When you enter my apartment, you will not see a framed photograph of me, beaming, standing next to the pope. People who've been in my apartment for a few hours have asked me if I'm Jewish—I get that a lot. No doubt, these folks missed the Catholic church calendar in the kitchen, and the plastic rosary hanging on a nail near the door, above my walking stick and shoes.

Without Google, I could not hold up my end in the rare theological debates I do enter into. I'm not even named after a saint. I believe that women and married men should be allowed to be priests, and I don't make it to mass every Sunday. Even so, I am Catholic.