Nudifidian
PRONUNCIATION:
(noo-dee-FID-ee-uhn)
MEANING:
noun: One who believes that faith alone is sufficient for salvation.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin nudus (bare) + fides (faith). Earliest documented use: 1616.
NOTES:
The term often emerges in theological discussions about “sola fide” (faith alone), a cornerstone of certain Protestant doctrines during the Reformation. Nudifidians believe that salvation is attained solely through faith, without the need for good works, though they don’t necessarily reject good works, but rather see them as a result of faith, not a prerequisite for salvation.
USAGE:
“Yet a Christian must work — for no nudifidian, as well as no nullifidian, shall be admitted into heaven.”
Thomas Adams; The Three Divine Sisters, Faith, Hope, and Charity; Robert Carter; 1847.
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My friend Jan Williams of Santa Fe, NM, knowing my fondness for obscure words and the way they roll off the tongue, sent me this word. Nudifidian. Say it two or three times, for no other reason that the sheer and slightly tingly joy it gives your mouth to say a word that has its home in the numinous but its roots in the naughty. Nudifidian.
Jan said I should write a column about it, and I always do what Jan says.
Among the hallmarks of the Protestant Reformation was the notion that we are not saved by the good works we amass but by the faith and trust we place in Jesus Christ. Sola fidei—“faith alone”—was one of three “watchwords” (so our Presbyterian Book of Order, F-2.0104) by which it was possible to tell a trustworthy and reliable Protestant from one of those questionable Catholics,[1] the other two being Sola gratia—“grace alone”—and Sola scriptura—“Scripture alone.” By the Wordsmith.org definintion above, we Protestants are all nudifidians. There, you see? Our Roman Catholic brethren have been right all along: there is something a bit scurrilous and sleazy about us (and here we thought we were just sexy).
Nudifidian, obviously, has its roots in the Latin nudus, the source of our English “nude,” and fides, “faith.” Nudifidians are naked believers. “Nude” is a societally proper word for “naked,” which is in turn the morally upright if still slightly risqué rendering of the great Southern word, “nekkid.” If you don’t know the difference between the latter two terms, let me refer you to the late Southern comedian and columnist Lewis Grizzard, who said that “Naked is when you don’t have any clothes on; nekkid is when you don’t have any clothes on and you’re up to something.” To be nude is to be without the costumery that defends our modesty and (usually) disguises our intentions.
How, then, did a word arising (image intended?) from nakedness slink its way into proper academic speech? I wasn’t around to hear the original exchanges, but I imagine that someone described those morally opprobrious Protestants as standing naked before the throne of God without the benefit of the clothing of good works to make a positive impression on the divine. We are nude before the Seat of Judgment, they must have said, and judged us who hold such notions as sola fidei to be as scandalous as a skinny-dipper.
As a lifelong Protestant, I confess an affinity for nudifidianism. I like the notion that I don’t have to earn my standing before the divine—can’t earn it, in fact; that it is as gift I can neither be worthy of nor revoke by insufficient merit. I like the fact that my status with the eternal is not conditioned on my behavior, which is inconsistent at best and more often problematic. And while it’s been many a year since such notions were truly scandalous, I like the fact that we Protestants were once looked upon as theologically risqué, like a strippers in a sanctuary. I find myself attracted to a “naked faith.” I want to write some more about this “naked faith,” but to do so now would launch us into a conversation larger than this format will tolerate. Suffice it for now to say that as my theological journey lengthens and steepens, I’m finding it necessary to shed more and more of the heavy clothing of my former convictions. I’m getting closer to naked all the time.
[1] My beloved Roman Catholic friends and family members who read this blog must know, because they know me well enough not to entertain thoughts to the contrary, that I speak here with tongue firmly planted in cheek.
Shape and Substance 