Jessica Coblentz

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Scruples.  It is a silly-sounding world, and it describes what is possibly one of the most influential forces in Christian history.

Scruples literally means “an uneasy feeling arising from conscience or principle that tends to hinder action,” or “a doubt or hesitation as to what is morally right in a certain situation.”  In the context of religion, where I have most commonly encountered the the term, scruples describes the plaguing skepticism surrounding one’s eternal salvation, particularly as it relates to moral works.  Martin Luther, for instance, is said to have suffered from from a bad case of the scruples.  His struggle with scruples has been cited as a major impetus for some of the views that eventually led to the Protestant Reformation: because he was plagued by his perpetual inability to perfectly execute Christian moral teachings, he constantly worried that his moral imperfection would prevent him from attaining eternal salvation. Tortured by these scruples–this belief that one can never be assured of their salvation through moral works–Luther (along with a chorus of other Protestant Reformers) asserted that we are “justified” or “saved” by faith alone. (I must qualify that this is a very simple explanation for a really complicated moment in Christian history, but I hope you get my drift for the sake of my present aim).

You see, I have scruples. A different kind of scruples than Luther suffered from, however. I am currently suffering from a mean case of the academic scruples.  No matter how many hours I spend in the library, regardless of how rigorously I labor over an assignment, despite any grade I receive, I find myself anxiously wondering whether my works are good enough.  ”Good enough for what?” you  may ask.  Good enough for the type of impact I hope to make in my religious community. Good enough for the doctoral programs I dream of pursuing.  And sometimes, simply good enough to succeed in this degree program!

John Calvin, another big mover and shaker in the Protestant Reformation, wrote that since we can never know whether we are saved, one must live like she is predestined for eternal salvation (again, this is Coblentz’ current take on Calvin–I speak as a student not an expert). Only in believing that one is predestined for heaven can one gain the sense of liberty necessary for an anxiety-free, good-deed doing, God-serving life.  In other words, good works do not lead one to salvation; rather a belief in one’s salvation enables one the freedom of conscience to do good works.

I never thought I’d say this, but I think Calvin was on to something with this whole predestination thing–as it pertains to my present case of academic scruples, at least.  I keep telling myself that I need to study, write, and learn like I’m saved–like I am good enough already–like my works are not a means to an end, but an outpouring of where I am already.  Like my works are not a means to becoming a theologian, but an expression of the fact that I am a little theologian already. This wouldn’t mean, of course, that I don’t have much to learn and much improvement to gain.  In the meantime, though, it might liberate me for an anxiety-free, good-work doing, God-serving academic life.

Believing I’m saved might just save me.