Semper Reformanda: The Greatest Lie of All

Semper Reformanda: The Greatest Lie of All

“Always reforming” is one of the most celebrated slogans in Christian theology. Semper reformanda is supposed to mean that doctrine remains open to correction, that beliefs should evolve as understanding improves, and that truth should never be frozen in time. But in practice, this phrase often functions as its opposite. It gives the appearance of intellectual humility while preserving the same ancient assumptions, the same theological frameworks, and the same authorities—especially the Church Fathers.

If Christianity were truly “always reforming,” it would not treat second-, third-, and fourth-century writers as final arbiters of truth. It would not elevate their interpretations as near-canonical. It would not quote them as if proximity to antiquity equals reliability. And it certainly would not treat disagreement with them as spiritual rebellion.

The uncomfortable reality is that the Church Fathers were deeply limited in ways modern believers often refuse to acknowledge.

They lacked access to resources. Manuscripts were rare, fragile, and scattered. Acquiring scrolls was expensive, time-consuming, and often impossible. Most of them did not have access to full libraries of texts. They worked with fragments, copies of copies, and whatever happened to be available in their region. Entire theological systems were built on partial data.

They relied heavily on oral hearsay. Early Christianity functioned primarily as an oral culture. Stories circulated through preaching, rumor, memory, and repetition long before they were written down—if they were written down at all. The Fathers inherited traditions that had already been shaped by decades of retelling, editing, smoothing, harmonizing, and theological filtering. They did not possess anything resembling modern historical methodology.

They were far removed from the original language and culture. Many Church Fathers did not speak Hebrew. Some barely knew Greek. They interpreted Jewish texts through Roman, Greek, and later Latin lenses. They often misunderstood Second Temple Judaism, misread Hebrew idioms, and imposed Greco-Roman metaphysics onto Semitic literature. This was not malicious—it was inevitable. But it means their interpretations were culturally displaced from the world that produced the texts.

They had strong theological and political agendas. These were not neutral scholars. They were bishops, apologists, polemicists, and institutional leaders. Their job was not to discover what was true, but to defend what their communities already believed. They were combating rival sects, suppressing heresies, enforcing orthodoxy, and consolidating authority. Their writings reflect these power struggles everywhere.

They often allegorized when the text resisted their theology. When scripture contradicted doctrine, it was spiritualized. When the plain meaning became uncomfortable, it was reinterpreted. When historical readings clashed with dogma, symbolism took over. This was not honest exegesis—it was theological survival.

And yet, despite all of this, modern Christians routinely treat these figures as if they possessed superior insight simply because they lived earlier.

But earlier does not mean better.

Earlier means fewer sources. Earlier means weaker textual criticism. Earlier means no archaeology. Earlier means no linguistics. Earlier means no manuscript comparison. Earlier means no digital access. Earlier means no intertextual databases. Earlier means no historical cross-referencing.

We now have exponentially more information than they did. We can compare thousands of manuscripts in seconds. We can reconstruct ancient languages. We can analyze cultural context. We can examine how myths evolve. We can detect editorial seams. We can trace how doctrines develop over time.

And yet, instead of using this technology to revise theology, many believers use it to defend ancient conclusions.

That is not semper reformanda. That is semper defending.

If theology were truly always reforming, then:

Doctrines would be provisional, not sacred. Creeds would be revisable, not permanent. Interpretations would be hypotheses, not dogmas. Traditions would be examined, not venerated. Authority would be earned, not inherited.

Instead, what we see is selective skepticism. People will question modern scholars while treating ancient theologians as if they were immune to bias, ignorance, or cultural distortion. But the Fathers were just as human as we are—except with worse tools.

Revering them as guardians of timeless truth is not humility. It is intellectual nostalgia.

True reform would mean admitting that entire theological frameworks might be wrong. It would mean abandoning cherished doctrines if evidence demands it. It would mean letting go of interpretive traditions that no longer hold up under scrutiny. It would mean prioritizing evidence over inheritance. But that is dangerous. Because once you admit that theology must genuinely evolve, you risk losing it altogether.

And that is why semper reformanda often functions as a slogan rather than a practice. It sounds radical, but it protects the status quo. It gives the illusion of openness while maintaining fixed conclusions.

Conclusion 

A belief system that refuses to meaningfully revise itself in light of better tools, better data, and better methods is not reforming. It is fossilizing. And no amount of Latin slogans can hide that.