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By the time my parents were living in twenty-first-century Illinois, their families’ historic Reformed commitments had been replaced by non-denominational, Baptistic evangelicalism.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.
I like those verses. If anybody is truly searching for the answer, it is in those verses.
Both were clear that works follow and testify to salvation not the other way around. Christ said “it is finished” from the cross. Not it is begun for those that behave well enough to complete what I have started.
What works do you have to do?
Both Jesus and St. Paul are abundantly clear on the things we must do and must avoid to inherit the kingdom of God. St. Paul even provides lists of them, most prominently in Galatians.
How many do you have to do?
God doesn't give us numbers or amounts, so we don't have to worry about it. It is not our concern.
Salvation now becomes incumbent upon your actions and not the one time sacrifice of Christ on the cross.
That is a false dichotomy. It is not either or, it is both and, as Scripture abundantly makes clear.
I’m satisfied that it cannot be shown that “faith alone” can be found in the Bible (except in James 2:24 where it says we are NOT saved by faith alone). Thanks for your replies everyone.
What's key here is the passive tense of this participle.
The meaning is the subject, that is the individual who is being justified, is being acted upon by an outside force, in this case God.
It is He Who justifies us....there is nothing we can do but have faith.
The passive tense is used a number of time by Paul in Romans to convey this message.
In Romans 3:24 the passive tense is used again in the phrase "being justified".
In Ephesians 2:8, the word saved is also in the passive tense. It is clear in this passage it is by His grace we are saved through faith.
Paul further clarifies this by noting it is not of yourselves nor works so none may boast.
IF there was some work we could do or had to do it would give us room to boast.
But as this is His grace that allows us to be saved through faith and not works, then it can only be by faith alone we are saved.
The Scriptures don't contradict themselves.
I do, however, believe they taught two reasons to live holy lives: one is to give glory to God, and the other is to make our witness more sound.
For instance, Paul wrote that he worked as a tent maker to make his witness and his teachings have more appeal. It's the same for his celibacy -- so he can be more focused on God's work. Neither of those were requirements, but they were supplements.
The reason I like the Old Testament transition to New Testament argument for sola fide is I tend to think twice before putting a lot into one-liner verse interpretations. To me, context is soooooo important.
So I'd argue that my conduct today doesn't relate to my salvation --- except how my own experiences might impact my own faith in the future. I say my conduct today has a large impact on the faith of the people around me, as I witness to them and they need to know that the Christians around them have a faith that's worth living. That includes both non-Christians and people who are already Christians. (Evidently I lean a bit Arminian instead of Calvinist.)
For what it's worth, though I'm Protestant I've never heard one sermon or read one teaching that says we shouldn't live our faith. So don't take my faith alone argument as a choice between faith or works. You could say us Protestants teach both faith and works like Catholics do, only we say it the works doesn't relate to salvation. We think it leads to pride in our works, which is very dangerous. Salvation is a grace thing -- why we call it "salvation" instead of "reward".
In the end, God opens the eyes of those who seek him.
Those who don’t seek truth, but instead to justify their own religion or works, remain in darkness and are never justified, nor know Him.
Thanks. For what it's worth, I too had an experience similar to the author's. I didn't come from a Catholic background like the author. I became a Christian as a teenager from a Protestant teenager telling me about Christ. I've been serious about the Lord ever since and always with a Protestant bent.
But here in Alabama decades ago I realized that some of the different churches taught bad things about each other across denominations. I recognized this as a teenager, as did many of my friends whom were in other denominations. We read the Bible on our own and visited each others' churches / Bible studies a lot. We concluded that many of the churches cherry picked the verses to teach a few tangent points instead of reading an entire chapter or entire book to teach a more holistic topic.
That put me on a quest to learn as much as I could about the Bible, how the different English translations were done, how original Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic words were used, what was going on in the lives of the people at the times different portions were written, etc. That also put me on a quest to learn about church history, i.e. how much of my own beliefs in 70+% Protestant Alabama was tainted or whatever by whatever beliefs might have changed since the New Testament scripture were written.
What I found was very similar to what the author found. Some of our practices have changed over the years (i.e. Protestants are the ones who made worship music during a service a regular thing). But Martin Luther's 5 Solas mirrored the summaries of teachings on how our early church fathers summarized the Bible. A strong argument could be made that the 5 Solas teaching of Luther was a simple but effective attempt to bring the core teachings back to what the western church believe pre Pope Leo.
Take for instance the phrase "apostolic succession". We've all heard that phrase used to argue for the authority of the Pope and sometimes for the authority of priests. But our early church fathers used that phrase not for those purposes, but to make a case that it was only through scripture we can know the true teachings. In other words, the phrase "apostolic succession" used by Catholics today was originally used for a sola scriptura argument. Only the teachings that succeeded from the apostles can be known to be truly accurate.
So us Protestants shouldn't completely turn away Catholic tradition. I argue that we can embrace it as long as we get to the source of the traditions and know how they were originally intended, not how they were abused for power.
I’m confused. So all those times Jesus says, “Love your neighbor,” he didn’t mean it actually did anything since he was going to suffer and die and redeem me no matter what? Even the devil believes.
“I’m confused. So all those times Jesus says, “Love your neighbor,” he didn’t mean it actually did anything since he was going to suffer and die and redeem me no matter what? Even the devil believes.
........
Christ said this as a Jew while living under the Law, fulfilling the Law, and as a summary of the demands of the Law.
And said this before His sacrifice in the cross paid the penalty for sin.
He redeems no one “no matter what.”
He redeems those who entrust themselves to Him alone for salvation.
Catholicism was very good for me when I was young, in the ‘50s-60’s. It eventually taught me that my salvation does not require a human intermediary between me and God.
You mean like this?
But he who made you without your consent does not justify you without your consent. He made you without your knowledge, but He does not justify you without you willing it. -- Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 169
Was he teaching a false Gospel?
As if there is such peace and unanimity among Protestants.
Don't bother, it is no there. "Faith alone" is an invention by Martin Luther in the 15th century and is contrary to what the Bible teaches.
Not really.
See, for example, Ignatius of Antioch on the authority of the bishop.
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