When I was in elementary school, every Tuesday I would meet up with a group of fellow Catholic girls by the baseball field and walk to our weekly Catholic class. I was apathetic about the lessons themselves — we were silly and rambunctious, and we would torment whoever’s mother had the task of instructing that week’s lesson. Catholicism was a part of my life in a structural sense: church most Sundays, Catholic class most Tuesdays and grace before dinner.
One day in early spring, after walking slowly to class under the beech trees that lined the streets of my hometown, we sat down, opened our booklets and learned that if you didn’t believe in God — our God — you were going to hell. This lesson went entirely against the inclusive, hospitality-driven Catholicism I was raised on. I couldn’t accept that my best friend with a Muslim mother, my Jewish teammates, and the Protestant girls I had sleepovers with on Saturday nights were going to hell.
I couldn’t accept that my best friend with a Muslim mother, my Jewish teammates, and the Protestant girls I had sleepovers with on Saturday nights were going to hell.
It was the first time in my life that I heard a person of authority, an adult whom I trusted, state something as fact that I felt in my heart was simply not true. With that seed of skepticism, I began to think critically about the culture and institution that structured much of my childhood and my identity. I didn’t realize then that grappling with the truth, with conscience, and with religion itself is central to what Catholicism is.
I thought about that day, and so many others like that, when the news broke that Pope Francis had died. On Saturday, he will be laid to rest in the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. He leaves behind a broken world, a beautiful legacy, an unprecedented number of young new Catholics — and many, like me, with a deeply complex relationship with the church.
It turns out my lapsed Catholicism is not typical of younger generations. Members of the highly paradoxical Gen Z cohort in particular are joining the Catholic Church in numbers not seen for generations. According to the conservative National Catholic Register, some dioceses are seeing a year-over-year increase in new members from 30% to 70%. In a diocese in Fort Worth, Texas, the number of converts increased 72% from 2023 to 2024.
My own theory is that Pope Francis himself may have something to do with these numbers, although reasons for joining the church in recent years are many. Tributes to him from Catholics and non-Catholics alike speak of his bravery, his devotion to the “discarded” and his compassion. He was rebellious in his inclusion. He washed the feet of incarcerated people, of Muslim people and of women on Holy Thursday. He confirmed all dogs go to heaven. He permitted the blessing of LGBTQ+ couples in the church. He called the Holy Family Church in Gaza City every evening since the beginning of the war. He rebuked far-right populists across the globe and their callous treatment of immigrants.
Of course, it isn’t just Francis contributing to the rise of Catholicism. When I consider what Catholicism has to offer young people — the community, the identity, the certainty — it is unsurprising that we’ve seen such a surge in popularity. While no generation is a monolith, there has been an observed degradation of community within Gen Z. More young men have no friends, Americans have become individualistic and self-serving, and there are fewer meaningful places and effective services to find support.
The Catholic Church is, foundationally, realistic. It presumes humans are sinful and broken and that life is extremely hard — a sentiment deeply felt in this country right now. In Catholicism, those realities are met with grace and then with a path to redemption. Guilt, desire and suffering are not celebrated within the Catholic Church, but they’re certainly embraced. There is no grace without sin; there is no Catholicism without the promise of redemption.
Catholicism also lends itself to modern culture in some surprising ways that particularly resonate with Gen Z’s emphasis on “aesthetic” and beauty. The Catholic Church has always put a premium on powerful, highly dramatic art, imagery and architecture. Catholic TikTok is filled with videos of lit candles on a sprawling stone altar, rosary beads draped over long, painted nails, and highly stylized Virgin Mary statues. Gen Z is far from the first to feel inspired by Catholic art: French fashion designer Christian Lacroix’s crosses, Andy Warhol’s unfinished sunset films and even the 2018 theme of the Met Gala, “Heavenly Bodies.”
I am not so naive as to assume that the right-leaning young people joining the church share the sort of Commonweal, progressive Catholicism that I was raised with. We cannot ignore the dark, exclusionary and hateful parts of the church, especially when they’re used to qualify problematic and destructive conservatism. It is necessary to ask where safe and legal access to abortion, the LGBTQ+ community and women can exist in the Catholic Church today.
I don’t go to Mass right now, and although my husband and I had an extremely positive experience getting married at the Church of St. Francis Xavier in New York City, I may never become an involved member of any parish ever again. I do, however, buy bodega prayer candles when I am feeling particularly worried and lost. I’ve got one of St. Barbara, an almost entirely used Sacred Heart of Jesus and one, inscribed in Spanish, of Our Lady of Altagracia. Catholicism will always help define who I am, guide how I treat others and provide a sense of solace when I need it.
A few weeks ago, I was crying while walking home from the subway (a regular New York City pastime). A volunteer sweeping the steps outside of a Catholic church in Williamsburg stopped me and gently asked if I wanted to go inside and say a prayer. I said yes. Sitting among a few nuns and a beautiful older woman in a black mantilla made me feel, for even just a few moments, at peace.
Soon, white smoke will billow out of the Vatican and the cardinal protodeacon will stand in front of the devoted and declare a newly appointed pontiff: habemus papam. I hope this new pope will carry on the legacy of Pope Francis, I hope this new pope will encourage new Catholics to question and explore their faith, and I hope this new pope leaves room for Catholics like me.
