Calvinist stan

In 2015, I told my husband that I was officially joining the Buffalo Bills fanbase, otherwise known as Bills Mafia. He knew what I was in for, having been born in Western New York, and warned me, “They’ll break your heart.”

But that’s the cost of being a fan of literally anything.

Once you decide that you care about something, you have given that thing the power to make your life better or worse.

While I will always believe the Buffalo Bills are intrinsically more special and magical than any other team, I acknowledge that every fanbase thinks that about their team. And if they don’t, they should. The Bills are both the wind beneath my wings, and the Bermuda triangle that engulfs my hopes and dreams.

But that’s the life of a fan. Or, a stan. Which I learned today is a reference to an old Eminem song? Sorry, rap, about an obsessive Shady fanatic named Stan. And now people use it colloquially. Like, “I stan Garfield. He is a hilarious cartoon cat.” I know, it’s crazy that Garfield has stans, but he does for some reason.

For a while, I was a stan of Calvinism. Ever heard of it? Perhaps the most reviled sect of Christianity, it’s practically spat as an insult, or at least an accusation.

If you’re not familiar with it, Calvinism refers to a set of doctrines popularized by the 16th century French theologian John Calvin, though they stretch back much further in church history. At its most basic, Calvinism insists upon the ultimate sovereignty of God in the universe, including personal salvation. This means that God chooses whom He will save, and whom He will not. So that’s why it’s unpopular.

Now, when I say “I was a stan of Calvinism” I don’t mean “I was an adherent.” I’m still an adherent of Calvinism. I mean that I was part of the zealous fanbase.

I followed the right accounts on Instagram and I listened to the right podcasts. I laughed at the memes. I fangirled over Puritan theologians. I even bought merch — books (of which I’ve actually read a few), artwork, apparel.

Because that’s what you do when you’re a fan. You represent. You want people to know that you’re hanging with the right crew.

And that’s when I started to realize I had wandered into a trap.

Why was I doing this?

I was scrolling through an online store that specialized in Calvinist merch — shirts that read “Tulip Girl,” or “Simul Justus et Peccator” prettily scrawled in calligraphy. Man, I wanted those. Not really the Tulip Girl one. That was a little much.

But the epiphany came when I considered buying a shirt with the words “δοῦλος Χριστοῦ.”

It’s Greek for “Slave of Christ.” It’s a phrase that you’ll find all over the New Testament, and I love it. It’s a description of who I am, of Whose I am. For a Christian, it’s beautiful.

But it’s in Greek.

If I spent fifty bucks on that cool shirt, I would feel like I was representing my faith, but nobody would understand it. Plus I’d be out fifty bucks.

The reason I wanted that shirt was that I wanted to feel like I belonged to the right group. And that’s not a good thing when you’re a Christian. We don’t get to pick favorites or have teams. This doesn’t mean we can’t have diverse opinions, but it does mean we should be able to learn from anyone in the Body of Christ. We should be able to rejoice whenever someone faithfully preaches God’s Word.

So let no one boast in men. For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future—all are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s. 1 Corinthians 3:21-23

I’m a cessationist Reformed Baptist. This means I can happily listen to a pastor from the Assemblies of God explaining penal substitutionary atonement, or a Presbyterian minister preaching about the immutability of God. I can listen to a confessional Lutheran explaining Christophanies in the Old Testament, or to an Anglican declaring the riches of Christ’s imputed righteousness.

All are mine.

I love the doctrine of God’s sovereignty. As Charles Spurgeon remarked, it is the soft pillow I rest my head on at night. And I love getting to nerd out about it with other Christians who cherish it as much as I do. They’re my people.

But Christians who aren’t Calvinist are my people, too. I think they’re wrong, and they think I’m wrong right back. But we’re a family. Christ’s family. And if we really want to nerd out, there’s nothing better than a good-faith debate between brothers and sisters.

We’re not the Chiefs vs. the Bills, where one side is clearly evil.

It’s not about R.C. Sproul vs. Billy Graham. It’s not about our guys vs. theirs. Christ has saved all of us, so we’re on the same team.

If I get to heaven and find out I was wrong about Calvinism, it’s not going to break my heart.

I’ll leave that for the Bills.

…But like, really — this is our year. Bills by a billion, baby.