Calvinist Confessions, 4

Author: Thabiti Anyabwile

I am a Calvinist. I love the glorious truths of God revealed in His word. I praise God for His mighty works in creation, redemption, and providence. I live, I trust, for the glory of God in all things.

I am a Pharisee. I shouldn’t be. How can anyone claiming to be a Calvinist living for the glory of God also be a peevish, joyless, and fearful little Pharisee? It’s a shame. But I’m a Calvinist and I’m a Pharisee.

Narrowness for the letter and not the spirit, suspicion of joy, and fear are not the only things that make it possible for me to be a Calvinist and a Pharisee. There is a fourth reason why these two things blend together more often than they should, and why they blend together in my heart. Anger.

I’m an angry man. I don’t want to project on anyone else. This is about my heart. But I think there’s a lot of anger among us “Reformed” types. So much so, some of us–let me just say I–need to be sent to reform school. No I don’t mean Westminster or some place in Scotland. I mean we need to be sent to a school that helps us deal with our anger, that makes us “positive members of society.” We need help. I need help with my anger.

You don’t believe it? I have one word for you. “Blogs.” That’s exhibit A for the rampant anger in Reformed circles. What a naked display of raw and random anger splattered across the virtual world landing on anyone with a keypad.

I’ve had my part in that. Oh, you couldn’t tell? Or only occasionally? You see, really, more problematic than the displays on blogs is the respectable anger I nurse. I’m not given to loud outbursts. If that happens, we’re at Defcon 1. We don’t go there. We try never to use the red phone.

But beneath the poker face lives a small volcano regularly seeping lava over the lip of its opening. That’s in the heart. While on the outside… the slightly reserved and seemingly dispassionate face of the Pharisee.
Anger comes in many colors. There is red magma of violent outburst. As I said, that’s not my style as a Pharisee. Resentment is a kind of anger. It’s the warm orange anger that comes from the blend of disappointment, self-righteousness, and entitlement. The anger of stinging words wrapped in religious jargon. There is the parakeet yellow of angry backbiting and gossip, tale bearing and kindling strife. James tells us this is murderous. There is the green of jealousy and evil eyes. There is also the swooshing blue of those who run when angry. That’s the flight response. There is the indigo of depression, which is sometimes a symptom of deeper anger. Next is the violet of grudges and “silent treatments.” Then there is the icy white of “cold war” anger. Violet is close to “cold war,” except “cold war” arms itself for more serious retaliation. I’m a good Pharisee. I think I hang out somewhere between violet and orange, silent anger and resentment with occasional depressive moods. Any of these sound familiar?

Of course, resentments and silent treatments are the preferred combination because it maintains the semblance of respectability. I am, after all, a Pharisee. I’m wearing expensive robes, long tassels, wide phylacteries, and I sit in the best seat in the house, where I may be seen.

I know there is such a thing as righteous indignation. I know we’re to be angry and not sin, neither let the sun set on our wrath. But the Pharisee that I am has lost count of the sunsets. And isn’t there a difference between righteous indignation and being indignant because our “rights” have been trampled? Too often, I don’t always see that difference. That’s what makes me a Pharisee. That’s what makes me angry.



As a Pharisee, I know it’s not polite to talk about anger. Even now, there’s the sense that admitting anger is unpleasant. Respectable people don’t get angry. They’re cucumber cool, calm, and collected. But Pharisee-ism is about wearing masks that hide inner realities. It’s about pretension and show, being seen and applauded by men. There’s no way to stroke that beast without becoming victim to it. The voice in my head screams, Don’t tell on us! Don’t remove the mask! But the High and Lofty One says, “I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite” (Is. 57:15).

If the truth were told, I’ve been angry for a long time. I’ve been angry about a lot of things and angry about nothing in particular. I grew up in an angry-sounding house. With eight children, somebody somewhere was always angry. I was angry when my father left the family. I was angry when arrested as a teenager. I was angry with “friends” who distanced themselves after my arrest. I’ve been angry about all the “racial” mistreatment I’ve experienced. Then I was angry that so many people denied it. I was angry as a Muslim. I played basketball angry–but we called it “intensity.” I’ve been influenced at points in my life by angry men, some of them prominent political and historical figures. Worked for a while in state government, where many of the longest-serving people were simply masters of anger. That patient, slow boil, I’ll-out-live-and-out-scheme-you-because-I’m-a-civil-servant-and-you-can’t-fire-me anger.

Would you be surprised if I told you that somewhere along the way, Anger became a companion? Not the kind I’d walk with in public. Most of the public can’t handle angry black men. I’m angry about that, too. Instead, Anger became a secret confidant. The friend I’d call up when threatened. The friend most ready to reassure me when I felt inadequate or insecure. The friend that kept others at a distance or bullied them into submission. A body guard of sorts. I could control Anger; summon him at will. I could justify Anger. Someone did this or someone did that. This was threatened or that injustice committed. Something had to be done. I had to strike back. Pharisee.

There is such a thing as righteous indignation. Absolutely. We must oppose injustice, of course, because God uses means. Pharisee.

God uses means, not mean people.

God is sovereign. He even uses mean people. Of course he does. Pharisee.

But is that justification for your anger? The anger of man does not work the righteousness of God.

You can control your anger. Everyone gets angry. ‘Tis true. Pharisee.

Wouldn’t it be more godly to conquer your anger rather than coddle it?

I’m aware of the conquering presence of God’s Spirit in my life. When the Lord saved me, one of the things He graciously did was rid me of so much anger. He freed me from so much bitterness and even hatred. It’s one Ebenezer I raise in remembrance of God’s gracious redemption. Yet, sanctification is progressive. He’s still working. And the Pharisee is kicking and screaming, “Leave me this little anger! Let me hold onto this grudge, this charge, this resentment!” Old friends tend to stick around the longest. They’re often the most difficult to ditch.

But I’m reminded of another Calvinist Pharisee (speaking anachronistically, of course) who did battle with his Pharisaical anger. He writes to me: “In this [new birth, coming salvation] you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith–of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire–may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed” (1 Pet. 1:6-7). What is greater than the trials of this Pharisee’s anger? The glories and power of my God’s salvation.

Oh Lord whose anger is holy and righteous, make us more aware of and dependent upon the great power of your salvation. Nail afresh the sin of my anger to the cross of your wrath, that I might be freed from its power, pull, and guilt. We need Thee every hour. Amen.

Calvinist Confessions 3

Thabiti Anyabwile



I am a Calvinist. And I am a Pharisee. Apparently, there are others like me.

As a “Calvinist,” I treasure the Bible’s truths about the glory of God and Christ; the good, wise and sovereign rule of God in all things; the efficacy of God’s electing grace and Jesus’ definite atonement; the hope that comes from God’s preservation and the call to perseverance; the present and coming-more-fully kingdom of Christ where righteousness reigns; and the promised share of His glory we’ll experience in the consummation. I treasure these things, as I know a lot of people do.

But I’m also a Pharisee. I tend toward a kind of care for detail and precision, toward “getting things right,” that undermines catholicity and charity (see here). As a Pharisee, I also find myself suspicious of a lot of things, including joy (see here). Tight and sober. Suspicious and narrow. Pharisee.

Most of my Calvinist friends maintain that of all Christians Calvinists should be the most joyful and the most humble. We should be. We’re not. I’m not. Let me not project.

Merely analyzing the truth doesn’t make us humble. Neither does merely being suspicious make us safe with the truth. Pharisees think analyzing and suspecting are enough. And so, in time, the Pharisee’s life becomes almost entirely negative. It’s negative in attitude. But it’s negative also because it’s negating; it’s a “contra-” life, a life a being against things.

But we have to defend against error. We have to guard the truth. We must protect the gospel. I know. I know. Pharisee.

There’s something else that makes me a Pharisee. It underlies most of the other things that turn celebrants of Truth into gnat-straining Pharisees. Here’s the third reason I’m a Pharisee and Calvinist, or, another reason why those two things happen together far more often than they should. The Pharisee in the Calvinist… is afraid. Fear loiters in his heart and mind like a senior feeding pigeons in Central Park.

The Pharisee lives with a chronic fear. That’s why the Reformed types are so often the ‘chicken littles’ of the Christian world–running everywhere, writing everywhere, screaming everywhere, “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” And even when we’re not as manic as that, we’re quietly, respectfully afraid. Just like the Pharisees of old.

We’re afraid someone will take our place–the “others” who don’t believe this, who don’t practice that, or worse, who do practice that! Not them! We’re afraid the church will be weakened and corrupted, that tares will grow up with the wheat. We’re afraid our own hollow spiritual lives will be discovered. We’re afraid our children won’t be believers or won’t do well in school (and we’re more afraid of the latter than the former). We’re afraid the culture is going to get worse and overrun the church. We’re afraid of men’s faces.

Fear, fear, fear. Everywhere there is fear.

But didn’t Jesus say the wheat and tare would grow together? Didn’t He say the love of many would grow cold? Didn’t the Savior say there would be wolves and false Christs and deceivers? Of course He did. But the Pharisee says in his heart, “Yes, Lord. Of course, you’re right. I believe that. Let me just remove this one little tare or patch of tares over here.” The Pharisee is not only afraid, he’s also blind. I can’t tell the wheat from the tares; the Lord’s angels will one day stick the sickle in the harvest to reap. But I don’t remember that because we’re afraid.

Then the Pharisee speaks: “But what if that takes too long? What if bad things happen in the meantime? What if… what if… what if….” Pharisee.

Pick an issue. My first response is fear, not faith. I don’t call it “fear”; I call it “concern.” That’s more respectable. And who is respectable if not the Pharisee. And even when I do call it “fear,” I pretend I mean something other than being afraid. Gotta keep my head up; I’m a Pharisee.

And this is why Pharisaical tendencies make us such bad Calvinists (by which I mean Christians, though not as if Calvinists are the only Christians). The scared little Pharisee in me is a practical atheist. He acts as though the truth I know about God really isn’t at work. And it’s a nasty little cycle. My fear that God won’t act–at least how I want Him to act–causes me to act in my own wisdom or strength. Which then makes me afraid all the more. And so it goes until I’m wrapped and squeezed by an Anaconda of fear. The Pharisee.

Before I was a Calvinist, I suppose you could call me a semi-Pelagian, Arminian, dispensationalist. I suppose. I didn’t have the labels then, but that’s a fair sense of how I thought and acted. Not everyone wearing those labels thought this way, but I acted as though everything depended on me. My action in the world was the determining factor–whether that meant I had to be especially insightful and convincing in something like evangelism or Johnny wouldn’t “get saved,” or whether I had to “keep myself saved” in some way. My theology was bad. And my chief fear then was, what if I fail.

Then I discovered this mighty God on whom the governance of the universe rests. He was pleased to use means–human and otherwise–but He was the One ruling and guaranteeing the success of His will. How liberating that was! So I was freed from the fears associated with my performance.

But I wasn’t freed from being a Pharisee. I just chose other fears. Excuse me, other “concerns.” The kind of concerns that keep me employed as a Pharisee for as long as I would like, because, let’s face it, there’s no shortage of things to be “concerned” about. I can point out problems everywhere. I’m a Pharisee.


But the problem with Pharisees is they feel their fear and they fail to do anything constructive.

So I am “concerned” and not serving. I am afraid and not loving. I am “aghast” rather than empathetic. I am “hesitant” rather than enthusiastic. I am “alarmed” rather than steadfast. I’m an expert in fear and its synonyms. I can think of seventeen synonyms right now.

But how many synonyms for “grace” or “trust” can I count? Pharisee. How many can you count?

I am a Pharisee. Hear me roar–in fear.

In the end, the Pharisee is a silly man, a silly contradiction to the Calvinist. Fear? Really? Look upon Jesus the King you silly little man! Look to the Lord of glory!

What is this new fad you’re up in arms about? What is this new “movement” causing your temperature to rise? What is this weakness in your life and your church making your shoulders tense? What threat over the horizon really is a threat to the Risen King and Ruler of All Creation who defeated death, pushed back the grave, and promised that the gates of hell would not prevail against His church?

Why are you afraid, O my soul? Why are you timorous, O my soul? My soul, I will look to the Lord who counsels “Be not afraid for I am with you.”

I am a Calvinist, and I am an afraid Pharisee. I shouldn’t be. What I need is a fresh glimpse of Jesus. The One I need to fear is God alone.

I’m reminded of another Calvinist (speaking anachronistically, of course) who faced fears and terror everywhere–real ones. But he glimpsed Jesus. And he spoke, “And now, O Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all his ways, to love him, to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and to observe the Lord’s commands and decrees that I am giving you today for your own good?” (Deut. 10:12-13)

O, Father, grant that perfect love would cast out all fear as we live for you and reverence your holy Name.