Links, Apologetics/Defense, References, & News & Opinions concerning my faith journey as a Catholic.
"In the process of salvation by co-operating with
grace through faith
in Jesus Christ, as
sustained by the sacraments
and by works of love, because faith without works is dead."
"In the process of salvation by co-operating with grace through faith in Jesus Christ, as sustained
"In the process of salvation by co-operating with grace through faith in Jesus Christ, as sustained by the sacraments and by works of love, because faith without works is dead."
"Christianity Is a Relationship, Not a Religion” — No. Just No.
I’m going to be blunt: I’m done pretending this phrase deserves respect.
“Christianity is a relationship, not a religion” is not a profound insight. It is not biblical wisdom. It is not theological depth. It is a cheap slogan, endlessly repeated, rarely examined, and almost always weaponized against Catholicism.
It’s tired. It’s misleading. And at this point, it’s intellectually embarrassing.
Let’s start with the obvious fact that somehow keeps getting ignored: Belief in God is, by definition, religion.
You can stomp your feet, insist otherwise, and slap the word relationship on it all you want—but if you pray, read Scripture, gather for worship, sing hymns, celebrate ordinances or sacraments, submit to leaders, and teach doctrine, congratulations: you are practicing religion.
And no, renaming it doesn’t make it disappear.
What Evangelicals Really Mean by “Religion”
Let’s stop playing games.
When many Evangelicals say “religion,” what they actually mean is Catholicism.
By “religion,” they mean:
Authority
Structure
Hierarchy
Rules
Rituals
Tradition
History
In other words: the Catholic Church.
So they contrast it with their preferred slogan: “Just Jesus and the Bible.”
But here’s the problem: that is still religion.
A religion with:
Its own rules
Its own hierarchy (pastors, elders, boards, megachurch celebrities)
Its own rituals (altar calls, communion, baptism)
Its own traditions (Bible-onlyism, once-saved-always-saved, rapture theology)
You didn’t escape religion.
You just traded historic Christianity for a modern, DIY version of it.
As Protestant historian Alister McGrath bluntly states:
“Christianity is irreducibly a religion. Attempts to portray it otherwise are historically indefensible.”
A Slogan Designed to Recruit the Rebellious
The real purpose of the phrase “relationship, not a religion” is not theological—it’s psychological and marketing-driven.
It’s aimed squarely at:
Young people
The anti-authority
The rule-averse
Those suspicious of institutions
It tells them what they want to hear:
No rules
No structure
No accountability
No history
No Church
Just “me, Jesus, and my Bible.”
That sounds liberating—until you realize it’s completely foreign to Christianity as it actually existed.
The First Christians Never Had This Option
Here’s the part that destroys the slogan entirely.
The early Christians had no concept of “relationship vs. religion.”
They lived in:
Organized communities
Under apostolic authority
With bishops, presbyters, and deacons
Practicing structured worship
Scripture itself says so:
“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of the bread and the prayers.”
— Acts 2:42
Time once again for my annual “Christmas is NOT pagan” post.
I really shouldn’t have to write this every year. And yet, like clockwork, the same tired claim resurfaces—recycled through social media, comment sections, YouTube videos, and anti-Catholic blogs—that Christmas is somehow a baptized pagan holiday. This lie persists not because of evidence, but because of a toxic mix of historical ignorance, intellectual laziness, and—let’s be honest—good old-fashioned anti-Catholic hostility.
What makes it worse is that this nonsense doesn’t just come from secular skeptics or fringe fundamentalists. Even some Catholics will shrug and say, “Well, maybe Christmas had pagan roots, but it’s about Christ now.” To be absolutely clear: even if that were true, it would not bother me in the slightest. Christianity has always transformed cultures, redirected symbols, and conquered paganism by proclaiming Christ through time, art, and human tradition. Turning what was once pagan into something holy is not a scandal—it is the very story of Christian history.
But here’s the problem: that isn’t what happened with Christmas.
And that’s why this claim is so frustrating. We live in an age where ignorance is no longer an excuse. With the internet, smartphones, search engines, digital libraries, and now AI, anyone can access real historical sources in seconds. You can read the Church Fathers. You can examine ancient calendars. You can follow the biblical chronology. You can verify dates, documents, and primary sources.
And yet the myth persists—repeated confidently, shared endlessly, and believed uncritically.
So once again, here I am, doing my yearly act of apologetic public service:
Christmas is not pagan. It never was.
If you prefer videos over reading (an unfortunate reality for many today), I’ll embed and link to several Catholic apologists who have produced excellent, well-researched content on this subject. But for those willing to engage with actual history, primary sources, and reasoned argument, here is the written case—again.
Let’s deal with the facts.
The True Origins of Christmas and Its Customs: History, Myths, and Misconceptions
Over time, Christmas has become one of the most celebrated holidays in the world, marked by caroling, feasting, gift-giving, greenery, and the December 25th celebration of Christ’s birth. Modern critics frequently assert that these customs are pagan in origin, hoping to discredit the feast itself. But serious historical inquiry exposes this claim as shallow and misleading. When examined honestly, these traditions arise not from pagan religion, but from biblical chronology, early Christian theology, and the Church’s effort to proclaim the Incarnation through time, culture, and creation.
The Historical Evidence for December 25 as the Nativity of Christ
The claim that December 25 was chosen to “Christianize” pagan festivals such as Saturnalia or Sol Invictus collapses under historical scrutiny. The dating of Christ’s Nativity to December 25 emerges from early Christian biblical reasoning and chronology—not from pagan accommodation.
Biblical Chronology and the Annunciation
The starting point for early Christian calculations was not pagan festivals, but the Gospel of Luke.
Luke tells us that the angel Gabriel appeared to the Virgin Mary six months after Elizabeth conceived John the Baptist (Luke 1:26, 36). Early Christians sought to determine when John was conceived by working backward from Zechariah’s priestly service in the Temple (Luke 1:5–23), which followed a known rotation of priestly divisions (cf. 1 Chronicles 24).
Based on this Temple calendar, early Christian scholars concluded that:
John the Baptist was conceived in late September
Elizabeth was six months pregnant in late March
Therefore, the Annunciation to Mary occurred around March 25
Once the Annunciation was fixed at March 25, the Nativity followed naturally:
Nine months later → December 25
This was not symbolic guesswork—it was an attempt to align Scripture, Jewish liturgical calendars, and historical memory.
Theological Reasoning: Conception and Redemption
Early Christians also believed that the great acts of salvation occurred on the same calendar dates. A widely held Jewish-Christian tradition taught that prophets died on the same date they were conceived.
Thus, Christ was believed to have been:
Conceived on March 25 (Annunciation)
Crucified on March 25
Born nine months later on December 25
Saint Augustine articulates this tradition clearly, stating that Christ was conceived and died on the same day of the year, making December 25 the logical date of His birth.
This theological symmetry reflects Jewish concepts of divine order, not pagan mythology.
Early Historical Witnesses
The December 25 date appears very early in Christian sources:
Saint Hippolytus of Rome (c. 205 A.D.), in his Commentary on Daniel, explicitly states:
“For the first advent of our Lord in the flesh, when he was born in Bethlehem, eight days before the Kalends of January [December 25]…”
This predates the Roman cult of Sol Invictus (established in 274 A.D.) by nearly seventy years.
The Chronography of 354, an official Roman Christian calendar, states:
VIII kal. Ian. natus Christus in Betleem Iudeae
(“December 25, Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea.”)
Saint John Chrysostom (386 A.D.) refers to December 25 as an established tradition and claims Roman census records supported it.
These witnesses show continuity—not innovation or pagan borrowing.
Sol Invictus & Saturnalia
One of the most persistent modern myths is that Christmas was superimposed on pagan festivals such as Sol Invictus or Saturnalia. However, this argument collapses under scrutiny:
The Roman festival of Sol Invictus, established in 274 A.D., postdates the Christian observance of December 25th as Christ’s birth, as evidenced by Hippolytus and the Chronography of 354. The date for Sol Invictus may have been chosen to compete with the Christian feast, not the other way around.
Saturnalia, which began on December 17th, was a week-long Roman festival that concluded by December 23rd, with no evidence linking it directly to December 25th or Christmas traditions.
Christmas Customs: Their Christian Origins and Misinterpreted Links to Paganism
1. The Christmas Tree
The tradition of the Christmas tree has a rich history that predates Christianity. Evergreen plants were used by various cultures to celebrate the winter solstice, symbolizing life and renewal during the darkest days of the year.
The Theory of Babylonian Paganism and the Christmas Tree
A popular claim, often found in fringe circles, suggests that the Christmas tree is rooted in Babylonian paganism and condemned in the Bible. Critics often cite Jeremiah 10:1-5, where the prophet denounces the practice of cutting down a tree, decorating it with silver and gold, and worshiping it as an idol:
“For the customs of the peoples are vanity: a tree from the forest is cut down and worked with an axe by the hands of a craftsman. They decorate it with silver and gold; they fasten it with hammer and nails so that it cannot move.”
At first glance, this may seem like a condemnation of modern Christmas trees. However, this interpretation is flawed. Jeremiah is describing the crafting of idols—carving wooden statues to be worshiped, a common pagan practice in his time. There is no connection between this ancient idolatry and the Christmas tree, which developed thousands of years later as a Christian custom in medieval Europe.
The Christmas tree was never an object of worship but a symbol of Christ’s eternal life, brought into homes to honor the Nativity. The accusation of Babylonian influence is a misreading of both Scripture and history.
The Truth
However, the modern Christmas tree tradition took shape in Germany during the 16th century, when devout Christians began bringing decorated evergreens into their homes—an idea often associated with Martin Luther, who is said to have added candles to a tree after being inspired by stars shining through winter branches.
Yet this custom had much older medieval roots. One major source was the “Paradise plays” performed on December 24, the Feast of Adam and Eve, where an evergreen adorned with apples symbolized the biblical Tree of Life. As these plays faded, families began setting up “Paradise trees” in their homes as devotional symbols. Older Germanic winter customs that honored evergreens as signs of life also contributed to the practice, later Christianized as symbols of Christ’s eternal life. By the 1500s—especially in Alsace and along the Rhine—these traditions merged into the familiar Christmas tree: an evergreen brought indoors and decorated first with fruit and wafers, and eventually with candles and lights.
An interesting legend involves Saint Boniface, a Catholic missionary in the 8th century. According to this story, Saint Boniface came across a group of pagans worshipping an oak tree. To demonstrate the power of Christianity, he cut down the oak tree, and in its place, a fir tree grew. Saint Boniface used the triangular shape of the fir tree to explain the Holy Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) and its evergreen nature to symbolize eternal life in Christ. This legend illustrates how the Christmas tree tradition was integrated into Christian practices, blending pagan customs with Christian symbolism.
It is also critical to address the misconception that the Christmas tree is an idol. As Christians, we do not worship the Christmas tree, nor do we consider it a god or divine in any way. The tree is not an object of praise, prayer, or miracles. If it were an idol, we would not unceremoniously dispose of it after the Christmas season ends. Instead, the tree is simply a beautiful and symbolic way to celebrate Christ’s birth, pointing to His eternal life and the hope He brings to the world. More on YouTube here.
2. Caroling
Caroling, or singing songs in celebration of Christmas, is sometimes linked to pagan practices of singing and dancing during seasonal festivals like Saturnalia or Norse Yule. While pagans did sing to mark seasonal changes, the Christian tradition of caroling evolved independently.
Caroling in its modern sense began in medieval Europe as a religious expression. Early Christian hymns were sung to honor Christ’s birth, with some of the earliest carols dating to the 4th century. By the Middle Ages, caroling had spread throughout Europe, with groups of singers going door to door, bringing joy and sharing the message of Christ’s Nativity. These songs emphasized Christian themes of peace, joy, and salvation, marking them as distinct from any pagan counterparts.
3. Feasting
Feasting during Christmas is sometimes compared to the revelry of pagan festivals like Saturnalia, which involved communal meals and merriment. However, the Christian tradition of feasting finds its roots in the celebration of God’s blessings, particularly the Incarnation.
The Bible often associates feasting with divine joy and thanksgiving (e.g., the wedding feast of Cana, where Jesus performed His first miracle). Early Christians celebrated Christmas with feasts not as a continuation of pagan practices but as a reflection of the joy of Christ’s birth. The act of sharing food also symbolized Christian fellowship and charity, especially as many medieval Christmas feasts included provisions for the poor.
4. Gift-Giving
The tradition of gift-giving at Christmas is often traced back to Saturnalia, where Romans exchanged tokens during their winter festivities. However, the Christian custom of giving gifts is rooted in the Gospel accounts of the Magi bringing gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the infant Jesus (Matthew 2:11). This act of honoring Christ with gifts became a model for Christian generosity.
5. The Legend of Santa Claus
The modern figure of Santa Claus is based on St. Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra, who lived in the 4th century. St. Nicholas was known for his generosity, especially towards the poor and children. The most famous legend about him involves secretly providing dowries for three impoverished sisters to save them from a life of destitution. Over time, the stories of St. Nicholas evolved, particularly in Europe, where he became associated with gift-giving during the Christmas season. The name “Santa Claus” is derived from the Dutch “Sinterklaas,” a shortened form of “Saint Nicholas.”
6. The Yule Log
The Christmas Yule log is often described as “pagan,” but there is no solid historical evidence to support that claim. While fire and light were used in many ancient cultures, the Yule log as it appears in history is a medieval Christian household custom, not a surviving pagan ritual. By the time it is documented, Europe had been Christian for centuries, and the practice was explicitly tied to Christmas, prayer, and blessing.
In Christian homes, the log was commonly blessed with holy water, marked with the sign of the cross, lit on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, and associated with prayers for Christ’s protection over the household. These details matter. Meaning is determined by intention and object, not by superficial resemblance. Fire at Christmas does not imply nature worship any more than candles in church do.
The word Yule itself does not prove pagan origin. In medieval English, Yule simply meant Christmas. The Church did not adopt a pagan festival; rather, Christian faith reshaped language, time, and custom. Fire and light are deeply biblical symbols, used throughout Scripture to express God’s presence and Christ as the Light of the world.
The Yule log belongs to Christian domestic piety. It reflects an incarnational faith that allows material things, time, and the home itself to speak of Christ. To burn a Yule log at Christmas is not to honor the sun or the season, but to confess, in a simple and human way, that light has entered the darkness.
🌿 Mistletoe, Wreaths, Garlands, and Lights: Are They Pagan?
Some critics broaden the claim that “Christmas is pagan” to include mistletoe, wreaths, garlands, greenery, candles, and lights. This claim rests on a basic misunderstanding of history and Christian theology.
7. Mistletoe
Mistletoe had symbolic meaning in some pre-Christian European cultures because it remained green in winter and was associated with life and peace. But symbolic use is not worship, and mistletoe was never a deity.
When Christians later used mistletoe decoratively, they did not adopt pagan beliefs. Its symbolism was reoriented toward eternal life and reconciliation through Christ. The familiar “kissing under the mistletoe” custom is not ancient pagan ritual at all, but a much later English folk tradition.
Using mistletoe as decoration does not constitute paganism any more than using olive branches or flowers.
8. Wreaths and Garlands
Evergreen wreaths and garlands are often labeled “pagan” simply because evergreens were used before Christianity. This ignores how Christianity actually engages culture.
Christians gave these symbols explicit theological meaning:
Evergreens symbolize eternal life in Christ
The circular wreath represents eternity
Holly’s thorns recall the Crown of Thorns, and its red berries the Blood of Christ
These are not pagan holdovers, but Christian symbolism expressed through creation.
9. Lights and Candles
The use of light in winter is sometimes cited as evidence of pagan influence, yet light is central to biblical revelation:
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5)
Christmas celebrates Christ’s Incarnation—the Light entering a dark world. Candles and lights are not borrowed pagan rituals; they are natural expressions of Christian theology.
The Core Error
The argument that Christmas decorations are pagan assumes that anything pre-Christian is forbidden. This is not how Christianity works.
Christianity does not destroy culture—it redeems it.
Creation belongs to God:
“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.” (Psalm 24:1)
Evergreens preach life.
Light proclaims Christ.
Wreaths proclaim eternity.
None of these constitute pagan worship. They proclaim the Gospel through the created world.
Theological Significance of Christmas
The Incarnation
The celebration of Christmas is fundamentally about the Incarnation—the belief that God became man in the person of Jesus Christ. This is not merely a seasonal celebration but a profound theological truth central to Christian faith. As the Gospel of John proclaims, "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us" (John 1:14). The early Church Fathers, such as St. Athanasius, emphasized that the Incarnation was necessary for human salvation: "He became what we are so that He might make us what He is" (On the Incarnation, 54:3).
The Council of Nicaea (325 AD) and the Council of Chalcedon (451 AD) both affirmed the full divinity and full humanity of Christ, countering heresies that denied these truths. Christmas, therefore, celebrates the mystery of God entering human history to redeem humanity, a mystery that is far removed from the pagan myths often cited by critics.
"The Apostles Didn't Celebrate Christmas"
When I hear the claim that “the Apostles didn’t celebrate Christmas,” I don’t hear it as a serious challenge to the feast so much as a misunderstanding of how the Church lives and grows. Of course the Apostles didn’t celebrate Christmas as we know it. They didn’t celebrate Trinity Sunday, Corpus Christi, or most of the liturgical calendar either. The Church did not receive the fullness of her worship all at once, frozen in the first century. She came to understand, articulate, and celebrate the mysteries of Christ over time, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. As a Catholic, I believe development is not corruption. The absence of a feast in the apostolic age does not discredit it any more than the absence of formal creeds discredits the Trinity.
From my perspective, Christmas exists not because the Apostles held a birthday party for Jesus, but because the Church eventually recognized that the Incarnation demanded liturgical expression. The Gospel proclaims that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” and Christmas is the Church’s way of insisting that this truth matters, not just doctrinally but humanly. We celebrate Christ’s birth because salvation did not begin at the Cross alone, but in the womb, in history, in time. As a Catholic, I don’t measure the legitimacy of a feast by whether the Apostles practiced it explicitly, but by whether it faithfully proclaims who Christ is. Christmas does exactly that.
Why Christmas Traditions Matter
The customs of Christmas—whether it’s the Christmas tree, caroling, feasting, or gift-giving—carry deep Christian significance. They reflect the joy of Christ’s birth, the light of salvation, and the spirit of generosity and fellowship. The historical evidence for the December 25th Nativity date further solidifies Christmas as a celebration firmly rooted in Christianity, not a co-opting of pagan festivals.
In a world where misinformation about Christmas abounds, understanding and embracing these traditions as expressions of faith and theology reaffirms the true meaning of the holiday: the Incarnation of Christ, God’s gift of Himself to humanity. By celebrating Christmas with joy and gratitude, Christians honor a history and tradition that has brought hope and light to countless generations.
Conclusion
Christmas is not a pagan holiday but a profound celebration of the Incarnation—the moment when "the Word became flesh." The traditions, including the Christmas tree and even the legend of Santa Claus, have been integrated into Christian practice with deep theological significance. As the Catechism reminds us, "The Church's mission is to proclaim and establish among all peoples the kingdom of Christ and of God" (CCC 768).
Consultation and Community
Catholics are only required to attend Mass on Christmas Day, but for many non-Catholics, the guidance of church leadership and the traditions of their particular Christian community play a significant role in deciding which holidays to observe. Dialogues with church leaders or more in-depth personal study can provide additional insight and guidance.
Ultimately, except for Catholics, each individual or family must decide which holidays to celebrate based on their understanding of Scripture, their cultural context, and their personal convictions about what honors God in their worship and celebration.
Sources:
Catechism of the Catholic Church, sections 1194, 768.
St. Augustine, Sermon 190: On the Nativity of Christ.
St. Athanasius, On the Incarnation, 54:3.
Council of Nicaea (325 AD), Council of Chalcedon (451 AD).
1 Corinthians 9:22; John 1:14.
And to clarify, the Catholic Church does not mandate the celebration of Christmas beyond its original intent: participating in Mass, hearing the Word of God, and receiving the Eucharist, which commemorates the birth of Christ. The Church does not require or prescribe the customs often associated with Christmas, such as decorating trees, setting up nativity scenes, hanging mistletoe, adorning homes with greenery and lights, caroling, or even the modern figure of Santa Claus. In fact, many Catholics, both clergy and laity—including myself—prefer not to perpetuate the myth of the contemporary Santa Claus, which diverges significantly from the historical St. Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra. St. Nicholas was a real person, known for his generosity and devotion, and serves as a far better example of Christian virtue than the magical figure we see today.
Much of what is now considered part of the "Christmas tradition" is not essential to the holiday and, in some cases, has no formal endorsement from the Catholic Church. For example, the use of Christmas trees was once slow to be adopted by the Church, partly due to their association with Protestant practices and the legend of Martin Luther introducing candles on trees.
Personally, I choose to celebrate Christmas not only by attending Mass but also by embracing these traditions—regardless of their origins—because they help me honor the birth of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I find joy in the cultural aspects of Christmas: the greenery, the trees, the songs, the lights, the nativity scenes, and the wintry decorations. These elements are not only enjoyable but also hold a nostalgic value, evoking memories of my childhood, when Christmas was a time spent with family and filled with anticipation. There is nothing wrong with enjoying these traditions as long as they are directed toward celebrating Christ, and God knows the intentions of our hearts.
Christianity, Nationhood, and the Danger of False Extremes
I didn’t hear the phrase Christian Nationalism until relatively recently. Like many people, I first encountered it around the time Donald Trump entered national politics, when the term suddenly appeared everywhere and almost always as an accusation. It was presented as self-evidently dangerous, un-Christian, and even un-American. Yet the more I read, the more I noticed something familiar. The same critics who rejected Christian Nationalism outright also tended to reject the idea of American Exceptionalism, national identity, or even patriotism itself.
That overlap is not accidental.
Both debates are really about the same underlying question: Can a nation have a meaningful moral identity shaped by Christianity without becoming an idol? My answer, informed by Catholic theology and history, is yes—but only if we avoid the false extremes that dominate the conversation.
What I Mean by American Exceptionalism
When I defend American Exceptionalism, I am not claiming that the United States is divinely elected in the way Israel was, nor that it is morally superior to all other nations. That would be bad theology and bad history. Rather, I mean that the United States has a distinctive historical character, shaped by particular philosophical, cultural, and religious influences, including Christianity.
To deny this is simply to deny history. Christian ideas about human dignity, moral law, freedom of conscience, and the limits of political power undeniably influenced the American experiment. Recognizing this does not require triumphalism. It requires honesty.
At the same time, Catholic theology is clear that no nation, including my own, stands above moral judgment. Nations are accountable to justice, natural law, and the dignity of the human person. Exceptionalism, rightly understood, is a description of history and responsibility, not a claim to divine immunity.
Why “Christian Nationalism” Became a Flashpoint
The term Christian Nationalism did not arise as a neutral self-description. It became popular largely through academic and political critique, often employed by people already hostile to Christianity’s presence in public life or skeptical of national identity altogether. As a result, the term is frequently used imprecisely, applied to everything from violent extremism to ordinary Christian political engagement.
That misuse matters. When every expression of Christian moral reasoning in public life is labeled “Christian Nationalism,” the term ceases to clarify and begins to obscure. It becomes a rhetorical weapon rather than an analytical tool.
At the same time, I do not deny that real dangers exist. There are forms of nationalism that elevate the nation to a quasi-divine status, and forms of Christianity that willingly subordinate the Gospel to political power. Both are distortions. Christ is not the servant of any state, and the Kingdom of God cannot be reduced to a political project.
A Qualified Affirmation
This is where I differ from both sides of the debate.
I reject the secular assumption that Christianity must be privatized, stripped of public influence, and treated as a threat whenever it shapes moral or cultural norms. Christians are citizens, and faith necessarily informs conscience. Expecting otherwise is neither realistic nor just.
At the same time, I reject a politicized Christianity that treats the nation as sacred, equates dissent with disloyalty, or imagines God as uniquely aligned with one country’s power. Jesus’ declaration that “My kingdom is not of this world” sets clear theological boundaries.
If I accept the term Christian Nationalism at all, I do so only with strict limits. Christianity may inform national moral vision, but it must never be absorbed into the state. National loyalty may be virtuous, but it must never override the universal dignity of the human person. The Church must shape consciences, not become an arm of political authority.
The False Choice We Are Offered
Much of today’s debate forces a false choice: either reject national identity entirely or embrace an uncritical, quasi-religious nationalism. Either silence Christianity in public life or weaponize it for political ends. Catholic theology allows neither.
The Church has always insisted on a tension rather than a fusion: faith informs culture, culture shapes nations, and nations remain morally accountable. This tension is not a flaw. It is a safeguard against idolatry.
In this sense, my views on American Exceptionalism and Christian Nationalism are part of the same argument. I defend the legitimacy of national identity and Christian moral influence, while rejecting any attempt to absolutize either one. Nations matter. Christianity matters more. And neither is served when we confuse their proper roles.
Conclusion
I do not believe America is a messiah, nor do I believe Christianity exists to sanctify political power. But I also reject the claim that faith and nationhood must be enemies. History, theology, and common sense all point to a more balanced truth.
A nation shaped by Christian ideas can pursue the common good without claiming divine status. A Christianity engaged with public life can remain faithful without becoming political propaganda. Holding these truths together is harder than choosing an extreme, but it is also more honest.
And in an age defined by caricature and suspicion, honesty is itself a form of resistance.
Constantine, Christendom, and the Question We’re Still Asking
The modern debate over Christian Nationalism and American Exceptionalism is not new. The Church faced an earlier version of it in the fourth century, when Constantine legalized Christianity and Theodosius later established it as the official religion of the Roman Empire. Many Christians at the time understood these developments as not only good, but providential.
This was not naïve triumphalism. After centuries of persecution, the Church suddenly found itself protected by law, free to evangelize openly, convene councils, build institutions, and shape public life. Writers like Lactantius, who lived through the transition, interpreted Constantine’s victory as divine intervention on behalf of the persecuted Church, explicitly linking imperial success to God’s judgment against tyrannical persecutors.¹ Eusebius of Caesarea went further, presenting Constantine as an instrument chosen by God to bring peace to the Church and to advance Christ’s reign through history.²
For many believers, Scripture itself seemed to illuminate what they were witnessing. The petition “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven” (Matt. 6:10), and Revelation’s proclamation that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ” (Rev. 11:15), were read not merely as future hope but as unfolding historical reality. Modern Revelation scholarship confirms that this language is intentionally political and historical, portraying Christ’s victory as something that breaks into time, not something postponed entirely to the end of history.³
In important respects, those early Christians were right. The Christian Roman Empire did help bring the Gospel to the world. Roman infrastructure, legal recognition, and imperial stability became tools of evangelization. The great ecumenical councils, the preservation of Scripture, the development of Christian education and charity, and the shaping of Western moral culture were all made possible, at least in part, because Christianity was no longer illegal or marginal.
Augustine did not deny this good. What he denied was the claim that any empire, even a Christian one, could be identified fully with the Kingdom of God. In The City of God, Augustine affirms that earthly political orders can serve God’s purposes while remaining provisional and morally accountable.⁴ Rome could be used by God without becoming the City of God itself. This distinction was a theological refinement, not a repudiation of Constantine.
This history matters for America.
Just as Rome’s embrace of Christianity was real, beneficial, and providential without being eschatological fulfillment, so too America’s Christian inheritance can be acknowledged without divinizing the nation. The United States is not the Kingdom of God, but neither is it a morally neutral accident. Christianity shaped its moral imagination, legal assumptions, and understanding of human dignity. Recognizing this is no more idolatrous than acknowledging what Rome once became.
The lesson of Constantine is not that Christian influence in public life is dangerous. The lesson is that success must be interpreted with humility. God works through nations. He always has. But nations remain instruments, not ends.
A Brief Response to Anti-Constantinian Critics
Some modern critics reject Constantine outright, portraying the legalization of Christianity as a betrayal of the Gospel. This position is historically and theologically unsustainable.
It implies that persecution is the Church’s normative condition, a claim neither Scripture nor tradition supports. It treats political authority as inherently corrupting, despite Scripture’s insistence that governing authority exists by God’s permission (Rom. 13:1). And it ignores the tangible fruits of Christendom: doctrinal clarity, evangelization, moral reform, and cultural transformation.
Even Augustine, often invoked against Christendom, never argued that Constantine was a mistake. His concern was not Christian rulers, but Christian hubris. The danger lies not in Christianity shaping a civilization, but in mistaking that civilization for salvation itself.
That same distinction applies today. America need not be rejected as irredeemably corrupt, nor embraced as divinely guaranteed. Like Rome, it can be judged, corrected, and used by God—without ever becoming the Kingdom itself.
History does not warn us against Christian influence in public life. It warns us against forgetting who the King really is.
Footnotes
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, trans. J. L. Creed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), esp. chs. 44–48.
Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine, trans. Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), I.1–4; II.28–29.
Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 34–38; see also N. T. Wright, Revelation for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 98–101.
Augustine, The City of God, trans. Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), XIX.17; V.17.
Rome and America: History, Providence, and the Limits of Christian Power
Any serious discussion of Christian Nationalism or American Exceptionalism eventually runs into history—and not just any history, but Rome.
The Roman Empire remains the most important test case for a question Christians still wrestle with today: What happens when Christianity shapes a dominant political power? The legalization of Christianity under Constantine and its establishment as the state religion under Theodosius were not marginal developments. They were civilizational turning points. How we interpret those moments inevitably shapes how we think about America’s Christian heritage.
Rome Was Not Neutral, and Neither Is America
Before Constantine, Rome was not religiously neutral. It enforced pagan worship, punished Christian refusal to sacrifice, and treated the Church as a threat to civic order. When Christianity was legalized and later favored, this was not merely a policy change; it was a moral reorientation of imperial authority.¹
America, likewise, is not religiously neutral in the way modern secular theory often assumes. The United States emerged from a Christian moral and intellectual world shaped by biblical assumptions about human dignity, moral law, and accountability beyond the state. Recognizing this does not require claiming America is the Kingdom of God any more than recognizing Rome’s Christianization required claiming Christ’s return had occurred.
In both cases, the nation is historically conditioned, morally accountable, and capable of being used by God without being divinized.
Rome as a Providential Instrument
Early Christians were not irrational for seeing God’s hand in Rome’s conversion. Lactantius, writing during the transition, explicitly interpreted Constantine’s victory as divine judgment against persecuting emperors and as God’s protection of the Church.² Eusebius of Caesarea went further, portraying Constantine as a providential ruler raised up to secure peace for Christianity and to extend Christ’s reign through history.³
Rome became a means through which Christianity could spread, organize, and mature. Councils could convene, doctrine could be clarified, Scripture could be preserved, and charity could be institutionalized. These developments were not accidental, nor were they spiritually insignificant.
Similarly, America’s stability, global influence, and legal traditions have allowed Christianity to flourish in ways that would have been impossible under regimes hostile to the faith. Acknowledging this is not triumphalism; it is historical realism.
Augustine’s Correction, Not Rejection
Augustine is often invoked as a critic of Christendom, but this reading oversimplifies his argument. In The City of God, Augustine does not deny that God used Rome. He denies that any empire—even a Christian one—can be equated with the City of God itself.⁴ Earthly political orders can serve God’s purposes while remaining provisional and subject to judgment.
This distinction is crucial for America. A nation can be providential without being salvific. Augustine’s warning was not against Christian political influence, but against confusing historical success with eschatological fulfillment.
The Same Temptation, a Different Empire
The temptation facing American Christians today is not fundamentally different from that faced by fourth-century Christians. Political success can feel like divine approval; cultural influence can feel like confirmation. Revelation’s declaration that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ” (Rev. 11:15) was read by early Christians as breaking into history, not merely awaiting the end of time. Modern scholarship confirms that Revelation intentionally frames Christ’s victory in political and historical terms.⁵
Yet Rome fell—not because it was Christian, but because no empire is eternal. This does not negate its Christian heritage, nor does it require Christian withdrawal from public life. It requires humility.
What Rome Teaches America
Rome teaches four enduring lessons:
God can and does work through political authority.
Christian influence in public life is not a betrayal of the Gospel.
No nation is the Kingdom of God.
Gratitude must never become idolatry.
The mistake is not saying “God used Rome” or “God has used America.” The mistake is concluding that such nations are therefore beyond judgment or failure.
Conclusion
Rome and America are not identical, but they rhyme. Both were shaped by Christianity. Both exercised extraordinary influence. Both faced the temptation to confuse providence with permanence.
Christian Nationalism and American Exceptionalism become dangerous only when they forget this history. Properly understood, both debates ask whether Christians believe God still acts in history—and whether nations can serve purposes larger than themselves without becoming objects of worship.
Rome did. America has. Neither is God.
Holding those truths together is not compromise. It is maturity.
Footnotes
Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom, 2nd ed. (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2003), 68–74.
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum, trans. J. L. Creed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), chs. 44–48.
Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine, trans. Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), I.1–4; II.28–29.
Augustine, The City of God, trans. Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin Classics, 2003), V.17; XIX.17.
Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 34–38; N. T. Wright, Revelation for Everyone (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 98–101.
Reclaiming the Feast of Saint Lucy as an Italian American Catholic
I did not grow up celebrating the Feast of Saint Lucy.
My family is Italian American, but largely assimilated. While we identified as Catholic and observed major liturgical celebrations such as Christmas and Easter, we did not mark the feast days of saints as part of our religious or cultural life. Devotional practices tied to the liturgical calendar were minimal, and the observance of saints’ days, common in many Italian regions, did not survive the transition into American life.
As an adult, however, I have become increasingly attentive to the devotional and cultural dimensions of Catholicism that were not transmitted to me. The Feast of Saint Lucy, observed on December 13, has become one such point of recovery. My engagement with this feast is not inherited but intentional, shaped by historical study, theological reflection, and a desire to reconnect with forms of Catholic practice that once structured Italian religious life.
Saint Lucy in Historical and Devotional Context
Saint Lucy, or Santa Lucia, was born in Syracuse, Sicily, in the late third century. According to early Christian tradition, she was martyred during the persecutions under Emperor Diocletian after refusing to renounce her faith or enter into a pagan marriage. While accounts of her death vary, she has been consistently honored by the Church as a virgin martyr since at least the fifth century.
The Catholic Encyclopedia describes Lucy as “one of the most venerated martyrs of the early Church,” a designation reflected in the rapid spread of her cult throughout Italy and northern Europe (“St. Lucy”). Over time, devotional traditions associated her with eyesight, and she became a patron saint of the blind and those suffering from eye diseases. While some of these elements developed through legend rather than historical documentation, they nonetheless shaped the theological imagination of the faithful.
What I find most significant about Saint Lucy is not the legendary embellishment of her martyrdom, but her representative status. She exemplifies the early Christian understanding of witness as costly fidelity. Her sanctity is grounded not in institutional authority or intellectual contribution, but in steadfast refusal to compromise belief under coercion.
Light as Theological Symbol and Liturgical Placement
The theological symbolism of Saint Lucy is inseparable from her name, derived from the Latin lux, meaning light. This symbolism is intensified by the liturgical placement of her feast on December 13, which, prior to calendar reform, coincided closely with the winter solstice and was regarded as the longest night of the year.
The Church’s commemoration of a saint named “Light” at this moment reflects a broader Christian theology in which light signifies divine presence, truth, and salvation. The Johannine assertion that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5) has long informed the spiritual interpretation of Lucy’s feast.
From a theological perspective, the emphasis on light does not negate the reality of darkness. Rather, it affirms the persistence of faith under conditions of suffering and obscurity. This framework has shaped my own engagement with the feast, particularly its emphasis on simple ritual actions, such as the lighting of candles, which render abstract theology tangible.
Regional Italian Observances and Cultural Transmission
Italian observance of the Feast of Saint Lucy varies significantly by region, reflecting the localized character of premodern Catholic devotion.
In Sicily, and especially in Syracuse, the feast retains a strongly penitential and communal character. Processions, barefoot pilgrimage, and the public veneration of a silver statue of the saint emphasize her role as a protector during times of famine and crisis. One of the most enduring customs associated with the feast involves the consumption of cuccìa, a dish made from boiled wheat berries. This practice commemorates a 1646 famine during which, according to tradition, a shipment of grain arrived on Saint Lucy’s feast day, prompting the population to consume the wheat without milling it into flour (Di Giovine, The Heritage of Italian Feast Days). As a result, many Sicilians abstain from bread and pasta on December 13.
In contrast, northern Italian observances emphasize Saint Lucy’s role as a gift-bearer to children, particularly in Lombardy and Veneto. In these regions, Santa Lucia visits households on the night of December 12, distributing gifts while remaining unseen. This tradition, while less overtly penitential, nonetheless reinforces the saint’s association with sight and moral vigilance.
My family practiced none of these customs. Their absence in my upbringing illustrates how immigration and assimilation often led to the erosion of localized devotional practices, particularly those not reinforced by the broader American Catholic culture.
Reclaiming Devotional Practice Through Intentionality
As an Italian American Catholic, I increasingly understand my relationship to feast days like that of Saint Lucy as reconstructive rather than preservative. I am not reviving a family tradition that was interrupted; I am engaging in a process of informed recovery.
The loss of saints’ day observances among immigrant families was not the result of indifference, but of adaptation. In a new cultural environment shaped by industrial labor schedules and Protestant norms, the devotional calendar narrowed. What survived were the most universally recognized celebrations.
My attempt to reclaim Saint Lucy’s feast reflects a broader desire to reintegrate liturgical time into daily life. Practices such as lighting a candle on December 13, reading the saint’s hagiography, or preparing symbolic food are modest, yet they function as acts of theological formation. They situate belief within time, memory, and bodily practice.
As Pope Benedict XVI observed, Christianity is not fundamentally “an ethical choice or a lofty idea,” but an encounter with a person (Deus Caritas Est). Saints like Lucy mediate that encounter by embodying belief within historical circumstance.
Conclusion: The Contemporary Significance of Saint Lucy
The Feast of Saint Lucy has become meaningful to me precisely because it was not inherited. Its significance lies in its recovery through study, reflection, and practice.
Saint Lucy represents a form of faith that persists without spectacle. Her symbolism is not triumphalist, but resolute. In a liturgical moment defined by darkness, she stands for the endurance of light that does not overwhelm but remains.
By observing her feast, I am not attempting to replicate a past that did not exist in my family. Rather, I am participating in the ongoing transmission of Catholic tradition, one that allows for retrieval as well as inheritance. In doing so, I have come to understand the Feast of Saint Lucy not as an antiquated devotion, but as a disciplined response to the perennial human need for light.
Sources
Catholic Encyclopedia, “St. Lucy (Santa Lucia)”
Vatican News, “Saint Lucy, Virgin and Martyr”
Di Giovine, Michael A., The Heritage of Italian Feast Days
The Holy Bible, John 1:5
Benedict XVI, Deus Caritas Est
Appendix: Responding to the Claim That Saints’ Feasts Are “Pagan”
A Patristic and Liturgical-Theological Response
Any contemporary retrieval of saints’ feast days inevitably encounters the objection that such practices are “pagan” in origin or intent. This critique, common in polemical Protestant discourse and occasionally echoed in secular critiques of ritual religion, often rests on a misunderstanding of Christian inculturation, patristic theology, and the Church’s theology of memory. Because the Feast of Saint Lucy employs symbolism associated with light, seasonal transition, and embodied ritual, it is frequently cited as an example of Christianity allegedly absorbing pre-Christian religious practice.
I find it necessary to address this objection directly, not only because it persists, but because it misconstrues the Church’s historical and theological self-understanding from the patristic period onward.
Inculturation and the Patristic Logic of Conversion
The claim that saints’ feasts are “pagan” typically assumes that the use of preexisting cultural forms necessarily entails theological compromise. The Church Fathers consistently rejected this assumption. From the earliest centuries, Christianity articulated itself within Jewish and Greco-Roman cultural worlds, not by erasing those cultures, but by converting their meanings.
Augustine articulates this principle most clearly in De Doctrina Christiana, where he argues that truth belongs to God wherever it is found and may be rightly reclaimed for Christian use. He compares this process to the Israelites’ appropriation of Egyptian gold, emphasizing that cultural materials may be purified and redirected toward divine ends rather than rejected outright.¹ This logic applies not only to philosophical concepts, but also to cultural symbols and temporal structures. Light, seasonal rhythms, and communal ritual are not intrinsically pagan; they become Christian when reoriented toward Christ.
The Feast of Saint Lucy exemplifies this reorientation. Light is no longer treated as a cosmic force or deity, but as a sign pointing to Christ as revealed through the embodied witness of a martyr.
Saints’ Feasts and Ecclesial Memory
From an ecclesiological perspective, saints’ feast days function as acts of ecclesial remembrance rather than mythic celebration. Augustine addresses this concern directly when responding to accusations that Christian veneration of martyrs resembles pagan worship. In Contra Faustum, he insists that Christians do not treat martyrs as gods, nor offer sacrifice to them, but honor them as witnesses whose lives proclaim God’s grace.²
This distinction is foundational. Saints are not autonomous spiritual powers tied to fertility, cosmic cycles, or natural forces. They are historical persons whose lives reveal Christ. Their feast days are therefore Christological and ecclesial in orientation. Saint Lucy’s commemoration does not celebrate light as an abstract principle, but Christ as Light, manifested through a particular life of fidelity under persecution.
Liturgical Time Versus Pagan Temporality
A further misunderstanding underlying the “pagan” critique concerns the nature of liturgical time itself. Pagan religious systems often operate within cyclical or mythic time, in which rituals reenact cosmic patterns believed to sustain or influence nature. Christian liturgy, by contrast, is grounded in historical and eschatological time.
Bede the Venerable articulates this distinction in De Temporum Ratione, where he describes time itself as a created reality ordered toward God. The Christian calendar, for Bede, does not sanctify celestial bodies or seasonal forces, but consecrates time by situating it within the narrative of salvation history.³
The proximity of Saint Lucy’s feast to the winter solstice, therefore, does not imply solar worship. Rather, it proclaims that even the darkest moment of the year belongs to Christ. Darkness is neither feared nor appeased; it is named and overcome through liturgical confession.
Gregory the Great and the Conversion of Custom
Gregory the Great offers one of the most pastorally significant patristic treatments of cultural continuity and conversion. In a letter to Augustine of Canterbury regarding the evangelization of England, Gregory famously advises against the wholesale destruction of local religious customs. Instead, he urges that existing forms be purified and redirected toward Christian worship.⁴
Gregory’s approach reflects deep theological confidence rather than accommodation. Christianity does not fear cultural forms because it trusts in the transformative power of the Gospel. This principle undergirds the Church’s enduring approach to popular devotion, saints’ feasts, and ritual practice.
Applied to Saint Lucy, this logic clarifies that customs involving candles, food, or procession are not remnants of pagan religion, but expressions of faith embodied within particular cultures and histories.
Popular Piety and Theological Discernment
Patristic theology consistently distinguishes between improper worship and legitimate honor. Augustine emphasizes intention and object, Gregory emphasizes pastoral guidance, and Bede emphasizes catechetical clarity. Together, they form a theological framework in which popular devotion is subject to discernment, not dismissal.
This framework is echoed in contemporary magisterial teaching. The Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy affirms that popular devotion, when rightly ordered, expresses the sensus fidei of the faithful and participates authentically in ecclesial life.⁵ While abuses may require correction, they do not invalidate the theological legitimacy of devotion itself.
Personal Retrieval as Ecclesial Participation
My own retrieval of the Feast of Saint Lucy is shaped by this patristic and liturgical framework. To reclaim a saints’ feast is not to revert to pre-Christian religion, nor to indulge in superstition, but to participate consciously in the Church’s memory. It is to allow theology to take bodily and temporal form.
The charge of “paganism” ultimately reflects discomfort with embodied religion. Yet Christianity is irreducibly incarnational. Grace operates through material signs, historical lives, and communal ritual. Saints’ feast days are not deviations from this logic. They are its consequence.
To honor Saint Lucy is not to worship light, but to confess Christ as Light through the witness of one who refused to allow darkness the final word.
Footnotes
Augustine, De Doctrina Christiana, trans. R. P. H. Green (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), II.40.
Augustine, Contra Faustum Manichaeum, trans. Richard Stothert, in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, vol. 4 (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), XX.21.
Bede the Venerable, The Reckoning of Time, trans. Faith Wallis (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), chap. 2.
Gregory the Great, Registrum Epistolarum, XI.76, trans. John R. C. Martyn, The Letters of Gregory the Great, vol. 3 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2004).
Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2001), §9.
.jpg)
