Why I remain Protestant: 10 concerns for the Catholic Faith

In recent years, I have watched many sincere believers move toward Roman Catholicism. Some are drawn by history, others by liturgy, and others by stability and tradition in a fragmented evangelical world.

I understand the pull. There is beauty in the ancient and there is gravity in centuries of tradition. 

But theology matters.

The Reformation was not about preference, it was all about the gospel. I have spent most of my adult life studying Scripture, church history, and the teachings of both Protestant and Catholic theologians, and I remain Protestant. This is out of conviction and what I believe matters most. 

The Catholic Conversion 

In the last decade, I have watched a noticeable shift.

For many, Catholicism feels quiet in a very noisy world, it feels sacred where many can feel western Evangelism has turned church into a production or a program. When you walk into a cathedral, there is silence and incense and kneeling. It can feel like an increase in reverence. In a generation exhausted by spectacle, sacredness can feel like oxygen. 

Listen, I understand some of the sentiment, but this is where my concern is, that people are willing to sacrifice true and right theology because of outward expressions of certain parts of culture within the Church. I believe in reformation, it was needed five hundred years ago, and it is still needed today, not for the sake of change but for the need to align with scripture. 

Catholicism offers a sense of rootedness. It offers a millenia of continuity. It offers creeds, councils, and a visible global structure. There is comfort in the idea that you are stepping into something historic and unbroken. There is security in having a priest who shepherds your soul and a Pope who stands as a visible symbol of unity and authority. In a fragmented Protestant landscape filled with denominations and church disagreements, that kind of structure can feel stabilizing.

There is also something deeply human about wanting to be under authority. In a world that constantly says “follow your truth,” Catholicism offers a clear hierarchy and a defined tradition. It can feel like stepping out of chaos and into order.

I do not dismiss any of these desires. In many ways, they expose weaknesses in modern evangelicalism. Many Churches in the last 50 years have traded depth for accessibility, and relevance, and theological clarity for cultural appeal.

But while I understand why many are converting, I am not convinced that the solution to what they would call “shallow Protestantism” is to embrace Roman Catholicism.

The answer to “spectacle” is not necessarily sacramentalism.The answer to “celebrity culture” is not centralized ecclesiastical authority. The answer to theological drift is not tradition elevated alongside Scripture.

The real question is not which expression feels more sacred. The real question is which expression most faithfully guards the gospel and aligns with God's word.

That is why this conversation matters. 

And that is why, even in a cultural moment where many are “crossing the Tiber”, I remain Protestant.

Here are ten concerns that keep me rooted in my Protestant faith.

1. The Doctrine of Justification

If there is one issue that ultimately keeps me Protestant, it is the doctrine of justification. At the center of the Reformation was not a dispute about liturgy, aesthetics, or church structure. It was a question that cuts to the core of the human condition: How is a sinner made right with a holy God?

That question is not theoretical, it is deeply personal. 

It is the question every Christian must wrestle with. When I stand before God, on what basis am I accepted? Is it something happening inside of me? Is it something being gradually formed in me? Or is it something completely outside of me?

Roman Catholic theology teaches that justification is not merely a legal declaration by God, but also an inward transformation. Grace is infused into the believer, beginning at baptism, and through cooperation with that grace, it is expressed in faithfulness and participation in the sacraments, through this, the believer grows in justification. 

It is not seen as a one-time verdict, but as an ongoing process that can increase and, through mortal sin, even be lost and restored.

I want to be clear that Catholic theology does not teach salvation by raw human effort. It speaks constantly of grace. But the structure of the system still places justification within a process that includes our cooperation.

Historic Protestant theology insists on something fundamentally different. It teaches that justification is a once-for-all legal declaration in which God declares the ungodly righteous on the basis of Christ’s finished work, received through faith alone. 

The righteousness that saves us is not infused into us as a substance to be increased. It is imputed to us, credited to our account.

What may sound like a subtle doctrinal difference actually reaches into the deepest part of the Christian life, because it defines where we anchor our assurance before God.

When Paul writes in Romans that God “justifies the ungodly,” he uses courtroom language. To justify is to declare righteous, not to gradually make righteous. When a judge justifies someone, he is issuing a verdict about their standing, not describing their moral development. In the gospel, God declares sinners righteous not because they have become righteous enough, but because Christ’s righteousness is counted as theirs.

Second Corinthians 5:21 describes what many have called the Great Exchange: Christ becomes sin for us, and we become the righteousness of God in Him. My sin is credited to Christ. His righteousness is credited to me. That is the heart of justification.

Sanctification, which is the real transformation of our lives, absolutely matters. Protestants do not deny the necessity of holiness. But sanctification flows from justification; it does not form the basis of it. Our growth in Christ is the fruit of being declared righteous, not the reason we are declared righteous.

This is where my concern becomes pastoral, not merely doctrinal. If justification is something that increases as I cooperate with grace, then my assurance will always be tethered, at least in part, to my performance. Even if grace empowers that performance, I am left asking whether I have cooperated enough, repented thoroughly enough, persevered faithfully enough. The focus subtly shifts inward.

But if justification is a completed verdict grounded entirely in Christ’s obedience, then my assurance rests outside of me. Romans 5:1 says that since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God. Peace flows from a finished declaration. Hebrews says that by a single offering Christ has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified. There is ongoing transformation, yes, but there is also a settled status.

That settled status protects the glory of Christ’s atonement. If His sacrifice truly satisfied divine justice once for all, then nothing needs to be added to it; not sacramentally, not morally, not progressively in order to secure my standing before God.

John Piper has often argued that justification by faith alone safeguards the glory of Christ because it ensures that our right standing before God rests entirely on Him. When faith is the sole instrument, and Christ’s righteousness the sole ground, then grace remains grace.

For me, this is not about winning a theological debate. It is about where I place my confidence. When I stand before God, I do not want to point to a process that has been unfolding within me, even if that process was fueled by grace. I want to point to a Person and a finished work outside of me.

That is why justification by faith alone is not just one doctrine among many. It is the lens through which I read the entire gospel. And it is the primary reason I remain Protestant.

2. Faith and Works in Salvation

Closely connected to justification is the relationship between faith and works. This is another area where, at first glance, the differences between Protestant and Catholic theology can appear smaller than they actually are. Both traditions affirm the necessity of grace. Both affirm the importance of good works. Both reject the idea that human beings can save themselves apart from God’s initiative.

And yet, when you look closely at how faith and works function within each system, a meaningful divide emerges.

Catholic theology teaches that good works, empowered by grace, play a role in maintaining and increasing justification. Grace is primary, grace initiates, grace enables, but the believer’s cooperation with that grace which is expressed in obedience, sacramental participation, and acts of love, becomes part of the overall structure of salvation. Final justification, in this framework, includes a life lived in faithful cooperation with God’s grace.

Protestant theology affirms something different, and I believe something crucial. It teaches that good works are the necessary fruit of salvation, but they are not the instrument of it. They flow from a heart that has already been justified. They are evidence of new life, not contributors to the legal standing of that life before God.

Ephesians 2 is profoundly important here. Paul writes that we are saved by grace through faith and that this salvation is not our own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. He then immediately says that we are created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them. The order is deliberate. Salvation is not the result of works, but salvation produces works. Grace saves, and grace transforms, but the transformation is the outcome, not the ground.

That order protects the gospel.

When good works become part of the mechanism by which justification is sustained or completed, even subtly, the sufficiency of Christ’s finished work begins to blur. The focus shifts, almost imperceptibly, from what Christ has done entirely for us to what Christ is now doing in partnership with us to secure our final standing. Even if grace remains central in language, the structure introduces cooperation as part of what ultimately determines the outcome.

The Reformers were not reacting against holiness. They were not advocating lazy Christianity or dismissing obedience. In fact, they preached holiness with intensity (we still do). What they were protecting was the foundation beneath holiness. They were insisting that obedience must rest on assurance, not create it. They were contending that works must flow from acceptance, not secure acceptance.

When faith alone is the instrument of justification, Christ remains the sole ground of our righteousness. Good works become the joyful evidence that grace has taken root. They matter deeply because they reveal the reality of salvation, but they do not function as part of the legal basis upon which God declares us righteous.

This distinction shapes how a believer relates to God. If my obedience plays a role in maintaining my justified status, then my spiritual life inevitably becomes entangled with anxiety over whether I have done enough, repented thoroughly enough, persevered faithfully enough. Even if I speak of grace, I am quietly measuring progress.

But if my justification rests entirely on Christ’s obedience credited to me by faith, then my works flow from gratitude rather than fear. I pursue holiness not to secure my standing, but because my standing has already been secured. I fight sin not to remain justified, but because I have been declared righteous.

That difference produces freedom.

Good works matter. They are necessary. Scripture is clear that faith without works is dead. But dead faith is not insufficient faith that needs supplementation by works; it is false faith that never truly trusted Christ. Genuine faith inevitably bears fruit, yet that fruit testifies to salvation rather than completing it.

For me, this issue is not about diminishing the role of obedience. It is about preserving the clarity of grace. If grace saves, then grace must save completely. If Christ’s righteousness is sufficient, then it must be sufficient all the way to the end.

That is why I remain Protestant on this point. I believe works are essential as evidence of a new life, but they are not essential as a component of justification. They are the fruit hanging from the tree, not the root holding it in the ground.

3. The Authority of the Pope

Another significant reason I remain Protestant has to do with the question of authority, specifically the authority of the Pope. Catholic doctrine teaches that the Bishop of Rome holds supreme authority over the universal Church and that, under particular conditions, he may speak infallibly on matters of faith and morals. 

This office is seen as the visible center of unity for the global Church and the final earthly authority in doctrinal disputes.

I understand the appeal of that. In a fragmented Christian landscape filled with denominations and competing interpretations, the idea of a single, visible authority that can settle theological questions carries a certain weight. It promises clarity, stability and unity.

But when I look at the New Testament, I do not see that structure laid out in the way it was later defined. Church leadership in the early church appears plural. Elders and overseers shepherd local congregations. The first century apostles carry unique authority as witnesses of the risen Christ, but their authority is tied directly to their role in redemptive history. Once their witness is given, it is preserved in Scripture.

I do not see a single, clear biblical case for one bishop being elevated above all others as the supreme and infallible head of the Church on earth. Peter plays a significant role, yes, but the New Testament does not present him as functioning in the way the modern papacy is defined.

This is where my concern becomes theological rather than historical. If a human office can speak infallibly, even in limited circumstances, then the question becomes: where does final authority truly rest? Protestants have historically answered that question by affirming that Scripture alone is the only infallible authority for the Church. Councils can err. Leaders can err. Traditions can drift. But the written Word of God stands above them all.

This does not mean Protestants reject authority. It does not mean we believe in isolated, self-governing Christianity where everyone interprets the Bible however they want. The Church matters, elders matter, creeds matter, But all of those authorities are ministerial, not magisterial. They serve the Word; they do not stand over it.

For me, this is ultimately about locating ultimate authority where Christ located it. Jesus rebuked religious leaders when their traditions eclipsed the Word of God. He consistently appealed to Scripture as the decisive authority. If I must choose between an infallible office and an infallible Word, I will anchor myself to the Word.

That conviction is not rooted in rebellion against structure but a desire to keep the final court of appeal where I believe the apostles placed it, in the God-breathed Scriptures.

4. Scripture and Tradition

Closely connected to the question of authority is the relationship between Scripture and tradition. Catholicism teaches that divine revelation is transmitted through both Sacred Scripture and Sacred Tradition, and that both are authentically interpreted by the Magisterium of the Church. In this view, the Word of God comes to us not only through the written text of Scripture but also through the living tradition of the Church, preserved and clarified over time.

Again, I understand the appeal. Christianity is not ahistorical. It did not begin in the sixteenth century. The Church existed before the New Testament was formally canonized, and the early Christians relied on apostolic teaching passed down through preaching and community life. Tradition, in the broad sense, is unavoidable. We all inherit theological language, categories, and confessions from those who came before us.

But this is where Protestantism draws a careful and important distinction.

When Protestants affirm Sola Scriptura, we are not saying “Scripture and nothing else.” We are saying Scripture alone is the final, sufficient, and infallible rule of faith. Creeds are valuable, Church history is instructive, the early Church fathers are worth reading, confessions help guard doctrinal clarity. But! all of these are subordinate authorities. They must be tested by Scripture, corrected by Scripture, and, if necessary, rejected by Scripture.

The concern arises when tradition is treated as a co-equal stream of revelation alongside the written Word. If Scripture and tradition together form the deposit of faith, and the Church is the final interpreter of both, then the ultimate authority no longer rests in the text itself but in the institution that defines and interprets that text and its accompanying tradition.

Jesus addressed something similar in Mark 7 when He rebuked the religious leaders for elevating their traditions in a way that effectively nullified the Word of God. His issue was not with tradition in principle. The issue was with tradition functioning as a binding authority that overshadowed or reinterpreted Scripture. That warning still matters to this day.

For me, the central question is simple: when there is tension, who has the final say? When a doctrine develops over time and its biblical grounding is debated, what is the ultimate court of appeal? Is it the historic teaching authority of the Church, or is it the written Word of God?

As a Protestant, I believe the final court of appeal must be Scripture. Not because I distrust history, and not because I think the Church is irrelevant, but because I believe God has spoken definitively in His written Word. That Word is God-breathed, sufficient for teaching, correction, and training in righteousness. It stands above every council, every tradition, and every theological system.

Tradition can guide us. It can protect us from novelty and individualism. But it cannot bind the conscience in the way Scripture does. Only the Word of God carries that kind of authority.

That conviction does not make me anti-tradition. It makes me cautious about giving any tradition, however ancient or beautiful, a status that belongs to Scripture alone.

5. Marian Dogmas

Another area that gives me pause is the development of Marian dogmas within Roman Catholic theology. The Catholic Church formally affirms doctrines such as the Immaculate Conception, the perpetual virginity of Mary, and her bodily assumption into heaven. Over time, Mary has also been given titles such as “Mediatrix” and “Queen of Heaven,” reflecting her honored place within Catholic devotion.

Let me say clearly that Protestants are not called to diminish Mary. Scripture speaks of her as “blessed among women.” She is a model of humility, surrender, and faith. Her willingness to receive the word of the Lord and bear the Messiah into the world is one of the most beautiful acts of obedience in all of redemptive history. She should be respected and honored as the mother of our Lord.

The concern is not whether Mary is blessed. The concern is whether later dogmas attributed to her can be clearly grounded in Scripture.

The Immaculate Conception, defined in the nineteenth century, teaches that Mary herself was conceived without original sin. The bodily assumption, formally defined in the twentieth century, teaches that she was taken body and soul into heaven. The perpetual virginity doctrine asserts that she remained a virgin throughout her life. While some early church fathers held certain of these views, the biblical case for them is, at best, debated and indirect.

For me, the issue is not whether something is ancient or cherished. The issue is whether it is clearly taught in the apostolic witness preserved in Scripture. When doctrines become binding on the conscience of believers, they must rest on more than theological inference or devotional development.

Even more concerning to me are the functional implications of certain Marian titles. When Mary is referred to as “Mediatrix,” even if carefully qualified, it raises a serious theological question. First Timothy 2:5 states plainly that there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus. That declaration is not vague, it is exclusive and Christ stands alone as the bridge between a holy God and sinful humanity.

I understand that Catholic theology attempts to distinguish between Christ’s unique mediatorship and Mary’s subordinate intercessory role. Yet I cannot escape the concern that in practice, devotion can blur distinctions that theology tries to maintain. When believers begin directing prayers toward Mary in search of her intercession, even with careful explanations, it risks functionally sharing a role that Scripture assigns uniquely to Christ and Him alone.

The Reformation was not anti-Mary, the Reformers themselves spoke respectfully of her. What they resisted was any development that appeared to add layers between the believer and Christ. Their concern was to preserve the singular sufficiency of Jesus as Savior, Mediator, and High Priest.

For me, being Protestant on this issue is not about rejecting honor where honor is due. It is about guarding the uniqueness of Christ’s role in redemption. Mary’s beauty in Scripture is found in her humility and her pointing beyond herself to her Son. Any doctrine or devotion that risks shifting the focus, even subtly, away from the all-sufficient mediation of Christ is something I cannot embrace.

In the end, my hesitation is not rooted in discomfort with reverence. It is rooted in a desire to ensure that the glory of salvation rests fully and finally on Jesus alone.

6. Prayers to Mary and the Saints

Closely related to Marian doctrine is the broader Catholic practice of praying to Mary and the saints. Catholic theology makes careful distinctions here. Worship, in the fullest sense, is reserved for God alone. The honor given to saints is described as veneration, not adoration. When Catholics ask Mary or another saint to pray for them, they often explain it as being no different than asking a friend or pastor to intercede on their behalf.

I do not doubt that many sincere Catholics understand and practice this distinction thoughtfully. But when I look at Scripture, I do not see believers ever directing prayers to departed saints. The pattern throughout the New Testament is remarkably consistent. Prayer is addressed to God, to the Father, through the Son, in the power of the Spirit. The early church does not model prayers to Stephen after his martyrdom, or to James, or to any other faithful witness who had gone before them.

Instead, the emphasis falls squarely on the sufficiency of Christ’s ongoing intercession. Hebrews tells us that Jesus is our great High Priest and that He lives forever to make intercession for us. Because of His finished work, the veil has been torn. Access to God is no longer mediated through layers of priesthood or heavenly figures. It is immediate and direct. We are invited to approach the throne of grace with confidence, not because of multiple advocates, but because of one perfect Advocate.

Prayer in Scripture is never treated casually. It is an act of dependence, trust, and worship. Even if technical distinctions are made between veneration and worship, in lived experience those lines can become blurred. When a believer kneels and directs petitions toward someone other than God, even with careful language, it raises questions about how uniquely Christ functions as mediator in practice.

For Protestants, there is something profoundly beautiful about the simplicity of the gospel’s access. We go directly to the Father, we do so through the finished work of the Son and we are empowered by the indwelling Spirit. No additional intermediaries are needed and no further layers of intercession are required.

That simplicity is not a loss. It is a gift. It protects the exclusivity of Christ’s priesthood and keeps the believer’s gaze fixed where the New Testament repeatedly directs it, toward the throne of God, approached boldly because of Jesus alone.

For me, that direct access is not something I am willing to complicate, even with well-intentioned theological distinctions. Christ’s intercession is sufficient, His mediation is complete, and the invitation to come freely to God through Him is more than enough.

7. Purgatory

Another doctrine that gives me serious pause is the Catholic teaching on purgatory. According to Catholic theology, many believers who die in a state of grace still undergo a process of purification before entering fully into the presence of God. This purification is not described as a second chance at salvation, but as a cleansing from remaining temporal effects of sin so that the soul may be perfectly prepared for heaven.

I understand the instinct behind this doctrine. Scripture is clear that nothing unclean will enter the presence of God, and every honest Christian knows that even after conversion we continue to battle sin. The idea of final purification can seem to address that tension. It attempts to reconcile God’s holiness with the unfinished sanctification of believers at death.

But this is where my concern centers on the sufficiency of Christ’s atonement.

Hebrews 10:14 declares, “By a single offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.” That verse holds two realities together. There is an ongoing process of sanctification in this life. We are being transformed. We are growing in holiness. Yet at the same time, because of Christ’s once-for-all sacrifice, we have been perfected in our standing before God.

If Christ’s sacrifice truly perfects His people in their status before God, then I struggle to see what remains to be purged after death. The cross did not partially atone for sin. It did not remove guilt while leaving some residual penalty to be cleansed elsewhere. When Jesus declared, “It is finished,” He was not describing an incomplete work awaiting further refinement.

The New Testament also speaks with remarkable simplicity about what happens when believers die. Paul writes in Philippians that to depart and be with Christ is far better. There is no intermediate state of cleansing described there. The expectation is immediate presence with the Lord. Similarly, in 2 Corinthians 5, Paul expresses confidence that to be away from the body is to be at home with the Lord. The movement appears direct.

Of course, we acknowledge that sanctification is incomplete in this life. No believer dies morally perfect. But Protestant theology understands that at death, the believer’s sanctification is consummated not through additional suffering or purgation, but through the transforming power of God as we enter His presence. The perfection we lack experientially is supplied instantly by the grace of God, grounded entirely in the finished work of Christ.

The doctrine of purgatory, even when carefully framed, introduces a post-cross purification that seems absent from the clear teaching of Scripture. It suggests that something remains to be addressed beyond what Christ accomplished on Calvary. Even if it is described as applying the benefits of the cross rather than adding to them, the practical effect is that the believer’s final readiness for heaven includes a process beyond this life.

For me, that raises a profound theological question: if the sacrifice of Christ was sufficient to satisfy divine justice and secure our perfected standing before God, why would additional purification through suffering be necessary?

This is not about minimizing holiness or ignoring God’s purity. It is about maximizing the sufficiency of the cross. If Christ’s offering truly perfected His people, then their entrance into His presence rests fully on that offering. The final transformation we need does not come through post-mortem purification, but through the power of the God who saved us.

Because of that conviction, I remain Protestant on this issue. I believe that when a believer closes their eyes in death, they do so resting entirely on the finished work of Christ — and they awaken immediately in His presence, not because they have been further purified, but because they were fully justified by grace alone.

8. The Mass and the Eucharist

The doctrine of the Mass is another place where my convictions remain firmly Protestant. Catholic theology teaches transubstantiation, the belief that the bread and wine truly become the body and blood of Christ, and it describes the Mass as a re-presentation of Christ’s sacrifice. While it is careful to say that Christ is not being re-sacrificed in a new or repeated way, the language of sacrificial offering remains central to the theology of the Eucharist.

I want to approach this carefully, because the Lord’s Supper is sacred ground. Protestants do not treat Communion lightly. We do not see it as a mere symbol in the shallow sense of that word. It is a profound act of remembrance, proclamation, and spiritual participation in Christ. When believers gather at the Table, we encounter the grace of God in a real and meaningful way. We proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes. We are nourished by faith as we receive the signs of His body and blood.

But we do not understand the Supper to be sacrificial in nature.

The Book of Hebrews repeatedly emphasizes that Christ was offered once for all. That phrase appears again and again, pressing the finality of the cross into our minds. Unlike the priests of the old covenant who stood daily offering repeated sacrifices that could never fully take away sins, Christ offered Himself once, sat down at the right hand of God, and completed the work of atonement. His seated posture signals something profound: the sacrifice is finished.

When the Eucharist is described in sacrificial terms, even as a re-presentation rather than a repetition, I struggle with what that language communicates. Words shape theology. If the Mass is spoken of as an offering, it risks suggesting that something sacrificial is still occurring in the present. Even if it is framed as the same sacrifice being made present, the conceptual framework can blur the once-for-all nature of Calvary.

Protestant theology insists that the cross stands alone in redemptive history. It does not need to be sacramentally re-presented in order to remain effective. The Lord’s Supper points back to that finished sacrifice. It proclaims it. It applies its benefits to believers by faith. But it does not continue it.

This distinction matters because the finality of the cross is not a minor doctrine. It is the heartbeat of the gospel. When Jesus declared, “It is finished,” He meant that the work of atonement was complete. There is no ongoing offering necessary to secure forgiveness. There is no perpetual sacrificial action required to maintain grace.

For me, the beauty of the Lord’s Supper lies precisely in its memorial and participatory character. It is powerful because it directs our attention to a completed event. It strengthens faith by reminding us that our salvation rests entirely on what Christ accomplished once in history.

The cross is finished. It is not perpetually presented in sacrificial form. It stands complete, sufficient, and eternally effective. That conviction shapes how I understand the Table, and it is another reason I remain Protestant.

9. Assurance of Salvation

Another area where I find myself firmly rooted in Protestant conviction is the question of assurance. Can a believer truly know that they have eternal life? Can they live with settled confidence before God, not because of presumption, but because of promise?

In Catholic theology, absolute certainty of final salvation is generally not affirmed unless granted through special revelation. A believer may have moral confidence or hope, but not full assurance, because final justification includes perseverance, cooperation with grace, and participation in the sacramental life of the Church. Since those realities unfold over time, certainty about the final outcome is not ordinarily emphasized.

I understand the humility behind that posture. There is something reverent about refusing to claim certainty in ourselves. But Protestant theology locates assurance somewhere entirely different. It does not root confidence in the believer’s performance, progress, or perseverance as the ground of acceptance. It roots assurance in the objective, finished work of Christ.

First John 5:13 says, “I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, that you may know that you have eternal life.” That word “know” is striking. John does not describe eternal life as something believers may cautiously hope for if all goes well. He presents it as something that can be known because it rests on the person and work of Jesus Christ.

Assurance, rightly understood, is not arrogance. It is not a declaration that we are strong enough or faithful enough to guarantee our future. It is confidence in Christ. It is resting in the promise that the One who justified us will also glorify us. It is trusting that the Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep will not lose those whom the Father has given Him.

If justification is a completed declaration based entirely on Christ’s righteousness credited to us by faith, then assurance is not only possible, it is expected. The believer’s standing before God does not fluctuate with spiritual highs and lows. It rests on a verdict already rendered in heaven’s courtroom.

But if justification is understood as something that must be maintained and increased through sacramental participation and cooperation with grace, then assurance naturally becomes more tentative. Even if grace is central, the structure leaves room for uncertainty because the final outcome depends in part on the believer’s ongoing faithfulness. The question subtly shifts from “What has Christ accomplished?” to “Have I persevered sufficiently?”

For me, the beauty of the gospel is that it allows weary sinners to rest. Not in themselves, but in Christ. The Spirit bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God. The promises of Scripture anchor us. The finished work of the cross secures us.

This does not produce complacency. In fact, true assurance fuels holiness. When you know you are secure in Christ, obedience becomes the response of love rather than the attempt to secure acceptance. Gratitude replaces anxiety and worship replaces fear.

That is why assurance matters so deeply to me. It is not about emotional certainty, it is about theological clarity. If salvation is by grace alone through faith alone in Christ alone, then the believer can live with real confidence, not because they are strong, but because Christ is faithful.

And that confidence is something I am not willing to surrender.

10. The Development of Doctrine

The final concern that keeps me Protestant is the broader issue of doctrinal development. Roman Catholicism openly embraces the idea that doctrine develops over time, that the Holy Spirit continues to guide the Church into a fuller and clearer understanding of the deposit of faith across centuries. In this framework, later dogmatic definitions are not seen as new revelations, but as organic unfoldings of truths that were present in seed form from the beginning.

There is something compelling about that idea. Christians should expect growth in clarity. The Church has wrestled deeply with the Trinity, the nature of Christ, and countless theological questions over time. Language sharpens, categories mature and precision increases. Protestants do not deny development in that sense, our confessions and theological formulations are also the result of careful reflection over centuries.

The question, however, is not whether understanding deepens, the real question is whether certain doctrines represent faithful clarification or genuine innovation.

When dogmas appear centuries after the apostolic age and are then declared binding on the conscience of every believer, serious questions naturally arise. This is particularly true with doctrines such as the Immaculate Conception or the bodily Assumption of Mary, which were formally defined long after the early church period. While strands of thought may exist in earlier writings, the early church fathers do not uniformly affirm many of these later definitions in the way they were eventually codified.

If a doctrine is essential enough to be binding on all Christians, it is reasonable to expect that it would be clearly rooted in the apostolic witness. The closer a teaching is to the center of Christian faith, the more clearly it should appear in the earliest layers of the Church’s life and confession.

For Protestants, Christian doctrine must ultimately be anchored in the apostolic teaching preserved in Scripture. The apostles and writers were uniquely commissioned by the Lord to bring teaching and doctrine to the Church throughout time. Their teaching forms the foundation of the Church. Once that foundation was laid and “inscripturated”, it became the measuring rod for all subsequent theological reflection.

This does not mean the Church stops thinking or that theology becomes static. But it does mean that later developments must be demonstrably grounded in what was delivered “once for all to the saints.” When a doctrine cannot be clearly traced to that apostolic foundation, and yet is elevated to dogmatic status, caution is warranted.

My concern is not with growth in understanding, it is with the possibility of drift. History shows that even sincere communities can gradually move beyond their original foundations. That is why Scripture must remain the fixed point of reference. It is the standard by which every development is tested.

For me, remaining Protestant means remaining anchored. It means believing that God has spoken definitively in the apostolic gospel and that the role of the Church is to guard, proclaim, and clarify that message, not to expand the boundaries of binding doctrine beyond what Scripture clearly teaches.

Development can be healthy. But it must always be tethered tightly to the Word that does not and never will, change.

Why I Remain Protestant

I do not remain Protestant because it is trendy. 

I remain Protestant because I believe:

• Justification is by faith alone.

• Christ’s righteousness is fully sufficient.

• Scripture is the final authority.

• The cross was a once-for-all sacrifice.

• Access to God is direct through Christ alone.
  
  This is not a rejection of Catholic individuals. Many Catholics love Christ sincerely, many trust in Him in ways that transcend imperfect theology.

But systems matter, doctrine matters and The gospel matters!

In a world chasing tradition, structure, and certainty, I will anchor myself where the Reformers anchored themselves:

In the finished work of Christ, revealed in the Word of God.

That is why I remain Protestant.

In love and mercy,

J.M. HAMSTRA