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Source: Created at perchance.org When I stepped into the baptismal font earlier this year, I knew I was walking into something ancient, sacred, and beautiful.
The Roman Catholic Church had become my home, my anchor.
The smell of incense, the lilt of the prayers, the timeless rhythm of the Mass—it all felt like slipping into a current that’s been flowing for two thousand years.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t walk into that font believing salvation was locked behind the doors of my new parish.
I believe the Catholic Church has preserved the fullness of the faith, yes.
I believe her sacraments are gifts straight from Christ Himself.
But I also believe the Holy Spirit moves beyond our lines, our labels, and even our schisms.
For me, it all comes back to the Eucharist.
The One Thing That Changes Everything
When Jesus lifted the bread and said, “This is My Body,” He didn’t add, “but only if you’re in communion with Rome.” He didn’t carve a denominational footnote into the Last Supper.
From my perspective, if a church—whether Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, or Coptic Orthodox—truly believes that bread and wine are transformed into the Body and Blood of Christ, then something eternal is happening there.
That’s not just ritual.
That’s not just memory.
That’s God stepping into time, breaking into creation, and feeding His people with Himself.
If you take Jesus at His word in John 6 (“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life”), then the Eucharist isn’t just a symbol. It’s a direct encounter with the Source of Life.
And if it’s a direct encounter with the Source of Life, then how could it not be salvific?
Meeting the Copts Changed Me
I’ll be honest—I didn’t know much about the Coptic Orthodox Church until after my baptism. I vaguely knew they were “Egyptian Christians” and that they had a pope in Alexandria.
But once I started digging into Church history, I learned something that stopped me in my tracks: according to tradition, their church was founded by none other than St. Mark the Evangelist—the same Mark who was a disciple and interpreter of St. Peter.
The Copts believe in the Real Presence every bit as much as we do. They lift up the bread and wine, call on the Holy Spirit, and proclaim, “This is truly My Body… This is truly My Blood.”
They don’t use the Latin word transubstantiation, but they confess the same mystery—Christ Himself present under the form of bread and wine.
And here’s what really struck me: their liturgy has been virtually unchanged for centuries. It’s drenched in Scripture, soaked in prayer, and filled with the same awe and reverence I’ve seen at a Catholic altar.
The Schism That Wasn’t About the Eucharist
So why aren’t Copts Catholic? It’s not because they deny the sacraments or reject apostolic succession. The split happened in 451 AD at the Council of Chalcedon, and it was over Christology—how to articulate the mystery of Christ’s nature.
Rome and Constantinople declared that Christ is one Person in two natures (divine and human).
The Copts, following the language of St. Cyril of Alexandria, insisted that Christ has “one united nature of God the Word incarnate”—a miaphysis that is fully divine and fully human without separation or confusion.
A lot of historians and theologians today will tell you the two sides were actually talking about the same truth, just with different terminology and political baggage.
But the damage was done.
The Church split, and the wounds have lasted 1,500 years.
Still, notice what the argument wasn’t about: the Eucharist. On that point, they never wavered.
Why I Can’t Write Them Off
Here’s where my newly baptized Catholic self wrestles a bit with traditional exclusivism.
Rome teaches that the Catholic Church contains the fullness of the means of salvation, which I believe is true.
But she also acknowledges that other apostolic churches—like the Coptic Orthodox—have valid sacraments and a real priesthood.
If the Eucharist is truly Christ, and the Copts truly receive Him, how could I possibly say they are cut off from salvation unless they “come back” to Rome?
It would be like saying that someone could eat from the Tree of Life and still die of starvation. That makes no sense to me.
But What About Those Who Don’t Know?
Here’s where it gets personal. I didn’t even know the Eucharist was an “issue” until a couple of years ago.
I grew up Presbyterian, took communion regularly, and honestly thought it was more or less the same as what Catholics did—just without the fancy vestments and incense.
The idea that Catholics believe the bread and wine actually become the Body and Blood of Christ? That wasn’t on my radar.
And that raises the question: if someone loves Jesus, lives a faithful Christian life, and takes communion in their own church without knowing it’s meant to be the literal Body and Blood, is salvation out of reach for them?
I don’t believe so.
I believe God’s mercy accounts for ignorance—not willful rejection, but simple unawareness.
If a Christian is genuinely following Christ and has simply never been taught the truth about the Eucharist, I believe there is a soul-purifying process available to them after death that bridges what they didn’t understand in life.
And What About Those Who Reject It?
John 6 makes this harder. Jesus told His disciples to eat His flesh and drink His blood, and “many of His disciples turned back and no longer followed Him.” He didn’t soften the teaching to win them back. That’s sobering.
If someone knows exactly what the Church teaches—that the Eucharist is Christ Himself—and still walks away, that’s not mere ignorance. That’s a conscious choice to reject a gift Christ called the source of eternal life.
I can’t sugarcoat that.
The stakes are high when the Giver of Life offers Himself and we push Him away.
But I also can’t see inside another person’s heart. Maybe someone rejects the Catholic teaching because the only version they’ve heard was explained badly, or tied up with cultural baggage that obscured the beauty of the truth.
God alone knows whether their “no” was to Him or to a distorted picture of Him.
The Purgatory Question
Now, about that “after death purification” Catholics call purgatory. I accept the Church’s teaching on it—many of us will need some final cleansing before entering God’s presence.
But I also believe God is not limited in how and when He purifies a soul.
If someone has lived a faithful life, received the Eucharist with genuine repentance and love (even if their understanding of it was incomplete), I don’t see purgatory as an inevitable stop. I think of the thief on the cross. Jesus didn’t tell him, “Today you’ll start the process of purgation.” He said, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.”
And if that thief, without ever receiving the Eucharist, could be brought straight into paradise by the sheer mercy of Christ, how much more those who have consumed the Body and Blood of the Lamb—even if their catechism wasn’t perfect?
Rome, Alexandria, and the Family Table
I’ve started thinking of it this way: the Catholic Church and the Coptic Orthodox Church are like estranged siblings.
They share the same parents (the apostles), the same family home (the early Church), and the same most cherished meal (the Eucharist).
The fight that drove them apart was real, but it didn’t erase the blood relationship—or the reality that they’re both still nourished by the same Christ.
And here’s the kicker: St. Peter and St. Mark weren’t rivals. Tradition says Peter sent Mark to Egypt.
These two apostles worked together to spread the Gospel, and I can’t imagine either of them being happy about their spiritual descendants glaring at each other across a millennium and a half of division.
The Hope That Won’t Let Me Go
I know full communion between Rome and Alexandria might not happen in my lifetime. But I can’t shake the hope that, in the eyes of heaven, the gap is already narrower than we think.
If salvation is union with Christ, and the Eucharist is the most intimate union with Him possible in this life, then I believe that anyone—Catholic, Coptic, or otherwise—who receives that gift in faith is tasting eternal life now. And eternal life isn’t something you can “un-eat.”
I didn’t become Catholic to draw smaller circles around who’s in and who’s out. I became Catholic because I believe the Church holds the treasures of grace Christ left us. But I also believe those treasures are powerful enough to spill over the walls we’ve built, flooding anyone who comes to the altar with faith.
In the end, I think the Bread of Life has a way of making family out of strangers, healing divides that centuries of argument can’t. And maybe, just maybe, when we’re all at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, we’ll look around and realize we’ve been eating the same bread all along.
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