Becoming Reformed after a six year sojourn in the evangelical world of Calvary Chapel, I was pleased to give up speculations about the end of the world via the notion of an imminent Rapture. There was a lack of historical support for thinking this way, and there was also a pleasing emphasis on Scripture as opposed to the newspaper. But every once in awhile, I must admit that the pure joy of thinking about the coming of God Himself to earth seemed to be too distant for someone like me to continue to enjoy. Was there any place for a continued hope of God coming to earth? Or was all of that joy based on predictions that so often never came to pass?

It was an amazing truth to appreciate that in the Catholic view of things, the eternal kingdom of God became present, and not through some theocracy of sorts. It was a far more mystical vision of God becoming present through our liturgy. The rapture was not distant–it was a real experience that comes through the Eucharist.

Being an Eastern Catholic, our liturgy enters into the mystery of the Eucharistic sacrifice with many beautiful prayers. The main liturgical service that we celebrate is the divine liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. There are so many thoughts that I have about this service, and I hope to spend future posts considering how our liturgy informs all of our theology. Truly the law of prayer provides the law of belief (lex orandi, lex credendi).

As we listen to the words of an Eastern Christian service, we hear these words that juxtapose the past, present and future all into one, for the presence of God puts us into contact with eternity Himself.

In that liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, we hear these words:

Priest:
Together with these blessed powers, merciful Master, we also proclaim and say: You are holy and most holy, You and Your only begotten Son and Your Holy Spirit. You are holy and most holy, and sublime is Your glory. You so loved Your world that You gave Your only begotten Son so that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life. He came and fulfilled the divine plan for us. On the night when He was delivered up, or rather when He gave Himself up for the life of the world, He took bread in His holy, pure, and blameless hands, gave thanks, blessed, sanctified, broke and gave it to His holy disciples and apostles, saying:
Take, eat, this is my Body which is broken for you for the forgiveness of sins.

People:
Amen.

Priest:
Likewise, after supper, He took the cup, saying:Drink of it all of you; this is my Blood of the new Covenant which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.

People:
Amen.

Priest:
Remembering, therefore, this command of the Savior, and all that came to pass for our sake, the cross, the tomb, the resurrection on the third day, the ascension into heaven, the enthronement at the right hand of the Father, and the second, glorious coming,

We offer to You these gifts from Your own gifts in all and for all.

This is the faith that we profess. It enters the eternal world where there is a sense in which the second coming is not a future event, for all things are present to Him who is beyond time. And this is not a particularly Eastern thought, with no parallels in the Roman Rite. Let’s look at a Roman Canon (canon I, to be precise), for if we do we will hear similar words speaking the same truth which transcends time. After the same consecration and recitation of the words of Institution of Christ, we hear this prayer at the Holy Roman Mass:

Father, we celebrate the memory of Christ, your Son. We, your people and your ministers, recall his passion, his resurrection from the dead, and his ascension into glory; and from the many gifts you have given us we offer to you, God of glory and majesty, this holy and perfect sacrifice: the bread of life and the cup of eternal salvation.
Look with favor on these offerings and accept them as once you accepted the gifts of your servant Abel, the sacrifice of Abraham, our fathers in faith, and the bread and wine offered by your priest Melchizedek.
Almighty God, we pray that your angel may take this sacrifice to your altar in heaven. Then, as we receive from this altar the sacred body and blood of your Son, let us be filled with every grace and blessing. Through Christ Our Lord, Amen.

This is our profession of what happens in a Church service. It goes beyond intellectual proclamations of faith, which we see as most clearly expressed in things like the Creed. It leaves this miry world of sin and calls us to the heavenly kingdom. It is a Rapture, a seizing up of our earthly life to the real spiritual existence which is our inheritance, in Christ.

This is of critical importance, for many people have chided Churches for having luxurious vestments and buildings. “I thought that we were supposed to lay up our treasures in heaven!”, or so the objection would roughly run. That objection only makes sense, however, if what we think we are doing is something this-worldly. If all we are doing is singing a feel good song and listening to a spiritual lecture of sorts, of course we ought not give our best for what we wear, and the room that we inhabit, and the chalice and paten/diskos that holds the wine and bread that go to the altar for a mere remembrance. But if there is something far deeper, something otherworldly to our worship, we will reach out and give our everything to strive to enter into that Sabbath rest, as the epistle to the Hebrews puts it. We will be raptured from day to day existence into another kingdom.

And so, as Christians of an ancient faith, there is a deep sense in which we are caught up into heaven already, while we remain in the world of not yet. We enter into that spiritual kingdom via a rapture that is not the end of a Church age, but is the continuation of a transcendent reality that can make a poor sinner like me united to the God of the universe, through His blessed kingdom.

Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, always ever and forever, Amen.

This post reflects some of my thinking about various English translations of the Liturgy and Sacred Scripture. With the advent of the Book of Common Prayer [1549], the Douay-Rheims [1582] and the Authorized (“King James”) [1611] versions of the Bible, and in the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council, the religious sensibilities and sense of innumerable Christians have been greatly informed, for better or worse, by the English language, in one or more of its many permutations.²  Not all of these forms are created equal, at least, not as regards being fitted to serve the Liturgy, which mediates a certain reality, which reality, in its objective significance, imposes certain demands upon the forms by which it is communicated. When liturgical form fails to meet this demand, the result is distortion and diminution of devotional sensibility and doctrinal sense.

The idea that reality is informed by language is bound to resonant with students of Sacred Scripture, Catholics, and admirers of J.R.R. Tolkien. (I happen to fall into all three categories.) The Bible tells us that the world was formed by the Word of God. The Church tells us that certain words constitute the form of a sacrament. Tolkien, operating on yet another plane of reality, shows us how words can give rise to worlds, how language leads to knowledge of the past, and (for one so bold as to invent a language) to the “discovery” of something more than the past.

Telling the Truth in Middle Earth

In a comment box (on another website), someone wrote the following:

You know what I love about Tolkien? That he didn’t seek to be a Hemingway or Joyce by creating a ‘new’ language and divorcing style and substance. He used English in all its plainness, yet it became something immortal and, yes, new.

This goes to show that it is possible to disagree with the literal meaning of someone’s words and yet be one with the spirit in which they were written. Tolkien certainly did create a new language. He created several. And he often used the English language in something other than its plainness. Furthermore, it seems pretty plain to me that Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce both sought to wed style and substance, though in almost opposite ways. As for Joyce, the substance of what he wanted to say sort of demanded its own “language,” or experimental arrangement and presentation of certain aspects of language, which he aptly supplied. Both the quasi-language of Finnegans Wake and the sparse sentences of Hemingway conveyed something in or about the world (or least a certain conception of the world) that each author wanted to express.

Tolkien was very much alive to the shapes, sounds and syntax of language. He loved words, as befits a professional philologist. His self-described “secret vice” was the invention of new languages. Tolkien  soon discovered that the choices that he would have to make, in the course of these inventions, implied a story; i.e., the story of those peoples whose languages he was creating.

For me, one of the most endearing and (upon reflection) impressive aspects of The Lord of the Rings is the wedding of style and substance in the languages and dialects of Middle Earth. To take the primary examples: Tolkien intended Quenya and Sindarin to be beautiful languages. When he worked back to the peoples who spoke these languages, he very naturally discovered the Elves. Elvish sounds (and looks, cf., the script on the One Ring) like Elves. Dwarvish sounds like Dwarves. And Orkish sounds like Orcs, so to speak, if you take my meaning.

Of course, Tolkien used the English language to tell the stories which went along with his invented languages. I suppose that he wanted other people to read these stories. Thank goodness. Notice, however, the  great diversity in Tolkien’s English style, which is adapted according to scene and society, ranging from the earthy speech of Hobbition to the courtly language of Gondor. The Common Speech used around Farmer Maggot’s table or in the Bathing Song at Crickhollow differs markedly from that same language used in Aragorn’s rendition of the story of Beren and Luthien, or the Eagle’s proclamation of the downfall of the Lord of the Rings. The latter, in fact, calls to mind the Authorized Version of the Bible:³

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life….⁴

The great thing about all of this, the reason why we receive this linguistic pluriformity in the story as good and natural (which is what the person cited earlier might have been getting at by “plainness”), is that the language used in The Lord of the Rings is informed both by the speaker and (in all but the worst cases) by the reality to which the speaker refers.

The peoples of Middle Earth, with their own stories and cultures and concerns, are embodied in the various languages and different dialects that they use. However, these people (e.g., the four main Hobbit characters) are not locked into themselves so to preclude the expression or enjoyment of anything higher, or lower, than their own  immediate experiences. Or, it they are, part of the point of the adventures is to “expand the horizons” of both the adventurers and those who will listen to their stories. In this sense, the Quest is deeply humane. Tolkien’s most admirable characters can, in most cases without affectation, and often with genuine enjoyment, accommodate  themselves to a wide variety of social situations. Aragorn is, perhaps, the preeminent example of this. The Hobbits can also rise, or fall, to the occasion. The only people who speak and act the same way all the time are snobs (Denethor) or scum (the Orcs).

It would be unnatural, in fact ridiculous, if the Eagle had proclaimed the news of the downfall of Sauron using the customary styling of, say, the Gaffer Gamgee. In fact, if  the plain and honest Gaffer were ever privy to such an absurd display, he might  strongly suspect that some sort of snobbish insult was intended. The goodness of the best of the “ordinary” characters, Sam being the greatest of these, is revealed (in part) by the fact that they are, without pretentiousness, able to admire and enjoy that which is above them. Conversely, the goodness of the extra-ordinary characters, such as Gandalf, Aragorn, and Faramir, is revealed (in part) by their ability to enjoy and respect that which is below them. Such goodness would be destroyed if everyone insisted upon everyone else being, and speaking, just like oneself.

The varieties of story and history are invariably related to variations of and within language–and vice versa. Indifferent, egalitarian use of language both reflects and leads to an indifferent, flat experience of reality. Reality exhibits pluriformity, including hierarchy. Linguistic monotony is not only boring, it is a lie. No one knew this better than Tolkien. The linguistic diversity of Middle Earth is a way of telling the truth about the world.

Eagles, Angels, Anglicans: Liturgical Language in the (erstwhile) British Empire

Scripture and Liturgy, or better, Scripture in Liturgy, since the latter is the natural home of the word of God, mediate, for us, realities that are infinitely joyful, sorrowful, glorious, and luminous. Liturgy was not designed simply to convey information, nor to gather a community under the mere auspices of some contingent social and cultural identity.  The church building is not a classroom, nor is it all a Nave. The sense of the Sanctuary is to render the place a temple. The point of the people assembling is to adore Someone else, our King and our God, who through death has destroyed the power of the Enemy. In such a place, for such a purpose, what is said, in whatever language, should sound like the song of the Eagle.

I am not referring specifically to the older style of pronouns and verbs of being (e.g., “ye,” “hath,” “shall”), though I do think that they have their place, when well placed. Rather, I mean to say that liturgical language should be distinctive, an adornment upon everyday speech, and, as much as possible, in keeping with tradition. For English-speaking Catholics, observation of this last point might involve swallowing some pride, since it was the Anglicans who, in this regard, led the way and set the standard.

At this point, you might be thinking: This guy just likes the literary styling of the Elizabethans, and is trying to foist his taste off on the rest of us, as though it were some sort of principle. Well, as far as that goes, I do like that classical cut of English, including the work of Cranmer and the translators of the Authorized Version. To get even further down to specifics, I think that The New Cambridge Paragraph Bible, With the Apocrypha, King James Version, edited by David Norton is the best English Bible in the entire world.⁵ Although, perhaps, here and there, the Revised Standard Version is a bit better. ⁶

But my point is not merely subjective, nor even only aesthetic. English biblical and liturgical language has a common root and history that, to some degree, transcends schism. This common tradition must somehow be taken into account in all English translations that are not content to come across as artificial and amnesiac. Once upon a time, it was possible to invent biblical and liturgical English. That time has passed. What I mean is that, for liturgy in English, including Sacred Scripture, there exists a literary tradition. And, as it so happens, this tradition is beautiful. It can certainly be pruned, updated, developed. But for all of the reasons given above, I think that this sort of activity should be (here I must be brief and allusive) more RSV than NAB (or NIV, etc.).⁷

I want to close with some remarks on the, humanly speaking, extremely prosaic portions of Sacred Scripture.  The first thing that comes to my mind is how much of the Bible is actually poetry. Even the narrative bits feature some complex literary structures, as is being increasingly appreciated. But that is not what I want to get at, in concluding this post. Rather, I am thinking about the sense in which all of Scripture is the word of God, and therefore more than the sum of its empirical parts.

The long and short of it is that, over time, even the most severe and practical portions of the Bible manifest a certain radiance, a splendor of divine glory. This is why, traditionally, and what is still the norm in the Eastern Churches, the Bible is not simply read in the course of the Liturgy; it is sung–even the real prosy parts. If you haven’t experienced this, you might imagine it incongruous to sing, for example, certain narrative bits in the Acts of the Apostles (“After this, he left Athens and went to Corinth …”). But the proof is in the pudding. Every last bit of God’s holy word is fit to be chanted by choirs of angels. And I can tell you that the singing is fitting, even when the cantor is more mundane.

_____________

1. The first part deals with Memory. Part Two, which considers Matter, is still in the works.  I am sticking to the order of conception, not the order of posting, in numbering this series.
2. I am far from denying the existence of pre-Reformation religious literature composed in, or translated into, English.  See, for example, Ashley Trice, “Capturing Christ: Representations of the God-Man in Middle English Religious Lyrics” (Dissertation, Vanderbilt U., 2002).
3. This resonance has been noted by Tom Shippey, J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000), 209.
4. J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2004), 963.
5. This remarkable work is available in a very economical Penguin Classics edition.
6. The  “King James Version” that most of us know is the standard revision of 1769. Norton bypasses this cumbersome and unoriginal work, and goes straight to the source, updating spelling and smoothing out style, while maintaining the classical beauty of the 1611 Authorized Version. As for specifically Catholic translations, the Douay-Rheims that most of us know is not an original work, either. What we have today is the Challoner revision of 1750, which is also directly based upon the 1611 Authorized Version. However, the fact that the original Douay-Rheims predates the original Authorized Version by about 30 years is a point of some pride for Catholics.
7. The kind of thing I have in mind, which is something not merely in my own mind, since the Church has issued directives on this matter, is nicely illustrated by the title page of the Revised Standard Version, Second Catholic Edition: The Holy Bible. Revised Standard Version / Second Catholic Edition. Translated from the Original Tongues Being the Version Set Forth A.D. 1611…. Compared with the Most Ancient Authorities and Revised A.D. 1952…. This Edition was Revised According to Liturgiam Authenticam, 2002.

To download the mp3, click here.

In referring to this analogy, my friend worded it differently than I’d ever heard. He said that in the Protestant view, Jesus makes a deposit into our “account.” I replied, “a Catholic could agree to that!”

In the traditional analogy, the ‘amount due’ is withdrawn from Christ’s account instead of the sinner. We can tweak the analogy. Surely it is not repugnant to say that Christ makes a deposit into our account and that the ‘amount due’ is truly withdrawn from our own account.

God will not forget where that merit came from. And grace is not cheapened by our participation. Miracles are actual: a sinner becomes righteous by the effects of Christ’s merit. Illusions are feigned miracles: a sinner putting on Christ as if he were righteous.

I think the analogy of Christ depositing His own merit into our account can work within Catholic soteriological framework. I would be interested in the Reformed reaction to such a realignment of the otherwise endeared analogy.

First I’d like to give a real world example of the argument that Rose mentioned, as it is used in contemporary Protestant/Catholic dialogue by a Reformed scholar critiquing the Catholic position on justification. In his article Are We Justified By Faith Alone? – What Still Divides Us: A Protestant & Roman Catholic Debate, Dr. Michael Horton, J. Gresham Machen Professor of Systematic Theology and Apologetics at Westminster Seminary California, writes:

The verbal ending of dikaiow is declarative; if the biblical writers intended by ‘justification’ a process of moral transformation, there is a perfectly good verbal ending for that sort of thing in Greek: adzo rather than ow. For instance, ‘to make holy’ is translated from the Greek verb, ‘hagiodzo,’ and this word is never rendered ‘to justify.’ When the biblical writers refer to justification, they use the declarative ending; when they refer to sanctification, they use the progressive ending. If it is good enough of a distinction for the biblical writers themselves, surely we should have not trouble with the Bible’s own language.

It’s not my purpose to address the issues of technical terminology and systematic soteriological constructions in the New Testament (justification vs. sanctification, ordo salutis, etc.). That will surely come along when Called to Communion publishes a full article on the doctrine of justification. Here I want to focus, as I stated in my first paragraph, on the verbal structure of the Greek word δικαιόω.  Contrary to Dr. Horton’s contention above, the Greek verb suffix -οω can be, and very often is, factitive, a fancy word for “making/causing something,” from the Latin facere, to make or do.  NB: throughout this article I use the words factitive, transformative and causal almost interchangeably as opposites of declarative.

In Herbert Smyth’s Greek Grammar, perhaps the definitive Greek grammar text, he provides in his section on contract verbs (verbs with an extra vowel in the suffix which cause a vowel contraction) eight examples of verbs ending in the -όω suffix. Of these eight verbs, seven can easily be construed as causative, factitive or transformative. All of these verbs follow the pattern in which the suffix has been added to an adjective or noun, indicating what kind of state the verb is producing in its object.

1) δουλόω, from the noun δοῦλος (slave), means “I enslave.”

2) ἐλευθερόω, from the adjective ἐλεύθερος (free), means “I set free.”

3) ζυγόω, from the noun ζυγόν (yoke), means “I yoke/put under the yoke.”

4) κυρόω, from the noun κῦρος (authority), means “I make valid.”

5) πολεμόω, from the noun πόλεμος (war), or perhaps from the adjectival noun πολέμιος

(enemy), means “I make an enemy of.”

6) στεφανόω, from the noun στέφανος (crown), means “I crown.”

7) ταπεινόω, from the adjective ταπεινός (low, humble), means “I humiliate.”

These are the examples given in Smyth’s Grammar, and they can be found here. Of course, they are not the only examples. Just off the top of my head I can think of two other examples:

I. πληρόω, from the adjective πληρής (full), means “I fill.”

II. λευκόω, from the adjective λευκός, means “I make white.”

Only one of Smyth’s eight examples of verbs with the -όω suffix has a meaning of “account” or “declare” the object to be the noun/adjective from which the verb is built.

ἀξιόω, “I think or deem worthy/fit/right,” from the adjective ἄξιος. It is the way we would say that we deem a person worthy of a thing, or we deem it right to do something. Thus it also comes to take a simple accusative object with the meaning “to honor.”

Lest anyone should assume that I am not accounting for the changes in the Greek language that took place during the Hellenistic period, let me make two further observations. First, Smyth is, I will admit, primarily a grammar of Attic (Classical) usage, but it does from to time include examples from archaic and Hellenistic literature, and it is not as if the words listed above disappeared after the 5th century B.C. Second, Mark Wilson, in his book Mastering New Testament Greek Vocabulary Through Semantic Domains, points out in his short prefatory remarks on Greek word construction, “Verbs expressing causation are formed with -όω, -αίνω, -ύνω, and -ίζω” (Wilson, 15). This has ramifications particularly relevant to Dr. Horton’s statements because it shows that Greek morphology does not prevent the speaker with a clear-cut choice between two options, one being declarative and the other transformational.  Dr. Horton writes that the authors could have simply used the -adzw suffix, but there are multiple suffixes that can perform this task, and -όω is one of them.  Even if we were to grant for the sake of argument that δικαιόω were like ἀξιόω above, one verb out of eight listed by Smyth, we would not be able to conclude that it does not imply that God declares something about us that is actually the case because of the specific way in which Christ’s work is applied to us. As far as I can tell, the sense of the ἀξιόω paradigm, if we are to take it as a paradigm rather than an exception to the pattern established by the other verbs, assumes that the object in question is, in the opinion of the verb’s subject, characterized by the adjective from which the verb is constructed. ἀξιόω means, “I think that the thing is actually worthy.” This is why the verb, as I mentioned above, comes to mean simply “I honor.” In short, at the very least, the lexical evidence does not support the claim that δικαιόω means justification by extra nos imputation rather than justification by infusion. As for the ways in which justification could be described in both transformative and declarative terms, I’ll leave that to the contributors who are better with systematic theology.

From this we can conclude that there is no lexical problem with translating δικαιόω causatively. It is built on the same pattern (noun/adjective + the -όω causative/factitive suffix) that governs all of the verbs listed above (its root being the adjective δίκαιος, “just”). If you search for δικαιόω at the Perseus Project’s online version of Liddell & Scott, the premier research dictionary of Ancient Greek, the simplified definition that you get in the search results is “to make just” ¹. It gives as its first example a passage from Pindar which reads, νόμος…δικαιῶν τὸ βιαιότατον, “law…justifying [reforming, making just] the most violent of men.” Here the context seems to be one of morally reforming the wrong-doer.

Something should also be said about the historical claim that Augustine and the other Latin Fathers misunderstood this biblical concept because the word had been wrongly translated as iustificare. This claim implies that those great saints, many of whom were not only scholars but were immersed in a living Greek-speaking environment, simply fudged this issue, and we now have superior lexical and exegetical tools to prove it. Augustine was admittedly not very good with Greek, if he knew it at all, but the same does not hold for Jerome, much less the Cappadocian Fathers. Let us turn back to Dr. Horton’s article²:

The Latin Vulgate, Jerome’s 4th century translation of the Scriptures, had been the official translation throughout the middle ages, and its integrity was generally assumed. But then came the Renaissance, a recovery of classical learning that included a return to the original Greek text of Scripture. As Oxford theologian Alister McGrath observes, the best example of the errors in the Latin Vulgate, corrected in tail end of the Renaissance, concerns its translation of the Greek word ‘dikaiosune,’ which means ‘to declare righteous.’ It is a legal term, a verdict. But the Latin Vulgate had translated ‘dikaiosune’ with the Latin word iustificare, which means ‘to make righteous.’ Erasmus and a host of classical scholars recognized that the Greek text required an understanding of justification that referred to a change in status rather than to a change in behavior or mode of being.

I do not know the substance of Erasmus’ or McGrath’s arguments but there is at least one very fundamental and objective reason why Dr. Horton’s application of their conclusions should be called into question: although Jerome’s translation was the first officially commissioned translation of the bible into Latin, many Latin translations had been completed, in part or in whole (it’s not quite clear), before he began in 382. The evidence for these translations exists in manuscripts and in quotations from the Church Fathers. The fragments that scholars have been able to collect has been assimilated into what is now known as the Vetus Latina or Old Latin bible, sometimes known as the Itala bible. In the database that I consulted for this post, full access to which is only available through a subscription that I fortunately possess through my university, I compared passages from the Vulgate and the Itala manuscripts. In every manuscript I consulted for various key passages in Romans, both the Itala manuscripts and Jerome used the verb iustificare. The same goes for the noun iustitia/δικαιοσύνη. Thus Jerome’s translation was not an intrusion that obscured the thought of older Greek Christians and threw the trajectory of the development of doctrine off course. On the contrary, it represents the continuation of a tradition of translation and theological reflection that shows us the common Latin understanding of δικαιόω from the earliest periods of Christianity.  Of course, one could certainly argue that every translator of the bible into Latin from the very beginning got this wrong, but if it can be established – and I think I have done so – that the Catholic understanding of δικαιόω is at least a possibility, then we can address the issue from more a more fundamental historical and ecclesiological perspective (see the links below).

I believe I have shown here that linguistics (Greek morphology), the lexicon and church history (all of it prior to the 16th century) do not in any way contradict the Catholic interpretation of δικαιόω. Thus there is no lexical or historical reason to reject iustificare (iustus + facere) as a reasonable Latin rendition. Consequently, the lexical and historical evidence supports the long tradition of Catholic theological use of the term, from the early Patristic period to our own. For more information on the other considerations relevant to this topic, see The Tradition and the Lexicon and St. Augustine on Law and Grace.

1. http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/resolveform?type=exact&lookup=dikaiow〈=greek
2. I only keep drawing from Dr. Horton because he is a high profile Reformed theologian and this article raises all of the issues I wanted to address. Dr. Horton, from all that I know of him, is a great scholar and Christian gentleman. He has been involved in charitable dialogue with Catholics and was one of my favorite authors when I was a Presbyterian. Only with humility and respect do I reference and critique his writing in an article of my own.

The Road

The last road comes from there to here. It reaches through this old, old sphere; a living coal to light the only way. The last road comes from there to here, its rumor ringing in my ear: this is in my blood, this is the way unbent, this is the longing in the elves’ lament, this is the substance of immortal man.

The lost road lingers in a song, but the singers have sailed on, from here to there along the hidden way. That way is old, but older still, more ancient than the rocks and hills, is the heart of mortal man. I am older than the things I dream. I am older than the pain of things long lost, and younger than the stain.

The Forest

You will discern that beside this path Hester spoke with the priest while Pearl was lost in a medieval dream. We were made to read this in school. And someone was made to teach it. There are horrible memories such as “Who was worse?” There is no memory of Hawthorne’s fey imagination. Still, the forest is somehow found familiar.

In my library, there is a thin black book with a poem like flickering light. The dedication is made up of Greek uncials. The only fairë bit is this line: And dance with the Kings from under the hills. A young man hears these words, as a command or an invitation, I can’t remember, upon entering the forest at night. Though the road runs through the woods, it is not safe to wander there. I know who dances in the forest. You know that Pearl can cross over and come back again. But your name is not Pearl.

The World

There is a restlessness that forces the mind away from all common occupation yet does not allow the soul repose in that indolence which is (as is often supposed) the glory and the dream of our race. Necessity is not the mother of every invention. There are lies and then there are lies. And then there is something else.

There is the idea of a room with a fire and a high-backed chair. The chair is facing outwards, as though you were ready to receive a guest. But not tonight. You step outside.  In the sky above, waterless clouds hurry through the heavens. The moon is covered, the wind is steady, but the night is neither black nor cold. Trees crowd upon the left, your right hand caresses the house. You walk northwards with the wind, beyond the forest, beyond the place where you cannot sit and do not live.

Walk upwards in the night. In a wide field there is a single rock, not raised like a finger, nor squatting like a toad. You sit upon this stone and it is a place familiar but from long ago. There is the world all around you, and it speaks as it ever did. This is what the world says: “We are far from strangers, though you cannot find me out. You are full of lies, so go on and say them out.”  I am full of lies, you can read them in my face.  “That is not a lie, and this is not the place, to speak what you are saying. You are still not telling lies, which is what you came to do.”

Thus, you discover that the world cannot comprehend what is in your heart. For you did not come here to do anything at all. You are greater than the world. You are more formidable than her deepest song. You are another music. (And you are like the world, at night, your stranger and your confidant.) You are greater than the world; therefore, she is not your house. When I am ready to tell lies, I will say some words by the fire, which is where such things are spun.

The House

The house is like green grass and white cliffs, but far from the Sea; also, there is no porch. It is but a cottage on a moor, and the latch upon the door is broken. Sometimes, I awake in the chair, in the dark by the grate, to find a stranger standing upon the threshold. I am used to this by now. Come in, since you would visit. We shall tell lies around the fire, to comfort ourselves because of the land. It is strange telling and weird listening. For the visitors speak about many things, including the dead and windless sea.

There are places where the sea is as still as the hidden hollows of the world that hold it like a cupped hand. The sea is set between veneers of earth, en-globed the ancient flame. That fire gives no fig for puddled legend. It has danced through the heavens and dances there yet, beneath its cool and quaking crust. This is why the devils can tell lies about the thing that haunts us with varied immensity under many skies, with deep salt water and the dark, groaning fact of a smooth and silent floor.

In places, the sea is still and dead, and no one goes there, which is why the tales are lies, and some of the folk are witches. They crouch and gibber by the fire, and when they are warmed (or would be warm, if their flesh was like yours and mine), I send them on their way with something, never bread and never wine. Some visitors talk about the forest. Those who really know that place, who caper there weirdly in the darkness, tell stories of the sea. I believe some of these lies, but I do not live in a log cabin.

You think that this is gloomy and foreboding. It is. Therefore, I have long intended to forsake the house. I will seek a Southern clime, and dwell in tents with the stars and perfumous night. There, a beloved company shall sit before a fire in the rich and open world, soft with sand, flecked by fruited trees near warm and gentle waves. Good bye, house. Good bye, thick and heavy English land. I am building a little boat, a tiny thing to set upon the water.

The Sea

I will set off towards the West. This means the Atlantic Ocean, which I have seen but not traversed, and North America, which I have seen and traversed, and the Pacific Ocean, which I have never seen. The Atlantic Ocean is an enormous, restless grave. Its waters are grey and the skies are grey and the bodies that lie upon its bed are the color of grey. The terror of the sea is concentrated here, which is more than I can bear.

Nevertheless, I will walk West, through the shallows, down into the depths, and tread upon the bottom. Alone in the blackness, among the wreckage of ancient things, I meet a man like Joseph in the wild.  He points me to a path, running towards the South. I assume this road, which is not like you would believe. After many miles, the road ascends a hill, emerging upon an island, passing through a garden, and leading me to an ancient but homely house. It is late in the evening. The first stars are hanging in the sky. The Sea is speaking gently. I go inside.

The house is dimly lit, and pleasantly cool. Cunning torches with small bright hearts are set along the quiet hall. I come to a large room at the far end of the house. I have been walking for a long time. In the room, there is a fire, beside this a high-backed chair, seated there an ageless king. Behind him are great doors, which open upon a wide porch, facing West.

The fair folk of that place come and fill the room with soft lights and sweet music. We sit upon many-colored cushions, before the ever-burning fire. The great doors remain open throughout this fey vigil, whereby we can see the starlight through the garden trees. And always there is the Sea, like another friend, sitting beside me and listening. Did you ever know that the Sea can listen? For there are songs and stories, food and wine and a goodly company.

Just before dawn, there comes a gentle rain. The company walks quietly with the king, through the doors, onto the porch, to look upon the ebbing night.  A sudden wind sweeps through the garden. Is this, therefore, the place where I will live? The king speaks, for the first and only time: “This is not your house. This too is the world.”

I close my eyes, and am quiet for a very long time. Then someone places a strong arm around my shoulders. This is surprising, but when I look up, I see that it is a man. The king and his folk are gone. The man walks me to the shore, through the rain, to a little boat. Once more, I close my eyes; this time, to sleep. When I awake, it is daylight. The boat has carried me around the Florida peninsula, and I am in the Gulf of Mexico. I steady the rudder. The sail comes full. Just ahead is St. Joseph Island.

The Last Road

We are near the end, and I must be brief. I pass through the American southwest, the god-like Pacific, and the Asian steppes and plains. Just past the Volga, I turn and walk South. Eventually, upon a long night, this road leads me across a river, through a garden, up a hill, and into a house. There I find an old man, leaning upon a staff, who greets me, rising from his chair. I return the greeting, and we speak as follows:

The night is far spent. You have been a long time upon your way.

I have traveled a great distance, father. I do not know if I am young or old. I do not know what this place is, nor what I have come here to do.

It is well.

Please, tell me, is this the West?

This is the West.

What have I come here to do?

Turn around.

These last words may have been a command, or an invitation–or both. In any case, I turn around. Thus it is that I behold the Sun, a white disk rising above the golden rim of horizon. In the light of this sudden star, I can see the road, though many things have fallen away. I look for a long time. All is still and silent. Then, reluctantly, I ask:

Is this the road which has brought me here?

It is the road.

Then, this is also the world?

It is the life of the world.

Then, this is not my house?

This is your Father’s house.

________

That is the end, though it would be pertinent to consider what the devils believe about the fire; likewise, the myth of the vanishing sea.

Here is his bio:

Stephen grew up Presbyterian (PCA) but also spent a number of years in Baptist and non-denominational circles before going to college. He began undergraduate studies in English broadly evangelical but became increasingly agnostic and eventually left graduate school with a fist full of post-structuralist conviction and an excruciating crisis of faith. In 2002, Stephen and his wife were married in the Methodist church and, despite unanswered questions about the nature and interpretation of Scripture, for example, or the basis of Protestant ecclesial authority, they attended Presbyterian churches until 2007. That summer, they somewhat skeptically visited mass at the local Catholic Church and were unsettled to discover that the liturgy is entirely Christocentric, saturated with Scripture. The experience compelled them to study for the first time what the Church actually teaches, what she communicates and by what authority. They were welcomed into full Catholic communion on August 30, 2008.

This paradoxical statement is not for shock purposes-it is wholly and entirely true. As one who is in communion with Rome via an Eastern Catholic Church, I find this to be an inevitable conclusion. Because my home parish has its origins in the Slavic people who lived around the Carpathian mountains, I appreciate the beauty of the East, for it is a beauty that I share in my daily prayer life on a personal level and at a Church level. A good portion of those who worship at my parish are ethnically descendants of the Orthodox who regained communion with Rome. This came after excommunications and ill will were put aside in the interest of unity and through an acknowledgment of the ministry of Peter that is given to the Pope of Rome. These dear people who were brave enough to put aside bitterness and seek to regain communion have a story and it must be told, never to be forgotten. There have been many historical tragedies of Churches ransacked and seized on both sides of the Catholic/Orthodox schism, and there has been much oppression of the Eastern Catholics by ungodly Communistic governments, but to recount these events with the purpose of stirring up anger would lose the vision of Our Lord’s. This vision has sought, is seeking, and shall ever seek oneness between His children. On the other hand, to recount the vision of union and a love that transcended the hatred and differences between East and West, this is a story that is ever upon my mind.

I have many friends and acquaintances who have seen the fractured world of Protestantism and have said, “Enough!” They have left their former Protestant abode for Eastern Orthodoxy, because it is a safe haven from the opinions of men each left to interpret the Bible on their own. But to many of us who are or were Protestants, we look on the outside and see that Catholics claim Tradition, Copts claim Tradition, Eastern Orthodox claim Tradition, Armenian Orthodox claim Tradition, et cetera et cetera. It is a fact that brings me to tears, that there are successors of the Apostles who are not in full communion with one another. And we as the faithful are suffering for this disunity. The crucial question to ask is-how should we view this disunion? Are we supposed to cast our lots with the most doctrinal bishops? And if so, who are they? If that were the case, how different would our adherence to Tradition really be, in contrast to Protestantism?

Let us consider the vision of the Catholic and compare it to those Eastern Brethren who share the same ultimate episcopacy but do not share the same chalice. We know that our Churches share the view that Christ left a visible Church, with Bishops leading the charge in the same vein as the Apostles. But we know that each group has an overall different view on the status of each other. It is never redundant to restate what the Catechism of the Catholic Church has to say about the Churches with whom she is not in communion.

1399 The Eastern churches that are not in full communion with the Catholic Church celebrate the Eucharist with great love. “These Churches, although separated from us, yet possess true sacraments, above all – by apostolic succession – the priesthood and the Eucharist, whereby they are still joined to us in closest intimacy.” A certain communion in sacris, and so in the Eucharist, “given suitable circumstances and the approval of Church authority, is not merely possible but is encouraged.”238¹

One way of describing the Catholic view of holy orders is that it is an indelible mark, as Tim Troutman’s recent full length article stated. While the term “indelible” may sound medieval and mechanistic, there is a thread of understanding the sacraments in a similar way in the East as well as in the West. The Donatist controversy is one example, where the Church saw that the Donatists were too strict in demanding rebaptism of those who had fallen away. Other sources of patristic thought saw this to be the case. It evokes a stronger view of the sacraments that is ultimately objective. This objectivity is at the heart of the Christian sacramental practice, something that neither sin nor schism can erase. This view is so powerful (an atomic bomb, as my homage to Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove points out) that it transcends our lack of full communion with one another. The disagreements over primacy and jurisdictions did lead to schism, but they did not lead to a destruction of Holy Orders. This maintains the fullness of sacramental life with God in Orthodoxy, even though on a horizontal level we are fragmented from one another. It goes to the point of saying that if Church authorities were to approve of it, Orthodox could receive the Eucharist from Catholics and vice versa. Holy Orders is so powerful that it transcends the differing views on the papacy. It reminds me of a story that I was told by my godfather prior to my conversion. I quote one account of it from the New York Times:

During a frustrating argument with a Roman Catholic cardinal, Napoleon Bonaparte supposedly burst out: “Your eminence, are you not aware that I have the power to destroy the Catholic Church?” The cardinal, the anecdote goes, responded ruefully: “Your majesty, we, the Catholic clergy, have done our best to destroy the church for the last 1800 years. We have not succeeded, and neither will you.”

Whether this is an apocryphal story or not, this understanding of Holy Orders permeates the Catholic view both of herself and of those Churches who have not maintained communion with the Pope. It is so powerful that even those bishops who do not esteem us can ultimately be bestowed with just as much majesty and honor as we would give to our own bishops who have communion with the Pope of Rome, the first among equals. I have had the pleasure to greet Metropolitan Jonah of the Orthodox Church in America with a kiss on the hand, and that kiss was given with just as much fervor as I would give to a bishop with whom I am in communion. That is because I love the Orthodox too much to be Orthodox. Orthodoxy’s opposition to communion with Rome comes from circumstances both tragic and sad. But the often untold story that brings the title of this article to mind is the fact that at many points in history, Orthodoxy’s opposition to Rome has brought her to turn in on Herself. When the various and complex tragedies that led to schism between East and West unfolded, the majority of Orthodox adopted the idea that the mystery of Holy Orders is not indelible. A door was thus opened up that led to not only less love for Rome, but many times less love for Orthodoxy itself. Orthodoxy ties valid holy orders to both Apostolic Succession and Orthodoxy. This does sound like a higher standard that should lead to more purity, but what does Orthodoxy mean exactly? As you may imagine, there are varying answers to this question of what it takes to be fully Orthodox. And so, in many senses this “higher” standard actually lowers the love that one can have for the servants of God, the Bishops and those faithful in communion with them. One can end up only esteeming those bishops who are pure in one’s estimation as having the fullness of sacramental life.

A clear example of this can be seen in the life of the priest Fr. Seraphim Rose, who has fallen asleep in the Lord and is receiving the sort of veneration that could lead to an eventual canonization. Even at his conversion, we read that there was a gaping sacramental question that is still in many respects unresolved today. That is, when one enters into Tradition via Orthodoxy, if one was formerly a Protestant who was baptized as a Protestant, is rebaptism necessary? It is interesting because Fr. Seraphim was himself not baptized, having converted via Protestantism; however, his own practice was to rebaptize those who were not baptized via an Orthodox Church.

Throughout his life, Fr. Seraphim fought for what he called “true Orthodoxy”, which was in contrast to other groups–some of which (in his opinion) were too zealous for Orthodoxy and others were not zealous enough. In the case of those groups who Fr. Seraphim had wished would be more open, there was given the term “super-correct”. From his biography we read about the “super-correct”–they went so far as to call for rebaptism of canonical Orthodox believers who wanted communion with his Orthodox Jurisdiction-the Russian Orthodox Church that was not in communion with the Moscow Patriarchate (most widely known as ROCOR). In thinking about this struggle, Fr. Seraphim wrote:

“I know for myself that if I would have to sit down and think out for myself exactly which shade of ‘zealotry’ is the ‘correct’ one today-I will lose all peace of mind and be constantly preoccupied with questions of breaking communion, of how this will seem to others, of ‘what will the Greeks think’ (and which Greeks?), and ‘what will the Metropolitan think?”²

The deep issue here is not the particulars of whether Orthodox who are rebaptizing other Christians (Orthodox or not) are right or wrong. And in point of fact, the Russian Orthodox Church is more united today than it was then-as of 2007, ROCOR is back under the Moscow Patriarchate. Instead, I would argue that the underlying issue is Holy Orders, and the principles that provide the Orthodox Churches with a sense of who is Orthodox.
Later in the biography, Fr. Seraphim is quoted further on the struggles that he faced in reflecting on the disunity that he faced as an Orthodox believer.

“Throughout the year”, he wrote, “we have heard news of disharmony in the Church. In one monastery (Jordanville) the monks say ‘we are sheep without a shepherd’-and yet what would they do if the Abbot suddenly became stern and demanding in order to produce oneness of soul? In another monastery (Boston) there seems to be oneness of soul, but the impression is that it is not too deep and it is too dependent on ‘opinions’-opinions of the holiness of the Abbot, or the rightness of the monastery’s theology (and the wrongness of everyone else’s), of the superiority of ‘Greek’ to ‘Russian,’ etc. And everywhere-in parishes, in families and small groups-there burst out animosities for no apparent reason, and the best and meekest people are subjected to persecutions.
“Where is the cause to be found of this universal phenomenon today? Are true leaders vanishing in the Church? Or are the followers refusing their trust to those who could become leaders? Both things, of course, are happening, and in general the love of many is growing cold, and both leadership and trust are collapsing in a world based on revolutionary brashness and self-centeredness.
“What is the answer? To gain a position of leadership and compel obedience?-Impossible in today’s world. To offer blind obedience to some leader, preferably a ‘charismatic’ one?-Extremely dangerous; many people follow Fr. Panteleimon of Boston in this way, and the end of it looks disastrous, producing disharmony and friction on the way.
“To practice love, trust and life according to the Holy Fathers in the small circle where one is-there seems to be no other way to solve the ‘spiritual crisis’ of today which expresses itself in the absence of oneness of soul and mind. If one finds the mind of the Fathers, then one will be at one with the others who find it also. This is much better than just following what so-and-so says, taking on faith that he is somehow infallible. But how difficult it seems to find the mind of the Fathers! How many disagreements there are with others equally sincere! Or is this because we have not searched long or deeply enough?
“May God give us the answer to this agonizing question!”³

When I read this part of the biography, I was moved to great sadness for what the Orthodox faithful have suffered in trying to find unity and purity. There are many issues surrounding these problems, but again in my mind a key one is the predominant Orthodox view of Holy Orders. When Holy Orders are not indelible, there is a shifting perspective as to who is holy and who is Orthodox, even to the point of judging within Orthodoxy, not to mention Catholicism. Fr. Seraphim’s emphasis on finding the “mind of the Fathers” sounds wonderful (and it is truly the ultimate answer to all problems in the world), but of course his opponents would have said that they were doing the same thing. This shifting perspective sadly shares the subjectivity and individualism of Protestantism, as individuals or groups end up making different conclusions about the source of the Church when the standards are anything but Apostolic Succession.

Flying in stark contrast to this view of the Church is the view offered by Catholicism. This view holds that despite the flaws in our ordained leaders and those in communion with them, there is a gift of grace that cannot be wiped away. It is so powerful that despite the fact that some Orthodox would not esteem a Catholic as living in grace (Fr. Seraphim Rose himself wrote much against Catholicism, for example), the Catholic can turn the other cheek and stand upon Holy Orders, thanking God for the grace that comes to the Orthodox Churches. Please note that I wrote “can”–tragic failures of Catholics to appreciate Orthodox do not speak to our principles, but because of those principles I will say it again: I love the Orthodox too much to be Orthodox.

And so, it is the Catholic vision of the Church that most fully preserves respect and love for all Apostolic Churches. It is a broader view that leaves the mandates of either/or, and is open to a more complex ecclesiology that at times will emphasize both/and, which is true of its views on other doctrines such as the teachings on the relationship between faith and works. The Catholic view holds Her own sacraments to be valid, but She also holds the various Orthodox Churches to have the full sacramental life. Thus, there is a principled sacramental basis for saying that the Catholic loves the Orthodox too much to be Orthodox. Again I stress that not all Catholics do this–but our catechisms and councils beg us to do so. I am also not saying that there are no Orthodox who share this vision-I am thankful for those Orthodox who have spoken out in support of this thinking such as Archbishop Hilarion Alfeyev of the Moscow Patriarchate. But in Catholicism there is an authoritative, principled basis for a mutual respect of the successors of the Apostles that springs from this view of Holy Orders. In relegating the Bishop of Rome and those in communion with him to something lower, there is a sense in which Orthodoxy has lowered Herself at the same time, tragically. May Our Lord raise us all through a growth in appreciation for His fellow children, each other. Through this appreciation, I pray that this fractionation would end and end soon, via a stronger love for Orthodoxy that comes from a stronger love of the mystery of Holy Orders. As for me, in my evaluation of Tradition, it is not that I did not see the Tradition in Orthodoxy. It was due to my love for the Orthodox that I entered into communion with the Popes throughout the ages through Catholicism. Our love for Orthodoxy provides a principled way for us to not only hear the call from above that is communion with God; it is a call that beseeches us to end the horizontal divisions amongst the Churches. May we all answer that call, to the best of our ability.

1. Catechism of the Catholic Church
2. Father Seraphim Rose-His Life and Works, Hieromonk Damascene
3. Father Seraphim Rose-His Life and Works, Hieromonk Damascene

St. John Bosco

In the Protestant mind, the notion of venerating relics and asking for the intercession of departed saints is somewhat puzzling and strange for at least two reasons. First, in the Protestant mind, the deceased person is conceived as being in heaven (or hell), not here in his or her bodily remains. In the Catholic mind, by contrast, the saints in heaven are also still present, in a certain respect, in their bodily remains. Matt Yonke has explained this in his “Relics: A Reply to [Carl] Trueman,” so I will not recover that ground.

But for Protestants, another reason why this practice of visiting and venerating  the relics of saints is quite mysterious and seemingly unnecessary is that from a Protestant point of view, Christ’s perfect righteousness has been imputed to all Christians, and yet at the same time all Christians sin daily, and “there is no sin so small, but that it deserves damnation.”² All our righteousness is as filthy rags; all our throats are open graves.³ Simul iustus et peccator is applied not only to the individual, but to the whole community of believers such that believers are all ‘flattened’ with respect to deserving hell and meriting heaven. This doctrine entails that all Christians are simultaneously equally damnable and, by the imputation of Christ’s righteousness, equally perfectly righteous. In this way Protestantism implies a kind of egalitarianism with respect to righteousness among all Christians. It entails that St. John Bosco was no more holy than yourself, so long as you have faith. So there is no point in making a big to-do about touching the relics of St. John Bosco; you can just touch yourself, or, what is the same, not bother touching anything at all.

This is why Protestants generally do not refer to a particular group of Christians as saints. In Protestant theology, all Christians are saints, because all Christians are under Christ’s blood and credited with His perfect righteousness. This is also why when James says, “The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective” (James 5:16) for Protestants the verse implies nothing about seeking the intercessory aid of any particular Christians. From the Protestant point of view, the verse implies that if I have faith, my prayer is powerful and effective. And if the need is urgent and I wish to knock louder at the gate of heaven, I need not find especially holy Christians to pray for me; I need only recruit as intercessors Christians who truly trust in Christ for their salvation, for by extra nos imputation such persons have nothing less than the absolute perfect righteousness of Christ.

In Catholic theology, by contrast, imputation is on the basis of infusion, and we do not all initially receive the same measure of justice, as the Council of Trent teaches:

and not only are we reputed but we are truly called and are just, receiving justice within us, each one according to his own measure, which the Holy Ghost distributes to everyone as He wills, and according to each one’s disposition and cooperation.⁴

Not only that, but by the means of grace we can increase in that justice received through the grace of Christ:

Having, therefore, been thus justified and made the friends and domestics of God, advancing from virtue to virtue, they are renewed, as the Apostle says, day by day, that is, mortifying the members of their flesh, and presenting them as instruments of justice unto sanctification, they, through the observance of the commandments of God and of the Church, faith cooperating with good works, increase in that justice received through the grace of Christ and are further justified ….⁵

Why is that? Because in Catholic doctrine, agape is righteousness. The presence of agape in the heart makes a person truly righteous.

He who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Rom 13:8)

Love is the fulfillment of the law. (Rom 13:10)

For the whole Law is fulfilled in one word, in the statement, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (Gal 5:14)

If, however, you are fulfilling the royal law according to the Scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” you are doing well. (James 2:8)⁶

Because righteousness is agape, and because some persons are given more agape than are others,⁷ therefore, some Christians are more righteousness than are others. This is why Jesus can even speak about the “greatest” in the Kingdom. When the disciples asked Jesus who would be the greatest in the Kingdom, Jesus did not reply by explaining that on account of extra nos imputation of His perfect righteousness, all would be equally great in the Kingdom. He taught that greatness in the Kingdom was based on greatness of humility⁸ and on the greatness of love by which one becomes a servant to others for the sake of Christ.⁹ Greatness in the Kingdom does not come down to faith per se or works per se, but to love.¹⁰ The one who has the most agape, most closely imitates and participate in the God who is love. ¹¹ Jesus speaks of some one person who will be “least in the Kingdom of Heaven.”¹² That would make no sense if spiritual egalitarianism were true. The author of Hebrews takes it as undisputed that “the lesser is blessed by the greater,” and uses this premise to argue that Melchizedek was greater than Abraham.¹³ There could be no lesser and greater, if spiritual egalitarianism were true. He speaks of some Old Testament heroes refusing to be released from their torture, “so that they might gain a better resurrection.”¹⁴ Such a statement would make no sense if all believers’ resurrections were equal. Jesus said that Mary chose what was better, in comparison to that chosen by her sister Martha.¹⁵ This would make no sense if all Christians were equally righteous, and all lawful actions were equally good. St. Paul speaks of the one who does not give his daughter as doing better than one who does, because then she can be wholly concerned about the things of the Lord, holy both in body and spirit.¹⁶

Not only are some sins greater than others,¹⁷ and some punishments in hell greater than others,¹⁸ but also some acts are greater acts of agape than are others, and some Christians receive greater rewards in heaven than do other Christians, because they loved more, not only in their heart, but also in their actions. This message that we (Christians) will be judged according to our actions is part of the Creed, and is found in many places throughout the New Testament:

“For we shall stand before the judgment seat of God…. So then each one of us shall give account of himself to God.” (Rom 14:10,12)

“Now he who plants and he who waters are one; but each will receive his own reward according to his own labor.” (1 Cor 3:8)

“Therefore do not go on passing judgment before the time, but wait until the Lord comes who will both bring to light the things hidden in the darkness and disclose the motives of men’s hearts; and then each man’s praise will come to him from God.” (1 Cor 4:5)

“For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may be recompensed for his deeds in the body, according to what he has done, whether good or bad.” (2 Cor 5:10)

“Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, this he will also reap. For the one who sows to his own flesh shall from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit shall from the Spirit reap eternal life. And let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we shall reap if we do not grow weary. So then, while we have opportunity, let us do good to all men, and especially to those who are of the household of the faith.” (Gal 6:7-10)

“With good will render service, as to the Lord, and not to men, knowing that whatever good thing each one does, this he will receive back from the Lord, whether slave or free.” (Eph 6:8-9)

“And if you address as Father the One who impartially judges according to each man’s work, conduct yourselves in fear during the time of your stay upon earth.” (1 Pet 1:17)

“By this, love is perfected with us, that we may have confidence in the day of judgment; because as He is, so also are we in this world.” (1 Jn 4:17)

Jesus, speaking to the church at Thyatira, says, “And I will kill her children with pestilence; and all the churches will know that I am He who searches the minds and hearts; and I will give to each one of you according to your deeds.” (Rev 2:23)

And I saw the dead, the great and the small, standing before the throne, and books were opened; and another book was opened, which is the book of life; and the dead were judged from the things which were written in the books, according to their deeds. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and Hades gave up the dead which were in them; and they were judged, every one of them according to their deeds.” (Rev 20:12-13)

“[L]et the one who is righteous, still practice righteousness; and let the one who is holy, still keep himself holy. Behold, I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me, to render to every man according to what he has done.” (Rev 22:11-12)

The Church has never believed or taught that all Christians are equally righteous; such an egalitarianism is nowhere to be found in the Church Fathers, or in the Scriptures. The Church has always recognized that some Christians, such as the martyrs, have shown heroic virtue in their self-sacrificial love for Christ, and she has sought to give to those saints the honor that is rightly due to them. It would be wrong not to honor those who deserve to be honored among us, just as it would be wrong not to honor the heroes among our police, fire, and military forces,  just as it would be wrong not to honor our parents, as the Fourth Commandment teaches. So the distinction in righteousness between those Christians with heroic love for God and the rest of us, entails an obligation on our part to give honor to those whose lives especially demonstrated such heroic love for God. This, along with the Catholic understanding of the relation of body and soul, explains the Catholic practice of venerating the bodily remains of saints such as St. John Bosco.

In addition, because of the recognition that some Christians have greater agape than do other Christians, and because agape is the righteousness of God in us, and because the prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective, it follows that the intercession of those Christians who have greater agape is better than the intercession of other Christians. In other words, even while he was yet alive on earth, the intercessory prayer of St. John Bosco would have been more powerful and effective than is my intercession. That difference in the power of intercessory prayer is not erased when a saint dies, but is heightened, because now St. John Bosco has the Beatific Vision; he now sees God face to face, no longer through a glass darkly. Not only does he now have more agape than the ordinary Christian, he is now able to speak with God face to face, as are our guardian angels (Mt 18:10). And that also makes his intercession more effective, not because God is different in relation to him, but because he stands in closer relation to God. He prays with something greater than faith; he prays with vision. And this is why the Church Fathers sought the intercession of the departed saints, and spoke about doing so as though this were the continuous tradition of the Church.¹⁹

Egalitarianism can be motivated by a pride that wants no one to be greater than oneself. It can also be the result of a mistaken philosophical notion that God is most glorified when He has all of it. ²⁰ But we do not find spiritual egalitarianism in the Church Fathers. They recognized that God is most glorified not in competition with His creatures, but through the renowned deeds of His saints. For the Fathers, the more glorious the saints’ love for God, the more glory God receives. And recognizing the saints as the heroes of the Church, in conjunction with that line from the Apostles’ Creed: I believe in the “communion of saints,” entails that not only are we more greatly benefited, but God is more greatly glorified, when we seek the intercession of His beloved saints. From this point of view, the eagerness and excitement of Guatemalan Catholics at the arrival of St. John Bosco’s relics is not hard to understand. Just as Hebrews chapter eleven describes heroes of the Old Covenant, saints like St. John Bosco are the heroes of the New Covenant.

1. These relics will be brought on a tour of the US and Canada this Fall; see the schedule here.
2. Westminster Confession of Faith, XV.4
3. Isaiah 64:6; Romans 3:13
4. Council of Trent, Session 6, Chapter 7
5. Council of Trent, Session 6, Chapter 10. See also St. Thomas’s Summa Theologica I-II Q.112 a.4 “Whether grace is greater in one than another.“
6. This is also the teaching of St. Augustine; see “St. Augustine on Law and Grace.”
7. See St. Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica II-II Q.24 “The subject of charity.”
8. Mt 18:4
9. Mt 23:11, Mk 9:35; Lk 9:48; Lk 22:26
10. 1 Corinthians 13:2.
11. 1 John 4:8.
12. Mt 11:11; Lk 7:28
13. Heb 7:7
14. Heb 11:35
15. Lk 10:42
16. 1 Corinthians 7:25-38.
17. John 19:11
18. Mt 10:15, 11:24, Lk 10:12, Heb 10:29
19. See, for example, this collection of patristic quotations.
20. I discuss this in more detail here.

An early 2009 Christianity Today contained a provocative article entitled Jesus Is Not A Brand. ¹  In it, the author, Rev. Tyler Wigg-Stevenson, analyzes the conflation of evangelism with sales marketing. He states:

The de-churched nature of our theology makes evangelism hard to do without seeming salesy, because churchless evangelism unavoidably promotes a consumerist soteriology. When it’s just you and Jesus, you (the consumer) “invite him” (the product) “into your heart” (brand adoption) and “get saved” (consumer gratification).²

While distinct from the central thesis of Wigg-Stevenson’s discussion, his painting of religious decisions in the light of the American consumerist mentality provides insight into the denominational marketplace as well. The reactions to Catholicism’s arguments that I have received from some of my more sympathetic Reformed brethren are understandable when viewed through the consumerist lens: “I would agree with them if it weren’t for their adoption of doctrine X,” or “I just can’t stomach the Catholic culture.”

A presumption in these conversations with my former co-denominationalists seems to be that I was impelled to enter the denominational marketplace by feelings of dissatisfaction with my former ecclesial selection. We happen to live in an era where many can be ‘choosers.’ As choosers, we approach the ecclesial buffet pondering what selection best fits our appetite for God. And being used to making choices catered to our particular predilections, we are (no doubt) hesitant to set our tastes to one side when choosing or re-choosing Church. As members of a chooser society, the idea of choice uninfluenced by taste seems foreign if not implausible. At least, this has been my experience when trying to convince people that a certain truth-claim or other gave me a conviction to become Catholic: they rejoin that actually I did it because I wanted something-or-other (or wanted away from something-or-other).

To use another analogy to describe the reactions I get when discussing Catholicism’s claims, some seem able to respect the reasons a minivan might meet my needs, but recognize that such an automobile would clearly fail to meet their own. A van’s fundamentals would be inadequate for the task at hand; it would be the wrong choice for them. Many may even think a minivan is the wrong choice for me (or anyone at all) despite my best judgment. But they are prepared to respect some positive aspects of the minivan, even if they believe its purchase is the wrong choice from the market.

The fallacy, I believe, is in conceptualizing the Church universal as invisible, containing visible market choices of varying merit. I did not leave a Reformed denominational ‘market choice’ because of deficiencies in the choice qua choice. The terms of that analysis are entirely wrong. I encountered truth-claims that conflicted with my denomination’s truth-claims, and which my denomination’s teachings could not resolve (most particularly, the Canon Question).

But under the Catholic paradigm, there simply is no denominational market choice to make. (And it would be good for all Catholics to realize this too.) For the consumer, minivans and station wagons are both types of automobiles. They both get passengers and cargo to a destination. Corn and rice from the buffet are both types of side dishes that can nourish the body. The market has less desirable choices, and even bad choices.  But if the Catholic ecclesiological model is true, there is no market.  Or under these analogies, the Catholic Church is the buffet, is the auto lot. She has choice and diversity, for sure, but all within her visible confines.

My challenge in explaining the claims of Catholicism and its critiques of the Protestant Reformation is in avoiding the impression that I simply find Catholicism preferable to competing choices such as the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA). This is a conclusion with which Presbyterians can quickly and readily disagree, without profit from having the conversation in the first place. Rather, to be productive, the discussion must accept or concede that Catholicism claims itself to be without market competitor, the one Church to which we are all called to be in communion.

1. Tyler Wigg-Stevenson, p. 20, Jan. 2009.
2. Id. at p. 22.