Ya Basic: The Calvinism Edition
Hey there. Hi. How are you? Long time no see. I have been absolutely, head-spinningly, crazy busy. But here we are, on the eleventh day of February in 2020 and I’m finally writing the first real blog article of the year. Those who have hung around here before and know me, know this: I’m a big believer in an examined faith. If we don’t take the time to examine what we believe and why, we can end up with all sorts of crazy theologies in our heads and a lot of them can be nothing more than glorified superstition. In a time when the evangelical church is coming under increasing, and I believe deserved, scrutiny, Biblical knowledge a noble pursuit.
The truth is, it is easy to walk into churches that feel good, sound good and speak about nice things, but be none the wiser when it comes to what they believe. I also believe that, with the emergence of a trend towards going independent, ideas can permeate the pulpit and sound original, but hail from older theologies. Is this a bad thing? Not always. I’m all for modernising the word and making it more understandable and accessible. But here’s the thing: older theologies often have a little more conversation and criticism around them, meaning it is easier to see what is solid and what isn’t.
Before I delve into the basics of one of the big thinkers of the Protestant Reformation (circa the 1500’s), I want to say this: I’m a layperson. I don’t have a theology degree. I don’t claim to know it all. I’m just a regular Jo, working her way through life and trying to do her best with faith and followership. There are whole books arguing for and against this next topic! I’m just giving you my super quick cooks tour of it.
Without further ado, meet John Calvin. The TULIP guy.
The 1500’s were a turbulent time for Christianity. The Roman Catholic Church, which had enjoyed a position of privilege in society, was undergoing the throes of what would later become known as the Protestant Reformation – a significant split from the institution. John Calvin was a French theologian born into a catholic family but later went protestant after studying philosophy, humanism and law. He stepped up to the plate in the mid 1500’s and began to help popularise a few things ideas that have hung on until today, namely; belief in the sovereignty of God in all things, and the doctrine of predestination.
Why did I call him the TULIP Guy? Because he had five points and the best acronym people have come up with for that is a flower. (Hey, I like flowers!) Christianity.com briefly explains the five main points of Calvinism as this:
Total Depravity – asserts that as a consequence of the fall of man into sin, every person is enslaved to sin. People are not by nature inclined to love God, but rather to serve their own interests and to reject the rule of God.
Unconditional Election – asserts that God has chosen from eternity those whom he will bring to himself not based on foreseen virtue, merit, or faith in those people; rather, his choice is unconditionally grounded in his mercy alone. God has chosen from eternity to extend mercy to those he has chosen and to withhold mercy from those not chosen.
Limited Atonement – asserts that Jesus’s substitutionary atonement was definite and certain in its purpose and in what it accomplished. This implies that only the sins of the elect were atoned for by Jesus’s death.
Irresistible Grace – asserts that the saving grace of God is effectually applied to those whom he has determined to save (that is, the elect) and overcomes their resistance to obeying the call of the gospel, bringing them to a saving faith. This means that when God sovereignly purposes to save someone, that individual certainly will be saved.
Perseverance of the Saints – asserts that since God is sovereign and his will cannot be frustrated by humans or anything else, those whom God has called into communion with himself will continue in faith until the end.
Okay! Big ideas here. Big ideas that have permeated church until today. I always used to just think “Yep, okay cool” when it came to Calvinism, but the more I grow in my faith and deconstruction, the more I can see some fundamental flaws in the logic. Most of them pertain to the middle three points. Let’s start with unconditional election: the idea that we are either doomed to hell or destined for heaven from the dawn of time is something I find deeply troubling. We have scriptures such as John 3:16 (For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son that *whosoever* believes in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life) or Acts 2:21 and Romans 10:13 that guarantee that anyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.
Then there is Romans 5:18 that says “as through one transgression, there resulted condemnation to all men, even so through one act of righteousness, there resulted justification of life to all.” 1 Timothy 2:24 talks about Gods desire for all to be saved, and Titus 2:11 speaks about God bringing salvation to all. 2 Peter 3:9 says that God’s desire is that none should perish. These scriptures seem to be at odds not only with unconditional election, but the idea of limited atonement too.
The idea that there is an in crowd destined for heaven and an out crowd destined for hell, and we have no choice as to which crowd we are in, is deeply flawed. Yes, I know there is that verse that says “many are called but few are chosen.” This is an unsettling parable that shows that even though the invitation to salvation goes out to all, only some show up. These are the chosen. The elect. And there is Ephesians 1:4 that refers to the elect that God has chosen before the foundation of the world. So I can see where Calvin was getting his ideas from. However, the greater story arc that stretches through the Bible shows the nature of God to be one where He wants to redeem all. Why would he then only redeem some and eternally doom the rest from before their time on earth begins?
All of this hails back to the idea of predestination and God’s sovereignty: ie. that we cannot change what God has already decided so we are sealed in our fate. Now, both of these can be argued biblically both ways. We could have two skilled debaters on the platform using only biblical knowledge as their argument and it would make sense.
But for me, there is a chink in the chain mail. Why send your only begotten son to die for only some? Why create a soul that you love, that you care for, only to decide from the outset that they are destined to burn. We are introduced to God as being “love” and as being a loving father. As a parent, this speaks to me. I have two beautiful kids. You want me to choose one to live forever in a glorious afterlife and the other to burn for eternity?
Nope. I’m choosing both of my kids for the good stuff. No one burns. So that’s me, with two kids. Two kids I love so much I’d walk through fire for them. I’m not writing either one of them out of the will. I love them, thus I will do everything I can for them.
In pulpits everywhere, we are taught about God’s unconditional and sacrificial love for us. It’s an argument seated solidly in scripture. How then are we supposed to argue that only some of us actually have tickets to take advantage of it, especially given all the scriptures I quoted above.
Now I get it; if God is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent and all the omni’s, then He already sees and knows our choices. He already sees and knows who will take Him up on the offer of salvation. But does that mean that it is not freely offered to all? I think not. A hard core calvinist, when asking themselves a few questions would have to come to the conclusion that God knew and even desired for sin to enter the world from the beginning, that there is no point praying to bring unbelievers to faith because its either going to happen or not anyway, that Jesus didn’t die for everybody, and if we take the concept of predestination to the extreme, that God ordained things like the holocaust, murders, tragedies or sexual crimes.
Now to the idea of irresistible grace – that if we are the elect, nothing we can do can separate us from God’s grace and atonement. It’s a lovely idea. So lovely. I believe in the all sufficiency of God’s grace. However, the idea that the elect get this conscience clearing superpass to heaven no matter what they do, while those who are not in the elect get the short straw and go to hell no matter what they do is troubling.
It paints God as a masochist. A bit of an arsehole dad – who made a whole bunch of kids and decided a large portion of them weren’t good enough to eat at the family table, and who killed one of them to redeem only some of them.
Now to the idea of total depravity. Okay – I have no problem with the idea of sin. Sin, as falling short of a lofty, Godlike standard is just the human condition. We are all flawed in some way. We are all great in some way. We are all doing the best we can. But calling it total depravity is a whole new level.
To say “For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” is a recognition of our human flaws. It is a recognition that we are not God and we need God. I like that. I’m fine with that.
Now look to your local maternity ward. Inside the nursery, swaddled in whites, are tiny babies. They are so new to the world that they don’t have a functioning prefrontal cortex. They don’t have awareness of what is right and wrong. They have awareness of hunger, tiredness and discomfort. This is not total depravity. This is innocence.
I have two preschoolers. Even in all the tantrums and tears and the selfishness of always wanting the bigger slice or the cooler toy, I can’t call it total depravity. Inside their brains is a firestorm of growth. They are learning who they are apart from me. They are learning how to assert themselves, and the difference between justified frustration and an unjustified tantrum. Even now, I can’t call their poor decision making total depravity. Because as frustrating as it is, it is innocent.
If you argue that total depravity sets in at the point where a person has a fully functioning prefrontal cortex and can make conscious decisions, then fine. But answer me this: the emergence of the atheist movement over time seems to have shown that people can be altruistic and seek to create a better world even if they aren’t Christians. It seems to show that ethics and unconditional love aren’t the domain of the redeemed alone. I look to those who campaign for human rights and I see God in them regardless of whether or not they believe.
At what point then, do we become totally depraved? You can look at the Ted Bundy’s of the world and think “Yep, depraved.” You can look at the Hitlers of the world and think “Heck. Absolutely. Depraved.” But a four-year old who just wants to faceplate directly into the top of the watermelon instead of waiting for mummy to slice it? He’s just learning patience and doing badly at it.
For all have sinned, fine. For all are flawed, absolutely. Depraved? I can’t come at that. We are all just doing our best. It’s just a shame our best isn’t Godlike, or the world would be a more peaceful place.
Look – I was going to try and argue for Calvinism. But it turns out I can’t. Someone else can! Heck, if you feel like it, pop me a note and you can guest blog on it! Be my guest!
The Bible is a complex document. It is rich in historical and cultural context that we often miss. The Protestant Reformation was an important time in history where mankind started to re-take the reigns of faith that had been handed off to the clergy. It gave us an opportunity to participate in faith to a whole new degree. It was an important development.
But there is a line somewhere in the Bible that says God builds line upon line, and precept upon precept. We, as Christians, progressives even, in the year 2020, need to take our faith and understanding further. And that means understanding what it is built on now.
Until next time,
Kit K, predestined since the beginning of time to write this blog article and publish it without proofreading it on February 11th 2020.
Peace
The De-Calvinisation of Kit Kennedy
There we were, my ex-husband and I, walking our two babies along a boardwalk during Covid19 lockdown. The dew was still fresh on the plants that carpeted the wetland floor. Our two-year-old was busy conquering her fear of bridges (because look, a boardwalk is one long bridge, isn't it). I watched her a bit proudly and reflected on my unfaced fears, and whether I had any. (Spoiler: We all do.) Then I said the thing that had been bothering me for a long time, but that I hadn't given voice to yet: "Bae, I just don't think I subscribe to the Evangelical trope of Jesus as my bestie anymore. And I can't think of God as an old white man in the sky who is morbidly curious about my every action, reaction and inaction, and who has a huge "choose your own adventure" style book of punishments and prizes depending on what I do or don't do in any given moment."
Patrick responded with a sentence almost as wordy as the two I'd just thrown him. And that is perhaps one reason we work so well as friends even after splitting.
But that wasn't the moment I was observing. I was observing another one, a big one where I recognized the seismic shift in my faith. There was no one around. It's not like anyone could hear, and if my theory was correct (which I won't know until eternity), then the only person who would hear was Patrick. After a lifetime of believing that God watched and judged and reacted to every single thing I did or thought, and even wondering whether the "cloud of witnesses" were still creepin' when you were shaving your legs or whatever in the shower, it was almost a relief to get that thought out of my head.
Superstitiously, I've waited for the other shoe to drop and for cosmic judgment to fall upon me because I don't look at Jesus as if He is my best friend.
It hasn't. And that is perhaps the most telling thing of all.
Let's step back a bit: what is this Evangelical Trope of which I speak?
It has long been a trend in Christian worship music for songs to kinda swing in a direction where the word "Jesus" could be subbed out for the word "Baby," a slick beat dropped behind the catchy riff and BOOM: club-worthy song. There was a meme that made its way around the internet not too long ago in which the dorkiest band you've ever seen sang "Jesus is my friend. I have my friend in Jesus. He taught me how to sing, and how to save my soul, He taught me how to love my God and still play rock and roll" blah blah blah. In fact, I have instant regret over typing those lyrics because the song is that catchy. There goes a perfectly good night's sleep.
That song, released soon after the advent of color television, was a very early iteration of the "Jesus is my best friend/lover/brother/" genre. It might have worked for me as a teenager when I needed to feel a sense of connectedness, lofty destiny, and the illusion of a guaranteed rosy life, but it certainly sat a little wonky in later years when I started to wonder whether this was true worship. I'd started to wonder whether worship should instead carry an attitude of reverence and awe, rather than the sort of poetry cooked up by hipsters to make their target market feel good.
Harsh. I know. Heck, I've written some of this stuff so I've certainly been part of the machine. Admittedly nothing as cool as the pop-star worship-leaders of today.
But can I say it out loud? Can I acknowledge it for what it is? I don't think many of us see Jesus as a literal best friend. And that's okay. Perhaps to call Him that is to bring the divine down to a human plain, or worse still, to raise ourselves to god-status by calling ourselves equal to the third part of the trinity.
Jesus is, in my mind, the divine incarnate. To others, He is a prophet or a philosopher. To others, maybe just an invisible buddy they like to chat to. I don't believe its bad to see Him as any of these things. But I certainly don't believe it is bad to admit that we don't see Him as the latter.
But where did this "Jesus is my friend", buddy-buddy attitude come from?
I'm sure there are better scholars out there, a fact I recount often. But there seem to be only a few instances in scripture and none of them seem to line up with "Jesus is my best buddy."
John 15:14 - 15 "You are my friends if you do what I command you. No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you."
James 2:23 "Abraham believed in God, and it was accounted to him as righteousness, and he was called a friend of God."
Jesus was certainly called a friend of sinners, the first-born of many brethren, and he was certainly a friend of the disciples. But none of these instances put him on the same human level as the recipient of his friendship. It's more like having a name in your phone book of someone powerful who you could call on if you needed them. I have a number of MP's on my Facebook friends list. But I don't play pool with them or muse to them about my thoughts on dating post-separation. Having an influential friend is different to having a buddy.
Yes, Peter James and John had a closer relationship with Jesus than anyone else. I'm not denying that. But am I as close as they were? Could I ever be?
If I was ever in a position where I thought I could clearly, accurately, faultlessly and tangibly hear Jesus' voice and "rest my head on Him" as these disciples did, I truly hope one of you would drag me to a psychologist office - stat.
Now, look: the point of this post isn't to change your mind on anything. If you look at Jesus as if He is your best friend - good for you. I guess what I'm writing about here is an honest look at the state of my deconstruction. I'm not scared to call my approach to faith what it is anymore. I've got the podcast which creates a beautiful opportunity for me to explore the more intellectual avenues of deconstruction, theology, faith, and social justice. But who would I be if I didn't say exactly what's on my mind in terms of my own deeply held thoughts?
The truth is, I don't view Jesus as my best friend. Perhaps I never have. Perhaps I did but I'm glossing over history with the kind of paintbrush that makes things all look tidy and consistent in the present. I don't know. But either way, it's okay. I think I've mentioned before that I watched a beautiful series on Netflix called "The Story of God." It was narrated by Morgan Freeman (which was sort of meta, as it sounded like God was narrating his own story. Bravo Netflix). But what I noticed was a rich reverence woven through the exploration of each religion's origins and traditions. The gorgeous sound of the Islamic call to prayer, the deep respect that Native Americans and Indigenous people of other countries had for their spoken traditions, the incredible respect held by the researchers looking into the origins of the Abrahamic religions. The thread woven through was one of reverence, respect, awe, and somehow despite the diversity and difference presented in each faith or tradition, there was a thread of something familiar. It was a story of origin, of connection, of searching for a way of being in the world that was good.
Then Joel Osteen stepped on screen for the first time. He was there as the standard-bearer for American Evangelicalism - a faith that should be the closest relative to mine. His teeth, impeccably capped and whitened, made me grimace, but none so much as the words that came out of his mouth. I felt like I'd just switched channels to a Tony Robbins thing. I hated it. Where were the reverence and awe? It felt cheap and tacky but dressed up in a suit that undoubtedly cost thousands.
Today, in the height of the Black Lives Matter protests, I saw another cringe-worthy moment. Mega-church pastor Louis Giglio sitting with rapper LeCrae of all people, explaining the "Blessing" of slavery and reframing "white privilege" to "white blessing". My stomach sunk. It is a statement Giglio has since offered up a sincere apology and said he sees no blessing in slavery. Thank God. But still, I see something in the institutions of Evangelicalism as something deeply problematic: something more like Tony Robbins than Jesus. Something more like a fast-food franchise than a slowly-grown, deeply held, intentionally-built ethos that asks "how might I model myself off the life of Jesus? How can I make this world better?"
Jesus isn't my best friend. He is the highest-held model and ethical ideal in my mind. He is my God. Yes. But I won't bring Him down to sibling or bestie level.
My best friend and I (or ex-husband, however you want to phrase it), we sit and binge Netflix shows. We talk trash. I run things by him when I want a second opinion, but I know I can ignore his advice if I want. I don't base my ethical and moral decisions on what he would want me to do. My other best-friends - well at this point in Covid lockdown, we drink a fair bit of prosecco or gin and talk about our love lives a lot.
Again. Not doing that with Jesus. Although praying about what decision is right - that I do.
The Bible calls Jesus the firstborn of many brethren. But let's look at sibling relationships: I'm the eldest in my family. Of the five of us, I really only have semi-regular contact with one (if you don't count the odd snapchat or text). She is a free-spirit and a gifted public speaker. She is generous and a hard-worker. She is fabulous with kids and her wardrobe is phenomenal. There are things I admire about her. But I don't build my life around her and she certainly doesn't build hers around me.
What am I saying? Jesus isn't my sibling. He isn't my bestie. That's not a role I would ever reduce him to.
This realization has made me understand, for the first time in my life, that there is a jarring misfit between me and the contemporary church.
But why use "de-Calvinisation" in the title of this blog when you weren't even raised Calvinist, Kit?
A few weeks back I blogged on the five pillars of Calvinism. There at the top of the list is the doctrine of "Total Depravity." It's one that Evangelicalism is still very much steeped in; that since the fall of mankind in Eden, we are all born with a sin nature; totally depraved, enslaved to sin, selfish and self-serving, determined to act against God.
We hear it in altar calls. We hear it in the speeches of Billy Graham, who has been held up as the greatest evangelist of the modern era. Over the last few years I've been sitting with this uncomfortable question though: is it possible to follow Jesus without subscribing to a deep and wounding sense of self-loathing. Of inadequacy. Of "I can do nothing without God." I first started to wrestle with this when I was reading my ex-husbands Gay Conversion Therapy manual. I realized my own sense of inadequacy, fear of doing the wrong thing, feeling of being the wrong thing without the approval of the church - it was all internalized shame gifted to me from that Calvinist belief I had marinated in since childhood. It paled in comparison to the internalized sense of homophobia he carried. But that's another story, and another blog post (How I survived gay conversion therapy).
Side note: I wasn't raised Calvinist. It's just a belief that I see deeply steeped in the "Come to Jesus, all ye sinners" narrative."
Then I heard a podcast. The guest was Richard Rohr, and I can't even remember what else he said apart from this sentiment: why do we start our faith in Genesis 3 with the fall of mankind, when we could start it in Genesis 1 where God repeatedly looked at creation and said "It is good. It is good. It is good."?
So perhaps I'm a Franciscan now? Maybe? I don't know. All I know is reading Genesis one and letting those words wash over me felt healing. Because here is what I know about humanity:
No loving parent looks at their newborn and sees sin and depravity. They see beauty, even in those first weeks when their kid is funny looking - Let's be honest. We are told God is love, but then told that we are depraved and He hates sin (thus he can't stand us). Furthermore, we are told the Bible never contradicts itself. Well, it just did. If God, whom we are supposed to call Abba Father, is love, then he loves us. Or He is a hateful parent who alienates and estranges his children from the get-go until they can earn their way back. I'm a mother of two children. I know which parent I am. And I am infinitely less good than the divine good.
All of us are doing our best. I loved watching Game of Thrones. Because every character had redeeming qualities and also the ability to do awful things. Yet we wouldn't call them awful. (Okay, Joffrey doesn't count. Straight up jerk, that one!). I believe all of us are doing the best we can with what we are given. Can we all do better if given the right resources? Yes. In "Little Fires Everywhere" featuring Reese Witherspoon and Kerry Washington, the latter yelled, "You didn't 'make good choices, you had good choices." And wow, it's true. That's privilege in one sentence.
Not many of us believe we are inherently bad people. Why is it that religion steps in, and before accepting us into its exclusive club, makes us admit that we are terrible and hopeless, and sinful without God? Surely, if God is God, and if Jesus is the human incarnation of the divine, then there should be good enough reason to follow him without self-hatred and shame. I believe there is. I don't believe we need to think of ourselves as the scum of the earth before we reach for a more merciful, honest, compassionate, anti-corruption, anti-exclusion, self-sacrificially loving existence. Do you?
So look. This is an intensely personal post I'm just putting out there because I need to get what's on my mind off my mind before I finish crafting a ghostwritten book on infant and pediatric craniopathies!
Here's what I believe about myself now.
I start my faith in Genesis 1. I am good. I am not perfect, but I do not hate myself for that. Jesus is a divine being I approach with reverence, not familiarity. I do not follow Him because I hate myself. I follow Him because I love humanity. I believe that Christianity that builds itself on instilling a sense of self-loathing or shame in its adherents is inferior because it is not built on the immensity, infinitely expansive, compassionate, merciful, intentionally diverse nature of God and the world He/They created.
So yeah. That's me right now. This is the state of the de-calvinisation of Kit Kennedy as at June 17, 2020. Let's see where we are next year!
Peace
Kit K
P.S. Here is the song I referred to. You're welcome.
[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-NOZU2iPA8[/embed]