Beginning the Protestant Reformation

I think I have mentioned before that I am taking a graduate course on Church History.  This semester I am in the second part of the course, which covers the Protestant Reformation up to the present day (which is a whole lot to squeeze in!) Here is a 7 Quick Takes I posted last semester with some highlights of part one of the course.  What I enjoyed most last semester was that being about the early Church, it was essentially about the history of the Catholic Church itself, with recognition of historic schisms or heresies included. 

This semester, now that we are going into learning about Protestantism, it looks like the course is shifting to being purely a history of Protestantism without much further inclusion of Catholic history.  On one hand, this is understandable in that this is a Protestant seminary, and it is pertinent for students to learn the history of their own traditions.  On the other hand, it is annoying that a course which should encompass the history of Christianity as a whole seems to be shifting focus and paying far less attention to what is the largest Christian Church. 

Here are a few brief thoughts on what I've learned so far about the beginning of the Reformation (by a combined means of the course and my husband, who thankfully is a medievalist who can help me know when the textbook is lying biased):

The most stereotypical backstory of the Protestant Reformation is how corrupt the Church was in the late middle ages. Two things on this:

1. Yes, but not completely. There is an important semantic distinction that I think needs to be made.  Yes, there was some corruption in the Church. It may have been widespread or localized or significant, or only to some degree.  To say that the Church itself was corrupt is incorrect and inaccurate in a couple of ways.  Most pertinent historically, the phrase is too vague. How much corruption, and performed by which individuals, makes "the (whole) Church is corrupt" an accurate statement?  Theologically, really, how could the whole Church be corrupt? It cannot be. If the church as a whole was corrupt, it would not have prevailed as long as it has. The Church cannot be corrupt. It is Divine.

2. Yes, but so what? There was some corruption in the Church.  But this is not what caused the Reformation, nor does it justify the fact that it happened.  Martin Luther did observe corruption, as many likely did, but his ultimate reason for breaking from the Catholic Church was theological, most specifically, about salvation theology.  Whether there had been corruption or not, in many or some aspects of ecclesial operation, Luther was unhappy (scrupulously so) with Catholic salvation theology (to the extent that it was developed at the time) and  took it upon himself to try to change it.  He objected not primarily to the corruption of practice of indulgences, but to a theology that he (mistakenly) thought meant man could earn his way into heaven. 

Even if there hadn't been any corruption concerning indulgences, Luther would have went with his newly perceived theology anyway.  The idea of indulgence (even corruption-free) simply does not fit into Luther's theology.  This further goes to show that the indulgence issue was not what mainly fueled the Protestant reformation.

Interestingly, my husband has explained to me that at this time, in the late middle ages, there was not yet a hard and fast definition of what Catholic salvation theology was.  The Church had defined what it did not believe, like when various heresies were dismissed, but within the guidelines of orthodoxy, there was room for speculation, and several concurrent theories, including those of St. Thomas Aquinas and a guy named William of Ockham.  The Ockhamist view was what Luther had likely been taught, and this semi-Pelagian view that one earns grace through deeds ("If you do what is in you, God will not deny you grace") is the particular view that Luther was reacting against.  Some scholars think that had he read or been taught the Thomist view, which put less stress on earning grace by doing one's best) he may have had less of a problem.

It is also relevant that Luther was not simply critiquing the Church's theology and tradition for the sake of doing it.  Luther had been overly scrupulous about his own salvation.  "He felt unworthy of God's love, and he was not convinced that he was doing enough to be saved." (1)  Luther was not a bad monk, and Gonzalez points out that he tried to live out his monastic vows as best he could.  He frequented the sacrament of penance, but still constantly stressed about his sinfulness.  Eventually his scrupulosity pushed him to feelings of fear and bitterness toward God.  Instead of seeking help and correction for his feelings, he attempts to change the theology to make it suit his feelings.  He does this by re-interpreting Scripture, and insisting that we are saved by faith alone.

This post by Caitlin at Catholic Cookie Jar gives a summary about Protestant and Catholic salvation teachings.

(1) Justo Gonzalez, the Story of Christianity Vol II (New york: HarperCollins, 2010), 22.

Icons, images, Church history, and churches

Icon of Our Lady of Czestowa

I just want to share a pretty neat coincidence of Church history and real life.

Over the weekend I went on a pilgrimage with a group from my diocese to a few notable churches in a nearby city.  One of them was a big, gorgeous, French Gothic Cathedral Basilica that looks like it was transplanted from Europe.  Another was a (ethinically) Polish Church with very ornate paintings inside, a beautiful icon of our Lady of Czestowa above the tabernacle (which was behind the altar), and a relic of Blessed Pope John Paul II.  We were lucky enough to have our bishop along with us, and he was our tour guide, being very familiar with both churches (he actually had been baptized at the Polish church, and he served at the Cathedral Basilica before becoming the Bishop of our diocese).

Throughout showing us around the churches, in addition to telling us about the history of the building, he told us a lot about the architecture, statues, stained glass, and paintings.  He kept on stressing how the images serve, in addition to creating a religious ambiance, to instruct viewers without words, especially back in a time when not everyone was literate.  That was the perfect thing for him to point out, since, coincidentally my reading assignment for my Church History class was  On The Divine Images by St. John of Damascus.  This was great!  The bishop was talking about the importance of images in our churches and that same weekend I was reading St. John's defense of using divine images!  (Mind blown by this coincidence.)

Icon of John of Damascus. And he's holding an icon!

 St. John of Damascus lived ca. 650 to ca. 749, and resigned from a post in the Muslim Caliph's court to join a monastery.  He was ordained a priest and wrote about theology, philosophy and liturgy.  During the period of 725 to 774, there was a period of iconoclasm, brought about by the imperial policy of Emperor Leo III, who wanted to forbid "worshiping" statues.  John of Damascus was conveniently located outside of the Byzantine empire, so he could write rather freely in contradiction of the emperor's policies.  This was his reason for writing his treatise, which is seen as "one of the most important reflections on the theological issues at stake in the iconoclastic controversies" (1).  Here is a link to Part I of the Apology against Those who Attack the Divine Images (not the translation I read, but probably close enough). This one may be easier on the eyes.

One of the ways St. John explains that images are not worshiped instead of God is by describing the nature of worship itself.  While worship is the way that we revere or honor something, there are different levels in which it is applied.  He explains that Adoration, or in Latin, latria, is the highest worship, which is due only to God.  This is probably why we use the phrase "Eucharistic Adoration" rather than a more general term.  On the other hand, we can also honor something that is not as high as God, but still deserves some degree of reverence.  This honor is in Latin called dulia.  I think these terms are also used to explain how we don't "worship" Mary as God, and how we pray to her and to saints.  St. John says some other interesting things, so I recommending reading some if this treatise (I only had to read Part I for class, not the whole thing).





1. Coakley and Sterk, Readings in World Christian History, Vol.I, 289.

The Light of the “Dark” Ages, the Dark of the “Enlightened” Age

William Manchester’s book, A World Lit only by Fire, well exemplifies the general modern attitude to the “Dark” Middle Ages. The Dark Ages represented only a brief and regrettable period in the world’s inevitable march to change, progress, and the Enlightenment of the modern world. Under influence of the light of reason, modern man learned, or at least believed he learned, that God was dead, that man was only a cosmic accident (or according to Loren Eiseley, a cosmic orphan) in a random universe. Enlightened as he became, he cast off the chains of traditional morality and his silly, quaint ideas of good and evil. He learned to be tolerant, that truth and ethics were relative, and that what was true for him need not be true for someone else. The history of his most enlightened century, the twentieth, showed the effects of these beliefs, with two world wars, several genocides, rampant abortion, and its use in culling the weak from society by killing unborn children likely to be handicapped later in life. If this is the world lit by the sun of science and progress, one cannot but wonder at the darkness of a world “lit only by fire.”

When one asks why the Middle Ages were dark, one is typically told of their dreariness, of the fasts and vigils, the fire and brimstone, the intolerance, oppression of the human spirit all combined with narrow dogmatism of a faith unenlightened by science and reason.

Yet, when I look at the Medieval Christian world, I find that this picture is simply not true. As Chesterton said, the modern world was right to go by the facts, it was simply not considering the facts. Turning to the Middle Ages, I found a world lit, maybe by fire, but it was fire of a certain kind. I found a world of epic and romance, troubadours, tales, religion and ritual, chivalry, soaring cathedrals, faith, and reason. In brief, I find the world of Sts. Francis and Thomas Aquinas. In Francis, one had the fasts and vigils, but also a joy and gaiety almost too big for the world to hold. But the world could hold it, because it was a bigger world. Moderns, little understanding Francis, will insist on seeing him as a proto nature worshiper, and his Christianity as little more than an unfortunate and unnecessary tag-on. But in reality he loved the world because to him it was a sign-book of the love of its Maker. It was a larger world. A tree was not only a tree, but something that showed the spiritual value of suffering (since when pruned, it grew back even better the next year). Likewise to St. Patrick, a clover was not just a cover, but a sign of the Trinity, while to thousands of medieval preachers, sex was not only sex, but a sign of Christ’s union with His Church.

In Thomas Aquinas too, one sees the fasts and vigils, but also a mind thoroughly willing to consider the most modern science and philosophy. Willing to tell the conservatives that they need not fear reason, to tell the liberals that they need not fear faith, and to tell them both with a courtesy and reason with which they could hardly argue.

The modern secular humanist boasts of his love of humanity, but St. Francis really loved humanity. He embraced both the poor and the leper and all men who came to him. The modern secular humanist boasts of being on the side of science and reason (at least until science and reason are no longer on his side ). Thomas really was on the side of science and reason, but he was on the side of something else too. Like Francis, Bonaventure, Dominic, and others he saw the world as lit by a kind of fire, the same fire that lit him. That was the love of his divine master, for love of whom Francis was permitted to receive his wounds, and for love of whom, Aquinas, when offered by his Lord a reward for his writings, replied only, “I will have Thyself.” That was the world of medieval Christianity; it is the world Christianity today offers, if only we are enough “lit by fire” to see it.