Reformed Foundations for Social Concern: A Comparison of Sixteenth-Century European Ideas

By Paul Frederick Scotchmer

Berkeley, California

We must remember that stern old John Calvin like John the Baptist of old stood at the threshold of a new world, into which he himself never really entered, and that the least in this new kingdom of God can look out with clearer eye and lighter heart than was possible to the fighting prophet of an older dispensation.”[1] This epitaph by Thomas Cumming Hall was pronounced in 1909 at a service in commemoration of the four-hundredth anniversary of the birth of John Calvin. In the nearly seventy years that have intervened since then much has changed, while only a few precious things have remained the same. The sparsely populated vista above the Hudson on Manhattan’s upper West Side, where Union Theological Seminary, moved only months after that commemorative service, has degenerated from one of America’s most fashionable neighborhoods to one of its most feared. A short walk north along the rusty girders of the elevated subway takes the pedestrian to 125th Street, the commercial center of Harlem. A slightly longer walk south leads him to the high fences surrounding the asphalt playgrounds familiar to most as the location for West Side Story. And the Hudson, once a popular place to swim and fish or stroll, is now almost too polluted even for boats. Meanwhile, the prophets of Geneva—whose city straddles the still clear waters of the Rhone and remains one of the few cities of this new world without slums—still speaks. Is it possible that even the greatest in this new world “can look out with clearer eye and lighter heart” by learning from the wisdom of this “fighting prophet of an older dispensation”—and the accumulated wisdom of his theological kinfolk, who have fought and spoken beside him? That is the question which provokes this essay in definition: that of the Reformed tradition of social concern.

The theological canons used by Reformed theologians to decide social questions are chiefly four: God’s sovereignty, man’s depravity, the authority of Scripture, and the consequent mediation of God’s sovereignty. Stated as such these beliefs are shared by the vast majority of the members of every Christian tradition, if for no other reason than that most truly new and anomalous doctrines have been rather universally condemned as heresies. But, by comparing the Reformed use of these principles with that of other theological traditions within Western Christendom (viz., Roman Catholic, Lutheran, and Anabaptist), the theological underpinnings of the Reformed social tradition should become vastly more clear than would be the case if they were presented alone.

The Sovereignty of God

Children reared on the Heidelberg Catechism know even better than philosophers[2] what Calvin meant by the sovereignty of God; for the answer to the first question, “What is thy only comfort in life and in death?” is practically his own definition:

That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ, who with his precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by his Holy Spirit, he also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto him.[3]

On the surface this is a statement of election and of the communion which exists between Christ and His elect, but its meaning goes far beyond this. There are really two sides to the statement, both of which have profound implications for the sovereignty of God. On the one hand are those things which God does for the individual: he brings all the forces of heaven to bear upon the life of the Christian, guaranteeing through physical as well as spiritual means that he or she will be united with Christ, both within and beyond time. That in itself is a remarkable declaration of God’s sovereignty. But there is another side: Christians are allowed to affirm the sovereignty of God within their lives by being made “heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto him.” The present discussion will simply be a more detailed examination of the way in which divine and human action combine to demonstrate the sovereignty of God.

That God is sovereign over the earth is expressed by Calvin in two ways: macrocosmically, in the doctrine of creation, and microcosmically, through the redemption of individuals. A knowledge of creation can be had by anyone with the capacity to think; but a true knowledge of redemption is possible only for the child of God.

Calvin observed that “philosophers teach, and the human mind conceives, that all parts of the world are invigorated by the secret inspiration of God….yet they are far from having a serious apprehension of the grace which he commends, because they have not the least relish for that special care in which alone the paternal favour of God is discerned.”[4] What the philosopher (who is no more than a philosopher) lacks is piety, “that union of reverence and love to God which the knowledge of his benefits inspires.”[5]

A knowledge of God which is not benefiting to man is not even worthy of the term, according to Calvin. He identifies two types of knowledge, and here is how he describes the most rudimentary kind, “that simple and primitive knowledge to which the mere course of nature would have conducted us, had Adam stood upright”:

We must be persuaded not only that as he once formed the world, so he sustains it by his boundless power, governs it by his wisdom, preserves it by his goodness, in particular, rules the human race with justice and judgment, bears with them in mercy, shields them by his protection; but also that not a particle of light, or wisdom, or justice, or power, or rectitude, or genuine truth, will anywhere be found, which does not flow from him, and of which he is not the cause; in this way we must learn to expect and ask all things from him, and thankfully ascribe to him whatever we receive.

“This sense of the divine perfections,”, says Calvin, “is the proper master to teach us piety, out of which religion springs.”[6]

If not for the fall, this “simple and primitive knowledge” would lead to an even higher form: “that species of knowledge by which men, in themselves lost and under curse, apprehend God as a Redeemer in Christ the Mediator.”[7] In theory, this knowledge of God’s sovereignty follows a path which takes us from the abstract to the concrete, from the impersonal to the personal, from God’s role as Creator and Governor of the universe to his role as a Father who cares for each of his children; or, simply stated, from the proud “knowledge” of philosophers to the pious knowledge of the catechumen. The name of this path is the via dolorosa, to which we must be led by God Himself. Here at the foot of the cross we see Jesus, the Christ, crucified for our very own sins. The affirmation of this awesome sight is what constitutes true knowledge. This humble sacrifice, the profoundest act of love, is God’s sovereignty expressed in its most meaningful way; for this is where sin, that blight upon God’s creation, is eternally conquered.

As Christians walk away from the cross, they walk along yet another path: the way of the cross, a personal cross. Here the sovereignty of God is displayed from the human side. And, as with divine action, the human dimension is seen preeminently in two ways: the doctrines of sanctification and vocation.

Recognizing that the God who meets us at Calvary to share the Gospel is the same sovereign God who met Moses on Mount Sinai to give him the Law, the Christian is quick to respond to Christ’s love by obeying the Master’s commandments. For “since God claims to himself the right of governing the world, a right unknown to us, let it be our law of modesty and soberness to acquiesce in his supreme authority, regarding his will as our only rule of justice, and the most perfect cause of all things.…”[8] His will is neither more nor less than what Christ himself has explained: “‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.’ This is the first and great commandment. And a second is like it, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets” (Matthew 22:37–40). This is the scope of sanctification, as found in Calvin’s theology, and the impulse is God’s own Spirit, who makes the Christian “heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto him.”

Almost like a corollary to the previous doctrine, Calvin’s doctrine of vocation stresses the need to apply God’s standards to every Christian’s particular circumstances. In the event of prosperity, “the Christian will ascribe [it] entirely to God, whether he has experienced his beneficence through the instrumentality of men, or been aided by inanimate creatures;”[9] and in the event of adversity “he will forthwith raise his mind to God, whose hand is most effectual in impressing us with patience and placid moderation of mind.”[10] Likewise, in a person’s work or station in life, there are specific ways bv which to glorify God, that is, to affirm His sovereignty. And just as the impulse behind sanctification is the Holy Spirit, individual gifts are allocated by the hand of Providence—hence to be used to God’s glory.

This, then, is the basic Reformed doctrine of God’s sovereignty which Calvin drew from the Scriptures and which his followers in various countries placed into their own canons of truth. It is summarized in the familiar shibboleth of the Reformed tradition: soli Deo gloria. The sovereignty of God, the Creator and Sustainer of the universe, is the matrix for all other motifs that bear upon the salvation and sanctification of individuals and the preservation of societies. It is God whom men must glorify in their dealings with each other, and it is by him that their actions must be measured.[11]

When a comparison is made between the Reformed and other theological traditions, it is soon evident that, while all Christian churches recognize God’s sovereignty, the pervasiveness of this affirmation within the Reformed tradition is most striking. The most appropriate forum for demonstrating this fact, I think, is in one’s view of history. It might be asked, for example, to what extent is history determined by God’s will? Or, more pertinent to the issue of social concern, to what extent and in what ways should Christians attempt to bring God’s will to bear upon history? The issue is one which concerns the relationship between heaven and earth, eternity and time. On a corporate level, these two dimensions have been expressed in such terms as the spiritual and temporal spheres, the sacred and the secular, God and Caesar, or simply the Church and the State. Without encroaching too far into our subsequent discussion of the mediation of God’s sovereignty, we shall compare the Reformed view of history with that found in the Lutheran, Anabaptist, and Roman Catholic traditions.

Within the theology of Martin Luther a sharp line was drawn between the spiritual realm (geistliches Regiment) and the secular realm (weltliches Regiment)—so sharp, in fact, as to preclude the possibility that society, whether nation or sodality, could emulate the kingdom of God in any way.[12] The controlling social principle of Lutheranism was the belief that the individual might emulate Christ as priest, and this through a love which flows spontaneously (quellende Liebe) following his conversion by faith in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The catchword of the German Reformation was sola fide, an exclusively individual concern, more than soli Deo gloria, a concept with collective potential. While justification by faith is also the crucial doctrine in Reformed theology, the predominant social principle is the sovereignty of God; and concomitant with this principle is the belief that those elected to faith in Christ will be used by God to help fashion a visible community (including both pious and impious) which reflects the kingdom of God.

Though the Lutheran and Reformed views of history differ, they both stand between the polar views of the Anabaptists and the Catholics of the sixteenth century—the Reformed being closer to the second and the Lutheran closer to the first. The Anabaptist contemporaries of Luther not only separated but divorced the spiritual and secular realms.[13] They transformed Luther’s geistliches Regiment into a visible and circumscribed confessing community (Bekenntniskirche), and deprived the weltliches Regiment of even the individual influence of those who had become transformed by faith in Jesus Christ. Though they were more like the Reformed churches in terms of their emphasis on the visible Church, their view of history—the relationship between time and eternity, hence the interaction of culture and Christianity—was even more distant from the Reformed model than was Luther’s. They made a premature separation between the saints and the sinners, the elect and the hypocrites. Their policy of separation (Absonderung) was tantamount to declaring their own community an earthly heaven and abandoning the rest of the world to the lords of hell. As understandable as this policy was in the face of persecution, it was seen in Reformed eyes as a sacrilege; for all things are intrinsically good, because created by God’s ordinance an sustained by his power. However perverted man’s use of God’s gifts might sometimes be, the task of the re-formed man is to approach the sovereign Lord of all with humbled heart and dedicate the use of his hands and mind to his Maker.

The Roman Catholic view of history bears a greater resemblance to that of the Reformed tradition. Each attempted to carve out on earth a community as conformable as possible to the standards of heaven. Such a goal was only possible with the full cooperation of the spiritual and secular spheres. Thus Church and State (the institutional symbols of the two kingdoms) have throughout both the Reformed and Roman Catholic traditions worked side by side in unresolved tension—as long as the State permitted. But it is precisely here—where the State attempted to diminish the Church’s influence upon history—that the distinction between the Roman Catholic and Reformed views of God’s sovereignty became evident. There has historically been a tendency within the former to recognize God’s sovereignty only by way of the Church—the Roman Church. Though the post-medieval Catholic Church remained faithful to her tradition of extending religion to all possible areas of life, she has often shunned (or even anathematized) those things taken from her reach.[14] In those instances in which she has denied God a place among those persons and things outside the Church’s dominion, she has defined God’s sovereignty too narrowly—or so the Reformed mind would see it.

This brief survey of the major views of history during and since the Reformation will suffice to illustrate the primacy of God’s sovereignty within the Reformed tradition—not a primacy by virtue of mere recognition (for all Christians affirm God’s sovereignty), nor by virtue of the strength of the affirmation (for Luther was certainly as emphatic about this point as anyone), but by virtue of the pervasiveness of God’s sovereignty in the life of the Church (visibly and invisibly, corporately and individually). It is this feature of the Reformed tradition which more than any other gave R. H. Tawney occasion to write that “Calvinism was an active and radical force. It was a creed which sought not merely to purify the individual, but to reconstruct Church and State, and to renew society by penetrating every department of life, public as well as private, with the influence of religion.”[15]

The Depravity of Man

A second theological feature which shapes Reformed social theory is the doctrine of original sin. This somber affirmation springs logically from the first, for what was the fall if not resistance to God’s sovereignty? The affirmations of God’s sovereignty and man’s depravity are therefore proportional: The strength of a person’s avowal of the first determines his sensitivity to the second: the more awesome is God, the more awefull must be fallen man.

But is this really a “somber affirmation”? Although it is a recognition of the most tragic event in human history, nothing can be more positive, explains Calvin, than the actual act of affirming the fall and its consequences:

For what accords better and more aptly with faith than to acknowledge ourselves divested of all virtue that we may be clothed by God, devoid of all goodness that we may be filled by Him, the slaves of sin that he may give us freedom, blind that he may enlighten us; to strip ourselves of all ground of glorying that he alone may shine forth glorious, and we may be glorified in him?[16]

While Calvin is the theologian most acclaimed for writing a contemporary translation of Augustine’s song against Pelagius, most Protestants of his day would have joined in singing the refrain: that Adam’s sin was transmitted to the whole human race, making it a mass of sin (massa peccati); and “that the flesh has no capacity for such sublime wisdom as to apprehend God, and the things of God, unless illumined by his Spirit.”[17]

The only Reformed theologian who appeared even slightly out of tune was Ulrich Zwingli. Even though he affirmed the double predestination taught (implicitly) in his day by Luther, and (explicitly) shortly thereafter by Calvin, he believed that men do not incur Adam’s guilt and speculated that some (e.g., certain philosophers of classical Greece and children who die as infants) might be saved apart from the means of grace usually preached by evangelical theologians. But actually this anomaly has more bearing upon Scripture than the doctrine of depravity: Zwingli refused to bind the Holy Spirit to the Word as Calvin and Luther did. Thus Reformed theologians during the sixteenth century were agreed in their estimation of man’s fallen state.[18]

This theological harmony was to be destroyed in the dawn of the next century by the Dutchman, Arminius. His views found substantial representation in the Five Articles postulated by the Remonstrants, nine years prior to the Synod of Dort. But this division within Reformed theology is more significant from the standpoint of soteriology than sociology. Though the Arminians rejected the dogma exalted in their day by the Gomarists (particularly that atonement is limited and grace irresistible); they were consistent with mainline Calvinism in their affirmation that “all good deeds or movements, that can be conceived, must be ascribed to the grace of God in Christ.”[19]

The real object of Reformed disapprobation was Pelagianism.[20] According to this school of thought, Adam was created with an equal capacity for good or evil. As it happened, he chose the latter; but his fall had no consequences for other men. Human nature took on neither concupiscence nor guilt. Men are born with the same neutrality as Adam, neither holy nor sinful, and have the same choice between doing good and evil. Adam left only his example, which men can repeat; but this is countered by Christ’s example, by which men might eschew Adam’s. The goal of perfection is thus possible for men—and actually achieved according to Pelagianism by persons both within Scripture and outside the compass of Christianity.

Pelagius’ intentions were honorable enough. He wished to deliver men from despair concerning their attempts to do good. But, from the Reformed perspective, the effect was to encourage a false sense of goodness in men, thereby discouraging the only source of true goodness. By supposing that they can attain perfection by themselves, people only add the sin of pride to their other sins, and ignore the saving work of Christ, the spotless Lamb of God. Only by accepting Christ’s sacrifice for their sins, a once-for-all sacrifice on Calvary, are men reckoned as justified; and only those that are regenerated through union with Christ are empowered to perform acts of actual goodness.[21] The ostensible good performed by men prior to their receiving power from on high is a “common grace”—that is, a grace extended to humanity in general for the preservation of society, but not a grace which justifies human sinfulness before God.

Though Pelagius’ views were condemned by the Council of Ephesus in 431, his wraith has been back to haunt the Church in many forms since that time. Among these was Semi-Pelagianism, an attempt by Scholastic theologians to mediate between the Augustinian emphasis on God’s grace and the Pelagian assertion of man’s free will. It did so by affirming the idea that human nature was corrupted by Adam’s fall; but it defined this corruption as a disease or weakness rather than a mortal wound. Man retains sufficient strength to pull himself up, but only with God’s assistance.

If we look deeply enough into this anthropological hybrid, we discover that it was more than an attemt to mediate between Augustine and Pelagius; it was also an attempt to reconcile Pauline theology with Aristotelian philosophy. Aquinas, in particular, bit deeply into the Aristotelian apple. Just as man’s place within the order of creation is between animals and angels, man’s will resides between his senses and his intellect. Because of his fall (as well as the consequent loss of his “superadded righteousness”), man’s senses exert a powerful gravitational influence upon his will, and his intellect has been partially blinded.

This predicament is mitigated, however, by the eternal law of God, which is imprinted upon the minds of all men (in the form of natural law). Natural law, in turn, is reflected in the statutory law. It is upon this foundation that Peter Lombard could teach a two-fold grace: first, an “operating grace” whereby man wills what is good; secondly, a “co-operating grace, which succeeds man’s good will and aids it.[22] Similarly, Gabriel Biel could teach that man, by his own natural abilities (ex puris naturalibus), could attain to a level of goodness sufficiently within range of God to help him (viz., meritum de congruo), following which God would infuse him with the grace necessary to perform works which make him truly worthy before God (meritum de condigno).[23]

Against the Schoolmen’s synergistic perception of man’s relationship to God, Calvin argued that “while it attributes the effectual desire of good to divine grace, it insinuates that man, by his own nature, desires good in some degree, though ineffectually.”[24] The basis of this false anthropology, according to Calvin, is the presumption that original sin is merely “the want of the original righteousness which we ought to have bad….For our nature is not only utterly devoid of goodness, but so prolific in all kinds of evil, that it can never be idle.” He does not object to the term concupiscence, “provided it were added (this, however, many will by no means concede), that everything which is in man, from the intellect to the will, from the soul even to the flesh, is defiled and pervaded with this concupiscence; or, to express it more briefly, that the whole man is in himself nothing else than concupiscence.”[25]

Even more objectionable to the Reformed mind than this medieval doctrine was the humanistic estimation of man. Here the specter of Pelagianism loomed even larger. Taken out of context, many of Calvin’s own words might suggest that he fall prey to this more worldly form of the Pelagianism he so roundly condemned. He affirms the classical view of man as being a zōon politikon: “Since man is by nature a social animal, he is disposed, from natural instinct, to cherish and preserve society; and accordingly we see that the minds of all men have impressions of civil order and honesty.”[26] He also recommends that we learn from the unregenerate: “Therefore, in reading profane authors, the admirable light of truth displayed in them should remind us that the human mind, however much fallen and perverted from its original integrity, is still adorned and invested with admirable gifts from its Creator.”[27] And he cautions us against denying God’s gifts, whatever their source: “If the Lord has been pleased to assist us by the work and ministry of the ungodly in physics, dialectics, mathematics, and other similar sciences, let us avail ourselves of it, lest, by neglecting the gifts of God spontaneously offered to us, we be justly punished for our sloth.”[28]

Calvin sounds like any humanist of his day in these affirmations of the human mind. He joins them in echoing the classical praise of reason. But there is a point where he ceases to be a humanist and becomes a reformer:

The distinction is, that we have one kind of intelligence of earthly things, and another of heavenly things. By earthly things, I mean those which relate not to God and his kingdom, to true righteousness and future blessedness, but have some connection with the present life, and are in a manner confined within its boundaries. By heavenly things, I mean the pure knowledge of God, the method of true righteousness, and the mysteries of the heavenly kingdom.[29]

By affirming the use of the mind to its utter limits, Calvin was merely affirming the fact that man’s fall did not render him an animal; the human mind “is naturally influenced by the love of truth, the neglect of which in the lower animals.”[30] But by refusing is proof of their gross and irrational nature to arrogate to the human mind power beyond what he regarded as its “reasonable” limits, Calvin affirmed the fact that man’s fall hardly made him an angel: “Still it is true that this love of truth fails before it reaches the goal, forthwith falling away into vanity.”[31] However much man might be benefited by his God-given reason in earthly things, his whole being has been so utterly vitiated by the fall that it is of no use to unregenerate man concerning heavenly things.[32]

This predicament of fallen man, so emphatically underscored in Calvin’s Institutes, permeates the Reformed understanding of man relationship to God, other men, and the world. On this side of Eden’s gates, man’s communion with God is indirect.

The Word of God

A third theological feature, which we shall discuss as having shaped Reformed social concern, is the traditions absolute reliance upon Scripture. Like the following one, the mediation of God’s sovereignty, this feature is necessitated by man’s fall:

Therefore, though the effulgence which is presented to every eye, both in the heavens and on the earth, leaves the ingratitude of man without excuse….another and better help must be given to guide us properly to God as a Creator. Not in vain, therefore, has he added the light of his Word in order that he might make himself known unto salvation, and bestowed the privilege on those whom he was pleased to bring into nearer and more familiar relation to himself.[33]

Calvin goes on to illustrate his point by comparing the Scriptures to spectacles, given to us by God so that we might obtain a clear picture of things divine—not simply by magnifying those things, but by correcting our distorted vision of them.

As sola scriptura was one of the most familiar cries of the Reformation, it is not surprising that some of the most acute theological differences of the sixteenth century are brought to the fore by this issue. Calvin had some differences with Luther and Zwingli over the use of the Scriptures, but in the main these three were allied against two foes. On the one hand, they opposed the Catholics, who gave so much authority to the Church that individual conscience was nullified. On the other hand, they opposed the Spiritualists, who were guilty of theological anarchy. Though these two adversaries are opposites in many ways, they come full circle to converge at a point of great concern to the evangelical Reformers: both claimed the independent authority of the Holy Spirit as they added one thing and subtracted another from God’s written Word. The Gallican Confession, I think, states the charges most concisely for the prosecuting Protestants:

And inasmuch as it is the rule of all truth, containing all that is necessary for the service of God and for our salvation, it is not lawful for men, nor even for angels, to add to it, to take away from it, or to change it. Whence it follows that no authority, whether of antiquity, or custom, or numbers, or human wisdom, or judgments, or proclamations, or edicts, or decrees, or councils, or visions, or miracles, should be opposed to these Holy Scriptures, but, on the contrary, all things should be examined, regulated, and reformed according to them.[34]

Our scrutiny of Catholic-Protestant tensions over Scripture will focus on three issues: Scripture’s authority, authentication, and interpretation. The first of these became decisive in the famous Leipzig debate between Luther and John Eck. In principle, Luther and the Medieval Church held identical views concerning Scripture’s authority. The differences only surface as this authority of the Word is pitted against the authority of the Church. B. A. Gerrish finds the reification of Rome’s attitude summarized “in two pronouncements of the Council of Trent: (1) that the Church’s traditions are to be received pari pietatis affectu as the Scripture, (2) that the Scriptures themselves must be understood only according to the sense quem tenuit et tenet sancta mater Ecclesia.”[35] But Luther was unwilling to define away the differences between Scripture and the Church; and to the extent that they were inconsonant he muted the latter. As Gerrish expresses it, Luther “insisted on the principle of scriptura sola and, moreover, refused to be led away by the temptation to indulge in fancy ‘spiritual’ (so-called) exegesis. This means that what was for his predecessors only the theoretical authority, became for him the authority in actual effect.”[36]

When the Protestants rejected the primacy of the Roman Church in favor of the Scriptures, a most serious question emerged: How is the authority of Scripture authenticated, if not by the Church? Negatively, Calvin answered by denouncing as “a most pernicious error” the idea “that Scripture is of importance only in so far as conceded to it by the suffrage of the Church; as if the eternal and inviolable truth of God could depend on the will of man. With great insult to the Holy Spirit, it is asked, Who can assure us that the Scriptures proceeded from God…?”[37] Positively, Calvin’s answer was the doctrine of the inward testimony of the Holy Spirit (testimonium spiritus sancti internum): “The same Spirit, therefore, who spoke by the mouth of the prophets, must penetrate our hearts, in order to convince us that they faithfully delivered the message with which they were divinely intrusted.”[38] This answer must not be dismissed as a riposte held ready by Calvin against those who would challenge his authority base. Rather, it was a highly existential awareness of truths “too transcendent to estimate” by way of “proofs or probabilities.” We believe the teaching of Scripture

because we have a thorough conviction that, in holding it, we hold unassailable truth; not like miserable men, whose minds are enslaved by superstition, but because we feel a divine energy living and breathing in it—an energy by which we are drawn and animated to obey it, willingly indeed, and knowingly, but more vividly and effectually than could be done by human will or knowledge.[39]

In short, we do not possess truth; truth possesses us. Likewise, the Church does not define the Scriptures; the Scriptures define the Church.

It is clear from the above that Calvin bv no means substituted individual opinion for that of the Church. At the same time, it is implicit in this arrangement that the individual rather than the Church is the recipient of the divine confirmation of Scripture’s truth. For an explanation as to why this is so, we must anticipate the last of our theological features: the mediation of God’s sovereignty. Simply stated, God rules absolutely through the mediation of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, and conditionally through human agents—such as magistrates and ministers. The condition placed upon obedience to God’s representatives—more like delegates—is that they govern in accordance with His eternal standards, for which Scripture is the permanent record.

Briefly, the third issue separating Catholics and Protestants over the question of Scripture concerns its interpretation. Again, we find that Calvin, rather than yielding responsibility to men—either collectively (to the Church) or atomistically (to individual Christians)—returns the matter to God. The method he employed to write the Institutes amply affirms the fact that for him the interpreter of Scripture is Scripture. As echoed by the Westminster divines, “The infallible rule of interpretation of Scripture is the Scripture itself.” All questions about its meaning “must be searched and known by other places that speak more clearly.” Hence “the Supreme Judge, by which all controversies of religion are to be determined, and all decrees of councils, opinions of ancient writers, doctrines of men, and private spirits, are to be examined, and in whose sentences we are to rest, can be no other but the Holy Spirit speaking in the Scriptures.”[40]

The other foe in this battle over the Bible was the army of Spiritualists, called “libertines” by Calvin. They, too, appealed to the internal and individual level of God’s sovereignty, but only in such a fashion as to be a caricature of the Calvinist position. We shall not devote proportionately more words to them than did the Reformers. Calvin said of them that they are “not so much under the influence of error as madness. For certain giddy men have lately appeared who, while they make a great display of the superiority of the Spirit, reject all reading of the Scriptures themselves, and deride the simplicity of those who only delight in what they call the dead and deadly letter.”[41]

They asked, Why should we insult the Spirit by subjecting it to the Scriptures? The great mufti of Geneva parried with another question: “So long as he [i.e., the Holy Spirit] is compared with himself, and considered in himself, how can it be said that he is thereby injured?”[42] The point that Calvin makes is that we need the Word with the Spirit just is we need the Spirit with the Word. This is so, not because of any limitations in God’s Word or the Holy Spirit, but because of man’s limitations. Thus “God did not produce his word before men for the sake of sudden display, intending to abolish it the moment the Spirit should arrive; but he employed the same irit, by whose agency he had administered the word, to complete his work by the efficacious confirmation of the word.”[43]

Though Calvin, Luther, Zwingli, and the Anabaptists were allies in this struggle to retain the purity of God’s written Word, their own use of it was not identical. To characterize their differences in a word, we might say that Calvin’s use of Scripture was more expansive than either Luther’s or Zwingli’s. But to illustrate these differences, let us imagine that the three most famous Reformers sat at their respective desks toward the end of their careers in order to read the Scriptures; what would each of them see? Though they would each read from Erasmus’ Greek New Testament and the latest in Hebrew texts—a fact which distinguishes them immediately from the Roman loyalists (who used the Vulgate) and the spiritualists (who were insouciant concerning the text)—they would still perceive many things differently, even though reading the identical words. It is this perceptuohermeneutical question that we now wish to explore.

Zwingli read the Bible with the eyes of an evangelical humanist. As a humanist, this meant ad fontes: back to the sources. As an evangelical, it meant simply the Cross upon which Christ died for the sins of mankind. The course he pursued came to be known as restitutio: the restitution of that relatively pure form of Christianity enjoyed prior to the Constaninian revolution. The surest guide to that place was a negative view of Scripture, a rejection of what was not explicitly stated by its authors. To him, this meant the abolition of all symbolic forms of worship; ironically, it also meant an exclusively symbolic view of the Eucharist.

Calvin, on the other hand, followed a course that was akin to Luther’s. Encapsulated in the term institutio, it allowed for anything which was consistent with the Gospel and brought glory to God, regardless of its source.

With Luther, there was another kind of reductionism. He read the Bible with the eyes of an evangelist (without whatever contemporary connotations there might be of this word). As such, his hermeneutical formula was sola fide, sola gratia. He was in quest of the Gospel in every possible place: “Yes, even in the teaching of the prophets, in those places where they speak of Christ, is nothing but the true, pure, and proper Gospel—just as if Luke or Matthew had described it.”[44] And where he found Law rather than Gospel, this was intended mostly for the non-Christian (to show him his sins, hence his need for the Gospel) or for the preservation of order within society.

Finally, Calvin read the Bible with the eyes of a pastor, a shepherd of sheep. His formula was, naturally, soli Deo gloria. In Scripture we are told that God is holy: a God of love and a God of wrath. We must glorify him by loving him and loving our neighbor. As such, there is in Scripture Gospel and Law. Both are vital for the Christian, no less than the non-Christian. And, for this reason, the Old Testament is as important for the Christian as the new Testament—almost as important for the Christian, in fact, as for the Jew.

We are brought face to face, once again, with the contrasting emphases of Luther and Calvin concerning the Law. For the former, it is paradoxical to the Gospel; for the latter, parallel with. The distinction, as it applies to Scripture, is articulated more clearly by T. D. Parker. Following the suggestion of Otto Piper, he compared Luther’s and Calvin’s Commentaries on Galatians. He observes, concerning the content of Scripture, that

for Luther there is one subject and that is Christ (grace): all Scripture is to be seen in the light of Christ and gracious justification. For Calvin there is one purpose of Scripture, and that is that God’s people should be given light to live in this world according to his will; all parts of Scripture are integrated around this one purpose, rather than any one theme.[45]

This distinction between theme and purpose suggests still another difference between Luther and Calvin. To pursue a theme is to define, but to seek a purpose is to expand. Accordingly, we find that Calvin makes much ado about Scripture’s sufficiency. B. A. Gerrish aptly observes that

Calvin insists on the ‘impiety’ both of holding ‘beliefs which cannot be demonstrated from Scripture and of failing to hold fast anything which can. The principle of sufficiency applies to faith, to morals, to rites, and even to matters which fall outside any of these three categories.[46]

We might say that Calvin believes Scripture to have an asymptotic relationship to God’s will for men. To do less than pursue it as far as possible, but no further, would indeed be impious. He summarizes this approach, perhaps by way of defense, in the context of his discussion of predestination: “Only I wish it to be received as a general rule, that the secret things of God are not to be scrutinized, and that those which he has revealed are not to be overlooked, lest we may, on the one hand, be chargeable with curiosity, and, on the other, with ingratitude.”[47]

Calvin never deviates very far from the noetic concerns expressed at the outset of his Institutes: “Our wisdom, in so far as it ought to be deemed true and solid wisdom, consists almost entirely of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.”[48] He shares Luther’s strong desire to know what God has done for us in Christ. For this reason, he, too, is concerned with the Babe laid in the secure manger of Scripture by God’s Holy Spirit. But he will not end his quest until he knows as fully as possible what God does in us through Christ. For this reason, he is concerned that we, like the wise men of an earlier millennium, deliver our gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh—soli Deo gloria.

The Mediation of God’s Sovereignty

The mediation of God’s sovereignty is a fourth theological feature which shapes Reformed social concern. Its origin is subsequent to and consequent of man’s fall, whereby he lost the privilege of God’s direct rule. God’s sovereignty is now mediated in two basic ways. On a corporate and external level, he governs through leaders within the State, the Church, the family, and society’s other institutions. On an individual and internal level, God governs through his Son, reforming the lives of those whose hearts have been softened by the Holy Spirit.[49]

The Reformation is a family whose member-churches were conceived by the union of these two forms of authority, the external and internal. The particular character of their offspring was determined by the dominance of traits inherited from each parent at the time of conception. To understand the Genevan Reformation fully, we must compare its genetic make-up (relative to the balance of internal and external authority) with that of its Catholic cousin and Protestant siblings.

Sixteenth-century Protestantism, unlike its contemporary Catholicism, emphasized individual faith. And although in Calvin’s theology a very strong emphasis of the visible Church was preserved, it is certainly true that when the Reformed and Roman Catholic Churches are compared, the internal authority of Jesus Christ holds a more predominant place.

The internal government of Christ must be understood in the context of what Calvin called the “mystical union” (mystica unio), without which Christ must necessarily remain eternally outside of man. “Therefore, to that union of the head and members, the residence of Christ in our hearts, in fine, the mystical union, we assign the highest rank, Christ when he becomes ours making us partners with him in the gifts with which he was endued.”[50]

The gifts that Calvin alludes to are essentially those presupposed by the incarnation. By becoming flesh, God “declined not to take what was peculiar to us, that he might be in common with us both Son of God and Son of man.”[51] In short, Christ assumed our sin and death, so as to confer upon us righteousness and life.

But the incarnation only becomes a personal reality when men—as individuals—are united with Christ. This occurs through faith, which is defined by Calvin as “affirm and sure knowledge of the divine favour toward us, founded on the truth of a free promise in Christ and revealed to our minds, and sealed on our hearts, by the Holy Spirit.”[52] This concise definition illustrates the fact that, for Calvin, man does not approach God armed with faith; for this would be little more than works-righteousness. Man has nothing to offer. Instead, God approaches him, bestowing upon him a faith that cannot be objectified. “Hence we do not view him as at a distance and without us, but as we have put him on, and been ingrafted into his body, he deigns to make us one with himself, and, therefore, we glory in having a fellowship of righteousness with him.”[53]

The benefits of man’s mystical union with Christ are justification and sanctification:

The whole may be thus summed up: Christ given to us by the kindness of God is apprehended and possessed by faith, by means of which we obtain in particular a twofold benefit: first, being reconciled by the righteousness of Christ, God becomes, instead of a judge, an indulgent Father; and, secondly, being sanctified by his Spirit, we aspire to integrity and purity of life.[54]

At last we can perceive what is meant by the internal government of Christ. It is the life of a Christian man—a justified man—wherein the person sanctified by the Spirit aspires to “integrity and purity of life.” It is done with a view toward heaven, without earthly constraints; it takes place from within the soul, only then becoming evident by one’s earthly conduct: it is nothing less than the dynamic intrusion of eternity upon time.

If, from the Reformed point of view, sixteenth-century Catholicism stressed corporate and external authority at the expense of individual and internal authority, Lutheranism did the opposite. Following the separation of Rome and Wittenberg, the steady hand of discipline was not exercised in the Lutheran Church. From the Reformed perspective, in fact, there was no Lutheran Church—only parishes and people who sided with Luther against the Romanists. But this crisis of authority could not last: the vacuum created by the absence of ecclesiastical authority was quickly filled by civil authority. We shall be forced, however, to continue this historical aside only after making a few theological observations.

Though the internal government of Jesus Christ among the elect lies at the core of Calvin’s theology, it did not detract from his appreciation of the need for external controls. He indicates that the two are by no means mutually exclusive. Yet they must always “be viewed apart from each other. When the one is considered, we should call off our minds, and not allow them to think of the other.”[55] Thus Law and Gospel are to be seen as parallel truths which have harmonious relationship, rather than paradoxical truths which live only in tension with one another, as taught by Luther.[56]

To deal with the tension he saw between Law and Gospel, Luther played down the former. While he acknowledged the Law’s use as a mirror to lead the sinner to Christ, by reflecting his unrighteousness (its primary use), and its use to society as an agent for the preservation of order (its secondary use), there was little room in his theology for the third use (tertius usus) of the Law that later became so important to Calvin’s view of the Christian life.

Calvin taught that “the principal use” of the Law “has respect to believers in whose hearts the Spirit of God already flourishes and reigns.” For Christians, the Law is a guide: “For it is the best instrument for enabling them daily to learn with greater truth and certainty what that will of the Lord is which they aspire to follow, and to confirm them in this knowledge.” It is also a stimulus: “Then, because we need not doctrine merely, but exhortation also, the servant of God will derive this further advantage from the Law: by frequently meditating upon it, he will be excited to obedience, and confirmed in it, and so drawn away from the slippery paths of sin….The Law acts like a whip to the flesh, urging it on as men do a lazy sluggish ass.”[57]

Of course Luther also employed the Law in his exposition of the Christian life, but only as a guide, and a very non-directive one at that.[58] His tendency to de-emphasize the Law is grounded in his belief that the Christian is propelled by God, subsequent to his personal experience of the Gospel, into a life of good works. He is possessed by an overflowing love (quellende Liebe) that renders the Law impotent by comparison. Calvin, on the other hand, regarded the Law as essential, both as a guide and a prod, for the Christian to lead a truly pious life.

The theological distinction between Luther and Calvin concerning the use of the Law, while ostensibly small, expands as it moves in the direction of ecclesiology. Other differences begin to surface in related areas—such as the ministry, church discipline, and the relationship between Church and State. A brief comparison of the two great Reformers in these areas will further illustrate the way in which God’s sovereignty is mediated on an external and corporate level in Calvin’s theological system.

Luther had a highly democratic view of the ministerium. The minister was simply a person chosen by his peers to perform a function that every Christian is called (in theory) to perform.[59] The rationale behind this system is purely logistic. Calvin, obversely, regarded the appointment of ministers as of divine rather than human origin. God himself sets aside certain individuals to minister to his children—a task which includes the interpretation of Scripture and the preaching of his Word for the edification of the Church. The extent of the authority conferred upon God’s ministers—an external and corporate authority over others—is indicated by Calvin’s observation that “among the many noble endowments with which God has adorned the human race, one of the most remarkable is, that he deigns to consecrate the mouths and tongues of men to his service, making his own voice to be heard in them.” He does so, says Calvin, “for the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ.”[60]

But the saints are not perfected through preaching alone: discipline is also required. “Hence as the saving doctrine of Christ is the life of the Church, so discipline is, as it were, its sinews”; and those who militate against it, “aim at the complete devastation of the Church.”[61]

The most extreme punishment that the Church may employ is excommunication. Its use is based upon the promise of Christ that “whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 18:18).[62] Its seriousness is proportional to the significance of communion, about which Calvin says: “That sacred communion of flesh and blood by which Christ transfuses his life unto us, just as if it penetrated our bones and marrow, he testifies and seals in the supper, and that not by presenting a vain or empty sign, but by there exerting an efficacy of the Spirit by which he fulfills what he promises.”[63] Thus the banning of a person from the table of communion is the most extreme act of external and corporate punishment available to the Church: a person is, through this means, cut off from the supreme expression of Christ’s internal and individual mediation, the mystical union itself.

The objects of this dreadful act of mediation are three: God, other Christians, and the offender. Calvin’s concerns are “that God may not be insulted by the name of Christians being given to those who lead shameful and flagitious lives…,that the good may not, as usually happens, be corrupted by constant communication with the wicked….[and] that the sinner may be ashamed, and begin to repent of his turpitude.”[64]

It should now be apparent that Calvin placed a very strong emphasis upon the visible Church, of which one of the more conspicuous elements is discipline. One might wonder, in fact, if he did not add church discipline to the criteria already supplied by Luther for a true Church: that the Gospel be preached and the sacraments be rightly administered.[65] Perhaps the question should be answered in two ways. First, as Calvin looked beyond his own sphere of influence—at the Church as a community of Christians—he regarded Luther’s criteria as sufficient. But as he looked at the proper government of that community of Christians, he considered discipline a normative and vital element of the Church. In short, a Church without discipline is not necessarily heretical, but is very likely to become so.

The fact that Luther did not anticipate Calvin’s doctrine of the Church resulted in additional differences between the two Reformers over the role of the State. Again, the real source of their differences lay in their respective views of the Law. Because Luther emphasized quellende Liebe as the sufficient ethical motive for Christians, the role of the State was mainly to check criminals within non-Christian or nominally Christian circles. Consequently, the State’s use of the Law was limited to the second table.[66] But, not having made provisions for the active mediation of the first table of the Law among those within the geistliches Regiment (on either an ecclesiastical or a civil level), such a crisis of order ensued within the German parishes that external and corporate responsibility for them was forced upon the State.[67] Though he began with a State (in theory) whose laws “extend[ed] no further than to life and property and external affairs on earth, for God cannot and will not permit anyone but himself to rule over the soul”;”[68] he ended with a State (in practice) which became a surrogate for the visible Church, and by default responsible for its souls.

A casual glance at Calvin’s theory of civil government might suggest that the State would play an even larger role in the affairs of its citizens. In accordance with his emphasis on the third use of the Law, the State is seen as a respublica christiana, planned by God to promote and enforce the Christian religion. As such, it must necessarily mediate God’s sovereignty with a concern for both tables of the Law. But the role of the State was checked insofar as Calvin, unlike Luther, affirmed the Augustinian understanding of the visible Church: as the earthly symbol for the civitas Dei; according to Luthor’s schema, the visible Church was—by default if not by design—incorporated into the weltliches Regiment.

Calvin’s doctrine of Church and State is essentially Gelasian. Church officials are not, by virtue of their office, to have any official voice in the State; and State officials are not, by virtue of their office, to have any official voice in the Church. Thus there are two distinct, yet co-operative, spheres—one temporal and the other spiritual.[69] These spheres inevitably overlap at points, especially in matters of morality. In this event, it is the duty of the magistrate to seek the will of God, which is acquired chiefly through the Scriptures by his divinely appointed ministers.[70] It is this important feature which limited Geneva’s civil government in a way that Luther’s understanding failed to limit the German state; but it is also this feature which gives rise to the popular notion that “Calvin’s Geneva” was a theocracy. To the extent that Calvin promoted conscientious obedience to God by all members of the State, the theocratic label is denotatively correct; but to the extent that there were two authentic powers, not one, it is connotatively false. Two institutions lived in unresolved tension. Where the balance lay between them varied both in Geneva during Calvin’s own day, and from place to place where this Reformed theory of Church and State was employed.[71]

As profound as the differences might have been between Calvin and Luther concerning the external mediation of God’s sovereignty, they were never alluded to in the Institutes. Such was not the case with the Anabaptists: “Fanatics, indeed, delighting in unbridled license, insist and vociferate that, after we are dead by Christ to the elements of this world, and being translated into the Kingdom of God sit among the celestials, it is unworthy of us, and far beneath our dignity, to be occupied with those profane and impure cares which relate to matters alien from a Christian man.”[72]

Though Calvin does not really specify the objects of such disapprobation, aside from a few naughty sobriquets, the Swiss Brethren would be likely candidates. Their doctrine of separation prohibited Christians from wielding the sword (either for punishing the wicked or fighting wars), participating in courtroom proceedings, or holding public office.[73] About such human institutions Calvin writes:

All these I confess to be superfluous, if the kingdom of God, as it now exists within us, extinguishes the present life. But if it is the will of God that while we aspire to true piety we are pilgrims upon the earth, and if such pilgrimage stands in need of such aids, those who take them away from man rob him of his humanity.[74]

When Calvin approaches the question of man’s State, he cannot veer far from his beliefs about the state of man. He continues his dialogues with the Anabaptists on this basis: “As to their allegation that there ought to be such a perfection in the Church of God that her guidance should suffice for law, they stupidly imagine her to be such as she never can be found in the community of men.”[75]

Given the choice of co-existence or co-operation between Church and State, Calvin chose the latter. But co-operation sometimes evolves into conflict. Hence the next question is, What happens when the Church and the State have irreconcilable differences—e.g., when the king becomes a tyrant?

Though the question of authority between the two institutions (as discussed above) was subject to a degree of inevitable opacity, the question of obedience was not. Writes Calvin: “If we constantly keep before our eyes and minds the fact that even the most iniquitous kings are appointed by the same decree which establishes all regal authority, we will never entertain the seditious thought, that a king is to be treated according to his deserts, and that we are not bound to act the part of good subjects to him who does not in his turn act the part of a king to us.”[76] We must not suppose, then, that obedience to the magistrate may simply be fear or resignation to the necessity of government: “The obedience which…[the pious] yield is rendered to God himself, inasmuch as their power is from God.”[77] In a word, it is the duty of the people (1) to reverence them “as the ministers and ambassadors of God.” (2) to “prove our obedience to them, whether in complying with edicts, or in paying tribute, or in undertaking public offices and burdens, which relate to the common defense, or in executing any other orders,” and (3) to pray for their success in performing God’s will.[78]

The only exception to this injunction to almost total obedience, and a mandatory exception for the pious, is when the magistrate commands us to do something that is against the will of God (contra legem Dei). In this case we are called to passive disobedience, regardless of the consequences.[79] “We are subject to the men who rule over us, but subject only in the Lord. If they command anything against him, let us not pay the least regard to it, nor be moved by all the dignity which they possess as magistrates—a dignity to which no injury is done when it is subordinated to the special and truly supreme power of God.”[80] To do otherwise would be a denial of God’s sovereignty; we would be acting “as if the Lord has resigned his own rights to mortals by appointing them to rule over their fellows, or as if earthly power were diminished when it is subjected to its author, before whom even the principalities of heaven tremble as suppliants.”[81]

The only action, therefore, which the private individual can take against tyranny is to disobey commands that are counter to God’s will and “implore the help of the Lord, in whose hands are the hearts of kings and inclinations of kingdoms.”[82] Beyond this the tyrant will only be deposed when God smites the person directly or deposes him through the agency of other appropriate men—but not “private men.”[83]

Although the discussion has so far been heavily skewed toward an examination of the Church and the State, it would he misleading to leave the impression that Calvin would have the Christian focus his attention primarily upon the government of these two institutions. No advocate of plebiscitory democracy, Calvin admonished: “Since the duty of all is not to look behind them, that is, not to inquire into the duties of one another, but to submit each to his own duty, this ought especially to be exemplified in the case of those who are placed under the power of others.”[84] We have only chosen to examine the Church and the State insofar as these institutions pertain to all Christians, regardless of their unique stations in life, and because the same principles of mediation apply to all other imaginable situations where one might be called to rule or to obey. For those that wield authority: “…if they remember that they are the vicegerents of God, it behoves them to watch with all care, diligence, and industry, that they may in themselves exhibit a kind of image of the Divine Providence, guardianship, goodness, benevolence. and justice.”[85] And for those of use who are subject to others: “…we are to look up to those whom the Lord has set over us, yielding them honour, gratitude, and obedience.”[86]

Notes

1. Thomas Cumming Hall, Three Addresses Delivered by Professors in Union Theological Seminary, (New York: Union Theological Seminary, 1909), p. 47.
2. This and other allusions to “philosophers” in the immediate context refer to those who are only philosophers. It must be stressed that Calvin was no obscurantist; indeed, he was in many ways a humanist (cf. the section in this chapter, below, dealing with man’s depravity).
3. “The Heidelberg Catechism,” trans. Dr. Gerhart et al., in The Creeds of Christendom, vol. 3: The Evangelical Protestant Creeds, ed. Philip Schaff (New York: Harper and Bros., 1877), pp. 307f. Italics added.
4. John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2 vols., trans. Henry Beveridge (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1966), 1, 16, 1.
5. Ibid., 1, 2, 1.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid., 1. 17, 2. A word should be added here about the relationship between God’s will and man’s, as Calvin sees it. Far from emphasizing God’s sovereignty at the expense of man’s responsibility, he stresses the simultaneous actions of each. Even in his chapters which deal explicitly with Divine Providence (1.16 to 18.) he affirms both realities with the same force. Thus their relationship is fundamentally paradoxical. The best illustration of this viewpoint is supplied in his analogy about the effect of the sun upon a decomposing body; the sun is not responsible, but it is necesssary (1, 17, 5). The paradox is further illustrated by numerous biblical events—such as Judas’ sinful betrayal of Christ in the context of God’s holy plan of salvation. Calvin rejected any attempts to flatten out this paradox, whether by eliminating either the divine or the human role or by regarding them as alternating functions on a continuum with God’s sovereignty on one end and man’s responsibility on the other. From this we must conclude that any suggestions that Calvin stresses divine at the expense of human activity merely reveal a preference for a viewpoint other than his essentially paradoxical one.
9. Ibid., 1, 17. 7.
10. Ibid., 1, 17, 8.
11. This thought is impressed upon the catechumen in the first question of the Westminster Shorter Catechism: Q. What is the chief end of man? A. Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.
12. The distinction between these two kingdoms is found especially in the following of Luther’s treatises: The Freedom of a Christian, On the Papacy in Rome Against the Celebrated Romanist in Leipzig, and To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation Concerning the Reform of the Christian State.
13. This and other allusions to the Anabaptists refer (unless so stated) primarily to the Swiss Brethren rather than the Spiritualists (e.g., the Münsterites and the followers of such firebrands as Thomas Müntzer). The latter, however historically interesting, did not really develop into a tradition that can be used for purposes of long-range comparison. The most useful consensus of the social and theological beliefs of the Swiss Brethren is found in the seven articles of the Schleitheim Confession of Faith (1527).
14. One of the more notorious examples of this occurred during the Great Schism (1378–1417) when the three competing popes—each claiming the plenitudo potestatis ecclesiae-simultaneously excommunicated all of Europe. Another example, which has clearer social implications, took place when Pope Pius IX forbade Catholics to participate in Italian politics following the unification of Italy in 1861. This self-imposed disenfranchisement—so similar to the Anabaptist policy of separation—lasted until the Lateran Treaty of 1929.
15. R. H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (London: Harcourt, Brace and Co., Mentor Books, 1955), p. 91.
16. Calvin, in the “Prefatory Address” to Francis I, Institutes, Eerdmans edition, vol. 1, p. 6.
17. Institutes 1, 2, 19.
18. This is especially evident in the Reformed response to Pelagianism; see n. 20 below.
19. The Five Arminian Articles, Article IV, in Schaff,s Creeds of Christendom, vol. 3.
20. Both Calvin and several of the Reformed creeds very forcefully condemn Pelagianism: Institutes 2, 1, 5.; The Second Helvetic Confession, ch. VIII, 7 and ch. IX, 12; The Gallican Confession, Art. 10; The Thirty-nine Articles, Art. 9; and the Canons of Dort, Art. 2. And Pelagianism is condemned indirectly (i.e., not by name) in several other Reformed symbols: The Heidelberg Catechism, Question 8; the Westminster Confession, ch. VI, and the Westminster Shorter Catechism, Qwstions 13–20.
21. Observe the lesson taught by Question Eight of the Heidelberg Catechism: “But are we so far depraved that we are wholly unapt to any good, and prone to all evil? Yes; unless we are born again by the Spirit of God.” Schaff, Creeds of Christendom, 3:310.
22. Cf. the second book of Lombard’s Sententiarum libri quattuor, where he deals with the Creation and Sin.
23. B. A. Gerrish’s Grace and Reason includes an especially helpful discussion—entitled “Luther Against Scholasticism”—of the tensions between Luther and Gabriel Biel. The same tensions would also exist between Biel and the Reformed theologians, although Calvin’s favorite target was Lombard.
24. Institutes 2, 2, 6.
25. Ibid., 2, 1. 8.
26. Ibid., 2, 2, 13.
27. Ibid., 2, 2, 15.
28. Ibid., 2, 2, 16.
29. Ibid., 2, 2, 13. Likewise, the Gallican Confession holds that although man “can still discern good and evil, we say, notwithstanding, that the light he has becomes darkness when he seeks for God, so that he can in no wise approach him by his intelligence and reason.” Article VI, in Schaff’s Creeds of Christendom, 3:365.
30. Ibid.,2, 2, 12.
31. Ibid.
32. Interpreting Calvin on this point has not been without controversy. It is, in fact, the issue that brought Karl Barth and Emil Brunner to blows in the 1930s (See: Emil Brunner and Karl Barth, Natural Theology, translated by Peter Fraenkel; London: Bles, 1946). Brunner argued that Calvin recognized a point of contact (Anknüpfungspunkt) between God and man which permitted some sort of natural theology (See Natural Theology, pp. 35-50). Barth contended (in his famous and furious Nein!) that while this was true in principle, Calvin consistently interjected the qualifying phrase: “if Adam had remained upright” (see Natural Theology, pp. 109-10).
33. Ibid., 1, 6, 1.
34. Schaff, Creeds of Christendom, 3:362.
35. B. A. Gerrish, “Biblical Authority and the Continental Reformation,” The Scottish Journal of Theology 10 (December 1957), 347.
36. Ibid.
37. Institutes 1, 7, 1.
38. Ibid. 1, 7, 4.
39. Ibid., 1, 7, 5.
40. The Westminster Confession 1, 9–10., in Schaff’s Creeds of Christendom, 3:605, 6.
41. Institutes 1, 9, 1.
42. Ibid., 1, 9, 2.
43. Ibid., 1, 9, 3.
44. Pelikan, Luther’s Works, 35:118.
45. T. D. Parker, “Interpretation of Scripture. I. Comparison of Calvin and Luther on Galatians,” Interpretation 17 (1963): 74.
46. Gerrish, op. cit., p. 349.
47. Institutes 3, 21, 4.
48. Ibid., 1, 1, 1.
49. Calvin describes this dual form of mediation as follows: “In man government is twofold: the one spiritual, by which conscience is trained to piety and divine worship; the other civil, by which the individual is instructed in those duties which, as men and citizens, we are bound to perform…. The former has its seat within the soul, the latter only regulates the external conduct. We may call the one spiritual, the other the civil kingdom…. For there exists in man a kind of two worlds, over which different kings and different laws can preside” (Institutes 4, 19, 15.). The same distinction is given expression in the Reformed symbols, most explicitly in the Gallican Confession, the second last paragraph of the introductory note to King Charles IX [Schaff, The Creeds of Christendom, 3:359]; and the Westminster Confession, ch. 19, art. 7.
50. Institutes 3, 11, 10.
51. Ibid., 2, 12, 2.
52. Ibid., 3, 2, 7. Calvin warns against making a commodity of faith: “I admit not the tortuous figure of the sophist, that faith is Christ; as if a vessel of clay were a treasure, because gold is deposited, in it….I say, therefore, that faith, which is only the instrument for receiving justification, is ignorantly confounded with Christ, who is the material cause, as well as the author and minister of this great blessing” (Ibid., 3, 11, 7.).
53. Ibid., 3, 11, 10.
54. Ibid., 3, 11, 1.
55. Ibid., 3, 19, 15.
56. See, for example, Luther’s Commentaries on Galatians, particularly the definitive edition of 1531.
57. Institutes 2, 7, 12. The Westminster Confession, almost a century later, seems to be confronting Luther directly on this point. After indicating that we are powerless to do good works without the Spirit of Christ, it adds that believers “are not hereupon to grow negligent, as if they were not bound to perform any duty unless upon a special motion of the Spirit; but they ought to be diligent in stirring up the grace of God that is in them” (ch. 16, art. 3).
58. The Decalogue is incorporated into Luther’s Larger and Smaller Catechisms and discussed in A Brief Explanation of the Ten Commandments, the Creed and the Lord’s Supper (1520). The most helpful presentation of the exact use to be made of the Law is in his treatise, of 1520, On Good Works. Within Lutheranism as a whole, a new direction can be seen beginning with the Augsburg Confession (1530); here we find that Luther’s quellende Liebe yields to some extent to Melanchthon’s imperatives.
59. See Luther’s treatise, of 1520, On the Ministry.
60. Institutes 4, 1, 5.
61. Ibid., 4, 12, 1. This emphasis on church discipline is echoed throughout the Reformed churches, well beyond the geographical boundaries of Geneva. Cf. The Second Confession 18.20; The Heidelberg Catechism, Question 104; The Gallican Confession, Arts. 25, 32, and 33; The Thirty-Nine Articles, Art. 34; The Westminster Confession 16, 3; 19; 25, 3; 29, 8; and 30.
62. Institutes 4, 11, 2. See also: The Heidelberg Catechism, Question 85; The Gallican Confession, Art. 33, and The Westminster Confession 29, 8 and 30, 4.
63. Institutes 4, 17, 10.
64. Ibid., 4, 12, 5.
65. This question becomes especially hard to answer in that Calvin seems to go one way in one context and a different way in another. While discussing the marks of the true Church in 4, 1, 9., he says: “Whenever we see the Word of God sincerely preached and heard, wherever we see the sacraments administered according to the institutes of Christ, there we cannot have any doubt that the Church of God has some existence….” But, while enumerating the essential marks of the episcopal office in 4, 7, 23., he adds another: “The third is to admonish and exhort, to correct those who are in fault, and restrain the people by holy discipline.” If there is a key to understanding this apparent inconsistency, perhaps it lies in the sentence preceding the threefold marks of a bishop: “I am not now speaking of the people but of the government of the Church.”
66. See Luther’s treatise On Secular Authority.
67. Luther’s early congregational views provide for a—de facto, if not de jure—visible and autonomous Church (see his treatise Concerning the Ministry [1523]). But within a short period of time Luther conceded to Elector John of Saxony the principle of jus espiscopole, whereby the prince oversaw the spiritual and physical health of th churches within his province (see his Instructions for the Visitors of Parish Pastors in Electoral Saxony [1526]). His doing so had the effect of ratifying the political compromise reached at the Diet of Speier in 1526. Catholic-Protestant tensions were eased in accordance with principle cuius regio, eius religio, whereby the religion of the prince became the religion of the respective territory (Land).
68. Martin Luther, “Temporal Authority: to What extent it Ought to be Obeyed,” in Luther’s Works, edited by Jaroslav Pelikan (Yale: Yale University Press), 45:105.
69. Calvin summarizes the mutual purposes of these two spheres: “As we lately taught that that kind of government is distinct from the spiritual and internal kingdom of Christ, so we ought to know that they are not adverse to each other. The former, in some measure, begins the heavenly kingdom in us, even now upon earth, and in this mortal and evanescent life commences immortal and incorruptible blessedness, while to the latter it is assigned, so long as we live among men, to foster and maintain the external worship of God, to defend sound doctrine and the condition of the Church, to adapt our conduct to human society, to form our manners to civil justice, to conciliate us to each other, to cherish common peace and tranquility” (Institutes 4, 20, 2.).
70. Calvin diplomatically refrained from explicitly saying this in his Institutes, which he dedicated to the Catholic King of France, Francis I. The message is nevertheless deducible from the Institutes: Civil law is to be based upon God’s Word (4, 20, 14–16.), and God’s Word should be interpreted, when necessary, with the assistance of his chosen teachers (4, 1, 5.). That this is Calvin’s view of things is corroborated by his Commentaries on the Prophet Ezekiel (Calvin Translation Society, 1: 348): “…the Prophet shows that however eminent are those who are endued with power over the people, yet they are not sacred people or absolved from all law by peculiar privilege, since God freely judges them by his Spirit and reproves them by his prophets.”
71. In Scotland, John Knox and his fellow reformers were heavily outweighed by the State. In France, the Reformed view of Church and State was disastrous for the Calvinists. Their church could not be given the status of a religio licita because it was seen by the Catholic authorities as clearly seditious. It was apparent that the Huguenot presence as a church promised a Huguenot presence within the State. Only in Puritan New England did the balance shift as favorably toward the Church as it had in Geneva, and of course this was merely the result of the short-lived success of the Calvinist model in old England.
72. Institutes 4, 20, 2.
73. See The Schleitheim Confession, Art. 6.
74. Institutes 4, 20, 2.
75. Ibid.
76. Ibid., 4, 20, 27.
77. Ibid., 4, 20, 22.
78. Ibid., 4, 20, 23.
79. Ibid., 4, 20, 32.
80. Ibid.
81. Ibid.
82. Ibid., 4, 20, 29.
83. Ibid., 4, 20, 30–31.
84. Ibid., 4, 20, 29.
85. Ibid., 4, 20, 6.
86. Ibid., 2, 8, 35.