Many Christians today hold to “Sola Scriptura” — the idea that the Bible alone contains everything we need to know about our faith. But when you look closely at early Christian history, that assumption becomes much harder to maintain.
For one thing, the Bible as we know it didn’t exist as a bound collection until the late fourth century. And even then, the version many Protestants use today is actually shorter than the canon affirmed by the early Church.
But even more importantly, the Bible itself never teaches “Bible alone.”
What opened my eyes was a simple historical story — one that involves the Apostle John, the last of the Twelve to die, and two bishops who lived and worked within John’s lifetime: Clement of Rome and Ignatius of Antioch. These men didn’t just know about John. They knew him. They ministered in the same world he did.
And what they reveal about the early Church surprised me.
Ignatius was a disciple — a mentee — of the Apostle John during the years John ministered in Ephesus and throughout Asia Minor. This was the region of the seven churches addressed in the opening chapters of the Book of Revelation. Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea formed a tight network of Christian communities connected by well‑traveled Roman trade routes.
One of those major routes ran directly between Ephesus and Antioch. In the early Church, it was common for the apostles to ordain and appoint bishops and elders not only in their own cities, but also in other regions that needed leadership. Paul instructs Timothy to “appoint elders in every city,” showing that this authority extended to those whom the apostles themselves had ordained.
Because of this, it was not unusual for a leader trained in one city to be sent to another. When a major Christian center needed a bishop, the apostles or their closest associates often appointed someone from outside the city — someone they trusted, someone formed in the apostolic tradition.
Early Christian tradition holds that Ignatius, shaped by John’s ministry in Asia Minor, was appointed to serve as the bishop of Antioch — one of the most important sees in the ancient world and the first place believers were called “Christians.”
Antioch was the third largest city in the Roman Empire. To be bishop there was a big deal. It would be like being Archbishop of Canterbury or rector of the National Cathedral. To compare it to evangelical life, it would be like becoming pastor of the First Baptist Church of Dallas. Ignatius stepped into a very influential role.
Ignatius wasn’t a small‑town pastor. He stepped into one of the most prominent and respected roles in the entire Christian world.
At the same time, Clement, the author of 1 Clement, the first letter of Clement to the Corinthians, had become bishop of Rome. John would have still been alive when Clement became bishop of Rome.
Two things about this story intrigue me. First of all, when the churches had conflict, they appealed to Clement, not John, to settle their disuputes, and John never tried to pull rank on Clement and assert that he was an apostle but Clement was not. Evidently even John saw Clement, who held the bishop's seat once held by Peter, as at least an equal, and I think, because it was Peter's seat that Clement occupied, John actually deferred to Clement's authority, even though John was "the beloved disciple."
In Antioch, Ignatius developed into a major Christian leader in his own right. Other churches sought his counsel, and he left behind a remarkable collection of letters — nearly as many as St. Paul — written as he was being taken to Rome for execution. Among these is a letter addressed to the church in Rome itself.
What’s striking is the contrast in tone. When Ignatius writes to the churches in Asia Minor, he speaks with the confidence of a bishop: he rebukes, corrects, instructs, and commands. But when he writes to Rome, everything changes. His tone becomes deferential, almost reverent. He praises the Roman church as one that “has never envied anyone” and “has taught others,” acknowledging a status that no other church possessed.
Remember: Ignatius was bishop of Antioch, one of the most important sees in the ancient world — the first place believers were called Christians. If anyone could have said, “Rome, you should listen to us; we were Christians before you were,” it was Ignatius. But he never says anything of the sort.
Why? Because Ignatius understood apostolic succession. He knew that Rome was the see of Peter, and that the bishop of Rome was Peter’s successor. That alone gave Rome a unique authority in the early Church — an authority Ignatius recognized and respected.
And this is not happening centuries later. Ignatius is writing in the first decade of the second century, only a few years after the Apostle John’s death. His ministry in Antioch overlapped with both the final years of John’s life and the tenure of Clement as bishop of Rome. Ignatius knew the apostolic world firsthand, and he still wrote to Rome with a deference he showed to no other church.
The “Bible only” background I grew up with made sure I never heard any of this. In the circles I knew, church history simply wasn’t considered relevant. Looking back, that’s unfortunate, because it takes even the Bible out of its own historical context. It also ignores the long and careful process by which the Scriptures were recognized and canonized — a process that took more than three centuries. Instead, the Bible was treated almost as if it had dropped out of the sky fully formed, the way the Book of Mormon is claimed to have appeared.
The result is a version of Christianity that produces many saintly, loving, committed people — people I deeply respect — but who often have no idea of the true riches of their own heritage. They inherit the Scriptures without ever seeing the living, breathing Church that preserved them, interpreted them, and handed them down.
I liken this to something that happened to me personally. Back in 1998, when I was still a Quaker pastor in Iowa, my dad had a heart attack and underwent a second double bypass. We drove from Iowa to West Virginia to be with him as he recovered. While we were there, my dad kept noticing a woman coming in and out of a room across the hall who looked strangely familiar.
One day he stopped her and said, “You look just like my aunt.”
She asked, “Who is your aunt?”
Dad told her: “Emmy Scarbro.”
To his surprise, the woman replied, “That’s because Emmy is my half‑sister.”
My dad’s maternal grandfather had left his wife and seven or eight children — something that caused deep resentment in my grandmother — and had run off with a younger woman, with whom he had another large family. This woman in the hospital was one of those children. She had a family tree we had never seen.
It turns out my ancestors were Quakers, though I grew up Baptist. I had heard of the Scarborough–Haworth genealogical line in Quaker history, but I had no idea I was part of it. When the Scarboroughs came to Appalachia, the name was shortened to Scarbro, and somewhere along the way, that whole heritage was lost to us.
I had a lineage I didn’t know I had.
And that’s exactly how it is for many “Bible only” Christians. They are sincere, devout, loving people — but they often have no idea of the deep, rich heritage that belongs to them. A heritage that includes Ignatius, Clement, Polycarp, the Didache, the early councils, the canonization of Scripture, and the living tradition of the Church that shaped the very Bible they cherish.
When I first began learning all of this almost twenty years ago — and now having been Catholic for nearly fifteen — it changed my life. I began to see that Jesus really did appoint Peter as the shepherd of the entire Church, and that it makes sense that the unique role Jesus gave to Peter would be handed on to his successors. Not a role of domination, but of love, unity, and pastoral care.
And what struck me most was this: even before all twelve apostles had died, the early Church already recognized this. They didn’t use the word “pope,” but they clearly understood that the bishop of Rome carried the authority of Peter’s office. John deferred to Clement. Ignatius deferred to Rome. The pattern was already there.
Today, Pope Leo is the 267th bishop of Rome. We know every name in that line all the way back to Peter himself. That continuity — that living thread — was the single biggest piece that convinced me I had to become Catholic.
Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. The realization was strong, clear, and deeply moving. I knew what I had to do.
I became Catholic.
I believe that even today the pope — our Pope Leo — is a shepherd and pastor for all Christians, even for those who do not acknowledge his authority.
My Orthodox friends often say that the pope should be “first among equals.” I have no problem with that. Some popes have emphasized the “first.” Francis and Leo have emphasized the “equals.” Both matter.
Part of why this resonates with me is because of something very personal. I spent ten years in a cult where the leader claimed spiritual authority over every detail of people’s lives — who they should marry, where they should go to college, even where they should live. He claimed to have more authority than the pope. That kind of control leaves deep wounds.
But the pope is not a commanding officer. He is a shepherd. And I believe Pope Leo feels a genuine pastoral concern for all Christians, not just Catholics. People have asked me why, after being in such an abusive church group, I would ever become Catholic. My answer is simple: the pope and the bishops are nothing like that. Their counsel is general, not intrusive. They guide; they do not micromanage. They teach; they do not dominate.
I don’t agree with the Church on every issue. But I recognize the shepherd.
It also occurs to me that the early bishops of Rome exercised authority well beyond the boundaries of their own local church. This is significant, because it undercuts the later Orthodox argument that no bishop has authority outside his own see. The early Church simply did not operate as a collection of independent, autocephalous communities.
We see this clearly in the first century, when the church in Corinth appealed to Clement of Rome — not to the Apostle John, who was still alive — to resolve their internal conflict. Clement intervened decisively, and his letter was received with obedience and preserved as Scripture in some early communities. That alone shows that Rome’s authority was recognized far beyond its own city.
The church in Corinth appealed to Clement of Rome — not to the Apostle John, who was still alive — to resolve their internal conflict. And yet both Corinth and John were located in what is now considered Orthodox territory.
And this pattern continued. In the second and third centuries, the bishops of Rome intervened in disputes in Asia Minor, Syria, and North Africa — regions that today belong to the Orthodox world. Whatever one thinks about later developments, the historical record shows that the early Church did not see the bishop of Rome as merely “first among equals” in a ceremonial sense. His voice carried real weight, and churches far from Rome recognized it.
Some of the very places where Rome once exercised this pastoral authority are now part of the Orthodox communion. The idea that each bishop was completely independent simply doesn’t match the earliest evidence.
