It is very awkward to begin an essay with an apology, especially when one doesn’t really mean it. Nevertheless, please accept my reluctant regrets for writing a hagiography on a papist…. yes, a papist. Rome and Geneva have long been at odds, and it may understandably seem awkward to the reader to see a Genevan journal praising a Roman author. Yet Chesterton, the object of this hagiography, is known for his paradoxes, and by the end of this essay we hope we follow his example and unravel this seeming contradiction.

Once upon a time there lived a man who was alive. This childish and apparent understatement best sums up the life and philosophy of Gilbert Keith Chesterton, a man who embraced life while surrounded by a decaying society. Born in the spring of 1874, the young Chesterton was brought up in the culture known as Britain. It is one thing to be born on the isle of Britain, it is wholly another to be steeped in its culture, as was Chesterton the youth. And throughout his life, Chesterton always had two feet firmly planted on English soil, though all around an earthquake was shaking its foundations. This earthquake was modernism. And this modernism was dramatically changing the landscape of not only British, but all Western civilization. The intellectual world was overrun by agnostics, atheists, and skeptics of all sorts. Though the root goes back much further, we could safely argue that secularism first rose up in tidal wave proportions during the transition from the 19th to 20th century. Before this time, there had at least been a broad consensus of Christian morality and philosophy among Western nations. It was at this time the sun of Christendom set; the Modern Age had arisen.

Into such a time Chesterton struggled to find his way. With all these swirling changes and relentless paradigm shifts, the young Chesterton found himself dizzied and intoxicated by the ideal of “progress.” He wrote in his book Orthodoxy,

I freely confess all the idiotic ambitions of the end of the nineteenth century. I did, like all other solemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age. Like them I tried to be some ten minutes in advance of the truth. And I found that I was eighteen hundred years behind it.[1]

Finding himself in this very awkward position, the would-be modernist decided he must abandon the modern worldview for the worldview as old as creation. To be precise, two such worldview conversions mark the life of Chesterton: first to Anglicanism in 1902 and his subsequent conversion to Roman Catholicism twenty years later. Yet in a certain sense, his unfortunate counter-reformation in 1922 did not actually fundamentally alter Chesterton’s worldview. And that is why even Protestants, yea, even Calvinists, can drink deeply from his literary springs. As we shall find, Chesterton’s theme of the poetic life is very adaptable to Reformational theology, his own Roman dogma notwithstanding.

The foundation and primary theme of all Chesterton’s works is poeticism. In Heretics, he piercingly critiques various modernists for their very narrow worldview. Modernistic thought provincially believes that mankind can know all there is to know. Modernistic thought teaches that there is no such thing as mystery. However, when one of Chesterton’s worldview looks at the world, he sees a Creation full of wonder, majesty, and mystery. Far from being a dirty word, mysticism is a necessary component of Christianity. When we see the fleeting rainbow after the rain, it should remind us of the first rainbow, and the promise of redemption given in ancient times. When we observe a tree, we should think on its place in redemptive history. For a tree is not merely a thing with bark and leaves classified in the kingdom Plantae; a tree served as the wellspring of life in Eden and later, in the form of a cross, as the wellspring of eternal life in Golgotha. What was mundane has become mystical. And this is how Chesterton was more alive than this literary peers.

The scope of Chesterton’s work ranges from his examination of the ethics of cannibalism in Orthodoxy to his moral justification for burgling one’s own house in Manalive to his more serious defense of Christmas in Heretics. Each of these subjects requires a separate essay. For the present, however, we will restrain ourselves to the practical examination of how Chesterton’s poetic life-view can be of aid to those of us in the Reformed world. At first glance, it seems impossible for a Calvinist to look to Father Gilbert for guidance. Other than perhaps Thomas Jefferson, one could search long and hard before one would find someone who mentioned the word Calvinism as often and with so much contempt as Chesterton. He refers to “the bottomless pit of predestination.” He pities the race of Scots who were forced to “wear their blacks in a sort of endless funeral on an eternal Sabbath” by their Covenanter creed. He speaks of the Calvinist poet William Cowper, who was “damned [to insanity] by John Calvin.” The citations could continue indefinitely. It would not be too much of an exaggeration to assert that Chesterton is more brutal and acerbic in his diatribes against Calvinism than his masterful polemics against modernism. In his eyes, John Knox is certainly more of a demon than George Bernard Shaw.[2]

After admitting this rather damning evidence, one would have to empathize with any Calvinist who rose up immediately and declared Chesterton guilty on all counts. But one would also hope the Calvinist would refrain from this hasty judgment for the moment; there is more evidence yet to be presented by the defense. In truth, Calvinists should take a step back and ponder why Chesterton had such an aversion to the Reformation. If this is done, one will notice a consistent strain throughout the myriad slights against Reformed theology. This strain is an annoyance at the supposed unpoetic nature of Calvinism, its predestination, and its figureheads. He writes of those “driven mad by logic, by the ugly and alien logic of predestination.”[3] In Chesterton’s mind, Calvinism is the Christian parallel to modernism. Just as his main critique of modernism is that of its utter ugliness and pessimism, so his image of Calvinism is the endless funeral on an eternal Sabbath. He equated predestination with determinism because he supposed that it led to a fatalistic apathy and pessimism. He equated Calvin with Satan because he supposed that both wanted to damn a multitude of souls to eternal torment in hell. If his perceptions of the Reformed worldview are correct, can we really counter him? Yet, in order to show Chesterton’s perception wrong, we must work toward an effective counter-argument. Is Calvinism really so unpoetic, so modernistic, so pessimistic? Are all Calvinists, whether of the Puritan, Huguenot, Anglican, or Covenanter persuasion, so dour and severe as he imagines?

If one looks to history, Chesterton’s assessment falls apart. Chesterton may read with disgust of William Farel’s legendary call to Calvin, in which he proclaimed that the namesake of Calvinism would be cursed if he did not come to minister at the congregation of Geneva. Chesterton might say, What terrible coldness of heart and nerve did Farel possess to make him utter such an incredible statement? Yet one might turn the tables, for this calling is so much more poetic and mystical than the subdued and humdrum council of cardinals which every so once in a while gathers to elect the bishop of Rome. Here was a man who, like the Oracle at Delphi, foretold of blessing and cursing, and yet, unlike the pagan shrine, was completely unambiguous concerning the future. Here was Calvin, a mere theological student, called like Joan of Arc by a mysterious voice to perform the will of God, called to free his people from tyranny.

For good measure, we might then turn to the tragic fairy tale of Saint Bartholomew’s Eve. Here is a tragedy for the ages. The good king, friend to all Huguenots, was to be married. For a brief moment in time, the long-standing war between Calvinist and Catholic was halted by a truce, for all of France was to come to the wedding feast for a time of rejoicing. So thousands of Huguenots - noble leaders, middle-class artisans, and faithful peasants - traveled to the Catholic stronghold of Paris to join the festivities. On the evening before the feast day of Saint Bartholomew, the mobs of Paris rose up and slaughtered the sleeping Huguenots in their beds. The Calvinist warriors who had so courageously fought in the battles of the past now were dragged unarmed into the streets of the city to be slain. The wives and children of the warriors watched as their patriarchs were mercilessly killed and then were themselves taken, ravished, and butchered by the mob. What remained of the Calvinist remnant fled the persecution and still refused to convert to the Romanism which had held so many captive in tyranny. Some lived quietly in the outlying areas of France, living constantly under the threat that their faith might be exposed. Others fled to distant lands, faded into the foreign cultural tapestry, and became a forgotten people. Yet the memory of the tragic massacre at twilight so long ago was not forgotten by the remnant. Nor have their descendants forgotten.[4]

In these historical examples, our forefathers were the poetic heroes, and Chesterton’s idols were the dull anti-heroes. Calvin’s call is much more mystic in the Chestertonian sense than the pope’s. The Huguenots’ suffering embodies Chesterton’s ideals far more than the violent political power mongering of the papist mob. The legend and lore of Calvinism cannot fail to impress even the most apathetic student of religious history, as long as the student does not give in to the long-standing bias against the theology called Reformed. As Deborah Alcock wrote in The Romance of Protestantism, the Calvinist faith

is neither cold, nor negative, nor prosaic. While as for the characters it has formed and the deeds it has inspired - the courage, the endurance, the self-sacrifice, the faithfulness to heavenly and to earthly love - “Unroll the records,” search and read, and let them speak for themselves.[5]

Chesterton was not an apathetic student by any means. So how could he fail to see the glorious poeticism and romance of our Protestant faith?

How, indeed? How could a man of Chesterton’s intellect overlook the obvious virtues of Christendom’s most poetic and romantic movement? Sadly, this is the one point where Chesterton has Calvinists cornered, the one point where we must sit at his feet as a disciple. For we have truly failed in recent times to live as poetically as our forefathers. As Chesterton writes elsewhere, “all these things were given to you poetical. It is only by a long and elaborate process of literary effort that you have made them prosaic.” We have been given a poetic heritage, one of heart-ache and yet an indomitable spirit. Our heritage, however, has been ground into gray ashes, and the spirit is gone. Our life-view is now constrained to a textbook. And we therefore deserve all of Chesterton’s rebukes. Truthfully, he was more of a Huguenot than we pretend to be. He understood how Christianity encompasses and permeates life and exile better than we know how to pass a theology test.
As we mentioned before, Chesterton is known for his skill at explaining and defending the Christian paradox. And it is for this very reason that Calvinists, if we would only lay aside our prosaic worldview, can appreciate Chesterton more than those of other worldviews. Without drifting too far into revisionism, we might even say, in a restricted sense, that consistently romantic Calvinists are more Chestertonian than he was himself. How can this be? The answer is very simple. It is Romantic Calvinism which possesses the two seeming contradictions which, when interwoven, compose a wonderful and matchless harmony of worldview. On one hand, we have Calvin the matchless scholar; on the other hand, we have Calvin the mystic, who listened to the warning of Farel. Calvin was no guru who allowed his inner feelings to guide his ministerial calling, yet neither was he a rationalistic thinking-machine who trusted only his senses. Likewise, our belief in predestination should motivate us with a sense of destiny to action and optimism, knowing the hand of Providence is not idle.

And thus our paradox is unraveled. Only our theology leads to true poeticism; true poeticism leads only to our theology. So we can read into Chesterton’s poeticism and love of life our own theology. We can enjoy his work in a way complementary to him, and enriching to our theology. We could use a good heaping dose of Chesterton. And if we can swallow our pride and then take the medicine, we will be a healthier church.

Footnotes:
[1] G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2000), p. 172.
[2] Shaw and Chesterton were both philosophical enemies and personal friends. It is said that one day the rather rotund Chesterton greeted the rather gaunt Shaw by saying, “My dear sir, is there a famine in England and I didn’t even know it?” Shaw responded, “There certainly may be, and you would be the cause of it.”
[3] Chesterton, Orthodoxy, p. 178.
[4] This author is a direct descendant of Huguenots who fled from France during the persecution following the massacre on Saint Bartholomew’s Day.
[5] Deborah Alcock, The Romance of Protestantism (Alberta: Inheritance, 1999), p. 28.