If you pitched Moses Rabbeinu the idea that your god deeds don’t matter – that no matter what deed or frequency the deed was performed, that your fate was sealed regardless – you’d likely get a good kick in the tablets. Not only would this theology struggle to seduce a group of slaves who would’ve stayed in Egypt if not for a promise of personal agency, it would have no utility for a people promised land here on earth and tasked with nation-building.
And yet, that’s exactly what French reformer John Calvin (1509 – 1564) served up.
John Calvin’s theological system, with its doctrine of sola fide (faith alone) and its rigid conception of predestination, stands as a towering rejection of the idea that good deeds contribute to salvation. In his Institutes of the Christian Religion, Calvin declares that “man is so depraved that he can do nothing to merit salvation.” Instead, it is God’s sovereign will alone that elects some to eternal life and others to damnation. While this view may satisfy the logic of divine omnipotence and grace within Calvinist theology, it runs contrary to the moral realism and communal vision, and optimism towards human subjects embedded in the Torah and early Jewish thought. In Judaism, deeds matter, deeply. Not merely as the evidence of faith, but as the concrete fabric of a society Moses envisioned, a society where individuals are perfectly able co-laborers with G-d in the building of a just world.
Calvin’s disdain for the efficacy of good deeds is built on the idea that human actions are inherently tainted by sin and pride. “All our righteous acts are like filthy rags,” he writes, echoing a phrase from Isaiah (64:5). Calvin is afflicted, and afflicts countless others, with mistranslation in this case. The righteous acts are akin to an unclean garment, clothes worn during the menstrual cycle – the acts are not worthless, the person carrying them out is doing so in a manner that undermines the act, potentially without kavanah (intention and sincerity). The Torah explicitly and repeatedly affirms the value and necessity of ethical action. As Moses instructs the Israelites before entering the Land: “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore, choose life, that you and your offspring may live” (Deuteronomy 30:19).
This is not a symbolic call to faith, but a literal one, to observe commandments, care for the widow and orphan, and establish courts of justice. The Torah’s concern is not with securing heavenly salvation, but with building a workable, ethical society in the here and now. Moses’ leadership is marked not by mysticism or abstraction, but by lawgiving, nation-building, and a relentless effort to discipline a fractious people into moral coherence. This couldn’t happen without faith in humanity, without holding the conviction that humanity – rather than crippled by sin – has rare ability that a prophet can see, even if too few of us can.
It is telling that when Moses descends from Sinai and sees the Israelites worshipping the golden calf, he does not pray them into spiritual enlightenment. He smashes the tablets, confronts their sin, and demands accountability (Exodus 32). This is an ethos of responsibility, not predestination. Judaism affirms human agency, not because man is perfect, but because he is capable of rising above his baser instincts through discipline and ethical rigor. “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Leviticus 19:2) is not a passive identity to be received but a status to be earned, day by day, act by act.
The divergence between Calvinism and Judaism, can be further illuminated by examining the place of the Messiah. In Calvinist and broader Christian theology, the Messiah (Jesus) fulfils the role of redeemer, atoning for the sins of humanity and becoming the conduit for grace. In later Jewish tradition, particularly post-Second Temple, messianism becomes more prominent, though still fundamentally different in character: a political and national renewal, not the rescue of an individual’s soul.
But if we return to Moses, we find no Messiah. There is no personal saviour, no redeemer figure who lifts the burden of action from the people. Moses is a prophet, a leader, a lawgiver, not a deity nor even an aspirant for any throne. The Torah does not speak of a Messiah who will rescue the nation through miraculous grace. Instead, it speaks of cycles of faithfulness and backsliding, always tied to human choice and behaviour.
The later rabbinic embrace of messianic hope, especially under Roman oppression, may have been psychologically necessary, but it arguably departs from the harder, more stoic realism of Moses’ Torah. Moses’ vision is of a people who must wrestle with God (Yisrael) and take ownership of their collective destiny. The land is not given freely, it must be conquered, cultivated, and kept through justice. The blessing is not in heaven but in the marketplace, the home, the courts. This is not salvation theology; it is civic theology. The Messiah is less a narrative, more a trauma response, and while Maimonides may consider it sacrilegious to exclude from our religion, our good deeds surely make the concept irrelevant.
Calvin’s view, in contrast, diminishes human participation. While it seeks to exalt divine sovereignty, it inadvertently erodes moral accountability. If salvation is utterly divorced from human behaviour, then ethics become ornamental – useful, perhaps, for community life, but not essential to one’s ultimate fate. Judaism, at least in its Torah roots, offers a more positive, grounded and humane vision: a people collectively building the Kingdom of G-d, not in the clouds, but in law, land, and in love of their neighbour.
In a world still wrestling with moral relativism and political despair, Moses’ legacy offers a powerful antidote: not faith alone, not salvation by grace, but a society of deeds, bound together by a shared commitment to covenant is what will best evolve human potential. The work is not glamorous, and the rewards are not otherworldly. But in the words of the sages, “It is not incumbent upon you to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16). The deeds themselves are the reward in that they train you and those around you to carry out more and more good deeds, further lifting up humanity and expanding our potential. This, not Calvin’s paralysis of predestination, is the religious maturity Moses intended.
