The wound of betrayal: A Catholic father’s cry against son’s marriage outside the faith

A Father’s Grief Over His Son

By Mark Antony

London, September 4

 My heart feels torn in a way words can scarcely carry. A father’s love is supposed to rejoice in the happiness of his son, to watch him walk into the future with joy, to bless him as he builds his home. But how do I rejoice, how do I bless, when the very foundation of that future is built on sand, not on the Rock of Christ? My son, my own flesh and blood, raised in the faith of Jesus Christ, has chosen to marry a non-believer. The news fell on me like a thunderbolt—unexpected, shattering, and heavy beyond measure.

 I cannot describe the agony of realizing that the faith that carried our family through generations, the faith for which our forefathers endured trials, persecutions, and even martyrdom, is now being casually discarded by my own child. I raised him in the Church. I taught him the Catechism. I prayed with him at night when he was a boy. I led him to the altar to receive his First Holy Communion. I watched him grow into a young man, believing—sometimes foolishly—that the faith had taken root in his heart. And yet, here I stand today, broken by the truth that his faith is shallow, incomplete, a mere shadow of what it ought to be.

 Marriage is not a social contract. It is not just two people holding hands and smiling before cameras. It is a covenant before God. When two Christians marry, Christ Himself is at the centre, uniting them, blessing them, becoming the third strand in a cord that cannot be broken. But when a Christian marries a non-believer, it is not Christ who stands at the centre—it is compromise. It is division. It is light trying to walk with darkness, and the two will never find true peace.

 I told him this. I pleaded with him. I reminded him of the words of Scripture: “Do not be  unequally yoked with unbelievers. For what partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness?” (2 Corinthians 6:14). He looked at me with indifference, almost annoyance, as though I were speaking outdated traditions that no longer matter. My own son, who once knelt beside me in church, now looks at faith as something optional, negotiable, even dispensable when love or desire calls.

 How can I, as a father, stand and smile at such a union? How can I place my hand on his head and bless him when I know that he is turning his back on the covenant of Christ? My heart says I should rejoice for his happiness, but my soul trembles with sorrow because this happiness is shallow, fleeting, and bound to wound.

 It feels like betrayal—not of me, but of Christ. For marriage is not simply about two individuals—it is about two families, two faiths, two legacies, two heritages coming together. And what heritage does my son wish to pass on? Will he raise his children in the faith? Will he kneel with them at Mass? Will he teach them to pray the rosary, to honour the Eucharist, to confess their sins? Or will they grow up in confusion, half-believing, half-doubting, torn between Christ and the world?

 I look at the woman he has chosen. I do not despise her. She may be kind, respectful, even loving. But she does not know my Lord. She does not bow before the Cross. She does not believe that Christ died and rose for her salvation. How then can she walk hand in hand with my son into a covenant meant to glorify God? Even if she promises respect, even if she assures us of tolerance, how long will that last when real decisions come—when it comes to raising children, when it comes to choosing worship, when it comes to living a Christian witness before the world?

 My tears are not for myself. They are for my son. He does not see the danger. He is blinded by emotions that will fade, but faithlessness has consequences that endure. He thinks he can manage both—marry outside the faith and still keep a lukewarm grip on Christianity. But lukewarmness is vomited out by the Lord (Revelation 3:16). Faith is not meant to be half-hearted, and marriage cannot thrive on half-truths.

 I have prayed nights without sleep. I have begged the Lord to turn his heart back, to open his eyes before it is too late. And yet, God has given man free will, and it is this free will that cuts deepest. My son is free to choose, even if his choice breaks my heart and wounds his soul. I cannot force him, though everything in me longs to shake him and bring him back to the truth.

 The sorrow of a Catholic father is not just that his son is marrying outside the faith, but that in doing so, he is abandoning the inheritance of Christ. This inheritance is more precious than wealth, more lasting than lands, more glorious than earthly honour. It is the inheritance of salvation, the inheritance of the sacraments, the inheritance of grace. To throw that away for the sake of worldly love is the greatest tragedy.

 And yet, as heart-broken as I am, I still ask: is there a way out for him? Is there redemption? Can he still be saved from the error of his ways? My hope rests on the same Christ he now disregards. The prodigal son wandered far from his father’s house, squandering his inheritance, only to return broken, ashamed, but repentant. And the father embraced him. Perhaps my son, too, will one day see the emptiness of a marriage not cantered in Christ. Perhaps the trials of life will teach him what I could not. Perhaps he will come running back to the Lord in tears, and the Lord—merciful beyond measure—will welcome him home.

 Until then, my duty is to pray unceasingly. I cannot bless this union, but I can intercede for his soul. I cannot stand with joy at his wedding, but I can kneel with tears before the tabernacle. I can carry his name to the altar day after day, begging Christ to pierce his heart, to draw him back, to reveal Himself in power and mercy.

 As for me, I will not give up. I may be broken, but I am not hopeless. My faith teaches me that no soul is beyond redemption, no wanderer too far gone for the Shepherd to seek. If the Lord could rescue Augustine from his rebellion, if He could transform Saul into Paul, then surely He can reach my son, even if it takes years of struggle, even if it takes heartbreak.

 But until that day comes, the wound remains. I am a father torn between love for my son and loyalty to my Saviour. I am asked to celebrate when I can only mourn. I am told to move with the times when I know eternity is at stake. I am asked to smile when my soul is on its knees in grief.

 So I will carry this cross. I will pray, I will plead, I will endure. And I will wait for the day when my son, who has strayed from the faith of his fathers, comes home again—not just to me, but to Christ. For only then will my broken heart find healing. Only then will the tears of a father be wiped away.