Saint Peter’s Tomb: Is Peter Really Buried in the Vatican?

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

I remember visiting beautiful Rome for the first time years ago. On the bus heading toward the Vatican, a number of people were visibly thrilled, whispering to one another that they were about to visit the place of Saint Peter’s tomb.

The thought of standing near the resting place of one of Jesus’ closest disciples (the one whom, according to the tradition of the Catholic Church, had been chosen to lead the community of believers after Jesus’ death) filled them with awe. 

Sitting there as the bus rolled toward the “eternal city,” I must admit that I shared their excitement. After all, it’s not every day that one has the chance to enter St. Peter’s Basilica and stand so close to what countless generations have believed to be the burial place of the Apostle Peter.

Yet years later, as I delved deeper into the study of early Christianity, I discovered that the question of whether Peter truly ended his life in Rome, and whether his remains really rest beneath the Vatican, is far more complex than most visitors realize.

The story behind St. Peter’s tomb is one that intertwines faith, tradition, legend, and archaeology. It’s a fascinating blend of historical evidence and devotional tradition that continues to inspire both scholars and pilgrims alike.

In this article, I’d like to explore that story. We’ll begin by revisiting what we can actually know about Peter himself, the Galilean fisherman turned apostle whose life and character we glimpse through the pages of the New Testament. 

Then we’ll turn to the traditions surrounding his death and martyrdom, tracing how those stories emerged and evolved. Finally, we’ll descend, figuratively speaking, beneath the marble floors of St. Peter’s Basilica, to examine the centuries-old claim that the apostle’s bones lie there still.

But before we begin, make sure to check out Bart Ehrman’s captivating course “Paul and Jesus: The Great Divide.” In the eight amazing lectures, Dr. Ehrman provides a comparative analysis of two most important figures in the history of Christianity. If you think that Paul and Jesus would get along, this course is for you!

Apostle Peter in the New Testament: A Brief Look

Before we get into the issue of St. Peter's tomb, we have to take a look at his life. What can we know about him? To understand anything about the life and death of St. Peter, we have to take a hard look at the nature of the sources we have.

And, as you can imagine, they are far from what a historian would like to have. In his book Peter, Paul, and Mary Magdalene, Bart Ehrman explains:

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Working within that constraint and through a careful reconstruction of our sources, a somewhat coherent profile emerges. 

Peter’s given name was Simon (Aramaic Shimʿon); “Peter” (Petros in Greek; Kephas/Cephas in Aramaic) functions as a nickname meaning “Rock.” He was a Galilean fisherman based in or around Capernaum, probably part of a small family enterprise with his brother Andrew. 

The sources imply an ordinary social status (manual labor, modest means) and make it plausible that he was married (his mother-in-law is mentioned in the Gospel of Mark; Paul notes that Peter traveled with a wife in 1 Cor 9:5). 

Given his milieu, he most likely spoke Aramaic and wasn’t formally schooled. Therefore, Acts’ description of Peter and John as “unlettered” fits what we, based on research done by scholars such as Catherine Hezser, know about literacy rates in rural Galilee.

Within the Gospel narratives, Peter stands out as both prominent and painfully human. He is consistently placed at the head of the Twelve and, more narrowly, within Jesus’ closest circle alongside James and John (e.g., Jairus’ daughter, the Transfiguration, Gethsemane). 

He confesses Jesus as the Messiah yet almost in the same breath rebukes him for predicting suffering; he steps out in faith and then sinks; he vows loyalty and then denies knowing Jesus. Whether each scene preserves precise memory, the recurring pattern is striking and historically suggestive: Peter was the movement’s most visible insider, whose boldness could give way to fear under pressure

After Jesus’ death, the earliest Christian movement that coalesced in Jerusalem remembers Peter as a leading figure, one of the “pillars” alongside James (the Lord’s brother) and John. 

In that aspect, Paul’s letters offer our earliest external window: they portray Peter primarily as a mission leader among Jews, in constructive (and sometimes tense) relationship with Paul’s gentile mission (Galatians 1-2). 

The famous Antioch incident, where Paul says he opposed Peter “to his face,” is valuable precisely because it’s unflattering. To put it more bluntly, it suggests Peter could waver when communal and reputational pressures rose. 

Moreover, the book of Acts then gives a theologically shaped portrait that magnifies his role in speeches and signs. As historians, we can use Acts, but only with caution! It’s not a neutral chronicle and often serves theological aims. 

Finally, the familiar claim that Peter served as the “first bishop of Rome” reflects a later stage of ecclesiastical development rather than a title or office attested in our earliest sources. Peter almost certainly didn’t found the first community of Jesus’ followers in Rome.

Moreover, in the mid-1st century, the Christian movement there wasn’t organized under a single episcopal leader. As Peter Lampe has demonstrated in his landmark study From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries, the earliest Roman believers met in a number of small house congregations scattered across the city. 

Most of these groups were loosely connected through shared belief in Jesus’ resurrection, mutual recognition, and (possibly) collective body of presbyters, but they lacked a centralized hierarchy or unified leadership structure (one bishop as the head of the entire city-community).

With this historically grounded sketch of Peter’s background and leadership in place, we can now turn to the next question: what, if anything, can be established about how and where he died? And how did those traditions eventually intersect with the centuries-long veneration of a specific burial site beneath St. Peter’s Basilica?

St. Peter’s Tomb: Traditions of Peter’s Death in Rome

Modern scholarship remains divided over what actually happened to Peter at the end of his life. On one side stands the hard minimalism of Michael Goulder, who, in his article “Did Peter Ever Go to Rome?” insists that the apostle never set foot in the “eternal city” and probably died in Jerusalem around 55 C.E. 

According to this view, the complete silence of the New Testament about Peter’s death is decisive: if the author of Acts had known of such a dramatic event, he would have surely mentioned it.

On the opposite end lies the radical constructivism of Christian Grappe, who treats the stories about Peter’s fate not as historical memories but as fluid “images” that evolved to express different theological and ideological concerns of later communities.

As he writes in his study Images de Pierre aux deux premiers siècles (Images of Peter in the First Two Centuries):

In other words, for Grappe, the question of what actually happened is less important than how Peter’s memory was repeatedly reshaped to serve new purposes. 

Between these poles of skeptical minimalism and literary symbolism stands a more moderate, historically engaged approach, the one represented by scholars such as Markus Bockmuehl.

He asserts that the earliest memories of Peter’s death, though refracted through faith and tradition, still deserve serious historical consideration. So, what do we know about Peter’s death in Rome? 

The earliest surviving reference comes from the Roman letter, known as 1 Clement, written around 95 C.E. “Because of unjust jealousy,” the author says, “Peter bore up under hardships not just once or twice, but many times; and having thus borne his witness, he went to the place of glory that he deserved” (1 Clem 5:4).

While the statement is brief and lacking in detail, it presupposes that Peter’s martyrdom was common knowledge among its readers. The phrase “among us” that follows, referring to a “great multitude” who also suffered, most naturally evokes the Neronian persecution in Rome around 64 C.E.

Later authors echo this same assumption: Ignatius of Antioch, writing early in the 2nd century, associates Peter and Paul with the church of Rome. Moreover, Dionysius of Corinth (c. 170 C.E.) explicitly names Rome as the site of both apostles’ deaths. 

Finally, Tertullian takes their martyrdoms there as a settled fact. Even the apocryphal Acts of Peter, though legendary in its details, reflects a tradition already widespread, the one that proclaims that Peter was crucified in Rome.

Bockmuehl seeks to reassess this evidence by returning to what he calls the period of “living memory,” roughly the first two centuries after Peter’s death, when communities still retained personal and institutional recollections of the apostles.

Within that window, Bockmuehl observes, no ancient source locates Peter’s death anywhere other than Rome.

He argues that the testimony of 1 Clement, though restrained, fits precisely the kind of rhetorical reserve one would expect from a Roman Christian writing within living memory of Nero’s persecution.

The convergence of diverse witnesses (from East and West, from orthodox and heterodox circles) points to a shared and stable recollection rather than to a late Roman invention. 

For Bockmuehl, the story’s durability across independent traditions and the absence of any rival claim elsewhere make it historically credible that Peter did, in fact, meet his death in Rome. Details such as the inverted crucifixion appear only in later 2nd-century texts like the Acts of Peter, but the core claim of a Roman martyrdom seems rooted in genuine early memory.

When viewed this way, the question of Peter’s death moves beyond simple faith or fiction. It illustrates how the earliest Christian communities preserved historical recollections through collective memory that, while never detached from theology, may still anchor us in real events. 

Whether one approaches these traditions with full belief or cautious skepticism (I’m certainly leaning toward the latter option), the evidence suggests that Rome, more than any other city, became inseparable from Peter’s story in both history and devotion.

Having examined what we can reasonably know about Peter’s life and death, we can now turn to an even more tangible (and more contentious) question: what lies beneath the marble floors of St. Peter’s Basilica?

In other words, is Saint Peter’s tomb in the Vatican truly the final resting place of the apostle whose memory looms so large in Christian tradition?

Where Is Saint Peter’s Tomb: Assessing the Evidence

According to the church historian Eusebius, one of the earliest references to a specific site connected with Peter and Paul comes from the Roman presbyter Gaius, writing at the beginning of the 3rd century. 

Addressing Proclus, the leader of the Cataphrygian sect, Gaius declared: “As for me, I can show you the trophies (τὰ τρόπαια) of the apostles. If you wish to go to the Vatican Hill or along the Ostian Way, you will find the trophies of those who founded this Church.” 

This brief remark, offered almost in passing, provides the first historical witness to a physical location venerated as the resting place of the apostles Peter and Paul.

This casual comment probably represents the earliest mention of a specific location associated with St. Peter’s tomb. As Christian Grappe explains:

By the dawn of the 3rd century, then, the memory of Peter and Paul was already anchored to topographical points in the Roman landscape (the Vatican Hill for Peter, and the Ostian Way for Paul), suggesting that the cultic memory of both apostles had taken on a spatial and devotional form.

Roughly a century later, according to Christian tradition, the Roman emperor Constantine sought to honor the apostles by constructing magnificent basilicas over their supposed burial sites.

The story holds that, following his conversion and the Edict of Milan in 313 C.E., Constantine ordered the leveling of the Vatican slope, the construction of massive retaining walls, and the creation of a monumental platform over the existing necropolis. 

The builders are said to have carefully preserved a small shrine or aedicula (believed to mark Peter’s grave) and to have positioned the basilica’s altar directly above it. 

This is the traditional narrative, preserved in later sources such as the Liber Pontificalis, which portrays Constantine as the emperor who gave physical form to the apostolic memory of Rome.

Contemporary scholarship, however, has largely abandoned this view. As Timothy Barnes argues in Constantine: Dynasty, Religion and Power in the Later Roman Empire (2011), recent archaeological and textual analyses have shown that Constantine “did not found either Saint Peter’s on the Vatican or Saint Paul’s Outside the Walls either in 312 or later.”

While he indisputably constructed the Lateran Basilica and several other Roman churches, the evidence indicates that the great apostolic basilicas weren’t imperial projects initiated or completed under his reign. 

Later generations, eager to associate these sacred sites with the first Christian emperor, likely retrojected his name onto building efforts that began or took shape after his death.

In any case, the archaeological rediscovery of this area came much later. In 1939, excavations beneath the present St. Peter’s Basilica were initiated following the accidental discovery of an underground void during the burial preparations for Pope Pius XI.

What archaeologists uncovered was a remarkably well-preserved Roman necropolis, with dozens of tombs dating to the first and second centuries. In its center stood a small, walled shrine known as the Trophy of Gaius, the very monument the 3rd-century presbyter had described.

The site also contained a complex of later Christian burials and graffiti walls inscribed with prayers and invocations, some referencing “Peter.” These finds confirmed that the veneration of Peter at this spot extended back to at least the second century, though they couldn’t, by themselves, prove the presence of Peter’s physical remains.

The question of the bones themselves proved more controversial. During the 1940s excavations, a box of human remains was discovered in a small niche near the aedicula. 

Later, in the 1950s and 1960s, the Vatican archaeologist Margherita Guarducci argued that these bones (an assemblage of human fragments belonging to a single robust male of roughly the right age) had originally been kept in the shrine as the relics of St. Peter.

Her interpretation gained ecclesiastical support and, in 1968, Pope Paul VI announced the following:

Yet not all specialists agreed. Other archaeologists, such as Antonio Ferrua, one of the original excavation team, remained cautious, noting the complex stratigraphy, the uncertain provenance of the remains, and the lack of epigraphic proof. 

In two separate essays published originally in La Civiltà Cattolica (17 March 1984; 3 March 1990) Ferrua was very critical, repeatedly stating that he “non aver potuto pubblicare” ("could not publish") all the information in his possession, which would have demolished the theory that Peter's bones were found under the Altar of the Confession.

Contemporary experts accept that early Christians revered this spot as Peter’s memorial but regard the identification of the bones as the apostle’s as possible, though far from demonstrable.

In other words, archaeology corroborates that Christian veneration centered on the Vatican Hill by the end of the 2nd century and that later believers were convinced they were honoring St. Peter’s tomb. 

Still, absolute proof (whether through inscriptions or forensic data) remains elusive. What the evidence gives us is a chain of collective memory, rather than a verified historical and archaeological identity.

Can you visit St. Peter’s tomb? That’s a question still asked by many today. The answer is yes. 

Deep beneath the basilica’s grand altar lies the Vatican Necropolis, a labyrinth of ancient mausoleums and narrow corridors.

Visits are strictly limited and must be arranged through the Vatican’s Ufficio Scavi, but standing before the modest red-plastered shrine that countless pilgrims have venerated for nearly two millennia offers a rare encounter between archaeology, memory, tradition, and faith.

Conclusion

Other trips I took to Rome didn’t include dozens of excited people waiting to see Saint Peter’s tomb, but the sense of beauty and historical depth that defines the city was still with us. Walking through its narrow streets, surrounded by ancient ruins and Renaissance domes, one can’t help but feel how profoundly history and memory coexist there.

Whether Peter himself was buried on the Vatican Hill or the site marks, instead, the memory of his veneration (I’m leaning toward the latter option!), the evidence (textual, archaeological, and traditional) reveals a remarkable continuity that influenced the subsequent history of the entire city!

From the late 1st century onward, Christians in Rome believed that the “prince of the apostles” (to borrow Grappe’s phrase) had died and been buried in their city. That belief shaped the city’s geography, inspired its earliest monuments, and eventually gave rise to the most famous church in the world.

Pelagianism: History, Definition, & Beliefs (Heresy Series)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

“Excuse me, Professor! Can you tell me what Pelagianism is?” I must admit, that’s a question I rarely (if ever) hear in my classroom. 

Most of my students, even those who love early Christian history and are eager to learn more about it, have never encountered the term. It’s not a word that rolls easily off the tongue, and it certainly doesn’t enjoy the name recognition of movements like Gnosticism or Arianism. 

Yet its story is no less fascinating, and its impact on the development of Western Christianity has been profound.

That's a shame, because beneath that obscure label lies a series of polemics and debates that helped define what it meant to be Christian in the Latin-speaking world of late antiquity. The issues at stake weren’t abstract puzzles for theologians alone.

They touched on how ordinary believers understood sin, human freedom, and the very possibility of salvation. To trace the contours of this ancient controversy is to see the early church wrestling with questions that still resonate: Are human beings truly free to choose good over evil? Do we need divine grace to live rightly? What does it mean to say that humanity is “fallen?”

The struggle over these questions, of course, didn’t arise in a vacuum. By the time this debate erupted in the early 5th century, Christianity had already weathered generations of fierce disagreement.

It was in this world of moral rigor and theological tension that a British monk arrived on the scene, challenging assumptions that many thought were beyond dispute. His teachings would provoke one of the most consequential debates in Christian history.

Join me as we enter together in the world of early Christian heresies to reveal what is hidden beneath the word “Pelagianism.” To do that, we must, first and foremost, take a brief look at the major features of the Christian world in the 3rd and 4th centuries.

Pelagianism and the Historical Context: Debates and Struggles

From its very beginning, Christianity wasn’t a monolithic movement, but a remarkably diverse phenomenon. Already by the 2nd century, there existed a wide variety of Christian communities scattered throughout the Roman Empire, each holding different and often opposing views on some of the most fundamental questions of faith.

How was the world created? Who exactly was Jesus? Was he divine, human, or somehow both? How could humans be saved, and what was their role in the process? On each of these issues, opinions diverged sharply.

One well-known group, the Marcionites, for example, followed the teachings of Marcion of Sinope, who rejected the Jewish Scriptures altogether and claimed that the harsh Creator God of the Old Testament was distinct from the loving Father proclaimed by Jesus.

In contrast, the movement that modern scholars often call “proto-orthodoxy” (the strand of Christianity that would later become dominant) affirmed the continuity between the Hebrew Bible and the Christian message. They insisted that the God of Israel and the Father of Jesus were one and the same.

If you really want to get into the diverse world of early Christianity (the movements, debates, and “heretical” voices that shaped the faith’s first centuries) don’t miss Bart Ehrman’s 8-lesson course, Earliest Christian Heresies. 

In it, Bart brings to life the forgotten teachers, rival gospels, and theological battles that defined the boundaries of belief. You’ll encounter not just the winners of history, but the fascinating diversity of ideas that once thrived across the ancient Christian world.

Each of these communities, however, believed that it alone represented the true faith of Jesus and his apostles. This conviction naturally led to tensions, polemics, and sometimes (after Constantine converted) outright persecution.

But, the central strategy was often rhetorical rather than physical: to delegitimize one’s opponents by denying that they were “real” Christians at all. As M. David Litwa explains in his book Found Christianities:

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Even within this web of internal diversity, certain regional characteristics began to emerge. As it turns out, one can trace two distinct trajectories in the development of Christian thought, depending on geography.

In the Greek-speaking East, theological battles were largely Christological, concerned with the identity and nature of Christ and his relationship to God the Father. Was Jesus subordinate to God, equal to him, or one with him in essence?

The 4th-century conflict over Arianism, which denied the full divinity of Christ, epitomizes this focus. (Readers interested in this equally fascinating debate can find a dedicated article on Arianism in this same series.)

By contrast, the controversies that shaped Western Christianities (and I deliberately use the plural here, because, as a historian, I recognize that all these competing branches and communities were genuinely Christian, regardless of the “proto-orthodox” claims to exclusivity) tended to revolve around issues of discipline, morality, and salvation. 

In other words, the West was less preoccupied with defining the metaphysical nature of Christ than with determining how believers ought to live, how the Church should handle sin, and who truly belonged to the community of the saved. 

The fierce conflict known as Donatism, for instance, arose in North Africa over whether priests who had lapsed under persecution could administer valid sacraments. (Perhaps we’ll devote a future article to that movement as well!)

It was within this western landscape (where questions of moral rigor, repentance, and grace loomed large) that another major controversy would soon erupt: Pelagianism. Emerging in the early 5th century, it reignited the old debate over human freedom and divine assistance.

To understand what Pelagianism actually taught and how the Church responded, we must now turn to its origins, definition, and central ideas, but this time, viewed through the careful lens of critical historiography, not merely through the polemics of its opponents or the verdicts of those who ultimately triumphed.

What Was Pelagianism? Definition, Origins, and Aftermath

The term Pelagianism (definition: the belief that human beings can choose good without the necessity of divine grace) takes its name from Pelagius, a real historical figure. He was a British monk, theologian, and moral teacher active in the late 4th and early 5th centuries. 

Little is known about his early life, though most sources agree he was born in Britain sometime in the second half of the 4th century and received a solid education in Scripture and classical learning.

By the 380s or 390s, he had made his way to Rome, where his ascetic discipline and moral seriousness attracted a circle of admirers among the city’s Christian elite. 

To many Roman Christians, Pelagius appeared as a model of integrity in an age of moral laxity. The empire was in crisis, and the Christian Church, now officially established, had begun to mirror the ease and privilege of the aristocracy. 

It was within this turbulent and uncertain world that Pelagius’ public career began to unfold; a world shaken by political instability, moral decline, and profound religious transition.

As Georges de Plinval explains in his classic study Pélage: ses écrits, sa vie et sa réforme (Pelagius: His Writings, Life, and Reform):

To put it more bluntly, the Rome that Pelagius entered was a city torn between its pagan heritage and its Christian destiny; a world hungry for moral clarity and ripe for the kind of reforming voice he would soon embody.

Pelagius’ response wasn’t theological or philosophical speculation but moral exhortation: a call to live as authentic Christians through virtue, effort, and commitment.

When Alaric’s sack of Rome in 410 C.E. drove many from the city, Pelagius departed as well: first to North Africa, then to Palestine. Along the way, he came into contact with Augustine of Hippo, already one of the most formidable theological minds of the age. 

The two never engaged in direct (in-person) debate, but Augustine would become Pelagius’ fiercest opponent. From Augustine’s perspective, Pelagius’ teachings undermined the very foundations of Christian religion.

But what did Pelagius teach that was so dangerous for the emerging orthodoxy? Why was he considered a heretic?

To understand this, we must look at two very different interpretations of his thought. The first is the traditional paradigm, represented by Augustine and those who followed in his footsteps. The second is a more nuanced modern interpretation, grounded in close analysis of Pelagius’ surviving writings and free from any theological agenda.

Pelagianism: Beliefs of Pelagius According to the Traditional Paradigm

According to the Church’s traditional narrative (formulated largely by Augustine and preserved through centuries of theological teaching), Pelagianism heresy denied the necessity of divine grace. 

In Augustine’s retelling, the troublemaker from Britain taught that human beings, by their own free will and natural capacity, could fulfill God’s commandments and achieve moral perfection. Adam’s sin, in this view, harmed only himself; it didn’t corrupt human nature or transmit any inherited guilt. 

Each person, Pelagius allegedly maintained, is born innocent, as Adam was before the Fall. Grace, therefore, was merely a form of divine assistance (moral instruction or encouragement) rather than the transformative power that rescues humanity from sin.

In this interpretation, Pelagius’ theology amounted to a radical self-sufficiency of the human will. If salvation could be attained by human effort, Augustine argued, then Jesus’ sacrifice was rendered superfluous. 

The moral optimism of Pelagius, far from inspiring holiness, seemed to Augustine a dangerous illusion. For him, it was only a new version of the ancient pride that had led Adam to his fall in the first place.

“Without me you can do nothing,” Jesus says in the Gospel of John, and Augustine saw in Pelagius’ moral confidence a subtle defiance of that divine warning.

In the words of Augustine (Book II; Chapter 18) himself:

From this perspective, Pelagianism threatened to undo the entire Christian understanding of grace, redemption, and dependence on God. It also posed pastoral dangers. If people believed that salvation could be earned by their own strength, Augustine warned, they would either fall into arrogance or despair.

Grace, for him, wasn’t optional assistance but the very condition of human goodness. Pelagius’ denial of original sin and his faith in human freedom became, in the eyes of the Church, the seeds of heresy.

It comes as no surprise that local councils at Carthage (418 C.E.) and later Ephesus (431 C.E.) condemned the movement outright, declaring that salvation comes through grace and that even the desire to do good originates in God’s initiative, not human effort.

Pelagianism From the Modern (Scholarly) Perspective

Modern scholarship, however, has significantly complicated this picture. Brinley R. Rees, in his study Pelagius: A Reluctant Heretic, portrays Pelagius not as a defiant theologian intent on dismantling orthodoxy, but as a sincere moral reformer deeply disturbed by the spiritual complacency of his time.

Far from denying grace, Pelagius sought to remind Christians of their moral responsibility. His genuine Pelagianism beliefs, as seen in his letters and commentaries, centered on moral effort supported by divine help rather than its rejection. Through baptism, believers are cleansed from past sins and empowered to live uprightly.

Pelagius’ focus was ethical rather than metaphysical! He wanted Christians to act as if they truly had been transformed by grace. For Pelagius, the command “Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” wasn’t an impossible ideal, but an earnest moral summons.

Ali Bonner, in her book The Myth of Pelagianism, goes even further, arguing that the entire construct of “Pelagian heresy” was largely a literary creation of its opponents. The famous list of “Pelagian doctrines” attributed to him (denial of original sin, rejection of baptismal grace, exaltation of human will) cannot be found in Pelagius’ extant writings.

On the contrary, he repeatedly speaks of divine help, the aid of the Holy Spirit, and the cleansing power of Christ’s blood. He never taught that humans could attain sinless perfection on their own, nor that baptism was unnecessary for infants.

Much of what later became “Pelagianism,” Bonner demonstrates, originated not with Pelagius but with others, particularly his associate Celestius, and was then attributed to him by Augustine in the heat of controversy.

Furthermore, Winrich A. Löhr’s meticulous reconstruction of Pelagius’ lost treatise De natura (preserved only through Augustine’s quotations in De natura et gratia) demonstrates that Pelagius didn’t deny grace but defined it differently. 

When his interlocutors in De natura insist that moral perfection is possible “only by grace,” Pelagius readily agrees, but interprets this to mean that God’s grace operates through the very faculties God created: reason, will, and the moral law.

Augustine read this as reducing grace to mere “nature and teaching,” but Pelagius seems instead to have been preserving a synergistic model in which divine empowerment and human freedom cooperate.

Where Augustine saw grace as an unmerited, irresistible gift preceding any human act, Pelagius saw it as God’s continual empowerment, the daily assistance enabling humans to choose rightly. 

Put simply, Pelagius’ theology was synergistic rather than monergistic. He believed that grace and human effort cooperate in salvation, instead of salvation being accomplished by God alone. His central concern was moral fairness: if God commands it, humans must be capable of responding. Otherwise, divine justice would make no sense.

The heart of the conflict, therefore, wasn’t arrogance versus humility but two distinct ways of understanding divine-human cooperation. 

Augustine, haunted by his own experience of inner struggle, stressed humanity’s helplessness apart from God’s intervention. 

Pelagius, formed in the ascetic culture of Rome, stressed responsibility, self-discipline, and the potential of grace to transform moral character. These weren’t two different religions, but two different temperaments within the same religious tradition.

In retrospect, the so-called Pelagian heresy looks less like a coherent movement and more like a rhetorical construct — a boundary line drawn by Augustine and his allies to define emerging orthodoxy. 

As Bonner argues, the label “Pelagianism” functioned as a kind of theological shorthand for everything Augustine rejected: confidence in human freedom, moral rigor, and any hint of synergy between divine and human will.

Consequently, Rebeca Lyman, confirms the communis opinio:

Unfortunately, behind this caricature, a real (historical) Pelagius disappeared. A man sincerely devoted to moral renewal, condemned not so much for what he said as for what others thought he implied. 

Whether one accepts the traditional Augustinian narrative or the more nuanced view emerging from modern scholarship, the fact remains that Pelagianism (real or constructed) suffered a particular fate. 

The moral reformer became the heretic; the call to responsible holiness became a warning against pride. What began as a debate over human freedom and divine grace would echo through medieval theology, the Reformation, and even beyond.

But what happened to Pelagius himself, and how did the Church finally deal with this controversy? To answer that, we must turn to the next section of our story, one that traces the fate of the man and the movement that bore his name.

But before we do that, take a moment to look at the table below. It neatly encapsulates the key differences between Pelagius as portrayed by Augustine and Pelagius as understood by modern scholarship.

Think of it as your intellectual “cheat sheet”. It’s a kind of table that can save you from theological embarrassment at a dinner party or a conference Q&A. It distills a century of polemic and decades of scholarship into one elegant snapshot (yes, we are that good!).

Pelagianism After Pelagius

The polemical battle between Pelagius and Augustine soon spilled over the top of the Church’s hierarchy, followed by a serious read-through at several local synods. The first decisive turn came after Diospolis (Lydda, 415), where Pelagius (without his accusers present) professed the necessity of “God’s help” and was acquitted by Palestinian bishops

Augustine read the minutes and judged the acquittal crafty: Pelagius, he argued, had equivocated on what “grace” truly meant. 

African bishops responded with a sequence of synods (Numidia and Proconsular Africa) and set the stage for a general council at Carthage on May 1, 418 C.E., which issued eight or nine canons against alleged Pelagian propositions.

In his book The Early Church, Henry Chadwick argues that this African push was the moment when the controversy ceased to be a private quarrel and became a public test of doctrine, with the canons effectively codifying the Augustinian reading of sin and grace.

In Rome, the papal stance briefly wavered. Pope Zosimus (417-418 C.E.) initially found Pelagius and his disciple Celestius persuasive and rebuked the Africans for acting precipitately. But North African bishops doubled down, and a decisive imperial rescript from Honorius (30 April 418 C.E.) expelled Pelagians from Rome as a threat to public order.

Under imperial pressure, Zosimus reversed course in 418 C.E. and circulated the Epistola tractoria (a letter sent to bishops across the West), requiring subscription to anti-Pelagian positions and sealing the condemnation. 

Chadwick highlights both the ecclesiastical and political vectors at work here: episcopal lobbying, imperial concerns over social stability, and Rome’s eventual alignment with the African synods’ theological judgement.

What of Pelagius himself? After the Diospolis acquittal, he remained in the East; sources place him in Palestine through 418 C.E., corresponding with aristocratic patrons, and then he disappeared from the record, likely dying somewhere in the Orient.

His associate Celestius continued to press the cause (even appealing to Rome), but the network around Augustine out-maneuvered him diplomatically; by 418 both men stood condemned in the West. 

Chadwick notes that Pelagius’ last public statements kept returning to a single point: that a good work requires God’s help but also entails a genuinely free human act. That was precisely the formulation Augustine judged inadequate because it reduced grace to external aid rather than interior transformation.

The wider Church then “internationalized” the African line. 

While the Council of Ephesus (431 C.E.) is remembered chiefly for its Christological decisions against Nestorius, the acts and accompanying dossiers also confirmed the condemnation of Pelagius and Celestius.

Later canonical collections (via Trullo’s reception of African canons) reinforced this posture. In short: by the mid-5th century, “Pelagianism” stood officially proscribed in both local African and ecumenical registers.

However, condemnation didn’t end debate; it redirected it. 

In southern Gaul, monastic circles around John Cassian and Vincent of Lérins proposed a mediating account (often dubbed “semi-Pelagian” by later writers), insisting that grace is prior and necessary but that the first stirrings of faith and the ongoing Christian life involve real cooperation of the will. 

After a century of tug-of-war (including interventions by Prosper of Aquitaine), the Council of Orange (529 C.E.) offered a durable settlement: grace truly precedes and enables every beginning of faith, yet the baptized, aided by Christ, bear responsibility to “labor faithfully.”

In other words, this council rejected Pelagian and hard determinist extremes alike; later Western theology would repeatedly revisit its balance, and the rest became history!

Conclusion

So, if a student were to raise that rare question (“Excuse me, Professor, what exactly is Pelagianism?”), we might now answer it not with a slogan about “works versus grace,” but with a story about how early Christians tried to understand the mystery of human freedom in the light of divine mercy.

Behind the label lies a centuries-long polemic over moral effort, dependence, and responsibility, a debate that began with one British monk’s plea for integrity and ended by helping to define the contours of Western theology itself.

The controversy surrounding Pelagius reminds us that the history of doctrine is rarely a simple tale of right and wrong ideas. It is, rather, the record of how believers in different circumstances sought to express the balance between God’s initiative and human response.

Perhaps the real legacy of Pelagianism, stripped of its polemical baggage, is that it still invites us to reflect (historically, ethically, and even theologically) on what it means to be responsible, and what it means to be redeemed.

Appendix: Does the Bible Mention Pelagianism?

This question gets us right into the realm of biblical exegesis, but one that must remain attentive to historical and literary context, without projecting later theological developments onto the biblical text. The term Pelagianism is, of course, post-biblical.

Still, the debate between Pelagius and Augustine wasn’t invented in a vacuum. Rather, both thinkers appealed constantly to Scripture, each claiming fidelity to the Christian tradition.

Passages emphasizing human responsibility and moral choice were central to Pelagius’ reading of the Bible. He cited texts such as Deuteronomy 30:19 (“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life”), and Matthew 5:48 (“Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”)

Augustine, however, appealed to another set of texts: Romans 5:12-21 on the transmission of Adam’s sin, and Ephesians 2:8-9 on salvation as “the gift of God, not the result of works.” For him, these verses proved the primacy of divine initiative and the radical dependence of the human will on grace.

I’d say that the Bible itself contains no explicit doctrine of “Pelagianism” or “anti-Pelagianism.” What it offers are diverse voices that later theologians interpreted through different lenses. The controversy of the 5th century thus reflects the tension already present within Scripture between divine sovereignty and human responsibility.

Nestorianism: History, Definition, & Beliefs (Heresy Series)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

In the long and complex history of Christian theology, few controversies have left as enduring a legacy as Nestorianism. Labeled a heresy, Nestorianism arose from deep questions about the nature of Jesus Christ—questions that not only divided the church but also shaped the course of Christian doctrine for centuries to come.

This article explores the origins, teachings, and the enduring vestiges of Nestorianism beliefs—tracing its journey from the heart of the Roman Empire to the far reaches of Asia. Along the way, we'll examine why the controversy over Christ’s nature was so explosive, how the church responded, and what Nestorianism’s long afterlife tells us about the nature of heresy itself.

Nestorianism Definition and History

Like many theological movements later deemed heretical (Marcionism, Valentinianism), Nestorianism was named after its founder, Nestorius. Also like those movements, the name “Nestorians” came from the movement’s enemies; Nestorians did not call themselves Nestorians. However, to understand Nestorianism’s beliefs, we’ll start with the life and teachings of Nestorius himself.

Nestorius was born around 386 CE in a city called Germanicia in the Roman Province of Syria (the city is now called Kahramanmaraş in modern-day Turkey). We don’t know much about his early life except that his first language was apparently Greek, since his sermons and letters were written originally in that language. Greek was the common language of people in that region in the 4th century.

Nestorius later became a priest-monk, or hieromonk, under the tutelage of famed Syrian bishop and theologian Theodore of Mopsuestia. Like Nestorius, Theodore was a controversial theological figure. Some of his ideas would be condemned by the church, although not until after his death. One ancient source, Church History written by Evagrius Scholasticus, says tha

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While Nestorius certainly must have learned much from Theodore, there is not enough decisive evidence to prove that his most controversial idea came directly from him. However, we do know that while living as a hieromonk in a monastery outside Antioch, Syria, Nestorius became a very popular preacher, so much so that the Roman Emperor Theodosius II made him archbishop of Constantinople in 428 CE. This was a huge deal, as Constantinople had by then become the capital city of the Roman Empire.

Nestorius didn’t get much of a chance to rest on his laurels, however. Almost as soon as he arrived in Constantinople, he was thrown into a theological controversy between two factions with contradictory Christologies (Christology is the theology about the nature and role of Christ), forcing Nestorius to try to find a compromise that would satisfy both sides.

According to Bruce Shelley’s Church History in Plain Language, one of these factions insisted that since Christ was God who had been born as a human being, the Virgin Mary should be called “God-bearer” (Greek: Theotokos). The opposing group refused to use that title since God, as an everlasting being, could not have been born.

From this controversy about whether Mary could have given birth to God developed the Christological question that Nestorius would attempt to answer: did Jesus have one nature that included both the divine and the human or two separate natures, one divine and one human, instead?

Nestorius’ solution was to say that Jesus consisted of two distinct persons or “hypostases” in Greek, one human and the other divine. He went on to say that these two were not entirely united into one single nature, although they were connected within the person of Jesus. This idea came to be known as the prosopic union (prosopon is one Greek word for “person”). For Nestorius, these two natures or persons were together within Jesus but did not mix.

Opponents of Nestorius became outraged, accusing him of making Jesus into two persons in one body, which they said amounted to a denial of the reality of the Incarnation. Interestingly enough, most scholars today don’t believe that this is what Nestorius really taught. For example, in his book The Nestorian Churches, Aubrey Vine writes

Nevertheless, this idea of Christ as two separate persons in one body has ever since become the definition of Nestorianism.

Soon after Nestorius’ proposed solution to the Christological controversy, bishops of the church convened the Council of Ephesus in 431 CE. At this council, Nestorianism was officially anathematized or condemned. The archbishop of Alexandria, Cyril, wrote 12 anathemas or official condemnations of the Nestorianism heresy. These are the first two:

In his book Christology and the Council of Chalcedon, Fr. Shenouda M. Ishak writes that on the orders of Pope Celestine 1 of Rome, Cyril of Alexandria took over the Council of Ephesus which then condemned Nestorius as a heretic and ordered him removed as archbishop of Constantinople. Interestingly, the followers of Nestorius, angry at how he had been treated at Ephesus, then convened their own council at which they declared Cyril a heretic and had him removed as archbishop!

When both sides went to the emperor to adjudicate the matter, the emperor initially said both should be deposed. Nestorius was sent back to his monastery at Antioch. However, according to Cyril’s letters, he was eventually allowed to resume his role as archbishop of Alexandria after bribing the right people in the government.

In 451, the Council of Chalcedon was held. One of its main conclusions merely affirmed the condemnation of Nestorianism:

Nestorius himself was eventually removed from his monastery in Antioch by an imperial edict and placed in one in Egypt which was under Cyril of Alexandria’s see. He died soon after the Council of Chalcedon in 451 CE.

Nestorianism’s Legacy

Historically speaking, when heresies are defined and condemned, they don’t usually disappear overnight. This was true, for example, of Arianism, a heresy condemned at the Council of Nicaea. Despite its condemnation, Arian Christians continued to exist for centuries. The same, it turns out, is true of Nestorianism, although Nestorian Christians lasted much longer. In fact, they continue to exist.

By the way, if you’re interested in the history of early Christian heresies, check out Bart Ehrman’s course on the subject at  https://courses.bartehrman.com/tc-wgqvp-heresies/.

Following the Council of Chalcedon, many Nestorian Christians were persecuted and forced to flee their homes in places such as Syria and relocate to the Persian Empire in modern-day Iran. In this new location, these churches, though often persecuted by the majority, who were of the Zoroastrian faith, continued to exist and spread. In fact, Nestorian Christian artifacts have been found by archeologists in such places as China, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan.

Today, Nestorianism continues to exist in what is known as the Church of the East. The World Council of Churches notes that

While the church still exists in many different areas of the world, it is a distinct minority. The liturgical language of the church continues to be Syriac, a language hardly spoken any more. Syriac is spoken during church rites and is the language in which the Scriptures are read.

Conclusion: The Nestorianism Heresy

Nestorius started out as a popular priest-monk in a monastery outside of Antioch, Syria, one of the main centers for early Christianity. We have to wonder if he would have been happier had he stayed there.

Instead, due to the popularity of his preaching, he was elevated by the emperor himself to the position of archbishop or patriarch of the city of Constantinople. In dealing with a Christological conflict between two groups there, Nestorius formulated an opinion concerning the nature of Christ that would become a lightning rod of controversy.

While Nestorius agreed that Christ was both God and human, he interpreted this as meaning that there were essentially two persons—one divine, the other human—within the one body of Jesus. Vehement opposition to this idea would lead to his and his doctrine’s condemnation, first at the Council of Ephesus in 431 CE, and later at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 CE. As a result, Nestorius would be deposed and returned to the monastery in infamy.

However, unlike Nestorius himself, the Nestorian doctrine refused to die. Those who believed in Nestorianism continued to form their own churches, initially in the Persian Empire but then further into the Near East and Asia in later years. In fact, Nestorian Christian communities still exist, although in smaller and smaller numbers. Heresies, even when officially condemned, have a way of sticking around.

Docetism: Definition, History, & Beliefs (Heresy Series)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Among the earliest theological controversies in the emerging Christian faith was Docetism—a belief that questioned the very humanity of Jesus Christ. Docetism wasn't just a theological curiosity—it was part of a broader struggle in the early Church to define who Jesus was and how divine truth interacted with flesh and blood.

In this article, I’ll explore the definition, theological foundations, and historical trajectory of Docetism, tracing its origins in early Christian communities, its development within theological thought, and the Church's response to it. Through New Testament texts, writings of early Church Fathers, and apocryphal gospels, we’ll examine how this view emerged, why it gained traction, and what ultimately led to its official rejection.

Docetism Definition

The name of this particular Christian heresy comes from the Greek word dokeĩn meaning “to seem” or “to appear.” The reason for this name, which was almost certainly not used by people who believed in it but was given to it by heresy hunters, can be found in the definition of Docetism, provided here by Wilhelm Schneemelcher in the New Testament Apocrypha: Gospels and Related Writings. Vol. 1:

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In other words, one of the key Docetism beliefs is that although Jesus appeared to be a human being during his lifetime, this was a divine trick, making the divine Spirit, the “real” Jesus, seem to possess a physical human body. Bart Ehrman, notes that Docetists believed the physical world to be too messy and full of misery for Jesus to be a part of it:

If this sounds familiar, you may have read my article on the Gnostics—a term and category that is far too broad to accurately include all the groups often put in it. Generally, though, Gnostics believed that the material world had been created by an inferior, or even evil, god, often identified as the God of the Old Testament. The God of the New Testament was supposed to be the true God who sent Jesus into the world. However, suffice it to say that while all Docetists (that we know about) could be classified as Gnostics, not all Gnostics were Docetists.

We’ll look at their beliefs in more detail below. Next, however, let’s dive into the history of this view and how the Church addressed it.

History of the Docetism Heresy: What Were Docetism’s Beliefs?

While we can theorize about why a heresy like Docetism developed, its actual origins are hard to pin down. Scholars have been debating where it came from for decades. For example, in The Suffering of the Impassible God: The Dialectics of Patristic Thought, Paul Gavrilyuk notes that Docetism may have emerged from Jewish Christianity which was more concerned with maintaining strict monotheism and didn’t want Jesus to be seen as another or separate god. This seems plausible, but again, there is no way to determine the origin with any precision.

However, it must have emerged fairly early in the development of Christian thought, as there are a few verses in the New Testament that seem to condemn it, although they don’t use the word Docetism. For instance, in 1 John 4:2, we read that “by this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God.” Even stronger is this verse from 2 John 1:7:

Both these books were written at the very end of the 1st century CE, so we can see that there were at least the beginnings of the Docetism heresy happening at that time. Then, there are the letters of Ignatius of Antioch.

Ignatius was an early 2nd-century bishop from Antioch, Syria, a major center for early Christianity, who was arrested by the Romans and transported to Rome for execution. On the way to Rome, he wrote a number of letters of advice to Christian communities. In his letter to the Christians of Smyrna, a city in Asia Minor (modern day Turkey), Ignatius attacks theological opponents who, from his description of them, may have been Docetists:

In They Went Out from Us: The Identity of the Opponents in First John, Daniel Streett notes that Ignatius' emphasis here, not only on the flesh of Jesus but on his physical suffering, may be an argument against Docetism. Specifically, the idea that Jesus, if he only appeared to have a body, could not have truly suffered.

Late in the 2nd century, another Christian writer, Irenaeus, wrote quite clearly about his opinions of Docetism. In his massive work Against Heresies, he wrote that "Vain indeed are those who allege that He [Jesus] appeared in mere seeming. For these things were not done in appearance only, but in actual reality." He also asserted that "in no other way could we have learned the things of God, unless our Master, existing as the Word, had become man." In other words, if Jesus had not assumed a flesh and blood body, he could not have brought about our salvation at all.

We don’t see the word Docetist (Greek: Dokētaí) in any Christian writings until around the time of Irenaeus in a letter written by another bishop of Antioch named Serapion. Serapion writes that he had found this heresy in an apocryphal gospel called the gospel of Peter. And indeed, the gospel of Peter, probably written in the middle of the 2nd century CE, has one line that might have indicated a docetic tendency, although it’s a bit hard to tell for sure.

This line comes at the point when Jesus has just been nailed to the cross. The gospel says that “he was silent as having no pain.” Note that it doesn’t say he had no pain, just that he acted as if he had no pain. Is this Docetism? Maybe.

Docetism is a bit clearer and more obvious, however, in another apocryphal book called the Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter, likely written in the 3rd century. At one point in this book, Peter has a vision of Jesus being crucified and says

Bart Ehrman notes that this is a truly docetic scene:

Since Docetists believed that Jesus did not really have a human body, they naturally rejected the idea that he was human in any way at all. This idea was vehemently rejected at the First Council of Nicaea in 325 CE, as we can see in the Nicene Creed. While the main purpose behind the council and the Creed was to combat Arianism, the Creed explicitly stated that Jesus

Despite this official rejection, Docetism did not immediately die out. However, by the end of the 1st millennium, all evidence of this heresy disappears.

Interestingly, though, Islam, in its view of Jesus’ crucifixion, seems to have retained a bit of this idea, as we see in this passage from the Quran, which was written in the 7th century CE:

It's hard to know for certain whether the passage was intended to be Docetic, but Muslims generally believe that instead of being crucified, Jesus was instead raised to heaven by God, while a different person was crucified in his place.

Conclusion

From very early on, Christianity was quite diverse. What we now call heresies were merely different forms of Christian belief and practice that eventually lost out to the group scholars now call the proto-orthodox, represented by the majority at the Council of Nicaea. Docetism, a sort of subgroup among Gnostics, was one of these early forms of Christianity.

The whole idea behind Docetism was that Jesus, rather than being both God and human as later affirmed by the proto-orthodox, was a divine being who only appeared to be human. As such, Jesus was far too spiritually refined to actually take on a body from the material plane, which Docetists considered inferior to the spiritual plane.

We see a few anti-docetic references in the New Testament, especially in 1st and 2nd John, which both say that anyone who does not affirm the physical nature of Jesus’ body and the suffering and death that he endured is not a true follower of Christ. After this, letter writers such as Ignatius of Antioch and Irenaeus reaffirmed this message, warning their readers to avoid the teachings of the Docetists in order to follow the true teachings of Christ.

Docetists clearly had their own texts, however, such as the Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter, in which Jesus appears to be crucified, while his real self, bodiless, hovers over the cross laughing at the fact that his murderers can’t see what is really going on.

Eventually, though, the 4th-century Council of Nicaea made plain that Jesus was both human and divine, implying that Docetism was a heresy. This official pronouncement was the beginning of the end of Docetism which eventually died out and disappeared.

By the way, if you’re interested in this topic, look into Bart Ehrman’s course Early Christian Heresies.

Arianism: What is the Arian Heresy in Christianity?

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Have you ever heard about Arianism? In preparing a recent class on power and violence in the Middle Ages, I found myself immersed in the inquisitorial records of Bishop Jacques Fournier, and the meticulous notes of trials he conducted in a small corner of 14th century Southern France.

As I read through these cases, I was struck not only by the precision of the questioning but by the number of voices we no longer hear. For every testimony preserved, countless others were silenced, lost through suppression, fear, or the accidents of transmission.

This imbalance of surviving sources is hardly unique to the Middle Ages. It’s just as true for the earliest centuries of Christianity, where the “heretical” and “unorthodox” were often remembered only through the writings of those who opposed them.

Yet even through this one-sided lens, faint echoes of alternative Christianities remain. Before the triumph of what later became “orthodoxy,” the movement was a patchwork of communities and convictions, each struggling to define who Jesus was and what it meant to worship the one God.

The boundaries that later seemed fixed were, in their own time, fluid and fiercely contested. These early debates weren’t abstract theological exercises but living questions that shaped how believers prayed, organized, and understood salvation itself.

Among the most consequential of these forgotten or marginalized currents was what history has come to call Arianism, a movement that, for a time, commanded the allegiance of emperors, bishops, and entire regions of the Christian world.

Long reduced to the label of “heresy,” it nevertheless represents one of the most important turning points in the effort to define the relationship between Jesus and God.

However, to understand how such a controversy could divide the ancient Church and eventually transform its doctrine, we must first return to the diverse world of early Christianity from which Arianism emerged.

Arian Heresy Within the Broader Early Christian Diversity

To understand Arianism, we must first understand the social and religious world from which it emerged. And that world can be defined by one word: diversity — or, more accurately, by two words: radical diversity. The first centuries of Christianity were marked by a stunning variety of beliefs, practices, and scriptures.

There was no centralized authority, no universally recognized creed, and no fixed canon of sacred writings.

In his bestselling book Lost Christianities, Bart D. Ehrman encapsulates this diversity, noting:

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Ehrman’s summary captures what modern historians continue to emphasize: the earliest Christian movement wasn’t a single, unified body but a mosaic of competing interpretations of Jesus’ identity and mission.

Some groups, such as Marcion and his followers, rejected the Jewish Scriptures altogether, seeing the God of the Old Testament as inferior to the God revealed by Jesus. Others, including a variety of Gnostic communities, produced intricate mythologies describing multiple divine realms, fallen powers, and the human soul’s path back to the ultimate source.

If you’d like to dive deeper into these fascinating early movements and discover how their ideas once rivaled what became mainstream Christianity, you should explore Bart D. Ehrman’s course Earliest Christian Heresies. 

In 8 captivating lectures, Dr. Ehrman uncovers the lost beliefs, rival gospels, and theological battles that shaped the earliest centuries of the faith. Learn about the silent voices of Christian history (those marginalized for centuries) and encounter a side of early Christianity as diverse, surprising, and thought-provoking as the one the winners preserved.

Each of these groups considered itself authentically Christian, tracing its lineage to Jesus’ first followers and claiming to preserve the true understanding of the divine. Their opponents were always the ones who had gone astray.

In that volatile landscape, what later became known as “orthodoxy” was only one of many voices contending for legitimacy.

To put it more bluntly, the distinction between “orthodoxy” and “heresy” didn’t exist from the beginning. Rather, it was the outcome of sustained polemical battles, inherited advantages, and institutional consolidation. 

“Orthodoxy and heresy” are, as Nicol D. Lewis notes, “emic terms, labels developed only within a social group. In other words, many people might have considered themselves to be orthodox and others, heretics. The terms are subjective and therefore not very useful.”

In any case, recognizing this rich and often turbulent diversity is essential for grasping the origins of Arianism. The Arian controversy didn’t appear in a vacuum. It was the product of centuries of debate about the nature of Christ and his relationship to God.

So, before we can define Arianism precisely or trace its historical development, we need to examine those Christological battles that animated the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th centuries — disputes over how the divine and the human could coexist in the person of Jesus.

Who Was Jesus? Christological Battles as Preludes to the Emergence of Arianism

Every Christological debate and polemic that marked the early centuries of Christianity ultimately traces back to the dual character of the New Testament writings themselves.

Within these foundational texts, readers encounter, on the one hand, a profoundly human Jesus, a figure who eats, sleeps, weeps, and prays; who is born, baptized, and executed under Roman authority. He has disciples, friends, opponents, and a family.

In many ways, he resembles other Jewish prophets and teachers who roamed 1st-century Palestine proclaiming some version of the apocalyptic message. 

Yet, within the same collection of writings, we also find affirmations that Jesus was far more than human. The infancy narratives in Matthew and Luke already hint at divine origins; the Gospel of John proclaims that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” 

The language of the New Testament therefore holds together two convictions with equal force (Jesus as fully human and yet, in some sense, divine) creating a tension that could generate sharply different theological emphases in the centuries that followed.

These affirmations point to what Luke T. Johnson has aptly called, “the paradoxical character of the first Christian experience.” The earliest believers were convinced that, in Jesus, they had encountered both God’s decisive revelation and a genuine human being, yet they struggled to articulate how these two dimensions cohered.

The pendulum swings of emphasis point to the impossibility of rendering the experience adequately in linguistic formulae. The problem wasn’t merely semantic. Far from it! It lay at the heart of Christian identity.

To confess that Jesus was both divine and human raised profound questions about God’s unity, the meaning of salvation, and the very boundaries of monotheism inherited from Judaism.

These pendulum swings of emphasis began almost immediately after Jesus’ death and only intensified as Christianity spread across the Greco-Roman world. 

Some communities stressed his divine nature so strongly that his humanity appeared illusory,  a position later labeled Docetism. Others, emphasizing his genuine human life, argued that his divine status was something bestowed upon him by God at a certain point in his life — an Adoptionist view.

Into this long and complex history entered a modest priest from Alexandria named Arius, whose teaching would ignite one of the fiercest controversies the Christian world had ever seen. His attempt to make sense of Jesus’ relationship to God (to define how the Son could be divine without compromising the Father’s supremacy) set off decades of theological and political turmoil that would culminate in the Council of Nicaea — commonly misspelled “Nicea.”

The debate that followed gave rise to what history remembers as Arianism, a movement that forced the Church to clarify, with unprecedented precision, what it meant to call Jesus both God and man.

So, let us now turn to this pivotal figure and ask: Who was Arius, and what was Arianism really about?

The Emergence of Arianism: Arius and the Alexandrian Controversy

The traditional story of Arius is well known and has been told for more than 1500 years. According to this picture, Arius was a presbyter in the city of Alexandria, a learned but stubborn man who taught that the Son of God was a created being, not eternal like the Father.

His slogan, as later remembered by his opponents, was said to be “there was a time when the Son was not.”

In this account, Arius demoted Jesus to a subordinate, semi-divine status, greater than the rest of creation but less than God. The controversy that erupted around him was presented as the Church’s first great internal crisis, forcing bishops across the empire to define the doctrine of the Trinity.

The image of Arius that passed into ecclesiastical memory was that of a calculating heretic, an intellectual troublemaker whose teachings threatened to unravel the unity of the Christian faith.

In this long-established interpretation, Arius became the archetypal villain of Christian history. Later theologians and Church historians, relying on Athanasius of Alexandria’s impassioned polemics, portrayed him as the originator of a heresy so grave that it nearly destroyed Christianity from within.

His theological followers (the so-called Arians) were even depicted as deniers of Jesus’ divinity and corrupters of the Gospel message. Within this framework, the Council of Nicaea in 325 C.E. appeared as the decisive triumph of orthodoxy over heresy, the moment when the true faith was preserved from the dangerous speculations of one misguided priest.

Yet, as contemporary historians have increasingly recognized, this narrative wasn’t the product of neutral reporting but of 4th-century polemical battles in which theological disagreement and personal rivalry became intertwined.

Recent scholarship has moved decisively away from this simplified portrait. As Marilyn Dunn and others have argued, the traditional picture of Arius owes more to Athanasius’ rhetorical construction than to Arius’ own writings or intentions.

The historical Arius, Dunn reminds us, wasn’t an innovator seeking to downgrade Jesus but a conservative priest attempting to defend what he saw as the integrity of Christian monotheism. 

His surviving letters show a man deeply concerned about language that blurred the distinction between Father and Son, fearing that such formulations came dangerously close to the emanationist theologies of Valentinian Gnosticism and the dualistic cosmology of Manichaeism, two popular and competing movements in his day.

Arius’ opposition to the term homoousios (“of the same substance”) stemmed from his desire to avoid any notion that the Son was a physical extension or portion of the Father’s being, an idea that, to him, echoed precisely those heresies the Church had long sought to reject.

In Dunn’s reconstruction, Arius was less a heretic than a pastor and popularizer, a man of learning and conviction who expressed complex theology in accessible forms. 

He wrote hymns and theological songs collected under the title Thalia (a term meaning “banquet”) and may have set them to everyday melodies so that workers and travelers could sing them. This pastoral creativity, far from being subversive, was an attempt to engage ordinary believers in theological reflection. 

Arius also appears to have mobilized women’s participation in his circle, perhaps as a deliberate counter to the influence of Manichaean and Gnostic female teachers in Alexandria. He emerges not as a revolutionary, but as a priest striving to preserve doctrinal clarity in a city known for its intellectual and spiritual ferment. 

His teaching that the Son was begotten “before all ages” and through him all things were made underscores that, in Arius’ view, the Son’s divinity was real, though derivative, distinct from, and subordinate to the Father’s unique unbegottenness.

Dunn’s most striking claim is that Athanasius effectively “invented” Arianism as a coherent heresy. 

After Arius’ death in 336 C.E., Athanasius (Alexander’s successor in the Alexandrian episcopate) fashioned a powerful narrative of orthodoxy under siege, casting himself as the defender of truth against the “Ariomaniacs.”

In his Discourses Against the Arians, he selectively quoted and reinterpreted Arius’ writings, portraying him as one who denied the Son’s divinity outright. Through Athanasius’ extraordinary literary and political influence, this image hardened into “orthodoxy’s” official memory.

The label “Arianism” came to designate a range of later theological positions that often bore little resemblance to what Arius himself had taught. 

In Dunn’s reading, the controversy that bears his name was less about Arius’ own theology than about the power struggles, rivalries, and linguistic uncertainties that marked the Church’s effort to define the mystery of Jesus in philosophical terms.

Whether the traditional theory or Dunn’s more nuanced interpretation comes closer to the historical reality, it remains beyond doubt that the crisis surrounding Arius forced the Church to confront questions it could no longer avoid.

What did it mean to confess that Jesus was both divine and human? How could Christians speak of the Son as begotten without compromising God’s unity or eternity? The debate over these issues would soon move from the streets and churches of Alexandria to the imperial stage.

The first ecumenical council ever convened (in Nicaea in 325 C.E.) would take up these questions with the aim of producing an “official” response from the emerging “orthodox” Church to the challenge posed by Arius and his supporters.

Arianism at the Council of Nicaea and Beyond

Even before 325 C.E., theological and political battles over Arianism had spilled into the open, producing tangible consequences for communities across the eastern Mediterranean.

In 321 C.E., a local synod in Alexandria formally deposed Arius and his followers, accusing them of disturbing ecclesial unity and corrupting doctrine. Arius and several of his clergy fled eastward to Palestine, where they sought protection among sympathetic bishops, most notably Eusebius of Caesarea. 

Other bishops, including Eusebius of Nicomedia, also expressed support for Arius, framing the dispute not as heresy but as a matter of legitimate theological interpretation. So, by the early 320s, the controversy had spread well beyond Egypt and became an empire-wide crisis.

Recognizing that piecemeal solutions (local councils, pastoral letters, and personal mediation) were no longer sufficient, Emperor Constantine decided to change course and organize an ecumenical council in Nicaea. His earlier attempts to reconcile the parties through correspondence and the intervention of his trusted advisor Ossius of Cordoba had failed.

Why did he change his strategy so dramatically? In her study The Early Church, Morwenna Ludlow provides some answers:

In due course, the bishops gathered in Nicaea, a city conveniently located near the imperial residence in Nicomedia. Modern estimates place the number of attendees between 220 and 250, though later tradition inflated the figure to the symbolic “318.”

The council was presided over by Ossius of Cordoba, acting as Constantine’s ecclesiastical advisor, while the emperor himself presided ceremonially, lending imperial legitimacy to the proceedings. 

The agenda was broad (ranging from the date of Easter to issues of church discipline) but the central and most divisive topic remained the relationship between the Father and the Son. 

The assembled bishops debated terminology drawn from Scripture and philosophy, struggling to express how the Son could be divine without compromising monotheism. Eventually, the council produced the now-famous Nicene Creed, declaring the Son to be “begotten, not made, of the same substance (homoousios) as the Father.” 

Arius, along with two Libyan bishops who refused to sign, was excommunicated and exiled, and his writings were ordered burned.

For the emperor, the council’s decisions represented the triumph of unity over division, but for the wider Church they inaugurated a new and long-lasting period of conflict. Despite Constantine’s endorsement of the Nicene Creed, many bishops found its philosophical language unsettling and its reliance on the word homoousios problematic.

In practice, the council had not resolved the theological question but relocated it: from Alexandria’s local churches to the entire Christian world. 

Even Constantine himself began to waver in his enforcement of the creed. Within a few years, he recalled Arius from exile, and imperial policy shifted toward reconciliation. By the time of Constantine’s death in 337, the empire stood deeply divided, with competing interpretations of the Nicene formula already proliferating.

Under Constantine’s successors, Arianism revived with new force. His son Constantius II, ruling the eastern provinces, favored bishops sympathetic to Arius’ position and sought to impose a more moderate theology (often called Homoian) that avoided both the Nicene “same substance” and Arius’ alleged subordinationism.

Numerous regional councils, such as those at Antioch (341) and Sirmium (351), produced alternative creeds aimed at compromise, but, in effect, diluted Nicene terminology. In the West, bishops loyal to Nicaea protested these developments, while in the East, theological camps hardened around competing formulations: homoousios (“same substance”), homoiousios (“similar substance”), and anomoios (“unlike”).

The conflict’s persistence revealed how deeply Christology and imperial politics had become intertwined. Emperors used theological alignments to consolidate power, while bishops leveraged imperial support to advance ecclesiastical agendas.

Far from disappearing, Arianism continued to attract adherents well into the late 4th century, even after the Council of Constantinople (381) reaffirmed the Nicene position and expanded the creed to include the Holy Spirit.

So, the story of Arianism didn’t end with its official condemnation. Through missionary efforts among Germanic peoples (especially by Ulfilas (Wulfila), who translated the Bible into Gothic) Arian Christianity spread among the Visigoths, Ostrogoths, and Vandals. 

When these so-called “barbarian” tribes established kingdoms in the former Roman provinces of Gaul, Hispania, and North Africa, they brought their Arian faith with them. For several centuries, Arian and Nicene Christians coexisted uneasily in the post-Roman West.

Only in the late 6th century, after the conversion of the Visigothic King Reccared I to Catholicism in 589 C.E., did the last major Arian kingdom formally align with Nicene orthodoxy.

Conclusion

Whenever someone asks me why I chose to pursue a doctoral degree in early Christian history, I often point to Arianism and the whole array of Christian movements and beliefs that were almost forgotten. 

In this article, we’ve seen how a single controversy surrounding a priest from Alexandria opened a window into the diversity, conflict, and creativity of the early Church.

What began as an attempt to explain how Jesus could be both divine and human turned into a centuries-long struggle that shaped the very boundaries of Christian “orthodoxy.” It’s a reminder that the history of Christianity isn’t a straight line of unbroken consensus, but a story of debate, change, and sometimes sheer human stubbornness in the face of mystery.

And that’s precisely what makes studying this period so compelling. Beneath the grand councils, imperial decrees, and theological treatises are people, believers trying to make sense of faith, identity, and power in a rapidly changing world.

The legacy of Arianism shows that “heresy” and “orthodoxy” weren’t fixed categories from the start but products of history, negotiation, force, polemics, and conviction. For me, that’s the heart of why early Christian history continues to fascinate.

What is Arianism? It’s an open invitation to explore the captivating world of the earliest Christians. More than 10 years ago, I accepted that invitation and I’m still glad that I did!

Is Jesus God? What 21 Religions, Denominations and Belief Systems Say About His Divinity

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Is Jesus God? It’s one of the most profound and debated questions in religious history—one that has shaped theology, sparked controversy, and influenced billions of lives across centuries. While Christian denominations vary in their interpretations, many affirm Jesus’ divinity. But Christianity isn’t the only worldview with an opinion on Jesus.

What do Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, or Sikhs think about Jesus’ divine status? Do they revere him, ignore him, or reject him entirely? Do Mormons believe Jesus is God? This article explores what 21 different denominations, religions, and belief systems say about Jesus’ divinity. Whether you're a believer, a skeptic, or simply curious, in this article, I’ll provide a deeper understanding of how one figure can mean so many different things to so many different people.

A Snapshot of Differing Views About the Deity of Jesus

People’s belief systems often affect their perceptions of Jesus. The chart below shows some of those differences at a glance, but you’ll find deeper analyses of some of the particulars later in the article.

Is Jesus God? A Look at Jesus’ Perception of Himself

Did Jesus say he was God? Did he think he was God? To the first question, we can give a qualified no: nowhere in the Gospels did Jesus explicitly say “I am God.” In fact, Bart Ehrman points out that in the Synoptic Gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—Jesus never claims to be God in any way. He does claim to be the Son of Man (referred to in the book of Daniel) and the Messiah. However, most of Jesus’ teachings in those Gospels are about the coming Kingdom of God, and not about himself.

It's only in the Gospel of John that Jesus talks about himself. In fact, that’s almost all he talks about! For example, in John 8:58, he tells a group who don’t believe in him that “Before Abraham was, I am.” In this sentence, he not only claims to have been alive long before the patriarch Abraham (1,800 years before Jesus) but also uses the name of God from Exodus 3:13-14— I AM. In John 10:30 he says “I and the Father are one,” and in 14:9 he says “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” It seems pretty clear: Jesus—or at least John’s Jesus— claimed to be God. Or did he?

It's clear that the author of John thought Jesus was God in human form, although perhaps not God the Father. However, John was the last of our canonical Gospels written. For this reason, Ehrman asks if Jesus had indeed said these things, why would the Synoptic Gospels have left them out? In his opinion, these were later theological and Christological developments superimposed back onto Jesus, who likely never claimed to be God.

Are there other verses outside the Gospels that claim that Jesus is God? In Philippians 2:5-11, Paul quotes a hymn that he likely didn’t write himself about the status of Jesus. The first part says this:

Scholars debate the intended meaning of this section, but it is at least possible that Paul believed that Jesus originally “existed in the form of God” and then became human. In Colossians, a book that claims to be written by Paul but probably wasn’t, we see in 1:15 that Jesus is “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.” Later on in Colossians 2:9, the author says of Jesus, “in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily.” Finally, in Hebrews 1:3, the anonymous author says that Jesus “is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being.”

While these verses all seem to be saying that Jesus is God, they are written about Jesus rather than being Jesus’ own words. Certainly some NT authors came to believe that Jesus was God in some sense, but this does not guarantee that Jesus himself claimed it.

But if Jesus was God, why would he pray to God the Father in the Gospels (Matthew 11:25-26, Luke 23:34, John 12:27-28)? Are God and Jesus the same person? Christian theologians often note that, although in the context of the Trinity Jesus and God are one, they are also distinct persons who communicate with each other. This is why Jesus communicates with the Father in the Bible.

Do Christians pray to God or Jesus? The answer is both. Although the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are considered distinct persons within the Trinity, they all make up one God (or Godhead, in theological terms). This means that prayer to one is the same as prayer to all three. Orthodox theologian Kallistos Ware writes that “even in praying to Jesus, the other two persons [of the Trinity] are also present, although they are not named.”

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Is Jesus “a god” or “The God?” For the vast majority of Christians, the doctrine of the Trinity makes clear that Jesus is part of the Godhead: he is “The God.” The answer to this question is more complicated in some forms of Christianity, though. I’ll address that later.

Having answered some common questions about whether Jesus is God, let’s move on to look at what some of the world’s faith traditions believe about Jesus, beginning with branches of Christianity.

Do Catholics Believe Jesus Was God?

Catholics absolutely believe that Jesus was God. We can find this belief in some of the Catholic Church’s earliest quotes:

“Christ is the bond that unites us, because he is both God and man.” - St. Cyril of Alexandria (375-444 CE)

“Lord of the universe, Christ hid his infinite glory and took the nature of a servant.” St. Leo the Great, pope (400-461 CE)

Modern Catholics continue in this belief.

Do Eastern Orthodox Christians Believe That Jesus is God?

The Catholic and Orthodox churches split about 1,000 years ago, but they still share the belief that Jesus was both fully human and fully God. Like Catholics, the Orthodox recite the Nicene Creed which says that Jesus was “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God.”

Do Mainline Protestants Believe Jesus Is God?

In general, all mainline Protestant churches maintain a belief in Jesus as God. For example, in Theology for Everyman, Presbyterian theologian John Gerstner said “We must either worship Christ as God or despise or pity Him as man.”

Do Evangelicals Believe Jesus Is God?

The statement of faith from the National Association of Evangelicals says “We believe in the deity of our Lord Jesus Christ.” It could hardly be clearer than that.

Do Jehovah’s Witnesses Believe Jesus Is God?

This answer is more complicated. In Jehovah's Witnesses: Portrait of a Contemporary Religious Movement, Andrew Holden writes that Jehovah’s Witnesses reject the doctrine of the Trinity as unscriptural. Jesus is seen as a divine mediator between God and humans but is subordinate to God and not strictly God himself. They believe the same of the Holy Spirit. These three live as separate divine beings rather than parts of the same God.

Do Mormons (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) Believe That Jesus Is God?

Like Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons reject the doctrine of the Trinity. Instead, they believe that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are three separate divine beings who are united in their intent. They still believe Jesus is their Savior, but not that he is, strictly speaking, God.

Having answered questions about some branches of Christian thought, let’s look at what other long-established world religions believe about Jesus.

Other Religious Traditions on Jesus’ Divinity

What does Judaism say about the belief that Jesus is God? As strict monotheists, Jews do not accept the divinity of Jesus (or anyone besides God himself). They also reject the idea of Jesus as the Messiah. The United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism states that a Jew who believes in the divinity of Jesus and that Jesus was the Messiah has "crossed the line out of the Jewish community."

Do Muslims believe Jesus is God? Muslims have a great reverence for Jesus as a prophet. They believe that like Moses, Isaiah, and many others, Jesus was a great messenger of God but fully human. A kind of creedal statement from the Quran (2:136) says “We believe in Allah, and the revelation given to us, and to Abraham, Isma’il, Isaac, Jacob, and the Tribes, and that given to Moses and Jesus, and that given to (all) prophets from their Lord.”

Do adherents of the Baha’i faith believe that Jesus was God? Those following the Baha’i faith believe that Jesus was one of many prophets who were manifestations of God, according to Juan Cole, “equally lauding Jesus and Zoroaster, Buddha and Muhammad.” Jesus reflected divine attributes but was not God as such.

What do Hindus believe about the divinity of Jesus? Hinduism is a vast collection of diverse beliefs and practices. However, their idea of the avatar, a human manifestation of a god, seems similar to the Christian notion that Jesus was God incarnate. Even so, this leads any Hindus to see Jesus as one of many divine avatars, like Krishna. As a polytheistic religion in general, Hinduism tends to believe that Jesus is not particularly unique among these avatars.

Do Buddhists believe Jesus is God? First of all, Buddhists don’t believe in a creator god. Second, Buddhism had its origins around 500 years before Jesus was born. For this reason, Buddhist scriptures say nothing about Jesus and certainly don’t consider him divine. However, some modern Buddhists note that Buddha and Jesus would have agreed on some things, such as the importance of non-violence.

What do Sikhs believe about Jesus’ divinity? Having emerged partially from Islam in the late Middle Ages, Sikhism agrees with Islam that Jesus was an important messenger of God but not in any way divine.

What do Jains believe about whether Jesus is God? Jainism places great emphasis on the concept of ahimsa or “non-harm.” As such, modern Jains, while they believe that Jesus was merely a great human teacher, find common ground with Jesus’ teachings on the notion of non-violence. They also agree with his teachings on universal love, compassion, and forgiveness. However, Jains, like Buddhists, do not believe in a creator god, and, therefore, do not believe Jesus or anyone else is divine.

Do Zoroastrians believe that Jesus is God? Zoroastrianism was once a popular religious tradition, principally in Persia (modern-day Iran), although there are still a small number of adherents practicing today. However, modern Zoroastrians don’t consider Jesus to be a prophet or a divine figure, saying instead that their founder, Zoroaster, was the true prophet.

Do Taoists believe that Jesus is God? Like Buddhism, Taoism began long before Jesus was born. However, modern Taoists are certainly aware of Jesus today and say that he was a human sage who lived in accordance with the Tao, the underlying principle of the universe.

What do Confucianists believe about Jesus’ divinity? Confucius lived long before Jesus and did not believe in a creator god. However, he did believe in the necessity of ritual and a universal order which was something like a god, though far less personal. While there are still practicing Confucianists today, they don’t seem to take any position at all on Jesus.

What do Shintoists believe about Jesus? Unlike Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, adherents of Shintoism, Japan’s indigenous religion, believe in many gods, all of whom are found in nature. As such, Shinto practitioners don’t really have a belief about Jesus at all.

Do Rastafarians believe Jesus was God? Rastafarians believe in the Judeo-Christian God, whom they call Jah. In Black Paradise: The Rastafarian Movement, Peter Clarke writes that Rastafarians do believe that Jesus was God incarnate, but they reject the depiction of him as a white European, believing instead that he was a black African.

Do Scientologists believe Jesus was God? Scientology is a very recent religious movement, first established in 1954. Scientologists believe that all spiritual teachers, including Buddha, Moses, Jesus, Zoroaster, and Confucius, were important communicators of wisdom but were all thoroughly human.

Finally, what do non-religious movements or modes of thought say about the divinity of Jesus? For atheists, Jesus was either a historical figure or, for some, a myth. Either way, atheists don’t believe in the concept of divinity at all, so Jesus could only have been human.

Agnostics take their name from the Greek word for “not-knowing.” As such, they do not claim to know or even to speculate on God, waiting instead for evidence on which to base any claim of knowledge. Because of this, agnostics mostly agree with atheists about Jesus. They acknowledge that the historical evidence we have of Jesus points to a mere human being, although even his existence cannot be entirely verified with total certainty.

Finally, humanists believe in the primacy of human reason and ethics to the exclusion of any supernatural beliefs. As such, they do not believe in the divinity of anyone. As humanist author Emma C. Williams puts it, “we do not believe that Christ was the son of God, nor do we believe that he died for our sins and was resurrected.”

Conclusion

Christianity remains the largest religion in the world, boasting 2.4 billion adherents. However, there are many forms of Christianity and not all of them agree on every topic. Nevertheless, the significance of Jesus is paramount for all of them, although with some subtle differences.

As for the other world religions, there are far too many for me to cover all of their views about Jesus here. Some, like Islam and Sikhism, believe that Jesus was an important prophet of God but was not divine. Others, like Judaism and Zoroastrianism, reject even Jesus’ status as a prophet. Still others, having been established long before the life of Jesus and in an entirely separate area of the world, seem to barely regard him at all.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief look into Jesus’ significance in world religious traditions and that it inspires you to become religiously literate beyond your own tradition.

Pope Leo XIV (His Life, Beliefs, and papal ascent)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Habemus Papam. “We have a pope.” These words were pronounced by Cardinal Dominique Mamberti on May 8th at approximately 7:30 PM, igniting a wave of elation and applause among the thousands gathered in St. Peter’s Square. With the traditional formula, Mamberti announced that the College of Cardinals (an institution formally established in 1059 to advise and elect the bishop of Rome) had reached its decision.

The new pope of the Catholic Church is Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost, now Pope Leo XIV: The 266th pontiff in the line of succession and first ever to be born in the United States. As the news rapidly spread across the globe, I was met with the inevitable question: What can we expect from this new pope?

Every papal election marks a moment of historical consequence, not only for the Catholic Church’s 1.3 billion adherents but for global geopolitics, interreligious dialogue, and ethical discourse on a range of urgent social issues. 

A new pope embodies, to some extent, the hopes and anxieties of the cardinals who elected him. But he also carries the burden of expectation from a watching world that increasingly questions the Church’s place in the modern age.

In the days and months ahead, commentators will scrutinize every gesture, homily, and appointment made by Pope Leo XIV. But already, with the choice of name and the tone of his first words, he has begun to shape a papal identity.

In what follows, we’ll look more closely at who Leo XIV is, what the choice of his papal name may signify, and what trajectory he might chart, whether in continuity with his predecessor, Pope Francis, or in a new direction altogether.

From Robert Francis Prevost to Pope Leo XIV: A Short Biography

Robert Francis Prevost was born on September 14, 1955, in Chicago, Illinois, to Louis Marius Prevost, of French and Italian descent, and Mildred Martínez, of Spanish heritage. Raised in the suburb of Dolton, he was immersed in Catholic life from an early age, serving as an altar boy and participating actively in his parish community.

Prevost pursued higher education at Villanova University, an Augustinian institution, earning a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics in 1977. He then entered the Order of Saint Augustine, professing solemn vows in 1981.

He was ordained a priest in 1982 after completing a Master of Divinity at the Catholic Theological Union in Chicago. Furthering his theological education, he obtained a Licentiate and Doctorate in Canon Law from the Pontifical University of Saint Thomas Aquinas in Rome.

His pastoral journey led him to Peru in 1985, where he served as a missionary, seminary professor, and eventually as Bishop of Chiclayo from 2015 to 2023. His deep commitment to the Peruvian people earned him dual citizenship and the affectionate moniker “Latin Yankee.”

In 2001, Prevost was elected Prior General of the Augustinian Order, a position he held until 2013. His leadership extended to the Vatican when Pope Francis appointed him Prefect of the Dicastery for Bishops and President of the Pontifical Commission for Latin America in 2023. He was elevated to the College of Cardinals later that year.

Omen Est Nomen: What’s in a Name?

One of the first significant decisions a newly elected pope makes is choosing his pontifical name. This tradition dates back to the year 533, when Mercurius, bearing a distinctly pagan-sounding name, opted for John II to symbolize a new (Christian) identity. Since then, the chosen name serves as an indication of the new pope’s aspirations, values, and the legacy he hopes to emulate.

By choosing the name Leo XIV, Robert F. Prevost deliberately aligns himself with some of the most influential and historically significant figures ever to occupy the Chair of Saint Peter.

The first and perhaps most revered Leo, Leo I (440-461), often known as Leo the Great, profoundly shaped papal authority. He vigorously asserted the Petrine doctrine, the theological cornerstone emphasizing the primacy of the pope as the spiritual successor of the Apostle Peter. 

Leo I’s theological mastery was most clearly displayed in his celebrated document, known simply as the “Tome,” delivered to the Council of Chalcedon (451). In this theological treatise, Leo articulated the doctrine of Christ’s dual nature (fully human and fully divine), establishing a theological standard that resonates to this day. Beyond theology, Leo was also a formidable diplomat.

At a time when the Roman imperial authority was crumbling, he famously confronted Attila the Hun in 452, persuading him to abandon plans to invade and devastate Rome. Leo I also left an extensive literary legacy: Around 150 letters and 96 sermons, unprecedented at the time.

Centuries later, Leo X (1513-1521) presided during a tumultuous epoch for the Catholic Church. Initially favorable toward humanist and Renaissance ideals, Leo X dramatically shaped church history by excommunicating Martin Luther in 1521, inadvertently igniting the Protestant Reformation.

His papacy also offers a striking example of shifting alliances: initially, Leo X warmly supported King Henry VIII of England, honoring him with the title Defender of the Faith after Henry authored a treatise against Luther. Tragically for the unity of Christendom, that very relationship soured dramatically in subsequent years, eventually culminating in England's break with Rome and the establishment of the Anglican Church.

Leo XIII (1878-1903) occupies yet another essential place in papal history. His long pontificate navigated the difficult realities of modernity and political upheaval. Profoundly skeptical of socialism, which he famously denounced as a “murderous pestilence,” Leo XIII was equally wary of democracy, believing it to be incompatible with the divinely ordained order.

Yet he also demonstrated considerable political pragmatism, recognizing that cooperation was possible, even necessary, with secular governments that were not openly hostile to the Church.

Perhaps his most lasting achievement was his landmark encyclical, Rerum Novarum (1891), which addressed the industrial-age challenges of workers' rights, poverty, and economic injustice.

By selecting the name Leo XIV, Pope Robert Francis Prevost signals an awareness of (and perhaps an ambition toward) the extraordinary legacies of his predecessors. Each Pope Leo uniquely navigated crises of theology, diplomacy, and societal change, and each profoundly influenced the course of history. So, what can we expect from Leo XIV? 

Continuity or Change? Pope Leo XIV and the Politics of the Church

One of my postgraduate professors used to caution us frequently that predictions of the future aren’t within the historian’s purview. Every time historians have attempted to predict future events, he argued, they have failed miserably. Evidently, he was skeptical of Cicero’s famous dictum, Historia est magistra vitae. 

Yet he had a valid point. Historical understanding is fundamentally retrospective.

Nonetheless, the historical past can provide vital clues about the direction a leader might take. Therefore, before I venture into any speculation regarding Pope Leo XIV’s future trajectory, I must acknowledge that my observations, while grounded in evidence, remain inherently subjective, based upon scrutiny of the new Pope’s previous life, statements, and actions.

If his past actions and declarations are indicative, we might reasonably expect certain continuities from Pope Francis, especially regarding social justice, migration, and environmental stewardship, but with possibly more pronounced conservative stances on moral and ethical issues.

First, Pope Leo XIV’s record on migration clearly suggests continuity with Francis’ compassionate stance. As the bishop of Chiclayo in Peru, Prevost publicly advocated for Venezuelan refugees, viewing them as victims of an oppressive political and economic regime under Nicolás Maduro.

His criticism extended beyond Latin America. As it turns out, he openly condemned restrictive U.S. immigration policies during the Trump administration, arguing that a truly Christian approach must transcend national boundaries.

His advocacy for humane immigration policies was neither subtle nor infrequent. Rather, it was explicit and vocal, drawing attention from global media.

This suggests that Pope Leo XIV will likely continue the advocacy pioneered by Pope Francis for migrants and refugees worldwide, aligning closely with the social teachings outlined in encyclicals such as Fratelli Tutti and earlier papal messages on social justice.

However, Pope Leo XIV’s social policy is unlikely to represent a mere continuation of Francis’ agenda across all fronts. His previous declarations on “gender ideology” and sexuality reveal a markedly more conservative approach.

For example, in 2016, Prevost explicitly opposed the integration of gender theory into Peruvian educational curricula, criticizing such programs for promoting ideas that aren’t based in reality. He noted: 

Earlier, in 2012, Prevost also expressed disapproval of media representations he believed normalized same-sex relationships and parenting. In his address to the Synod of the Augustinian Order, he asserted:

Although Francis also maintained traditional teachings, he adopted a more conciliatory pastoral tone. Pope Leo XIV may thus steer the Church towards a more traditional doctrinal emphasis, particularly regarding sexuality and gender.

Similarly, Pope Leo XIV’s vocal advocacy for pro-life positions is unmistakable. He has openly participated in anti-abortion initiatives such as the March for Life and clearly articulated his opposition to euthanasia and capital punishment. By doing that, he reflected traditional Church teachings rooted in John Paul II’s encyclical Evangelium Vitae.

Such positions suggest no imminent doctrinal shifts (Would that even be possible?) but rather reinforce longstanding Church teachings. This may reassure traditionalist factions within the Church, offering a sense of doctrinal continuity after a period perceived by some as characterized by ambiguity under Francis’ pontificate.

Environmental concerns are another domain where Pope Leo XIV has explicitly aligned with his predecessor. He has articulated the moral urgency of addressing climate change, echoing Francis’ environmental activism as expressed in the encyclical Laudato Si'. However, it remains to be seen how intensely he will pursue ecological issues.

In ecclesiastical governance, Leo XIV seems cautiously open to greater inclusion. Notably, his role in appointing women to significant positions within the Vatican hierarchy signals a willingness to extend their involvement in Church leadership, even if ordination itself remains off-limits.

In sum, I think Pope Leo XIV will likely represent both continuity and change. His record indicates that he will maintain Pope Francis’ progressive humanitarian legacy concerning migrants, refugees, and environmental stewardship, while potentially reasserting more traditional stances on morality and sexuality.

Conclusion

When Josef Stalin sarcastically asked, “How many divisions does the pope have?” he profoundly misunderstood the nature of papal power. Stalin measured authority by the count of tanks and soldiers, neglecting the intangible yet potent influence wielded by moral leadership, spiritual guidance, and the ability to shape global discourse. 

Indeed, history has repeatedly shown that the power of the papacy transcends conventional metrics of strength.

The election of Pope Leo XIV places the Catholic Church once again at a pivotal juncture. His choice of name aligns him with formidable historical predecessors: Leo the Great’s theological clarity, Leo X’s dramatic entanglements during the Reformation, and Leo XIII’s enduring social teachings.

Pope Leo XIV, therefore, inherits the complex challenges of contemporary society, ranging from migration crises and socio-economic inequalities to profound ethical debates over human dignity and identity. Not to mention issues of Biblical exegesis in the post-modern world! 

What remains uncertain is precisely how Pope Leo XIV will navigate these issues. Will his papacy be marked by cautious continuity with Pope Francis’ compassionate approach, or will he lean toward a renewed emphasis on doctrinal firmness and traditional morality?

As a scholar deeply influenced by the Catholic tradition, I earnestly hope Pope Leo XIV can chart a path forward that responsibly engages contemporary concerns without compromising the core doctrines of the Church. 

Only time will reveal how he’ll balance these profound responsibilities entrusted to him. In the end, Habemus Papam is only the first step – the initial proclamation that signals both closure and commencement, a moment in which the known past and uncertain future intersect.

Who Founded the Catholic Church? (TIMELINE)

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Two years ago, standing in front of the magnificent Basilica of St. Peter in Vatican City, as a historian, I couldn't evade a particular question: Who founded the Catholic Church? Was it Jesus himself? Or, perhaps, Peter — the very apostle after whom this impressive basilica is named? 

Such thoughts, standing at the heart of Catholicism, seemed inevitable. Millions of Catholics worldwide hold firmly to the belief that their Church traces directly back to the historical Jesus, with Peter appointed as the first bishop, a lineage claimed unbroken for nearly two millennia.

Yet, stepping back from theological beliefs and traditions, from a strictly historical perspective, the answer proves far more complex and nuanced.

To truly understand the historical roots of the Catholic Church, we must first examine the earliest decades after Jesus' crucifixion, beginning with the conviction among his followers that he had risen from the dead.

In this article, we'll trace these crucial historical developments step by step. We'll start by examining how Christianity grew and spread following Jesus’ crucifixion, explore its early expansion into Rome, investigate how a distinct hierarchy of leadership emerged there, and ultimately examine how the papacy rose to prominence.

By understanding these historical roots, we can better comprehend the fascinating complexities behind the formation of one of the world’s oldest and most influential religious institutions.

Before we delve into the question “Who founded the Catholic Church?”, there's another exciting opportunity I simply must share with you!

Dr. Bart D. Ehrman has a fascinating course titled Paul and Jesus: The Great Divide. In this engaging and insightful course, Dr. Ehrman explores two of the most pivotal figures in Christian history – revealing striking similarities, profound differences, and how their contrasting messages shaped Christianity as we know it today. If you're curious about the historical origins of the Christian religion, this course is an absolute must!

Who Founded the Catholic Church: From Crucifixion to the First Community

Who founded the Roman Catholic Church? In his book L'Évangile et l'Église (The Gospel and the Church), French biblical scholar Alfred Loisy famously declared, “Jésus annonçait le Royaume, et c'est l'Église qui est venue” (“Jesus proclaimed the Kingdom, and it was the Church that arrived”).

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This provocative statement, which ultimately earned Loisy excommunication and significant outrage, raises a crucial historical question: Did Jesus himself envision the highly structured Church we know today? The short answer, historically speaking, is probably not.

Jesus preached about the imminent coming of God's Kingdom but never about founding a highly institutionalized religion.

Yet, within mere decades after Jesus’ crucifixion, precisely such an institution began to form, driven by a belief that set Jesus' followers apart from other Jewish sects: The conviction that he had been raised from the dead.

Without this foundational belief, Jesus might have been remembered merely as one of many messianic preachers who came and went in first-century Palestine, leaving no lasting religious legacy.

Initially, the community of believers was modest in size and centered exclusively in Jerusalem. According to the Acts of the Apostles, shortly after Jesus’ ascension into heaven, this first Christian community numbered approximately 120 followers — all Jews who remained in Jerusalem.

As Thomas Bokenkotter notes, “For a time the Church remained completely Jewish, a sect within Israel of those who believed in the resurrection of Jesus and regarded him as the promised Messiah who was about to come again to definitively establish the reign of God.” 

At this early stage, there would have been little need for formal organization or elaborate hierarchy. The term “church” itself could be somewhat misleading to modern readers, as the original Greek term ekklesia simply meant an “assembly” or “community,” lacking any developed institutional structure.

Still, even at these humble beginnings, elements were already emerging that would profoundly shape future Christian identity and worship. Jesus' life and death provided pivotal symbolic acts that his followers soon ritualized. His final meal with his disciples became the foundation for the Eucharist, a central act of Christian worship commemorating his sacrifice.

Likewise, the Incarnation (the belief that God became flesh in Jesus) is powerfully proclaimed at the very beginning of the Gospel of John, which set theological cornerstones upon which the church would later build.

Returning to Loisy's provocative insight, it seems historically accurate that Jesus himself likely never envisioned the structured Church that would emerge centuries later. Nonetheless, the great mysteries surrounding Jesus’ life, death, and especially his resurrection profoundly shaped how his earliest followers understood him and themselves.

Thus, from the humble beginnings of a small Jewish community in Jerusalem, driven by faith in the resurrection, emerged a movement that would gradually evolve into one of history's most influential institutions: The Catholic Church. How did that happen exactly? Let’s take a look!

Who Created the Catholic Church: Timeline

Before we explore in detail the gradual emergence of the Catholic Church following Jesus' death, we decided to craft a clear timeline highlighting some pivotal moments. (You're welcome! We know timelines are awesome — almost as awesome as our readers!)

Who Founded the Catholic Church: From Jerusalem to Rome

The Book of Acts suggests, almost certainly with idealization, that the earliest Christian community in Jerusalem shared their possessions, living in harmony. 

Even if somewhat romanticized, this portrayal reveals that early followers of Jesus (more accurately described historically as Jewish followers of Jesus) aimed at communal solidarity.

However, idealization aside, Acts does give us valuable insights into conflicts within this nascent community. It explicitly mentions tensions between Jewish followers who were Hellenized, speaking Greek and adopting Greek customs, and those who remained culturally Jewish and spoke Aramaic. 

The greatest controversy that arose in the early decades after Jesus' crucifixion was whether Gentiles could become full members of the community without first being circumcised and committing themselves to follow Jewish law.

It was at Antioch, one of the earliest centers of Christianity outside Jerusalem, that this crucial issue came dramatically to the fore. 

There, the followers of Jesus first preached openly to Gentiles and dared to baptize them without requiring circumcision or adherence to Mosaic Law. As a result, a more inclusive, 'liberal' approach gradually emerged, welcoming Gentiles into the community without insisting they become fully Jewish first.

The Apostle Paul's influence proved decisive at precisely this juncture. As James Hitchcock notes, “Observance of the Law of Moses was the essence of Judaism, but Paul made a radical break with that tradition, dismissing 'the Law' as a barrier that Christ had broken down, thereby giving man a new spiritual freedom.”

In doing so, Paul opened Christianity to the broader Greco-Roman world, embracing a universalistic approach that dovetailed perfectly with the Church's missionary impulse — a missionary fervor unique in the ancient religious landscape, as historian Martin Goodman has convincingly shown.

Despite these rapid theological developments, early Christian communities lacked any highly structured system of governance. 

As Hans von Campenhausen illustrates in his study, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries, Paul's letters reveal groups organized rather loosely, without sharply defined roles. Leadership was often charismatic, based on personal gifts and spiritual authority rather than formal hierarchies.

By the end of the first century, however, we start seeing a more structured leadership emerging: the so-called Pastoral Epistles (1-2 Timothy and Titus) explicitly reference “bishops” (episkopoi) and “presbyters” (elders), indicating an early phase of organizational structure emerging within these scattered communities.

In the early second century, these roles developed further, eventually giving rise to the model scholars call “monoepiscopacy,” the presence of a single bishop presiding over the community, supported by a collective of presbyters.

Ignatius of Antioch played a crucial role in promoting this hierarchical structure. Writing during his journey to martyrdom around 110 CE, Ignatius insisted that unity and doctrinal purity required a strong bishop overseeing a distinct and structured church community. 

Indeed, as Christianity expanded, bishops increasingly became central authorities in their local communities, shaping beliefs and enforcing orthodoxy.

Remarkably, it was also Ignatius who first explicitly used the phrase “Catholic Church” (ekklesia katholike), meaning something universal or “according to the whole.” At this early stage, the term didn’t indicate a single centralized institution but rather a unified, translocal community of believers. 

Yet, as Paula Fredriksen, referring to 2nd century Christianity, insightfully notes, “A unified translocal church, in short, was a notion created not by social reality but by the demands of rhetoric – my side, since true, is uniform; yours, false, must therefore be pluriform.”

In other words, the very idea of a universal (or “Catholic”) church emerged as a rhetorical strategy, designed precisely to counteract the growing diversity within second-century Christianity, particularly as new movements like Gnosticism challenged the authority and teachings of communities that would eventually label themselves “orthodox.”

Thus, paradoxically, it was precisely the proliferation of diverse interpretations — later labeled “heresies” — that accelerated the institutionalization of Christian leadership, organization, and doctrine. 

The designation “Catholic Church,” coined by Ignatius, reflected an aspiration more than reality — an attempt to establish a unified identity amid the striking diversity of second-century Christianity.  

It marked the initial steps toward forming what scholars today would call the “Catholic Church.” The crucial period, however, only came with the conversion of the Emperor Constantine. It was during the 4th and 5th centuries that the Catholic Church solidified its doctrines, practices, and hierarchy.

But before we turn our attention to the post-Constantine Church, let’s step back and take a brief look at the beginnings of Christianity in Rome.

The Emergence and the Development of Christianity in Rome

Who started the Catholic Church? Catholics traditionally trace the origins of the papal office in Rome directly back to Saint Peter, although historically, it remains almost impossible to establish a clear lineage.

Peter probably traveled to Rome, and ancient tradition holds that he died there during Nero's persecutions around 64 C.E. But, notably, Peter didn’t found the Christian community in Rome, and we do not know exactly who did.

The earliest phase of Roman Christianity, as Peter Lampe notes, remains “shrouded in haze.” According to Lampe, Christianity likely entered Rome through established trade routes linking the eastern Mediterranean to Italy, particularly the critical trade corridor connecting Puteoli with Rome itself.

The earliest followers of Jesus in the city were probably Jewish Christians or “God-fearers” associated with Rome’s synagogue communities rather than converts made by direct apostolic activity.

The earliest solid evidence of Christians in Rome coincides with conflicts in the 40s C.E. within Jewish synagogues over a figure Suetonius identifies as “Chrestus.” 

This turmoil prompted Emperor Claudius to expel from Rome key Jewish figures involved, an event scholars usually date around 49 C.E. Aquila and Priscilla, prominent early Christians who later appear in Paul's letters, were among those expelled, confirming Christianity’s early and controversial presence within Rome’s Jewish communities.

Over the next century, the initially informal and loosely connected Roman Christian communities developed increasingly defined leadership structures.

By the close of the 2nd century, communities had become markedly hierarchical. Bishops in major urban centers (Rome, Antioch, Alexandria) held considerable authority, surpassing the influence of bishops in smaller surrounding towns and paving the way for the concept of metropolitan bishopric.

Rome’s prominence among these bishoprics emerged not merely through ecclesiastical administration but also due to powerful theological and historical rhetoric. Central to this rhetoric was the tradition, well-established by the late second century, that both Paul and Peter had died in Rome. No other city in the Roman Empire could argue that!

Irenaeus of Lyon particularly emphasized this claim, arguing that Rome’s church represented the ultimate model of fidelity due to the direct apostolic lineage of its bishops. 

While contemporary scholars question the historical veracity of Irenaeus' apostolic succession and generally agree that Peter almost certainly wasn’t Rome’s first bishop, the rhetorical power of this tradition permanently shaped Christianity's collective memory and contributed significantly to Rome's ecclesiastical preeminence.

Finally, Rome’s religious prominence took on political power in the wake of Constantine’s conversion to Christianity in the 4th century, when the organizational system of the Catholic Church was firmly based, giving rise to the Church we know today.

From Bishop to Pope: The Rise of Papacy and the Catholic Church

This description by French historian Paul Veyne neatly captures the historical significance of Emperor Constantine's conversion. Indeed, Constantine's embrace of Christianity provided the Catholic Church with crucial political backing and, in times of crisis, even military support.

His conversion marked the beginning of a profound transformation: The Church transitioned from a persecuted minority to an openly imperially supported institution.

The fourth and fifth centuries, shaped decisively by imperial patronage, were vital in the development of the Catholic Church's foundational structures, practices, and doctrines. These were centuries marked by intense theological debates concerning the nature of Christ, the Trinity, and the precise relationship between Christ’s humanity and divinity.

Such issues were central to four pivotal ecumenical councils convened between 325 and 451 — Nicaea (325), Constantinople (381), Ephesus (431), and Chalcedon (451). These councils had tremendous and lasting influence, shaping theological orthodoxy for most Christian traditions.

But who founded the Catholic Church as we know it institutionally? Historically speaking, the answer lies less in a single person or moment and more in a gradual institutional evolution spanning centuries.

Yet one figure stands out as pivotal during this period: the Bishop of Rome. The rise of the papacy (initially simply the Roman episcopate) emerged gradually from the late third century onward. By the late 4th century, the title “pope” (papa), meaning “father,” was being used regularly for certain bishops, most notably the bishop of Rome. 

The earliest known Roman bishop consistently addressed as “pope” was Siricius (384-399 C.E.). Siricius not only embraced the title but used it explicitly to assert authority, setting precedents for later claims to universal jurisdiction within the Church.

The prominence of the Roman papacy significantly increased during the 5th century, driven in part by Rome’s symbolic prestige as the supposed final resting place of apostles Peter and Paul. Bishops of Rome (now clearly "popes") actively took part in theological controversies, doctrinal definitions, and administrative oversight across wide geographical areas.

Pope Leo I, known to history as Leo the Great (440-461), stands out as an exceptional example. Leo vigorously promoted papal primacy and explicitly articulated Rome’s theological authority in his famous Tome, a critical document read at the Council of Chalcedon (451).

Perhaps the most iconic example of Pope Leo’s stature occurred in 452, when Attila the Hun threatened to sack Rome. Leo personally confronted Attila near Mantua, negotiating with enough moral and political authority that the Hun turned his armies away from the city.

Although historians debate the exact reasons Attila withdrew, Leo’s dramatic intervention vividly illustrates the papacy’s increasing prominence and prestige.

Thus, between the conversion of Constantine and the pontificate of Leo the Great, the foundations for the medieval papacy and the Catholic Church's enduring institutional structure were solidified.

The Roman papacy gradually transformed from a respected bishopric into the central authority within Western Christianity, politically influential and theologically decisive. This process of institutionalization helps us understand why the seemingly simple question, “Who founded the Catholic Church?” resists a simple historical answer.

In other words, the Catholic Church as we know it wasn’t the creation of any single founder but the outcome of centuries of theological debate, institutional growth, political influence, and historical circumstance. To put it bluntly, there is no single founder of the first Catholic Church.

Conclusion

It was more than 150 years ago that Alfred Loisy stirred controversy and found himself expelled from the Catholic Church for asserting that the historical Jesus never intended to create a structured community that would last 2,000 years.

Yet, history unfolded precisely in that direction — though certainly not in a straightforward manner. Throughout my school years, religious education classes taught me the common view that the Catholic Church traces directly back to the apostle Peter, purportedly selected by Jesus himself to be the head of the new community.

However, as a historian of early Christianity, I now understand that Loisy was much closer to the truth than my high school teacher.

Ultimately, the question “Who founded the Catholic Church?” can’t be answered by pointing to a single figure or moment. Instead, the Catholic Church emerged gradually from centuries of complex interactions involving theological disputes, institutional evolution, charismatic authority, and political power.

In other words, the Catholic Church as we know it today wasn’t the vision of one founder but the cumulative product of historical circumstances, human decisions, and profound religious convictions that unfolded over several centuries.

Mormon Beliefs: 10 Key Beliefs of the LDS Church

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Imagine if I told you about an extraordinary revelation I recently experienced. While casually watching TV, an angel appeared to me, giving instructions to write a new, updated version of the Bible.

The angel said this version would contain the ultimate truth about God, Jesus, and salvation. You probably wouldn’t believe me — and that’s perfectly reasonable. Yet, a similar origin story lies at the heart of Mormon beliefs, a religion that has historically experienced rapid growth and remains one of the world’s most fascinating movements.

Mormonism, or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS Church), began in the early 19th century with a young man named Joseph Smith. According to Smith, he had a vision of God and Jesus as a teenager, followed by a series of angelic visitations that culminated in the translation of sacred writings now known as the Book of Mormon.

What do Mormons believe? How do their views of Jesus, women, and other theological topics compare to mainstream Christianity? Their Church is built on a distinct set of tenets that set it apart, and understanding these beliefs offers a unique window into their world.

In this article, we’ll uncover the historical origins of Mormonism, explore its foundational teachings, and analyze its modern-day growth and influence. By delving into Mormon beliefs as well as the data behind their expansion, we’ll gain insight into a religion that has both captured imaginations and faced controversies. 

Before we dive in, I encourage you to explore Bart D. Ehrman’s fascinating online course, “Paul and Jesus: The Great Divide.”

While many assume these pivotal figures shared the same religion and theological views, the reality is far more complex. Discover what contemporary scholars have uncovered — check out Dr. Ehrman’s course today!

Joseph Smith and the Beginnings of Mormonism

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints traces its origins to the 19th century. It was a time of fervent religious revival known as the Second Great Awakening, when a sense of religious excitement was on the rise.

In his book, An Introduction to Mormonism, Douglas J. Davies notes:

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Emerging from this spiritual hothouse, Mormonism introduced a set of distinctive beliefs that have shaped its identity and inspired devotion and debate. 

Central to its foundation is the story of Joseph Smith Jr., a young man from rural Vermont whose visions and revelations laid the groundwork for what would become one of the fastest-growing religious movements in the world.

Joseph Smith Jr. was born in 1805 into a poor farming family with a deep interest in religion and folk traditions. The Smith family eventually settled in Palmyra, New York, in a region dubbed the “Burned-Over District” due to the intensity of religious revivalism.

Thomas F. O’Dea, in his sociological study of Mormon beliefs and origins, describes the cultural background of New York State at the beginning of the 19th century. He asserts:

As a boy, Joseph was influenced by his parents’ fascination with dreams and their relentless search for a church that felt “right.”

In 1820, at the age of 14, Joseph retreated into the woods to pray for guidance amidst the religious discord of his time. It was there, he claimed, that he had a vision of God the Father and Jesus, who told him that all existing churches had strayed from true Christianity.

This experience became the cornerstone of Mormon beliefs and marked the beginning of Joseph Smith's role as a prophet.

Three years later, at the age of 17, Joseph described another pivotal encounter. He claimed that an angel named Moroni appeared to him, announcing that God had a great mission for him. Moroni directed him to a set of golden plates buried near his home, inscribed with a sacred text in an unknown language.

Alongside these plates were two stones, known as the Urim and Thummim, which Smith described as divinely prepared tools to help him translate the text. However, the angel didn’t allow him to take the plates immediately. 

Richard Bushman, in Mormonism: A Very Short Introduction, explains that, according to later accounts, Joseph Smith initially doubted his vision when a supernatural force prevented him from retrieving the golden plates, despite seeing them clearly. The angel reappeared, admonishing Smith that his failure was due to mercenary motives.

It was only in 1827 that he was permitted to retrieve the plates and begin translating them. Interestingly enough, early Smith’s associates Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Martin Harris testified that they saw the angel Moroni and the golden plates. 

To be more precise, they stated that the angel showed them the plates and that they heard the voice of God that affirmed their truthfulness. Later on, they left Joseph Smith and the Church, but none of them even denied their testimony! 

In any case, Joseph’s efforts led to the publication of The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ in 1830. According to Smith, the book was a record of ancient prophets who lived on the American continent and bore witness to Jesus Christ. Furthermore, the Native Americans are depicted in the book as descendants of the Israelites. 

While Mormons accept this account as a foundational truth, scholars have long questioned the authenticity of Smith’s claims. Richard Abanes, for instance, has pointed out the numerous anachronisms and the fact that archeological evidence doesn’t align with Smith’s statements about the Native American tribes.

He asserts: 

Regardless, the publication of the Book of Mormon marked the formal establishment of the LDS Church in the same year, with Smith as its first leader and prophet.

The Church of Mormons: Initial Establishment and Challenges

As the fledgling church grew, its members faced significant challenges. The Mormons settled in Nauvoo, Illinois, in 1839, where they prospered for a time under Smith’s leadership. The community attracted thousands of converts, including many from England, and even organized its militia.

However, Smith’s revelations — including the controversial practice of plural marriage — strained relations with outsiders. In 1844, a mob killed Joseph Smith, leaving the Church without its founder and leader.

Following Smith’s death, a succession crisis divided the church. Some followed his wife, Emma Smith, to form what is now known as the Community of Christ, while others rallied around Brigham Young, who led the majority of Mormons westward to Utah. 

There, in the valley of the Great Salt Lake, they sought to establish a new Zion. Over time, the Church renounced polygamy and integrated into American society, evolving into a global religious community with over 15 million members today.

Richard Bushman aptly observes that Joseph Smith’s most remarkable legacy was the creation of the Mormon community itself. Even those who remain skeptical of Smith’s teachings often recognize the unique cohesion and solidarity of the Latter-day Saints.

Thomas F. O’Dea similarly noted that, among the various social groups that developed in America, the Mormons “came closer to evolving an ethnic identity on this continent than any other group,” highlighting their distinctive cultural and communal bonds.

And it all began with the story of Joseph Smith and his extraordinary religious experiences, which laid the foundation for Mormon beliefs. Having traced the fascinating history of its origins, let us now turn to the heart of the matter: The belief system that defines this unique faith tradition.

Mormon Beliefs: An Introduction

A couple of years ago, I had an intriguing conversation with a young Mormon missionary on the streets of Zagreb. Knowing that Croatia is predominantly Catholic, he introduced himself as a member of the Christian community, emphasizing his connection to the broader Christian tradition. However, this claim often sparks debate.

Many Christians are deeply unsettled when Mormons describe their faith as part of Christianity. Trent Horn, speaking from the Catholic perspective, concludes, for example, that Mormons are “so alien to the Christian belief that they essentially belong to another religion.”

To these critics, Mormons represent an entirely distinct religion, primarily for three reasons:

Without taking sides in this debate, it’s worth noting how those in established religious traditions often react to new movements with skepticism, quickly questioning their identity markers.

One can almost imagine ancient Jewish leaders in Jerusalem scoffing at early followers of Jesus who identified themselves as Jews: “They still go to the Temple but with their Christology? They aren’t Jews! No way!” History has a way of repeating itself when drawing lines around religions. That being said, let’s take a closer look at the Mormon beliefs.

What Do Mormons Believe? Scripture, Tradition, and Salvation

Mormon beliefs encompass a rich tapestry of teachings, many of which diverge significantly from the major branches of Christianity. Central to these differences are the role of scripture, the nature of God and humanity, and the specific practices that shape the daily lives of Latter-day Saints.

One of the most defining features of Mormon beliefs is their embrace of additional holy scriptures. Alongside the Bible, Mormons hold the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and The Pearl of Great Price as sacred texts.

Davies explains: 

Furthermore, the Mormon Church believes its leaders — Smith’s successors — are modern prophets capable of issuing teachings on par with scriptural revelation. This expanded canon of scripture contrasts sharply with both the Protestant principle of “Sola scriptura” and the Catholic view of the closed Scripture. 

Historically, one of the most controversial aspects of early Mormonism was the practice of polygamy. Around 1831, Joseph Smith claimed to have received a revelation instructing Mormon men to marry multiple wives, citing the examples of Israel’s patriarchs.

Yet this innovation, as O'Dea notes, was important to Mormons for other reasons. Not only did it set them apart from gentiles more definitely and more definitively than anything else they had done, but all Mormon doctrinal innovations were to fall into place around this new teaching on marriage. The Mormon doctrine of marriage made sexuality a means to celestial glory.

However, the introduction of this practice was fraught with conflict, even within the community. Smith secretly entered into polygamous marriages — allegedly taking between 30 and 40 wives, some of whom were already married or very young — before publicly announcing the doctrine.

Unsurprisingly, this revelation caused considerable outrage, including resistance from his wife, Emma, who initially sought to mobilize Mormon women in protest. Although Mormons officially abandoned polygamy in 1890, the association between their Church and plural marriage continues to shape public perceptions of this religion.

In his book Mormon Polygamy: A History, Richard S. Van Wagoner traces the changing status of polygamy:

What Do Mormons Believe About Jesus and Salvation?

One of the most fascinating aspects of Mormon theology is its understanding of God, humanity, and Jesus. Traditional Christianity teaches that God is wholly separate from human beings and is one in essence, existing as a Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Mormon beliefs, however, depart significantly from these doctrines. Joseph Smith taught that God was once a mortal being who achieved exaltation and is now an “exalted man” with a physical body of flesh and bone.

What do Mormons believe about Jesus’ identity and importance? While Jesus is central to their theology, their understanding of him differs from traditional Christian teachings. Mormons view Jesus as the literal Son of God, the most exalted of God’s spirit children, who holds a unique role in salvation.

Unlike mainstream Christian doctrine, which emphasizes Jesus as fully God and fully man in a paradoxical union, Mormon theology presents him as a divine figure distinct from God the Father. His atoning sacrifice is considered vital, but salvation isn’t solely dependent on faith in Jesus; it also involves personal righteousness and adherence to specific practices.

Mormon beliefs about salvation reflect a complex framework known as the “plan of salvation.” While faith in Jesus is foundational, salvation requires a life of righteousness guided by adherence to LDS teachings.

This includes observing dietary restrictions, such as abstaining from alcohol and coffee, treating the body as a sacred temple, and tithing — donating 10% of one’s income to the church.

Mormons also emphasize the importance of temple rituals, which are central to their spiritual life. These rituals, performed in temples not open to the public, include the “endowment,” where members learn about salvation and make covenants with God, and “sealing,” which unites families for eternity.

Referring to the former ritual, Richard Abanes explains: 

The Mormon Church presents a worldview that blends ancient scriptural traditions with modern revelations through these distinctive beliefs and practices. Whether viewed as an extension of Christianity or a wholly distinct religion, Mormon beliefs offer a unique lens through which to explore questions about religion, community, salvation, and the divine.

What Do Mormons Believe About Women?

The role of women in Mormon beliefs and practices is both significant and at times the subject of debate among scholars and observers. Women play an important role in the LDS Church, especially in family life and spiritual development, where they are often seen as central figures in the fulfillment of God’s plan.

Mormon theology emphasizes the concept of “eternal families,” where women, as wives and mothers, play an essential role in raising children, maintaining households, and supporting their husbands in both spiritual and practical matters.

However, unlike men, women in the Mormon Church aren’t permitted to hold the priesthood, which is considered the authority to perform sacred ordinances, lead congregations, and administer church functions.

For that reason, Davies notes, the organization of the LDS Church, as well as its history, is a faith history of great men, and of some great women, but the men predominate. 

In recent years, Mormons have taken steps to address concerns about gender roles, highlighting the spiritual equality of men and women within God’s plan. Leaders emphasize that women possess unique spiritual gifts and are integral to the church’s mission and growth. 

While debates surrounding women’s ordination and leadership persist, Mormon females continue to occupy influential roles as teachers, missionaries, and leaders within women’s and youth organizations.

In an interview, Terryl Givens from the University of Richmond notes the paradoxical nature of women’s position: 

Do Mormons Have Any Crazy Beliefs?

The question of whether Mormons — or any religious group — hold “crazy” or “weird” beliefs is a matter of perspective. “Crazy” or “weird” concepts are highly situational and subjective, shaped by cultural norms, personal experiences, and individual worldviews.

Sociologists and anthropologists refer to such labels as “emic” terms — developed by outsiders to describe groups or individuals they perceive as “other.” While such descriptions might reflect a particular viewpoint, they hold little value in scholarly analysis, which seeks to understand belief systems objectively rather than judge them through the lens of personal bias.

To put this into context, consider some of the beliefs and stories found within mainstream Christianity. For a non-believer, or someone unfamiliar with its traditions, certain elements might appear puzzling, unusual, or even outlandish.

A talking serpent in the Book of Genesis? Earthquakes accompanied by saints rising from their graves in the Gospel of Matthew? And what about the central doctrine of Christianity itself — the resurrection of a man who had been dead for three days?

For someone with a strictly materialistic or atheistic worldview, these concepts might sound “crazy” or implausible. Yet for millions of Christians, they are sacred truths central to their religion.

The phenomenon isn’t limited to religion. Non-religious ideologies, such as political movements, have also been known to inspire practices and beliefs that might strike outsiders as strange. Consider Soviet Communism, a movement often analyzed for its “quasi-religious” qualities.

In his thought-provoking book Komunizam kao religija (Communism as a Religion), Mihail Riklin explores the rituals, symbols, and belief systems embraced by Soviet communists — elements that, to an outside observer, might seem as “crazy” even more than any religious doctrine.

For this reason, a scholarly approach to the study of religion categorically rejects such terms and judgments. 

Instead, scholars strive to understand religious beliefs, practices, and rituals from multiple perspectives: both from the inside, as experienced and explained by believers themselves, and from a broader, bird’s-eye view that considers their cultural, historical, and social contexts.

Thus, as a historian and scholar of religion, I reject the idea of labeling any belief system as inherently “crazy” or “weird.” Mormonism, in particular, represents a fascinating and significant aspect of the religious landscape of the United States.

It has often been described as “the most American religion”— a pioneering faith that emphasizes free will, personal revelation, and family as core values.

Whether one agrees with Mormon beliefs they deserve to be studied and understood with the same care and respect that we extend to any other religious tradition. After all, what may seem “strange” to one person is often deeply meaningful to another.

The Growth of Mormonism: Sociological Perspective

An important aspect of Mormons' beliefs is their emphasis on missionary work. For members of the community, going on a mission isn’t just encouraged; it’s considered a rite of passage. Every healthy young man is expected to serve a two-year mission starting at age 18. These missions are a cornerstone of Mormon life, similar to, for instance, Jehovah’s Witnesses. 

From its humble beginnings in the early 19th century with just a handful of followers, the LDS Church grew exponentially throughout the 20th century. By the century’s end, its membership had swelled to over 10 million members worldwide, making it one of the fastest-growing religious movements in modern history.

Today, the church boasts more than 15 million members and a presence in nearly every country. This remarkable expansion prompts a compelling question: How do we explain the extraordinary growth of the LDS Church?

Part of the answer lies in the leadership of the LDS Church during its formative years. Joseph Smith is often described as a religious genius. Contemporary accounts highlight his remarkable charisma and ability to connect with people on a deeply emotional and spiritual level. 

After Smith’s death, Brigham Young emerged as a skilled organizer and pragmatic leader who guided the church westward and established a strong, cohesive community in Utah, laying the groundwork for future growth.

Another key factor is the LDS Church’s (already mentioned) devotion to missionary work. Missionaries go to great lengths to share Mormon beliefs with people from all walks of life, fostering a culture of outreach that has brought countless converts into the fold. 

A third reason for the church’s success is its ability to create a distinct and cohesive culture that inspires deep loyalty among its members. Being Mormon isn’t merely about attending church services twice a year (what British sociologist Grace Davie would call “believing without belonging”) or holding a mixed bag of beliefs. Rather, it’s a full identity that permeates every aspect of life. 

Research by sociologists Rodney Stark and William S. Bainbridge further illuminates the dynamics of Mormon conversions. Their study, published in The Future of Religion, reveals that conversion is rarely the result of a random encounter, such as a door-to-door visit by missionaries.

Instead, it often stems from personal connections. Stark and Bainbridge found out that when missionaries made initial contact with individuals in the homes of Mormon friends or relatives, the likelihood of conversion skyrocketed to 50%. 

This discovery demonstrates the importance of social ties in religious growth; strong personal attachments to members of the LDS Church often outweigh existing relationships outside the group, paving the way for successful conversion efforts. 

And if the PEW study from 2014 is accurate, Mormonism continues to thrive, with over 80% of its members stating that their religion is very important to them — a stark contrast, for instance, to the 58% of Catholics who say the same.

Finally, Davies summarizes the reasons for the growth of Mormon religion in the following way:

10 Key Mormon Beliefs: Chart

We thought you might appreciate a quick cheat sheet before we wrap up our exploration into the Mormons' beliefs and practices.

Because, let’s face it, understanding religious doctrines can sometimes feel like studying for a final exam you didn’t know you signed up for! Below is a table highlighting 10 key Mormon beliefs that offer a concise yet scholarly glimpse into what makes this faith tradition so distinct.

Conclusion

Reflecting on my conversation with the young Mormon missionary on the streets of Zagreb, it becomes clear that Mormonism's appeal lies not only in its unique history but also in the distinct theological framework that underpins its identity. 

The LDS Church has carved out a significant place in the global religious landscape, blending 19th-century American revivalist enthusiasm with teachings and practices that continue to inspire devotion among millions of followers.

Finally, understanding Mormon beliefs, from their expanded canon of scripture to their emphasis on family and missionary work, offers valuable insights into how this religion has evolved and thrived despite challenges and controversies. It will be interesting to follow up on sociological stats and curves of Mormonism in the years ahead. 

Non-Denominational Church: Meaning and Beliefs

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily match my own. - Dr. Bart D. Ehrman

Non-denominational churches represent a unique and increasingly popular segment of the Christian faith. The percentage of people attending a non-denominational church in recent years, particularly in the United States, has been remarkable, with these believers now forming an impressive percentage of Protestant American Christians.

In this article, I’ll explain the definition and history of non-denominational Christianity, examining its origins, distinguishing characteristics, and ongoing influence within the broader landscape of Protestantism.

What Is a Non-Denominational Church?

A denomination is a religious group within Christianity that includes multiple congregations aligned with each other. Denominations are defined by such characteristics as their moniker, history, founder, form of organization, theological doctrines, and worship style. In this sense, a Methodist from Colorado should be able to visit a Methodist church in Maine and find a familiar setting in which to worship.

Non-denominational Christianity, then, is simply a branch of the Christian church which does not officially associate itself with established denominations, including all Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox forms. It is a rapidly growing movement. According to an article by Daniel Silliman, people calling themselves non-denominational Christians are currently the largest segment of Protestants in America.

How different are non-denominational churches compared to the denominations from which they distance themselves? The first thing to know about non-denominational churches is that each sees itself as autonomous. In other words, its members govern the church rather than an overarching denominational government, as in most Protestant and Catholic churches. This non-denominational form of organization is known as congregational polity.

History of the Non-Denominational Church

In terms of history, the non-denominational church has its roots in the 18th and 19th centuries in the United States. This makes sense, in that this country has always emphasized individualism at the expense of communalism, embracing a self-governing ideal. To understand the origins of this type of church, though, we need to understand the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement.

Between the 1730s and the 1770s, a Protestant renewal of religious fervor known as the First Great Awakening happened in the American colonies, as well as England, Scotland, and Germany. In many ways, this movement was a reaction to the principles of reason and science emphasized by the Enlightenment.

Fearing that these principles would all but erase the ideals and beliefs of faith, charismatic preachers crisscrossed the country, preaching in churches and open-air meetings about the necessity of faith and the consequences of abandoning it. One of the most famous of these preachers was Jonathan Edwards, a Connecticut theologian who summed up his theological  principles in the title of his sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.”

The fervor of the First Great Awakening faded with time, but there was a Second Great Awakening between 1790 and 1840 which would reignite it and establish the movement of non-denominational churches. Two groups, acting independently, came to many of the same theological conclusions about the foundation of this movement.

The first group was led by Barton Stone, a Presbyterian minister who struck out on his own after doctrinal disagreements with members of his church. His group merely called themselves “Christians.” The second was led by Thomas Campbell, also a former Presbyterian minister who began operating independently for similar reasons. Campbell’s group called themselves “Disciples of Christ.”

Like many religious movements, both groups involved in what came to be known as the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement sought to get back to an imagined ideal church depicted in the Bible. They believed that all creeds, as used by other denominations, kept Christians divided, while a true church should unite all Christians. In 1832, Stone and Campbell joined their movements.

Interestingly, for a group so against creeds, there were fundamental principles this group insisted on that sounded a lot like a creed. These included the belief that Jesus was the Messiah and the Son of God, that members should partake in the Lord’s Supper or Communion on the first day of every week, and that adults (not infants) should be baptized by immersion.

While these may seem like very basic conditions, the movement would nevertheless later fracture into many groups. However, it’s important to note that all of these groups fell clearly within the scope of modern Evangelical Christianity.

Features of Non-Denominational Churches

As I said before, non-denominational churches do not officially align themselves with any established denominations, although all are distinctly Protestant. In addition, a great number of denominational churches would agree with the principles outlined above. In fact, most non-denominational churches are aligned with broader Protestant Christian movements. They generally insist on the total authority of the Bible, for example, and claim that their church emphasizes only what all true Christians have in common rather than what divides them.

So how are non-denominational churches different from others? Interestingly, most align themselves with other non-denominational churches, both in principle and practice, often even naming their traditions. This blurs the lines between what is a denomination and what isn’t. Some of these families of churches, according to a 2015 Pew Research Study, call themselves non-denominational evangelical, some call themselves non-denominational fundamentalist, and others non-denominational Charismatic. It’s sometimes hard to know, for this reason, which of these is closely aligned with the others and which are truly distinct on an individual basis beyond the name.

In his book Dieu XXL (God XXL), Sébastien Fath writes that the vast majority of megachurches are non-denominational. Megachurches are modern churches characterized by massive congregations, usually 2,000 or more people attending each weekend, according to the Hartford Institute for Religion Research, and lavish buildings reflecting the sizable donations of congregants and other large donors.

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Although non-denominational churches are technically not affiliated with particular denominations, seeing themselves as largely autonomous, according to Ed Stetzer, the majority of them are quite similar to all Evangelical and/or Pentecostal churches. Again, we see that those who call themselves non-denominational fall generally within a narrow band of Protestant churches, no matter what other names they may give themselves.

Additionally, political scientist and statistician Ryan Burge writes that, according to the title of his article, “Nondenominational Protestants Are Basically Southern Baptists (With a Few Caveats)”. Burge outlines the few differences between the two:

By the way, here is a directory of non-denominational churches in the United States.

Criticism of Non-Denominational Churches

Despite the popularity of non-denominational churches, as evidenced by rapidly growing megachurches, many have criticized them for various reasons. For example, in Theology in Service to the Church : Global and Ecumenical Perspectives, Presbyterian theologian Amy Plantinga Pauw writes that non-denominational churches “often seem to lack any acknowledgement of their debts and ties to larger church traditions.” She also writes that "for now, these non-denominational churches are living off the theological capital of more established Christian communities, including those of denominational Protestantism."

Furthermore, in his book Ecumenism Means You, Too: Ordinary Christians and the Quest for Christian Unity, Steven Harmon writes that those Christians defining themselves as non-denominational ignore some of the facts by which they do align with established denominations:

Finally, referring to recent sex abuse scandals in non-denominational churches, Elle Hardy writes that because nondenominational churches have no hierarchy or overarching authority to answer to, pastors with authoritarian personalities are often able to exert power and control over their congregants. Hardy quotes scholar Matthew Taylor as saying that because there is little to no accountability, pastors "who are more megalomaniacal and authoritarian in their personality” are often drawn to non-denominational churches, a fact borne out by recent scandals.

Conclusion: What Is a Non-Denominational Church?

Non-denominational churches began as a movement in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Two former Presbyterian pastors started independent churches and eventually came together, forming a movement now known as the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement and corresponding with the Second Great Awakening in the United States.

Despite their claim to independence and self-governance, these churches definitely have their roots in Evangelical Protestantism. A recent study has shown that non-denominational Christians are the largest segment of Protestant Christians in the United States, and many of their gathering places are vast megachurches.

However, these churches are not without their detractors. Some argue that non-denominational churches owe an unacknowledged theological and doctrinal debt to denominations that came before them. Others have noted that no matter what they call themselves, their doctrinal and worship choices place them firmly within a tradition, perhaps even Southern Baptist traditions, according to one scholar.

Finally, the lack of hierarchy may make these churches appealing to authoritarian pastors, some of whom have taken advantage of this lack of accountability to abuse their congregants, creating scandals within their congregations.