The world keeps feeding men impossible models: heroes who never fall, leaders who never doubt, warriors who never break.

But Scripture doesn’t give us models. It gives us mirrors — men with tempers, flaws, lust, cowardice, pride, fear… and a God who still calls them, forms them, and refuses to leave them behind

When we read the Book of Acts, it’s impossible to miss the clear picture of a church in action: apostles teaching, councils forming, leaders appointed, and communities organized. For Catholics, this is not just history — it is the blueprint for how Christ intended His Church to operate.

Every so often within a Catholic group, a new tone begins to creep in — not loudly, not maliciously, but softly, like a shift in the wind. Someone begins sharing “holy experiences,” dramatic moments of the Spirit supposedly moving at retreats, conferences, or in prayer. At first it sounds harmless. Sometimes it even sounds inspiring.

But then something begins to feel off.

Today, people talk about “finding feathers,” “seeing signs,” “receiving messages,” or “the universe sending signals.” But Catholic teaching — and the saints who fought real spiritual battles — warn us that these curiosities can become traps.

Over the past few years, American culture has shifted in a strange way. I keep noticing people — especially far-right voices, influencers, and commentators — suddenly talking about Catholic devotions like the Holy Face, Fatima, the Rosary, or “end times.” Some of it feels sincere… but some of it feels off.

There is a moment in Scripture where poetry rises so high that it seems to touch heaven. A line so tender, so exalted, that the Church has always heard in it the echo of a woman unlike any other:

“One is my dove, my perfect one is but one,
She is the only one of her mother;
The daughters saw her and declared her blessed.”
— Canticle of Canticles 6:9

On the surface, the Song of Songs is a love poem between bridegroom and bride. But in the Catholic heart, guided by the saints and the liturgy, this verse unfolds into a luminous portrait of Mary, the Mother of God, the Mother of the Church, and the masterpiece of God’s love.

Last night in our study group, something happened that reminded me how important it is to anchor ourselves in the Church when things get spiritually intense.

A young woman came in late, breathless from a nearby worship service, full of emotion, full of questions. She had recently felt what she believed were strong movements of the Holy Spirit. People had prayed prophetic words over her. She spoke quickly about visions, diamonds, denominations, and how God “can’t be boxed in.” Underneath her excitement, I could also hear confusion. A kind of spiritual whirlwind.

Then she shared something that shifted the whole room:
She used to read tarot.
She said this felt different now.
She knew—she thought—it was all from God.