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By Shane Gilreath
As we approach Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent, I’ve found myself drifting back over the last few years. After all, it is a season of reflection and abstinence. My Confirmation Saint knew this all too well – and spoke of it often. I have long loved St. John Henry Newman, and that affection deepened in 2025 when the Church named him a Doctor of the Church. A Doctor of the Church is not merely a saint of exceptional holiness, but one whose teachings the Church judges to be enduringly true and universally beneficial to faith, a reliable guide for the faithful in every age from here on out. Newman now stands among Augustine, Aquinas, and Teresa of Avila, not because he was dramatic or flashy in his faithfulness, but because he was faithful to truth wherever it led him and let the chips fall where they may.
Newman’s story resonates with me for a more personal reason, as well: like him, I am a former Anglican. His conversion to Catholicism in the nineteenth century sent shockwaves through the Church of England/Anglicanism. Mine was quieter and far less consequential, but the internal logic – even conflict – felt familiar. Newman was not known for thunderous preaching on the subject or commanding rooms with his presence, but what he did possess was a formidable intellect and a pen sharpened by prayer. He was a brilliant writer and scholar, and through his essays, sermons, and letters (which we still have) he became one of the greatest voices in Anglican theology.
As a leader of the Oxford Movement, Newman believed Anglicanism could be challenged (and renewed) from within. In my own small way, I felt something very similar. As a vestry leader in my parish, I believed I was pressing Anglicanism to remember what it actually is. Undeniably, its origins are Rome. If it cannot return to Rome, then at least it can return to its original orientation – toward the faith that shaped it before rupture and reaction (and Edward VI) hardened positions. Like Newman and his companions, I wasn’t trying to burn the house down. I was trying to subtly remind it, even in a single church, where its foundations came from.
That conviction shaped my parish life. I had begun a rosary night at the church. There was a visible rosary in my church office, alongside books written by popes and images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Holy Mother. None of this was done in secret or with clever ambiguity. I was honest with my priest – and with the junior warden – that I was more than on the edge of the Tiber. In fact, I had said my forehead rested on the doors of Rome. Anyone paying attention could see where my heart was leaning.
As with Newman, a position of leadership made the eventual transition more painful. When people trust you, pray with you, and follow your lead, a change of conviction can rattle cages. Newman knew this acutely; his conversion cost him friendships and wounded people he loved. I understand that now in a way I couldn’t before. Conscience does not spare others simply because it’s sincere.
What Newman teaches me, as a Catholic man, is that obedience to truth must come before comfort. His journey was not driven by rebellion, but by submission – to history, to doctrine, and ultimately to Christ speaking through His Church. The Church did not need Newman, and it does not need me. After all, it has Jesus who had promised St. Peter – the very first Pope – that the gates of hell would not prevail against it. Yet somehow God, in mercy, continues to use even painful obedience to bear fruit. Newman is a perfect example of that, and his elevation as a Doctor of the Church reminds me that fidelity, though costly, is never wasted. And that’s something we all can remember this Lent.
Noli timere. Cor ad cor loquitur.