separating from Roman Catholic authority within the context of Philippine history. Even so, compared with the sheer multiplication of independent Protestant congregations, Catholic fragmentation has been more structurally contained.
These differences reveal two ecclesial logics. Protestantism privileges interpretive freedom and local initiative. Catholicism emphasizes hierarchical continuity and institutional unity. Both models have strengths and vulnerabilities.
Understanding these structural distinctions has helped me contextualize my own journey.
From Study to Participation
My engagement with Catholicism began as an academic and theological interest. I wanted to understand sacramental theology, ecclesiology, and the development of Marian doctrine within their historical frameworks. Attending Mass was initially an extension of study. I observed attentively, noting differences in liturgical form and theological emphasis.
Over time, attendance became regular because my wife is Catholic. Participation gradually replaced observation. Standing during prayers, listening to Scripture readings within a lectionary cycle, and experiencing the repetition of liturgical seasons shaped my internal rhythms. The shift was not dramatic. It occurred slowly.
Participation did not dissolve my Protestant convictions. Rather, it broadened my experiential familiarity with another tradition. The Eucharistic prayers, the invocation of saints, and the communal confession of faith entered my weekly life. I did not adopt every theological premise uncritically. Instead, I learned to distinguish between doctrinal core and devotional expression.
Living between traditions has required attentiveness. It has also required honesty. I have not formally converted, nor have I renounced my Protestant heritage. What has changed is my capacity to inhabit difference without perceiving it as threat.
Mary, Saints, and the Question of Worship
One area where Protestant and Catholic sensibilities diverge visibly concerns devotion to Mary and the saints. Many Protestants instinctively associate such practices with idolatry or theological excess. From within Protestant categories, any language directed toward figures other than Christ can appear suspect.
Catholic theology, however, distinguishes carefully between worship, which is due to God alone, and veneration, which is given to saints as exemplary members of the communion of believers. The technical terms developed within Catholic tradition reflect this distinction. Worship belongs exclusively to the Triune God. Veneration acknowledges participation in divine grace without equating created beings with the Creator.
Historically, Marian and saintly devotion also emerged within processes of inculturation. As Christianity spread across diverse cultures, local expressions of reverence were integrated into ecclesial life. Rather than eliminating symbolic forms, Catholicism often incorporated them, seeking continuity with cultural contexts. This process of integration has sometimes been misunderstood as theological compromise.
It is also true that, in practice, some believers may blur distinctions between veneration and worship. Devotional language can become emotionally intense. Yet theological precision remains present within official teaching. Recognizing this distinction allows for a more balanced assessment.
For my part, I do not experience Marian or saintly devotion as a negation of Christ’s centrality. Instead, I understand it as an expression of the broader communion of believers across time. While I remain cautious about certain devotional excesses, I do not regard the existence of such practices as sufficient grounds for declaring theological rupture.
The Apostles’ Creed as Common Ground
If there is a point of theological stability that anchors my journey, it is the shared creedal confession of historic Christianity. The Apostles’ Creed functions as a concise articulation of foundational belief. Its affirmations concerning the Triune God, the incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection, and the hope of eternal life are shared across Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox traditions, even if liturgical usage differs.
The Creed provides more than a boundary line. It establishes a common center. Within its framework, significant diversity in liturgical expression and theological nuance can exist. Outside of it, continuity with classical Christianity becomes more difficult to sustain. Traditions that reject Trinitarian confession or deny the full divinity of Christ stand at a greater distance from historic orthodoxy.
For me, the Creed does not function primarily as an exclusionary tool. It serves as a reminder of shared inheritance. It allows me to participate in Catholic liturgy without perceiving myself as departing from Christian essentials. The language of the Creed, recited across traditions, reveals a deeper unity beneath denominational differences.
Seeking Universality Without Erasing Difference
Looking back, I recognize that my movement across traditions is not accidental. It reflects a deeper existential orientation. I have long sought forms of universality that do not erase diversity. This impulse has shaped my engagement with culture, language, and intellectual life. It now shapes my ecclesial posture.
We live in a secular age in which denominational shifts no longer carry the social consequences they once did. Yet the relative fluidity of boundaries does not trivialize faith. On the contrary, it places greater responsibility on individuals to discern what truly matters.
I remain Protestant in formation and conviction. I attend Mass with my wife as part of our shared life. I recognize structural differences between Protestant fragmentation and Catholic hierarchy. I acknowledge distinctions between worship and veneration. I affirm the Apostles’ Creed as shared foundation.
None of these commitments cancel one another. They coexist.
To be rooted yet open is not to dilute faith. It is to allow faith to grow without anxiety. Denomination shapes expression, but it does not exhaust the reality of Christian belief. Universality and diversity need not compete.
I do not claim to have resolved every tension. I simply continue to live within them, attentive and sincere. In doing so, I hope to embody a posture that is both faithful and generous, grounded and receptive.
That, for now, is where I stand.
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