Below is an imagined Socratic dialogue between a Catholic (Leo) and a Protestant (Martin). It is not intended to be an exhaustive argument but rather to help Catholics see that there is strong Patristic evidence for the early Church's belief in the authority of the Pope.

Special thanks to Madeline McCourt for her assistance in editing this article.

Martin: I’ve heard it said that the early Church gave unique authority to the Bishop of Rome, but honestly, I just don’t see it. To me, it seems like a later development rather than something the early Christians actually believed.

Leo: That’s an understandable concern, and one I’ve heard before. But if we take an honest look at the writings of the early Church Fathers, they seem to say something very different. Let’s start with Ignatius of Antioch. He wrote around A.D. 110 and called the Church of Rome the one that “holds the presidency.” Doesn’t that suggest a kind of leadership role?

Martin: Not necessarily. When Ignatius says that Rome “holds the presidency,” he could be referring to its importance as the capital of the empire, not as some kind of spiritual authority.

Leo: That’s an interesting point, but Ignatius doesn’t frame it that way. He’s writing to a church, not the emperor or the civic authorities. And he specifically praises the Roman Church for its spiritual character, saying it’s “worthy of God, worthy of honor, worthy of blessing.” Moreover, he commends them for teaching others and instructing the faithful. That’s not a description of political power—it’s spiritual authority (Letter to the Romans 1:1, 3:1).

Martin: Even so, Ignatius doesn’t explicitly say that the Roman Church has authority over other churches. He’s being respectful, but respect isn’t the same as submission.

Leo: Fair enough, but let’s consider Pope Clement I. Around A.D. 80, he wrote to the church in Corinth to address a serious dispute. He doesn’t just offer advice—he commands them to reinstate their leaders and warns them that disobedience to his letter would put them in “no small danger.” Clement even claims to be speaking “through the Holy Spirit” (Letter to the Corinthians 1, 58–59, 63). Why would a bishop in Rome have the right to intervene in the internal affairs of a church in Greece unless there was an acknowledged authority?

Martin: Maybe Corinth respected Clement’s wisdom, but that doesn’t mean they recognized him as having jurisdiction over them. He could have been acting as a wise elder, not as a pope.

Leo: That’s possible, but Clement’s tone doesn’t suggest he’s merely offering advice. He writes as someone with the authority to settle the matter definitively. And we see this pattern again with later bishops of Rome. Take Pope Victor, who excommunicated the churches in Asia Minor over the date of Easter. Other bishops appealed for peace, but they didn’t deny that Victor had the authority to make such a decision (Eusebius, Church History 5:23:1–24:11). If the early Church didn’t recognize the authority of the Bishop of Rome, why didn’t they challenge his right to excommunicate?

Morning, all.

Today I’ll attempt a socratic dialogue on Mary as Theotokos, or "Mother of God."

James is the Protestant, Thomas is the Catholic.

James: Thomas, I gotta say, I don’t get how you can call Mary the “Mother of God.”

Thomas: Alright?

James: I mean, how can a finite human being possibly be the mother of the infinite God? It doesn’t make sense—unless you’re elevating Mary to some sort of divine status.

Thomas: Well, let me ask you: do you agree that Mary is the mother of Jesus?

James: Obviously, yes.

Thomas: And do you agree that Jesus is God?

James: Of course. He’s fully God and fully man.

Thomas: Then logically, Mary is the Mother of God. She isn’t the mother of His divine nature—that’s eternal and uncreated, which I think is where you’re getting stuck. But she is the mother of Jesus, the one person who is both fully God and fully man. The logic is simple and unavoidable:

1. Mary is the mother of Jesus.

2. Jesus is God.

3. Therefore, Mary is the Mother of God.

James: I don’t know… it feels like another invention by the Church to give Mary too much attention. And it’s nowhere in Scripture.

Thomas: True, the title “Mother of God” isn’t explicitly in Scripture, but neither are terms like “Trinity,” “Hypostatic Union,” or even “Bible.” The title is a theological conclusion drawn from Scripture, not something made up later. Take Luke 1:43, for instance. Elizabeth calls Mary “the mother of my Lord.” In the context of Luke’s Gospel, “Lord” is clearly a title for God.

Aristotle, in his Metaphysics, famously said:

“To say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true.”

It’s a beautifully straightforward definition of truth. But it raises a far trickier question: How do we know what is? Is it even possible to know? Or are we, as some philosophers would suggest, doomed to skepticism, forever trapped in doubt about what’s real and what’s not?

These questions have been on my mind quite a bit lately, and I touched on them briefly during my conversation with Ben Shapiro. In this short article, I’d like to dig a little deeper and flesh out some of those ideas. Let’s explore whether truth is truly within our grasp—and if so, how we might go about finding it.

Rene Descartes approached the search for truth with a bold and ambitious plan. He believed—or at least appeared to for the sake of his experiment—that to know anything with certainty, he first needed to doubt everything that appeared to be true until he could find a reason to accept it. His strategy was like trying to build a ladder: one solid rung of certainty at a time, to climb out of Plato’s cave of ignorance and into the light of ultimate truth.

The first rung of Descartes’ ladder was his famous cogito, ergo sum—“I think, therefore I am.” This seemed unshakable. Even if he doubted everything else, the very act of doubting proved his existence as a thinking being. But even this foundational rung isn’t as sturdy as Descartes thought. David Hume later argued that the concept of the self, traditionally understood, is an illusion. According to Hume, what we call the “self” is just a bundle of perceptions, constantly shifting and without a stable, unified core. If Hume is right, then Descartes’ cogito could itself be doubted, as it presupposes a continuous “I” doing the thinking—a presupposition Hume found unwarranted.

The rest of Descartes’ ladder fared no better. Each new rung required absolute certainty, whether it was the existence of God, the reliability of reason, or the trustworthiness of sensory perception. But with each step, doubt crept in. What if the external world was an illusion? What if a deceptive God (or evil demon) was orchestrating all his thoughts? Unable to construct a ladder strong enough to bear the weight of his own demands for certainty, Descartes’ project collapsed. The entire structure left him, and much of modern philosophy, stuck in the cave, skeptical of whether we could truly know anything at all.

Phenomenal conservatism (PC), by contrast, offers a much more practical and accessible approach to truth. It doesn’t demand that we start by tearing down everything we think we know. Instead, PC suggests we begin with trust: Accept what appears apparent to you until you have a reason to doubt it. It’s an approach grounded in the realities of human experience.

Unlike Descartes’ ladder, which sought absolute certainty for every step, the PC ladder is less rigid. Some rungs might be sturdier than others, and that’s okay. What matters is that the ladder holds together well enough to help us climb toward the light. PC embraces the natural reliability of our perceptions, intuitions, and experiences—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re good enough to make progress.

For instance, when we see a tree, we don’t need to demand incontrovertible proof of its existence before we trust that it’s there. Under PC, our perception of the tree is justified unless and until we encounter a defeater—like realizing we’re wearing virtual reality goggles. The same principle applies to more abstract truths: our moral intuitions, our belief in the reliability of reason, and even our awareness of the divine.

Where Descartes’ ladder demanded perfection and collapsed under the weight of that demand, PC’s ladder works precisely because it allows for imperfection. It acknowledges that we might occasionally misstep or encounter a shaky rung, but it doesn’t see that as a reason to abandon the climb altogether.

By starting with trust rather than doubt, PC bypasses the skeptical traps that ensnared Descartes. It invites us to navigate the world with confidence, even if some of our beliefs might later need revision. After all, progress doesn’t require perfection—just a functional framework that helps us move forward.