Photo credit: me (taken in 2020, when I visited Geneva and went to John Calvin’s church and the “Reformation Wall,” which contains a sculpture of—from left to right—William Farel, Calvin, Theodore Beza, and John Knox).
(A ten-minute read.)
First, let me clear about something (in case it isn’t already obvious): I’m not a Calvinist. I’m nothing close to a Calvinist—and I can’t imagine a scenario where I’d ever become one.
In fact, I’m probably as far away from Calvinism as one can be while still being a Protestant Christian.
And I’m only slightly exaggerating.
But I wanted to offer a brief “defense” of Calvinism—or at least try to explain it in a way that doesn’t turn it into a caricature, and that can perhaps help people appreciate why it arose.
I want to do so because in the religious circles in which I travel, Calvinism is very frequently maligned and turned into “straw man” and/or a cartoon. And I know I’m certainly in danger of doing this myself.
Of course, perhaps you’re asking: what is Calvinism and why should I care? Why all the hubbub?
First, the second question.
You should care—even if you’re theologically ambivalent—because Calvinism has probably been the single most influential religious system in American history.
Some scholars propose that, for the first two hundred years of US history, Calvinism was the unchallenged system of religious thought in America. Its influence was unmatched, seeping into every corner of American culture and thinking.
The Puritans—i.e., those who came to America on the Mayflower and settled in Massachusetts—were staunch Calvinists.
Harvard and Yale began as strongly Calvinist institutions—and remained that way for at least the first century and a half of their existence (as did Princeton and Dartmouth).
Just about everyone in New England was a Calvinist—and not only was New England perhaps the most educated region in the entire world in the eighteenth century, according to historian Mark Noll, it also produced the most religious literature by far of any place in America.
In fact, so influential has Calvinism been in American history that, according to historian Brooks Holifield, just about every Christian movement in America has either been propelled by Calvinism or started as a direct critique or rejection of it.
Even today, though Calvinism doesn’t enjoy anywhere close to the influence it once did in America, it still possesses an outsized influence—especially within evangelical Christianity (which has actually been a deliberate effort on the part of key influencers).
People like John Piper, Al Mohler, and the late Tim Keller are or were Calvinists. Even Mark Driscoll, when he was at the height of his influence, belonged to this cohort.
Also, institutions like the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary—which is by far the largest seminary in America—is steeped in Calvinism, as are parachurch ministries like The Gospel Coalition.
Calvinism is also the theological system of many denominations—Presbyterians, the various Reformed churches, and many Baptists.
So it’s kind of a big deal.
But what even is it?
It’s a system of religious thought that owes its origins to the French Protestant Reformer John Calvin, who did most of his work in sixteenth-century Geneva.
Calvin had been a Roman Catholic but, like his contemporary Martin Luther, became highly disillusioned with Catholicism—and developed a system of thought that vehemently responded to what he perceived to be the abuses of Roman Catholic life and thought.
In short—and I’ll return to this below—Calvin was primarily concerned with helping Christians have the assurance that they were right with God and that there’s nothing they could do to earn or merit his favor.
But from out of this singular concern came a whole system of thought that turned into “Calvinism” (which is also often referred to as “Reformed” theology).
Though there’s been some debate as to whether Calvin himself was even a “Calvinist,” in my reading of him—which, admittedly, has been a bit slow-going (I’m about a quarter of the way through his famous and laborious 1100-page Institutes of the Christian Religion)—I can definitely see all the ingredients of what later became known as “Calvinism.”
The easiest way to explain this system of thought is by using the acronym TULIP, which is a theological explanation that started taking shape about sixty years after Calvin died. Each letter in the acronym represents a key component in his thinking.
The “T” stands for “total depravity,” or the belief that human beings are totally corrupt and, left to themselves, would never do good or would even want to do good—and would never choose God.
The “U” stands for “unconditional election,” which means that, in order for any human being to ever be saved eternally, God would have to, through his complete and sovereign will, choose those people to be saved. The choice is entirely up to God and has nothing to do with the choice or actions of any person.
The “L” stands for “limited atonement,” which posits that Christ died only for those he’s unconditionally elected.
The “I” stands for “irresistible grace.” Those Christ has elected and died for, he then draws irresistibly to himself. No human being can resist God’s sovereign will.
The “P” stands for “perseverance of the saints.” Those whom Christ has elected, died for, and drawn to himself will never turn away from him. They will “persevere” to the end and never be lost (a “soft” version of this, adopted by many non-Calvinist Christians, is sometimes referred to as “once saved, always saved”).
This is a very simplified explanation of Calvin’s system of thought, but it’s one that Calvinists themselves often use to easily and conveniently review and explain the features of Calvin’s thinking.
But for the non-Calvinist, it’s easy to see why Calvinism can appear so mortifying.
Quite often, when people—especially those who are post-Christian—react to what they perceive to be the dismaying features of Christian thinking, they’re reacting to some of the features of Calvinism.
From this system comes the idea that God controls everything that happens. He has “ordained” even the worst events in human history, since God is “sovereign” over all and ordains everything that happens.
Indeed, as Calvin put it, “thieves and murderers, and other evil-doers are instruments of divine providence, employed by the Lord himself to execute the judgments which he has resolved to inflict.”
So the rape your friend suffered is, according to Calvin’s thinking, because God ordained it.
We recoil at the thought.
We also violently react to the idea that God allegedly predestines some to be eternally saved and others to be eternally lost, suffering the eternal fires of damnation (through no choice of their own).
Even some of history’s most tyrannical figures don’t seem as diabolical and evil.
At the same time, many people cringe at the derogatory way Calvin painted humanity—with his low view of humanity, insisting that human beings are completely and utterly depraved, and left with no true potential or agency in themselves.
It was this perspective that then became the basis for Calvin’s justification of God’s attitude toward depraved human beings. Since we are so wicked and deplorable, “man is naturally hateful to God,” as he heart-warmingly put it, and the rightful recipients of his eternal wrath.
Again, such caricatures—which are legitimately based on Calvin’s theology—are repulsive to many people. And rightfully so, I’d submit. They cast God in such a deplorable and revolting light.
So why would I ever want to try to defend Calvin?
Because he didn’t live in the twenty-first century. And he wasn’t trying to answer twenty-first-century questions.
He lived in the sixteenth century and was trying to answer sixteenth-century questions.
Let me explain.
“How can I be right with God?”
Simply put, Calvin didn’t wake up one day and ask himself how he could make God look as ugly as possible. And his system of thinking wasn’t primarily concerned with God’s character.
As alluded to above, Calvin was instead largely concerned with how a person could be right with God and put on good terms with him. He was eager to step into the assurance that he was accepted and forgiven by God.
In other words, in theological terms, he wasn’t primarily interested in theodicy—that is, the way God’s character was understood in the face of evil. He was primarily interested in soteriology—that is, the way people could be saved.
And the way he saw it, assurance could never come through anything human beings did.
As Calvin understood it, the Roman Catholicism of his day—and arguably ours—was characterized by a system of merit. It was the ultimate meritocracy.
One’s acceptance with God was determined by how many prayers they said, how many pilgrimages they made, how many indulgences they bought (the Catholic friar, Johan Tetzel, would famously say, “As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs”).
In short, acceptance with God—at least as the person in the pew often perceived it—was based upon doing and acting, and performing the right rituals.
And this was, largely, the extent of religious life for many people living in the Middle Ages—which is to say, the extent of their entire lives, since everything effectively revolved around the Church.
But the challenge for Calvin, as with so many others, is that this system always left them with a lingering and haunting question: have I done enough?
It left them feeling deflated and riddled with anxiety, because they kept perpetually thinking they hadn’t done quite enough.
Thus, overwhelmed with unabating stress, Calvin—much like Luther, though perhaps not as personally intense—came up with a solution to this all-pervasive question: monergism.
Essentially, monergism—which is a combination of the words “alone” (monos) and “work” (ergon) in Greek—says that salvation is the work of Christ alone. It is entirely of his doing.
Human beings make absolutely no contribution to their salvation, because if anything—even faith—was left up to us, we could never escape the anxiety that we’ve done enough or believed enough.
So for Calvin, in order to evade the stress of never feeling like he could measure up, he had to put the onus entirely on God. It had to be all God’s work and couldn’t go anywhere close to depending on some part he had to play.
Thus, every other part of Calvin’s system flowed from this all-pervasive concern.
For example, if his salvation was entirely dependent on God, it stood to reason that God therefore had to be the one to choose him—rather than the other way around.
Even affirming God’s choice—by choosing God in response—couldn’t be a part of the equation.
After all, if his choice had any part to play, then how could Calvin escape the anxiety that maybe he hadn’t really chosen God? Or what would happen if his choice wasn’t sincere enough?
Similarly, it must further stand to reason that if salvation was entirely the work of God apart from anyone’s choice or actions, then the only reason anyone would be eternally lost was because God had already determined that they’d be lost.
Pretty soon, with each successive domino falling, it was easy for Calvin to conclude that everything was the result of God’s sovereign determination and will. Everything was ordained by him as a way to guarantee that the “elect” ultimately came into saving faith, thus ensuring that they didn’t contribute one iota to their own salvation—which helped them avoid the stress of feeling like they didn’t do enough.
And on and on it goes.
The point here must be revisited: the whole system of Calvinism was predicated upon Calvin’s unrelenting desire to escape the feelings of inadequacy that the Roman Catholic merit-based system of salvation instilled.
And it’s a concern that I’m thus very sympathetic to—and would have likely wrestled with if I had been in his shoes.
And thus, again, Calvin didn’t start by asking how he could make God look good—or bad. He started by asking how he could have the absolute assurance that he was accepted by God.
And everything else flowed from there.
So what?
So why all this fuss? Why try to defend Calvin?
First, I’m a historian—and I want to understand historical figures in their own context. That requires sympathy—because no one (or very few people) sets out with the intention of creating a deplorable philosophy or revolting system of thinking.
They’re often driven by very sincere and genuine concerns—even if those concerns seemingly end in an eventual mess.
Second, I’m someone who also wants assurance. I worry about measuring up and I spend a lot of time “hustling” for approval.
And I think we can gain a lot from Calvin in this regard when we understand him in his context.
Though I have significant gripes with Calvinism as a whole—and especially its twenty-first-century manifestations—the fact remains that anyone who calls themselves a Protestant today owes a great deal to Calvin.
He, along with Luther, basically single-handedly toppled the unmitigated control and abuses of medieval Roman Catholicism, and set Protestants on a path to recognize and celebrate the supremacy of God’s love and the sufficiency of his grace.[1]
Also, truly, anyone who enjoys the modern age—whether Christian or not—owes a great deal to him as well. Indeed, a case could be made that without Calvin there’d be no United States of America or democracy or iPhones (all of which, depending on where you sit, may be a good thing).
Third, I think if we’re going to discuss someone like Calvin publicly, we must do so with integrity and accuracy. After all, it’s really easy to turn him—and his system—into a caricature that is overly reductionistic.
But when we do so, we lose credibility. And we lose the opportunity to advance the discussion and influence people who revere Calvin and his system.
To be sure, I have a hard time with many hard-core twenty-first-century Calvinists—especially those who seemingly maintain that only Calvin’s version of the gospel is “the gospel.”
But being people of integrity means we should appreciate Calvin in his own context, take from him what we find helpful, and accurately explain his views.
[1] From a Seventh-day Adventist perspective, up until recently, I had assumed that early Adventist thinkers—including Ellen White—were completely down on Calvin. But Julius Nam, in this piece, demonstrates that early Adventists—especially including Ellen White—actually demonstrated a much greater appreciation for him than I had initially suspected.
Shawn is a pastor in Maine, whose life, ministry, and writing focus on incarnational expressions of faith. The author of four books and a columnist for Adventist Review, he is also a DPhil (PhD) candidate at the University of Oxford, focusing on nineteenth-century American Christianity. You can follow him on Instagram, and listen to his podcast Mission Lab.
This article is a good reminder of what Calvinism is, & it at least with me, achieves your goal of eliciting empathy for Calvin's dilemma, as well as that of reformed theologians today.
Deep thinking. Hmmmm!