I used to have a crucifix necklace that I purchased at the Vatican during my semester abroad. Upon returning home, I made the mistake of wearing it to a meeting at Campus Crusade for Christ, my alma mater’s campus ministry. People chastised me:
“You don’t want to wear that, people will think you’re Catholic!”
“Crucifixes are blasphemous because Jesus isn’t on the cross anymore, he’s been raised from the dead!”
In time, it became evident that one of the biggest differences between Catholicism and Protestantism – at least, the non-denominational evangelicalism claimed by Cru – had much to do with blood. Evangelicalism was decidedly anti-gore, clean, and even sparkly. Literal sparkly Christian tote bags, sweaters, and yes, cross necklaces (sans the dead savior).
Catholicism was quite the opposite: it seemed to revel in the macabre, with its preserved martyrs’ relics and Christ suffering on crucifixes. Not to mention reenacting the Last Supper with a literal meal of his flesh and blood.
Over the years, as I leaned more into “high church” tradition, this focus on the body deepened my faith. Christ had a body: a literal body that sweated, bled, felt tired, and experienced all of the same functions as ours. I found I could not relate to a sanitized Christ. From a Jewish history of bodies that also sweated and bled under persecution, this bodily Christ was the one that I needed. This is where I found him most present.
The focus (or lack thereof) on blood on guts spills over into almost every other aspect of Christian worship. In his Council of Trent podcast, author and Catholic apologist Trent Horn noted that in much of mainstream evangelicalism, altars of sacrifice have been replaced by podiums for celebrity pastors (I realize that is a generalization, but I thought it was an interesting point). While many pastors do preach a sound gospel from that podium, something crucial and historic has been lost if our concept of “church” starts and ends there.
When modern ears hear the word “sacrifice,” perhaps we consider primitive forms of worship that included violence towards animals and even other humans. Ancient Israelites did practice animal sacrifices for their sins, which ceased with the destruction of the temple in the year 70. By then, Jesus became the sacrifice, once and for all.
This sacrifice is still acted out weekly in Anglo-Catholic worship. The altar that once sacrificed animals is now where the bread and wine become Christ’s body and blood (I used to believe it was purely symbolic; I’ve moved to a more open-minded posture of “it’s a sacred mystery”).
That altar of sacrifice is noticeably absent in many Protestant traditions. Once I became Anglican, that absence was sorely felt whenever I visited my husband’s non-denominational church (our compromise is to trade off each week, so long as we go together and form relationships at both locations). The “concert and a Ted Talk” form of worship felt hollow. Without the eucharist, I realized, worship can only go so far.
I’ve since learned there are different levels of adoration in Catholicism:
Dulia: this is respect that is given to saints;
Hyperdulia: an elevated form of dulia that is given to Mary, the mother of God;
Latria: the highest form of reverence given only to the Holy Trinity, found in the Eucharist.
With that knowledge came clarity. It’s not that Protestants don’t worship sincerely and deeply. It’s just that it never moves beyond dulia in church.
It’s also easy to see why so many Protestants seem to think that Catholics worship Mary (but that’s a different subject for another time).
The longer I am a believer, the more I realize I need latria. I need blood and guts in my worship. I need rituals, like the rosary, that acknowledge sacred mysteries like the agony in the garden, the scourging, and the crucifixion. I need not just blood but sweat and tears.
Photo by Thays Orrico on Unsplash
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