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By the time my parents were living in twenty-first-century Illinois, their families’ historic Reformed commitments had been replaced by non-denominational, Baptistic evangelicalism.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.
Augustine (De bono viduitatis)
In MormonISM, unanimous agreement is how the Living Prophet® statements are tested as coming from the Lord.
The Quorum of Twelve Vote, and the rest is history.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apostolic_succession_(LDS_Church)
No more than...
...to open one's mouth and persist in their extra-biblical arrogance and lead others into error?
I thank you sincerely for providing that great quote!
While #8 gets the silent treatment:
Make sure that Mary gets a LOT of adoration and love.
What about a NON-believer?
One who USED to believe; but now; for whatever reason; no longer does?
It’s treading on what they believe is THEIR turf!
The way I read it you’re still sealed.
They have no chance to "do" anything related to the Kingdom. No fruit. Nothing.
Do they go to Heaven or Hell?
they are not unanimous!
They have no chance to "do" anything related to the Kingdom. No fruit. Nothing.
Do they go to Heaven or Hell?
Heaven. You misunderstand the Catholic position on works. It is not that we have to earn a certain number of brownie point to earn salvation. Rather, we must be free from serious sin, just as Paul states in Galatians when he lists those who will not inherit the kingdom of God. So the question often asked, "how many good works do I need to be saved," is ridiculous and does not reflect Catholic teaching on the matter.
“The Bible came from the Church....“
.........
Ah, so early this morning, I hear the crowing of the prideful Roman Rooster, bragging that his crowing makes the sun rise.
Again, for the record...
God is always the cause, the source of inspiration, and the actual inspired words of Scripture.
Scripture has authority only because is is God’s Words.
2/3 of all Scripture existed before the Savior set foot on earth.
It was recognized and cherished by God’s chosen people.
It happened before the church was revealed.
All Scripture comes through the Jews.
God sovereignty, omnipotently, and graciously used men that He chose and moved and inspired, to record, preserve, and to recognize His inspired Words.
From His intent in eternity past, to its fulfillment on earth, God’s Word is His alone. It is His glory the Roman Rooster steals.
This is why God’s Word is the highest authority that judges any utterance or teaching of men.
His Word contains all that is needed for salvation, and Christian maturity.
“Faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God.”
There is no tradition that adds *anything* to salvation.
God used humble men, He used Balaam’s humble donkey, and He even bent evil rulers to His will.
Yet the prideful Roman Rooster crows and crows and crows - not of the glory of God.
No.
The Roman Rooster tries to steal the works and glory of God. The Roman Rooster crows and preens, and struts... “look at me! I am powerful! I accomplished this! I am the only true church! Look at me! Every one fall and kiss my ring!”
Oh, that Balaam’s humble donkey could give that Rooster a good kick.
I’ll add to your list. In Ephesians 1, Paul says two things, THREE TIMES:
1. God chose US!
2. He did it before we were born.
Three times!
Verse 4: even as he *chose* us in him *before* the foundation of the world...
Verse 5: he *predestined* us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ
Verse 11: In him we have obtained an *inheritance*, having been *predestined*...
Paul says the same thing, three different ways and contextes. He makes it abundantly clear that we don’t choose Him. He chooses us. And that he did it before we were born.
This is why it is such a blessing to spread the gospel. We get to enjoy seeing the lost sheep brought into the fold. Sometimes we preach to goats, but we never know if we are dealing with a lost sheep or a goat. Only God knows, so we go forward accordingly.
Of course not. The two things are mutually exclusive, because "faith comes through hearing the Word of God." Once that has happened, one becomes surrendered to the Holy Spirit, and sin starts to fall away. In the case of a child or someone who is a terrible sinner but calls out to God as he is dying in a car crash, he will be judged like the thief who died on the cross beside Jesus; the sincerity of his belief and shame at the life he has led would be considered, the same way Jesus told that man, "Today you will be with me in paradise."
I believe that there are a lot of elements of Roman Catholicism (which probably would have been my family's cultural heritage but for a strange twist of fate) that were welded into it due to its location in the dense village/town life of Europe, and the Roman Church's function as the government under the Holy Roman Empire. The pre-literacy millenium fostered a close regulation and examination by the priest caste and the town elders of other people's sins. The focus on the Great Commission and the joys of salvation and the gospel became intertwined, pre-Gutenberg, with managing the inherent scandals of village life.
This is not to say that the Reformation is without its own downside: it's just that no human institution is or can be infallible. Reformation concepts took natural root in the freedoms of America and its vast undeveloped frontiers. This led to a powerful form of individual responsibility not just in society, but for one's relation to the Christ, but also to the excesses and heresies endemic to "too much" freedom. But for those free to study the Word from many translations and seek the Truth directly through the guidance of the Holy Spirit and prayer, the journey from craven sinner to repentant sinner is deep and genuine.
In either tradition, Catholicism or Prot/Evang/Reform, I'd estimate fewer than 10% really study the Word, the tenets of their denomination and understand what they are doing, what it means to participate in the Eucharist, and be in daily communication with the Lord. The rest understand parts and many are just there from habit, family tradition or (gasp) virtue signalling.
Are you including the thought life of the believer in this?
???
Brilliant! Someone finally referred to John 3! A Catholic would not dare comprehend it however.
Elsie, what sin in the future of the ‘non-believer’ you straw up would take God by surprise at the moment the ‘non-believer’ decided to first believe?
You are deceiving readers. When is the Righteousness of Christ imputed to one who truly believes Jesus is his Savior? ... Careful what you answer for we can read the Catholic dogmas regarding the sacraments to refute your deceptions.
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