Tag Archives: Calvinism

The Sovereignty of God, or, My Brush with Calvinism, Part 2: A Crisis of Faith

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The next post in my spiritual autobiography, and the conclusion(?) to my account of my struggle with Calvinism. I don’t know; maybe there will be more. I thought I would nudge a couple of Reformed friends in case they might be interested in my thoughts.

John Calvin, by Titian

John Calvin, by Titian (This blog). I am thrilled to find this! I had no idea Titian painted Calvin! I love it when my favorite people cross paths!

I grew a lot as a person and as a Christian over the next few years — though still in short spurts, leaps, and sometimes stumbles. Over the last couple of years of my undergraduate career, I continued to have occasional flirtations with Calvinism. I hung out a few times with the fledgling RUF group on our campus, and attended the nondenominational Campus Crusade from time to time. But I struggled to feel that I fit in in any meaningful way. I visited the churches of several friends, but for reasons I don’t entirely understand looking back, I never settled down. I remained restless, insecure, and lonely.

In the spring of 2009, thanks be to God, I finally graduated. Over the next summer I flailed around uselessly looking for a job — and then, in one of the clearest manifestations of God’s providence that I’ve experienced, one came to me. One day my friend Gloria, who had been one of my dearest Christian friends in school and always an example to me of how to live one’s faith on campus, wrote on my Facebook wall. “Hey, Joseph, would you like to teach Greek at a Christian school?”

The Trivium

The Trivium.

Would I! I don’t think there could have been a more perfect job for me at that time if it had been custom-tailored. All through my undergraduate degree majoring in history, I had never given any serious thought to teaching or pursued teaching credentials — but to my great surprise and joy, I loved teaching more than anything I’d ever done. My year at Veritas Classical School, teaching history, Latin, Greek, and English grammar and vocabulary to grades seven through twelve, was a monumental landmark in my journey as a student, teacher, and Christian.

But more on that later. In coming to Veritas, my road brought me face to face with Calvinism.

That year also — not coincidentally — brought my walk with God closer than it had been in many years. Becoming a teacher, I felt an obligation to be a model and example spiritually, a mentor and tutor and protector as well. I prayed for my students before I even met them, and for myself that I would be worthy to stand before them. For the first time I read the whole New Testament with an eye to serious Bible study. For my thirtieth birthday I bought myself a new Bible — the Reformed-friendly ESV Study Bible. It was a time of great growth, and I felt that that — towards the Reformed — was the direction my faith was moving in.

Calvin with books

As it turned out, the teacher I was replacing at Veritas was Megan, whom I had known years earlier as a member of the Society. (The pool of students in North Alabama trained in classical languages being small, this was not as big a coincidence as one might think.) She had recently had a baby and was leaving the school to be a mother. In my preparation that summer, I visited Megan’s home a couple of times to discuss curricula and planning. I was immediately impressed with the bookshelves of Megan and her husband: tome upon tome of Christian literature, particularly Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion and other works of the Protestant Reformers. Could this be the intellectual foundation for my faith I’d been looking for? In talking with Megan, I was struck with a major emphasis of her teaching: history as a product of God’s sovereign will.

Veritas met in the building of a small Presbyterian church, and though at the forefront I’d been told that its reach was ecumenical — that I would have students of all different Christian traditions, and that no particular doctrinal position was expected of me — I learned very quickly that in its wider affiliations, Veritas was by and large Reformed. Toward the end of that summer, I attended a few days of workshops with the founders and leaders of the Veritas organization, at a large Presbyterian church in the Atlanta area.

The Apostle Paul

(This is the Protestant Paul.)

It must have been the will of God that I would be reading Paul’s Epistle to the Romans that week, that specifically I would have arrived at Romans 8, 9, and 10. It wasn’t the first time in recent months that I’d read a passage of Scripture and had the nagging thought, What if the Calvinists are right? But the morning of the first day of workshops, I remember sitting in the beautiful garden of the home that had so graciously hosted us, reading those chapters. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach, the rising panic, as the words seemed to confirm what I feared: “Has the potter no right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for dishonorable use? What if God, desiring to show his wrath and to make known his power, has endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction, in order to make known the riches of his glory for vessels of mercy, which he has prepared beforehand for glory?” (Romans 9:21–23). As I review my notes from that day (I kept a journal of my studies), I see that I made a surprisingly sharp exegesis then — which I can only credit to the Holy Spirit — as my mind reeled, clawing for an understanding of the passage that didn’t entail what it appeared to entail.

Over the next several days, as I was pondering these words, I found myself cast into an increasingly alien and uncomfortable situation: Veritas seemed to be an overwhelmingly Reformed phenomenon; every teacher whom I met was motivated by a Calvinistic outlook on faith, on education, and on history. Not only that — but I’d had up till that point only marginal contact with homeschooling and its mechanics and philosophy and culture; here I was thrown into the thick of a stirred pot in which everyone around me was a native and veteran and I was a lost foreigner, not knowing the terminology or concepts or attitudes. I heard lecture after lecture on incorporating a Christian worldview into education, and on that worldview’s inherent opposition to my whole, secular, academic educational background; how the whole world I had known, everything I’d been taught, was opposed to God and the Christian formation of young people. I wrote in my journal, amid my lecture notes and observations, God, I’m scared. God, I’m so terrified. A page or so later: More and more horrified. I can’t do this. I have absolutely nothing in common with these people. By the second day of this, I had all but resolved that I would resign my position at the first opportunity.

Van Gogh, Man with His Head in His Hands

Man with His Head in His Hands (1882), by Vincent Van Gogh (WikiPaintings).

As these ideas worked through my head, and my reflections on Romans 9 continued to mushroom, I felt more and more alienated and alone: and this brewing storm soon blossomed into a full-brown crisis of faith. I began to seriously question whether I was even a Christian, if I even knew God at all. I remember sitting at a table there at that Presbyterian church, feeling more alone than I ever had, as the thoughts I’d been collecting finally coalesced: How could a loving God, a God who is love, create some flesh with no other purpose but to be damned? That rather than loving every creature, He only “endures with much patience” those “prepared for destruction” whom He doesn’t love at all, they existing only to “make known the riches of his glory for vessels of mercy,” those predestined for glory? How could a loving God deliberately and arbitrarily consign some on His creations to hell and save others, based on no merit or fault or choice or action of either? How could it be that many of the people around me, those whom I knew and loved — the very neighbors whom Jesus commanded us to love and serve, for whom he called us to give ourselves wholly — were “objects of wrath,” of mere tolerance in God’s eyes, and not of love? were hopelessly damned from the beginning of the universe? were bereft of any hope at all of salvation? The notions I had understood seemed to undermine the whole gospel of Christ as I knew it, to reject the essential dignity of all men and women, to call into question my entire moral fabric: if some men are not worthy even of the love of God, then why love the hurting or seek the lost? why feed the hungry or clothe the poor or bind up the brokenhearted? I began to understand, I thought, so much of what I saw in the world around me, why so few Christians in America seemed to care about the plight of the least of these: they are not “of us,” so they must be “vessels prepared for destruction.” As my horror reached it peak, I came to a conclusion: If this is the God I’m being asked to serve, then I want no part of that god.

Of course, so much of this was overreaction, and the fruit of everything else I was feeling at that time. These thoughts are not fair representations of the ideas or formulations of well-minded people of the Reformed faith. But I still feel truthfully that these are the logical implications and consequences of Reformed propositions.

Crossroads

As I went home after three days in Atlanta, I had come to a sense of peace. I don’t remember even acknowledging it consciously, but my conclusion had reduced to an absurdity: That couldn’t be the God I love and serve, therefore the premises from which I was proceeding must be false. The Calvinist understanding of Romans 9 must be mistaken: for it otherwise contradicts all the rest of Scripture and revelation. Over the coming weeks, I devoted myself more and more to Scripture study and prayer. I delved into Paul’s meaning and context, and at last came to understand; looking back, my notes upon my reading that first day were pretty dead on. It was an epoch in my journey: I never again seriously considered Calvinism as a valid theological option or the Reformed faith as a destination for my pilgrimage.

In the end, I stuck with Veritas. The director of our school was so very reassuring and so supportive. He restored my faith in my own calling and gifts, and in the promise of Veritas. He never asked me to teach in a way with which I wasn’t comfortable, and stood behind me through my entire year there. And the students and the parents and the environment made the most loving, nurturing, enriching educational experience I’d ever been a part of. I loved teaching more than I ever could have known, and loved my students with all my heart. I left convinced of the merits of classical education and homeschooling — but more on that next time.

The Sovereignty of God, or, My Brush with Calvinism, Part 1

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The next chapter in my conversion story, a long-promised episode that I think will be of interest to many of my Reformed brethren.

John Calvin

John Calvin (1509-1564)

In the year or two after my revolution, I began searching for God and for my true spiritual home, more earnestly than ever. Despite all my wanderings and stumblings, I still had the notion that I was somehow in control of my destiny, that I would find God on my terms — that somehow, I could flesh out the truth in my own mind and order my own path. Needless to say, I didn’t get very far with that attitude. But then, a series of events conspired to demonstrate to me, more than ever before, God’s ultimate sovereignty over our lives.

In this period, for really the first time in my life, I found myself presented with Calvinism, the teachings and interpretations in the tradition of John Calvin, what has come to be known as Reformed theology. Since my youth I had been seeking greater intellectual rigor in my faith, a faith tempered by reason and thought — and, like so many young people today, I discovered Calvinism, without really ever looking for it.

John Calvin Richardson (1853–1930), my great-great-grandfather, who, as far as we know, was a good and God-fearing man who lived up to his moniker, and a Baptist.

John Calvin Richardson (1853–1930), my great-great-grandfather.

Growing up, of course, I had heard of Calvin. One could say he was in my blood. My great-great-grandfather was John Calvin Richardson (1853–1930), and, as far as we know, he lived up to his moniker, being a pious and God-fearing man and a Baptist. I knew very little of Calvin the theologian, only that he taught predestination, which, even to my young, evangelical mind, seemed an unpleasant and frightening doctrine. In school, reading Nathaniel Hawthorne or Mary Rowlandson, we examined the Calvinist themes of providence and the sovereignty of God. I learned the TULIP and its contrast in Arminianism, and realized for the first time that the theology I’d been brought up with was Arminian. I was fascinated and briefly wrestled with the ideas, but resigned myself that I had no authority to come to a conclusion. To my unschooled mind, Calvinism and Arminianism were the only two theological choices.

It was around that time that a friend invited me to her church (coincidentally[?], the caring friend of this episode), the first time I’d visited a church other than my childhood one in years. It was my first encounter with hardboiled Calvinism, and to my surprise I found the preaching compelling and the congregation welcoming and friendly; I made several friends. This was an outpost of Free Presbyterian Church of Ulster, the sect founded and led by Rev. Ian Paisley — and so it had rabid anti-Catholicism bleeding from its pores. Although this prejudice showed itself even in such far-flung followers as these in Alabama, those I met there were not hateful people — most of them.

The doctrines I’d been exposed to, particularly the absolute sovereignty of God over all things, made an impact on me and fascinated me. I was referred to some A.W. Pink to read. And then — to put an exclamation point on it — came another of the most pivotal moments of my life. Early in 2007, my dear grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. And even as we prayed for his healing, it became increasingly clear to me that God had other plans.

Milton Aldridge

Milton Aldridge, my Granddaddy, while serving in Europe during World War II.

The day he passed away in September was a private, family time, and I won’t compromise that moment by putting it on display here. But on that day we all gathered at his bedside at home — all except my brother, who was working in Huntsville an hour away teaching classes, and whom we didn’t think could get away in time. We finally got in touch with him, too late, we thought.

Doctors say that a person is not conscious or aware during his death throes — but Grandaddy knew; he held on, painfully, until John got there, and was able to say his goodbyes. And then, peacefully, he was gone. It was a beautiful and terrible moment that I cannot write about even now without tears.

I left that day convinced beyond a doubt, more surely than anything had ever convinced me before, that God is the Master of Life and Death; that He had orchestrated that moment, and taken Granddaddy when it was his time, to His glory and eternal rest. That event would shape me in so many ways that I’m still only now realizing: it was the first time I had truly looked death and eternity in the face and not wanted to run away; it was the time when I finally, after years of desperately trying to hold on to everything, to let go.

Compassion by Bouguereau

“Compassion” (1897), by Compassion by William-Adolphe Bouguereau.

I remember having thoughts in the months that followed that at the time alarmed me: thinking of Grandaddy in his suffering, in his weakness, in his broken and dying body, as Christ suffering on the cross. But wasn’t this terribly sacrilegious? Granddaddy wasn’t Jesus and wasn’t my Savior; why was I thinking that way? It’s only now, looking back, that I understand. It’s only in Catholic thought that I can make sense of it. God was showing me the meaning of Grandaddy’s suffering: how what seemed so senseless then, He used salvifically; how in His suffering, Christ is united with every one of us who suffers, and we with Him partake of his saving death and Resurrection. “By his passion and death on the cross Christ has given a new meaning to suffering: it can henceforth configure us to him and unite us with his redemptive Passion” (CCC 1505).

More: “The Sovereignty of God, or My Brush with Calvinism, Part 2: A Crisis of Faith”

Saved by Faith: A Modest Proposal for Protestants

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Hello brothers and sisters. I pray you were blessed on the Lord’s Day. Here’s a little something I wrote up this morning in response to a particularly hardboiled Calvinist. I recommend it for all my Protestant brethren, as a proposal of how our positions are not quite so contradictory as many seem to think. I would appreciate any responses in answer to my earnest questions.

John Calvin, by Titian

John Calvin, by Titian (This blog). I am thrilled to find this! I had no idea Titian painted Calvin! I love it when my favorite people cross paths!

It is quite simple, really. We both believe that we are justified by faith in Christ, in His Resurrection and by His grace — do we not? Scripture consistently teaches this again and again and again, in the teachings of Christ Himself and of nearly every author of the New Testament (Matthew 9:22; Mark 5:34; Luke 7:50, 8:48, 17:19, 18:42; Acts 16:31; Romans 3:26-30, 5:1; Galatians 2:16; Ephesians 2:8-10; Hebrews 11:7; James 2:8-26, 5:15; 1 Peter 1:9; 1 John 5:4; etc.). You believe, so you claim, that we are justified “by faith alone.” The Catholic Church actually agrees with that, with a qualification: that it is only in our initial justification, our first acceptance of God’s grace, when we are still dead in our sins and unable to grasp God’s grace at all (for it is only by grace that we can even grasp grace) that the Holy Spirit acts to regenerate us by our faith alone (“When the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, He saved us, not because of deeds done by us in righteousness, but in virtue of His own mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal in the Holy Spirit, which He poured out upon us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that we might be justified by His grace and become heirs in hope of eternal life,” Titus 3:4–7). I believe, so you word it, that we are also “justified by works.” That is not how I would characterize the Catholic position, but okay. Despite your wording, you seem to understand the Catholic position better than most: we believe that our works are done only “in the power of the Holy Spirit by grace,” such that they are not really our works at all, but God’s (“For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them,” Ephesians 2:10), and such that all grace, our every justification and sanctification, even our every good deed, finds its source in the “merits of Christ” and in His Cross.

Now, suppose you are right, and we are justified “by faith alone.” You have faith, and are justified by that faith. I have faith, too — am I not also justified by that faith? Will not “every one who has faith be justified”? (Romans 10:4) How is your faith, by which you are saved, different than mine, by which I am damned? We both “confess with [our] lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in [our hearts] that God raised him from the dead” (Romans 10:9) — will we not both be saved? What is it about my faith that warrants damnation? Where in Scripture do you find the condition that “if you believe that anything else at all is an aid in your sanctification, you will be damned”? Is not such a requirement contrary to the very idea of justification “by faith alone”? If I believe that I am also “justified by my works,” done through God’s working in me (Philippians 2:12–13), and if I am wrong — then what? At worst, from my perspective — then I am wrong. So what? I think we both agree that it is only by the grace of God that we are able to work at all; so if I’m wrong, then at worst I’ve done a bunch of good works by His grace that will not be rewarded. Okay; my Lord and His salvation is the only reward I seek anyway. But these works that I’ve done through grace, in love (my “faith working in love,” Galatians 5:6), which I believed were the path to my sanctification, could not have hurt me, could they?; in fact, by doing good works, I seem to have been, as best as I was able, keeping His commandments (Matthew 19:17; John 14:15; Romans 13:9-10; 1 John 2:1-6; 2 John 6; Revelation 14:12, etc.) and following the precepts of the Gospel (Matthew 5:16, 25:35-40; Romans 13:10; Ephesians 2:10; James 2:8-26, 3:13; 2 Peter 1:5; etc.). At the very worst, my works cannot even be said to have done nothing — they have, no matter what I intended them to do, despite my misunderstanding, nonetheless helped to sanctify me, by my resolution to follow Christ and live His Gospel. Am I going to be damned despite my faith, because I did good works? That seems to be just as contradictory to the plain teachings of Scripture (Matthew 10:42, 16:27-28, chapter 25; Mark 9:41; Luke 6:35; Romans 2:7; 1 Corinthians 3:14; 2 Corinthians 5:10; James 2:18-26; 1 Peter 1:17; 1 John 3:11-17, etc.) as the Judaizers’ heresy that we are “[not] saved by faith, [but] by the works of Torah” (Galatians 2:16).

Saint Augustine in His Study, by Botticelli.

Saint Augustine in His Study (1480), by Botticelli (Wikipedia).

Or, on the other hand, suppose I am right, and good works done in love are necessary for salvation, following our initial justification by faith, and in concert with that saving faith (cf. Galatians 5:6, James 2:18-26, and all the rest I cited above). Having that saving faith, and striving, through His grace, to be sanctified and “to be holy as He is holy” (1 Peter 1:16) — but ever falling upon His mercy and grace for the many times that I fall (Matthew 6:7-15; Mark 11:25; 1 John 1:8-10, 2:1-6) — I have a living hope in Him for my salvation (1 Peter 1:3, 1 John 3:3, etc.), and I pray, when I stand before the throne of God, that I will not be found wanting (Daniel 5:27). Now, most Protestants, in my experience and in my understanding, believe, according to their reading of St. James (James 2:18-26), that good works, if not necessary for salvation, are the necessary fruit of salvation — that is, you cannot be “saved” and fail to produce good fruit; such is God’s grace working in the believer. If you are “saved,” then, you will produce good works in love; if you appear to be “saved,” and yet fail to produce good works, you were never really “saved” to begin with. Am I understanding you? Please correct me if I’m wrong. In any case, I hope and pray that you do have true, saving faith in Christ, brother, and I hope that you do produce good works, as the fruit of that faith. If, again, my view is correct, I believe with a firm heart and likewise living hope that you, having been justified by your faith and regenerated by Baptism (I hope and pray), and having likewise striven through God’s grace to follow Christ’s commandments and live the Gospel, will be judged worthy by our loving and merciful Lord and God. It matters not a whit that you believe that you are “justified by faith alone,” so long as you take that faith and work with it in love (Galatians 5:6), and continue to follow Him and His commandments.

Christianity and Doctrinolatry

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John Calvin

John Calvin (1509-1564)

So lately I’ve been following the inner turmoil that is rocking the Southern Baptist Convention over, of all things, Calvinism. I admit that I don’t understand all of the intricacies of the debate, but it seems that the Calvinists within the SBC — a contingent that has been ever-growing of late — are demanding more theological rigor in the doctrinal statements of the denomination, while those less Calvinistic or even Arminian want a more moderate path, one that stresses evangelism and outreach and the basic Gospel truth that Jesus saves.

Now I have complained before about Calvinists and their tendency to stress rigid, uncompromising doctrine to the point that they value doctrine over Christian unity. In a time when our cultural battles as Christians are more critical than ever, when we are facing major losses almost every day, our Lutheran, Anglican, Orthodox, and even many of our evangelical brethren are drawing closer to us and laying down their disagreements to join us in our common fight; but many Calvinists would rather continue fighting the theological battles of 500 years ago than stand alongside Catholics to face the onslaught of modernity. Leading Calvinists such as R.C. Sproul place such a high value on Reformation doctrine that they refuse to acknowledge Catholics and Orthodox as Christian brothers and sisters; they deny that we even believe the Gospel of Christ. To R.C. Sproul, and to many other Calvinists, the Gospel is sola fide (justification “by faith alone”). “Without a clear understanding of sola fide and the doctrine of the imputation of Christ’s righteousness, you do not have the gospel or gospel unity.”

Martin Luther

Martin Luther (1533), by Lucas Cranach the Elder.

The most ironic thing is, nobody had ever heard of sola fide prior to the Reformation. By declaring that “the Gospel is sola fide,” Sproul is denying the salvation of every Christian from the first century to the sixteenth — arguably even the Apostles. I am not going to get into a biblical argument here, but the fact is, considering all the ages of theological literature from the earliest Church Fathers to the Reformation, that Luther’s and Calvin’s doctrines of sola fide and especially of justification by the imputation of Christ’s righteousness, external to ourselves, represented genuine theological novelties: complete breaks with every theological tradition of the Christian Church from the beginning until their time. Protestants look for antecedents among earlier theologians, especially Augustine; but when it comes in particular to the manner of justification Luther proposed — this imputation of an external righteousness — there are none.* But they don’t really need antecedents, because their own interpretation of Scripture is sufficient. Even if no one else in history ever believed or taught sola fide, the Calvinistic interpretation of Scripture is absolute and indisputable, even if that means rejecting everyone who believes otherwise.

* I am almost through Iustitia Dei, Alister McGrath's history of the doctrine of justification — the work of an Anglican, a Protestant — and then I will bring it.

Tintoretto, The Resurrection of Christ (1565)

The Resurrection of Christ (1565), by Tintoretto.

And I have to ask, Who is it that saves? Is it not Christ? How does He save us? Is it not by faith? Jesus commands us to believe in Him (John 6:29, John 3:16), to follow Him (Matthew 16:24), to love Him and love our neighbor (Luke 10:27). Is this not the Gospel? Is it not the Gospel truth that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, took on human flesh, was crucified, and rose again from the dead, that we might be forgiven of our sins by His grace and have eternal life with Him? Paul delves deeper into the mechanics of salvation, of justification — but the fact is that Jesus didn’t really talk that much about it. Paul only wrote about justification at any length in a couple of his letters. In the earliest centuries of the Church, nobody was really all that concerned about justification; it was only St. Augustine who brought it to the fore. But now, apparently, the Gospel is justification? Not just justification, but justification sola fide? — a doctrine that, no matter how “perspicuous” Protestants insist it is, nobody in the first 1,500 years of the Church had ever found, and the majority of the people today calling themselves Christians still cannot find?

We are saved by faith — faith in Christ, not in sola fide. Whether or not salvation is by “faith alone” or otherwise, all Jesus asks us to do is have faith in Him and follow him. I do not argue for a moment that doctrine is not important — but it is the ultimate hubris to think that a doctrine itself is the Gospel; to think that the intellectual understanding of a human interpretation of Scripture is the sine qua non of salvation; to think that Jesus is unable to save someone who lacks an intricate understanding of your favorite doctrine, or even lacks any understanding at all. Is it not a childlike faith and trust that Jesus asks us to have (Matthew 18:3)? Catholics don’t have the exact same understanding of justification that Protestants do — we think, in fact, that Protestants are quite wrong in some important respects — but we do have the exact same understanding of Who Christ is and what He did for us. We affirm with all our hearts that whoever believes in Christ, who loves Him and follows Him, will be saved. Why can’t others do the same? The Gospel is not that complicated. Calvinists are, in effect, adding another requirement to the Gospel, based on something more than faith in Christ.

Amazing Grace: Saved a wretch like me? The Catholic Church and total depravity

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John Newton

John Newton, in his later years.

Today I am once again deeply thankful for God’s overflowing grace. Not only did I receive the grace of absolution and the empowering strength of the Eucharist, but the membership chair of the Knights of Columbus approached me at the breakfast after Mass, put on by the Knights, and invited me to join. I am grateful more and more for my church family, who have reached out to me and wrapped me in their love, after I slipped away from other churches again and again.

Our hymn during Communion today was “Amazing Grace.” Everybody knows the words to “Amazing Grace,” right? Well, I was rather surprised when I stumbled in the very second line…

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…

“That saved a wretch like me!” I started to belt. But no, that was wrong. We Catholics have changed the words. Our version of the second line is, “That saved and set me free.” Surprisingly, everybody else seemed to get it. I guess few newbs go to the early Mass.

Those are the only words that were different; though we also sang the little-known, canonical fifth verse that I had never seen or sang before as a Protestant:

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail
And mortal life shall cease
Amazing grace shall then prevail
In heaven’s joy and peace.

Why did we change the words? Whose idea was this, and when was it done? The byline in the missalette says only “Vss. 1-5, John Newton, 1725–1807, alt. Vs. 6, Anon. (Standard text)” So we “altered” it. (I also never realized that the sixth verse, “When we’ve been there ten thousand years,” actually finds its origin in African American traditional spirituals, and first gained widespread currency from its use in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin.)

I figure someone objected to the use of the word “wretch,” which rings of the Calvinist doctrine of total depravity. I tend to think the alteration is a bit of an overreaction. We Catholics certainly believe we are all sinners saved by amazing grace, too (and by grace alone). The “wretch” who is saved in the hymn is John Newton, a former slave ship captain, overwhelmed by the grace of God in his life.

So what is the big deal? What do Catholics believe about the sinful nature of man? What is total depravity, and why don’t Catholics adhere to it? I go first to the Westminster Confession of Faith, one of the cornerstone documents of Reformed doctrine and supposedly a good digest of it. I believe this is the relevant portion, emphases mine (my Calvinist readers will kindly correct me):

  1. By this [original] sin [our first parents] fell from their original righteousness and communion, with God, and so became dead in sin, and wholly defiled in all the parts and faculties of soul and body.
  2. They being the root of all mankind, the guilt of this sin was imputed; and the same death in sin, and corrupted nature, conveyed to all their posterity descending from them by ordinary generation.
  3. From this original corruption, whereby we are utterly indisposed, disabled, and made opposite to all good, and wholly inclined to all evil, do proceed all actual transgressions. (Chapter IV)

The last statement is the most important. Total depravity is also often posed as total inability: the total inability to do anything good apart from the grace of God. Without the grace of God, according to Calvinist doctrine, we are inherently corrupt and evil, and everything we do apart from God’s grace, even what seems to be good, is tainted by sin and done with ultimately selfish and evil intentions.

What does the Catholic Church teach about original sin and the sinful nature of man? The Catechism of the Catholic Church has a lot to say on the matter, and is considerably more wordy. I won’t paste the whole section — but if you’re interested, here it is (CCC #396-409). Below is an important quote that sums up the difference between the Catholic view of man’s fallen state and the Calvinist view of total depravity:

405. Although it is proper to each individual, original sin does not have the character of a personal fault in any of Adam’s descendants. It is a deprivation of original holiness and justice, but human nature has not been totally corrupted: it is wounded in the natural powers proper to it, subject to ignorance, suffering, and the dominion of death, and inclined to sin — an inclination to evil that is called “concupiscence.” Baptism, by imparting the life of Christ’s grace, erases original sin and turns a man back towards God, but the consequences for nature, weakened and inclined to evil, persist in man and summon him to spiritual battle.

And the next section goes on to talk about the further implications of original sin. For you Protestants who like to claim St. Augustine as one of your own regarding the doctrines of sin and grace, here’s a note for you (#406).

Catholics don’t believe that man is totally depraved; that human nature is wholly corrupt and sinful. We don’t say that every act man does without the grace of God is evil and corrupt. Looking around, it’s plain to see a lot of unregenerated non-Christians doing a lot of good in this world; are we to believe even these good acts are evil and corrupt? Neither do we say, however, that man can save himself. It is entirely God, by His grace, that gives us salvation; it is only God, by His grace, that enables us to even respond to His call (#1996). Catholics agree that man is totally unable to attain God or salvation without the gift of God’s grace.

A burden for Christian unity

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Giotto di Bondone. The Lamentations Over Our Lord Christ. Cappella Scrovegni a Padova.1305

I am really deeply troubled.

I can’t entirely put my finger on why, but this is the same burden that has been dogging me all weekend.

It seems very wrong, very contrary to the will of God, that even in the decadence of modern secular society — a decadence that threatens even the Church — the Church of Christ remains deeply divided against itself. We are fighting among ourselves when we should be fighting for Christ.

This was the sentiment behind the Evangelicals and Catholics Together document drafted by Chuck Colson and Fr. Richard Neuhaus in 1994. A number of prominent leaders in both evangelical churches and the Catholic Church agreed to it and signed it. More troubling, though, is the not insignificant number of leaders on both sides who attacked the document and refused to have anything to do with it.

500 years after the Reformation, there are still a large number of evangelicals who will offer no quarter to a Catholic, who will not even sit down at the table with one lest there be any appearance of compromise. They would separate themselves from all fellowship with Catholics, even deny them a place in the kingdom of God. These are not just fringe elements; these include major leaders and theologians such as R. C. Sproul. People like James White write whole books attacking Catholicism and denying that Catholics are Christian. I have run into quite a few of these people in just my short time in the blogosphere. Even my own best friends would rather fight me when it comes to discussing doctrine than seek common ground. And every time it happens I feel a burden of rejection and frustration and despair.

And I don’t understand it. There is a wide diversity of doctrine in Protestantism — yet not the same kind of unfathomable chasm. Calvinists and Arminians disagree sharply, but are willing to have conversations with each other. Baptists and Methodists can agree to disagree about infant baptism versus believer’s baptism. These are issues that go just as deeply into soteriology, the theology of salvation, as the divide between Catholics and Protestants, and yet many Protestants wouldn’t even consider a similar truce with a Catholic.

James White argues that Catholics and Protestants disagree fundamentally about what the Gospel even is. Having been both a Protestant and a Catholic, that argument is incomprehensible to me. Of course it’s the same Gospel. How can anyone deny that? I follow the same Christ I’ve followed all my life. I hope in the same salvation, the same forgiveness of sins, the same resurrection. My Protestant Baptism was acceptable to the Catholic Church; why can’t my Catholic justification be valid in the eyes of a Protestant?

Catholics and Protestants have deep disagreements about doctrine. I don’t deny that, and I don’t pretend it doesn’t matter. If we believe what we teach, then it necessarily means believing that the other side of the argument is wrong. But look at it this way: Regardless of which side is right, the other is not excluded from salvation. If it is true, as Catholics believe, that we are justified by the outpouring of God’s grace through faith, and sanctified over the course of our lives as we walk in that grace, then certainly many Protestants, who faithfully believe in Christ and from that faith follow Him and walk with Him, will be saved. Or if it is true, as Protestants believe, that we are justified by faith alone in Christ through His grace, then certainly many Catholics who have a genuine faith in Christ will be saved. The only way to exclude Catholics from salvation, as some Protestants are wont to do, is to believe that salvation is by faith in the five solas alone — that by confessing the Reformation we are saved.

I have no interest in attacking the Protestant faith. I will defend the Catholic faith, but it is deeply unpleasant to me to be forced to return polemic for polemic, as I’ve had to do in White’s case. I am glad to help any pilgrim who wishes to cross the Tiber, but even more deeply than that, I want to build a bridge, on which both sides might meet and resolve some of these rancorous disputes. I long for Christendom to be at peace.

The Other Side of Calvin

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John Calvin

John Calvin (1509-1564)

I’m about to enter the scriptorium exeuntis, the paper-writing cave, from which there may be no return. But I suppose I shouldn’t leave everyone (all one or two of y’all?) hanging. Here is the second half of my post about Calvin.

I have felt pretty bad about the tone of that last post. I very nearly quietly removed it this morning, but after re-reading it, I decided that it wasn’t so bad. But I have feared that I came across in too polemical a way. That isn’t what this blog is about. I do not want, I am not interested at all, in attacking anyone else’s doctrine or theology or tradition. This blog is about my journey to the Catholic faith, all the good and praiseworthy things I have found in Catholicism. As I found out early on, embracing the Catholic tradition necessarily entails rejecting some other things. But I want to be clear that my aim is not to denigrate. In that last post, it was late; I was tired; and I probably could have done with a better choice of words (not to mention a good many fewer).

The title of this book I’m reviewing is Against Calvinism — but I am not against Calvinism at all. On the contrary, I am very fascinated by it. I think it is a worthy, valuable, and thoughtful paradigm for interpreting Scripture and thinking about God. I don’t know everything about God. The Catholic Church doesn’t know everything about God, nor does it claim to. What the Church does claim, I have embraced and I will uphold. But I do respect and even admire the knowledge and thought of others.

Against Calvinism

Against Calvinism. Dead, wilted TULIPs.

Roger Olson, in Against Calvinism, does come across in a rather polemical way. That was demonstrably his commission from Zondervan: to take apart and critique Calvinism, to provide the con to Michael Horton’s pro in For Calvinism. Olson makes clear that his aim is not to attack Calvinists — he affirms his love and respect for them as brothers and sisters in faith — but when he gets down to arguing, he can come across as rather vicious.

Notably, it’s clear that Horton and Olson didn’t read each other’s manuscripts before the publication of these books. Horton provides little in For Calvinism to anticipate the criticisms of Olson — and he probably should have, since I understand they’re pretty common criticisms. Likewise, the seemingly moderate Calvinism Horton presents (he vehemently denies his support of “hyper-Calvinism”) is not the Calvinism that Olson critiques in Against Calvinism. Olson takes aim at the “radical Reformed” theology of the “young, restless, Reformed” generation.

I went to school with a lot of those people (one or two may even be reading this), so I completely understand what Olson is talking about. I admire their passion for the Gospel and for God and most of all for their re-application of the intellect to faith. Olson sadly explains — and I nod fervently — the death of theology and doctrine in much of evangelical culture, the growing anti-intellectualism that leaves so many young people feeling empty. It certainly did that to me. It was a very good thing that I found security in my Catholic faith before reading Horton’s book. If I had read it while I was still lost, I think I would have pounced on Calvinism ravenously. (Most of my exposure to Calvinism while I was lost, though, was rather frightening and distasteful. Maybe I’ll share that sometime. But Horton presented it better than anyone ever had to me.)

As Olson critiques “radical Calvinism,” though, he makes clear that nearly all Calvinism is radical, if followed to the ends of its logic. Like a vicious game of dominoes, he pursues every Calvinist argument to its logical conclusions — many painful contradictions that, as Olson presents them, impugn the character of God. One of several phrases he repeats throughout the book is that Calvinism’s conclusions make God “either morally ambiguous or at worst a moral monster.” He demonstrates how each of the “five points” of Calvinism demands each other, how no “moderate Calvinist” can affirm just four and be logically honest (usually the one they want to reject is “limited atonement”), and how the whole system is predicated upon, and proceeds logically from, the affirmation of God’s absolute, meticulous sovereignty.

One thing I appreciate about Olson’s work is the extensive quotations he gives from Calvinist thinkers and authors, demonstrating that they in fact affirm what he is accusing them of affirming. Olson quotes from both Calvin and a half dozen influential Calvinist authors, including Loraine Boettner (a favorite villain for Catholics, who penned the wildly inaccurate Roman Catholicism (1962), responsible for so much of the rabid anti-Catholicism of the past half-century; I must confess I rather enjoyed watching him be pecked apart), R.C. Sproul (of whom I’d heard, but knew little about; I didn’t realize he was so anti-Catholic, and I’m now tempted to read him), and John Piper (the paragon and spiritual leader of so much of the RUF crowd; notably not anti-Catholic; I would really like to read him).

The contradictions Olson exposes are real and problematic. In my mind, they amount to these: If God is absolutely, meticulously sovereign, decreeing every event and movement down to the smallest atom, then he is necessarily the author of sin and evil. He created Satan and caused him to rebel; he created Adam and caused him to sin — or at least, “rendered his sin certain”; he “renders certain” each of our sins and failures. Calvinists have many ways of evading the conclusion that God bears responsibility for human sins and evils, arguing that God’s ways are not our ways, that He has a sovereign plan for it all, for His greater glory. They have many ways of explaining the apparent paradox between God’s sovereignty and human responsibility for our sins. But I am convinced by Olson’s argument here — both cannot be true.

Also, and even more problematic for me, Calvinism would present that God divinely reprobates the nonelect — those whom he did not choose to be saved — for sins that He himself ordained. He created many, if not most, of humanity for the sole purpose of being damned, of suffering both in this life and in eternity. God, who has the power and sovereignty to save all effectually, chooses to reject the most, even by choosing not to save them. How could a God who is love (1 John 4:8) do that? Olson argues that “double predestination” is a necessary conclusion of Calvinism’s other doctrines; that it can’t be excluded as Horton tries. And many (most of the authors he quotes) openly affirm it. Calvinists again have many arguments to explain divine reprobation. They argue that our human concept of love is not the same as God’s concept — but if God created our concept of love, how could it not be the same? Jesus reveals to us in fullness the character of God (John 14:9) — and I do not see Jesus rejecting people in this way or consigning anyone to suffering. Piper, for example, argues that God loves the elect in special way, but being love, loves all of creation, giving even many blessings to the reprobate — but as Olson points out, this is tantamount to “giving them a little piece of heaven to go to hell in.” How does creating people for suffering and death and loss, without any hope for redemption, exhibit “love”?

And that has always been my problem with Calvinism. I have had many friends who extol the hope and assurance it gives them to believe that God is control of everything, that no matter what happens, no matter what trials and sufferings they face, God has a plan for it and will ultimately bring them to glory and salvation. But I have always tended to see the other side of that coin. Identifying, as Jesus does, with the lost and the suffering, the “least of these,” I have only seen the utter hopelessness and despair to which these propositions necessarily leave the great mass of humanity. What is the point of living, of suffering through this existence, if there is no hope for anything beyond — if those people are predestined for only more and eternal suffering? To me, it necessarily undermines the essential dignity of all mankind, one of my core beliefs as a Christian and as a human — that all people are created in the image of God, and all people are worthy of love and respect; that no one deserves death and pain, and that I should labor in service to all. But Calvinism would tell me that much of humanity is destined only for destruction, that ministering to the lost is only a salve to the dying, that God ultimately doesn’t love those people the same way he loves his exclusive, preordained flock. Calvinists argue that the reprobate earn their destruction for themselves, through their sins and their rejection of Christ — but that only makes it worse, to say that they deserve it. For Christ rejected them first; he had the power to save them too, but didn’t. God decreed the very sins for which they suffer.

*exhales* … And as I said, I’m not against Calvinism. *grins sheepishly* I, like Olson I think, tend to get a little carried away with my rhetoric. I was going to say that I thought Olson was being a little harsh, but I’m not sure I did a lot better. The bottom line: I enjoyed Against Calvinism as well, though it was a bit of a painful experience, like watching someone take a hammer to the beautiful sculpture Horton had crafted. But I do think Olson is correct to point out these paradoxes, contradictions, and conundrums. All faith necessarily has mysteries, places where faith seems even foolish — in the Catholic faith, most ostentatiously, that bread and wine literally become the Body and Blood of Christ, when the senses show us otherwise. The problem of evil, explaining the origins and causes of sin and pain and suffering, is a problem for any faith. I certainly believe — I have seen enough in my life to affirm without a doubt — that God is sovereign over this world and our lives. But I have a very hard time embracing a view that openly declares that God is the author of all sin and pain, or that our loving God is not as loving as we believe.

Discovering Calvin

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John Calvin

John Calvin (1509-1564)

Last Christmas, I received a couple of books of theology: For Calvinism by Michael Horton and Against Calvinism by Roger Olson. I had asked for them; they had come highly recommended. I had never given Calvinism a fair shake, I felt. Every time I had tried to approach it through personal study in the past, it had left me feeling hopeless and despondent; it seemed to undermine the essential dignity of man. But I had a feeling that I probably wasn’t comprehending it fully. Other people I had talked to spoke of the hope and assurance it brought them; but I couldn’t see that at all. What was I missing? These books, I was told, were written by well-known academic theologians who presented their arguments well, so I hoped it might help me properly put the pieces together in my mind. And I was curious.

I’ve never had much of a mind for theology, especially not to discern between all the competing arguments that each seemed to have weight. Having no real foundation of my own, I had no point of reference from which to judge ideas; so more often than not, the entire discipline left me feeling frustrated and lost. But in coming to the Church, I had found my bedrock of truth, the faith passed down from the Apostles and confirmed by the generations. For the first time in my life, I knew what I believed. I was ready to tackle this.

For Calvinism

For Calvinism. See the pretty TULIPs?

Almost from the start, Horton’s For Calvinism charmed me. The picture Horton painted was not the bleak, harsh world that I had encountered before. The ideas he presented were surprisingly moderate, and seemed to follow logically. It was not a worldview at odds with the rest of Christianity (for I have met too many combative, polemic Calvinists), but a system of interpretations that sought to recover biblical truths. These interpretations, Horton claimed, were not new. They had been passed down from the Church Fathers and councils, most notably St. Augustine, but passing through a long list of great men, including my beloved St. Bernard of Clairvaux — until finally they were returned to light by Calvin. This seemed, at once, too good to be true.

To my immense surprise, I found Calvin himself, from the many quotes Horton shared from the Institutes and other writings, to be compassionate and amiable — not the cold, stern voice I was expecting. He was erudite, thoughtful, and reasonable, yielding points where I did not expect him to yield; I was expecting rigid, dogmatic pronouncements. I had to admit, I liked Calvin. One passage in particular, Horton quoted at length. Of my beloved ancients, Calvin wrote:

Whenever we come upon these matters in secular writers, let that admirable light of truth shining in them teach us that the mind of man, though fallen and perverted from its wholeness, is nevertheless clothed and ornamented with God’s excellent gifts. If we regard the Spirit of God as the sole fountain of truth, we shall neither reject the truth itself, nor despise it wherever it shall appear, unless we wish to dishonor the Spirit of God. For by holding the gifts of the Spirit in slight esteem, we contemn and reproach the Spirit himself. What then? Shall we deny that the truth shone upon the ancient jurists who established civic order and discipline with such great equity? Shall we say that the philosophers were blind in their fine observation and artful description of nature? Shall we say that those men were devoid of understanding who conceived the art of disputation and taught us to speak reasonably? Shall we say that they are insane who developed medicine, devoting their labor to our benefit? What shall we say of all the mathematical sciences? Shall we consider them the ravings of madmen? No, we cannot read the writings of the ancients on these subjects without great admiration. We marvel at them because we are compelled to recognize how preeminent they are. But shall we count anything praiseworthy or noble without recognizing at the same time that it comes from God? Let us be ashamed of such ingratitude, into which not even the pagan poets fell, for they confessed that the gods had invented philosophy, laws, and all useful arts. Those men whom Scripture, calls “natural men” were, indeed, sharp and penetrating in their investigation of inferior things. Let us, accordingly, learn by their example how many gifts the Lord left to human nature even after it was despoiled if its true good (Calvin, Institutes, 2.2.15, quoted at Horton, For Calvinism, 42).

The more I read, the more I was taken aback. As Horton laid out the doctrines of the TULIP (the terms of which he slightly modified), the “five points” of Calvinism, the idea began to crystallize: This is not that different than what we believe. Though Horton made fairly frequent references to what “Roman Catholics believe” — very often misunderstanding or misrepresenting what we in fact believe — his descriptions of Calvinist doctrine seemed to agree in many aspects with Catholic understandings. Total depravity — our total inability, in mankind’s fallen state, to reach to God in any way apart from His grace: certainly, the Church has always believed that. Unconditional election — without a doubt, Scripture teaches God’s election; and the way Horton presented it, it made perfect sense; when it didn’t, he appealed to mystery. I was impressed and relieved that Horton vehemently rejected double predestination. No, Horton said, it is perfectly reasonable to believe that God simply passes over those he does not choose, leaving them to the wages of their sins. I began to write extensively in the margins.

The chapter on atonement fascinated me. Horton went down a list of theories of the atonement, none of which I had studied before. But each of the ones Calvinism affirmed were consistent with the Church’s teachings; most of them, Horton admitted, were proposed by Church Fathers or even medieval theologians. In fact, Horton very frequently cited Church Fathers or church councils to illustrate or support his arguments. I met the doctrine of particular redemption (Horton’s preferred term for what is often called “limited atonement”) with considerably more resistance, but Horton explained it very well; it seemed to be logically necessary.

The way Horton presented effectual grace (or “irresistible grace”) didn’t immediately conflict with Catholic teaching. Catholics affirm that it is only by God’s grace that we are called. Though we believe that we have to assent to that grace, how do we know it wasn’t irresistible, since we who are Christians didn’t resist it? It was certainly effectual in us. Horton explained that after that initial, saving grace, Calvinists believe that in their continuing conversion, they have to “work out their salvation with fear and trembling,” cooperating with God’s grace to move toward their sanctification — an idea completely consistent with Catholic teaching.

At the very beginning of his argument for perseverance of the saints, Horton gave a hefty quote from St. Augustine. In the margin I wrote, “HA!” Following from Augustine, Horton went on to describe the “visible church” that contained both the elect and the nonelect — both those who would be saved and those who would be lost — in the same terms Catholics use. People fall away, he affirmed; people apostasize; it happens. But God never loses those whom He chose, whom He effectually called. If we do not fall away, if we do not deny Him, we will be saved.

Horton went on to relate Calvinism and the Christian life. His descriptions of a piety that emphasized public, communal means of grace over private relationships with God could be easily applied to Catholic piety. The remainder of the book, with chapters on Calvinism and missions, and a hasty summation rounded out with rude, unsupported jabs at Roman Catholicism, was unsatisfying. Horton should stick to what he does best, theology.

In the end, I was thoroughly enchanted by Horton’s book. He had sanded off the hard edges of Calvinism, and presented what on its face seemed moderate and logical and well supported. I went off jabbering about all the things it had in common with Catholicism, wondering why in the world we had been unable to resolve our differences for the past five hundred years. I didn’t realize until later — until after I’d read Olson’s Against Calvinism — where I had gone wrong. In my thinking, I mistook unconditional election for foreknowledge: since we have to assent to God’s call, how do we know he didn’t elect from the beginning those whom he foreknew would assent? But then, this election wouldn’t have been unconditional. Remove that brick, and the whole structure comes tumbling down.

Ultimately, in his efforts to be reasonable and moderate, Horton had nearly completely downplayed the absolute, meticulous sovereignty of God that Calvinists affirm. I had to go back through to look for affirmations that this is what he believes; and they were there, but subtle. All of the points of Calvinism that seemed acceptable to me had only been acceptable without the idea that God was decreeing absolutely everything. Adding this back to the mix, and following it to its logical conclusion — as Olson does in Against Calvinism — results in some truly disturbing contradictions.

But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow (or later; I can’t promise) to hear about that. Of For Calvinism, I can say that it was well written and well presented, and I enjoyed it a lot. Horton is a good theologian and a good writer and I hope to read some more from him in the future. He dispelled many of the caricatures I had of Calvinism; he puffed away even some of the bad experiences I have had with Calvinists. Above all, and most important, he brought me to an understanding of the harmony and consistency of Calvinist thought. I can at last see why my friends find it so assuring. I have a newfound respect for Calvinist theology, and for Calvin himself, and I intend to continue my study.

Postscript: For what it’s worth, I am not alone in my feeble attempt to reconcile Calvinist theology to Catholic theology. Jimmy Akin did the same thing a number of years ago, with much better results: A Tiptoe through TULIP.

What was I before?

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I’ve been doing some reading lately. Feeling slightly ashamed, I used to admit to my Catholic friends that I was reading a Protestant book, but I don’t anymore. No one has ever said anything. Whether a book is Catholic or Protestant has little bearing on its read-worthiness; both Catholics and Protestants have worthy things to say about God.

Belatedly (posthumously?), I’ve been boning up on my Protestant theology. When I was a Protestant, I had little understanding of theology, and little patience for its uncertainty — with all of the voices disagreeing, interpreting Scripture differently, how could I possibly find the truth in that muddle? But now that I’ve found an absolute certainty in the authority of the Church and Magisterium — now that I have a firm foundation on which to base what I believe — then I am better able to comprehend and consider the ideas of others. It’s ironic that the very cornerstone of the Reformation, sola scriptura, the Reformers’ very attempt to find a bedrock of authority, proved to be my greatest stumbling block.

My theological underpinning was never strong to begin with. Growing up, I never had any formal catechesis on Christian doctrine or theology. What I knew, I knew by osmosis, more from the culture around me than from any teaching or preaching: Jesus died to forgive our sins that we might have eternal life. Beyond that basic truth was muddiness. I had heard of Martin Luther as the heroic Reformer, and of John Calvin as “that guy who believed in predestination, and we don’t believe in that” — but we didn’t seem to be following in either of those traditions. Who were we? Where did we come from?

It wasn’t until late in high school, when we reading The Scarlet Letter, that I first learned the differences between Calvinism* and Arminianism. And I realized that we at Calvary were essentially Arminian, a term I had never heard before. Predestination (election), grace, and human nature just weren’t talked about at my church, ever. In my thinking, our salvation depended on us, on our choosing to follow God in faith. God wasn’t compelling us by His grace, snatching us up against our will, or damning others to the fires of hell. Neither was He denying that we had free will at all. And we could certainly backslide and walk away from God. I had this crude, misshapen conception of Reformed theology for years.

* Some of my Reformed friends have taken exception to the term “Calvinism,” preferring instead “Reformed” theology or even simply “doctrines of grace.” I use the term “Calvinism” both out of grammatical expediency and an aim for doctrinal clarity, to refer to those doctrines taught by, in line with, or in the tradition of John Calvin and his followers, and not to convey any negative connotation. Because there is more than one “Reformed” tradition, and more than one understanding of the “doctrines of grace.” I’m talking about the Calvinist one.

As I grew older and attempted to educate myself more, I became more and more frustrated by theological confusion and my lack of foundation. And I eventually decided that it didn’t really matter anyway, that God loved us all no matter what we believed about Him, that there was no way to find the truth in all the mess. It was a position of thoroughgoing ecumenism, or worse, doctrinal agnosticism. I have met so many Christians at this same point, eschewing labels and denominations and formal doctrine in favor of terms like “nondenominational Christian,” “mere Christian” (I preferred that one, after C.S. Lewis — but Lewis never intended in that book that anyone should remain a “mere Christian”), or “Jesus follower.”

But the more I read, the more I see that labels and denominations and doctrines do matter. In one sense I believe I was right, and still maintain, that all orthodox believers are followers of Christ and should strive to find our common ground rather than be continually divisive in our disunity. But in another, what we believe about God and about salvation profoundly affects how we view God and ourselves and our relationship to Him, how we view the world around us, how we view our neighbor and our mission as Christians on this earth. Just looking around to what different Christians do attests to this. Some emphasize world missions, devoting money and time to spreading the Gospel and ministering to the needs of regions of our world stricken with poverty, disease, and strife. Others are more focused on caring for the needy in their own back yard. Some are ardently evangelical, canvassing cities with tracts and distributing Bibles, warning of the immediacy of death apart from salvation. Others are more reflective and calculated in their evangelism and outreach, preferring their lives and their works to be their witnesses. Still others, perhaps the majority, don’t do anything at all. It’s not so much about labels as about lifestyle.

I never thought much until recently about the differences between how Christians view the Christian life and Christian piety. In my Pentecostal upbringing, as I’ve written, the focus was on the miraculous gifts of the Holy Spirit, and on personal piety, Bible study and “quiet times” of private devotion. Other Christians around me just didn’t seem to care about that, and I must confess, I wondered, especially when I was younger, if they were “bad” Christians, if they didn’t care about God or their relationship to Him. But no — the book I’m reading pointed out that this understanding of a personal, private relationship with God is essentially an evangelical one — that some Christians, especially Reformed (as the book is treating), but just as well Catholics, see the heart of Christian life in public professions of faith, in liturgy and the Sacraments, and most of all in service. That doesn’t diminish the importance of personal piety and personal faith at all — but it’s what we do in the light that makes us Christians (John 3:19-21).

I’ve always struggled with the terms “evangelical” and “fundamentalist.” So do a lot of people; there have been whole books written on the difference. I am not convinced the distinction is really very helpful: most evangelical Christians believe the “fundamentals,” and most fundamentalists are evangelical in outlook or piety; the difference, especially to the secular world, often seems to be one of the degree of fervency or severity, and especially the latter label is often used pejoratively. It seems clear (I now realize fully for the first time) that Reformed (Calvinist) Christians are not evangelicals. And it also seems clear to me that I as a Protestant was an evangelical, because of the emphasis on a personal conversion experience and personal relationship with God, and a Charismatic and a Pentecostal (the latter is a subset of the former), because of the emphasis on miraculous gifts of the Holy Spirit. And, I would argue, because of the emphasis on personal, emotional experiences of God, on sensation and feeling over reason and doctrine.

A friend of mine, a convert to Orthodox Christianity, shared something while I was converting that I didn’t really understand until I reached this point. She wrote that her identity as an Orthodox Christian doesn’t erase or overwrite her identity as a Protestant or evangelical, but that deep down she will always have that and be that. I feel that about myself, too, as a Catholic. In converting, I didn’t cease to be something I was, but became something more. The butterfly still has the genes of the caterpillar. Though my feelings toward the faith of my youth are often ambivalent, I have taken many things from it that I will always carry with me as a Christian, that I believe are good things: devotion to private prayer and Bible study, a commitment to regular tithing of my income, and love for praise and worship music. So no, reflection on Protestant things is not “posthumous” at all or even retrospective. I am sure there are many other fruits of my Protestant identity that will continue to come to light.