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Are indulgences just a medieval corruption—or could they be a commonly misunderstood expression of divine mercy? In this article, we revisit the logic behind indulgences, explore their scriptural foundations, and recover the Church’s role in helping souls make things right.
Framing the Issue
A good friend of mine recently referred to “the modern heresy” of indulgences. That comment reminded me of the terrain still left to cover between us. This article is an attempt to build that bridge. My mission is simple: to help Protestants better understand Catholicism, particularly where it is so often misunderstood or wrongly dismissed as heretical.
If Protestants are to understand indulgences, they must first understand the necessity of purgatory. That topic deserves its own article, but for now a shorter justification will have to suffice. Whether purgatory is instantaneous or extended, whether it is a place, a process, or both, is beside the point. The Catholic assertion is that some kind of purgation must occur for the soul to be fully ready for heaven.
Here we encounter a common Protestant claim: that we must not speak where the Bible is silent. For example, they often cite Hebrews 9:27—“It is appointed unto man once to die, and then the judgment”—as proof that there is nothing between death and the final judgment. But in doing so, they go beyond what the verse actually says. The text does not specify which judgment it refers to, nor does it rule out an intermediate state. Ironically, in insisting that Catholics should remain silent where Scripture is silent, they often make confident claims about things Scripture never explicitly addresses—precisely the kind of speculation they criticize.
But what kind of judgment is referred to in Hebrews 9:27? Protestants tend to assume it refers to the final “great white throne” judgment, but Scripture actually refers to at least two judgments—one immediate (the particular judgment) and one final. To reduce everything to a single judgment and claim nothing lies between death and glory is, at best, an interpretive assumption. It is precisely this kind of dogmatic minimalism (i.e., asserting strong theological conclusions based only on what Scripture does not say) that Protestants accuse Catholics of, and yet here it is found at the heart of their rejection of purgatory.
Purgatory is necessary because God is perfect, and heaven is nothing less than His full presence. No imperfection can endure there. Thus, to be in heaven means to be fully perfected. But what of those who die in friendship with God but still carry remnants of sin—habits, wounds, or unrepaired harm? Are we to believe that nothing further is required? That justice and transformation are simply waved away?
This presupposes an overly narrow understanding of sin, treating it merely as a legal offense against God. This same legal framework undergirds the Protestant doctrine of forensic justification. But sin is not merely legal—it is personal, relational, and metaphysical. Yes, it is an offense against God’s holiness, deserving punishment. But it is more than that: sin wounds the soul, warps our desires, and damages others. That’s why there’s a penalty in the first place. Even in human society, legal consequences are derivative. Killing someone is not wrong because it carries a prison sentence. And if a judge were to forgive a murderer’s sentence by serving the time himself, the underlying damage—the trauma, the grief, the shattered family—would remain unaddressed.
Protestants who think that substitutionary atonement addresses all aspects of sin are missing a key truth: the legal penalty is only one dimension. The soul still needs healing. Harm still needs repair. And even if Christ’s atonement secures our salvation and reconciles us to God, the soul’s renovation remains. This is the unfinished business of sanctification—and, ultimately, of purgatory.
Why Sin Can’t Be Solved by Substitution Alone
To understand why purgatory is necessary, we must recover a deeper understanding of sin. The modern tendency—especially within some Protestant traditions—is to reduce sin to a mere legal infraction. On this view, sin is an offense against divine law, and if Christ pays the legal penalty through substitutionary atonement, then the matter is settled. But this is a shallow and incomplete account.
Sin is much more than a broken rule. It breaks people. It warps souls. It causes damage—sometimes catastrophic—to ourselves and to others. The legal penalty is not the core issue; it is a consequence of a deeper disorder. This is true even in civil society. Take the example of an arsonist who burns down a home. The legal questions are real and serious:
- Was it attempted murder?
- What sentence is appropriate?
- What fines or jail time are warranted?
But these questions do not capture the full moral and relational cost:
- The trauma experienced by the family
- The stress of rebuilding
- The loss of irreplaceable, sentimental belongings
- The disruption of daily life and routine
- The time and energy consumed by recovery
- The erosion of trust and safety
And still, deeper: what has happened to the arsonist himself?
- His soul is now one that chose arson
- His character has been deformed
- His will has been reshaped toward destruction
- His likelihood to repeat such an act has increased
All of these layers must be addressed if we are to fully redress the problem. A judge might pardon the sentence or even serve the sentence in the place of the criminal, but none of that directly repairs the relationships, restores the soul, or heals the wounded. For that, some form of healing—real, personal, participatory healing—is needed.
This is what purgatory is: the place or process by which the soul is purified, made whole, and rendered truly fit for heaven. It is not God’s punishment—it is God’s mercy, completing in us what grace has begun. We may pay our legal penalty through Christ’s atonement, but we still require transformation. The old wounds need tending, the broken patterns corrected, and the soul brought to maturity. Not only must we cease being arsonists—we must become those who cannot choose arson again.
In this light, “paying the price” is not about legal exchange, but about internal renovation. Even our legal system hints at this: fines and jail are intended, in part, to prompt reflection and reformation. They are imperfect signs pointing toward the deeper work that must take place in the soul. And this is the key: “paying one’s due” is not mere punishment—it is about learning what is good by experiencing the weight of what is not. It is a form of wisdom born of repentance.
Catholic theology has always affirmed that Christ’s sacrifice pays for the eternal consequence of sin—our separation from God. But that is not the whole story. The soul still needs healing. Justice still needs satisfying. Relationships still need mending. And the self still needs restoring. This is purgatory’s role, and it is not just reasonable—it is necessary.
So if the soul must be healed, if justice must be satisfied, and if sanctification must be completed—what role might the Church play in this? What, then, are indulgences?
Indulgences—Mercy, Misunderstanding, and Authority
The idea of indulgences causes a kind of dual suffering for Protestants. Catholics should be aware of this. First, there’s the lingering stigma from the Reformation—corruption, simony, abuse of power—all still traveling like fog down through the centuries, like the smell of a recently cleaned manure pit. Second, there’s the modern connotation: indulgence as excess. We associate the term with luxury, self-gratification, lack of self-control—decadent desserts, retail therapy, moral softness. It feels like the opposite of the long-honored Christian virtue of moderation.
Let’s address the terminological confusion first.
The word indulgence comes from the Latin indulgentia, which originally meant something like “kindness” or “gentleness.” In the context of penalties, it came to mean “pardon,” “leniency,” or “concession.” Theologically, it refers to the remission of temporal penalties associated with sin—penalties not resolved merely by Christ’s substitutionary atonement. These are the relational, personal, and spiritual consequences we’ve discussed.
When Christ gave the apostles the authority to bind and loose, the Church understood this not as empty symbolism, but as real jurisdiction. Binding and loosing meant authority over sins—first to retain or forgive them (as in John 20:23), and also to manage their consequences in time. The Church believed—and still believes—it was granted power by Christ to participate in the application of grace, especially concerning the temporal consequences of sin. If Christ’s atonement secures our salvation, then indulgences address what remains: the purification of the soul, the healing of wounds, the balancing of justice.
That the Church would have this kind of power was not controversial in earlier eras. What seems audacious now was once assumed. Ironically, many of today’s secular states enjoy various forms of power over life and death—whether through judicial sentencing or military deployment. Modern people have largely accepted this. So it is not the idea of institutional authority over human lives that we reject. The real question is whom we trust. We may distrust the Church—but that doesn’t mean the principle of such authority is invalid.
Two important clarifications must be made here. First, the Church’s authority to bind and loose is not about salvation itself—that belongs to God alone. Instead, it pertains to those things which lie in the temporal realm: acts of penance, reparative justice, and the soul’s readiness for glory. Second, the scope of this authority must correspond to where sin has consequences. Since sin’s effects extend both into earthly life and beyond—into purgatory—the Church’s authority must reach into both domains.
So here’s the emerging framework:
- Sin has multiple facets—legal, relational, personal, spiritual.
- Christ’s atonement addresses the eternal consequence—separation from God—but not necessarily every temporal effect.
- Purgatory completes the soul’s readiness for heaven, healing what remains unhealed.
- The Church, given authority to bind and loose, exercises this not over heaven or hell, but in the temporal consequences of sin—on earth and in purgatory.
Protestants often look back at the abuses of indulgences and see only corruption. Their instinct is to eliminate the entire framework, as if removing the system would prevent future abuses. But in doing so, they also removed legitimate theological development. They denied the Church’s real authority. They collapsed the complexities of sin into a legal transaction. They rejected purgatory, simplifying salvation into a kind of anesthetic surgery: death puts you under, and you wake up perfect.
These are tidy solutions, but they leave critical questions unanswered. More importantly, they leave the human experience of sin and justice strangely unaccounted for.
The Logic of Indulgences and the Protestant Dilemma
Indulgences, far from being a corruption of grace, reflect something deeply human—and deeply biblical. When we wrong someone, we instinctively want to make it right. This urge to restore, to offer something in return, is not a sign of pride or self-righteousness. It’s a built-in and fundamental characteristic of mature humanity. It’s a relational reflex. The person who shrugs off harm done to others in the name of “grace” misunderstands grace entirely. Grace is not legal relaxation–it is relational restoration. It is the re-establishment of healthy, reciprocal exchange.
Protestants often argue that this instinct—this desire to “make up for” wrongdoing—has no place in our relationship with God. But God seems to have placed it in every human heart–in every human culture. It is not foreign to the gospel; it is fulfilled by it. Both Catholics and Protestants agree: we cannot earn our way into heaven. Salvation is a gift, pure and unmerited, given by grace through faith. But once that access has been granted—once the relationship is restored—does it not make sense that the soul would want to respond in love, gratitude, and reparation?
This is where indulgences come in. An indulgence is not a transaction. It is not buying forgiveness. It is, in principle, a Church-authorized exchange of some good work, prayer, or sacrifice for the sake of the relationship. It isn’t one the individual chooses for himself or herself. It is set out by the Church, redirecting the relational energies of God’s people toward the repair and edification of His body. So it is managed by the Church for the Church. It is, in effect, saying, “God accepts your attempts to reconnect, your acts of tenderness toward His body, your efforts toward reconciliation and restoration, your sacrifices for greater intimacy with Him. And He relationally smooths over, forgives, lets go of some of that distance and relational separation that is left up to you to work through.” Like grace itself, the reward is often disproportionate to the act—but that is the very meaning of indulgence. It is kindness. It is mercy. It is the generosity of a Father who delights to reward even the smallest gesture of love.
Even the more dramatic constructions of the medieval period can be better understood through simple analogies. Imagine someone gives you $10 for the purpose of buying food. If you’re only mildly hungry, you may appreciate the gesture, but your gratitude is modest. But if you’re starving—weak, dizzy, on the edge of collapse—that same $10 is received as a life-saving gift. The objective value of the $10 hasn’t changed, nor has the purpose—it’s still to buy food. But the subjective value, the inner weight and perceived generosity of the gift, grows exponentially depending on your condition. Likewise, indulgences are not dispensed with mechanical precision. Their “worth” is not measured by a fixed scale, but is shaped by the interior disposition of the one receiving them, and the context in which they are applied.
This is how parents operate every day. We give allowances to our children—not because their efforts always merit it, but because we want to reward them, encourage growth, and teach responsibility. Sometimes we reward disproportionately. We typically reward effort over perfection. Our goal is always the same: formation, not transaction.
Much the same logic lay behind even some of the most controversial indulgences of the medieval period. For instance, the indulgence granted for contributions toward the rebuilding of St. Peter’s Basilica was, in principle, based on long-standing theological tradition: giving alms as an act of penance. Scripture commends almsgiving as a means of purification. “Charity covers a multitude of sins” (1 Peter 4:8), and “almsgiving delivers from death” (Tobit 4:10). The Church, with its authority to bind and loose, offered spiritual benefit for acts of charity done with proper contrition and devotion. The scandal emerged not from the principle, but from its abuse—particularly in the rhetoric of preachers like Johann Tetzel, whose overpromising and mechanical phrasing made it seem as if the payment itself effected the spiritual benefit.
The same can be said of indulgences granted to Crusaders. The Church interpreted the participation of the typical, conscientious Christian as the profound act of penance and self-sacrifice that it was. But as political motives crept in, as people began paying others to go in their place, as violent men saw in these indulgences a free pass to satiate their own violent thirsts, the redemptive framework was overshadowed by pragmatism, misunderstanding, and real moral corruption.
In both cases, the theology wasn’t invented by the abuse—it was only corrupted in its implementation. The core idea was consistent: God rewards charity, penance, and sacrifice when offered in grace—and the Church, by Christ’s delegation, may apply those merits toward the soul’s healing.
While indulgences were at times grossly abused, the theological structures behind many of them were not inventions—they were applications of longstanding principles: that God rewards charity, sacrifice, and repentance, and that the Church, through Christ’s delegated authority, can mediate those rewards. Even some of the most infamous cases, if stripped of distortion and faithfully implemented, were rooted in these principles.
Some Protestants may still object that the Church has no rightful authority over earthly penalties–let alone purgatorial ones. Yet the Catholic claim is not arbitrary. It is rooted in Christ’s words to the apostles: “Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Matt 18:18). If the Catholic interpretation is rejected, then a serious question must be addressed: how does Protestant theology account for this explicit delegation of binding and loosing authority in the context of sin?
Many Protestant scholars attempt to soften or reverse the direction of Christ’s words by appealing to the Greek grammar of Matthew 18:18:“Whatever you bind on earth shall have been bound in heaven” (ὃ ἐὰν δήσῃς ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἔσται δεδεμένον ἐν οὐρανῷ).
They argue that the phrase “shall have been bound in heaven” is in the future perfect passive, and therefore the Church merely affirms what heaven has already determined. In their reading, heaven acts first; the Church merely echoes.
But this grammatical interpretation falters under closer analysis.
First, the focus of the sentence is not the participle, but the main verb: “you bind” (δήσῃς). The phrase “shall have been bound in heaven” is dependent upon this human action. It expresses the result or ratification of the Church’s decision—not its prerequisite. The grammar does not say, “Whatever has been bound in heaven, you may then bind on earth.” That reversal is not only grammatically backward—it detaches the “whatever” from the Church’s action, which is the very thing the verse is highlighting.
Second, and most importantly: even if the Protestant reading were granted, it would still pose a problem for their theology. If the Church is authorized to bind whatever heaven has bound, then the Church still has real authority. It is still entrusted with the act of binding and loosing. So even in the unlikely case that their grammatical reading were correct, the theological conclusion would still run against the Protestant impulse to strip the Church of meaningful authority. It would still affirm that the Church mediates divine judgments in history.
Third, the use of “whatever” (ὃ ἐὰν) clearly attaches to the Church’s action. Jesus is saying: “Whatever you bind on earth shall have been bound in heaven.” The subject of “whatever” is the thing you do—not the thing heaven did. The syntax places the initiative on earth, and the consequence in heaven. The structure presumes a stewardship model: God entrusting His ministers with action and then standing behind that action.
Finally, this phrase appears in both Matthew 16:19 and Matthew 18:18, first in the singular to Peter and then in the plural to all the apostles. In both cases, the same grammatical structure is used to convey real authority—not mere parroting. The wording echoes Isaiah 22:22, where Eliakim is given the key of the house of David and the authority to open and shut on behalf of the king. It is a scriptural pattern of delegated trust, not empty symbolism.
This isn’t about the Church overriding heaven—it’s about God honoring the work of His ministers, just as He honors the work of parents, prophets, judges, and kings throughout Scripture. This is the consistent biblical pattern: God chooses human instruments to mediate grace, justice, mercy, and discipline, and He ratifies their work when it is done faithfully.
If that still sounds too “Catholic,” recall how Paul speaks in 2 Corinthians 2:10: “Anyone whom you forgive, I also forgive. Indeed, what I have forgiven…has been for your sake in the presence of Christ.” There is a relational economy of grace that Paul assumes—one in which the Church participates. Similarly, Jesus tells His disciples in John 20:23, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven.” This is not empty symbolism. It is a trust.
So the idea of indulgences—wherein the Church applies spiritual benefits to remit temporal penalties—is not a bizarre medieval innovation. It is the natural outgrowth of Scripture’s vision: that God’s people are called to participate in His work, and that God honors their participation.
In fact, the Bible is filled with this kind of divine-human cooperation. God tells the Israelites, “Honor your father and mother…that your days may be long” (Exod 20:12). Jesus says even a cup of cold water given in His name will not go unrewarded (Matt 10:42). Paul teaches that we will each be repaid “according to what he has done in the body” (2 Cor 5:10). And again: “Do not grow weary in doing good, for in due time you will reap a harvest” (Gal 6:9). Over and over, the principle is affirmed: God rewards what we do in grace—that is, actions we undertake not by our own strength, but in faith, repentance, and love, empowered by His Spirit and offered in union with Christ.
This is the logic of indulgences—not that we earn heaven, but that God, in His generosity, chooses to reward our humble acts. And that the Church, when exercising its Christ-given authority, can apply that reward toward our healing.
Indulgences, then, are not a relic of medieval corruption. They are a concrete application of a scriptural principle:
Grace invites participation. God honors the cooperation of His people. And the Church, entrusted with real authority, helps us live out the fullness of redemption.
Perhaps the deepest challenge for modern Christians—Catholic and Protestant alike—is not simply to explain indulgences, but to recover a vision of sin, justice, and healing that makes them intelligible again. If God truly desires not only to forgive, but to restore us—and if the Church is meant to be an instrument of that restoration—then indulgences are not a relic of the past, but a sign of God’s ongoing generosity.
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