The Papacy and the Vatican: A Critical Historical Essay Part 1

Early Foundations and Forged Pillars of Papal Authority

The Roman papacy’s claim to supreme authority in Christendom was not an uncontested given of the early Church, but a post-apostolic development buttressed over time by both circumstance and stratagem. In the first few Christian centuries, the bishop of Rome enjoyed a primus inter pares (“first among equals”) respect due to Rome’s imperial stature and the memory of apostles Peter and Paul. Yet the extent of this primacy was ill-defined and resisted by other bishops. The Council of Nicaea (AD 325) accorded Rome a patriarchal honor alongside Alexandria and Antioch, but made no attempt to grant universal jurisdiction . Church fathers like Cyprian of Carthage insisted that each bishop answered directly to Christ; none could claim lordship over all. Even Pope Gregory I (“the Great,” 6th century) sharply rebuked the title “universal bishop” as a blasphemous pride: “whoever calls himself universal priest … is by his pride a forerunner of Antichrist” . Such evidence suggests that the idea of an absolute papal monarchy was foreign to the ante-Nicene and Nicene church. As John Calvin observed, the ancient fathers “did not give the title of Primate to the Roman Bishop” , and Gregory himself refused any such elevation.

It was in the Middle Ages that the papacy’s claims dramatically expanded – not by open scriptural mandate or clear patristic consent, but by forgery and fraud. The pivotal moment came in the ninth century with the appearance of the Pseudo-Isidorian Decretals. Around the 840s, an unknown ecclesiastical author (falsely under the name “Isidore”) produced a collection of forged letters and decrees purportedly from earlier popes and councils . These fabricated documents reimagined church history, asserting that from the earliest times the bishop of Rome held sovereign authority over all other bishops and councils . They decreed, for example, that no council’s decisions were valid without papal ratification and that all bishops were effectively “servants” of an exalted Bishop of Rome . Such notions would have made the Nicene fathers “aghast” . Yet Pope Nicholas I (858–867) eagerly seized upon these decretals, assuring doubting prelates that the texts had long lain in the archives of Rome, and used them to amplify his authority . The effect was revolutionary. As one historian (Ignaz von Döllinger) later noted, these “pseudo–Isidorian principles eventually revolutionized the whole constitution of the Church, and introduced a new system in place of the old”. The Church’s governance was being refashioned on fraudulent precedents.

Layered atop Pseudo-Isidore were additional forgeries, notably the Donation of Constantine (a forged imperial decree granting Rome supremacy in the West) and interpolations in the Liber Pontificalis (papal book of biographies). In the 11th century, reforming Pope Gregory VII (Hildebrand) incorporated these falsifications into a cohesive papal legal code . Gratian’s Decretum (c.1150), the first comprehensive canon law book, then wove the forged decretals into the fabric of Church law . By these means, the medieval papacy emerged armed with what one scholar calls “forgery upon forgery” . The pope now claimed to stand above councils, above temporal rulers, even above church law itself . Indeed, by the High Middle Ages, canonists taught that the pope could not be judged by anyone and held a plenitude of power – claims buttressed largely by documents now known to be spurious.

The Reformers would later express astonishment and outrage at this false foundation. The edifice of papal monarchy had stood for centuries, but once the forgeries were unmasked, it was as if “the foundations have been undermined”, and yet by a peculiar fortune “the edifice has subsisted” even after their exposure . John Calvin, in his Institutes, meticulously recounts how Roman advocates “fraudulently substituted” a lesser council’s canon for that of Nicaea to claim appellate jurisdiction, and even forged a letter from an early bishop to feign submission to Rome . He denounces such “falsehoods so puerile, that even a blind man might feel them” . In Calvin’s verdict, the “noble records of antiquity on which the majesty of the Roman See is founded” were riddled with shameless fabrications . The true “rock” of the Church (Christ Himself, Matt. 16:18) had been obscured by a mountain of false decrees.

Thus, by the eve of the high medieval period, the papacy had attained a legal and doctrinal height previously unknown – in Calvin’s words, “the Papacy at length appeared complete in all its parts, the seat of Antichrist”, characterized by “impiety, execrable tyranny, and wickedness” . It rested in no small measure on what a modern Reformed historian calls “a complete fabrication of Church history” . Such is the irony noted even by secular historians: the Roman pontiffs came to wield monarchical power over the Western Church by means of forged texts, later unmasked during the Renaissance. Yet the power, once consolidated, proved hard to overturn. As Scripture warns, “The coming of the lawless one is by the activity of Satan with all power and false signs and wonders, and with all wicked deception”(2 Thess. 2:9–10). In the papacy’s ascent through deception, the Reformers discerned the fulfillment of Paul’s prophecy of the great “man of sin” exalting himself in the Church (2 Thess. 2:3–4).

The Pornocracy: Corruption in the Tenth-Century Papacy

No chapter of papal history better illustrates the moral degeneration possible in an unchecked ecclesiastical monarchy than the so-called Pornocracy – the “rule of harlots” in the early tenth century. Even Catholic historians acknowledge this era as perhaps the nadir of the papacy’s moral authority. From 904 to 964, the city of Rome and its pontiffs fell under the thrall of a corrupt aristocratic clan, the Theophylacts, whose women in particular wielded scandalous influence. The chronicler Liutprand of Cremona and later scholars describe a papal court ruled by Theophylact’s wife Theodora and daughter Marozia, whose intrigues, liaisons, and violence decided who would wear the tiara .

During this “dark age” (saeculum obscurum), the papal throne became a plaything of family ambition and carnal sin. Marozia – described by one source as a “woman of reckless audacity” – became the mistress of Pope Sergius III, bore him an illegitimate son who later became Pope John XI, and engineered the murder or deposition of competing clerics . Contemporary accounts (tinged with understandable outrage) report that Pope John XI (931–935) was effectively a puppet of his mother Marozia, who ruled Rome as “senatrix and patricia” and even imprisoned one pope . The depths of depravity were plumbed under Pope John XII (955–964), the grandson of Marozia. This teenaged pope was infamous for gross immorality – hosting drunken orgies in the Lateran palace and reportedly turning it into a literal brothel. Even the Catholic World Report concedes that this era was marked by “scandal, depravity, lust, murder, nepotism, and treachery” in Rome . The Roman clergy and nobility were so scandalized by John XII’s debauchery and neglect that they appealed to the German King Otto I. Otto convened a synod that deposed John XII for crimes as brazen as invoking pagan gods and fornicating on holy ground. John died soon after – according to one colorful account, killed in the act of adultery by an irate husband.

Such was the tragic worldliness and corruption of the papal office in that age that historians have dubbed it a pornocracy. “Nothing matches the sheer lurid thuggery of the Pornocracy,” writes one Catholic historian, “when sluttish ladies of the Theophylact family held absolute dominion in Rome.” The popes of this period were not pastors and teachers eminent in holiness, but often vile products of nepotism and vice. One need only read the annals of Baronius (a Catholic cardinal and historian) who lamented the tenth century as an Iron Age “when Christ was, as it were, in a deep sleep in the ship.” The Reformers later pointed to this era as evidence that the institution of the papacy, far from guaranteeing sanctity or orthodoxy, could become a sink of iniquity. John Calvin observed that if one surveys the historical record of the popes, “one sees in the Pontiffs nothing but a detestable assemblage of all kinds of evils… no knowledge of God, no fear of God, no justice, no moderation, even no shame.” The Puritans likewise did not forget this lesson. The Westminster Confession of 1646, reflecting on such episodes, remarked that the Pope “in no sense can be head of the Church; but is rather that Antichrist, that man of sin and son of perdition, who exalts himself in the Church” – a judgment born of seeing Rome’s supposed vicar of Christ behave more like a prince of darkness.

Even amid this sordid epoch, God’s providence stirred calls for reform. Oddly enough, Marozia’s regime patronized the abbey of Cluny , which became a fountainhead of monastic renewal and eventual papal reform in the 11th century. It is a poignant reminder that, as the saying goes, “God draws straight with crooked lines.” Yet from a Reformed perspective, the Pornocracy manifests what comes of exalting one sinful man as head of the Church. When that man and his office are untethered from accountability to Scripture and godly discipline, the result can be an “abomination that makes desolate” (cf. Dan. 11:31) within God’s temple. The moral chaos of the tenth-century papacy stands as a stark rebuttal to any notion that an unbroken Petrine office guarantees Christlike leadership. Far from it – the only reliable guide and ruler for the Church is the Word of God (Psalm 119:105), not the doubtful character of popes.

Schism and Rivalry: The Great Western Schism (1378–1417)

If moral corruption in the papacy shocked the conscience, the breakdown of unity during the Great Western Schismshook the very institutional foundation of the Roman Church. From 1378 to 1417, Western Christendom witnessed the spectacle of two and eventually three rival claimants to the papal throne, each asserting themselves as the true Vicar of Christ. This scandalous division – “a greater misfortune for the Church than perhaps any since Arius,” as one historian put it – laid bare the fallibility of papal claims to unique divine guidance.

The crisis stemmed from an attempt to end an earlier scandal: the Avignon Papacy (1309–1377), during which the popes, dominated by French influence, resided in Avignon, France, rather than Rome. When Pope Gregory XI finally returned to Rome and died (1378), the Roman populace and clergy clamored for an Italian pope. Under tumultuous pressure, the cardinals elected Urban VI, an Italian. Urban, however, proved harsh and hostile to the largely French cardinals. Many of those cardinals fled and, declaring Urban’s election null due to mob intimidation, they held a counter-conclave and elected a rival Pope, Clement VII, who established his court back at Avignon. Suddenly two “popes” – one in Rome, one in Avignon – each excommunicating the other, rent the seamless robe of the Church.

For nearly four decades, Christendom was divided. Kingdoms and dioceses took sides along political lines: France, Spain, and Scotland acknowledged the Avignon papacy, while Italy, England, and most of Germany held to the Roman line. Each pope anathematized the other as an illegitimate usurper. Contemporary observers were bewildered and scandalized. Saint Catherine of Siena, loyal to Urban VI, castigated the cardinals of the opposing obedience as devils in disguise, “devils in human form,” for sowing confusion . The Avignon pope Clement VII, for his part, denounced Urban VI as “Antichrist” . Thus even within the Catholic hierarchy, one Pope could call the other Antichrist – an irony not lost on later Protestants, who themselves would apply that title to the institution of the papacy as a whole.

In 1409, a council of bishops met at Pisa to resolve the dilemma. Tragically, their solution – declaring both existing popes deposed and electing a third, Alexander V – only multiplied the problem: now three men simultaneously claimed to be Pope. It was a tragi-comical situation: three “Holy Fathers,” three curias, three colleges of cardinals. Each pope appointed bishops, created cardinals, and levied taxes, in parallel. The unity and universality (the very mark of “Catholicity”) lay in shambles. As Britannica summarizes, “each [pope] had his own following, his own Sacred College of Cardinals, and his own administrative offices” . The Church’s credibility among the faithful suffered greatly, as it was unclear who (if anyone) truly held the keys of Peter.

Ultimately the Council of Constance (1414–1418) ended the schism. This ecumenical council, convened under pressure from the Emperor, asserted its supremacy over the papacy (issuing the decree Haec Sancta which declared that even the Pope must obey a general council). The council deposed the Pisan pope, received the resignation of the Roman pope, and excommunicated the intransigent Avignon pope. In 1417 it elected Martin V as the sole Bishop of Rome, thus healing the schism. Yet the very need for a council to override popes undermined the doctrine of papal infallibility and supremacy. The conciliar movement held that ultimate authority in the Church resided in the whole episcopate gathered in council, not in one man. Though the popes after Martin V worked to stamp out conciliar theory (and eventually at Vatican I in 1870, papal absolutism triumphed with the dogma of infallibility), the historical memory of the Western Schism remained a powerful testimony. As an Anglican historian later quipped, “even a donkey might have gotten a benefice” in those days of papal confusion – a jibe at the rampant simony and chaos.

From a Reformed standpoint, the Western Schism proves that the papacy is not the unassailable rock of unity it claims to be. Christ’s true Church, we maintain, is built on Christ Himself and the confession of His Name (Matthew 16:16–18), not on any one see or succession of bishops. When the papacy fell into division, the Church did not cease to exist – rather, faithful believers continued serving God’s Word on all sides of the split. Martin Luther would later remind Roman apologists of this embarrassing era: “You Romans cannot deny that more than one pope at a time sat upon your throne, each cursing the other. Which one was the true pope? … Here is irrefragable proof that the papacy is not of God, for God is not the author of confusion”. Indeed, the spirit of error and pride that produced the schism is antithetical to the Holy Spirit of peace. The Apostle Paul’s rhetorical question cuts to the core: “Is Christ divided?” (1 Cor. 1:13). The era of three rival pontiffs demonstrated that the papal institution, far from safeguarding unity, could become a source of grievous division. It reinforced for the Reformers that sola Scriptura – Scripture alone – must be the Church’s final arbiter, rather than the fickle fortunes of competing popes.

Indulgences: The “Commerce of Souls” and Exploitation of the Faithful

One of the most notorious practices of late medieval Catholicism, and the immediate catalyst for the Protestant Reformation, was the sale of indulgences – effectively, the monetization of God’s grace and the “financial exploitation of the common people” on an enormous scale. An indulgence, in Catholic theology, is a remission of temporal punishment in purgatory for sins whose guilt has already been forgiven. Originally, indulgences were granted by the Church under specific conditions (for example, to Crusaders who risked life and fortune in holy war, or pilgrims visiting certain shrines). Over time, however, what began as a rare privilege degenerated into a vast spiritual commerce.

By the 14th and 15th centuries, popes discovered that indulgences could be a lucrative source of revenue. They were increasingly “hawked” as covering the sins of both the living and the dead – a commodity to be purchased for oneself or for suffering souls in purgatory . The common faithful, largely illiterate and taught to fear the torments of purgatory, were thus ripe for exploitation. Preachers would stir their emotions with gruesome tales of departed loved ones writhing in flames, then offer, for a price, a plenary indulgence to spring those souls to heaven’s rest. As one contemporary indulgence vendor infamously put it: “As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs.” This rhyming jingle (attributed to the Dominican Johann Tetzel, commissioner of indulgences in Germany) encapsulated the brazen promise: the moment money clinks in the Church’s chest, a soul is delivered from purgatorial fire.

Such teaching was nowhere authorized in Scripture – indeed it contradicted the gospel that Christ’s redemption is freely given, not sold (Isaiah 55:1, Acts 8:20). Yet the late medieval papacy leaned on indulgences to fund massive projects. Notably, Pope Leo X in 1515 proclaimed a plenary indulgence whose proceeds were to finance the completion of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Half the funds went to Rome’s building project, and half to repay the debts of Albert of Mainz (the German bishop who had purchased his offices and needed money). Agents like Tetzel were employed to market this indulgence across Europe. They promised not only pardon for the living but immediate liberation of deceased souls: “Do you not hear the voices of your dead parents and others crying out, ‘Have mercy on us’…? Just a coin could rescue them, they urged. The gullible and pious poor scraped together what they could, thinking they were saving their beloved. Meanwhile, the papal treasury swelled. It was, as Reformed historian John Broadus described, “a deadly trafficking in the souls of men.”

Faithful voices had objected to such abuses even before Luther. In the 14th century, John Wycliffe in England denounced indulgences as fraudulent. In Bohemia, Jan Hus preached against them and was martyred in 1415, in part for condemning the pope’s “pardon-mongering.” But it was the Augustinian monk Martin Luther, with his Ninety-Five Theses of 1517, who struck the decisive blow. Luther, a pastor-theologian outraged by Tetzel’s tactics in Saxony, nailed a list of propositions for debate to the church door in Wittenberg on October 31, 1517. These theses exposed the theological errors and moral dangers of the indulgence trade. “Those who preach indulgences are in error when they say that a man is absolved and saved from every penalty by the pope’s indulgences,” Luther wrote . He pointedly challenged the pseudo-Tetzel slogan: “They preach only human doctrines who say that as soon as the money clinks into the money chest, the soul flies out of purgatory.” If the pope truly had power to empty purgatory, Luther asked, why would he not do so freely out of charity, rather than selling that grace for mere gold?

Luther’s protest unveiled the fundamental blasphemy of indulgences: they usurped Christ’s unique role as Redeemer and put a price on forgiveness which Christ purchased “not with perishable things such as silver or gold, but with His precious blood” (1 Pet. 1:18–19). In Luther’s estimation, the indulgence trade “obscured the true treasure of the Church, which is the Gospel of the glory and grace of God.” The 95 Theses quickly spread (thanks to the recently invented printing press) and ignited a firestorm. Within weeks, copies circulated across Europe . The laity, long weary of ecclesiastical extortion, resonated with Luther’s call for authentic repentance (Thesis 1) and trust in Christ rather than papal letters. The controversy ultimately led to Luther’s excommunication and the birth of the Protestant Reformation.

From a scholarly Reformed perspective, indulgences represent a tragic medieval distortion of biblical penitence. True repentance, as Scripture teaches, is heartfelt sorrow for sin and turning to God (Joel 2:13, Acts 3:19) – it cannot be commuted into a financial transaction. The notion of a “treasury of merits” stored by the saints and dispensed at the pope’s discretion has no scriptural warrant; it is a human invention that made the Church a banker of grace. Worse, it became a tool for oppression of the poor. While wealthy princes could endow monasteries or buy lavish indulgences, the common peasant might impoverish his family for a false promise of spiritual relief. This exploitation provoked the righteous anger of the Reformers, much as Christ drove the money-changers from the temple (Matt. 21:12–13). As John Calvin later wrote, “the pope’s pardons…are not able to remove the least venial sin as far as guilt is concerned” . Only Christ Himself, by His once-for-all sacrifice, purges sin and its penalty (Heb. 10:12–14).

The indulgence scandal of the late Middle Ages thus became a catalyst for returning to the pure teaching of Scripture on salvation. It underscored the Reformation principle that justification is by grace alone through faith alone (Eph. 2:8–9) – not by purchasing ecclesial indulgences. It also exemplified the deeper critique that the papacy had corrupted true religion for worldly gain, fulfilling the Apostle’s warning about false teachers “in their greed [who] will exploit you with false words” (2 Pet. 2:3). The Council of Trent (1545–63) eventually curtailed the overt sale of indulgences (ending the most egregious abuses), but indulgences themselves were retained in Catholic doctrine – a point of continued divergence. For the Reformed church, the lesson of history and Scripture is clear: forgiveness cannot be bought, and any church that “sells” what God gives freely is guilty of profaning the blood of Christ (Heb. 10:29). The cry of the Reformation, “Sola Gratia,” arose in direct answer to the indulgence trade: salvation is by grace alone, utterly inestimable by worldly currency.

Scholastic Dogma: Transubstantiation and the Eucharist

Another critical development in the history of the Latin Church – one which the Reformers deemed a prime example of medieval theological innovation – was the doctrine of transubstantiation in the Eucharist. The belief that during the Mass the substances of bread and wine are changed into the actual Body and Blood of Christ (while only the appearances of bread and wine remain) became official Catholic dogma in the High Middle Ages. The Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 defined that “the bread is changed (transsubstantiatio) by divine power into [Christ’s] body and the wine into [His] blood”, so that Christ is truly present under the consecrated forms . This was the first explicit use of the term “transubstantiation” in magisterial teaching .

The formulation of this doctrine was deeply influenced by Scholastic theology, especially the work of Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274). Aquinas, employing Aristotelian philosophy, argued systematically how the entire “substance” of the bread and wine is converted into the substance of Christ’s flesh and blood, while the “accidents” (taste, color, quantity) remain. In his Summa Theologiae, Aquinas reasoned: “Since in this sacrament the whole substance is converted into the whole [substance of Christ’s Body], this conversion is properly termed transubstantiation.” He addressed objections, insisting it was not a carnal eating but a mystical miracle: Christ’s Body does not move from heaven nor diminish, but the substances of bread and wine cease to exist, replaced by Christ’s Body and Blood, hidden under the species. Aquinas even asserted that if any substance of bread remained, then the words “This is My Body”would not be true . Thus, according to him, no substance of bread or wine remains after consecration, only the species without a subject – a mysterious suspension of normal ontology.

By codifying transubstantiation, the medieval Church sought to exalt the sacrament’s mystery and guard the doctrine of Real Presence. There is no doubt the Church fathers spoke of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist in profound terms. However, it is equally clear that the precise Scholastic explanation of how Christ is present – “substance” transformed while “accidents” remain – was unknown in the patristic era. The Eastern Orthodox to this day accept a real change but do not define it in Aristotelian terms. Some early Western theologians (like Ratramnus of Corbie in the 9th century) had posited a more spiritual presence. But after a brief controversy with Berengar of Tours (11th century), who doubted any substantial change, the Latin West increasingly favored a literal interpretation. Lateran IV’s decree (1215) made transubstantiation binding doctrine . And Aquinas’s compelling philosophy gave it intellectual heft: by the 13th century, transubstantiation was firmly entrenched as Catholic truth, taught in the universities and celebrated in new feasts like Corpus Christi.

The Reformers did not all agree among themselves on the mode of Christ’s presence – but they were united in rejecting transubstantiation as unbiblical and logically absurd. Martin Luther, while believing in a real, corporeal presence of Christ “in, with, and under” the elements (often termed consubstantiation though he did not use the word), vehemently opposed the idea that the bread’s substance is annihilated. He saw it as a philosophical “juggling of words” that ran contrary to plain sense and the testimony of Scripture that “bread” remains (1 Cor. 10:16–17, 11:26–28 calls it bread even after consecration). Huldrych Zwingli went further, teaching that the Lord’s Supper is fundamentally a memorial and that Christ’s body is in heaven, not in the elements; any “presence” is only in signification. John Calvin took a mediating route: a true spiritual feeding on Christ by faith, but utterly denied any carnal presence or chewing of Christ’s flesh with the teeth. All Reformers concurred that transubstantiation overthrows the nature of a sacrament, which is, by definition, an earthly sign of a heavenly grace. As the later Westminster Confession (1646) phrased it, “the doctrine which maintains a change of the substance of bread and wine… is repugnant not to Scripture alone, but even to common sense and reason; it overthrows the nature of the sacrament, and has been the cause of manifold superstitions, yea, of gross idolatries.” The “gross idolatries” refer to the medieval practice of adoring the consecrated Host with the worship (latria) due to Christ alone. If the wafer is in fact Christ, then adoration is proper; but if not, then such worship is idolatrous bread-worship. Aquinas himself acknowledged that if any substance of bread remained, adoring it would be idolatry – thus everything hinged on the correctness of the theory. The Reformers, convinced it was erroneous, saw in the Corpus Christi processions and elevated Hosts of Rome a fulfillment of the prophecy of the “image of the beast” being given life and veneration (Rev. 13:14–15). They recoiled at fellow Christians bowing to a piece of bread and carrying it about in triumphal procession.

Biblically, the Reformers argued that Christ’s human body, once ascended, is contained in heaven until the last day(Acts 3:21). To locate it in thousands of wafers on every altar is to compromise the true humanity of Christ (making it ubiquitous, which even His divinity does not communicate to His flesh). They cited Hebrews 9:26–28 and 10:10–14, where Scripture emphasizes that Christ was offered once to bear sins, and by that one offering perfected His people for all time. Therefore, the Lord’s Supper must be a commemoration and spiritual participation in that one sacrifice, not a new immolation or extension of it. Transubstantiation, in their view, too closely tied the sacrament to an idea of a repeated sacrifice (for if Christ’s literal body is present, is it not offered anew?), a concept we address in the next section.

Historically, transubstantiation also led to numerous superstitions: people feared dropping the Host (lest God fall to the floor), or thought any leftover consecrated wine must not be spilled (hence communion in one kind for laity was instituted to avoid that risk). The simple, communal meal of bread and wine in the New Testament had morphed into a mystical rite far removed from apostolic practice.

Thomas Aquinas must be credited with sincerity in trying to articulate a mystery. His Eucharistic hymns (e.g., Adoro Te Devote) show heartfelt devotion to Christ’s presence. Yet good intentions cannot justify adding to God’s Word. The Reformed tradition holds that transubstantiation is a prime example of scholastic overreach, imposing a philosophical theory on a divine mystery where Scripture is either silent or speaks in sacramental metaphor (“This cup is the new covenant in My blood,” Luke 22:20). The early church knew Christ’s presence in the Supper as sacred, but they did not ask metaphysically how the bread relates to Christ’s body. When Paschasius Radbertus in the 9th century pressed a crude literalism, his contemporary Ratramnus countered that the elements remain in their nature and the presence is in figure and power. This patristic ambiguity was replaced by dogmatic certainty in the Middle Ages – a move the Reformers reversed, returning to a more spiritual understanding.

In sum, the development of transubstantiation (especially under Aquinas’s influence) illustrates the medieval Church’s tendency to elevate human reason and tradition to define dogma beyond or against Scripture. As Calvin quipped, the transubstantiation doctrine “proceeds from that diabolical invention of regarding the signs (bread and wine) as annihilated, so that the thing signified (Christ’s flesh) may be adored in their stead – which misinterpretation is a sacrilege that cannot be excused.” For Reformed Christians, Christ is indeed truly present in the Supper – but spiritually and by faith. The bread and wine remain bread and wine, holy symbols and seals of His covenant. Any “conversion of substance” is rejected as an error that “overturns the faith”. We choose to concur with St. Augustine, who wrote that Jesus, when He said “Eat My flesh,” signified “the sacrament of unity,” and in interpreting John 6, Augustine remarked: “Understand spiritually what I have said. You are not to eat this body which you see, nor to drink that blood which those who crucify Me will spill… I have commended to you a certain mystery; spiritually understood, it will give you life.” The mystery of the Eucharist is profound; but making it into a carnal manducation through transubstantiation was, in the Reformers’ judgment, a tragic distortion of Christ’s ordinance and an occasion for grievous idolatry in the Church.

Auricular Confession and the Power of the Confessional

The institutionalization of private auricular confession – the requirement that all the faithful individually confess their sins to a priest – was another medieval development viewed critically by the Reformers. In the apostolic and patristic era, confession of sins took several forms: public confession before the congregation for notorious sins, mutual confession of faults one to another (James 5:16), and always confession to God Himself for forgiveness (1 John 1:9). There was no uniform system of mandatory private penance. Over time, however, the Church evolved the penitential discipline: early on, severe public penances were imposed for grave post-baptismal sins like apostasy, often only once in a lifetime. By the early medieval period, influenced by Celtic monastic practice, repeatable private confession with assigned penances became more common. Still, it was not until the 13th century that private confession to a priest was formally required of every Christian.

The watershed moment was the Fourth Lateran Council (1215). Canon 21 of Lateran IV – known by its Latin incipit Omnis utriusque sexus (“Let everyone of both sexes…”) – decreed that “all the faithful of both sexes who have reached the age of discretion must faithfully confess all their sins at least once a year to their own priest”, and perform the penance imposed, or else be barred from the Church and denied Christian burial . This binding decree made annual private confession to one’s parish priest a universal obligation in Western Christendom. The same canon warned priests to keep absolute secrecy about sins revealed (“the seal of confession”), on pain of deposition . Thus by ecclesiastical law, the parish confessional became an indispensable tribunal for every believer’s soul. The priest, as God’s appointed judge, would hear one’s enumeration of sins, determine a suitable penance (prayers, fasting, alms, pilgrimages, etc.), and then pronounce absolution (“Ego te absolvo…”). The theological rationale, solidified by Scholastics like Thomas Aquinas, was that Christ gave authority to His apostles (and by extension priests) to bind and loose sins (John 20:22–23), so the priest in confession acts in persona Christi to forgive sins and reconcile the penitent to God. Confession thus became a sacrament (Penance) in Catholic teaching – as necessary to post-baptismal spiritual life as baptism is to initial salvation.

From the Reformation perspective, several critiques were leveled against this system. First, the annual requirementoften led to mere formalism. Many people treated confession as an infrequent dump of sins to “get right” with God for a time, rather than cultivating true daily repentance and faith. There was a danger it became perfunctory and mechanical. John Calvin noted how some would approach the confessional with no real contrition, thinking the mere act and priestly absolution sufficed. He wrote that the later Schoolmen “perverted repentance” by making it consist of contrition (sorrow), confession, and satisfaction (penance) – turning a matter of the heart into a workable formula . True repentance, however, cannot be constrained to an annual recital; it is a continual posture of humility before God.

Second, compulsory private confession gave priests enormous spiritual influence and potentially tyrannical powerover the laity. The confessor could probe one’s conscience on any matter. Intrusive questioning sometimes occurred, especially regarding sexual sins, leading to scandal in some instances (indeed, manuals existed for confessors on questioning penitents delicately). The faithful came to believe that without the priest’s absolution, their sins were retained – a terrifying prospect. This enhanced the clergy’s control, but also ensnared people in an endless cycle of anxiety: had they confessed every sin? If they died with an unconfessed mortal sin, they feared damnation. The Gospel’s free promise of “If we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us” (1 John 1:9) was overshadowed by a juridical process. Many tender souls were burdened with scruples and an image of Christ more as stern judge (working through the priest) than merciful Savior.

Third, the Reformers found no New Testament mandate for auricular confession as a universal law. They did not oppose the idea of seeking counsel from a minister or even verbal confession per se – indeed, they often encouraged believers troubled in conscience to seek pastoral advice and hear the gospel word of pardon. But they denied that Christ instituted private confession as a sacrament necessary for forgiveness. They pointed out that when Jesus said “Whose sins you forgive are forgiven” (John 20:23), He was commissioning the preaching of the gospel forgiveness (which indeed remits sins to the penitent believer) – not establishing a secret rite of enumeration. No apostolic epistle instructs believers to confess sins to a priest; rather, James 5:16 says “confess your sins to one another”, implying a mutual priesthood of all believers bearing each other’s burdens. The Early Church Fatherstestify to public confession and to God’s direct forgiveness. Notably, John Chrysostom (4th century) urged believers: “I beseech you, display your wound to the Lord, the benevolent physician… Do not show it to man, lest he reproach you. God alone can heal you.” Such patristic statements (Chrysostom explicitly saying “I do not force you to reveal your sin to men; confess them to God” ) suggest that private confession to a priest was not seen as an absolute necessity in the early Church, though it was practiced in certain cases. The Council of Nicaea (325) even appears to assume that confession could be made before God alone in some instances (Canon 18 speaks against compulsory public confession of every secret sin). Only later did the notion grow that every mortal sin had to be orally confessedto a priest under pain of damnation.

The Reformers acknowledged the value of pastoral counsel and ecclesiastical discipline, but they insisted that forgiveness of sins is God’s prerogative and that no human intermediary is strictly necessary for a repentant sinner to be forgiven. As Calvin put it: “Since God alone forgives sins, let Him be entreated in whom resides mercy; let Him be supplicated by the sinner. He requires no other witness of the confession; He is Himself sufficient.” This did not mean Christians should not confess faults to each other or to ministers – but it freed the conscience from the Romish yoke of thinking absolution was ineffective without priestly formula. They quoted Scriptures like “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” (Mark 2:7) and “there is one mediator… Christ Jesus” (1 Tim. 2:5). They also observed how the Roman system often turned repentance into penance – doing prescribed works to “satisfy” God’s justice (like saying certain prayers, fasting, giving alms, or other acts). This, in their view, compromised the sufficiency of Christ’s satisfaction on the cross. Penance implied that our works complete the work of Christ for the expiation of temporal punishment, whereas the gospel declares that Christ paid it all, and we “are justified by His grace as a gift” (Rom. 3:24). Good works and discipline are fruits of repentance, not the price of pardon.

In practice, some of the Puritans abolished private confession entirely, while others (like in the Anglican tradition) made it voluntary – “All may, some should, none must.” The Lutheran Church, interestingly, retained private confession for those who desire it, but without insisting on enumeration of all sins or making it compulsory. The key Reformation principle was that the conscience must not be bound where God’s Word has not bound it. The annual confession precept was a human ordinance, not a divine command, and had often turned into what Luther called a “torture of the conscience”. Luther himself experienced agonizing sessions in the confessional as a monk, trying to remember every sin, until he realized the liberating truth that forgiveness rests on Christ’s promise received by faith, not on the adequacy of one’s confession.

It is worth noting that at the Council of Trent (1551), the Roman Church doubled down on sacramental confession, pronouncing anathema on anyone who says that “confession to a priest… is not necessary for salvation” or who denies that Christ instituted it (Trent, Session XIV). Thus the divide remained: Rome considered the confessional the ordinary means to restore grace after mortal sin, whereas Protestants pointed directly to the throne of grace (Heb. 4:16) where any penitent can obtain mercy directly through Christ our High Priest (Heb. 10:21–22).

In evaluating the history, one cannot deny that private confession provided spiritual counsel and relief to many, and that some used it well. But the system was also rife with abuse: simony (priests charging for absolutions), solicitation(some unscrupulous priests seducing female penitents under cover of confession), and the misuse of confessional secrets for manipulation. The Reformers, seeing these fruits, hearkened back to the simpler early Church practice and the clear biblical teaching. They sought to emancipate believers from an undue reliance on an sacerdotal mediator. Every Christian, they taught, is a priest in Christ (1 Pet. 2:9) and can approach God directly in confession, assured of pardon by the blood of Christ (1 John 1:7). Ministers have a role to declare God’s forgiveness to the penitent and to retain sins in the case of the unrepentant by church discipline. But the power is ministerial, not magisterial – it announces God’s verdict; it does not make it effectual ex opere operato.

Thus, the mandatory auricular confession that emerged in 1215 is viewed in Reformed analysis as a human innovation that infringed on Christian liberty and clouded the free gospel of grace. True repentance is toward God, and “a broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise” (Psalm 51:17) – whether or not it is poured out in a confessional booth. King David confessed directly to the Lord, saying “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD,”and it is written “You forgave the iniquity of my sin” (Psalm 32:5). This is the pattern we uphold. No doubt, as James says, there is healing in sharing our sins with one another and praying for one another. But such confession is fraternal and pastoral, not legalistic and compulsory. The history of the confessional confirms the wisdom of Scripture’s restraint: “Stand fast in the liberty by which Christ has made us free, and do not be entangled again with a yoke of bondage” (Gal. 5:1). The Reformation released millions from what they saw as just such a yoke.

The Sacrifice of the Mass: Innovation or Insult to Christ’s Finished Work?

Closely connected to the doctrine of transubstantiation and the practice of priestly absolution was the medieval understanding of the Mass as a propitiatory sacrifice. Over centuries, the Eucharistic celebration in the West morphed from a communal meal of thanksgiving into an elaborate sacrificial rite, wherein the priest was seen to offer Christ anew to God, in an unbloody manner, for the sins of the living and the dead. By the late Middle Ages, the Mass was commonly understood not simply as a remembrance of Calvary, but as a re-presentation of Calvary – indeed, an extension of it, applying its benefits through each offering. Private Masses (often with no laity present) were multiplied for specific intentions: souls in purgatory, success in endeavors, etc. The language of sacrifice became dominant: altars were built, priests were called sacerdotes (sacrificers), and the laity participated primarily by watching the elevation of the Host and Adoring Christ who was thought to be immolated mystically.

This concept was dogmatically affirmed at the Council of Trent (1562), which declared that in the Mass, “the same Christ who offered Himself once in a bloody manner on the altar of the cross is contained and offered in an unbloody manner”, and that this sacrifice is truly propitiatory for sins . Trent anathematized anyone who said the Mass is a mere commemoration and not a propitiatory offering for the living and dead (Session 22, canons 1-3). But the groundwork for this view had been laid much earlier, in Scholastic theology and medieval devotion. The idea of the Mass as a sacrifice “for sins” grew as the understanding of transubstantiation grew: if the bread and wine truly become Christ’s body and blood, it seemed fitting to regard the priest’s offering of them as a true offering of Christ’s sacrifice. Over time, the line blurred between the one historical sacrifice on the Cross and the thousands of liturgical sacrifices on altars. The Epistle to the Hebrews, however, emphasizes repeatedly that Christ’s sacrificial work is perfected and finished: “He has no need, like those [Old Testament] priests, to offer sacrifices daily… since He did this once for all when He offered up Himself” (Heb. 7:27); “By a single offering He has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified” (Heb. 10:14).

The Reformers saw the Catholic doctrine of the Mass as a direct contradiction of these scriptures, and thus a denial of the sufficiency of Christ’s atonement. Martin Luther, in his treatise The Babylonian Captivity of the Church(1520), tore into the Mass-sacrifice teaching, calling it “the greatest and most accursed abuse” of the papal system. He argued that the Mass is a testament and promise from God to us (Christ giving Himself to believers), not a good work or offering we give to God. To turn it into a human work – and worse, a work that claims to appease God’s wrath – was an affront to the finished sacrifice of Christ. John Calvin likewise devoted an entire chapter of his Institutes (Book IV, ch. 18) to dismantling the “popish Mass.” He wrote with passionate indignation: “by these and similar inventions, Satan has obscured and perverted the sacred Supper of Christ… The head of this horrid abomination was when he persuaded men that the Mass was a sacrifice and oblation for the remission of sins.” Calvin labeled this belief “an intolerable blasphemy and insult to Christ”, for it *“buries the cross of Christ and consigns His death to oblivion,” making the Mass out to be an expiatory act in itself . According to Calvin, Rome taught that “the priest who offers Christ, and the people who receive Him, gain merit with God” by the Mass . This he utterly rejected: the only merit before God is the merit of Christ’s death; we access it by faith, not by attending or performing masses.

The Reformers pointed out that the early Church did not conceive of the Eucharist as a propitiatory sacrifice for sin. The term “sacrifice” was used by early Christians in a broader or metaphorical sense: the “sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving” (Heb. 13:15), or the offering of prayer, or presenting ourselves as a living sacrifice (Rom. 12:1). Yes, some Fathers called the Eucharist a sacrifice, but usually meaning a commemorative sacrifice or a sacrifice of praise– a far cry from the later notion of an actual sin-offering. Tertullian and Augustine both taught that the Eucharist is a memorial of Christ’s one sacrifice. Augustine famously said, “In these bloody sacrifices of the Law, the future sacrifice of Christ was prefigured; in this one sacrifice of the Mass, the sacrifice already offered is celebrated in memory.” Thus, the Mass is a sacrifice in a sacramental sense (memorial), not a repetition. The medieval Church, however, drifted into viewing it as efficacious in itself. Masses were paid for, as if a kind of spiritual currency: “You pay, the priest slays (mystically) another Christ, grace is obtained.” It became common to speak of “offering a Mass” for someone’s intention, implying the action itself impetrated grace.

This mercantile and mechanical view horrified the Reformers. They stressed that Christ offered Himself once, and that work cannot be repeated or continued, but only “proclaimed” (1 Cor. 11:26: “as often as you eat this bread… you proclaim the Lord’s death”). The Lord’s Supper is thus primarily a proclamation and seal of the benefits of Calvary, not an independent propitiatory act. They took comfort that Scripture calls Jesus’ sacrifice “once for all” (Greek: ephapax) repeatedly (Heb. 9:12, 26–28; 10:10). The idea that a priest’s words could bring Christ down onto altars daily was seen as presumptuous. Some Protestants even likened it to the Roman soldiers dragging Jesus to be sacrificed over and over – a ghastly thought. The Letter to the Hebrews says that if the first covenant’s sacrifices were sufficient, they would not have ceased, and the repetition signaled imperfection (Heb. 10:1–2). How much more, they argued, is repeating Christ’s sacrifice (even in an “unbloody” way) a declaration that one does not fully trust its sufficiency?

Another grave concern was that the Mass-sacrifice doctrine shifted the focus of Christian worship. Instead of the congregation actively remembering Christ and feeding on Him by faith, they became passive spectators of a mysterious priestly action. The Mass was performed in Latin, often quietly at the altar, sometimes with only the priest communicating. The laity’s role was reduced to adoring Christ on the altar and receiving perhaps only the bread (since the cup was long withheld from them). True worship in spirit and truth was eclipsed by sacerdotal ritual. The Reformers wanted to put the Word preached and the communion of all believers (in both kinds) back at the center. As Huldrych Zwingli put it, the Mass had become “a theatrical exhibition, by which people imagine to gain favor from God… an affront to the sacrifice of Christ.”

The Puritans and later Reformed continued this critique. The 39 Articles of the Church of England (1563)declared: “The sacrifices of Masses, in the which it was commonly said that the priest did offer Christ for the quick and the dead, to have remission of pain or guilt, were blasphemous fables and dangerous deceits.” The strong language – blasphemous fables – underscores how vehemently Protestants rejected the Mass as a sacrifice. They saw it as blasphemy because it claimed for priests what belongs to Christ alone (the role of mediator and sin-bearer), and as fable because it relied on the fiction of transubstantiation and the notion of reoffering Christ. It was dangerous deceitbecause it misled souls to trust in an outward work (attending Mass) for forgiveness instead of looking directly to Christ’s finished work.

It is important to clarify that Catholics themselves insisted they were not “re-crucifying” Christ but making present the same one sacrifice in a mysterious way. However, from the Reformed vantage, this distinction did not remove the core problem. By multiplying “presentations” of the sacrifice, Rome had unwittingly depreciated the singular glory of Calvary, and had set up a system where human priests daily do what the Epistle to the Hebrews says only Christ, our eternal High Priest, could do and did, once. In fact, Hebrews goes so far as to say Christ, by one offering, “has perfected forever” His people (Heb. 10:14), and “where there is forgiveness of these, there is no longer any offering for sin” (Heb. 10:18). That verse rings like a death-knell to the concept of any ongoing sin-offering. No offering for sin remains – except the continual remembrance of that one offering through thanksgiving (Eucharistia means thanksgiving) and through lives of sacrificial praise.

Thus, the Reformation reclaimed the New Testament vision of the Lord’s Supper as a means of grace, yes, but not a meritorious sacrifice we offer. The only sacrifice Christians now offer in worship is “the sacrifice of praise” (Heb. 13:15) and of ourselves as living sacrifices in gratitude (Rom. 12:1) – both of which are responsive to Christ’s atoning sacrifice, not replacements of it. When Christ on the Cross cried “It is finished!” (John 19:30), that was the consummation of all sacrifices. To then speak of priests offering Christ on altars is to imply that, in some sense, it is not finished. The Reformers could not abide that implication. Calvin went so far as to say that the Mass “drags Christ from heaven” and “abolishes the cross of Christ”, stifling its efficacy . This is why they often identified the Mass as the central blasphemy of the papal system – the “abomination of desolation” in the holy place (Matt. 24:15) as they interpreted it. It was not mere mean-spirited polemic, but a deep theological conviction: the honor of Christ’s sacrifice was at stake. As the Puritan Thomas Watson wrote, “The Popish Mass is an accursed thing; it takes away the pillar of our faith: Christ’s once offering Himself. It is gross idolatry, to worship the bread as God. In the Mass, there is neither Eucharist, for they give no thanks, nor sacrifice, for they destroy Christ’s sacrifice by pretending to offer Him daily.”

In conclusion, the evolution of the Mass into a repeated sacrifice represents, in the Reformed narrative, a tragic declension from apostolic truth. It exemplifies how the papacy, claiming to uphold Christian truth, actually introduced novelties that obscured the gospel. By contrast, the Reformers saw themselves as restoring the biblical purity: Christ “entered once for all into the holy places… by means of His own blood, thus securing an eternal redemption”(Heb. 9:12). The Lord’s Supper is therefore a feast upon that finished redemption, not a work to earn or reapply it. Any theology that suggests otherwise – however piously intended – must be firmly rejected as injurious to the glory of Christ and the comfort of souls. “We have an altar,” says Scripture (Heb. 13:10), but it is the cross of Christ, not any earthly stone altar. On that cross the Lamb of God was slain once; and now, in heaven, He appears in God’s presence for us (Heb. 9:24), continually interceding based on that accomplished work. No priest on earth can augment or continue that intercession by a sacrificial act – they can only point to it, preach it, and administer the sacraments as signs and seals of it. The history of the doctrine of the Mass serves as a sober reminder of how crucial it is to cling to what the Apostle Jude calls “the faith once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 3), and not to let later traditions overturn the foundational truth: “By a single offering, He has perfected for all time those who are sanctified.” (Heb. 10:14).

The Cult of Mary and the Saints: From Honor to Excess

In addition to these doctrinal developments, the medieval Latin Church witnessed a sweeping growth in the devotion to the Virgin Mary and the veneration of saints, which from a Reformed perspective overstepped the bounds of biblical Christianity and early church practice. What began as a natural respect for the martyrs and a tender honor for the Lord’s mother eventually swelled into a complex system of prayers, festivals, doctrines, and even mediatorial rolesattributed to Mary and a pantheon of saints. The Reformers were deeply uncomfortable with this “cult of the saints”, seeing in it many superstitions and a grave diminishment of Christ’s sole mediatorship and the direct access of believers to God.

In the first few centuries, veneration of martyrs and remembrance of saints was generally limited to honoring their memory and perhaps asking for their intercession in a general way (though evidence of explicit prayer to saints is scant in the earliest period). Mary was honored as “Theotokos” (God-bearer) after the Council of Ephesus (431) affirmed that title to safeguard Christ’s divinity. This led to increased devotion to Mary as the most exalted of creatures, “blessed among women” (Luke 1:42). However, the early Church Fathers, while exalting Mary’s role as Christ’s mother, were careful not to render her worship. Epiphanius of Salamis in the 4th century, for example, warned against a certain sect (the Collyridians) that offered cakes to Mary as a deity. Epiphanius wrote: “Even though Mary is holy and to be honored, she is not to be worshiped. The honor of ‘Queen of Heaven’ must not be given to her” . He called such offerings “idolatrous” . This indicates that the mainstream Church distinguished between veneration (honor) and adoration (worship), reserving the latter for God alone. In later Catholic terminology, this became the distinction between dulia for saints, hyperdulia for Mary, and latria for God. The Reformers, however, observed that in practice this fine distinction was often lost on the common folk, and indeed even blurred by the Church’s actions.

As centuries passed, devotion to Mary skyrocketed. By the high Middle Ages, Mary was hailed with lofty titles: Queen of Heaven, Mother of Mercy, Mediatrix of all graces, Co-Redemptrix (the last title being used in substance by some late medieval theologians, though never dogmatically defined). Popular piety sometimes approached Marian maximalism – entire prayer books like the “Little Office of the Blessed Virgin” became staple devotions; the rosary(legend attributes its promotion to St. Dominic in the 13th century) taught people to recite “Hail Mary, full of grace”dozens of times, far more than the Lord’s Prayer. In art and imagination, the compassionate Mother Mary was often portrayed as restraining an angry Christ or interceding when He would punish (a theme vividly depicted in medieval mystery plays and paintings, where Mary shields sinners from Jesus’ wrath). Moreover, new doctrines arose: the Immaculate Conception of Mary (the idea that she herself was conceived without original sin) began to be theologized in the 12th century and, despite great scholastic controversy (St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Bernard of Clairvaux actually opposed it as lacking tradition or scriptural basis), by the 15th century it became widely believed, and was eventually defined as dogma in 1854 (after the Reformation era, but illustrative of the trajectory). Likewise, the Assumption of Mary (her being taken bodily to heaven) was a long-held tradition that became dogma in 1950, though its roots are in apocryphal tales from much earlier. By late medieval times, however, the Assumption was celebrated liturgically every August 15, reflecting widespread belief in Mary’s heavenly exaltation.

Prayers to saints also proliferated. Every occupation, locale, and ailment had a patron saint. For instance, St. Anthonywas invoked to find lost items, St. Christopher to protect travelers, St. Blaise for throat ailments, and so on. Relics of saints were collected and treated as conduits of miraculous power. The shrines of saints (like Thomas Becket’s tomb in Canterbury or the relics of the Three Magi in Cologne) drew throngs of pilgrims seeking spiritual and even temporal favors through the saints’ intercession. By the 1500s, the calendars were crowded with saints’ feast days, and much of the average Christian’s devotional life was entangled with this “cloud of witnesses,” sometimes overshadowing direct worship of God. The Church encouraged invoking saints for aid, teaching that while Christ is the one mediator of redemption, the saints (and preeminently Mary) are secondary mediators of intercession. The idea was that just as one might ask a friend on earth to pray for you, so you can ask a glorified saint in heaven to pray for you. However, the Reformers saw that in practice many treated certain saints as proprietary deities of sorts, a throwback to polytheism – each with their special patronage and powers. This was uncomfortably akin to the old pantheons: one prays to St. Barbara against lightning (as a pagan might invoke Zeus), or to St. Lucy for eye problems (as one might have invoked a healing deity).

The Reformers’ critique of this phenomenon was multi-faceted:

1. It lacked biblical warrant. Nowhere does Scripture instruct us to pray to departed saints. When on earth, indeed believers pray for one another. But after death, there is no example of the church invoking those who have gone before. Instead, the consistent scriptural pattern is to address God directly in the name of Christ. Jesus taught, “When you pray, say: Our Father…” (Luke 11:2). He invited us, “Whatever you ask in My name, I will do it” (John 14:13). “There is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus” (1 Tim. 2:5) – a verse the Reformers loved to quote, emphasizing the exclusivity of Christ’s mediatorship. By interposing a whole hierarchy of other mediators (Mary as the mediatrix, saints as intercessors), the medieval Church, they argued, obscured Christ’s unique role and disobeyed the biblical pattern.

2. It often degenerated into superstition and idolatry. The Reformers observed devotees offering prayers that bordered on (or crossed into) worship of Mary and saints. For instance, a popular medieval prayer, the “Hail Holy Queen” (Salve Regina), addresses Mary as “our life, sweetness, and hope.” Hyperbolic as that may be intended, to call a creature “our life and hope” is theologically dangerous. Popular mentality did at times ascribe quasi-divine attributes to Mary – seeing her as almost all-knowing, all-merciful, the one who commands her Son. Catholic apologists insisted that any honor given to Mary and the saints was ultimately honor to God’s work in them (the dulia vs. latria distinction). But to the Reformers, this rang hollow when confronted with actual practice in parishes. People were kissing relics, lighting candles before images, making vows to saints. In Wittenberg, Luther saw the excessive honors given to 10,000 saintly relics in the Castle Church – relics which were paraded and granted indulgences. He grew convinced that such practices violated the Second Commandment against making images and bowing to them. The iconodulic defense that the honor passes to the prototype did not comfort him; the average person simply was bowing to wood and bone hoping for a blessing. This looked like a revival of pagan idolatry under Christian names.

3. It detracted from the simplicity of devotion to Christ. The Reformers longed to see Christians approach God as children to a Father through Jesus their only mediator. They believed the saints in heaven pray with us and rejoice over our salvation, but that we on earth should not supplicate them. John Calvin wrote: “Scripture does not tell us to invoke the saints, even though it often presents them to us as examples to imitate… For every petition we have need to present, God invites us to Himself and sets Christ forward as the sole Mediator.” Calvin noted that “to invoke the saints without any command, without any promise, without any example from Scripture, is to devise for ourselves a new form of prayer not approved by God” . He also argued it is impossible to call upon saints without infringing on the glory of God. If one attributes more mercy or approachability to Mary than to Christ, one dishonors Christ’s love. If one runs first to the saints with problems, one bypasses the Lord’s invitation “Call upon Me in the day of trouble” (Psalm 50:15). This, said Calvin, “robs God of His glory, destroys the intercession of Christ, and springs from distrust” . Martin Luther similarly rejected invoking saints after he came to an evangelical understanding. In his early ministry he had been very devoted to Mary (he was an Augustinian monk who said the rosary), but as his theology shifted, he dropped those practices, emphasizing that we have bold access to the throne of grace through Christ alone (Heb. 4:14–16).

4. It had no “approved example” in the early church to that extent. While the Roman Church claimed antiquity for venerating saints, the Reformers countered that none of the apostles or earliest fathers prayed to Mary or individual departed believers. They often cited Epiphanius (mentioned above) and other fathers who condemned giving divine honors to any but God. Augustine once wrote, “Let not the worship of men departed be a religion for us. They should be honored for imitation, not adored as deities.” The Reformers agreed wholeheartedly. They esteemed the saints as heroes of faith to emulate, and believed in a “communion of saints” in terms of spiritual fellowship. But any notion of addressing them in prayer, or them dispensing grace to us, they firmly denied. Holy Scripture shows even angelsrefused adoration from John (Rev. 19:10, “I am a fellow servant… worship God.”). How much more would the blessed Virgin or apostles deflect such undue attention! Indeed, in Acts when Cornelius fell at Peter’s feet, Peter lifted him saying “Stand up; I too am a man” (Acts 10:25–26). The Reformers believed that if Peter would not allow a man to kneel to him in reverence, certainly he would not approve people later making him an object of prayer or building altars in his name.

Therefore, during the Reformation, there was a sweeping removal of saint imagery, relics, and feast days in Protestant territories. Zwingli’s Zurich famously cleared the churches of icons; Geneva under Calvin stripped altars and banned invoking saints; even the more moderate Luther advised against the cult of the saints (though Lutheran art sometimes still depicted them). The Anglican Church in Article XXII of its 39 Articles declared: “The Romish doctrine concerning… Worshipping and Adoration, as well of Images as of Relics, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fond thing vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.”This clearly echoed the Reformed consensus: unscriptural and superstitious.

It is worth noting that Marian devotion remained particularly contentious. While all Reformers honored Mary as Theotokos and blessed among women (Luther even retained belief in her perpetual virginity early on, though later that became less held in Protestantism), they unanimously rejected calling on her in prayer or giving her titles like Mediatrix. The Puritans often pointed out that in the Gospels, Jesus sometimes seemed to distance Mary’s maternal authority in spiritual matters (e.g. “Who is My mother? … Whoever does the will of God,” Mark 3:33-35). At the wedding at Cana, He gently rebukes, “Woman, what does this have to do with Me?” (John 2:4) before performing the miracle. These were seen as indications that Mary, though blessed, was not to be placed on a pedestal above other believers; she herself said “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (Luke 1:47), implying her need for grace like anyone else. The Reformers loved to quote 1 Timothy 2:5 against invocation of any saint: “For there is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.” The Council of Trent responded in its final session by upholding invocation of saints and condemning those who call it idolatry . This remains a fundamental divide.

From a historical vantage, the evolution of saint devotion exemplifies how the medieval Church’s piety, though often well-intentioned, departed from apostolic simplicity. The faithful, feeling Jesus too exalted or remote as Judge, increasingly turned to secondary comforters – a trend perhaps born of the fearsome depiction of Christ in judgment prevalent in that era. The Reformers sought to correct this by highlighting Christ’s tender invitation: “Come unto Me…I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28). Why run to lesser helpers, they asked, when the very King beckons you?. To them, the Marian and saint cult showed a tragic lack of confidence in Christ’s compassion and the Father’s accessibility. It was as if the medieval Christians had re-erected the veil that Christ tore at the Cross (Matt. 27:51), stitching it up with saints and Mary as interposed layers.

In conclusion, the Reformation’s critical stance toward the cult of Mary and the saints was an effort to re-center Christian faith and devotion on the triune God alone – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – and on the finished mediation of Christ. The saints are not forgotten; they are honored as witnesses (Heb. 12:1) and their examples cherished. Churches are often named after them even in Protestant lands (e.g., Luther’s church was named St. Mary’s in Wittenberg). But what the Reformers vehemently opposed was the exaltation of saints into objects of prayer and trust. This they saw as both a theological error and a spiritual danger, as it led people astray from the pure worship of God and the direct fellowship with Christ which is the believer’s right by the gospel. Calvin urged that instead of seeking the intercession of saints in heaven, we should rely on Christ’s intercession (Rom. 8:34) and also make good use of the prayers of living fellow believers on earth, as Scripture encourages. Therein is true “communion of saints” – mutual prayer and love within the Body, not the necromantic beseeching of those beyond the veil.

One might ask, did the Catholic Church recognize any excesses here? Indeed, the Counter-Reformation made some efforts: Trent urged bishops to remove “any superstition” in the invocation of saints, and all “filthy lucre” (profit motive) from relic-veneration . But it did not fundamentally change the doctrines or popular devotions – those persist to this day. Reformed theologians today, while often expressing respect for Catholics’ sincerity, continue to see Marian dogmas (like the Immaculate Conception and Assumption proclaimed post-Reformation) as further departures. They warn that the rise of terms like “Co-Redemptrix” in modern Catholic discussion (though not official) only confirms the Reformation’s concerns: that Mary is being unwittingly put in a place that eclipses Christ’s unique redemptive work.

In summary, the development of Marian and saint devotion from the early Church to the late medieval period shows a trajectory from appropriate honor to unbiblical excess. The Reformers, aligning with certain early fathers and above all with Scripture, called the Church back from that trajectory. They sought to demolish the “Cult of Saints” in order to exalt the “Cult of Christ” – that is, the true worship and passionate devotion that belong to the Son of God alone, and through Him to the Father, in the unity of the Spirit. As Scripture directs: “Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace” (Heb. 4:16) – not timidly through other intercessors, but boldly in Jesus’ name. For “in Him and through faith in Him we have boldness and access with confidence” (Eph. 3:12). The history of Marian and saint devotion, when weighed in this balance, calls believers to rediscover that bold and simple access, and to join the saints – not by praying to them, but by imitating their Christ-focused faith and joining their everlasting chorus: “Unto Him who loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood… to Him be glory and dominion forever and ever” (Rev. 1:5–6).

Modern Crisis: The “Lavender Mafia” and Contemporary Vatican Corruption

The final topic brings us from historical controversies of doctrine into the realm of modern ethical and institutional crisis within the Roman Church – specifically, the alleged rise and influence of a so-called “Lavender Mafia” in the Vatican. This term, colloquially used by some journalists, clergy, and historians, refers to an underground network of high-ranking homosexual clerics who purportedly protect and promote one another, thereby exerting a hidden influence on church governance and contributing to the cover-up of sexual scandals. While the phrase is provocative and not officially recognized, its frequent appearance in discussions (especially since the early 21st century) points to a real and grave concern: the integrity of the Vatican’s moral leadership has been undermined by internal complicity in vice and secrecy.

The Catholic Church has always called clergy to celibacy and chastity, and officially condemns homosexual acts as sinful. Yet the 20th and 21st centuries have exposed a tragic pattern of sexual abuse and misconduct among clergy, much of it homosexual in nature (notably abuse of teenage boys or seminarians by older priests). The cascade of sex abuse revelations, from the United States and Ireland to Chile and beyond, reached even into the College of Cardinals. The scandal of former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick – a prominent American prelate who was found to have abused seminarians and minors for decades and was only disciplined in 2018 – became a flashpoint. In the wake of McCarrick’s downfall, Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò, a former papal diplomat, published a bombshell testimony in August 2018 accusing numerous high Vatican officials (and even Pope Francis) of knowing about McCarrick’s predations and covering for him. Viganò explicitly decried a “homosexual current” in the Church’s hierarchy, naming prelates he claimed “belong to the homosexual current in favor of subverting Catholic doctrine on homosexuality” . He urged that this “homosexual network” must be rooted out. In a follow-up, he wrote: “Homosexual networks present in the Church must be eradicated… The deeper problem lies in homosexual networks within the clergy which must be eradicated. These homosexual networks, now widespread in many dioceses, seminaries, religious orders, etc., act under secrecy and lies with the power of an octopus.” . Such strong language from a retired archbishop gave weight to what many had whispered: there exists a powerful subgroup in the church that places loyalty to each other and a liberalizing sexual agenda above fidelity to the Church’s moral teachings.

Even Pope Francis himself, early in his pontificate (2013), acknowledged in a private meeting that “there is a gay lobby in the Curia” – a surprising admission. Francis reportedly said, “We have to see what we can do” about it . Yet subsequent years saw continuing allegations that practicing homosexual cliques persisted. The Italian phrase “lobby gay” and the English “Lavender Mafia” were bandied in Catholic media. Conservative Catholic writers like Fr. Dariusz Oko and journalist Randy Engel documented cases of seminaries allegedly overrun by homosexual subcultures and superiors turning a blind eye. The nickname “Lavender Mafia” itself implies an organized crime analogy – insiders who shield each other from discipline and punish anyone threatening to expose them. For example, when faithful priests tried to report seminary wrongdoing or abuse, they were often marginalized or ignored, as multiple cases in the US and elsewhere have shown (the fate of whistleblowers is often bleak). Such patterns bred a perception of systemic rot at the highest levels.

Reformed church historians and commentators have not been silent on this development. They see it as the latest manifestation of the age-old problem of corruption in the papal system, akin to the moral debauchery of the Pornocracy era or the worldliness of Renaissance popes – but now with the twist of sexual orientation and secrecy involved. Dr. Al Mohler, a notable Reformed Baptist leader, commented in the wake of the 2018 scandals that “the moral catastrophe in the Roman Catholic hierarchy is a lesson to all: hiding sin and refusing accountability breeds a toxic culture.” He and others drew parallels: just as the indulgence abuse reflected the avarice of the medieval church, the abuse scandal and Lavender Mafia allegations reflect the hypocrisy and lack of true spiritual regeneration in segments of the modern church leadership. It appears to these observers that even after Trent’s reforms and Vatican II’s aggiornamento, the Roman Curia remains vulnerable to the “mystery of iniquity” working within (2 Thess. 2:7). They argue that a system elevating fallible men to near-monarchical status (cardinals dubbed “Princes of the Church”) with lifelong office and secrecy (the confessional seal, etc.), combined with an unbiblical demand of mandatory celibacy (which Scripture calls a doctrine of demons if enforced, 1 Tim. 4:1–3), creates a perfect storm for such clandestine immorality to thrive. Reformed writers often note Paul’s admonition that it is better to marry than to burn with passion (1 Cor. 7:9), implying that Rome’s insistence on clerical celibacy has ironically opened a door to sexual sins among clergy who lack the gift of chastity.

From a theological critique standpoint, the existence of a “Lavender Mafia” strikes at Rome’s claims of moral authority and guidance by the Holy Spirit. Protestant polemicists historically accused the papacy of being the “Man of Sin”(2 Thess. 2) and even the “Whore of Babylon” (Rev. 17) – charges based largely on doctrinal perversions and persecuting actions. But the present scandal adds a new layer: the spectacle of high clergy engaged in or tolerating widespread sexual perversity while maintaining a public façade of piety. This is seen as Pharisaism of the highest order – “They preach, but do not practice” (Matt. 23:3). It further vindicates, in Protestant eyes, the Reformers’ insistence that the papal church, as an institution, was deeply fallen and in need of repentance. John Calvin wrote in his time that many who wore the miter were “gross adulterers and sodomites”, and that Rome had become a “sink of all filth” – a statement which seemed hyperbolic to some then, but in light of recent revelations, has a chilling ring of truth. Indeed, when even devout Roman Catholics today lament a “culture of secrecy … not so dissimilar from the one that prevails in the mafia,” (as Viganò did ), Reformed observers nod somberly. The late Dr. R.C. Sproul, a Reformed theologian, once commented on the sex abuse crisis: “It is profoundly sad, yet not surprising, to see these things, for any church built on a foundation other than God’s Word will eventually reap corruption.” He urged prayer for victims and for Catholics who feel betrayed, and reaffirmed that holiness comes not from canon law or vows but from the transformative gospel of Christ.

It must be stated that homosexuality and sexual sin are by no means unique to Roman Catholic clergy; Protestant churches too have had grievous failures. Reformed historians humbly acknowledge that “judgment must begin at the house of God” (1 Pet. 4:17) and that all communions need reformation and revival. However, the scale and systemic nature of the Catholic crisis – implicating bishops worldwide and requiring state investigations – is singular. It suggests a structural flaw: an accountability vacuum in an absolutist hierarchy. In Protestant polities, errant ministers can be (and often are) disciplined or removed by synods or congregations; there is more transparency. In contrast, the Roman model historically sheltered clergy from secular justice (claiming benefit of clergy) and dealt with matters internally – which in case after case meant shuffling predators to new assignments rather than exposing them. This policy (essentially deceit) allowed “networks” of abusive or immoral clergy to persist.

The term “Lavender Mafia” implies a group with leverage at the top. Indeed, one startling event was the 2014 dismissal of Polish priest Krzysztof Charamsa, an official at the CDF (Congregation for Doctrine of Faith), who publicly came out as gay and claimed a secret gay lobby in the Vatican was strong. He alleged that some clergy live double lives and tacitly support each other’s secret. Pope Francis’ famous “Who am I to judge?” remark in 2013, referring to gay priests of good will, was taken by conservatives as a soft stance, perhaps emboldening such networks. Meanwhile, liberal Catholics and the world’s media often deny or downplay the “Lavender Mafia,” seeing it as a homophobic trope. But the fact remains: about 80% of the clerical abuse cases were male-on-male (ephebophilia), as investigative reports have noted . To ignore the homosexual element is willful blindness. Even some faithful Catholics (like Dr. Janet Smith, whom Viganò quoted) openly say: “The deeper problem lies in homosexual networks within the clergy which must be eradicated.” .

From a Reformed vantage, this contemporary crisis underscores two key points: the need for continual reformation (semper reformanda) in the church, and the danger of placing undue trust in an institution or office. The papacy claims an aura of indefectibility, yet we see defilement within its walls. It claims to be the holy see, yet so much unholiness has been perpetrated or tolerated. Jesus said, “You will know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:16). The fruits of the Lavender Mafia – shattered lives of victims, erosion of moral credibility, and a church leadership preoccupied with internal crises rather than Gospel proclamation – speak volumes.

Some modern Reformed church historians draw a parallel with the 15th-century papal court that was worldly and corrupt, leading God to raise reformers outside the system (the Protestant Reformers). So today, they suggest, the Roman Church’s internal reform efforts seem insufficient; perhaps God is vindicating the Reformers once more, showing that a church built on human tradition cannot maintain purity. Reputable Reformed scholars, like Dr. Michael Haykin or Dr. Carl Trueman, while analyzing charitably, would concur that the ultimate issue is the authority of Scripture vs. the traditions of men. If the church were more obedient to Scripture (which demands moral qualifications for overseers – “above reproach, husband of one wife,” 1 Tim. 3:2, notably assuming a male pastor will be married, not an enforced celibate), such deep-rooted problems might not fester. The Westminster Confessionpointedly calls the papacy “Antichrist,” not to be sensational but to stress that any power that exalts itself in God’s temple while practicing wickedness fits that biblical figure. The Lavender Mafia revelations – high clergy secretly “given over to vile passions” (Rom. 1:26) while appearing as ministers of righteousness – indeed bring to mind Paul’s description of Antichrist “showing himself to be God” in the temple (2 Thess. 2:4) but characterized by Satan’s deception (2 Thess. 2:9–10).

Yet, the Reformed approach is not merely to gloat over Rome’s troubles. Rather, it is to call Rome (and all churches) back to biblical repentance and faithfulness. True reformation would mean, in this context, a fearless expulsion of unrepentant immoral clergy (no matter how high their office), a rejection of secrecy in favor of truth, and a reconsideration of mandatory celibacy and other unscriptural impositions that may contribute to these sins. Above all, it would require Rome to humble itself and admit that it is not indefectible – that it too must sit under the judgment of God’s Word. In 1520, Martin Luther appealed to a future council to reform the church’s morals and doctrine; the Council of Trent (1545–63) unfortunately doubled down on contested doctrines, though it did institute some disciplinary reforms. Today, voices within Catholicism similarly call for reform, but many focus on changing doctrine (e.g., to approve homosexual relations) – which for Reformed observers is the opposite of the needed remedy. The remedy is a return to the gospel: preaching Christ crucified for sinners, the call to be born again in Him, the pursuit of holiness by the Spirit’s power. A merely institutional fix without spiritual renewal will not heal the cancer.

In conclusion, the “Lavender Mafia” phenomenon in the Vatican is a sobering contemporary sign that the critiques of the Reformers were not merely historical quibbles but continue to have relevance. It manifests the perennial problem of the papal system – a tendency to prioritize the institution’s preservation over transparency and truth. It also tragically showcases what happens when human tradition (e.g., celibacy) and hierarchical privilege obscure divine mandates. As Reformed Christians, we grieve for the many faithful Catholics disillusioned by these revelations, and for the victims deeply harmed. We earnestly pray that God may yet use this turmoil to shake Rome to its foundation, that it might relinquish the pride of office and seek a fresh reformation according to God’s Word. Perhaps, by God’s grace, some within will realize that the solution is not in more secrecy or simply purging a few scapegoats, but in a wholehearted return to sola Scriptura, sola fide, and sancta vita (holy life). Until then, we continue to uphold and proclaim the apostolic faith, knowing that the true Church – the company of all believers in Christ – stands not on a compromised human hierarchy but on the unshakable rock of Jesus Christ and His Word.

“Holiness befits Your house, O LORD, forevermore” (Psalm 93:5). In that spirit, we conclude this essay with a renewed conviction that the history of the papacy and the Vatican – from forged decretals to pornocratic popes, from schisms and indulgences to dogmas and scandals – illustrates the indispensable need for the Church to be continually reformed by the Word of God. What the Reformers began was not a one-time event but an ongoing call: back to Scripture, back to Christ’s sufficiency, back to purity of doctrine and life. The papacy’s story, critically examined, validates that call. May the Lord yet grant His Church, in every communion, the grace of true repentance and reformation according to His truth – for His glory and the salvation of souls.

Bibliography

Primary Sources and Church Documents:

• Fourth Lateran Council, Canon 21 (1215). English text in H. J. Schroeder, trans., Disciplinary Decrees of the General Councils (St. Louis: B. Herder, 1937), 70. 

• Council of Trent, Session 22 (1562). Decree on the Sacrifice of the Mass. In The Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, trans. H.J. Schroeder (Rockford: TAN, 1978), 149-154. 

• Council of Trent, Session 25 (1563). Decree on the Invocation of Saints and Sacred Images. Schroeder trans., 215-218. 

• Epiphanius of Salamis. Panarion (Medicine Chest), Book III, Sect. 79, Against Collyridians. Translated by Frank Williams in The Panarion of St. Epiphanius (Leiden: Brill, 1994), pp. 618-628. 

• John Calvin. Institutes of the Christian Religion, translated by Henry Beveridge. (Edinburgh, 1845). Book IV, Chapters 7, 17, 18 (sections cited). 

• Martin Luther. The Ninety-Five Theses (1517). Latin text and English trans. in Luther’s Works, vol. 31, ed. H. Lehmann (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1957), 25–33. Thesis 27.

• Martin Luther. The Babylonian Captivity of the Church (1520). Trans. in Luther’s Works, vol. 36 (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1959), esp. 32–42. Luther on the Mass as sacrifice.

• Archbishop Carlo M. Viganò. Testimony, August 22, 2018. (English translation published online via Catholicity.com).# The Papacy and the Vatican: A Critical Historical Essay