The Case For the Papacy

6 Reasons The Church Needs the Roman Bishop

Introduction

To many Christians—especially in the Evangelical world—the Pope feels like an unnecessary complication. A religious monarch in robes and gold, issuing decrees from across the ocean. In their eyes, the Gospel is simple: Christ alone, Scripture alone, grace alone. The papacy isn’t just foreign—it’s offensive. A human throne where only God should sit.

I used to think this too. The Pope wasn’t just irrelevant—he was the face of everything wrong with organized religion. A man claiming divine authority, dressed like an emperor, surrounded by incense and Latin. Whatever Jesus intended, I was sure it didn’t involve a palace in Rome.

But the more I studied, the more my assumptions unraveled. I began to realize something unsettling: the papacy is not a medieval invention. It’s not a corruption of Christ’s mission. It is the structural answer to a deeper question—how does the Body of Christ remain visible in the world? The Pope is not the Church’s CEO. He is its steward. Its the living center of unity. And his office didn’t emerge out of power—it emerged out of need.

This isn’t an argument for papal perfection. It won’t defend every Pope or pretend Peter envisioned a future with giant cathedrals, the college of cardinals, or the pope-mobile. Instead, it will reframe the papacy as something far simpler—and far older. A structure meant to preserve the Church’s unity, carry forward its memory, and shepherd it through division. Six reasons will follow: three rooted in theology, and three grounded in history.

Reason 1: Peter is the Royal Steward (theological Argument)

When modern Christians hear the word “kingdom,” they tend to think spiritually. Christ is in Heaven, reigning invisibly. The Church is His people, guided by His Spirit. But in the ancient world, kingdoms were more than communities—they were structured realities. Dynasties had lines. Thrones had successors. And kings had stewards.

This was especially true in the line of David. Israel’s kingdom was not leaderless—it was dynastic, hierarchical, and ordered through a royal household. At its center stood the al bayit—literally “over the house”—the chief steward who governed when the king was absent. He wasn’t a prophet or warrior. He was the king’s delegate. A prime minister, in modern terms. But Scripture gives him a different title: the one who holds the keys.

Isaiah 22 gives us a glimpse into this role. During a time of corruption, God promises to remove the unfaithful steward and install another in his place. Speaking through the prophet, God says:

“In that day I will call my servant Eliakim… and I will clothe him with your robe, and will bind your sash on him… and I will commit your authority to his hand…And I will place on his shoulder the key of the house of David; he shall open, and none shall shut; and he shall shut, and none shall open.” (Isaiah 22:20–22)

This office wasn’t ceremonial. It was embedded in the kingdom’s structure—visible, covenantal, and authoritative. The steward didn’t offer suggestions; he acted on the king’s behalf. His robe and sash marked his rank. The key on his shoulder was not symbolic—it carried weight. When he opened, it remained open. When he shut, it stayed shut. To challenge him was to challenge the throne.

If Christ is the Son of David, the heir to that throne, then His kingdom would follow the same pattern. Not an invisible community of belief, but a structured household. Not flattened, but stewarded.

This is the backdrop that makes sense of what happens in Matthew 16. Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” And Peter answers, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” A moment of revelation—followed by words that have divided Christians ever since:

“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church…” (Matt. 16:18)

Most Protestants are quick to clarify here. The rock, they argue, is Peter’s confession, not Peter himself. And that instinct shouldn’t be mocked. There’s real beauty in that reading—Christ building His Church not on a man, but on a proclamation of truth.

But even if we grant that reading for a moment—that the rock is Peter’s confession—it still leaves us with what Jesus says next:

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (v. 19)

This is where the structural weight lands. Jesus isn’t just commending Peter. He is commissioning him. He is quoting Isaiah 22. The keys. The opening and shutting. The delegated authority of the royal steward. The office once held by Eliakim is now being renewed—not in the palace of Jerusalem, but in the kingdom that Christ is establishing.

But this alone doesn’t prove the papacy. Just because Peter was given authority doesn’t mean every bishop of Rome inherits it. The question is deeper: If the steward governs in the King’s absence—then what happens in his absence? When Peter dies, does the office end? Or, like the kingdom itself, does it continue?

Reason 2: Peter's Office Continues (Historical Argument)

The claim of Catholicism—as well as Orthodoxy and Anglicanism—is that the Apostles didn’t just start the Church by preaching the Gospel across the world. More importantly, they installed successors: men who took up their office when they died. This “line of bishops,” as it’s known today, is controversial for many modern Evangelicals. It feels foreign—like something layered onto Christianity long after the Apostles were gone. But that’s not how the early Church saw it. From the beginning, Christians understood that the Apostles’ authority was meant to continue—and they preserved the names of those who carried it forward.

But what about Peter? It’s one thing to say apostolic authority continued—but was Peter’s unique role passed on too? If he was the steward of Christ’s kingdom, the one entrusted with the keys, then his death would have left a vacuum. Did the early Church treat his office as finished—or did they understand it as ongoing?

This is where the claim that Peter went to Rome becomes more than tradition—it becomes essential. For the early Church, it wasn’t a disputed legend. Writers like Clement of Rome and Ignatius of Antioch refer to Peter’s presence and martyrdom in Rome as settled fact. No other city claimed him. There was no controversy. Rome was where Peter died—and for the earliest Christians, that’s where his office remained.

But Peter didn’t just die there. He governed. And before his death, he appointed a successor—just as the Apostles had done elsewhere. That’s what makes the witness of Irenaeus so striking. Writing in the second century, he lists the bishops of Rome from Peter onward—not as trivia, but as argument. In Against Heresies 3.3.2, he names them in order: Linus, Anacletus, Clement, and so on. His point is not that Rome has prestige. His point is that Rome has memory. It holds the keys because it holds the steward’s office.

This is why Rome matters. Not because it held political power—but because it held Peter’s succession. By the early 100s, even non-Roman churches spoke of its distinct role. Ignatius of Antioch, in his letter to the Romans, describes that Church as “presiding in love”—a phrase he gives to no other community. That language reveals something deeper than respect. It reveals recognition. The bishop of Rome wasn’t honored. He was received.

Which brings us to the deeper question. If the steward’s office continued—and if the Church always knew where it was—then that office wasn’t just symbolic. It was directional. When division came, the question was never simply who preached Christ, but who remained with Peter?

Reason 3: Rome Preserves Continuity (theological Argument)

Part of my personal testimony was becoming increasingly sensitive to the fractured state of Protestantism—especially in America. Not only are there thousands of independent, “free” churches, but even the historic mainline denominations are splintered into rival branches, often divided along conservative or progressive lines. And with every split comes an identity crisis. Both sides claim to be the true church. Both appeal to Scripture. Both invoke the creeds. But when both claim continuity, how is anyone supposed to know who actually has it? When a schism occurs, how should faithful, honest Christians discern which church today still stands in communion with the one the Apostles established?

This isn’t the first time God’s people have experienced division. In the Old Testament, Israel began as a unified kingdom—established by covenant, centered in Jerusalem, and anchored by the Temple. It was there that the Ark rested, the priesthood ministered, and the king ruled. The covenant had structure: a throne, an altar, and a visible center where God dwelled with His people.

But unity gave way to fracture. After Solomon, the kingdom split. Ten tribes broke away, formed their own centers of worship, and rejected the Davidic line. Later, after the exile, the Samaritans built a rival temple on Mount Gerizim—claiming to preserve the true faith of their fathers. They still worshipped the God of Abraham. They still read the Torah. But they had no priesthood. No altar in Jerusalem. No covenantal line. They had built something that looked like continuity—but stood outside it.

But this wasn’t just a matter of geography. It was a matter of covenant. Israel wasn’t a collection of believers—it was the Kingdom of God. And when that kingdom fractured, it was a crisis. The Samaritans didn’t just separate—they set up a new altar, a new center, a new priesthood. To faithful Israel, it wasn’t just innovation. It was betrayal. If a parallel temple was an insult to the old covenant, how much more serious is it to fracture the Church—the Kingdom Christ established with His own blood? If the old covenant had a visible center, the new covenant must not be left without one.

That new center is Rome. Not because Rome is holy in itself—but because Peter died there. Because his office remained there. Because the steward of the kingdom took up residence not in Jerusalem, but in the city that became the heart of the Church’s mission. Just as the royal steward under David’s line remained in the palace, the steward of Christ’s Church remains in Rome. The bishop of Rome is not an honorary figure. He is the continuation of what Christ established: a visible office in a visible kingdom.

Which brings us to the next layer. If Rome is the center—if the Church has always known where the steward sits—then what happened when disputes broke out? How did the early Church resolve division when Scripture alone wasn’t enough?

Reason 4: The Bishop of Rome Settled Disputes (Historical Argument)

Even for those who accept that Rome is the center of the Church, the idea of papal authority can still be difficult. It raises questions about power, control, and history. And in some cases, that hesitation is understandable. But if the bishop of Rome is the visible steward—if he holds the office of Peter—then his role is not to dominate, but to guide. He is the one entrusted to shepherd the whole Church. And from the earliest days, that’s exactly how Christians treated him.

One of the earliest examples comes from the end of the first century. The Church in Corinth had fallen into turmoil. A group of younger Christians had removed their appointed presbyters, sparking division within the community. And yet the response didn’t come from a neighboring bishop. It came from Rome. St. Clement, writing around the year 96, sends a long and detailed letter urging them to restore their rightful leaders. He doesn’t appeal to his own authority—but he writes with the assumption that Rome has the right to speak. And more importantly, Corinth accepts it. The letter was copied, preserved, and treated with the kind of weight early Christians gave to Scripture. The bishop of Rome was already being received—not as a distant observer, but as a shepherd.

This wasn’t an isolated moment. A century later, another controversy emerged—this time between the Eastern and Western churches over the date of Easter. The Eastern churches celebrated according to the Jewish calendar, while the West followed a different tradition. Pope Victor I, seeing the risk of growing division, called for uniformity. When the Eastern bishops refused, he threatened excommunication. His decision was met with pushback—even by Irenaeus, who urged him to show restraint. But what’s striking is not the disagreement. It’s the direction. No one questioned whether Victor had the authority to act. They simply questioned how he used it. Even his critics assumed that Rome had the role of leading.

And the pattern continues. Several decades later, in the third century, North African bishops began rejecting baptisms performed by heretical groups. They insisted that converts be rebaptized before entering the Church. But Pope Stephen I disagreed. As long as the baptism was done in the name of the Trinity, he said, it remained valid. The conflict escalated quickly—St. Cyprian of Carthage wrote multiple letters against Stephen’s position, yet despite this, Rome’s judgment endured was final. In time, the Church embraced Pope Stephen’s position on baptism—and rejected the alternative.

These weren’t isolated events. They reveal how the early Church understood Rome’s role. In times of crisis, they turned to the bishop of Rome—not as an enforcer, but as a shepherd. He didn’t invent his authority. He exercised what had already been given. And through him, the Church preserved its continuity—not just in memory, but in action.

But these examples raise a deeper question. If the bishop of Rome could resolve crises of practice—what about crises of doctrine? From the beginning, the Church faced theological challenges that struck at the heart of the Gospel. And when interpretation splintered, it wasn’t enough to have Scripture—it had to be interpreted faithfully. That responsibility, as we will see, belongs to the papacy.

Reason 5: The Papacy is an Interpretive Necessity (theological Argument)

For many Protestants, the most difficult part of the papacy is not the idea of continuity or even authority—it’s interpretation. The claim that one man can definitively interpret Scripture feels dangerous. If the Bible is the Word of God, how can a human voice stand beside it? How can a bishop, even one in Rome, speak with finality about divine revelation? It seems like an overreach—like replacing the Word with tradition.

But this concern, while serious, often overestimates what the papacy actually claims. The Pope is not a prophet. He does not receive new revelation. He cannot rewrite what has already been given. His role is not to compete with Scripture, but to serve it. And not as a private reader, but as a public steward. When the Church faces doctrinal confusion, his job is not to create truth—but to defend what the Church has always believed.

Because here is the simple reality: Scripture is inspired. Interpretation is not. The Bible is infallible. Our readings of it are not. This is the core problem. Everyone appeals to Scripture, but no one agrees on what it says. The issue isn’t the authority of the text—it’s the instability of the reader.

We see this everywhere. Mormons claim the Bible—but teach that Jesus and the Father are separate gods. Jehovah’s Witnesses claim the Bible—but deny Christ’s divinity. Protestants all affirm Scripture—but divide over baptism, the Eucharist, justification, sanctification, and even which books belong in the canon. The problem isn’t sincerity. It’s that Scripture alone doesn’t settle disputes—because interpretation is always involved.

Even in the Old Covenant, this problem existed. The priests had the Law. The scribes had the Prophets. But they didn’t agree on what counted as Scripture. Some texts were rejected. Others were misunderstood. By the time of Christ, legalism around the Sabbath, laxity around divorce, and endless traditions had taken root—not because God’s Word failed, but because no one had the authority to end the debate. Revelation was there. But no one could say, “This is what it means.”

This is what the papacy exists to prevent. When the Church was divided over which books belonged in Scripture, it was Pope Damasus I who confirmed the 73-book canon—preserving the very foundation of Christian doctrine. When the Church couldn’t agree on the divinity of Christ, it was Pope Leo the Great who issued the Tome of Leo, defining the two natures of Christ and anchoring the Council of Chalcedon. These moments weren’t about papal dominance—they were about clarity. And while history is not blind to popes who abused the glory or power of the role, the office itself, at its purest, is a steward. Not a man who resolves every argument—but a shepherd who protects the deposit of faith.

Nevertheless, many Protestants will remain hesitant. Everything laid out so far might sound like an ideal—a vision of what the papacy could be, but not what it actually has been. The idea of a steward who guards the truth, preserves unity, and settles disputes sounds admirable. But did the early Church really see the papacy that way? Or is this a modern reading imposed backward onto history? For many, it feels too clean—too consistent. Which brings us to one of the most unlikely witnesses of all.

Reason 6: St. Jerome's Testament to the Papacy (Historical Argument)

St. Jerome is one of the most celebrated figures in Church history. A scholar, linguist, and monk, he is best known for translating the Bible into Latin—the Vulgate—which would remain the Church’s standard text for over a thousand years. His brilliance was unmatched, and so was his temperament. Jerome was fiery, combative, and famously opinionated. He criticized bishops, confronted heresies, and never hesitated to speak his mind. He is one of the few saints claimed by Catholics and admired by Protestants. And yet, his relationship to the papacy is often misunderstood.

Protestants frequently cite Jerome as a counterweight to the Catholic view of Scripture. He openly questioned the Deuterocanonical books—books like Tobit, Wisdom, and 1–2 Maccabees—which were not found in the Hebrew Bible. Jerome referred to these as non-canonical in his early writings, suggesting they were edifying, but not inspired. These concerns later resurfaced during the Reformation, when Martin Luther used Jerome’s arguments to justify a shorter canon. To many Protestants, this proves that even early Catholic theologians disagreed with “the Catholic Bible.”

But this only tells part of the story. Because when Jerome raised these objections, he didn’t act as his own authority. He submitted them. He deferred to the judgment of the bishop of Rome. In a letter addressed to Pope Damasus I, Jerome writes:

“I speak with the successor of the fisherman, with the disciple of the cross. I, who follow no leader save Christ, am associated in communion with your blessedness, that is, with the chair of Peter. I know that on this rock the Church is built.” (Letter 15.1)

Elsewhere, he makes his position even more explicit:

“He who is not united with you (the pope) is not of Christ—he stands with the Antichrist” (Letter 15.2)

This is what makes Jerome such a powerful witness. He isn’t a clean figure. He isn’t simple. He argued, questioned, and resisted. And yet when it came to one of the most foundational questions in Christian history: Which books belong in the Bible? He didn’t settle it himself. He deferred to Rome. Not out of fear. Not because of political pressure. But because he recognized something deeper: that Scripture didn’t interpret itself, and that the chair of Peter had the authority to guard the deposit of faith.

And here’s what’s crucial: this happened in the fourth century. Long before the medieval papacy. Long before Rome had armies or temporal power. Jerome wasn’t submitting to a political machine. He was appealing to the office of a shepherd—at a time when the papacy had no cultural dominance, no worldly leverage, and no coercive means to enforce obedience. This wasn’t capitulation. It was conviction. Jerome knew that when the unity of the Church and the clarity of the canon were at stake, the final word didn’t come from the most educated voice in the room—it came from Peter’s chair, the steward of the Church.

That reality poses a challenge to Protestants today: if even Jerome, their frequent ally, submitted the question of Scripture itself to the papacy—why don't we all?

Conclusion

At the heart of this article is a simple but unsettling realization: the papacy is not a later corruption. It is the structural continuation of something Christ Himself established. A kingdom needs a steward. And Jesus didn’t just give Peter encouragement. He gave him the keys.

This matters because it helps us see the Church as something more than spiritual agreement. It is visible. It is ordered. And it is still here. But that doesn’t mean it’s always been faithful. The Church is the bride of Christ—but she is still made up of sinners. And the men who have held the chair of Peter have often failed to live up to their calling. Some have been cowards. Some have been corrupt. But that doesn’t invalidate the role. Peter himself denied Christ—the most public betrayal in the Gospels. And yet, Jesus didn’t take back the keys. He restored him. Because the papacy was never about Peter’s strength. It was about Christ’s promise.

To my Protestant brothers and sisters, I understand the hesitation. The papacy may feel foreign. It may even feel offensive. But I invite you to look again. Not at the worst popes, but at the structure that has endured. Not at the pride of men, but at the logic of a kingdom.

The Church needs the papacy—not because every Pope is worthy, but because the office itself safeguards the unity, continuity, and shepherding the Church was always meant to have.