For decades, Margaret Sullivan kept one foot in Catholicism and one foot out the door. Raised in the faith, educated by Jesuits at Georgetown, she received the sacraments and attended mass. Her father was a daily communicant who made the Eucharist a morning ritual before work. Her aunt was a Sister of Charity with a doctorate in classical languages.
Yet Sullivan also resisted the faith's strict doctrines, felt alienated by the church's handling of clergy abuse and coverups, and even joked about being "a lapsed Catholic and a half-assed Buddhist" thanks to her yoga practice and interest in Eastern spirituality.
Then Pope Leo came along, and something shifted.
Sullivan finds herself unexpectedly realigned with Catholicism for the first time since her first communion. The catalyst isn't theology or renewed devotion to church law. It's the pope's relentless message of peace and his willingness to confront what he sees as the weaponization of faith for political gain.
Last week, Leo posted a stark warning on his @pontifex account, which reaches nearly 18 million followers: "Woe to those who manipulate religion and the very name of God for their own military, economic, and political gain, dragging that which is sacred into darkness and filth."
The message landed as Pope Leo and President Trump traded barbs over religion, rhetoric, and power. When Trump posted a meme depicting himself as a Jesus-like figure this week, the pope's words seemed aimed directly at that moment. Trump later took down the image, claiming he meant to depict himself as a doctor,a stretch few found credible.
Sullivan isn't the only Catholic experiencing a sudden reconnection. Dan Savage, the gay activist and sex columnist, vowed this week to return to mass after decades away. "That's it, I'm gonna start going to mass again," he wrote, then joked about his first confession in 45 years: "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I hope you packed a lunch, father, because this is going to take a while."
Among Sullivan's Catholic friends, enthusiasm for the pope is palpable. One texted her on Easter: "I love our pope," complete with a teary-eyes emoji. The sentiment appears widespread, at least among Catholics who lean left politically.
The pope's background helps. Leo, born in Chicago, is the first American pontiff. He's a basketball fan and a vocal advocate for social justice. But for Sullivan and others, his real appeal is courage: standing up to what he perceives as abuse of religion without flinching.
Polling suggests the friction between pope and president is reshaping Catholic opinion. A survey conducted jointly by Republican and Democratic pollsters found that Catholic support for Trump has dwindled below 50 percent during his second term. That marks a sharp reversal from 2024, when Trump won the Catholic vote by 12 points, according to the National Catholic Register.
One commentator recently quipped that in America's ugly political divorce, liberals seemed to have gained custody of Catholicism. The observation cuts to something real: many Catholics who felt estranged from their church are finding their way back through Pope Leo's message, not despite the conflict but because of it.
If Trump and Leo are locked in a feud, as media outlets love to frame it, who emerges victorious? Sullivan poses the question plainly: the profane president held liable for sexual abuse and threatening global destruction, or the peace-loving pontiff who won't back down from a bully?
Author James Rodriguez: "Pope Leo has done something Trump and his allies can't seem to grasp: made standing on principle look stronger than winning."
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