Posted on 09/11/2019 10:52:15 AM PDT by 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By the time my parents were living in twenty-first-century Illinois, their families’ historic Reformed commitments had been replaced by non-denominational, Baptistic evangelicalism.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.
Shame on you! You accuse him of being insecure in his Catholicism because he continued in biblical scholarship after converting to it, when his faith was obviously deep. One with deep faith, studies the Word all the more, as he desires to become more intimately acquainted with our LORD THROUGH His Word. He IS the Word, after all. You have the audacity to ridicule his faith because it does not align with yours. That is the height of arrogance.
Romans 3:28
and
Galatians 2:16
Does not Ephesians 2:8-9, do just that? And following, verse 10 -— “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them”. The works which he here describes, are Christ’s works. We are HIS workmanship. It is not OUR works, but HIS.
And please forgive me. My first post to you, on reflection, seems too sharp. I should have ordered my remarks in a kinder fashion.
Christ can and does forgive us directly without going to a minister or Roman priest first
Not only that, he couldn't wait to post his wonderful rightness before the whole world to tell us all how wrong we all are.
Poppycock.
“Catholics taught me to love the Church.”
First mistake. Placing “the (RC) Church” above God — very, very bad.
The Holy Spirit made me leave Catholicism.
To say that we can loose our salvation through sin does not imply that we regain it by earning it back. Its restoration is God's gracious act. Our need for repentance does not change this. Do we earn our salvation through our faith?
“Receive the holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.”If you have a problem with this, take it up with Jesus. That is unless you want to put the man-made traditions of a 16th century German monk above the Bible.
“(except in James 2:24 where it says we are NOT saved by faith alone)”
That is the only occurrence of the phrase “faith alone” I have come across in the Scriptures.
The problem you run into is the unanimous non-unanimous opinions of the ECFs on this issue...among others.
Do not accept the Mark of the Beast when commanded to you. Repeat: Do not accept the Mark of the Beast when commanded to you, even if accompanied by signs and lying wonders.
The Greek behind this indicates those who practice these...that is, that is their life. A Christian is not going to practice these.
The NASB renders verse 21 as those who practice such things.
The Greek word used is πράσσω conveying the meaning of:properly, the active process in performing (accomplishing) a deed, and implying what is done as a regular practice – i.e. a routine or habit (cf. R. Trench).
It's not a single act but a lifestyle. Knowing the Greek helps clarify this passage.
IF a single act of sin would nullify your salvation then Paul is in trouble as well as he noted he struggled with something.
Of course there are also the many parables of our Lord that warn about the judgment of one's works. And as you said: "The Scriptures don't contradict themselves." Therefore the false idea of "faith alone" is disproven by Scripture.
Yet, Jesus told the people He met to believe in Him.
When Scripture speaks of judging the works of people it is in consideration of rewards in Heaven...not losing or keeping eternal life.
When Jesus met with Nicodemus what did He tell him?
Believe in Me and do x,y and z and you may inherit eternal life?
No.
He said this:
9Nicodemus said to Him, “How can these things be?”
10Jesus answered and said to him, “Are you the teacher of Israel and do not understand these things?
11“Truly, truly, I say to you, we speak of what we know and testify of what we have seen, and you do not accept our testimony.
12“If I told you earthly things and you do not believe, how will you believe if I tell you heavenly things?
13“No one has ascended into heaven, but He who descended from heaven: the Son of Man.
14“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up;
15so that whoever believes will in Him have eternal life.
16“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.
17“For God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world, but that the world might be saved through Him.
18“He who believes in Him is not judged; he who does not believe has been judged already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.
19“This is the judgment, that the Light has come into the world, and men loved the darkness rather than the Light, for their deeds were evil.
20“For everyone who does evil hates the Light, and does not come to the Light for fear that his deeds will be exposed.
21“But he who practices the truth comes to the Light, so that his deeds may be manifested as having been wrought in God.”
John 3:9-21 NASB
I again will ask, IF it is faith + works, how many "good" works do you have to do?
How do you know you've done the right ones?
Fact is, of course, the word ‘alone’ was added by Luther, a word that is not there in the original Greek.
Another fact is that no Hebrew writer would consider ‘faith’ to be simple assent, but rather placing completely the weight of life and wholeness on Jesus Christ and his work. All the heroes of faith in Hebrews were commended because their faith produced action. Otherwise, we would never have heard of them.
The problem with protestants’ radically separating justification from sanctification, IMO,is that it is a Greek-style logical/analytical construct that a holistic Hebrew wouldn’t abide (see James). The problem with Roman Catholic position, IMO, is that it hopelessly intermingles the two in a way that leads to a diminished certainty of salvation moment-by-moment.
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