Catholicism made me Protestant

First Things ^ | 9/11/2019 | Onsi A. Kamel

[Gamecock]

Like all accounts of God’s faithfulness, mine begins with a genealogy. In the late seventeenth century, my mother’s Congregationalist ancestors journeyed to the New World to escape what they saw as England’s deadly compromise with Romanism. Centuries later, ­American Presbyterians converted my father’s great-­grandmother from Coptic ­Orthodoxy to ­Protestantism. Her son became a Presbyterian minister in the Evangelical Coptic Church. By the time my parents were ­living in ­twenty-first-century Illinois, their families’ historic Reformed commitments had been replaced by non-denominational, ­Baptistic ­evangelicalism.

This form of Christianity dominated my Midwestern hometown. My parents taught me to love God, revere the Scriptures, and seek truth through reason. In middle school, my father introduced me to theology, and as a present for my sixteenth birthday he arranged a meeting between me and a Catholic philosopher, Dr. B—. From high school into college, Dr. B— introduced me to Catholic thought and graciously helped me work through my doubts about Christianity. How could a just and loving God not reveal himself equally to everyone? What are we to make of the Bible’s creation stories and flood narrative? Did Calvinism make God the author of evil? My acquaintance with Dr. B— set my intellectual trajectory for several years.

The causes of any conversion (or near conversion) are many and confused. Should I foreground psychological and social factors or my theological reasoning? Certain elements of my attraction to Catholicism were adolescent, like a sixties radical’s attraction to Marx or a contemporary activist’s to intersectionality: I aimed to preserve the core beliefs of my upbringing while fleeing their bourgeois expressions. When I arrived at the University of Chicago, I knew just enough about Calvinism to hold it in ­contempt—which is to say, I knew very little. Reacting against the middle-aged leaders of the inaptly named “Young, Restless, and Reformed Movement,” I sought refuge in that other great ­Western ­theological tradition: ­Roman ­Catholicism.

During my first year of college, I became involved in campus Catholic life. Through the influence of the Catholic student group and the Lumen Christi Institute, which hosts lectures by Catholic intellectuals, my theologically inclined college friends began converting to Catholicism, one after another. These friends were devout, intelligent, and schooled in Christian history. I met faithful and holy Catholic priests—one of whom has valiantly defended the faith for years, drawing punitive opposition from his own religious superiors, as well as the ire of Chicago’s archbishop. This priest was and is to me the very model of a holy, righteous, and courageous man.

I loved Catholicism because Catholics taught me to love the Church. At Lumen Christi events, I heard about saints and mystics, stylites and monastics, desert fathers and late-antique theologians. I was captivated by the holy martyrs, relics, Mary, and the Mass. I found in the Church a spiritual mother and the mother of all the faithful. Through Catholicism, I came into an inheritance: a past of saints and redeemed sinners from all corners of the earth, theologians who illuminated the deep things of God, music and art that summon men to worship God “in the beauty of holiness,” and a tradition to ground me in a world of flux.

Catholicism, which I took to be the Christianity of history, was a world waiting to be discovered. I set about exploring, and I tried to bring others along. I debated tradition with my mother, sola Scriptura with my then fiancée (now wife), and the meaning of the Eucharist with my father. On one occasion, a Reformed professor dispensed with my arguments for transubstantiation in a matter of minutes.

Not long after this, I began to notice discrepancies between Catholic apologists’ map of the tradition and the terrain I encountered in the tradition itself. St. Ambrose’s doctrine of justification sounded a great deal more like Luther’s sola fide than like Trent. St. John Chrysostom’s teaching on repentance and absolution—“Mourn and you annul the sin”—would have been more at home in Geneva than Paris. St. Thomas’s doctrine of predestination, much to my horror, was nearly identical to the Synod of Dordt’s. The Anglican divine Richard Hooker quoted Irenaeus, ­Chrysostom, ­Augustine, and Pope Leo I as he rejected doctrines and practices because they were not grounded in Scripture. He cited Pope Gregory the Great on the “­ungodly” title of universal bishop. The Council of ­Nicaea assumed that Alexandria was on a par with Rome, and Chalcedon declared that the Roman patriarchate was privileged only “because [Rome] was the royal city.” In short, I began to wonder whether the Reformers had a legitimate claim to the Fathers. The Church of Rome could not be straightforwardly identified as catholic.

John Henry Newman became my crucial interlocutor: More than in Ratzinger, Wojtyła, or Congar, in Newman I found a kindred spirit. Here was a man obsessed with the same questions that ate at me, questions of tradition and authority. With Newman, I agonized over conversion. I devoured his Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine and his Apologia pro Vita Sua. Two of his ideas were pivotal for me: his theory of doctrinal development and his articulation of the problem of private judgment. On these two ideas hung all the claims of Rome.

In retrospect, I see that Newman’s need to construct a theory of doctrinal development tells against Rome’s claims of continuity with the ancient Church. And at the time, though I wished to accept Newman’s proposal that “the early condition, and the evidence, of each doctrine . . . ought consistently to be interpreted by means of that development which was ultimately attained,” I could not. One could only justify such assumptions if one were already committed to Roman Catholic doctrine and Rome’s meaningful continuity with what came before. Without either of these commitments, I simply could not find a plausible reason to speak of “development” rather than “disjuncture,” especially because what came before so often contradicted what followed.

The issue of ecclesiastical authority was trickier for me. I recognized the absurdity of a twenty-year-old presuming to adjudicate claims about the Scriptures and two thousand years of history. Newman’s arguments against private judgment therefore had a prima facie plausibility for me. In his Apologia, Newman argues that man’s rebellion against God introduced an “anarchical condition of things,” leading human thought toward “suicidal excesses.” Hence, the fittingness of a divinely established living voice infallibly proclaiming supernatural truths. In his discourse on “Faith and Private Judgment,” Newman castigates Protestants for refusing to “surrender” reason in matters religious. The implication is that reason is unreliable in matters of revelation. Faith is assent to the incontestable, self-evident truth of God’s revelation, and reasoning becomes an excuse to refuse to bend the knee.

The more I internalized ­Newman’s claims about private judgment, however, the more I descended into skepticism. I could not reliably interpret the Scriptures, history, or God’s Word preached and given in the sacraments. But if I could not do these things, if my reason was unfit in matters religious, how was I to assess Newman’s arguments for Roman Catholicism? Newman himself had once recognized this dilemma, writing in a pre-conversion letter, “We have too great a horror of the principle of private judgment to trust it in so immense a matter as that of changing from one communion to another.” Did he expect me to forfeit the faculty by which I adjudicate truth claims, because that faculty is fallible? My ­conversion would have to be rooted in my private ­judgment—but, because of Rome’s claim of infallibility, conversion would forbid me from exercising that faculty ever again on doctrinal questions.

Finally, the infighting among traditionalist, conservative, and liberal Catholics made plain that Catholics did not gain by their magisterium a clear, living voice of divine authority. They received from the past a set of magisterial documents that had to be weighed and interpreted, often over against living prelates. The ­magisterium of prior ages only multiplied the texts one had to interpret for oneself, for living bishops, it turns out, are as bad at reading as the rest of us.

But I did not remain a Protestant merely because I could not become a Catholic. While I was discovering that Roman Catholicism could not be straightforwardly identified with the catholicism of the first six centuries (nor, in certain respects, with that of the seventh century through the twelfth), and as I was wrestling with Newman, I finally began reading the Reformers. What I found shocked me. Catholicism had, by this time, reoriented my theological concerns around the concerns of the Church catholic. My assumptions, and the issues that animated me, were those of the Church of history. My evangelical upbringing had led me to believe that Protestantism entailed the rejection of these concerns. But this notion exploded upon contact with the Protestantism of history.

Martin Luther, John Calvin, Richard Hooker, Herman Bavinck, Karl Barth—they wrestled with the concerns of the Church catholic and provided answers to the questions Catholicism had taught me to pose. Richard Hooker interpreted the Church’s traditions; Calvin followed Luther’s Augustinianism, proclaimed the visible Church the mother of the faithful, and claimed for the Reformation the Church’s exegetical tradition; Barth convinced me that God’s Word could speak, certainly and surely, from beyond all created realities, to me.

Catholicism had taught me to think like a Protestant, because, as it turned out, the Reformers had thought like catholics. Like their pope-aligned opponents, they had asked questions about justification, the authority of tradition, the mode of Christ’s self-gift in the Eucharist, the nature of apostolic succession, and the Church’s wielding of the keys. Like their opponents, Protestants had appealed to Scripture and tradition. In time, I came to find their answers not only plausible, but more faithful to Scripture than the Catholic answers, and at least as well-represented in the traditions of the Church.

The Protestants did more than out-catholic the Catholics. They also spoke to the deepest needs of sinful souls. I will never forget the moment when, like Luther five hundred years earlier, I discovered justification by faith alone through union with Christ. I was sitting in my dorm room by myself. I had been assigned Luther’s Explanations of the Ninety-Five ­Theses, and I expected to find it facile. A year or two prior, I had decided that Trent was right about justification: It was entirely a gift of grace consisting of the gradual perfecting of the soul by faith and works—God instigating and me cooperating. For years, I had attempted to live out this model of justification. I had gone to Mass regularly, prayed the rosary with friends, fasted frequently, read the Scriptures daily, prayed earnestly, and sought advice from spiritual directors. I had begun this arduous cooperation with God’s grace full of hope; by the time I sat in that dorm room alone, I was distraught and demoralized. I had learned just how wretched a sinner I was: No good work was unsullied by pride, no repentance unaccompanied by expectations of future sin, no love free from selfishness.

In this state, I picked up my copy of that arch-heretic Luther and read his explanation of Thesis 37: “Any true Christian, whether living or dead, participates in all the blessings of Christ and the church; and this is granted him by God, even without indulgence letters.” With these words, Luther transformed my understanding of justification: Every Christian possesses Christ, and to possess Christ is to possess all of Christ’s righteousness, life, and merits. Christ had joined me to himself.

I had “put on Christ” in baptism and, by faith through the work of the Spirit, all things were mine, and I was Christ’s, and Christ was God’s (Gal. 3:27; 1 Cor. 3:21–23). His was not an uncertain mercy; his was not a grace of parts, which one hoped would become a whole; his was not a salvation to be attained, as though it were not already also a present possession. At that moment, the joy of my salvation poured into my soul. I wept and showed forth God’s praise. I had finally discovered the true ground and power of Protestantism: “My beloved is mine, and I am his” (Song 2:16).

Rome had brought me to ­Reformation.

[MHGinTN]

You tell us. You are committing a grave sin on this thread, doubting the word of God. Have you remained ‘saved’ or are you in need of priestly restitution and priestly forgiveness?

[Luircin]

Nice response to avoid having to address your hypocrisy.

It’s absolute bull hockey to claim that what Paul REALLY means by ‘works of the law’ is only circumcision and ceremonial law, especially when Paul refers to doing the Ten Commandments as works of the law.

But you know, that doesn’t line up with Catholic propaganda, so I’m not surprised that you ignore it.

Catholic hypocrisy remains a constant.

[Luircin]

“Abraham believed God and it was accounted to him as righteousness.”

Sounds like faith alone to me, and that’s all the way back in Genesis too.

[aMorePerfectUnion]

Faith in Christ’s sacrifice alone placemarker.

[2nd amendment mama]

Now there’s some hair splitting criteria that you have to be an actively participating member of said denomination, whatever that means.

Yeah, kind of like liberals who claim that a "fetus" isn't a "baby" for the purpose of abortion. Except.....when the "baby" is killed by someone other than an abortionist. Then it's a murder of a a woman's baby. Kinda like the definition of what the word "is" is. LOL

[infool7]

some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt:

I have no contempt for Non-Catholics but

If the shoe fits you better

you could probably wear it.

7

[metmom]

No, that’s not what I said.

Faith alone is what saves and it is enough.

Lack of fruit is simply evidence that saving faith does not exist.

All the works do is demonstrate to US that saving faith has been exercised. God already knows. It proves nothing to Him.

If one slips up, repentance clears the air but since salvation is not lost, then it’s not a matter of getting your salvation back again, it’s just clearing the air.

It’s no different than if a child disobeys their parents. Lines of communication are broken, but the child is theirs regardless and can never become not part of the family they were born into. Even if the parents disown them, they are still children by birth and that cannot be changed.

[MHGinTN]

I like your tagline.

[metmom]

The irony somehow escapes them.

[MHGinTN]

Thou hypocrite.

[metmom]

Before the Law at that.

[2nd amendment mama]

Thank you! That was the motto for Second Amendment Sisters. I’ve used it as my tagline since 2001.

[imardmd1]

Doubtless someone has given you direction, but just be assured that Luther's key faith passag translated in the KJV is as follows (with my superscript notations):

Romans 1:16,17 (AV):

¹⁶ For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth¹; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.
¹⁷ For therein is the righteousness of God revealed from² faith³ to faith⁴: as it is written⁵, The just⁶ shall live by faith⁷.

The verse from the Old Testament (which was the only written Scripture then existing) and being quoted here in Romans is:

Habakkuk 2:4 (AV):

² Behold, his soul which is lifted up is not upright in him: but the just shall live by his faith.

======

Notes:

¹ πιστεύω pisteuō pist-yoo'-o a verb, to place ones trust in a person, object, or principle
² εκ ek out of, on the basis of
³ πίστις pistis pis'-tis noun, (God's) principle of faith
⁴ same word but now referring to a person's ability to exercise faith

⁵ in the perfect tense, meaning once recorded as scripture but having ongoing permanent application
⁶ righteous, law-abiding person
⁷ personal committed trust in the trustworthiness of God/Jesus

Strong's Number G4102

πίστις
pistis
pis'-tis

Strong's Definition:
From G3982; persuasion, that is, credence; moral conviction (of religious truth, or the truthfulness of God or a religious teacher), especially reliance upon Christ for salvation; abstractly constancy in such profession; by extension the system of religious (Gospel) truth itself: - assurance, belief, believe, faith, fidelity.

Thayer's Definition:
1) conviction of the truth of anything, belief; in the NT of a conviction or belief respecting man’s relationship to God and divine things, generally with the included idea of trust and holy fervour born of faith and joined with it

1a) relating to God

1a1) the conviction that God exists and is the creator and ruler of all things, the provider and bestower of eternal salvation through Christ

1b) relating to Christ

1b1) a strong and welcome conviction or belief that Jesus is the Messiah, through whom we obtain eternal salvation in the kingdom of God

1c) the religious beliefs of Christians

1d) belief with the predominate idea of trust (or confidence) whether in God or in Christ, springing from faith in the same

2) fidelity, faithfulness

2a) the character of one who can be relied on

Part of Speech: noun feminine
===========

The gospel of Christ is that salvation is given to the person who wholly commits his/her trust in Jesus Christ based His--God's--righteous faithfulness to save the believer.

[rollo tomasi]

Still not an argument on Matthew 10 and Jacobs' Trouble. Made inquiries about Hebrews 10 also to others of your belief system, but Sola Scripturaist keep ignoring that teaching as well. Thus, have a good rest of the thread

[nobamanomore]

9 There’s no use arguing with a fool. He only rages and scoffs, and tempers flare.

That’s the only thing I have to add to this thread of foolishness.

[MHGinTN]

I really like the three! See you in the clouds

[Bulwyf]

Freeing. Yes sir, Jesus came to give us freedom, because he paid the price.

[Petrosius]

“Abraham believed God and it was accounted to him as righteousness.”

Sounds like faith alone to me, and that’s all the way back in Genesis too.

Quote the whole passage:

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well,” but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it? So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead. Indeed someone may say, “You have faith and I have works.” Demonstrate your faith to me without works, and I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works. You believe that God is one. You do well. Even the demons believe that and tremble. Do you want proof, you ignoramus, that faith without works is useless? Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered his son Isaac upon the altar? You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by the works. Thus the scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness,” and he was called “the friend of God.” See how a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. And in the same way, was not Rahab the harlot also justified by works when she welcomed the messengers and sent them out by a different route? For just as a body without a spirit is dead, so also faith without works is dead. (James 2:14-26)

Could Scripture be any clearer in declaring that we are not saved by faith alone?

[rollo tomasi]

Will do, we have more in common than you think. Just observe and experienced personally that our modern age has created a lot of excuse making (About people justifying some serious sins/bad behavior) that harms our society, mainly the family. Just continue to pray that everyone is good to others and seeks Christ out. God Bless.

[Mrs. Don-o]

Got to leave it alone for the time being. I'm calling through a list of 270 people for 40 Days for Life.

Meantime,I wouldn't set up a cage match between St. Paul and St. James, since for both the interpretive key seems to be "love." Faith w/o love = you're nothing. Works w/o love = dead. "Faith" seems to be something more like "faithfulness," which implies both faith and love and not just mental or verbal assent.