There’s something that many right-wing Catholics—especially those who fiercely oppose Pope Francis—don’t seem to understand about people like me: we were once part of their world. We admired the same Catholic figures, consumed the same media, and shared the same hopes for the Church. We followed Bishop Robert Barron, Archbishop Charles Chaput, Scott Hahn, Cardinal Raymond Burke, Cardinal Gerhard Müller. We tuned in to EWTN, read First Things, supported Word on Fire, subscribed to the National Catholic Register and the Catholic Herald, and trusted the apologetics of Catholic Answers.*

This was our world. Our spiritual formation, our theological education, even our sense of Catholic identity was shaped by these voices. And then, slowly at first—but later undeniably—we began to experience a profound rupture. We still believe in the Creeds, doctrines, and sacraments. We still follow the same rules. We still go to Mass and participate in Church life, even if some of us have felt forced to change churches or jobs or schools.

Looking back, we can now see the point of no return was in 2016. It was on April 8 of that year that Pope Francis released Amoris Laetitia, his apostolic exhortation on love in the family. A few months later, the so-called dubia—submitted by four cardinals challenging the document’s orthodoxy—was released to the public. Unlike other theological debates, the kind the Church has always weathered, the dubia sparked something darker, more corrosive, more sinister.

The opposition to Pope Francis that coalesced in the wake of Amoris Laetitia has not only persisted and intensified; it has hardened. It has become institutionalized in much of the American Catholic Church. Bishops, media outlets, commentators, and influencers have made dissent from the pope’s teachings a defining feature of their identity. Entire apostolates exist primarily to critique or undermine his papacy. What once was unthinkable—publicly accusing the pope of heresy or implying he is a danger to the faith—is now routine in certain circles.

For those of us who were once in these circles, this is a tragedy. We shared their instincts, their pieties, their love for tradition. In some cases, we shared meals with them. For example, when we both worked for the USCCB, I ate lunch with Fr. Peter Ryan multiple days a week. I enjoyed our conversations about theology and Church doctrine and almost anything else under the sun. He was among the first coworkers I told about my father’s terminal cancer diagnosis and he spontaneously offered one of the most beautiful prayers I’ve heard. My heart broke this week when I read the tired and vapid article that he coauthored with Christian Brugger condemning Amoris Laetitia. There was nothing new or insightful in the article, which was easily dismantled by Pedro Gabriel, it was just another feeble effort by two dissenting theologians publicly proclaiming that they are more Catholic than the pope.

What has happened? After nearly a decade of watching the unraveling, I can scarcely recognize the Catholic world I once considered our home. And I know I’m not alone.

Over the course of Francis’s pontificate, one of the most painful things his supporters have experienced has been the realization that our former heroes have consistently failed to stand up for the Gospel when it has mattered most. Whether they were ignoring Laudato Si’, peddling false interpretations of Amoris Laetitia, pretending they can’t understand the difference between a “union” and a “couple,” ignoring the plight of immigrants and refugees, or gleefully hobnobbing in the halls of power and yukking it up with the current president’s administration, they simply failed to deliver when their voices were most needed.

We watched as they hesitated—or refused—to defend the vulnerable, the poor, the migrant, the outcast. When the moment called for courage and prophetic witness, they fell silent—or worse, sided with the powers of the world.

Instead of advocating for justice, too many compromised with the values of the reactionary right. They aligned themselves with narcissistic billionaires, white nationalists, political extremists, conspiracy theorists, and toxic influencers who champion a disordered and aggressive form of “masculinity.” They baptized ideology as orthodoxy. They mistook culture war posturing for fidelity.

There is nothing of the Gospel in that.

Once you see this, you can’t unsee it. The scales fall from your eyes. What once looked like principled faithfulness now appears as ideological captivity. What once seemed like orthodoxy now feels like idolatry.

And so many of us—Catholics who were raised or converted in conservative environments, who genuinely loved the tradition, the teaching, and the reverence—have been left heartbroken. It’s not that we rejected the faith. It’s that the world we thought was Catholic turned out to be something else entirely.

We’re often accused, by those who remain in that world, of having “gone left” or adopting a progressive agenda. But that misses the point. This isn’t about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about integrity. It’s about refusing to trade the heart of the Gospel for a hollow, partisan substitute. It’s about following Peter, even when he challenges our assumptions. It’s about Church unity. It’s about fidelity to the Bishop of Rome.

The truth is that the entire conservative Catholic milieu in the US—the one many of us once loved—has gone completely off the rails. The attacks on Pope Francis have become not just frequent but unhinged. The criticisms of his teachings are often malicious and intellectually bankrupt. And what’s more disorienting: the people making these arguments are the same ones whose insights we once admired and trusted. What started with the dubia in late 2016 has descended into whatever that banquet of chestnuts at Mar-a-Lago this week was.

We are forced to confront uncomfortable questions. Were we wrong about them from the beginning? How much of what we thought was Catholicism was actually ideology wrapped in a clerical collar? Where does the counterfeit Catholicism end and the real faith begin?

These questions have driven many of us to a place of deep spiritual reckoning. For some, it has led to despair or disaffiliation. But for others—those of us who still hold onto the gift of hope—it has led us to Pope Francis. Because if there’s one figure in the Church today who stands in stark contrast to the forces of MAGA Catholicism, it is him.

Francis is not perfect, and he has his critics even among those who support his vision. But he represents a Church that listens, that accompanies, that walks with people instead of judging them from afar. He reminds us that the Gospel is not about political victories or cultural dominance, but about mercy, justice, and love.

Back in 2017, the philosopher and educator Sam Rocha wrote a powerful letter to his “spiritual elders” that captured what many of us were feeling as we began to part with the world of right-wing Catholicism:

“I loved what you loved, I drank deeply and it was good. God, yes, always Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, but also Rome. You led me there and showed it to me. … Francis was no different, how could he be? His style was different, sure, but I thought you said it was one, whole… I thought the Holy Spirit was real.”

Rocha goes on to lament:

“You attack the Pope. The Pope. But you make qualified and carefully manicured excuses for Trump. I realize now that some of you were lying to me, but your lies had truth in them.”

That’s the tragic reality we’re confronting. The leaders and institutions who shaped us in the faith have chosen another path. Some have been captured by ideology. Others may simply be tired, disillusioned, or afraid. But the result is the same: they no longer speak with the voice of the Church. They have become stumbling blocks instead of shepherds.

Yet even in our sorrow, we are not without hope. Many of us have emerged from this disillusionment with a deeper, more mature faith—one that is less dependent on human personalities and more rooted in the person of Jesus Christ. We have learned to distinguish between the Church and the culture that often surrounds it and tries to invade it. We have re-centered our faith on the Gospel, not on the media echo chambers that claim to represent it.

And most of all, we’ve discovered the beauty of a Church that is alive, missionary, and merciful. The Church of Evangelii Gaudium. The Church of Fratelli Tutti. The Church of synodality, accompaniment, and encounter.

This is not nostalgia. It is not naiveté. It is a hard-won hope, forged in the fire of disappointment and betrayal.

To those who remain in the trenches of ideological Catholicism, I would say this: take a breath. Look around. Ask yourself what it is you’re really defending. Is it the faith of the Apostles—or is it a cultural identity wrapped in incense and Latin and politics?

And to those who, like me, are still trying to rebuild after the collapse of our former certainties: take heart. You are not alone. There is life beyond the culture war. There is a Church that still believes in the Gospel. And at its heart is Peter, the rock upon which Christ built his Church.

Pope Francis is not perfect. No pope is. But he is the Successor of Peter, and the Holy Spirit has not abandoned him—or us. In following him, we are not being progressive. We are being Catholic.

* Article updated with hyperlinks figures and organizations to provide further context.

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Image: Adobe Stock. By Africa Studio.