Faith, Identity, and Revelation
Faith has a way of lingering. Like incense after a Mass, it clings to your clothes, your hair, your memories. For me, Catholicism is woven into my bones, even now when my attendance is limited to Christmas Eve. It’s the “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph” I mutter when frustrated. It’s the silent prayers I say to my parents, long passed away. It’s the Twelve Gifts of the Holy Spirit, recited in my head when I’m nervous.
Charity… joy… peace… patience… benignity… goodness… long-suffering… mildness… faith… modesty… continency… chastity.
It’s the distant echo of my Confirmation day—standing in the back of my childhood church, fidgeting nervously in my red and white robe, holding a gift for His Eminence, John Cardinal Krol of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.
Our parish church was big and old. The air was always thick with frankincense and myrrh, the scent of melting wax, and stained glass light on tile floors. Every corner held something sacred—ornate altars to saints, marble lecterns, golden sacristies.
Confirmation wasn’t just a ceremony; it was a rite of passage. In a Catholic home, it was the day you became an adult in the eyes of the Church. You chose a new name to reflect who you’d be in this new adult life. The name had to be that of a saint, and I chose Veronica. She was the woman who stepped out of the crowd to wipe the face of Christ as he carried his cross, and in return, her veil bore his image. I saw her as a symbol of bravery in service to others, an act of care and courage that felt aspirational, a name worth carrying into adulthood.
It was a moment of belonging and acceptance.
For me, it was more than that. I had been chosen to welcome the Cardinal to our parish, a distinction that felt monumental. To stand in the presence of such a revered figure meant I was the most Catholic of my peers—devoted, knowledgeable, set apart.
My partner Peter and I rehearsed our parts carefully, ready to present a gift from our parish. As we stood together, we whispered about the box’s mysterious contents—something that jiggled inside. We joked that it might be Jello. But the gravity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. I had been chosen because I was devout, knowledgeable, Catholic to my core. I had studied diligently, committed to memory the teachings of the Church.
And then, everything changed. Pope John Paul I died unexpectedly, and Cardinal Krol was called to Rome days before the ceremony as part of the College of Cardinals and the conclave to elect a new Pope.
Instead of welcoming His Eminence, we stood before an Archbishop, our rehearsed lines and whispered jokes feeling somehow smaller. But my sense of devotion remained. In that moment, wrapped in my Cardinal-red robe, I felt the weight of my faith, the significance of being Catholic in a community where tradition and ritual were everything.
It wasn’t just about the Church; it was about the structure it gave me. It was the world I knew, the answers I trusted, the foundation that shaped me. I had the faith of a child, the purest faith. But it wouldn’t always be that way.
Questioning Faith
Those seeds of doubt began to sprout in ninth grade, thanks to an unlikely source: a nun. Our religion teacher stood before a room of teenage girls and told us something radical: “Turn everything around. Question it. Make it your own.”
Her intent, I think, was to encourage us to deepen our understanding of our faith, and to become thoughtful adults within the Church. But for me, it was an open door. If I could question Church teachings, why not explore what others believed? Why not look for God in art, music, literature, science? Why not find the divine in the universal truths shared by humanity?
Over time, I did just that. I read religious texts from Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Baha’i, and even Zoroastrianism. I attended services with friends from different traditions, not searching for a new faith but seeking to understand how others connected to the divine. Catholicism gave me the foundation to ask these questions and the courage to seek answers outside its walls.
Eventually, I lapsed in my faith, becoming a “Christmas Catholic,” or returning occasionally when I felt particularly unmoored. During my cancer treatment, or when I was struggling to hold onto my identity as a mother, I returned to the Church again, looking for stability. It never lasted.
Conclave
As much as I’d drifted from the Church, the pull of its rituals—the structure, the answers, the promise of belonging—still lingered. I wasn't expecting anything profound when I sat down to watch Conclave on an unremarkable Saturday.
I had little knowledge of the film. I was drawn to a few reviews that mentioned stellar acting. But once the film started, I was drawn to the pageantry. I wasn’t just watching a movie; I was stepping into the Church again, surrounded by the tradition that shaped me.
I was entranced. For two hours, I let myself believe there was still a place for me there. The ceremony, the secret voting, the black and white smoke, the robes, the prayers—it was all so deeply Catholic, I found myself in a place that was so familiar, it felt like I had both stepped back in time and into a place of presence, feeling the pull of faith like I hadn’t in years.
Watching the cardinals deliberate in their red vestments, I was transported back to my Confirmation day, to the girl standing in her red and white robes, beaming with pride and devotion. But even deeper, it spoke to the Catholic faith that lives in me whether I acknowledge it or not. It whispered that there I could always come back.
I was Catholic again while I sat in the theater.
Revelation
WARNING! MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!
And then, in the last ten minutes, everything shifted.
The Conclave elected a man—humble, kind, and wise—who made an impassioned speech about a future for the Church that was open, accepting, and loving, swaying the conclave to his side. It was the climax of the film, the big reveal. Or was it?
No, there was one last twist in the film's final minutes. The new pope had a secret: he was intersex. The reveal wasn’t the dramatic climax one might expect. It was quiet, matter-of-fact, as though the truth had always been there, waiting. It felt revolutionary not because of its delivery, but because of its simplicity.
“I accept myself the way God made me.”
In that quiet revelation, I saw something I’d never seen before—a reflection of my own truth, not as a curiosity or a struggle, but as something whole, something sacred. Not a mistake. As God intended.
It wasn’t just the Church saying "You belong"; it was the Church saying "You are enough." For the first time, I didn’t have to fight to reconcile the parts of myself. They simply fit.
I sat for a long time after the movie ended thinking about that, after the lights came on, after the usher cleared the spilled popcorn. I felt pride in the Church. I felt hope for its future and my part in it.
Searching for Meaning
The truth is, this is a movie, and the real Church is not the one in the film. You can see that from the uproar traditional Catholics have made about the film and its twist. They feel persecuted. Their rants are exactly like those of the film’s antagonist, although I don’t think they see him the way the filmmaker intended. That’s not a community I want to be a part of.
Still, Conclave made me feel all the pieces of myself come together—the faithful child, the questioning adolescent, the adult still figuring out what faith and identity mean.
Maybe Conclave wasn’t a sign of anything. Maybe it was just a movie. But if there’s one thing Catholicism taught me, it’s this: meaning is where you find it. And I’m finding meaning in the possibility that my story—like that intersex Pope—might be one of love, inclusion, and hope for the future.
Faith isn’t static. It lingers, like the scent of incense long after the Mass has ended. It waits, like red and white robes folded in memory, ready to be worn again—or not.
Maybe faith isn’t about certainty or answers. Maybe it’s about the courage to embrace the questions, to see yourself as you are, and to believe that’s enough. Watching Conclave, I saw myself—and maybe that’s the faith I need to move forward.