The Bible Made Me Catholic
My Journey Through Scripture, Suffering, and Sanctity
There is a moment in every convert’s life when arguments become secondary. Yes, apologetics matter. Yes, the intellectual rigor of Catholicism can draw the mind toward truth. But the true conversion—the interior transformation—is rarely born from syllogisms alone. It is born from Scripture, suffering, and the piercing encounter with beauty—the beauty of truth, the beauty of Christ, and the ravishing love of God the Father through His covenant.
For many, including myself, the road to Rome began not in books but in the burning heart of divine Revelation. Scripture was no longer merely a source of sermons—it was the map to the Father’s house. I saw the covenant thread—woven from Eden to Calvary, from Pentecost to the altar—pulling every narrative, every law, every promise into fulfillment in the Catholic Church. As Dr. Scott Hahn puts it, “the beauty of the truth was not just convincing—it was ravishing.”
My path began in Malaysia, in a family where Catholicism was nominal at best. I passed through the wilderness of atheism, wandered into Pentecostalism, and became a preacher within the Assemblies of God. And yet, the deeper I delved into Scripture, the more I realized it pointed not to a book-centered faith but to a Church-centered one—a Church ancient, sacramental, and unapologetically Catholic.
This was not a career move. Becoming Catholic cost me everything—community, profession, even family ties. But conversion is not just a one-time event. It is the lifelong road to Emmaus, where we walk with Christ, not always recognizing Him, until He breaks the bread. Every Catholic must be a convert, every day. Every moment must be an assent to grace.
In God’s providence, I was drawn to Ave Maria Radio, where I eventually succeeded Al Kresta, a giant in Catholic media. Al saw in me not a clone, but a successor. He laid a foundation, not merely of skills, but of vision—a vision where applied biblical theology informs every facet of human existence. He once told me that salvation history is the most objective framework for understanding human history. That truth has become the marrow of my ministry.
Salvation history did not end with Acts of the Apostles. It is being written in our lives, our marriages, our careers, and our crosses. And it was through the covenantal lens that I came to see the profound dignity of every vocation—especially marriage and fatherhood—as the crucible where holiness is forged.
My marriage to Stephanie has become my sanctuary and my battlefield. We suffered miscarriages, buried children, wept and prayed and clung to the sacraments. It was the covenantal grace of matrimony—that sacramental participation in Christ’s self-gift—that sustained us. As Dom Anscar Vonier taught, a covenant is unilaterally instituted by God, but it becomes a friendship of charity when man freely responds. That response, however painful, is where sanctity begins.
Like St. Paul says, we must “work out our salvation with fear and trembling” (Phil 2:12). But we do so because “God is at work in us, both to will and to work for His good pleasure” (Phil 2:13). The paradox is that we strive not because it depends on us, but because God is already at work.
This is the beauty of covenantal theology. It affirms that God, as Father, is sovereignly orchestrating salvation while still honoring our freedom. The covenant is not a contract. It is a family bond, sealed in blood and ratified in suffering. And it is in living this covenant—in the flesh, in diapers and dishes, in prayer and proclamation—that we discover the heart of holiness.
Al Kresta prepared me for this. He told me, “You’re a preacher who shouldn’t have to get on a plane. Radio will let you proclaim Christ and come home to your family every night.” He was right. In proclaiming the covenant, I am living it.
We live in a culture that has dethroned God. Not just from public politics, but from the heart of civilization. We’ve enthroned celebrities, sensuality, and self-expression where the Logos should reign. But the thrones in our hearts will never remain empty. If Christ is not king, someone else will be. That is why Catholics must recover the beauty and power of living the covenant—especially in marriage.
As Fr. Donald Keefe said, and as I often repeat: “If Catholics merely lived out the sacrament of matrimony, in one generation the world would be transformed.” The Eucharist is not just a doctrine; it is a civilization-shaping mystery. Art, music, literature, and law all flowed from the liturgical source of the Church. This is what Jared Staudt captures so well in How the Eucharist Can Save Civilization.
The Catholic vision is integrative. The Eucharist is the summit of culture. Science becomes the exploration of God’s handiwork. Literature becomes a meditation on the drama of redemption. Even politics finds its true purpose in service to the common good, rightly ordered under divine law.
This is why I teach. This is why I preach. This is why I speak on the radio. Not to impress, not to merely inform, but to lead hearts back to the ravishing beauty of the covenant—the marriage between Christ and His Church.
The United States, for all its flaws, offers a singular opportunity. Our founding was not perfect, but it was soaked in natural law and Christian moral reasoning. Religious liberty here is a rare and precious soil. We must cultivate it with truth. John Adams warned, “Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”
And that includes Catholics. Cradle or convert, we must all become intentional disciples, working out our salvation by pouring our lives into our families, our parishes, and our vocations. This is the only path to national renewal. Not through elections, but through Eucharistic transformation.
Becoming Catholic was hard. Remaining Catholic is harder. But becoming a saint—that is the battle worth bleeding for. For me, every broadcast, every diaper change, every student mentored, every miscarriage mourned, every Eucharist received is part of that crucible. This is covenant lived.
And in the end, I want no other story. For this is not merely the story of Marcus Peter. It is the story of every Catholic soul who has ever longed for Emmaus—for a Christ who walks with us, speaks to us, breaks bread with us, and calls us to eternal communion in the covenant that will never end.