From "Silver and Gold Have I None" to the Wealth of Christendom

Denzinger part 38

When the Verses Used Against Bible Reading Actually Defend It

One of the most remarkable features of Denzinger 1606 is that the decree attempts to justify restricting access to Scripture by appealing to Scripture itself. The argument appears persuasive at first glance. Divine revelation is deep. Human beings are capable of misunderstanding it. Therefore ordinary Christians should approach Scripture only under strict supervision and should not be encouraged to read and study it freely. Yet when the passages cited by the decree are examined in their actual context, a striking pattern emerges. The very texts employed to discourage widespread engagement with Scripture often teach something entirely different from the conclusion that is being drawn from them.

The decree begins by emphasizing the depth of divine revelation. It cites Paul's words:

"We speak wisdom among the perfect." (1 Corinthians 2:6)

At first sight this may seem to support the idea that the deeper truths of God belong only to a spiritual elite. However, that interpretation collapses when the passage is read in context. Paul is not constructing an exclusive class of initiated believers from whom divine truth is withheld. The entire argument of 1 Corinthians 2 concerns God's revelation of truth through the Holy Spirit.

Paul writes:

"God hath revealed them unto us by his Spirit." (1 Corinthians 2:10)

He continues:

"Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the spirit which is of God; that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God." (1 Corinthians 2:12)

The direction of Paul's argument is exactly the opposite of the one being advanced in the decree. Paul is not explaining why truth should be hidden. He is explaining why truth has been revealed. He is not arguing for restriction. He is celebrating divine disclosure. The wisdom of God is not being locked away from believers. It is being made known to them through the Spirit.

The decree then appeals to Paul's statement:

"I determined not to know any thing among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified." (1 Corinthians 2:2)

Yet this verse proves nothing about restricting Scripture. Paul is explaining the focus of his preaching in Corinth. He is emphasizing the centrality of Christ crucified, not arguing that ordinary believers should be shielded from the study of divine revelation. In fact, the very letter in which Paul makes this statement was written to an ordinary congregation filled with doctrinal confusion, moral failures, and spiritual immaturity. If Paul's solution to ignorance had been restriction, he would have withheld instruction from them. Instead he wrote one of the most theologically rich letters in the New Testament and expected them to learn from it.

The decree next argues that Scripture is so profound that even learned people struggle to understand it. There is certainly truth in this observation. Scripture contains mysteries that no human mind has exhausted. Peter himself acknowledges that some things in Paul's writings are:

"Hard to be understood." (2 Peter 3:16)

Yet Peter's conclusion is highly significant. He does not say that believers should therefore avoid Scripture. He does not say that Scripture should be withdrawn from ordinary Christians. Instead he warns against distortion while continuing to direct believers toward the apostolic writings. Difficulty is treated as a reason for humility and careful study, not a reason for restriction.

The argument becomes even more problematic when the decree appeals to Sinai:

"Even the beast which touched the mountain shall be stoned." (Hebrews 12:20; Exodus 19:12)

The context of this passage is crucial. Exodus 19 describes Israel standing before Mount Sinai as God prepares to give the Law. The mountain is surrounded by boundaries because God's holiness is being revealed in terrifying majesty. Yet the author of Hebrews explicitly contrasts that situation with the believer's position under the New Covenant.

He writes:

"For ye are not come unto the mount that might be touched, and that burned with fire." (Hebrews 12:18)

Instead:

"Ye are come unto mount Sion, and unto the city of the living God." (Hebrews 12:22)

The entire point of the passage is movement from distance to access. Sinai represented separation. Christ brings reconciliation. Sinai represented barriers. Christ removes barriers. Sinai inspired fear. Christ grants confidence.

The decree effectively takes a text that celebrates access to God through Christ and uses it to justify limiting access to divine revelation. In doing so, it reverses the author's intended argument. Hebrews is not teaching that believers should remain at a distance. It is proclaiming the astonishing reality that through Christ they have been brought near.

The decree then cites:

"Seek not the things that are too high for thee." (Ecclesiasticus 3:22)

Again, the original context concerns humility. The passage warns against arrogance and pride. It teaches human beings not to exalt themselves beyond their proper place. Yet humility is not the same thing as ignorance. A humble Christian may still read Scripture. A humble Christian may still search the Scriptures daily. A humble Christian may still meditate on God's Word day and night.

To transform a command concerning humility into a prohibition against ordinary believers studying Scripture is to force the text to bear a burden it was never intended to carry.

The decree next appeals to Paul's exhortation:

"Not to be more wise than it behooveth to be wise, but to be wise unto sobriety." (Romans 12:3)

Once again the context concerns humility. Paul is warning believers against pride and self-exaltation. He is not discouraging engagement with divine revelation. Ironically, if this principle is applied consistently, it raises questions not about Bible reading but about later doctrinal developments. If Christians are not to think beyond what God has revealed, then every doctrine must be examined to determine whether it truly rests upon apostolic teaching or whether it extends beyond what is written.

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of the decree is not the verses it cites but the verses it ignores.

Christ repeatedly confronted error by asking:

"Have ye not read?" (Matthew 12:3)

"Have ye not read?" (Matthew 19:4)

"Did ye never read in the scriptures?" (Matthew 21:42)

These questions reveal Christ's assumptions. He assumes that His hearers have access to Scripture. He assumes that they are responsible for knowing it. He assumes that Scripture itself possesses authority. Most importantly, His solution to ignorance is not less Scripture but more Scripture.

When the Sadducees erred concerning the resurrection, Christ did not tell them they needed greater distance from Scripture. He declared:

"Ye do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God." (Matthew 22:29)

Their problem was not excessive familiarity with Scripture.

Their problem was insufficient understanding of Scripture.

The solution was deeper engagement with God's Word.

The decree fears what ordinary Christians might do with Scripture.

Luke celebrates what ordinary Christians did with Scripture.

The contrast could hardly be sharper.

Likewise Paul commands:

"Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom." (Colossians 3:16)

Notice that he does not address this command exclusively to bishops, priests, or scholars. He addresses it to the church. The Word of Christ is to dwell richly among believers. It is not to be rationed. It is not to be hidden. It is not to be placed beyond reach.

The Psalmist declares:

"The testimony of the LORD is sure, making wise the simple." (Psalm 19:7)

And again:

"The entrance of thy words giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple." (Psalm 119:130)

These verses strike at the heart of the decree's argument. The concern repeatedly expressed by the decree is that simple people may misunderstand Scripture. The biblical response is that Scripture gives wisdom to the simple. Scripture gives light to the simple. Scripture gives understanding to the simple.

The decree approaches the ordinary believer primarily through the lens of danger.

The biblical writers approach the ordinary believer through the lens of discipleship.

Finally, the decree creates a profound tension with the New Testament doctrine of the Holy Spirit. Christ promised:

"The Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things." (John 14:26)

And John writes:

"The anointing which ye have received of him abideth in you." (1 John 2:27)

These passages do not eliminate teachers, pastors, or the life of the Church. They do, however, affirm that believers are not abandoned to spiritual darkness. The same Spirit who inspired Scripture dwells within God's people.

This raises a question that the decree never adequately answers. If Scripture is God's Word and the Holy Spirit is God's Teacher, why should the ordinary Christian be viewed primarily as a threat when approaching the Scriptures rather than as a disciple whom God intends to instruct?

The central weakness of Denzinger 1606 is therefore not merely its conclusion. The central weakness lies in its use of Scripture itself. Again and again the verses cited concern humility, reverence, and dependence upon God. Yet they are transformed into arguments for restricting access to divine revelation. Meanwhile the passages that explicitly command believers to know, search, meditate upon, teach, and treasure God's Word are largely absent from the discussion.

When the cited texts are examined in their context, they do not support the withdrawal of Scripture from ordinary Christians. Rather, they point toward a different conclusion altogether. The consistent pattern of Christ, the apostles, and the biblical writers is not to place greater distance between God's people and God's Word. The consistent pattern is to bring God's people ever closer to the Scriptures, trusting that the God who inspired them is also able to use them to teach, correct, sanctify, and guide His people into truth.

If Usury Was Once Heresy, Why Was It Later Tolerated?

Denzinger 1609–1610 presents one of the most fascinating examples in the history of doctrine because it exposes a tension between earlier ecclesiastical certainty and later ecclesiastical flexibility. The issue at hand is not merely the morality of charging interest on money. The deeper issue concerns the nature of doctrinal authority itself. If a teaching was once presented with such certainty that denial of it could result in charges of heresy, how can later generations permit open disagreement concerning the same subject without any corresponding accusation of heresy? This question lies at the heart of the discussion and deserves careful examination.

The historical background is essential. Throughout much of the medieval period, the Church condemned usury in extraordinarily strong language. The Second Lateran Council spoke of:

"the detestable and shameful ... insatiable rapacity of money lenders."

The language employed by the council is not cautious or qualified. Lending money at interest is portrayed as an expression of greed and exploitation. The council's concern was not merely economic but moral. Usury was viewed as a manifestation of avarice, a vice repeatedly condemned throughout Scripture.

The condemnation became even stronger in 1311 under Pope Clement V at the Council of Vienne. There the council declared:

"If anyone shall fall into that error, so that he obstinately presumes to declare that it is not a sin to exercise usury, we decree that he must be punished as a heretic."

This statement is difficult to overstate. The council did not merely teach that usury was unwise. It did not merely discourage the practice. It declared that the obstinate assertion that usury was not sinful could place a person under the category of heresy itself. Such language suggests a level of certainty that leaves little room for future ambiguity or reconsideration.

Yet when one arrives at Denzinger 1609–1610, the situation appears remarkably different. The Bishop of Rheims reports widespread disagreement among confessors concerning profits obtained through money lent to businessmen. Some confessors regard such profits as sinful. Others regard them as legitimate. The controversy has become severe enough to affect sacramental practice, with some penitents being denied absolution while others are received without difficulty. Faced with this confusion, the bishop turns to Rome for clarification.

The response of Pius VIII is striking in its brevity:

"They are not to be disturbed."

The Pope neither condemns the confessors who permit such profits nor reaffirms the severe language of Vienne. He does not demand restitution from those receiving profit. He does not accuse the defenders of such practices of heresy. Instead, he allows the existing situation to continue.

This response immediately raises a profound question. If the lawfulness of usury was once considered a heretical proposition, why are confessors now permitted to tolerate opinions that earlier generations might have regarded as falling under precisely that condemnation?

The issue cannot simply be dismissed as a matter of changing terminology. The Council of Vienne did not speak ambiguously. It specifically condemned those who declared that usury was not sinful. Yet by the nineteenth century, Rome appears willing to permit disagreement regarding financial arrangements that generated profit from money lent to others.

One naturally asks what changed.

The Scriptures had not changed.

The words of Christ had not changed.

The apostolic writings had not changed.

What had changed was the economic world.

The biblical passages traditionally cited against usury are well known. Psalm 15 describes the righteous man as one who:

"putteth not out his money to usury." (Psalm 15:5)

Exodus commands:

"If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer." (Exodus 22:25)

Likewise Deuteronomy teaches:

"Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother." (Deuteronomy 23:19)

These passages unquestionably condemn the exploitation of the poor. The context is consistently one of compassion toward those in need. The concern is not investment capital but vulnerable people. The borrower is often someone facing hardship, poverty, or economic distress. The lender is forbidden from turning another person's suffering into an opportunity for personal gain.

The moral principle is both obvious and admirable.

The difficulty arises when these texts are applied to economic situations vastly different from those of ancient Israel. The loans described in Scripture were commonly emergency loans intended to alleviate immediate need. The loans discussed in Denzinger 1609 involve businessmen seeking capital for commercial enterprise and profit. These are not necessarily the same circumstances.

This distinction appears to have become increasingly difficult to ignore as European commerce expanded. International trade grew. Banking systems developed. Commercial partnerships multiplied. Capital became essential for economic activity. As these developments accelerated, the traditional categories inherited from the medieval period became harder to apply without qualification.

What makes the matter even more complicated is the economic position of the Church itself.

Throughout the medieval period, the Church became one of the largest landowners in Europe. Monasteries, dioceses, cathedral chapters, and ecclesiastical institutions controlled vast estates. Revenue flowed from agricultural production, rents, leases, obligations, and numerous forms of property administration. Wealth generated additional wealth through land and resources under ecclesiastical control.

This reality raises difficult questions.

If profit derived from money was inherently immoral because it represented gain from capital, why was profit derived from land considered acceptable?

If receiving income from a loan was contrary to justice, why was receiving income from extensive property holdings regarded differently?

Both involve ownership.

Both involve productive assets.

Both involve the generation of wealth through resources already possessed.

One may certainly argue that important distinctions exist between land and money, but those distinctions are not always as obvious in practice as they appear in theory.

The tension becomes even more striking when viewed through the lens of doctrinal development. The Council of Vienne treated the matter with apparent certainty. Pius VIII treats the matter with caution. The former threatens heresy. The latter tolerates disagreement. The former speaks as though the issue has been decisively settled. The latter behaves as though reasonable debate remains possible.

This creates a broader theological problem. If a doctrine can move from the category of heresy to the category of tolerated opinion, how should one understand the permanence of earlier judgments? Were the earlier definitions too broad? Were they addressing a different economic context? Were later authorities effectively modifying previous conclusions without formally admitting it? These questions cannot simply be ignored.

Scripture itself repeatedly condemns greed, oppression, and the abuse of the poor. The prophets denounce those who enrich themselves at the expense of others. Amos condemns those who:

"sell the righteous for silver, and the poor for a pair of shoes." (Amos 2:6)

Isaiah pronounces judgment upon those who accumulate wealth without regard for justice:

"Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field." (Isaiah 5:8)

Christ Himself warns:

"Take heed, and beware of covetousness." (Luke 12:15)

These passages demonstrate that Scripture's concern is fundamentally moral. God opposes greed. God opposes exploitation. God opposes economic injustice.

Yet greed is not identical to every form of profit.

The merchant who earns a profit through trade is not necessarily exploiting the poor.

The investor who provides capital for productive enterprise is not necessarily guilty of oppression.

The owner who receives income from productive assets is not automatically engaging in theft.

These distinctions became increasingly important as economies developed beyond the circumstances envisioned by earlier generations.

For this reason, Denzinger 1609–1610 deserves careful scrutiny. The most significant issue is not whether one agrees or disagrees with charging interest. The most significant issue is the historical transition from absolute condemnation to practical toleration. Earlier authorities spoke with extraordinary certainty and attached the gravest ecclesiastical penalties to disagreement. Later authorities permitted disagreement while refraining from the same condemnations.

That tension forces a serious question upon the reader. If the doctrine itself remained unchanged, why did the practical treatment of the doctrine change so dramatically? And if practical treatment could change so substantially, what does that reveal about the relationship between doctrinal formulations, historical circumstances, and the development of ecclesiastical teaching over time?

These questions make Denzinger 1609–1610 far more important than a simple dispute concerning loans and interest. The entry becomes a window into the larger issue of how doctrines evolve, how institutions adapt to changing realities, and how claims of certainty are maintained when the world around them changes.

An uncomfortable question inevitably arises when one considers the immense wealth accumulated by the medieval and modern Church alongside Christ's repeated commands concerning the poor.

The issue is not whether the Church has performed charitable works. It unquestionably has. Hospitals, orphanages, schools, missions, and relief efforts have often been supported by Christians throughout history. The question is whether the accumulation and preservation of vast institutional wealth sits comfortably alongside the priorities repeatedly emphasized by Christ and the apostles.

Jesus taught:

"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth." (Matthew 6:19)

He also commanded:

"Sell that ye have, and give alms." (Luke 12:33)

To the rich ruler He said:

"Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor." (Luke 18:22)

The early Church reflected this spirit. Luke records:

"Neither was there any among them that lacked." (Acts 4:34)

and explains that believers shared their possessions so that the needs of the community were met.

Against this background, one must ask difficult questions. If the Church claims to be the visible continuation of Christ's ministry on earth, why did the accumulation of wealth, land, property, treasures, and political influence become such a prominent feature of ecclesiastical history? Why did an institution founded by a man who had "not where to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20) become one of the largest landowners in Europe? Why did an apostolic community whose leading apostle could say, "Silver and gold have I none" (Acts 3:6), eventually oversee enormous estates, revenues, and financial resources?

These questions become even more pressing when one considers regions that remained overwhelmingly Catholic for centuries. Much of Latin America has historically identified as Catholic, yet many parts of the region have continued to struggle with severe poverty, inequality, child malnutrition, and economic hardship. Poverty itself cannot simply be blamed on religion, since political corruption, colonialism, warfare, foreign intervention, and economic instability all play significant roles. Nevertheless, a legitimate question remains. If the Church possessed immense influence over these societies, and if the care of the poor is such a central theme of the Gospel, why were the conditions of the poorest so often allowed to persist generation after generation?

The tension becomes sharper when viewed in light of Christ's teaching concerning judgment:

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." (Matthew 25:40)

The New Testament repeatedly directs attention toward the weak, the hungry, the widow, the orphan, and the stranger. James warns against showing favoritism toward the wealthy. John asks:

"Whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?" (1 John 3:17)

These passages do not merely commend charity. They place care for the needy near the center of Christian discipleship.

This raises a broader theological question. Can the preservation of immense institutional wealth be justified while severe poverty continues among those whom the Church claims as her children? At what point does stewardship become accumulation? At what point does preservation become hoarding? At what point does concern for maintaining institutions begin to overshadow the radical generosity exemplified by Christ and the apostles?

The issue is not whether beautiful churches should exist or whether Christian heritage should be preserved. The issue is whether the priorities visible in ecclesiastical history always reflect the priorities visible in the New Testament. When Christ spoke of treasure, His concern was consistently directed toward people rather than possessions. When the apostles spoke of wealth, their emphasis was consistently directed toward generosity rather than accumulation.

For this reason, the question cannot simply be dismissed. If the Church claims apostolic authority, then it must continually be measured against the apostolic pattern. And when that pattern is examined, one finds not an institution accumulating power and treasure, but a community characterized by sacrificial service, radical generosity, and a determination that, as far as possible, "there was not a needy person among them" (Acts 4:34).