Walking the tightrope of faith in a world adrift

Feb 28, 2025

In the quiet moments of prayer, when the noise of the world fades and the heart turns inward, many of us confront the same haunting question: Is this worth it? The question lingers in the ache of lost friendships, the sting of mockery, and the weight of loneliness that settles like a shadow.

To be a young Catholic today is to feel suspended between two worlds, neither of which seems to fully understand you. You are “too much” for a culture that dismisses sacrifice as backwardness, yet “not enough” for those who wear faith like a badge of superiority rather than a mantle of love. This is the tightrope we walk—a path that feels precarious, isolating, but also mysteriously sacred. For those of us clinging to the Church’s teachings on chastity, modesty, the sanctity of life, or the Real Presence, the world does not merely disagree with us; it often recoils.

To embrace biblical femininity in an age that conflates liberation with rejection of tradition is to invite labels like “brainwashed” or “submissive.” To wear a veil at Mass, a silent act of reverence, becomes a spectacle in a world uncomfortable with visible piety. To speak of saving sex for marriage is met with incredulity, as if we have sworn off oxygen. The underlying message is clear: Your values are a threat.

Yet the greater wound often comes from within. We watch as friends and family drift from the faith, their once-vibrant belief diluted by the currents of relativism. We encounter fellow Catholics who treat tradition like a buffet, cherry-picking teachings that suit their politics or lifestyle. Online forums dissect our every stance: Why do you veil? Is not that oppressive? Why take issue with cohabitation? Do you not know mercy? The subtext is a quiet accusation: You are making this harder for the rest of us. And so the tightrope narrows. We are torn between grieving those who leave and resisting the urge to shout, “Come back — this is where life is!”

Loneliness compounds these struggles. It is in the empty chair at Sunday Mass where a friend once sat. It is in the family gathering where your convictions are met with eye rolls. It is in the ache of scrolling through social media, bombarded by posts celebrating choices that unravel the very fabric of human dignity. The isolation is not just emotional; it is existential. To hold fast to the truth in a world that worships autonomy is to become a living sign of contradiction. And contradictions make people uneasy.

But here, in the stillness, God whispers a reminder: This is not your home. The saints knew this. They walked the same tightrope, their lives a testament to the cost of discipleship. St Maria Goretti, a girl of twelve, chose death over sin. St Thomas More, a statesman, lost his head rather than betray his conscience. Maximilian Kolbe stepped forward to die in place of a stranger. They, too, were called extremists. They, too, were alone in their darkest hours. Yet their stories echo across centuries because they understood: The Cross is not a failure. It is the portal to resurrection. This is the paradox of our faith.

The tighter we cling to Christ, the more the world resists us — but the more deeply we encounter Him. In the sacraments, He nourishes us. In the Eucharist, He becomes our sustenance. In confession, He lifts the weight we cannot carry. These are not abstract rituals; they are lifelines. When friends vanish, He remains. When the culture ridicules, He whispers, I endured this too.

And we are not as alone as we feel. For every post ridiculing tradition, there are quiet rebellions of love unfolding elsewhere: A college student praying a rosary outside an abortion clinic. A young couple attending Natural Family Planning classes, undeterred by sneers. A teenager is setting up an altar in her dorm room. These stories rarely go viral, but they are written into the fabric of the church. We are part of a hidden communion — saints in the making, scattered like embers in the dark, each of us glowing faintly but collectively holding back the night.

The world’s rejection, then, is not proof of our irrelevance but of our purpose. Jesus warned, “If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own. Because you do not belong to the world…the world hates you” (John 15:19). Our alienation is a badge of fidelity. Every time we choose the narrow road, we echo the martyrs. Every time we kneel to veil, we join the generations of women who embodied the Church as Bride. Every “no” to sin is a “yes” to the God who carved us from His own heart.

This does not mean the tension disappears. The tension remains. We will still cry when a loved one leaves the church. We will still wince at the jokes. We will still wonder in weak moments if compromise might be easier. But ease is not the metric of a life well lived. The Cross was not easy. The Garden of Gethsemane was not easy. What sustains us is not the absence of struggle but the presence of meaning.

When loneliness grips you, remember: You are part of a story larger than yourself. You are surrounded by a “cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1) — saints, ancestors, and ordinary believers who refused to let the world dim their light. You are united to a global body, praying in languages you do not speak, in parishes you will never visit, yet bound by the same creed. Most of all, you are loved by a God who did not spare His own Son to claim you.

So keep going. Stay close to the Eucharist, where Heaven touches Earth. Cling to the rosary, your armour against despair. Forgive those who do not understand. Love those who leave. Trust that every small “yes” to Truth plants a seed — in others, in the culture, in your own soul. The road is hard, but it is not bleak. We walk it with the One who called Himself the Way. And at the end of this narrow path, a promise awaits: “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard… God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

Heaven is your home. And every step you take — shaky, weary, but resolute — brings you closer. --Fr Dr John Singarayar SVD