SCROOGE BEFORE CHRISTMAS — A KIND WORD ABOUT CALVINISM

Charles Dickens never set out to write a theological treatise—yet A Christmas Carol has done more to shape the moral imagination of the Western world than many systematic theologies. And in Ebenezer Scrooge, before grace breaks in, we see something strikingly familiar: a man who believes the world is divided, fixed, and finally sorted—and that he himself stands justified in withholding mercy.

Scrooge before his conversion would have made a fine Calvinist—at least in spirit, if not in confession.

He believes some people are meant to thrive and others are meant to perish. “If they would rather die,” he says of the poor, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” The lines are drawn. The categories are set. The outcome feels inevitable. What is, simply is—and Scrooge feels no obligation to love beyond what he deems fitting.

That, in caricature, is the great weakness of Calvinism—not that it denies grace, but that it often confines it. Grace becomes selective, rationed, privately administered behind a curtain of decrees. God, we are told, loves—but not everyone in the same way, not with the same intent, not toward the same end.

Yet the Gospel insists on something far more scandalous.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16).

Not the “elect” world. Not the “secretly chosen.” The world—messy, sinful, undeserving, and loved.

Scrooge’s conversion is not merely emotional; it is theological. He awakens to a universe no longer governed by cold necessity but by overflowing mercy. He discovers that generosity does not violate justice—it fulfills it. Love, once given freely, multiplies rather than diminishes.

Calvinism often assures us that God is glorified by control. Dickens suggests something truer: God is glorified by restoration.

The ghosts do not lecture Scrooge on decrees. They show him faces. Names. Tears. Laughter. The past he cannot undo, the present he is neglecting, and the future that need not be. Grace confronts him not as an abstract system, but as a living appeal.

“Do I have no refuge or resource?” Scrooge cries. And the answer is not a secret election—it is repentance.

The Gospel never presents salvation as a locked ledger already balanced before we arrive. Instead, it sounds like an invitation:

“Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why should you die?” (Ezekiel 33:11).

And again: “God our Savior…desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:3-4).

And again: “The Lord is…not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9).

Calvinism, at its most rigid, risks turning God into a cosmic Scrooge—generous to a few, unmoved by the many, satisfied with outcomes rather than hearts.

Dickens will have none of it.

Neither will Christmas.

After his conversion, Scrooge does not ask who deserves kindness. He becomes kindness. He does not inquire whether Tiny Tim is elect; he buys the goose. He does not speculate about destiny; he joins the feast.

He embodies what the Apostle Paul declared long before Dickens put pen to paper:

“Love suffers long and is kind…love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:4, 8).

And that is the quiet silliness of Calvinism—it explains away the very love it claims to exalt.

The Gospel does not. The Gospel dares to say that God loves sinners before they change, invites them while they are still lost, and rejoices when even one turns and lives (Luke 15:7).

Scrooge wakes on Christmas morning to discover that the world is not smaller than he thought—it is larger.

And so is God.

BDD