The Reformation, Individualism, and the Fractured Church
It was October 31, 1517. A young Catholic monk, having finished writing his theological convictions, posted them on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg, Germany, hoping to spark an academic debate. It’s probably safe to say he got more than he bargained for. He wanted the Church to stop selling indulgences, which were believed to allow their buyers to avoid the temporal consequences of sin. And while his attempt to reform the Catholic Church did succeed eventually, it did so by creating a new church, splintering the institution that made the Kingdom of God visible to the world.
In a sense, he did reform the Catholic Church, because over time his influence caused a reaction in Rome that hardened its viewpoint on justification by faith, caused it to double down on the authority of tradition, and boosted the power of the pope by giving his ex cathedra pronouncements infallibility. But some real reform came to the Church: it banned the sale of indulgences, clarified its teaching on clerical celibacy, and many years later at Vatican II, it began to hold the Mass in the language of its lay members.
All these events are part of a larger historical movement. Renaissance humanism had begun with a revival of classical education and began to change religious thinking as the study of the Scriptures was adopted outside the clergy by lay scholars with impressive intellectual gifts. The change in scholarship produced a flood of writings from humanists who emphasized the importance of the individual over community and innovation over tradition. Luther took his place in that grand rebirth of humanism—just Luther and his Bible against all of Christendom. One man judging all that came before him.
The Middle Ages had seen reformers before, but John Wycliffe and Jan Huss had little chance in the 14th century. They were silenced, executed, and the movements they started were starved of any platform that could support broad adoption in society. But the 16th century was more welcoming to the ideas of reformers.
The Renaissance was in full swing, and it provided the fertile ground Luther’s ideas needed to take root. The 95 Theses set Christendom on fire with fervor and destruction. They were printed and read widely, spreading beyond the academy to become a social conversation fueled by discontent with the Church. Erasmus had printed his Greek New Testament that placed the Greek text next to the Latin Vulgate and provided scholars with unprecedented confidence in their own private interpretation and understanding of the original meaning of the text. All of this enabled Luther, the individual, to stand against established authority and declare, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” And he believed sincerely that he was in the right. So did many thousands of others.
I have tried to summarize a very complex period of history about which I am not an expert so that I can make one small point. I’m not sure he was right. There is no question that my short summary of the birth of the Reformation is reductive, and I will likely come to believe I’ve misunderstood some aspects of it. Geopolitical factors were at play. The local rulers were predisposed toward breaking with Rome, which allowed Luther and then Calvin to find shelter behind the armies of independent states.
After three years of searching for a church home, I wonder if it’s humanism—the elevation of the individual over the collective—that enables me to remain detached, evaluating from a distance. What began in the Renaissance, the defining attitude of our society even today, may have been amplified even more at the door of that German church in Wittenberg.
I love the Protestant church that grew up around the reformers and their spiritual descendants: radical reformers like Menno Simons and the Anabaptists. But the great tragedy is this: while their criticisms of Rome were often justified, the Reformation was an act of rebellion, a schism that broke the visible church apart once again. The East had Orthodoxy, and the West Rome. Now the West was to have hundreds of years of squabbling over vital doctrines—squabbling in which losers were sometimes drawn and quartered. Rome had often put down dissension with violence, had waged the Crusades and the Inquisition. And some reformers seem to have followed in their bloody footsteps, albeit somewhat less enthusiastically. Why so much blood over objective ideas about who God is and how he relates to us? I haven’t argued to the point of spilling blood, but I should perhaps tremble at Paul’s paraphrase of Isaiah in Romans 2:24: “The name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles because of you.” Discord is not bloodshed, but it leaves a bad impression.
I have attended five churches and visited many others over the last three years, so this fragmentation is real to me. It characterizes some of the churches I’ve visited, but it’s also my story. Why do I find it so hard to join a church? I care about doctrine a great deal, but less than I have in the past, so it’s not primarily doctrine that worries me. The greatest doctrine is a person, Jesus Christ, and I can know him with imperfect knowledge—in fact, it is my only way of knowing.
My problem is perhaps not one of doctrine or schism, but of trust and connection. It can be very difficult to open up to people, especially when they dismiss vitally important truths I hold dear. And every church is made up of already-connected friends-and-family networks that are sometimes hard to penetrate. But seeking fellowship based on perfect agreement precludes joining any church no matter how open or closed, because communities do not form or hold together based on perfect agreement. They persist and grow because of love that overlooks the worst and hopes for the best.
So I cannot resolve the schism and sometimes contribute to it, but I’m convinced that visible fractures of Christian community present a hindrance to the gospel of Jesus Christ reaching the world. His church, His body, is His means of advancing his purposes on earth. Each individual Christian is part of a body and is diminished when he or she believes another Christian is not worthy of fellowship. Our gifts were given for the Church—for each other.
We have inverted reality. We begin with the individual and wonder at the fragmentation that results. The Bible taught, and for most of history society believed, that we begin with the Church, with community. Only in that context can individuals find their place, use their gifts, and maintain a coherent worldview through shared tradition, mutual understanding, and non-coercive mutual submission. Church leaders throughout history often were coercive, and the Kingdom of God became equated with temporal power rather than eternal purposes. So going back to the past isn’t the answer, but maybe going back to basics is.
At our best, we as individuals can offer flashes of insight, course corrections for the community. But the collective needs to steer the path forward. This seems to have been the pattern of the early Church.
Rather than parting ways when I disagree, I need to keep dialogue open. Can I disagree vehemently and still love another fervently as a brother or sister in Christ? I can be open to new understanding and correction from those I haven’t understood, and yet be true to what I have fully grasped. Somehow, I need love and humility paired with passion and prophetic zeal for the truth. Only then will I be able to hold together with others when the force of our disagreement pushes us apart. And only then will I have the strength to avoid accommodation for the sake of peace.
This is at least a part of what the Church must be in order to manifest the unity Jesus said would mark his Church as authentic and vibrant. Five hundred years have passed and we still have not resolved the tension between the individual Christian and the community of faith that grew from the seeds Luther planted.
