The Real Story of the Reformation: What I Wasn’t Told

I grew up Protestant, and for most of my life, the story of the Reformation was a simple one: brave reformers like Martin Luther and John Calvin broke free from the shackles of the oppressive Catholic Church. They were heroes in our history books—men of courage who stood up for truth and sparked a movement that brought about spiritual freedom.

But as I’ve journeyed deeper into Church history—and especially as I’ve found my way into the Catholic Church—I’ve realized that the real story is far more complex. And frankly, what I was told growing up left out a lot.

Let’s start with Luther. He did raise legitimate concerns—his main issues were indulgences, papal authority, and purgatory. But somehow, over time, Protestant thought drifted far beyond those initial concerns. It began to fracture, multiply, and reinvent itself in ways that would’ve been unrecognizable even to the original Reformers.

That’s what I find so strange now: Luther wasn’t trying to start a brand-new religion. He believed he was calling the Church to reform, not to divide. And yet, divide it did—again and again. Today, we have tens of thousands of Protestant denominations, each claiming their own interpretation of Scripture as the true one.

Compare that with the first 1500 years of Christianity. There was one faith. Yes, it grew and adapted, and yes, there were theological debates and councils. But it was still one Church, with one sacramental life, one priesthood, and one Eucharist. Even after the Great Schism of 1054, when the Eastern Orthodox churches broke communion with Rome, they still held to the ancient core of the Christian faith—apostolic succession, the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and the sacramental life.

Protestantism, however, created something entirely new. Sola Scriptura (Scripture alone), Sola Fide (faith alone), the rejection of the Mass as a sacrifice, the abandonment of apostolic succession—all of these were departures from historic Christianity. And most American Christians don’t realize how deeply their faith has been shaped not by Luther or Calvin, but by later movements—especially those that came from England.

Which brings me to something I never heard about growing up: the Reformation in England.

We tend to lump England in with the rest of the Protestant Reformation, as though it shared the same theological roots. But the truth is, England didn’t become Protestant because of theology—it became Protestant because of politics and personal desire. And that’s where the story of Henry VIII comes in.

Henry was a devout Catholic. He even earned the title Defender of the Faith from the pope for his written defense of the seven sacraments against Luther. But when he sought an annulment from Catherine of Aragon—his late brother’s wife—the pope refused. Catherine hadn’t borne him a male heir, and Henry had become enamored with Anne Boleyn. The pope’s refusal to grant an annulment led Henry to break with Rome.

Let that sink in.

England didn’t become Protestant because of a theological conviction—it became Protestant because a king wanted a different wife. And when he didn’t get his way, he declared himself the head of the Church of England. Every citizen was required to break with the Catholic Church and pledge allegiance to this new national church—with the monarch, not the pope, as its head.

That’s not exactly a noble origin story. In fact, as I type this, I can’t help but think: This is madness!

And here’s the kicker: the early American colonists didn’t flee the Catholic Church—they fled the Church of England. It was that church, born out of Henry’s defiance and political maneuvering, that became oppressive to many believers. The Puritans, the Separatists, the Baptists—they weren’t fighting against Rome. They were running from Canterbury.

That part of the story never made it into my history books or Sunday School lessons.

But now, as I look back, I see a trail of fragmentation and reinvention that began not as a move toward purity, but as a reaction against authority. What began as a call for reform turned into a rupture—a wound in the Body of Christ that we still feel today.

And yet, by God’s grace, the Church still stands. The gates of hell have not prevailed. And I, for one, have found my way back to that ancient faith—not because it’s perfect in every human detail, but because it’s still the Church Jesus founded. The one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church.

And that is a story worth telling.