Monday, January 30, 2017
By Mark Allen
If someone else thinks they have reasons to put confidence in their Protestantism, I have more: born again in the eighth grade and baptized by immersion; of the people of the Fundamentalists; of the tribe of Independent Baptists; an ordained Baptist preacher of ordained Baptist preachers; in regards to the Bible, a KJV’er; as for zeal, a tract-carrying soul-winner; persecuting the Ecumenical Church, as for righteousness based on the Scofield Reference Bible, a non-smoking, no dancing, Hollywood-hating, teetotaler.
Yes, I grew up an Independent Baptist. My church tradition is one of separation. Dividing. Pulling away. Isolating ourselves from . . . well, everyone else. We have a big tent; the problem is we find ourselves sitting in it all alone . . . but at least we are right!
But then, at age 45, after a slow process of opening myself up to a more generous, non-denominational, evangelical Protestantism, I found myself sitting in PhD courses at the University of Notre Dame with Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Greek Orthodox, Lutheran, and Presbyterian colleagues. One of my favorites was Sister Luma, an Iraqi nun. I remember the sweetness of the day that we finished our comps, got a Starbuck’s coffee, and walked around St. Mary’s Lake together. As we chatted, I mused to myself thankfully, “How did an Independent Baptist preacher get here?” It was wonderful, beautiful, and deeply satisfying.
For seven years on Notre Dame’s campus, I was surrounded by the architecture of the Catholic Church. The basilica. The chapels in each building. The grotto. The football stadium (wait, that’s another religion). Daily mass, several times a day. The liturgical seasons. Priests and nuns. Further, on the ND campus there is a sense of universality and history, a breadth and depth of theological reflection, a prudent unhurriedness and a beautiful impracticality which is coupled with stubborn conservatism. Once a young priest told me that he took a two-year period of discernment before he surrendered to the priesthood. In some of our old time Baptist churches, a preacher boy walks down the aisle to surrender to preach on Sunday and he is preaching at the next Wednesday night’s prayer meeting. Along with its calming prudence and thoughtful reflection, I found in the Roman Catholic Church an emphasis on the mind, a desire to serve the world, and an appreciation of religious beauty that allure the entire person – head, hands, and heart.
My Catholic friends, one of whom had been a worship leader in an evangelical college ministry before becoming a Roman Catholic, encouraged me to consider “coming home” or becoming a “completed Christian.” They were never overbearing, forceful, or shaming. While I did read the journeys from Evangelicalism to Roman Catholicism of John Henry Newman, Scott Hahn, Francis Beckwith, and Christian Smith, I was not persuaded to become a Roman Catholic. There are several aspects of the Roman Catholic Church that I could not embrace. Yet, from my Catholic friends and my Catholic University, I learned the value of catholicity and a catholic identity. Now, I can say that I am Protestant and catholic.
Catholicity, as I am using the term here with a small “c,” refers to the general or universal church throughout the world and throughout all time, along with its rich historical and multicultural expressions and traditions. The local, autonomous church, therefore, is a microcosmic expression of the catholic church within a given locality. It is the place where the marks of the church, which are the preaching of the Word and the administration of the Lord’s Supper and Baptism, are practiced. I believe that catholicity has the power to shape the identity of our individual lives, our local churches, and our engagement with culture in positive ways. How so? There are many, but I will mention four.
First, catholic creeds give our faith shape, contours, and boundaries. Also, these short, agreed upon statements center our faith in what we share in common. Many protestants say things like, “No creed but Christ; no book but the Bible.” “Really?” we might respond with tongue in cheek, “Is that your creed?” Theologian Michael Bird, would call that an “anticreedal creed.” The historic, church creeds are straightforward, worked out, unifying statements of biblical truth. They unite us and, to some extent, define us. Those are good things. Some of the most important catholic creeds are The Apostle’s Creed (ca. AD 200), Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed (AD 325, 381), the Chalcedonian Creed (AD 451), and the Athanasian Creed (ca. AD 500). These Mere Christianity-type creeds remind us of the beliefs that are most essential, most important, and most unifying for us. They move us from an isolated “I believe” to the communal “I believe” of confessional and missional solidarity.
Second, embracing catholicity situates our individual lives and our local ecclesial experiences within the continuity of a big, unfolding, church story. It gives us context. It keeps us from jumping straight from the last Apostle to today without acknowledging the work of God in and through his church over the past 2000 years. Also, it allows us to see ourselves in a church tradition without obsessing over our “rightness” and everyone else’s “wrongness.” It gives us a measured and humble estimation of our unique way of conceptualizing, articulating, and practicing our faith. I am Baptist for sure, but Baptist within a wider story. Put another way, our ecclesial situatedness is situated within a larger situation—and by accepting that and accessing the resources of the larger situation into our local church we are all the richer. Surprisingly, to myself and to others, I am more of a Baptist now than before I attended Notre Dame. It was my discovery there of catholicity that moved me to locate myself firmly and happily back within a particular church tradition.
Third, is it possible that with modern, protestant evangelicalism’s embrace of pragmatic ecclesial autonomy and individualized spiritual experiences, we have left behind richly-resourced, identity-shaping, well-established, and historically-formed communal and personal practices? Admittedly, something is definitely askew when tradition gets in the way of mission, when rituals impede the fiery work of the Holy Spirit, and when congregants just go through the motions of the same week in and week out routines, but it is equally, if not more, dangerous to assert casually things like “It’s not about ritual; it’s about a relationship” or “I’m about Jesus, not the church.” Such popular aphorisms put us in danger of an undisciplined, amorphous, me-centered, and squishy Christian identity, but catholicity encourages us to take shape and to be something.
Finally, catholicity takes us back to the future. There are significant connection points between our present context and the world of the catholic Early Church. The Early Church lived in a pluralistic society, as do we. Their ethics were strange to their neighbors, as are ours. They felt like outsiders in their own country, as we increasingly do. Their religious beliefs were not mainstream, as ours are not. They felt political pressure from the state against their faith, as do we. In many ways, the further back we go into church history, the more things can feel like the present . . . and the future. Granted, we are on this side of the Enlightenment. We can’t live as if Locke, Descartes, and Kant never existed. That is naïve; in the West, we live in a world shaped by modernity. But in our postmodern or late modern context, the Early Church extends to the 21st century Protestant church their vast resources for theology, apologetics, and cultural engagement. Justin Martyr, Tertullian, Irenaeus, Origen, Chrysostom, Augustine, and many others are waiting to guide us into shaping an effective identity in the emerging postmodern world. Catholicity opens us up to the resources of the Early Church.
This year, we observe the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation. For an entire year, we will celebrate the great “solas:”
- Sola Fide, by faith alone.
- Sola Scriptura, by Scripture alone.
- Solus Christus, through Christ alone.
- Sola Gratia, by grace alone.
- Soli Deo Gloria, glory to God alone.
These are the primary identifying markers of Protestantism. As children of the Reformation, we are devoted to these five principles. But our commitment to the solas does not negate catholicity. It actually “enhances our reception of the catholic fullness of the church’s past” and present.
When I was at the University of Notre Dame, I had a shtick in which I would introduce myself like this: “I attended a Fundamental Baptist College, a Dispensational Seminary, and a Reformed/Charismatic-lite Seminary. I pastored a small, non-denominational community church. Now I am studying at a Catholic University and attending a Methodist megachurch. Do you know what I am now? Confused!” I had an identity crisis.
Not anymore. I am a Baptist, just not so independent, a Protestant rooted, stretched, broadened, informed, equipped, and shaped by catholicity. Today, I live in Lynchburg, but I have not left South Bend behind.
Originally published in Faith and the Academy Volume 1, Issue 2