My Name is Lazarus: How the Church and Chesterton Rescued Me From Racial Hatred

His story parallels that of Joseph Pearce with one exception. In Pearce's case, Chesterton led him to the Church. In Cytanovic's case, the Church led him to GKC.

From Crisis

By Peter Cytanovic VI

My photo had become the visual shorthand for white supremacy in contemporary America. The writings of G.K. Chesterton, however, helped lead me to Christ and His Church.

Invite the reader to Google my name. There is a strong possibility that you have encountered my photograph at some point, as it has become part of the visual shorthand for white supremacy in contemporary America. That image was taken when I was 20 years old, nearly 21. I am now 29. Despite the passage of time, many continue to see me only through that image. For this reason, I have decided it is finally time to tell my conversion story: how I became Catholic and how I found joy after the despair. My name is Lazarus, and this is the story of my journey to Christ and rebirth.

My decision to attend the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville was not a single, isolated act; rather, it was the culmination of years of poor choices. Although I was raised in a loving home, it was economically strained, and there was a part of me that understood that there was injustice in the poverty I saw around me. Yet, I did not have the language or moral formation to articulate what made it unjust. 

I was not Catholic or religious at all. Both my parents were born Catholic but left the Faith. I was a “none” who was culturally Christian as a vague abstraction. I wanted justice, but I did not know what justice truly was. I enrolled at the University of Nevada, Reno, but I had no plan, no goal, and that absence of direction became the soil in which my radicalization took root.

Over the next two years, my warped sense of justice led me gradually into what can only be described as neo-Nazism, though I did not recognize it as such at the time. The nihilism I had in youth evolved into a zealous rage against the world. I never formally joined a neo-Nazi organization, nor did I desire to, but I increasingly embraced hateful ideas that I justified as necessary to protect what I perceived as my community: the white community. 

Over the next two years, my warped sense of justice led me gradually into what can only be described as neo-Nazism, though I did not recognize it as such at the time.That impulse eventually led me to the identitarian movement. In the summer of 2017, a few months before the Unite the Right rally, I joined the group Identity Evropa, driven by a radical zeal-turned-racial that had reached its breaking point. 

Yet even during this descent, there was a faint call to something better. In the quiet moments between classes and hours spent immersed in online radical spaces, I sensed a small but persistent voice telling me that I was on the wrong path and that another way was possible. I ignored it, more often than not. Still, I would pause to admire the beauty of my local cathedral when I passed by, and I occasionally attended Mass when invited by friends in the campus pro-life club, even though I did not believe or care at the time. There was an off-ramp, a different answer to the justice I sought, if only I had taken it.

I did not. At my first major rally with the alt-right, I was photographed at a moment when years of rage erupted outward for all the world to see. That image captured my anger and hatred in a single frame. I believe that it was divine providence that this photograph was taken and that I was forced to confront the consequences of my actions. I was held accountable; and through that painful reckoning, I was given the possibility of a new beginning. 

As the weight of those consequences fell upon me, I finally understood what that quiet voice had been. It was Christ, calling me to Him. After the rally, I realized that unless I changed course, I would destroy myself. That fall, I entered RCIA and began the long journey home to the Catholic Church.

When I was received into the Church the following Easter, I believed the teachings of Catholicism to be true. What I did not yet know was how to live as a Catholic in my daily life. I had spent years being hateful, angry, and, ultimately, lost—thus habituated to poor choices. 

In the spring of 2018, I resolved to begin again from the ground up: to study, to rebuild my intellectual and moral life, and to purge the hatred that still lingered in my heart, replacing it with something good. That decision led me to enroll at the London School of Economics, far away from the fallout of my choices.

It was in London that I first discovered G.K. Chesterton and began learning how to live as a Catholic in ordinary life. I discovered Chesterton’s political writings as I studied populism, and from there I discovered the beauty and depth of Distributism and Catholic Social Teaching. Alongside Chesterton’s writings, my friendship with Reverend James Walters, the director of the LSE Faith Centre, and my involvement in the wider University of London Catholic community gave me concrete experiences of forgiveness, friendship, and community that went beyond race. They offered me grace and, in return, the opportunity to fill my heart with charity.

I graduated in December 2019 and returned home right before Covid swept across the world. Though I was still searching for a new purpose, I had found a roadmap from which to start. By chance, or perhaps by grace, a family friend gave me Chesterton’s Heretics, Orthodoxy, and The Everlasting Man. 

With time and isolation in abundance, I immersed myself in his work. Chesterton became my guide out of the racial zeal and blind rage that had once dominated my life. His thought provided the foundation on which I learned to live joyfully in Christ after Charlottesville. Chesterton’s words also helped save me from despair.

But this change was not quick. When I returned home, I was consumed by shame, guilt, and self-loathing. Once the racial zeal that drove me for years was stripped away, I was without purpose and more lost than ever. Uncertain about my future and burdened by my past, I fell into a deep depression. 

A friend suggested that I enlist in the military as a form of redemption. With no other direction in sight, I pursued that path, only to be rejected when my past resurfaced. This was not an attempt to infiltrate the military as many online claimed; it was a desperate and foolish attempt by a desperate man to find a sense of purpose.

At that point, all I wanted was a way out, but I could see none. Employment was near impossible due to consistent firings or having offers rescinded. Everything from warehouse work to administration or social justice work was denied me. Even some Catholic Worker houses refused to let me volunteer, unconvinced of my conversion and desire to do good. 

I felt trapped, convinced that my life was effectively over before it had truly begun. Yet, in the quiet moments, I returned to Chesterton. His words gave me small but real reasons to find joy in ordinary life, and through them I found the strength to keep going. The joy of faith was my guide out of the void, away from despair and toward a new purpose that would open up to me when the time was right. 

Chesterton became my guide out of the racial zeal and blind rage that had once dominated my life. His thought provided the foundation on which I learned to live joyfully in Christ after Charlottesville.This journey toward joyful Catholicism unfolded slowly, but it ultimately fulfilled the longing for justice that had once driven me, however distorted, to Charlottesville. That desire, though corrupted by sin, was nonetheless real. Through Chesterton’s Distributism and the broader tradition of Catholic Social Teaching, I discovered an authentic vision of community, solidarity, and economic justice. The Christian ideal replaced pagan racial solidarity with a deeper and more humane communion, one grounded not in exclusion but in love of neighbor, rooted in Christ. 

Dr. Anna Rowlands of Durham University introduced me to Simone Weil, which sparked my enduring interest in labor justice. Chesterton and Weil inspired my return to graduate school, where I encountered the thought of Jacques Maritain, Emmanuel Mounier, and, ultimately, José María Arizmendiarrieta. Only one doctoral program accepted me, and it is one I am proud to call home: The Catholic University of America. Through these thinkers, my understanding of Catholic social thought matured and became the foundation of social justice I had sought, in a disordered way, for so many years. Today, I am an active Catholic, distributist, and cooperativist, committed to serving the common good.

Nearly nine years have passed since Charlottesville. I remain marked, socially and digitally, in ways that continue to shape my daily life. Yet despair no longer defines me. After encountering Catholicism and Chesterton, I refused to let my past cage me forever. 

For years, I refrained from telling this story. I did not want to profit from notoriety or present myself as a victim. I hoped to return to ordinary anonymity to pursue my studies. I eventually came to understand that this was no longer possible, that this is part of my story, and it is not something I need to try to conceal. Through Christ’s love and forgiveness, I have been given the grace to become a new man. My name is Lazarus, and I am alive.