Rapture: My wife and I were watching some reality police chases on TV a few weeks ago, when I stepped into the bathroom for a few seconds to grab my toothbrush. When I came back out, the room was silent. She was gone. No footsteps. No sound upstairs. And I knew I’d barely been gone a moment. Suddenly the thought occurred to me: she got raptured. But wait, how can that even be possible? I don't even believe in the rapture! I stood there for a second, listening, and then I couldn't help thinking that if anyone were ever going to be raptured, it would surely be her. Still listening, now thinking, surely I've been wrong about my eschatology before, and perhaps I was wrong about this too? And then the realization set in: I’ve been left behind. Just as I was about to call out her name, I thankfully heard the upstairs door opening.

Although the above is funny, and happened about a month ago, at which time I started writing a post on the so-called rapture, I laid it aside until I was reminded about it in a letter from a friend. The incident for me highlighted how certain teachings, absorbed early and repeated often, can shape our instincts even after we believe we’ve moved beyond them. The rapture is one such teaching. For many it is not the result of careful historical study or close attention to Scripture, but something inherited, assumed, and rarely questioned. That moment served as a reminder that before considering whether a teaching is biblical or not, it can be helpful to ask how it came to be so deeply embedded in our thinking at all.

Over the years I’ve read many claims about where the idea of a secret rapture originated, some tracing it to specific people and others to broader movements, I should say at the outset that much of this material comes to us secondhand. We are not dealing here with inspired text, but with “church” history, which is often complex and incomplete, and which comes to us through the hands and judgments of fallible men, men shaped by their own assumptions, and by what they chose to preserve, emphasize, or pass over. With that in mind, what follows are a handful of historical impressions that appear again and again, which may help give us a basic outline of where this teaching may have originated, or at least how it came to be framed and passed along over time.

Looking across the broader sweep of so-called church history, what stands out is not how long this teaching has been debated, but how recently it appears. For centuries, the church spoke of Christ’s return in straightforward terms, as one open and decisive event, without reference to a hidden coming or a secret removal of believers. Even amid differing prophetic views, the expectation remained centered on the appearing of Christ and the resurrection, rather than on a two-stage return.

In later centuries, the change was not in how Christ’s return was spoken of, but in how prophetic Scripture was approached. Over time, the emphasis shifted away from fulfillment unfolding within history and toward fulfillment postponed almost entirely to the end of the age. Within that future-oriented framework, prophetic language was no longer heard primarily as addressing the church’s present condition, but as outlining events yet to come, events increasingly arranged in sequence and stages. As this way of reading prophecy took hold, attention shifted away from Christ’s appearing as a single, decisive event and toward more detailed scenarios about what must first occur before He comes.

This shift took shape during a period of intense upheaval and controversy within the church, particularly in the centuries surrounding the Reformation. Long-held structures were being challenged, and the authority of the pope, long regarded as supreme, was being unmasked as part of a false and oppressive system. Questions about antichrist, judgment, and the end were no longer just ideas to be debated; they were connected to real and present conflicts. In that setting, new ways of reading prophecy began to take shape, including approaches that moved fulfillment away from the present and into the future.

In response to these tensions, some began to read prophecy with their focus almost entirely fixed on the future. The book of Revelation, in particular, was no longer approached as a message unfolding through the course of history, but as a blueprint of events awaiting fulfillment at the very end of the age. Within this framework, antichrist, tribulation, and judgment were no longer understood as realities already at work, but as events still wholly future. This shift subtly altered expectations, replacing a historically grounded reading with one that anticipated a dramatic and concentrated end-time scenario.

One practical result of this shift was its effect on how antichrist was understood. At the time, many Protestant reformers openly identified the papacy as antichrist, reading prophetic warnings as speaking directly to existing church power. By relocating fulfillment almost entirely to the future, this alternative way of reading prophecy had the effect of removing that focus. Antichrist was no longer a present reality to be discerned, but a future figure yet to appear, and the pope of Rome was no longer standing in the direct line of prophetic judgment. In order to answer, and effectively neutralize, this charge, counter-Reformation scholars began to advance alternative ways of reading prophetic Scripture.

Historically, some of the earliest fully developed futurist readings of Revelation can be traced to the Counter-Reformation period within Roman Catholic scholarship. Figures such as Francisco Ribera, a 16th-century Spanish Jesuit priest, offered interpretations that placed most of Revelation’s fulfillment almost entirely in the future, rather than seeing it unfold across the history of the church. Later writers, including Emmanuel Lacunza, further developed this future-oriented approach, emphasizing events still to come at the end of the age. While these works remained relatively limited in influence at the time, they represent early examples of a way of reading prophecy that would resurface centuries later in a very different setting.

This new twist on prophetic interpretation did not become an overnight sensation. For a long time, its teachings remained largely tucked away, lingering in the background and far removed from the everyday instruction of the church. It was only much later, and under very different circumstances, that this future-focused way of reading prophecy would be taken up again, developed further, and brought into wider view, where it would begin to exert far greater influence.

This future-focused approach eventually came to be known as futurism. In contrast to earlier readings that understood prophecy as unfolding through the life of the church, futurism placed prophetic fulfillment almost entirely at the end of history. The book of Revelation, along with portions of Daniel, was read as describing a brief and intense period still awaiting fulfillment. In doing so, it offered a way of reading prophetic passages that differed markedly from the historical outlook that had long prevailed within the church.

When these future-oriented ideas began to resurface in the early nineteenth century, interest in prophecy also grew within certain Anglican and Presbyterian circles in Britain. Edward Irving, a Scottish preacher with a strong focus on the second coming, played a role in bringing earlier futurist ideas into the English-speaking world through his translation and promotion of Emmanuel Lacunza’s work. While Irving’s own views were varied and not fully systematized, his influence helped reintroduce future-oriented readings of prophecy into Protestant discussion. These ideas circulated widely enough to shape the environment in which more structured systems would soon emerge.

As this future-focused way of reading prophecy was taken up again and developed further, Scripture began to be arranged into stages and sequences. Within that setting, the idea that Christ’s return might unfold in phases, rather than as one open and decisive event, started to take clearer shape. John Nelson Darby, a central figure in the Plymouth Brethren movement, stands out as a key figure in this development. He gathered these future-oriented ideas and organized them into a more complete and consistent system. By drawing a sharp distinction between Israel and the church and laying out future events in a defined order, Darby provided a framework in which the return of Christ could be divided into phases. The rapture, as it is commonly understood today, fits neatly within that framework. Darby’s influence spread largely through personal contact. He wrote extensively, traveled widely, and brought together others who shared an interest in prophecy around a clear and carefully structured system. Over time, this framework became known as Dispensationalism.

A particularly influential figure to emerge from Darby’s framework was C. I. Scofield, whose ideas gained far wider reach with the publication of the Scofield Reference Bible in the early twentieth century. By placing Darby’s system directly into the margins of the biblical text, interpretation and Scripture were increasingly read side by side. For many readers, the notes and the text became difficult to separate. As a result, dispensational teaching, and with it, the rapture, was absorbed widely, shaping generations of believers who may never have realized they were inheriting a particular system of interpretation.

Another figure often overlooked in this story is D. L. Moody. While not a system-builder in the way Darby was, Moody nevertheless embraced this future-oriented framework and helped carry it into popular evangelical consciousness. Through institutions like Moody Bible Institute, these ideas were packaged for mass consumption and distributed through Sunday school materials, conferences, and training programs. When the early Pentecostal movement emerged, many of these same resources were adopted almost wholesale. As a result, dispensational assumptions, especially the rapture, were absorbed and then carried forward into later Charismatic and Evangelical movements. Once embedded in evangelical and Pentecostal circles, dispensational teaching largely ceased to be questioned and began to be assumed. The rapture was no longer presented as an interpretation, but as settled truth. From there, this mindset spread rapidly in the age of mass media, fueled by sensational voices and end-times speculation. Books, charts, and predictions captured the imagination of generations who were trained to react rather than reason, to follow the excitement of prophetic headlines instead of the testimony of Scripture.

When Scripture is arranged into charts, timelines, and clear stages, it gives the sense that uncertainty has been removed and the future neatly mapped out. These frameworks appeal because they tidy things up. They answer the questions that linger and give people the feeling that they know where history is headed. Then, as events arise that seem to fit the outline, confidence grows. Faith begins to take on a new shape, not focused on Christ, but watching the news for confirmation that their system is working, and proven correct by unfolding circumstances. Over time, the system itself begins to feel inseparable from Scripture.

With figures like Hal Lindsey and the rise of endless last-days predictions, generations were swept along by fear-driven narratives and dramatic claims. Many became eager consumers of anything labeled “prophetic,” no matter how speculative, so long as it fed the illusion that they were living at the very center of history. By this point, the ground had been fully prepared for sensationalism. The Left Behind series then transformed rapture theology into religious fiction consumed as truth, training readers to expect disappearance, chaos, and judgment at any moment. Cultic movements such as the JW’s, together with Seventh-day Adventist prophecy seminars, thrived on the same appetite, sustaining interest through charts, dates, and endless speculative forecasts. Different movements, but the same appeal, using fear to swell their ranks, while offering followers the intoxicating sense of being in on something others supposedly cannot see.

Perhaps most concerning is how this framework reshapes the reading of Scripture itself. Passages meant to comfort, warn, or instruct the church are mined for clues instead. Christ’s words are filtered through timelines, and apostolic exhortations are treated as footnotes to future events. The Bible becomes less a testimony of Christ and more a codebook to be deciphered, and the plain voice of Scripture is often drowned out by speculative noise. History also bears witness to the repeated disappointments this theology has produced. Dates pass, predictions fail, and confidence quietly erodes. Each generation is assured that this time the signs are clearer, only to watch the same cycle repeat. If history teaches us anything, it is that familiarity can easily be mistaken for truth. Perhaps the best response is a willingness to return to Scripture with fresh eyes, asking not what fits our expectations, but what truly testifies of Christ.

This is why I believe it’s worth slowing down and asking questions, not to mock those who believe differently, but to consider whether we’ve ever taken the time to honestly examine what we’ve been taught. With that in mind, may we be stirred to test these things in the light of Scripture. What I’ve shared here is offered simply as historical observation, in the hope that it might point us back to a more careful and Christ-centered reading of Scripture. MPJ

Postscript: I realize some will want to know exactly where I land, amillennial, postmillennial, &c., and the honest answer is that I don’t feel at home in any particular camp. I’m less inclined toward frameworks that push fulfillment almost entirely ahead of us, and more inclined to recognize God’s hand in history as it has unfolded. The Lord governs history perfectly whether I understand it rightly or not, and I’m content to let Scripture continue to correct me as time unfolds. Plus, I’m certainly not suggesting that others must adopt a particular view of prophecy, nor am I claiming to have anything figured out. I’ve simply grown cautious of approaches that push nearly everything into the future and leave little room for Christ’s present reign. For now, I hold any conclusions loosely.

Hastening the Rapture: Some brief thoughts in reply to some comments from a brother in Christ, who said this about some so-called christian zionists at his workplace: “Plus they all know that I do not believe that the state of “Israel” is God's chosen people, as they hate the LORD passionately. That last point alone makes the most vocal Christian of the group despise me. I can see the hatred in his face when he sees me. He is one of those people who is okay with murdering everyone in the name of dispensationalist “Christianity,” hastening the rapture.”

Reply: There is something deeply troubling, morally as well as theologically, about invoking the name of Christ to justify bloodshed, as though violence could ever be compatible with the gospel. A theology that can speak of death, destruction, and mass suffering as acceptable, or even desirable, means of “hastening the rapture” has ceased to be Christian in any meaningful sense. It no longer reflects the hope of the gospel, but a grim distortion of it.

What this kind of thinking ultimately reveals is not faithfulness to Christ, but allegiance to a system that has displaced Him with a nation, a cause, and a timetable. When hostility, contempt, and a willingness to excuse violence are defended as biblical faithfulness, it signals a departure from the spirit and voice of Christ. The gospel humbles sinners, restrains our judgments, and leaves no room for sanctified hatred dressed up as conviction. If a person’s theology makes them hostile toward those who insist that Christ alone defines God’s people, or if violence, conflict, and death begin to feel like confirmation that one’s beliefs are “working,” there is cause for serious concern. The gospel was never meant to be validated by bloodshed. This way of thinking leaves real casualties in its wake. It hardens hearts, justifies cruelty, and trains people to view suffering at a distance as meaningful, even necessary; all subordinate to the demands of a belief system that requires death and destruction to feel true. MPJ

Standing in Mercy: “For who maketh thee to differ from another?” I Corinthians 4:7. Most of us wouldn’t struggle much with that question. With a thankful eye to the Lord, we answer it easily, even instinctively. Grace makes the difference. God makes the difference. But that was precisely the language of the Pharisee when he prayed, “God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are.” Luke 18:11. He believed the difference lay in what grace had made him, in the faith he possessed, the scriptures he appealed to, the sins he avoided, the life he could point to, rather than in what mercy had given him. His confidence rested in a distinction he could see and measure. Paul’s question reaches beyond the phrases we’ve learned to repeat. It exposes that instinct in all of us.

That instinct is the desire to stand somewhere other than sheer mercy, to locate the difference somewhere in ourselves, even while speaking in God-honoring terms. So we begin to take stock, noticing what we have and others lack, and drawing comfort from that distinction. We say God did it, and we mean it, yet we still look for proof of it in ourselves: in our faith, our understanding, our obedience, our seriousness about the truth, our separation, the sins we’ve been kept from, the light we’ve been given. Little by little, grace becomes something we possess, mercy something that marks us out, and what was freely given starts to feel like something we can point to. It’s the need to reassure ourselves that we are not like others. We may never pray the Pharisee’s words out loud, but we feel their pull. At its root, it’s the old Adamic reflex, the habit of looking to ourselves for a reason, for something we can point to that tells us why we’re standing here and not there. Galatians 6:3.

There is a subtle danger in talking too much about how grace has made us different. Even good words can begin to turn our eyes away from Christ and back toward ourselves. But when we honestly examine our lives, any sense of distinction quickly collapses. We live in the same world as everyone else, under the same pressures and the same weaknesses. We grow tired, we grow old, and we die. Grace has not exempted us from any of this. Grace has not made us less human or less dependent. There is nothing in us that separates us from the rest of mankind.

All men are alike in Adam, alike in ruin, inability, guilt, and dependence. Whatever difference exists is not found in us at all. It is found only in Christ, in belonging to Him and in receiving what He alone has given. What can you do? Can you make yourself believe? Can you conquer even one sin at the root? Can you bring yourself out of darkness into light? Can you esteem others better than yourself? Can you love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength? We are not standing because we are different. We are standing because Christ is faithful. II Thessalonians 3:3. We are not saved because we brought something to the table. We are saved because we were given everything. Romans 8:32. And if it was received, why would we glory as though we had not received it? That question keeps us low, but it also keeps Christ high, and that, after all, is exactly where the gospel intends us to live. I Corinthians 1:29-31. If the only difference between me and another sinner is what I have received, then boasting is excluded, comparison is silenced, and gratitude is all that remains. “Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift.” II Corinthians 9:15. MPJ

Day by Day: “Now this is that which thou shalt offer upon the altar; two lambs of the first year day by day continually.” Exodus 29:38. While reading Exodus 29 and the account of the daily offerings associated with the consecration of the priesthood, the phrase “day by day continually” caught my attention. I was reminded of Christ’s instruction to ask for daily bread and helped shape the passage as a picture of ongoing dependence upon what God supplies each day.

As we trace the progression of the consecration service in Exodus 29, a clear pattern emerges. From the opening of the day to its close, life before God is framed by the shedding of blood. Each morning and each evening a lamb is set forth, so that Israel begins the day and rests at night where atonement stands. Whatever takes place in between, obedience or failure, strength or weakness, the ground of their acceptance does not shift. It remains exactly where God has placed it: in the offering He Himself appointed. Hebrews 10:14.

This brings us to the heart of the passage. Israel did not need mercy only when it failed; it needed mercy simply to continue. Morning begins under blood. Evening closes under blood. Between them lies ordinary life, sustained, covered, accepted, because God has provided a continual offering. “Now this is that which thou shalt offer upon the altar; two lambs of the first year day by day continually. The one lamb thou shalt offer in the morning; and the other lamb thou shalt offer at even…this shall be a continual burnt offering… where I will meet you.” Exodus 29:38-42. It is upon this provision that God declares, “there I will meet with you… I will dwell among them and will be their God.” All of this helps us see that His dwelling with His people is not grounded in their consistency, devotion, or obedience, but in the sacrifice He Himself has appointed. Hebrews 10:19.

This pattern was not given to Israel as something to be admired from a distance, but as the setting in which life was actually to be lived. And the need it reveals has not passed away. We still live day by day, and we still stand only where God has placed our acceptance. Life before God has never been something we secure once and then maintain by our own efforts. From beginning to end, it is lived under mercy. Lamentations 3:22-23.

Though the sacrifice is now finished in Christ, the life it sustains is still lived one day at a time. We do not return because His work is incomplete, but because our life is found nowhere else. The repetition of sacrifice has ceased, but the dependence it revealed remains. The mercy that secured our standing is the same mercy that carries us through ordinary days, with all their mixture of weakness and strength. And this is why the language of “day by day” continues to speak so clearly. Life with God is not lived on reserve, drawing from yesterday’s strength or spiritual momentum. It is sustained moment by moment by what God has given in Christ. We begin the day where atonement stands, and we are kept there until its close.

What this leaves us with is not a task to perform, but a place to rest. Assurance is not found by measuring our days, but by looking where God has told us to look. From beginning to end, our life before Him stands upon Christ alone. It does not rest in how well we have begun the day, nor in how faithfully we have walked through it, nor in how we lay our head down at night. It rests where it has always rested, where God Himself has placed it. I Corinthians 3:11.

Day by day, we are upheld not by our consistency, but by His mercy; not by what we bring, but by what He has provided. And in that place, God still says, “there I will meet with you.” And so we do not come saying, “see what we have done,” but resting in the declaration that still governs everything: “I am the LORD thy God.” MPJ

Hiddenness of God: Have you ever wondered why the world, so saturated with evidence of divine design, remains ruled by ONE whom the world cannot see? Why every law of “nature” points to infinite intelligence, yet that Intelligence hides behind the veil of the ordinary, as in creation’s everyday wonders. Morning follows night, spring succeeds winter, and our hearts keep beating in unbroken rhythm, all testifying to an unseen order. Genesis 8:22. The very repetition that dulls our attention is the signature of God’s steadfastness, renewing creation every moment by moment. Psalm 104:30. The rivers run to the sea, the stars keep their appointed paths, and the seed brings “forth after its kind,” all with such silent precision and unbroken harmony that we cease to marvel. “Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by,” Lamentations 1:12, might well be applied to this very thought. How easily we pass by the works of God without wonder, without reverence, scarcely mindful of the breath we draw or the mercies that make it possible; seeing yet not seeing, breathing yet seldom thankful for the life that flows moment by moment from His hidden hand. Behind every pattern lies purpose, and behind every purpose, the mind of the unseen Maker. What we call “natural” or “ordinary” is simply the constancy of divine faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23.

There is a sense in which God does everything, and yet He does it so quietly, so faithfully, that men, blind to the unseen, persuade themselves that He does nothing at all. Few things better illustrate the irony and the presumption at the heart of unbelief. We breathe His air, live upon His bounty, and exist moment by moment by His sustaining will, and yet still ask, “where is God?” Life goes on because He wills it so, but because His hand does not announce itself with noise or spectacle, it is easily dismissed. What is always present is easily overlooked, and the very ground upon which everything rests is treated as insignificant. Colossians 1:17.

Much of this is rooted in a materialism that goes largely unacknowledged but governs the mind all the same. We are trained to believe only what can be measured, analyzed, and placed under a microscope. Seeing becomes the condition of believing. John 20:29. Yet Scripture reminds us that spiritual things are spiritually discerned, and that the most powerful operations, both in nature and in grace, are often those least seen. I Corinthians 2:14. The pulse that keeps us alive, the seed that breaks open beneath the soil, the wind that moves though no one sees it, all work in silence. So too does the Spirit of God. John 3:8. We live in a world that dissects everything to the smallest detail yet leaves God out of its calculations altogether. And still, it is in this very hiddenness that God most glorifies Himself. He hides, not to remain unknown, but that He may be sought, and known, in the way He Himself has appointed.

We live in Michigan, and with the early signs of spring now appearing, creation quietly stirs again after its long winter rest. What once lay bare and lifeless begins to show hints of renewal, reminding us that even after decay, there is design, and beyond apparent death, there is purpose. The seasons proclaim what our hearts too often forget that life, change, and renewal all move under the rule of an invisible God. Life seems to renew itself upon the earth according to laws so deep and harmonious that human thought can only trace their outlines, observe their order, and acknowledge a wisdom far beyond its reach, while the Lawgiver Himself remains unseen. “Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God.” Hebrews 11:3. And as the psalmist declares, “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all, the earth is full of thy riches…thou sendest forth thy spirit, they are created; and thou renewest the face of the earth.” Psalm 104:24,30. It all sounds so poetical, but so is all of life, for the same Spirit who inspired the psalms also animates creation itself. No wonder the psalmist’s heart overflowed in praise, for every corner of creation bears the imprint of its unseen Maker. “But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; and the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee; or speak to the earth, and it shall teach thee, and the fishes of the sea shall declare unto thee. Who knoweth not in all these that the hand of the LORD hath wrought this? In whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind.” Job 12:7-10.

God is not hidden because He is absent, but because He is sovereign in the manner by which He makes Himself known. “Verily thou art a God that hidest thyself,” Isaiah declares, as a confession of divine wisdom. Isaiah 45:15. The same God who orders the stars and sustains the breath of every creature has chosen not to be apprehended by sight, inference, or deduction, but by His own self-disclosure. Matthew 11:27. His ways are higher than our ways, and His presence is not seized by the eye, but received by faith. Romans 1 tells us that creation leaves men without excuse, yet it does not give them God; it testifies to Him without unveiling Him. In this way, God remains near to all, yet known only to those whom He teaches. The hiddenness of God confronts human pride, empties boasting of its voice, and reminds us that the knowledge of God is given, not found. Matthew 16:17.

This hiddenness is not incidental to who God is; it belongs to His very being. God is Spirit, unseen, uncontained, and unsearchable. John 4:24. From this it follows that God’s hiddenness is not arbitrary, but a boundary He Himself has wisely appointed. His glory is not withheld because it is dim, but because it is overwhelming. He dwells, as Scripture says, “in the light which no man can approach unto.” I Timothy 6:16. To be hidden, then, is not a limitation upon God, but the necessary consequence of His perfection. And in this we see mercy as well as majesty. His hiddenness is the veil through which His glory shines without destroying the beholder, a gracious restraint that allows us to live, to seek, and to know Him as He has chosen to reveal Himself. “And he said, thou canst not see my face, for there shall no man see me, and live.” Exodus 33:20. What confronts us is not a God hidden in darkness, but a God concealed by the very brightness of His own glory. As the psalmist says, He “coverest thyself with light as with a garment.” Psalm 104:2. The heavens declare His glory precisely because they cannot hold it; they point beyond themselves to a reality greater than anything they display.

In this way, God’s hiddenness becomes a testimony in itself. It declares that He is not a part of the world He has made, but the LORD who stands over it. Acts 17:24. He remains unseen not because He is distant, but because His being exceeds the limits of the visible order. His hiddenness, then, is not an obscuring of His glory, but a protection of it. If God could be fully comprehended, neatly defined, or mastered by human understanding, He would cease to be God and become a product of our own limitations. For this reason, His concealment serves as a necessary boundary. It reminds us that knowing God does not begin with human inquiry or imagination, but with God making Himself known. Every act of revelation is, by necessity, an act of divine condescension, God stooping to be known in forms suited to our weakness. And every true glimpse of His glory, whether in the Word, in providence, or in creation, points beyond itself to the unsearchable ONE, who “worketh all things after the counsel of His own will.” Ephesians 1:11. God hides Himself so that He might be sought; He reveals Himself so that He might be known. What man calls hiddenness is, in truth, the refusal of God to be known except through Christ and His Word. John 1:18.

It helps to remember that we are, in many ways, a mystery even to ourselves. We do not fully understand our own thoughts, our shifting desires, or the fears that rise unbidden within us. We often act without knowing why, feel before we think, and think only after the moment has passed. If our own inner life eludes us so easily, it should not surprise us that the world around us does the same. Every object we encounter eventually baffles our understanding. There is not an insect, not a leaf, not even the smallest particle of matter that can be pressed upon without yielding unanswered questions. The closer we examine its nature or trace its growth, the more complexity unfolds, and the less adequate our explanations begin to feel. What once appeared simple reveals layers we did not anticipate. The deeper we look, the more we are reminded how limited our grasp truly is; and if this is so with created things, things we can see, touch, name, and evaluate, then the confidence that assumes we can fully comprehend what God is, or how God subsists in Himself, begins to sound less like faith and more like presumption. It’s a confidence that gets ahead of itself, forgetting how quickly even the smallest realities exceed our reach. A God who can be fully explained is soon reduced to something we can manage, but a God who remains unseen calls us not to control Him, but to trust Him. II Corinthians 5:7.

“It is the glory of God to conceal a thing.” Our knowledge, like our very constitution, is fitted to our present condition. We know as much as is good for us to know, and no more. It is so with the mind as it is with the senses. A sharper degree of hearing might overwhelm us; a more penetrating power of sight would terrify us. Were our eyes capable of seeing the world microscopically, we would scarcely dare to move. In the same way, our understanding is mercifully bounded. God has suited our knowledge to our frame, our place, and our moment. Hiddenness, here too, is not deprivation but protection. What God has chosen to hide for a time, He has hidden in kindness, measuring revelation to our condition and withholding what would overwhelm us.

In summary, God’s hiddenness is not a barrier to faith, but a mercy that preserves His glory and guides us into true knowledge of Him. Were God subject to our definitions, explanations, or control, He would cease to be God altogether. He hides, not to withhold Himself, but to teach us that the knowledge of God does not rise from human inquiry, speculation, or ascent, but flows from divine revelation. It begins with God graciously making Himself known. And here is the wonder of it: though God is infinitely beyond our comprehension, He is perfectly suited to our adoration, having made Himself known to us in Christ, who is “the brightness of His glory, and the express image of His person.” Hebrews 1:3. God is not made visible; God is made known, and the distinction matters. Christ does not offer us a view of God to analyze, but a testimony to believe. “He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father,” not because the Father has become visible, but because the Father is faithfully and fully revealed in the Son. Colossians 1:15. MPJ

Postscript: “God hides Himself, not because He is absent, but because He will not be reduced to man’s categories. The hiddenness of God is the reminder that all our knowing begins and ends in His sovereign self-disclosure.” This is why His revelation is bound to His Word and attended by His Spirit. The hiddenness of God humbles the intellect, stripping it of its pretensions, while at the same time magnifying the sufficiency of Scripture. “No man hath seen God at any time,” wrote John, and yet the invisible God continually makes Himself known in the testimony of creation and the sure witness of holy Scripture. God’s presence is everywhere assumed, yet nowhere rightly understood apart from the testimony He Himself has given. We are, in this sense, surrounded by infinite glory, though it often escapes our notice. In this way, Scripture stands as the appointed boundary of revelation, not as a limitation upon God, but as a mercy toward us. Left to ourselves, we do not merely fail to reach God; we remake Him in the image of our own thoughts. Scripture restrains that impulse by fixing revelation where God has placed it, not in speculation, imagination, or inward impression, but in His spoken and written Word. Here, God defines Himself. He tells us who He is, how He is to be known, and on what ground He makes Himself known. This boundary does not obscure God; it protects the knowledge of Him. It guards us from mistaking inference for faith, experience for truth, or sentiment for revelation. Within Scripture, the hidden God truly speaks, not exhaustively, but faithfully, so that what we know of Him rests not upon what we have reasoned out, but upon what He has said. MPJ

Postscript#2: To the unbelieving eye, God appears to do nothing, not because nothing is taking place, but because His rule does not call attention to itself. God rules with such faithfulness that His hand is confused with the way things simply are. What cannot be heard above the noise of the world is assumed not to be there at all. But the believer, taught by grace, learns to see differently. He recognizes that everything which moves, lives, and continues does so because God sustains it. What unbelief calls absence, faith recognizes as sovereignty. The hidden God is not an inactive God; He rules so perfectly that His rule appears effortless. MPJ

Doctrine and Christ: Looking back across the years, we’ve become increasingly aware of how seldom the gospel finds its way into ordinary conversation. It seems like such a contradiction. Isn’t it the most important thing in our life? Why would we want to conceal our love for Christ? Don’t we want others to know the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord? Why are we so careful and hesitant to name Christ? Are we, in some measure, ashamed of the gospel of Christ, ashamed not with words, but with silence? How can that even be? How can we be ashamed of “Christ, who is our life.” Colossians 3:4.

And yet, speaking here from our own experience, this silence has been common. With acquaintances, extended family, in-laws, and friends met along the way, even people we know well and care for deeply, the subject almost never arises. Christ is not named. His work is not spoken of. Even in settings where a religious framework exists, where Christian language or values are assumed, the gospel itself is conspicuously absent. It may be present as language, but absent as life.

Perhaps the uneasiness does not arise merely from fear of offense, but from something deeper. To speak of Christ plainly is to speak of truth, and truth defines. It draws lines that make things unmistakably clear. It confronts false hopes and exposes lies. And speaking with that level of exactness and plainness can feel costly. It risks misunderstanding. It risks being seen as proud, narrow or extreme. But the gospel has always carried that offense, not because it is harsh, but because it is true. I Corinthians 1:23.

Is it also possible that, among those of us familiar with the language of grace and sovereignty, a quiet hesitancy has crept in, an unwillingness to speak plainly for fear of sounding forced or artificial? And perhaps, as the Lord has been gracious to teach us, we sense that many who identify as believers have little real acquaintance with the gospel itself, and we shrink back from the separation that such plain speaking can bring. Whatever the reason, the outcome is the same, Christ remains undefined, and the truth that bears witness to Him is left unspoken.

That silence doesn’t mean Christ isn’t mentioned. It means that when He is, a certain kind of language tends to dominate. You can hear it in the way salvation is described, or in how the gospel is spoken of in general terms. It is often framed as a personal choice or commitment, commonly told through a testimony, where the focus rests on the individual’s journey rather than on the Christ to whom the story was meant to point. Salvation is described as asking Jesus into one’s heart, committing one’s life to Christ, or having a relationship with God. Yet when asked who Christ is, or what He has actually accomplished, the answers are frequently vague and undefined.

We hear familiar exclamations like, “Christ is risen!” But have we ever stopped long enough to really ask ourselves who is risen? What can we truly say about Him and His work? In the same way, “Jesus died for me” is commonly spoken, yet few can explain what that death achieved, whom it reconciled, or why it is sufficient to give peace with God. We say we believe in the virgin birth, but have we ever stopped to ask why it matters? Why could salvation not come any other way? What does it tell us about Christ, about sin, and about the nature of God’s grace? Others speak warmly of “following Jesus,” but cannot explain where He leads, what He has finished, or upon what ground He saves. The language sounds sincere, even heartfelt, but it lacks substance. Christ is spoken of as a personal companion, a source of inspiration or peace, rather than as the Son of God who accomplished a definite work in history.

This is where the relationship between truth and Christ can no longer be separated: access to God rests entirely in Christ Himself. John 14:6. And because everything turns on that access it becomes essential to know how it is obtained and upon what ground it stands. We are not dealing here with secondary matters or abstract questions, but with the most important question of life itself. Matthew 22:42. Nothing in this life matters more. Who is this One who has the words of eternal life, and what does it mean to truly believe upon Him and confess Him as our only hope? Does His work actually secure acceptance before God, or is there something left for us to do? And ultimately, under the conviction of sin, everything comes down to this: “How can a man be justified with God?” Job 25:4. How can anyone, guilty and with nothing to plead, stand righteous before Him? We should pause and ask whether this question has ever really been ours. If it hasn’t, that is something to think about very carefully.

God has not left this question unanswered. The Christ who saves is not discovered by human insight or the ability to reason things out, nor shaped by imagination, personal experience, or tradition, but revealed and testified of in the Scriptures, and made known to the heart by the Spirit of God. “Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit which is of God; that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God.” I Corinthians 2:12. And this matters because our standing before God does not rest on sincerity, but on truth. To be unclear about the One upon whom our salvation depends is no small danger. Friends, there are many things we can afford to be ignorant about in this life, but this is not one of them. We do not want to be unclear here. We need to know where our salvation comes from, who it is that saves us, and what our hope truly rests upon. They are matters of life and death.

The day may come when borrowed convictions no longer hold, when inherited language and second-hand traditions begin to fail us. In moments like that, what we have merely received from others is tested, and what we truly know of Christ matters more than anything else. This is no small thing. A Christ we do not truly know cannot answer the weight of sin or give peace before God. When everything else is shaken, only the Christ God has revealed in Scripture remains. And this is why those who have been taught their need of Christ cannot remain satisfied there.

Believers cannot remain content with an undefined Christ because their need for mercy never leaves them. In light of God’s overwhelming absoluteness, His inconceivable love, and the merits of His Son as our sole acceptance before Him, the matter can be stated plainly: God is absolute - therefore access must be perfect. God is love - therefore access is given. Christ is the Door - therefore His merits alone are our acceptance. When Christ becomes our only refuge, vagueness is no longer safe. An undefined Christ cannot bear the weight of a guilty conscience, sustain faith in trial, or give assurance before God. Love itself presses us toward clarity. We want to know whom we trust, whom we love, and upon what ground our standing rests. The more precious Christ becomes, the less content we are with generalities, impressions, or borrowed language. Our hearts instinctively ask, Who is He? What has He done? Where does my life truly stand before God?

This need does not arise from curiosity or a need to be right, but from absolute necessity. Apart from Christ there is only death, and no amount of sincerity, effort, or religious language can make up the difference. Sentiment cannot sustain life, and faith cannot survive on impressions. Life seeks what sustains it, and faith reaches for what is solid. We cannot live without Him, and we cannot live upon a Christ left undefined. As Christ becomes our only refuge, vagueness is no longer harmless; it becomes dangerous. We are compelled to ask not merely that He saves, but how; not merely that He loves, but on what ground; not merely that He gives peace, but why that peace can be trusted. Doctrine gives Christ shape by declaring who He is and what He has done, gathering the testimony God has given and setting Christ before us plainly, so that faith is not left to imagination and hope is not built on assumption.

Christ is known where He has been made known, in the truth of Scripture, where His work is proclaimed, His love revealed, and the grace of God set before us. And having seen something of that grace, how could the heart not desire to know Him more? And without digressing much, let me just say that “going to church,” or whatever we choose to call it, once or three times a week, has little to do with this. How could such a thing satisfy? A vague Christ we do not truly know cannot carry our guilt, heal our wounds, or give peace in troubled times. He cannot give joy where there is sorrow or hope where there is fear. Only the Christ who has been made known can do that.

Believing in Christ is not a vague or mystical exercise detached from truth. He is given to us through His word and known as He is testified in the gospel. It is the appointed means by which Christ is set before the soul in clarity. We do not live by ideas about Christ, but by Christ Himself, and yet it is doctrine that names Him, distinguishes Him, and guards the soul from substitutes that cannot give life. In closing, what Scripture calls “the doctrine of Christ,” II John 1:9, is not a secondary matter or a theological preference, but a vital and fundamental truth, held not merely in the mind, but in the power of the Holy Ghost. It is the God-given witness that sets Christ before us as He truly is, preserving us from imagination and grounding faith in revelation. It guards us from trusting a Christ of our own making and anchors us instead to the Christ who has been revealed, testified of, and made known. “And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.” John 17:3. MPJ

Reformed Christianity: The gospel does not call us to embellish a tradition, preserve a culture, or defend a system. It calls us to Christ. Whatever name we wear, Reformed, Baptist, Evangelical, &c., the question remains the same: what sustains us when everything else is stripped away? Or, in other words, what stands at the center when all our language is set aside? Many who identify with the Reformed movement sincerely desire to honor Christ, uphold sound doctrine, and raise faithful families. What could be more desirable? And yet even what is right must never be allowed to stand where only Christ belongs.

What follows is offered as a brief reflection, not as an attempt to unsettle or unchurch anyone, but as a shared consideration of whether Christ alone remains the source of life and assurance. It is offered in the hope that it might encourage thoughtful consideration among those who identify with that position, not as a critique of sincerity, but as a shared examination of where our confidence truly rests, and whether Christ alone remains the ground beneath our feet.

Within Reformed Christianity, there can be a subtle tendency for attention to become concentrated more on moral children and well-ordered households than on a living knowledge of Christ through the gospel. This is not said to question motives or sincerity, but to note a gradual drift, one that can occur almost unnoticed, where trust begins to lean less on Christ’s finished work and more on a carefully ordered, Christ-centered way of life. Without anyone intending it, that shift often happens slowly. It is rarely announced and almost never deliberate. It commonly comes under the banner of good and commendable things, faithful parenting, disciplined homes, a strong work ethic, and outward consistency. All of these have their proper place, and none of them are being dismissed here. But they were never meant to carry the weight of assurance, nor to function as evidence that stands alongside Christ Himself.

God may bless through many good things without any of those things becoming the ground of life. Ordered homes, faithful habits, doctrinal clarity, and visible fruit may surround the believer, but they remain fruit, not foundation. Life flows from Christ alone. This distinction between fruit and foundation becomes particularly evident in the way family and covenant identity are often spoken of. Within much of Reformed thought, children are often viewed as covenant members by birth, placed within a sphere of promise and expectation from the outset. This helps explain why family order can become such a place of comfort. Grace, however, knows nothing of inherited standing. Scripture presents children, like all men, as standing before God only in Christ, not by covenant identity, not by family connection, and not by proximity to faithful parents. Whatever blessings may come through godly households, they cannot substitute for Christ, nor can they communicate life.

Alongside this, the repetition of creeds and the recitation of carefully crafted statements of faith can quietly shape and confirm an ideological framework. There is comfort in knowing the right answers, in belonging to a clearly defined theological tradition, and in standing within something that feels stable, familiar, and time-tested. The church easily becomes the center of spiritual life, and preaching is, for the most part, doctrinally sound, structured, and reassuring. Yet there remains a real danger in replacing Christ with something that bears His name. Whether it is morality, family structure, doctrinal precision, or covenant identity, anything that begins to function as the basis of our confidence before God inevitably takes a place beside Christ where nothing else belongs. Orthodoxy can be memorized, defended, and even passed down, while communion with Christ quietly recedes from the heart’s daily concern.

In this same way, it’s easy for us to let confidence slowly shift away from Christ Himself and settle instead in a sense of having the right theological framework. Sound doctrine really is a blessing, but over time it can begin to function less as instruction and more as confirmation. Knowing where we stand theologically can quietly take the place of standing in Christ, and assurance can start to draw its strength from being on the right side of the debate. Closely related to this is a subtle trust in discernment itself. Our ability to spot error, keep proper distance, or point out what’s wrong, (good and necessary as those things may be,) can gradually become a way we measure spiritual health. When that happens, discernment stops serving Christ and begins, almost unnoticed, to support our confidence instead, even among those of us who sincerely love the truth and genuinely want to honor His name.

None of this is meant to deny the sincerity of Reformed believers, nor the real good that exists among them. I have seen lives shaped by seriousness, consistency, and genuine care for others. Still, these things are not the gospel. They are not “righteousness” and they cannot give life. The gospel places life, peace, and assurance in Christ alone. In the end, this is not a call to abandon good things, but to refuse to lean on them. Christ does not stand beside our faithfulness, our families, or our theology. He stands alone. And it is to Him alone that life, peace, and assurance are found. MPJ

Christ the Door: Listening to John’s Gospel the other day, I was reminded of a question that has crossed my mind more than once. In John 10, Christ begins by speaking of a sheepfold and a door, and those who try to enter by some other way. In verse 2, the Shepherd is said to enter by the door, and then in verses 7 and 9, Jesus says plainly, “I am the door of the sheep.” So how can Christ be spoken of as the Shepherd who enters by the door, and yet also be the door Himself?

One thing that may help us as we listen to our Lord’s words is to keep the setting in view. Jesus is speaking within the framework God had already established through the law and the prophets. The sheepfold belongs to that framework. It is in this setting that He begins with a solemn warning, drawing a sharp contrast between those who enter rightly and those who do not. “Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber.” John 10:1.

So even in verse 1, before He openly says, “I am the door,” Christ is already teaching us the heart of the matter: all true access is according to God’s appointed way, and any attempt to come some other way ultimately falls outside of God’s appointed order. What distinguishes a true shepherd from a false one is not what he claims for himself, but whether his authority comes by the door, in line with Christ and the truth God has established. Every other way, however convincing it may appear, is exposed for what it is. Ephesians 5:13.

Seen in this light, Christ’s words are not detached from Israel’s history or God’s prior dealings but firmly rooted in them. The sheepfold belongs to the order God Himself had established under the law and the prophets, and it is into that very setting that Christ openly comes. He is not introducing a foreign image, nor stepping outside God’s design. He comes lawfully, in full harmony with what had gone before, not to overturn it, but to fulfill it. With that in mind, the question before us deepens. It is not only who the door is, but how everything connected with the fold finds its fulfillment in Christ. I love exploring such thoughts and enjoy nothing more than tracing them out throughout the scriptures.

At this point in the passage, Christ introduces another figure into the scene - the porter. He says simply, “to him the porter openeth.” That naturally raises the question of what the porter signifies. We are told very little about him, and that itself is instructive. He is not central to the scene, nor is he the focus of the story. His role is simply to bear witness to the true Shepherd and respond in recognition. John 5:39. The porter is often understood as God’s witness to His Son, whether through the Scriptures and the prophets, Luke 24:27, or through the Spirit’s testimony. I John 5:6.

In that sense, the porter “opens” by recognizing the rightful Shepherd. Scripture opens to Him because He fulfills it. Moses wrote of Him, the prophets spoke of Him, and all of Scripture finds its meaning in Him. Access is not created here; it is acknowledged. The Shepherd belongs there, and the door’s opening simply confirms that fact. All of this moves in one direction, from divine appointment downward, so that Christ alone stands at the center of the scene.

This picture, then, speaks of divine order and familiarity, grounded in relationship rather than impersonality. The Shepherd’s care is personal and attentive. He does not deal with His sheep as a mass, nor does He drive them forward from behind. He calls His own by name, and they respond because they know His voice. To hear the voice of God, as Scripture speaks of it, is to recognize His voice, to understand what He says, and to be drawn into submission by it. Hearing, believing, and following are bound together and cannot be separated, for, as Peter reminds us, it is the voice of the Prophet Himself whom God’s people hear and follow. Acts 3:22-23.

Christ’s office as Shepherd sets before us a subject of inexhaustible depth. His knowledge of the sheep is not partial or impersonal, but full and particular. Each one has been given to Him by the Father, their names written in the book of life, united to Him by God’s own design. They are not merely under His supervision, but are His possession and care. He knows them because they belong to Him, and in belonging to Him they are known. From beginning to end, everything that concerns their life and safety rests in Him alone. John 10:28-29.

All of this brings us back to Christ’s own words: “I am the door of the sheep.” The Shepherd who knows His sheep, calls them by name, lays down His life for them, and who even now appears for them in the presence of the Father, Hebrews 9:24, is the very same One by whom they enter, stand, and are kept. The door is not something separate from His work, nor is it merely the beginning of the Christian life. Christ Himself is the Door at every point, by His blood, by His righteousness, by His finished work, and by His ongoing mediatorial representation before the Father. All lawful access to God terminates in Him, and all care for the sheep flows out from Him. Access to God, safety within the fold, and everlasting life are found nowhere else and in no one else. To enter by the Door is not to pass through Christ and move on, but to abide in Him as the One in whom all our hope, security, and rest forever stand. “For through him we both have access by one Spirit unto the Father.” Ephesians 2:18. Christ does not merely open the way to God; He remains the Way in whom His people stand, live, and are forever kept. I Peter 1:5.

Everything about this scene is altogether glorious, not only in what it reveals, but in how simply it does so. It should move our hearts to grateful admiration that the infinite God condescends to be described as a Shepherd, choosing language that makes His love and care plain to His people. He does not speak in a way that emphasizes distance, but nearness. Think about that for a moment. Out of all the images the Lord could have chosen to describe His relationship to His children in Christ, this is the one He gives us. When the reality of who we are is set beside the glory of Christ, and our sin is brought into the light of God’s holiness, the separation is revealed as vast and unbridgeable. And yet the picture God gives is beautifully plain, almost startling in its simplicity: a Shepherd, a sheep, a familiar voice, a calling, and a salvation. It feels almost too good to be true, and yet this is how God has chosen to make Himself known.

Before wrapping this up, I want to place one final thought before us. When our Lord says, “I am the door,” He does not surround the statement with qualifications or conditions. He simply sets Himself before us as the Door. The certainty, then, does not lie in the one who enters, but in the Door through which entrance is made. Scripture does not present a universal saving design toward all men alike, yet it does bear clear witness to this, the Door shuts out none whom the Shepherd brings in. God’s election and grace are sure and unshakable, but they never stand as barriers to Christ. They operate through Him, ensuring that everyone given to Him is brought safely into salvation. Salvation, therefore, does not rest on who a man is when he enters, but on where he enters. The question Scripture presses upon us is not about worthiness or qualification, but simply this: have you entered by Christ? And to every soul brought in through Him, the promise stands firm, he shall be saved. “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” Romans 10:13. MPJ

Absolute Sovereignty in a World of Evil: There are moments when the world feels unbearably heavy. We see suffering that seems senseless, cruelty that appears unchecked, and sorrow that leaves no clear explanation behind. It is in moments like these that the question naturally arises, “if God is good and God is all powerful, how can he let these things take place? Why doesn’t He stop it?” These thoughts are not confined to skeptics. They make themselves felt as we follow the news, attend funerals, or sit with the weight of our own losses, arising in the hearts of ordinary people trying to make sense of what they see in light of what they believe. There is nothing sinful about feeling the weight of these questions.

Scripture itself records the cries of God’s people when His ways were difficult to understand. But the danger comes when the question is allowed to redefine God, when His sovereignty is softened, His authority trimmed back, or His purposes reduced to what feels acceptable to us. The Bible doesn’t make God manageable in order to make life sensible, nor does it settle our confusion by lowering God to our level. Psalm 50:21. It never portrays Him as needing our approval or our understanding in order to be trusted. Scripture doesn’t defend God; it declares Him. He reigns whether we understand His ways or not. The difficulty, then, is not an overstatement of God’s sovereignty, but an understatement of who God truly is. When our questions begin to demand answers on our terms, they stop being acts of humility and become acts of judgment. The truth is, God isn’t too sovereign for us, the problem is that we’re often uncomfortable with just how sovereign He is. Romans 9:20-21.

I hope it’s clear that this isn’t being said from a distance, or without feeling. This isn’t a blunt reminder that God is in control, nor just a call to shrug and say, “God is sovereign, deal with it.” What we see in the world is heavy, and it should weigh on us. And it doesn’t stop at the headlines. Believers feel it too, in their homes, their bodies, their relationships, and their daily lives. Grief, loss, and daily sorrow are often part of faithful living. When people ask how a good God could allow such things, they are often expressing the ache of living in a world that presses heavily upon us.

Rather than beginning with answers, the Bible begins with perspective. It reminds us who God is, and who we are in relation to Him, before it addresses what we cannot understand. Before questions are answered, perspective is given. God is revealed as the Creator, the Lawgiver, and the Judge of all the earth, whose ways are higher than ours and whose purposes are not bound to our immediate understanding. Isaiah 55:8-9. The Bible does not begin with explanations, but with declarations of God’s holiness, His authority, and His absolute right to govern what He has made.

With that perspective in place, Scripture makes something else clear: God’s providence is not reactive. Evil does not catch Him off guard or force Him to adjust His purposes. The Bible never presents God as responding to events He did not foresee, but as ruling over all things according to His own counsel. Ephesians 1:11. This does not explain away suffering, nor does it suggest that evil is good or that God delights in it. But it does keep suffering from being meaningless or without purpose. For this reason, Scripture does not speak of God as merely permitting events over which He has no real say. The idea that “God just allowed it” often pictures Him as a passive observer, standing on the sidelines of history. But the God revealed in Scripture is never a spectator. Nothing happens by mere chance, and nothing unfolds outside the counsel of His will. Daniel 4:35.

Yet this is usually the point where the question presses back in on us. Despite everything Scripture says about God’s rule, we still find ourselves instinctively measuring His ways against our own sense of what seems right. The thought may not be spoken aloud, but it lingers just beneath the surface, surely this could have been done better, &c. We may not deny God’s goodness, yet we instinctively picture it in ways that feel more consistent with our own sense of mercy and kindness, shaped more by instinct than by revelation. There is a subtle pride hidden in this objection, one that is easy to miss because it often dresses itself in moral concern. It assumes a position of moral superiority over God, as though we are capable of judging how the world ought to be governed. When we say, “if I were God, I would never allow this,” we are really saying that we believe ourselves to be more moral, more merciful, and more righteous than He is; that if the world were placed in our hands, it would be governed with greater kindness, justice, and wisdom. Yet that belief sits uneasily alongside the reality of our own lives, lives marked by selfishness, neglect, and missed opportunities to love. We grieve the suffering of the world, and rightly so, but we often overlook how little we are willing to give of ourselves to ease the suffering within our immediate reach, how selectively we show compassion, and how quickly we grow weary of doing good. I’m not pointing fingers; I’m including myself. It is far easier to raise a philosophical objection against God than it is to face the ways we fall short of the good we already know to do.

This is where Scripture speaks in a way that leaves no room for appeal. When Abraham stood before the Lord and wrestled with the prospect of judgment, he did not appeal to his own sense of fairness. He asked a question that settles the matter for every generation: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” Genesis 18:25. The Word of God leaves no uncertainty here. God does not merely do what is right, He defines what is right. Deuteronomy 32:4. His righteousness is not measured by a standard outside of Himself, nor weighed by human reason or sentiment. Whatever proceeds from His hand bears the mark of His own holy nature. His judgments are never arbitrary, His purposes never mistaken, and His ways never unjust, even when they are beyond our understanding. Romans 11:33.

Much of our confusion begins when we start looking for meaning on our own terms. Scripture doesn’t point us inward, asking us to sort things out by our feelings or expectations, but calls us instead to rest in the God who rules over all things. When we measure events by human experience alone, by what feels fair, manageable, or comfortable, life quickly starts to feel chaotic and senseless. But the Lord teaches us otherwise. He reveals a world held together under His rule, where nothing is overlooked and nothing escapes His care. If not even a sparrow falls to the ground apart from Him, and if the very hairs of our head are numbered, then no part of our suffering lies outside His wise and purposeful hand. Matthew 10:29-30.

This truth is not merely stated in Scripture; it is lived out. It is anchored in the experience of those who walked long roads of suffering under the watchful hand of God. Paul stands as one of the clearest examples of this, a man whose testimony was formed in the midst of relentless trial. His life bore the marks of suffering in nearly every direction. He knew physical danger, repeated imprisonment, public humiliation, and bodily weakness. He faced hostility from both religious and political powers, betrayal from those he once trusted, and lived with constant uncertainty about what the next day might bring. Added to this was the unrelenting burden of caring for churches under threat, a weight that never left him. What he writes is the language of a man who learned to trust God not by avoiding suffering, but by walking faithfully through it.

“Are they ministers of Christ? (I speak as a fool) I am more; in labours more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft. Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. Beside those things that are without, that which cometh upon me daily, the care of all the churches.” II Corinthians 11:23-28. That passage is almost impossible to shorten or condense. It’s too full of lived experience, too graphic in its detail, and almost unbelievable in its scope. The detail alone stops you in your tracks, and at times it’s difficult to comprehend how one man could endure so much.

When I read this, it makes me think. If my life were marked by even some of this suffering, how would I respond? Would I begin to doubt? Would my confidence in God begin to waver? Would I begin to unravel? Would I begin to question God’s goodness? Would I begin to wonder, in the depths of it all, whether the Lord had completely forsaken me? Paul didn’t endure these things because he was unusually strong. He endured because God supplied what he needed, when he needed it, moment by moment, precisely fitted to his circumstances, or in other words, grace was given to him in proportion to his need. Without that sustaining grace, no one could carry such a burden and endure such suffering. How could any of us not fall into a despondency beyond words. It would crush us. And yet Paul’s life reminds us that God is faithful, even when the road is long and heavy. Isaiah 41:10. And it is here that Scripture helps us understand what kind of hope we are being given. Not the expectation of immediate deliverance, but the deeper assurance that all the difficulties we encounter in this life are neither wasted nor outside the loving hand of our heavenly Father. I Peter 1:6-7.

Something happened a couple of weeks ago that brought some of this a little closer to home. My eldest son’s father-in-law had some serious medical condition, to the point where it wasn’t clear whether he would live. He’s only a little older than I am, and though I’ve only met him twice, he left a lasting impression on me. The first time was when they came to our home to introduce themselves. The second was at my son’s wedding, when he unexpectedly offered a prayer before the ceremony. His prayer was God-honoring and Christ-exalting, which is rare, and it stayed with me. When I heard he was sick, I felt a deep burden for him, (and still do,) I found myself praying earnestly that the Lord would be merciful to him, that His word would be sealed to his heart, and that he would be drawn to call upon the Lord continually. When I heard that he was improving, my prayers gave way to praise. I thanked God for sparing his life and prayed that his heart would be marked by deep gratitude, while also asking for continued healing and that the grace of Christ would be made clearly and conspicuously known to him.

I thank the Lord for the empathy I felt, but thinking it through more carefully, I realized how much of it came from seeing myself in that situation. And that recognition unsettled me. How can it be that after all I’ve known, I remain so aware of my own unbelief? I sometimes wonder why, when I attempt to look ahead and imagine myself standing on the threshold of eternity, a sense of terror almost immediately sets in? The answer isn’t hard to find. I know my own heart. I know how prone I am to doubt, how little strength I seem to have when suffering deepens, and how easily my thoughts drift toward fear rather than trust. I’m not guessing about these things, I’ve seen them often enough in my own heart, it makes me ashamed. That awareness is disturbing, even unsettling at times, especially when I reflect on how richly the Lord has dealt with me. Yet knowing my heart as I do leaves me with only one refuge, to fall again upon the mercy of the Lord, knowing that if I am kept, it will be because He is faithful, not because I am strong. Jude 1:24.

This is a comfort the Lord’s people must be reminded of. God does not give grace in advance of the difficulty, as though we could store it up for later. He gives it at the hour it is needed, precisely measured to the burden at hand. And He often withholds it beforehand, not in cruelty, but in mercy, that we might remain dependent, watchful, and continually calling upon Him. Psalm 25:15. This is why Scripture so often speaks of daily bread and present help. When the moment comes, Christ will be enough to stand upon, even when nothing else remains. Psalm 73:26. God orders it this way so that His people would not trust in stored strength, but would learn to live in continual dependence upon Him, finding again and again that their sufficiency is not in themselves, but in the Lord's faithful care. Lamentations 3:22-23.

Ultimately, the difficulty we have with suffering is not one of intellect, but of the heart, and its resistance to the Lord’s ways. Psalm 46:10. It exposes how quickly we are inclined to accuse God when His ways collide with our expectations. We grieve real pain, and rightly so, yet we also reveal how eager we are to assume that goodness must look the way we imagine it should. In those moments, the problem is not that God has failed to be good, but that we have forgotten who God is, and who we are. Genesis 18:27. Scripture does not soften that reality. God does not answer to us. Job 33:12-13. He remains righteous, wise, and faithful, even when our hearts tremble, our understanding falters, and faith is pressed to its limits.

In the end, we are brought back to this simple truth, that whatever the Lord brings into the lives of His children is always right, just, holy, and true, even when we cannot understand why. And when our need is greatest, He proves Himself faithful in ways we could never have known beforehand, drawing us to the throne of grace for help in our time of need. Hebrews 4:16. We may not yet see how all things fit together, but we do know the One into whose hands they fall. And because He did not spare His own Son, we may rest assured that whatever He appoints for His children is governed by wisdom, righteousness, and love. Romans 8:32. MPJ

Postscript: Reply to a comment: Thank you, dear brother. What a great reminder that is. My thoughts were so taken up with the sufferings of Paul, and then with my own fearful forebodings, that I neglected to even mention this. As I sometimes attempt to look ahead and wonder what the Lord may yet appoint for me, I’m often aware of a trembling uneasiness of mind, a sense of apprehension that surfaces despite a life that has been so richly loaded with mercies and benefits. It’s such a contradiction, isn’t it. To have known the Lord’s faithfulness for so many years, to be able to look back and trace His care again and again, and yet still feel the heart recoil when we think about what lies ahead. Psalm 73:22-23.

No doubt, some of this simply comes with age. As we grow older, we become more aware of our frailty, more aware of how close death really is, not only in others but in ourselves. Our bodies remind us daily that we are not what we once were, and our bones bear witness to it. And in that growing awareness, fear can easily gain a foothold. This, too, is mercy. He loosens our grip on self-confidence, not to leave us exposed, but to draw us closer to Christ. As what we once leaned upon gives way, we discover again where our true life is hidden and kept. Psalm 62:5-6.

Perhaps this contradiction is not as strange as it feels. Scripture never presents the life of faith as a straight line of increasing confidence in ourselves, but as a continual drawing away from self-reliance and toward dependence upon the Lord. Even after so many years, our hearts still recoil at what we cannot see; and yet, it is often right there that the Lord reminds us again of something important, that our hope has never been in our strength at all, but in the One who keeps us. “God is faithful, by whom ye were called unto the fellowship of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord.” I Corinthians 1:9.

When I consider it, brother, I have to ask, have we ever truly lacked? Has the Lord ever broken a promise or left us forsaken? We all know that story of the poor woman, barely provided for, who could still give thanks and say, “all this, and Christ too.” Which makes your reminder all the more precious, that Christ Himself was a Man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. He did not stand apart from our suffering, but entered fully into it. He knew weariness, sorrow, rejection, and weakness, and He remains near to those who feel them still. “For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.” Hebrews 4:15-16. “Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our frame; he remembereth that we are dust.” Psalm 103:13-14. Marc

The Love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord: One of my favorite passages of Scripture, and one that often comes to mind when I first wake up in the morning, contains this simple and blessed truth: the love of God is “in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:38-39. I love thinking about that fact, how the love of God is in Christ Jesus, centered there, and not contingent upon anything we do or don’t do. It is not left in uncertainty, not fastened to our temperament, our obedience, or our shifting frame, but fixed, settled, and embodied in Christ Himself. It is not drawn out by what we do, nor diminished by what we fail to do. Christ does not love us more when we feel near, nor less when we feel far. The Father’s delight in His Son is the believer’s security, and it is there, outside of ourselves, that peace is found and maintained. John 17:23.

With God’s love settled in Christ rather than in us, the security of that love becomes unmistakable. Nothing can separate God’s children from His love because that love was never founded in them to begin with. If this is so, if God’s love is truly fixed and settled in Christ, then it cannot be found anywhere else. There is no room here for a divided search. It is useless to seek the love of God outside of Christ, for there is none apart from Him. God has been pleased to place all His love, favor, and eternal purpose in His Son. What a wonder, that all should be settled in Him, and that everything rests there and not in us.

Outside of Christ there is no love to be found, but in Him it stands perfected, complete, and unassailable. I John 4:9-10. And this is why, the unbreakable nature of God’s love rests upon this profound reality, it is located in a Person. II Timothy 1:9. Scripture does not say that the love of God is stored within us, measured by our response, or sustained by our perseverance, but that it is in Christ Jesus our Lord. As long as Christ stands accepted before the Father, so does everyone who is in Him. Ephesians 1:6.

The love of God cannot fail because Christ cannot fail. It cannot be interrupted, diminished, or withdrawn, because it rests upon His obedience, His righteousness, and His finished work, and not upon us in the slightest measure. For this reason, the believer’s assurance is not found in inward stability, but in an unchanging Savior in whom the Father is eternally well pleased. Small wonder, then, that Paul could cry out, “who shall separate us from the love of God?”

If I am in Christ, why would I want to be anywhere else? What more could be given than this? God, in grace, has placed me exactly where I am. Scripture says that He loved us and gave Himself for us. That gift settles the matter, there is nowhere higher to climb and nothing left to be added. “He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?” Romans 8:32. MPJ

Book of James: The Book of James has long been controversial, particularly because of James 2:24, where James says that a man is justified by works and not by faith only. This has led some, including Martin Luther, who famously referred to the Epistle of James as “an epistle of straw,” questioning whether it belonged in the canon at all. After all, some of the language of James seemed, at least on the surface, to stand in sharp tension with the doctrine of “justification” that Luther had fought so hard to recover. While the ‘church’ rejected Luther’s conclusion, the difficulty he had with James remains meaningful. Luther’s difficulty with James did not end with his own conclusions but exposed a deeper problem that would radically shape Protestant theology in the centuries that followed.

Some believe Luther, for all his courage and sincerity, unintentionally caused lasting confusion by placing justification in faith rather than in Christ. That shift has shaped Protestant theology profoundly, uniting Arminians and Calvinists around the same assumption, that justification is “by” faith. While they argue over how faith is obtained, both agree that justification happens when faith happens. This view turns justification into something that happens when faith happens, rather than something finished in Christ. The focus shifts from the cross to the act of believing, making faith the decisive factor. And once justification is framed this way, confusion and conditional thinking naturally follow.

Justification is because of Christ, and Christ alone. It rests entirely on who He is and what He has done, not on what anyone believes or experiences. Faith does not bring justification into being; it brings awareness of it. Through faith, justification is known and enjoyed, but it is never caused by faith. Once justification is said to depend on believing, the focus shifts from Christ to the believer. This is the shared error that unites Arminians and many Calvinists together. To say that justification is by faith is to commit a grave theological error, one that lies at the heart of Arminianism and survives, often unchallenged, within many forms of Calvinism. Scripture consistently says that believers are justified, but it never says that justification happens by believing. Believing is something a person does, and whatever a person does belongs to the realm of works. For that reason alone, faith cannot be the basis of justification without undermining grace itself. Luther’s misunderstanding of faith inevitably led to his misunderstanding of works.

At this point it must be said without qualification that faith itself is a work. Not a work that earns righteousness, and not a work that obligates God, but a genuine act all the same. Faith believes, trusts, and moves the heart toward Christ. Scripture never treats faith as passive or lifeless. To believe is not to sit still; it is to act, even though it secures nothing and merits nothing before God. Take that away, and faith is reduced to a mental idea, something a person can toggle on and off rather than the God-given movement of the heart toward Christ.

Believing, then, is not something man does in order to be justified; it simply bears witness to the righteousness already found in Christ, whose faithfulness and obedience unto death are the true ground of our justification. That righteousness is credited to us, so that when we stand before God, our standing rests entirely on Christ and not on our act of believing.

It is at this point that Luther’s struggle with James comes into sharper focus. His objection did not arise from James confusing faith and works, but from the consequences of a faith-centered reading of justification. Luther didn’t stumble over James because James got faith and works mixed up; he stumbled because his own concept of faith as the activating agent in salvation shaped how he heard everything James was saying. Once faith is reduced to something inward, passive, or merely instrumental, works can only appear as its rival. But once justification is firmly located in Christ, and faith is rightly understood as God’s work rather than man’s contribution, the tension James presents begins to dissolve, and his language is heard not as a threat to the gospel, but as an exposure of false profession.

That brings us to the next question. Who is James actually talking to when he says, “faith without works is dead?” James, like many New Testament writers, is addressing a mixed assembly, believers and unbelievers gathered under the same confession and using the same religious language, yet not all possessing the same life. His concern is not the weakness of true faith, but the presence of false profession. What he exposes is not faith that is struggling, immature, or inconsistent, but faith that is dead, faith that has never had life at all. James is not threatening believers with spiritual death; he is unmasking unbelief that has hidden itself beneath religious language.

This becomes clear in the way James frames the issue. He does not speak in terms of degrees or growth, but in categories of life and death. “Can that faith save him?” he asks, not faith in general, but that kind of faith. He compares it not to a sick body, but to a corpse. James is not describing something that once lived and then died, but something that never lived in the first place. Dead faith is not dying faith, weak faith, or immature faith. Dead faith is false faith, faith that never had life.

For this reason, “dead faith” cannot describe a believer in Christ. Scripture knows no such category, because where life has been given, faith inevitably follows. As the Lord Himself said, “every man therefore that hath heard, and hath learned of the Father, cometh unto me.” John 6:45. Faith, then, is given to those who already possess life, not to create union with Christ, but as the fruit and evidence of that union. Galatians 4:6.

With that in mind, a couple of things begin to come into view. First, James has been misunderstood because faith itself has been misunderstood, turned into the activating principle of justification rather than the fruit of Christ’s finished work. But second, and just as important, James has been misapplied because his audience has been misidentified.

In summary, Scripture does not contradict itself, and James was not correcting Paul, nor qualifying Christ. He was doing something else entirely. To read James rightly, we must look away from questions of justification before God and toward the exposure of faith that exists only in profession. Once justification is firmly anchored in Christ, and faith is understood as the fruit of life already given rather than the cause of it, James’ language no longer sounds alarming. In the end, James leaves us resting where all of Scripture leaves us, not in our faith, but in Christ and His finished work. MPJ

New Nature & New Birth Revisited: A recent exchange of text messages with a good friend was prompted by his disagreement with a post I had written titled: “Two Natures.” In that article, I attempted to show from the Scriptures why I do not believe that believers are composed of two distinct and separate natures, commonly described as flesh and spirit, or the old man and the new man. He had supposedly read it carefully, and our exchange made it clear that he did not share those conclusions.

After reading a few of his responses, which contained nothing I had not heard before, I asked him a simple question: Where did this “new nature” you believe you received actually come from? We often speak of the old man, but what of the new man? When was he formed? When was he brought into being? The answer came quickly and without hesitation: at the new birth.

As I thought about that answer for a moment, it occurred to me that it really is the obvious one, and, in a sense, the only one. He is not wrong at that level. If there truly is a “new nature” that had no prior existence until some moment in time, what many call regeneration, then there is nowhere else for it to come from. Given the assumption of two natures, the new birth is the only place such a nature could be said to originate. In that sense, the answer feels inevitable, even self-evident. Where else would such a “new nature” come from, if not there? According to this view, the new birth marks the point at which a new, holy nature, sometimes called the divine nature, is created by God and added to the believer, while the old Adamic nature remains, so that both now exist together within the same person.

Within much of evangelical theology, and especially within reformed thought, this is the framework by which two-natures language is usually explained. The “old man” refers to the Adamic nature, the flesh, the indwelling principle of sin inherited from Adam. The “new man,” by contrast, is understood as a newly created, holy, and righteous nature brought into existence by God at the new birth. These are not merely two ways of speaking about the same person, but two distinct principles or natures believed to coexist within the believer, one earthly and corrupt, the other spiritual and pure, standing in continual opposition to one another.

When believers argue for the existence of two natures, they tend to return again and again to a familiar group of Scriptures. They point to the believer as a “new creature,” appeal to Paul’s language of putting on the “new man,” and reference being born of God or becoming a partaker of the divine nature. These passages are commonly understood to teach that God creates a new inward nature at the new birth which then exists alongside the old, providing the framework by which the Christian life is explained. The question, however, is not the truth or authority of these texts, but whether they are being asked to support a framework they were never intended to establish.

Many who speak of the new birth understand it as the moment when a new nature is created within the believer, set alongside the old. The struggle of the Christian life is then explained as a conflict between these two natures. But Scripture does not speak of life this way. It speaks instead of life as something found in Christ, given by God, and made known in time, not as a newly generated inner substance competing with what was already there, but as participation in a life that exists wholly outside of us in the Son. “And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.” I John 5:11.

When the new nature is said to originate at the new birth and is identified as that which is righteous, pleasing to God, and responsible for overcoming sin, a certain way of thinking begins to take shape. No true believer denies that Christ’s finished work is the only ground of salvation, yet righteousness can slowly come to be viewed as something partly located within us. Assurance then becomes tied to how strongly the “new nature” appears to be operating, and the Christian life is evaluated increasingly by inward experience. This is rarely the intention, but it is the direction such reasoning tends to move.

Over the years, I’ve heard countless believers speak confidently about this “new man,” and more than once I’ve found myself asking if I somehow missed him. If the way the new man is sometimes described is taken at face value, one might expect a noticeable and unmistakable internal transformation, and my own experience has often felt far less impressive by comparison. And yet, what has taken place has been anything but small. Where there was once only death, life and light broke in, light that didn’t merely add to what I knew, but dismantled it altogether, and in its place arose a real and abiding inclination toward the Lord. But as for some inward transformation that automatically overcomes evil from the inside out, I can’t say that’s been my experience; mine has been far more humbling than that.

What needs to be clarified is not whether the language of “old man” and “new man” exists in Scripture, but how that language is meant to be understood. Are these expressions meant to describe two inner substances coexisting within the same individual, locked in perpetual struggle, or are they ways of speaking about two distinct standings, two realms of life, two identities, one in Adam and one in Christ? Scripture consistently locates life, righteousness, and holiness not in an inwardly generated principle, but in a Person. I Corinthians 1:30. The contrast, therefore, is not between competing natures within the same person, but between two ways of standing before God: death in Adam and life in Christ. Romans 5:18. It is the manifestation of the difference between who we were in Adam and who we have always been in Christ, now brought to light. In other words, it is the revelation in time of a standing eternally fixed in Christ. II Timothy 1:9.

Once the issue is framed in terms of location and union rather than an inner division within the believer, much of the confusion introduced by a two-natures model begins to dissolve. Scripture does not present the believer as a divided self, part righteous and part corrupt, struggling to determine which side will prevail. It presents the believer as one who has been transferred from one realm to another, from Adam to Christ, from death to life. “Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of his dear Son.” Colossians 1:13.

It should be said plainly that this is not a denial of the reality or necessity of the new birth. God truly gives life, and that life brings real change, and the transformation that follows is real. The world does not look the same, truth does not sound the same, and Christ is no longer distant or abstract. The transformation is undeniable. II Corinthians 5:17. And when Scripture speaks of that change, it does so in a particular way.

Scripture speaks of the new birth in the language of life and light, of hearing, believing, and knowing. I John 1:1-4. Life is given from above, light breaks in, ears are opened, and the truth is received. John says that those born of God “hear” His voice, John 10:27, “believe” the testimony, I John 5:1, and “know” God, I John 4:7. Paul speaks both of God shining in our hearts to reveal His glory in the face of Jesus Christ, II Corinthians 4:6, and of our having received the Spirit so that we might know the things freely given to us by God. I Corinthians 2:12. These texts describe illumination, reception, and participation, not the installation of a sin-proof nature.

It should not surprise us, then, if in trying to define the new birth too precisely, we soon find ourselves out of our depth. Our Lord Himself compares it to the wind, real, powerful, unmistakable in its effects, yet beyond our ability to trace or contain. Even natural life remains a mystery to us, though we live and breathe it every day. How much more the life that comes from above. John 3:8.

Perhaps the best way to summarize all of this is simply to say that the new birth does not give us a new nature to explain away sin, but a new life that turns us away from ourselves. It loosens our grip on ourselves and, in ways we cannot fully explain, fixes our gaze upon Christ, so that we find ourselves continually looking to Him. Hebrews 12:2. MPJ

Preaching Against Sin or Preaching Christ - Reflections from a Letter to a Friend: I’m so thankful that some of my thoughts have been helpful. It’s always difficult to know what to write on, and I often attempt to write on subject matters that otherwise would not be addressed, not that I have any great insight, or actually understand half of what I’m talking about, but sometimes writing is just my way of thinking out loud, and if the Lord is pleased to use even that in some small way, I’m grateful.

You wrote, “who cares that I am a sinner? That is useless information. Only Christ is worth speaking about.” That’s funny, but I think you’ve put your finger on it. Sin is real, but Christ is the point. Anything that keeps us focused on ourselves, even our sin, has stopped short of the gospel. Hebrews 12:2. It’s kind of interesting that you made that statement, and then a few lines later you mentioned a particular minister not preaching against sin, and that he “had a habit of downplaying sin to such a degree that it seemed like a Christian shouldn’t worry about it. I didn’t like that.”

That concern makes sense. We’ve been trained to equate seriousness about sin with how often it’s preached. When preaching doesn’t address personal sin, it can give the impression that it doesn’t matter. But there’s a difference between ignoring sin and refusing to make it the constant focus of the believer’s life. Any believer, struggling with sin in whatever capacity, knows with a witness that sin is no small thing. It makes itself known in the conscience, in the heart, and in the sorrow that follows. Sin is serious and real, and the believer already knows it painfully well. That doesn’t make us careless about sin; it just keeps us from making it the constant lens through which we interpret everything. And yet, as you noted, the reality of sin doesn’t disappear from our awareness either. It resurfaces, not as a threat to our standing, not to undo grace, but to keep driving us back to Christ as our only refuge. Sin explains our need, but Christ explains our hope. Romans 7:24-25.

That same tendency to look inward doesn’t stop there. It shows up again when Scripture begins to speak about loving Christ and keeping His commandments. “If ye love me, keep my commandments.” John 14:15. Instead of hearing those words as a description of life flowing from Christ, we hear them as a demand placed back on us. Why is it that our legal instincts immediately rush in and turn that into a question of performance, which in essence is saying, though perhaps not out loud, that we have to perform certain acts, think certain thoughts, avoid certain things, etc., in order to have God love us, love us more, or make us more acceptable in His sight, as though obedience were the price of God’s favor? But John isn’t pointing us back to ourselves. He’s describing what flows from life in Christ. Love for God, and love for His people, doesn’t arise from fear or obligation, but from being continually drawn to Christ by the Spirit. Romans 5:5. That’s the difference between obedience as a condition and obedience as the fruit of life in Christ.

A believer cannot give himself over to a life that is indifferent to Christ and devoted to sin. Not because he is policing himself, but because he has been given life from above. There is a living principle at work, the risen life of Christ within him, shaping his desires, troubling his conscience, and inclining his heart toward where his life truly lies. Colossians 3:3-4. That’s why Scripture can speak the way it does: “How shall we, that are dead to sin, live any longer therein?” Romans 6:2. It isn’t denying the presence of sin, but describing an impossibility of settling into it. A life joined to Christ cannot be at ease in what Christ has died to put away. Titus 2:14.

All of that brings us back to the question you raised about preaching itself, and why some men seem hesitant to address sin directly. One explanation may simply be a strong confidence in God’s sovereignty. If the Lord is truly in control of His vineyard, the preacher doesn’t feel the same urgency to manage behavior through constant reinforcement. That doesn’t come from a low view of sin, but perhaps from a high view of God’s faithfulness in tending His own vineyard. “I the LORD do keep it; I will water it every moment, lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and day.” Isaiah 27:3. From that vantage point, sin is neither overlooked nor excused but left to be addressed through the Spirit’s inward work in the conscience, instead of being constantly regulated from the pulpit. John 16:8.

Another factor may be a desire to keep Christ in view. Some recognize how easily preaching against sin can end up saying more about man than about Christ. For others, it may be a reaction to long exposure to legal, sin-focused preaching that displaced assurance by fixing the attention on self rather than on Christ. Having witnessed the damage that kind of emphasis can do, they tend to address sin cautiously and often in general terms, so the gospel remains centered on Christ’s finished work rather than on constant self-examination. In either case, the aim is not to regulate behavior, but to keep directing the soul to where life is truly found. Colossians 3:3. Whether that balance is always struck wisely is a fair question, but it helps explain why some choose to refrain from addressing sin directly, trusting that Christ Himself will not be displaced and that sin will not go unaddressed where the Spirit is truly at work. Zechariah 4:6.

Reflecting on the different “church” experiences you’ve had over the years, whether in fellowship with saints or under ministers seeking to unfold Christ from the Scriptures, you wrote this: “In God’s wisdom and mercy, I obviously needed all of the ‘church’ situations that I have gone through. It has surely been for my good. For one thing, if not for those experiences, I likely would have stayed in the institution even longer.” I think those experiences also sharpen our discernment, not in a cynical way, but in a way that helps us recognize where life truly is. The Lord teaches us, sometimes painfully, to distinguish between form and substance, between the gospel itself and everything that only claims to represent it.

As hard as some of those seasons were, it’s often only looking back that we can see the Lord’s hand in them. For the child of God, especially in the light of Romans 8:28, nothing is ever wasted. Everything works together in a deliberate and purposeful way, not haphazardly, but rather like a stream that flows in one direction toward a single destination. Philippians 1:6. It doesn’t always feel like it at the time, but what we call loss is often the Lord’s mercy at work. I’ve seen that too. He uses things we never would have chosen to steer us in the right direction. I don’t want to speak carelessly, but it seems clear that the Lord is far more committed to bringing us to Christ than to keeping us comfortable along the way. Hebrews 12:10-11.

Forgive me if I neglect to address other portions of your letters. I can say without reservation that I love them all, as we rejoice in the grace of Christ together. I have about another 10 minutes before I have to leave for work, but I’m going to say goodbye. Love you, brother, and let’s keep in touch, even if it’s just little notes scattered about. Marc

New Birth: “Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” John 3:3. So much of what the world calls Christianity begins with the new birth, but Scripture does not. It begins with Christ: His person, His work, His righteousness. When this order is reversed, the focus subtly shifts from what God has done to what man has experienced, and the new birth, however real, becomes the lens through which everything else is measured. Galatians 3:2-3.

Such a birth from above is vital and unmistakably real, yet it is not the engine of salvation, but the evidence of a salvation that resides in Christ. “And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.” I John 5:11-12. In John’s writing, life never stands alone as an inward possession. It is always life manifested, revealed in Christ, borne witness to, and declared openly. John 20:31.

This divine impartation of life is the personal apprehension of God’s objective work in Christ. In this giving of life, God causes the sinner to pass from death to life, not by relocating him into Christ, but by bringing him into the living reality of being in Christ. John 5:24. It is the impartation of new life, the life of God as it exists first in the exalted Christ, and which flows from Him by the Spirit. And this life, once given, immediately directs us beyond itself. I John 1:1-3. That direction is crucial, because the life given by the Spirit never terminates on the experience of life itself.

Christ’s finished work stands complete whether we understand it or not; this awakening is God’s means of bringing a sinner into the light of what He has already accomplished. If life is manifested in Christ and made known by testimony, then the new birth must be understood as the awakening to that reality, not the foundation of it. II Corinthians 4:6. This distinction matters. The new birth does not shift the ground of salvation from Christ to the believer but anchors the believer more deeply in Christ. What began in Christ remains in Christ. Because of this, the believer’s security does not rise and fall with inward frames or outward performance.

The salvation of God’s people does not begin in time, but in eternity. Scripture tells us that believers were chosen in Christ before the foundation of the world, given to Him, and loved with an everlasting love. II Timothy 1:9. Long before we ever believed, long before we ever breathed, our life was already bound up in Christ according to God’s purpose. Ephesians 1:4-5. From God’s side, our union with Christ is not something formed later, but something established in Him from the beginning, and revealed in time. What was true in Christ before the world began is made known in us through the new birth. When the Spirit gives life, He does not create a new plan or invent a new relationship; He awakens the sinner into the life that was already secured in Christ. What Christ secured objectively, the Spirit applies personally. Salvation is not assembled piece by piece by human response but unfolded by divine grace in God’s appointed time. In other words, the Spirit does not add to Christ’s work but brings us into the enjoyment of it. The gospel does not tell us that God starts loving us when we believe, but that we are brought to know and enjoy the love with which we were already loved. Jeremiah 31:3. So the question is not whether this life becomes known, but how?

John doesn’t make this complicated. He speaks of life first, then light, and then sight. “In him was life; and the life was the light of men.” Life is given, light shines, and sight follows. Life doesn’t come from sight; sight comes from life. That’s why Christ says a man must be born again to “see” the kingdom of God, because seeing comes after life, not before it. And when the light does shine, it doesn’t draw attention to the birth itself, but to Christ, the Son in whom that life is found. John 16:13-14. John never allows life to remain an inward concept. He speaks of it as something that has appeared, has been seen, and testified of. “The life was manifested,” he writes, “and we have seen it.” The life given in the new birth is known because it has appeared in Christ, and faith rests not on the experience of life, but on the testimony God has given concerning His Son, and once life is known in this way, everything that follows must be understood as the unfolding of that same life. I John 5:9-10.

This birth marks the true beginning of the Christian life. Everything that follows, every glimpse of grace, every taste of mercy, every growing awareness of Christ, is simply the unfolding of the life first given there. Nothing we later see, feel, hear, or come to know adds to that life or improves upon it; it only brings the light of Christ more clearly into view. Even the glory to come will not be a different life altogether, but the full and unhindered expression of the same life that was imparted at the beginning. “He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.” John 3:36. MPJ

Sinneth Not: “Whosoever abideth in him sinneth not, whosoever sinneth hath not seen him, neither known him.” I John 3:6. And yet the same apostle has already told us, without qualification, that if a man says he has no sin, the truth is not in him. I John 1:8. These are not contradictions to be resolved by clever explanations, but truths that can only be held together in Christ. John is not denying the believer’s ongoing weakness or struggle. He is speaking of standing, not self-perception. A man sinneth not because he is in Christ, and in Christ sin has been taken away, removed as far as the east is from the west, never again charged or remembered before God. Psalm 103:12. And so, though we know ourselves to be sinners still, we may yet confess that we sin not in this higher and truer sense, that in Christ there is no sin laid to our account. He is made unto us wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption. Our sin is real, but it is no longer determinative. Christ has borne it, put it away, and now stands before God as our righteousness. Hebrews 9:26.

When the apostle exhorts, “these things write I unto you, that ye sin not,” he is not reintroducing fear into the believer’s conscience, nor demanding a perfection he knows they cannot supply. He is not laying down a condition for acceptance, but addressing those who are already accepted, urging them to walk in the liberty and safety Christ has secured for them. Romans 8:15. This is grace instructing its own, not law threatening condemnation. Where Christ alone is the ground of standing, obedience is no longer driven by fear but shaped by gratitude and love. II Corinthians 5:14-15.

The apostle returns to this same line of thought only a few verses later, but now he anchors it explicitly in the new birth. “Whosoever is born of God doth not commit sin; for his seed remaineth in him, and he cannot sin, because he is born of God.” I John 3:9. When John says, “whosoever is born of God doth not commit sin,” he is not contradicting his earlier insistence that believers still sin and still need confession and cleansing. Rather, he is pressing the same truth deeper, grounding it now in the new birth itself.

To be born of God is not merely to have a changed disposition, but to be brought into a new relation, one that is established by God’s act, not man’s effort. John 1:12-13. John is again speaking of standing and identity, not sinless perfection. The one who is born of God does not sin in the sense of standing under sin’s dominion or charge, because his life is now defined by another Head. “For sin shall not have dominion over you, for ye are not under the law, but under grace.” Romans 6:14.

When John says, “his seed remaineth in him,” he’s telling us that the life God gives does not come and go. It is God-given life, grounded in Christ; and because that life remains, the believer cannot sin in the final sense, he cannot forsake Christ or return to condemnation. His continuance does not depend on his strength, but on God’s mercy. Born of God and upheld by God, he rests safely in Christ, with his salvation settled and sure. I Peter 1:3-5. In tying this language to the new birth, John is careful to show where this life begins and how it continues. The believer’s life is not self-generated; it comes from God. The new birth is real, a genuine impartation of life by the Spirit. In that sense, the “seed” speaks of divine life given, and its remaining speaks of preservation; a life that continues because it is sustained by the same grace that gave it, hidden with Christ and secured in Him. Colossians 3:3-4.

But John never treats that life as independent or self-contained. The life given in the new birth is always life in Christ, which is why the same language naturally opens out into a federal or headship reading without changing its meaning. The seed remains, not as a detached principle inside the believer, but because the believer remains joined to his Head. The new birth does not relocate the ground of safety from Christ to the believer; it fixes the believer’s life entirely in Christ. With that in mind, “for his seed remaineth in him” need not be read as though the explanation rests on something self-contained within the believer, rather than on his union with Christ. In fact, read in light of John’s constant emphasis on abiding in Christ, it makes very good sense to understand the force of the statement this way: The believer does not sin unto death because his life is not self-contained, but located in Christ. His “seed” - His life, his standing, his identity all remain in Christ, his Head.

In that sense, John is not shifting the ground of assurance from Christ to the believer but explaining why the believer’s standing cannot collapse back into condemnation. So, the believer’s inability to “sin” in this final sense has nothing to do with personal perfection. It has everything to do with where he is seen. He is in Christ. And because Christ stands before God without condemnation, those who belong to Him share that same standing. The life that remains does so not because of the believer’s strength, but because Christ’s standing before the Father never changes. Hebrews 13:8.

Within those gospel perimeters, the “New Birth” explains how this life comes to be in us and “Union with Christ” explains why that life cannot fall back under condemnation. That’s why John can say both things without tension, the believer still sins and needs cleansing, and yet, in this decisive sense, “he cannot sin,” because his standing is not located in himself, but in the ONE in whom he abides. MPJ

Vileness: “Behold, I am vile; what shall I answer thee? I will lay mine hand upon my mouth.” Job 40:4. Someone recently asked me my thoughts regarding a particular “gospel” minister. My reply was simple: “I appreciate much of his writing. I believe he loves Christ, understands the gospel, in whatever capacity the Lord fitted him, &c., yeah, I think he’s a really good guy.” You know who else is a good guy? I am. I remember once telling a Dutch Reformed friend that I was a good guy. You would have thought I’d just switched languages, judging by the puzzled look on his face.

When I say that, I’m not speaking theologically, I’m speaking here in the simplest, most ordinary sense of the word. I don’t kick puppies. I love my wife. I love my children. I work hard. I’m thankful more than I complain. I say thank you. I hold doors. I try to be patient in lines and polite in conversations. I return shopping carts. I obey the laws of my country. In short, I try to live a peaceful and quiet life. I Timothy 2:2. If that doesn’t qualify me as a good guy, maybe it at least keeps me out of the bad-guy category. I’ll even turn it up a notch, I’m a generally happy, cheerful person. If you met me on the street, you’d probably think, “he seems like a nice guy.” One salesman at work even called me “sunshine” because I was always smiling when he showed up early in the morning. I always thought that was kind, and I’m thankful for that sort of temperament. But I don’t make more of it than I should, I’m just an ordinary guy, nothing special and no different from anyone else. And yet, plain speech is not always received plainly. It’s interesting how saying that someone is a “good guy” can sound almost scandalous in certain circles, as though it immediately implies self-righteousness or a denial of our true condition before God. The same God who formed Adam forms us all, each according to His own pleasure.

To deny that, or to speak as though acknowledging basic goodness in everyday conduct somehow dishonors grace, feels unnecessary and even unnatural. Christ alone is our goodness before God, but grace does not forbid us from doing good; it teaches us to do so freely, without turning it into a righteousness of our own. Job’s confession still stands, and so does the gospel. Recognizing ordinary goodness does not weaken grace; it simply keeps us speaking honestly and plainly.

Having said that, I want to tie this in with a few thoughts on a way of thinking that places heavy weight on experience. When I speak of moving from doctrine to experience, I’m not suggesting a fixed pattern, but simply describing one path among many. Others begin with tradition, conscience, suffering, fear, questions, or simple exposure to the truth, and yet, in time, all are brought to the same Christ. Isaiah 42:16. Both doctrine and experience are real, both matter, and both have helped many of us along the way, but neither was intended to be the place where we finally settle. The believer ultimately rests in neither. They serve their purpose only as they bring us to Christ. He alone is our rest, the end of all true doctrine and all genuine experience. He is the Alpha and the Omega. Revelation 1:8.

That truth, however, brings with it an important distinction. The problem isn’t saying we are sinners. We are. The problem is when sin-confession becomes a badge, a language we wear on our sleeve, as though constantly advertising our corruption is the highest mark of humility. In these settings, the language of vileness is encouraged, while expressions of assurance and confidence in Christ’s work are met with suspicion. This pattern can be seen in many early nineteenth-century hymns from experimental grace circles, as well as in much of the devotional and theological writing of the same period, where the language tends to dwell heavily on inward corruption. As a result, attention often moves away from Christ and toward how fully one can articulate a sense of vileness.

One hymn comes to mind by Joseph Hart, who happens to be my favorite hymn writer, and often spoke in this deeply experimental language. The hymn is fittingly titled, “O Lord, how vile am I.”

O Lord, how vile am I,
How unholy and unclean!
How little like Thy Son,
How unlike what I should be!

I have polluted every thought,
And stained all I have done;
My nature’s utterly defiled,
And all my powers undone.

These words ring true. They are not exaggerated. This is honest experimental language, and every child of God will recognize something of himself in it. It speaks truly of our natural condition and our complete inability before the Lord. But truth, rightly spoken, still needs to be rightly used. When this language becomes constant, sung repeatedly, emphasized heavily, and adopted as a settled posture, it can begin to do more harm than good. When “vileness” becomes the dominant language of faith, it quietly becomes the dominant location of faith.

This becomes especially evident when we consider worship. While such confession certainly belongs in the life of faith, I’m not convinced it belongs at the center of our worship. Public worship was not given so that believers might endlessly narrate their corruption, but so that Christ might be set forth clearly. Yet in many settings, this very language has trained generations of believers to live inward, honest and sincere, yes, measuring humility by how deeply one could descend, rather than by how freely one could look away to Christ.

When John the Baptist said, “He must increase, but I must decrease,” I don’t believe he had this sort of fixation in mind. There is, of course, a real and necessary decrease that takes place in every believer who has been made to taste the bitterness of his own sin and the emptiness of self. But that decrease was never meant to become a place where we linger or camp. John’s words were not a call to endless self-occupation, but a joyful yielding of the spotlight to Christ. His joy was full precisely because Christ had come into clearer view, and his own role was gladly fading into the background. John 3:29-30.

And yet, as clear as John’s joy was, the language that grew up around humility in later generations did not always carry that same note of gladness. I understand why it appealed to them, and why it still appeals to many of us. There’s something in us that wants to make sure we’re not mistaken for Pharisees. But I sometimes wonder whether that kind of speech, repeated often enough, slips into a gospel cliché. I know it did for me. I spoke that way constantly, convinced it was the right way to walk humbly and to make much of Christ. Looking back, I wonder whether it always flowed from fresh conviction, or whether at times it was simply the dialect of the circle I was in.

Some of this way of speaking seems to come to us through the Gospel Standard tradition, through Philpot and company, where open acknowledgment of depravity was both common and respected. I don’t question the reality they were addressing, nor do I deny our condition in ourselves. That truth remains. What I’ve become more aware of, however, is the subtle difference between honest conviction and the habit of continually narrating ourselves. What begins as sincere confession can, over time, settle into familiar language, repeated because it carries the sound of humility. Yet resting in Christ does not require a running commentary on our corruption, and humility may be less about how low we speak of ourselves and more about how freely Christ occupies our attention.

Those of us who have spent time with the writings of Gadsby, Philpot, Kershaw, Warburton, Huntington, and others, whom I count, without hesitation, as holy brethren, partakers of the heavenly calling, will likely recognize what I’m describing. There can be a subtle impression that genuine believers are those who have, in effect, trained themselves to live in a constant state of felt poverty and need, as though this inward frame must be consciously maintained throughout one’s life, and as though true faith is marked by a lifelong effort to remain visibly poor and needy in one’s own eyes.

When that inward posture becomes central, it begins to influence how faith is recognized and assessed. In some circles, there can be an overemphasis on inward experience, where the strength of one’s feelings becomes the test of spiritual life. Feeling more undone, more broken, or more vile than others can begin to feel like progress, while simple faith in Christ is treated as insufficient unless it is accompanied by a certain depth of feeling. Those who do not speak or feel in the same way may then be quietly dismissed as lifeless, merely doctrinal, or even pharisaical. In such a climate, experience can begin to outweigh truth, so that having felt something becomes more important than having believed the gospel itself.

All of this brings me back to a simple question: where is Christ in our speech, our worship, and our rest? Honest confession has its place, and self-knowledge is not something to be avoided. But neither was ever meant to occupy the center. The gospel does not leave us circling our own corruption, but draws us out of ourselves to Christ, who alone is righteousness, peace, and rest. If our language, however sincere, does not finally lead us there, then it is worth asking whether we have lingered too long on the way. MPJ

Following Christ: Some people can speak easily about “following Christ.” And in one sense, the confession is right, there is no other object, no other name, no other path. Christ is all. Yet when I say it, I cannot do so without hesitation. I’ve fallen too many times, failed too often, and I know myself too well to speak confidently of following Christ as though it were the path I am now on. “Man’s goings are of the LORD; how can a man then understand his own way?” Proverbs 20:24.

Much of the time, I’m not sure I’m following Christ at all. I fear I’m often just following my own assumptions, my preferred ideas, or a handful of bible truths I keep close at hand, sometimes for comfort, (and one can only hope, in a small measure, to be a helper of joy, II Corinthians 1:24,) and sometimes to show how clever I am, or how well I know the Scriptures. I Corinthians 8:1. As our hearts are exposed, with all the deceit, blindness, and emptiness that surface there, it can be hard even to stand, let alone speak with confidence about much of anything, much less make claims about following Christ. Jeremiah 17:9.

When the Lord reveals what is truly there, I see how little clarity I have, how little love I possess, how little mercy resides in me, &c., the account is endless. My sins are more than I can number, rising above me like a burden too great to bear. “For innumerable evils have compassed me about, mine iniquities have taken hold upon me, so that I am not able to look up; they are more than the hairs of mine head, therefore my heart faileth me.” Psalm 40:12. I’ve fallen short too many times to speak as though following Christ were something I possess or control. That’s where the language begins to break down.

Following Christ? It’s not as simple as we can sometimes make it sound. Mercy alone sustains every step. Lamentations 3:22-23. We soon discover that following the Lord is not something we initiate or maintain, but something that takes place only as the Father draws us to Christ, and we are taught of God. John 6:44-45. Apart from divine revelation, apart from “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ,” II Corinthians 4:6, we drift, drawn from opinion to opinion, path to path, hope to hope. We hope we belong to Christ, hope Christ died for us, hope we are not mistaken. Yet even when the gospel is confessed and believed, none of it stands on its own. Everything converges here, and here alone, the grace of God in Christ Jesus. Isaiah 45:22.

Additionally, I’ve always found it a bit concerning when someone opens a message by saying, “I have a word from God for you.” Well, anybody can say that, particularly those who feel assured that they speak in the name of the Lord. Conviction alone can sound very spiritual, even when it’s little more than confidence in one’s own thoughts. Jeremiah 23:16. Years ago, we had a religious neighbor whom I overheard telling my wife how God had told her to do this and told her to do that. I remember remarking that if you listen very carefully, the voice you think is the Lord’s may begin to sound a lot like your own. Luke 11:35. Her husband was the pastor of a large congregation. They were a nice “church” family, but needless to say, they never spoke to us about the things of Christ. We simply didn’t share the same language. Nehemiah 13:24.

That experience helped me recognize something I didn’t fully understand at the time but would later see more clearly in doctrinal disputes. I remember one doctrinal controversy where a brother replied by asking, “are you saying I’m not taught of God?” At the time, it struck me as an astonishingly bold, and frankly an obnoxious remark; and yet, with time, I’ve come to see how often we harbor that same assumption in our hearts, somehow convinced that our understanding must surely be inspired, or that our following of Christ is somehow more certain than it truly is. “And if any man think that he knoweth anything, he knoweth nothing yet as he ought to know.” I Corinthians 8:2.

Think about this as well, if anyone could claim to be following Him, surely it was the disciples. Christ Himself told them to follow Him, and they did, walking alongside Him during His earthly ministry. But even then, their understanding was often confused, their confidence misplaced. One of the most outspoken among them was told, “get thee behind me, Satan,” not because he had abandoned Christ, but because he thought he understood the way when he did not. Matthew 16:23. And then there is Saul, who was utterly persuaded that he was serving God, following Him faithfully, while hunting down God’s own children. Acts 9:1. It’s a frightening reminder that light must be given, or we are capable of terrible blindness.

And if we’re honest, these aren’t merely historical warnings; they are mirrors. What we see in them is not something foreign to us, but something far closer to home. “Now all these things happened unto them for ensamples, and they are written for our admonition.” I Corinthians 10:11. The blind man healed by Christ isn’t just a story to admire, it’s a picture of all of us. We are blind, and completely dependent upon His mercy to see anything at all. And when He gives sight, it doesn’t lead us in circles or send us in a tailspin; it always leads us back to Him. No wonder He called Himself “the Light of the world.” John 8:12. Thankfully, our hope does not rest in our ability to articulate our way in following Christ, but in the Lord’s sure mercy to gather us to Himself. “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me, and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.” John 10:27-28. MPJ

“I AM THAT I AM:” “And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM, and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.” Exodus 3:14. There is something about God simply saying, “I AM,” that just stops me in my tracks. The simplicity of it carries such a weight of glory. You can’t add to it, you can’t explain it, and the longer you look at it, the more you realize there is no end to it. You just want more of it. I’m sure that’s the same longing Moses had when he said, “show me Thy glory.” And it’s what we want too, even if we don’t always know how to put it into words. There are moments when reading Scripture feels less like learning about Christ and more like being made to just stand still. “Be still, and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10.

Some of the things the Bible says about God are almost hard to take in. We read statements such as, “God so loved the world,” that He gave His Son, that Christ laid down His life for the ungodly, and our hearts begin to ask, “who is this God?” Not just what He has done, but who He is. Is it any small wonder that we are so overwhelmed, yet completely captivated by this, so much so that we want more of it every day and feel lost without it? John 17:3. The more we taste, the more our eyes are opened, and the more we begin to look for it everywhere. And then, almost without realizing it, we do begin to see it everywhere, reflected in creation and witnessed in the Scriptures, all of it pointing us to Christ, “the Holy One of God.” Luke 4:34. “And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts, the whole earth is full of his glory.” Isaiah 6:3.

The gospel message is this good news. Christ came to make the Father known, and He does not point us somewhere else to find Him. “No man hath seen God at any time; the only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father, He hath declared Him.” John 1:18. When He says, “I AM,” He is speaking without qualification. The God who spoke to Moses from the bush is the One speaking now. “Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I AM.” John 8:58. MPJ

John Brine Dissected: In continuing the thoughts raised in my previous post concerning the question of two natures in the believer, I found myself returning to the writings of John Brine. He is often regarded as one of the clearer and more careful proponents of this position, and rightly so. With that in mind, I want to take a paragraph from one of his works, one that expresses this view with some careful precision, and examine it more closely. John Brine, 1703-1765, was a mid-18th-century Particular Baptist minister in London, known for his careful doctrinal preaching and extensive engagement with the theological controversies of his day. Whatever conclusions one reaches, it is important to recognize him as a man sincerely seeking to guard the truth of the gospel.

Here are his thoughts: “We are persuaded, that the Apostle Paul in the 7 chapter of his Epistle to the Romans, Romans 7, represents his own real Character, as a Christian; but we deny, that he there treats of external Acts, either of Sin or Holiness. He only discourses of the inward Disposition and Acts of his Mind, as he found himself to be the Subject of a Law of Sin, and a Law of Holiness: Or of the unregenerate and the regenerate part in his Soul; and of the contrary Actings of these opposite Principles within himself. We contend, that according to the unregenerate Part, he was carnal and sold under Sin, and that according to the regenerate part, he was spiritual, holy, and free from Sin. That the depraved Part never consented to Good, and that the spiritual Part never concurred in the sinful Motions of his Heart; which things are perfectly consistent with his holy Zeal, for the Honour of God, with his strict, humble, and spiritual Conversation, in the Church of God, and in the World.” John Brine: Sermon and Tracts.

Before attempting to look at what John Brine is saying, it’s important to pause and recognize what he is trying to protect, and why it mattered so deeply to him. Brine was not playing theological games, nor was he careless with Scripture. As far as I can tell from his faithfulness and devotion to scripture, is that he was laboring to safeguard truths he held dear, that life born of God is real and distinct, and to read Romans 7 in a way that did not weaken what Scripture says about that life, while explaining the believer’s struggle in a way that did not diminish either grace or godliness. Any reading of Romans 7 that weakens “holiness” or excuses sin would rightly be rejected. So the issue is not whether Brine cared deeply about truth, but whether Scripture itself speaks in the same way he does when addressing this struggle.

To explain the struggle Paul describes, Brine separates Paul inwardly into an unregenerate part and a regenerate part, two opposing principles said to be at work within the same person. From that moment on, Romans 7 is read as the interaction of two internal agents, one that only sins and one that only obeys. This framework allows Brine to say that Paul is carnal according to one part, and spiritual and free from sin according to another. It is a careful and consistent system. The question that must be asked, however, is a simple one, is this how Paul himself speaks?

When Paul describes this struggle, and as I noted in my previous post, there is a noticeable simplicity to his language. He does not alternate between identities, nor does he assign failure to one internal part while reserving obedience for another. He never describes one part as untouched by sin while another alone accounts for his failure. Neither does Paul narrate Romans 7 as an observer describing the actions of two opposing agents within himself. He speaks as a man personally involved in an agonizing struggle with sin. He does not say, “one part of me does this while another does that.” He says, “what I hate, that I do,” and “when I would do good, evil is present with me.” His speech remains personal and undivided. “I am carnal, sold under sin.” And finally, his cry reaches its height in the words, “O wretched man that I am.” The “I” remains intact throughout. Paul never steps outside himself to explain the struggle from a distance; he bears it fully and lets it drive him to his need for deliverance.

Even the often-quoted line, “it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me,” is not offered as a way of separating Paul from his own actions, as he immediately anchors that statement in his actual condition: “in me, that is, in my flesh, dwelleth no good thing.” Rather than using sin’s indwelling as an excuse, he owns the condition honestly, without shifting obedience to one part of himself and failure to another. He never says, “this was not truly me.” The “I” remains singular throughout. Paul explains the struggle in a way that allows the believer’s weakness to be fully seen, while directing all hope outside of himself. His resolution is not found in identifying which part is acting, but in asking a far more basic question: “Who shall deliver me?”

Brine’s interpretation works because it must work. Once Paul is divided into two internal agents, every difficulty is neatly accounted for. One part sins, the other does not. One part is carnal, the other holy. He must insist that the regenerate part never sins and the unregenerate part never obeys, because once those lines are crossed, his system collapses. But Paul never resolves the struggle that way. He does not tidy it up. He leaves himself fully implicated and fully dependent. Where Brine resolves the tension by internal division, Paul resolves it by external deliverance. The answer is not found in identifying which part is acting, but in the person to whom the cry is directed: “I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” In the end, holiness is not protected by dividing the man, but by anchoring righteousness wholly in Christ. I Corinthians 1:30.

What is at stake here is not whether believers experience real conflict, but how that conflict is explained and where it ultimately drives the soul for relief. No one is questioning the reality of inward struggle, nor denying the deep change that takes place when God brings a sinner into life. Every believer knows something of hating what he once loved and loving what he once despised. The question is not whether that change is real, but whether Scripture itself explains the conflict by dividing the believer inwardly, or by laying the believer bare as one still marked by weakness, corruption, and death, and directing his hope wholly to Christ. No one is out to dismantle anyone’s experience, or denying the reality of the struggle, but asking whether Paul’s own words teach the believer to look inward for explanation, or outward to Christ for deliverance when the conflict intensifies.

Romans 8 opens as the answer to that cry. The relief Paul points to is not an inward victory, but life in Christ. “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.” He moves away from self-analysis almost at once, and toward assurance grounded in Christ’s finished work. The struggle has not vanished, but the believer now lives under a settled verdict and a living hope that does not rise or fall with how well that struggle is handled. His hope is not found in managing himself or shifting blame within, but in deliverance. From there, Scripture consistently turns the believer away from himself and toward Christ, in whom death has already been stripped of its power. II Timothy 1:10.

None of this is written to criticize those who have found help in speaking of two natures, nor to deny the depth of the believer’s inward conflict, nor to question the sincerity of those who have spoken differently about it, including John Brine himself. It is simply an effort to listen to how the apostle speaks, and to allow Scripture’s own language to govern where the troubled conscience is directed. The struggle Paul describes is real, painful, and familiar to every believer, but its answer is never found within us. It is found in Christ alone. However we describe the conflict, Scripture consistently turns our gaze away from ourselves and toward Him who has settled our standing, borne our sin, and brought life out of death. There, and only there, the believer finds rest. “For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then shall ye also appear with him in glory.” Colossians 3:3-4. MPJ

Two Natures: Yesterday, I received a church bulletin from England, passed along to me by a brother, which included a quotation by Don Fortner on the subject of the believer’s two natures. That brief excerpt stirred thoughts I’ve never fully settled in my own mind. I’ve commented on a few of his thoughts in the past, sometimes critically, largely because his thoughts continue to be scattered abroad through bulletins to this day. To his credit, Don was always deliberate in defining his terms and forthright about his convictions. However one may differ, that kind of clarity reflects an honest concern to speak of Christ without concealment, rather than sheltering behind undefined theology.

Here is the quotation: “Believers are men and women with two distinct, separate, warring natures: the flesh and the spirit. When God saves a sinner he does not renovate, repair, and renew the old nature. He creates a new nature in his elect. Our old, Adamic, fallen, sinful nature is not changed. The flesh is subdued by the spirit; but it will never surrender to the spirit. The spirit wars against the flesh; but it will never conquer or improve the flesh. The flesh is sinful. The flesh is cursed. Thank God, the flesh must die! But it will never be improved. This dual nature of the believer is plainly taught in the Word of God. Carefully study Romans 7, Galatians 5, and I John 3. It is utterly impossible to honestly interpret those portions of Holy Scripture without concluding that both Paul and John teach that there is within every believer, so long as he lives in this world, both an old Adamic nature that can do nothing but sin and a new righteous nature, that which is born of God, that cannot sin, that can only do righteousness. The Holy Spirit's work in sanctification is not the improvement of our old nature, but the maturing of the new, steadily causing the believer to grow in the grace and knowledge of Christ and bring forth fruit unto God. Every believer knows the duality of his nature by painful, bitterly painful experience.” Don Fortner.

At first glance, this distinction carries great experiential weight, for it gives language to the very real struggle every believer knows. It is also the framework most of us have inherited, and I say that without criticism. For that reason, I want to be clear that I am not seeking to correct others, but simply to voice some thoughts I’ve found myself returning to. As I’ve reflected on this explanation, I’ve begun to wonder whether it extends further than Scripture itself intends. Though the Bible certainly speaks of conflict, warfare, and the presence of sin, it does not always do so by describing two separate moral natures residing within the believer. In some passages, the language seems to pull us in a different direction altogether.

Over the years as I’ve continued to think about these things, I’ve found myself wondering whether there may be another way to speak about this struggle, one that avoids describing the believer as inwardly divided, as though made up of two separate selves locked in constant trench warfare. Scripture itself never says that a believer is two beings living in one body. Instead, Paul speaks in the personal language of a single subject: “I” sin, Romans 7:20, “I” delight in the law of God, Romans 7:22, and “I” do what I hate. Romans 7:15. He does not say that one nature sins while another obeys. He says, I do both, and I hate the contradiction. Rather than relocating sin into a separate internal compartment, Paul owns the conflict personally, while refusing to locate righteousness anywhere but in Christ.

When Scripture speaks most broadly about humanity, it does not do so in the language of two natures residing within the same person, but in terms of two men standing over all men: Adam and Christ. Adam is not merely a “nature,” but a representative head, through whom sin, condemnation, and death entered the world. Romans 5:12-19. Christ, likewise, is not a nature we possess, but the last Adam, through whom righteousness, life, and resurrection are given. I Corinthians 15:45. The Bible consistently frames human identity and destiny in these terms: in Adam or in Christ. As Paul writes, “The first man is of the earth, earthy; the second man is the Lord from heaven.” I Corinthians 15:47. Scripture never says that the believer contains both of these men at once. Rather, it speaks in clear relational terms, we were in Adam, and we are now in Christ. Yet even while our standing has been decisively changed, we still live in mortal bodies that belong to the old order. This distinction is crucial, for it preserves the way Scripture speaks about remaining weakness and conflict without dividing the believer into two competing selves or locating life anywhere other than in Christ Himself.

Closely related to this is how Scripture itself speaks of the “flesh.” In Paul’s usage, the term does not refer to a second nature within the believer, but to mortal life marked by weakness, corruption, and death. “Flesh” names what belongs to the old order, life marked by frailty and decay, not a surviving moral agent that must be endlessly battled or gradually improved. This is why Paul can say without qualification that “flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God.” I Corinthians 15:50. The flesh is not reformed, disciplined, or matured into something better; it is put off, put to death, and ultimately abolished. The believer’s hope, therefore, is not the conquest of the flesh by an inner nature, but deliverance from mortality itself through resurrection. Romans 8:23. In this way, Scripture addresses present weakness and conflict while directing the eye forward to their final end, not in the reconciliation of rival claims within us, but in Christ, who swallows up death in life. II Corinthians 5:4.

Romans 7 is often taken to mean that the believer has two natures fighting it out inside. But Paul seems to be talking about something else. He’s describing what happens when the law meets a man still living in a body marked by death. The law exposes sin and shows its power. Sin isn’t another self; it’s what the commandment brings into the open. Paul puts it simply, “when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.” Romans 7:9. So the question isn’t how to manage two sides of ourselves, but how to be delivered from death itself. And that’s exactly what Paul asks, “who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” So, in my thoughts, Romans 7 is not about two natures at all, but about life under law in the flesh.

It is at this point that certain ways of speaking often enter in, as attempts to make sense of that struggle. Language such as “part of me is sinless, part of me sins” may seem helpful, but it often divides the believer inwardly. Righteousness is assigned to one part, sin to another, as though the self could be neatly partitioned. When framed this way, the language of two natures can begin to resemble a kind of spiritual Jekyll and Hyde, one part righteous and commendable, the other corrupt and blameworthy. That may not be the intention, but it is often the effect. Scripture does not speak this way. Paul does not alternate between identities, excusing failure as the work of one self and claiming obedience for another; he speaks as one man, exposed, conflicted, and in need, and directs the whole man to Christ alone.

Additionally, we are told that “the Holy Spirit’s work in sanctification is not the improvement of our old nature, but the maturing of the new.” While this may sound like a necessary clarification, it nevertheless redirects the believer’s focus inward, toward the development of something within himself. Yet when Paul reaches the height of his struggle in Romans 7, his answer is not found in sanctification mechanics at all. He does not say, “I see now that my new nature must mature,” but rather, “I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Likewise, Peter does not exhort believers to cultivate a nature, but to “grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.” II Peter 3:18. What Scripture presents here, whatever term we choose to use to describe it, is not the development of an internal principle, but an increasing orientation of life toward Christ as He is known, trusted, and lived upon. Galatians 2:20.

The way we speak about these things matters. Language shapes where a believer instinctively looks when conflict arises. Words that turn the focus inward, even with good intentions, can teach the heart to look within for help. Scripture directs us elsewhere. Its language draws the eye outward, away from inner mechanisms and toward Christ Himself, where life, righteousness, and hope are found. By speaking this way, Scripture keeps faith simple and keeps the believer resting where God has placed life. “And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and this life is in his Son.” I John 5:11.

This is not to suggest that those who hold this view are intentionally seeking righteousness within themselves. Many are deeply concerned to safeguard the sufficiency of Christ. Still, the way these things are spoken of can have unintended effects. When righteousness is associated with an inward “new man,” and sin is attributed to a separate internal principle, the believer may begin, almost unconsciously, to assess spiritual standing by inward measurements. Scripture avoids this entirely. Paul owns his sin personally yet refuses to locate righteousness anywhere but in Christ. In this way, the gospel neither builds the believer up in himself nor pulls him apart inwardly but leaves him resting entirely upon Christ. II Corinthians 5:21.

In the end, this is not a call to replace one system with another, but a recognition of how Scripture keeps Christ at the center of both our language and our hope. The believer’s struggle is real, his weakness undeniable, and his sin not to be excused or disguised. Yet Scripture does not leave him divided, nor does it send him searching within himself for resolution. It directs him, again and again, to Christ, who is his life now, and his deliverance yet to come. There, and only there, the believer finds rest. Colossians 3:4.

Before closing, I want to be clear about my spirit in writing this. I know that some of my closest friends in Christ hold firmly to the view I’ve been examining, and I hold them in sincere affection and respect. The strength of my language reflects my present disposition on these questions, not a claim to having resolved them beyond all doubt. Over the years, I’ve found myself wavering back and forth, and these thoughts simply reflect where I currently stand. No harshness is intended, and no judgment is being passed. My hope has been to think carefully, speak plainly, and ultimately to leave both reader and writer looking to Christ rather than resting in any settled scheme of words. MPJ

Carpenterism: My initial hesitation in posting this publicly, under the title Carpenterism, was the simple fact that most people will likely respond with, What? They won’t know what I’m talking about, and truthfully, neither do I in any complete sense. These are passing reflections, my own observations, offered cautiously and as politely as I know how. I’m writing about an individual who appeared for a season, exercised real influence, and then quietly vanished from view. His name was Marc Carpenter, and his paper, and later website, was called Outside the Camp. Interestingly enough, I just found my old stack of Outside the Camp newsletters, with the first issue dated February 1997.

Thumbing through the stack, I notice many familiar names, including contributions from brethren who remain active to this day. I sometimes find myself wondering what became of him? I believe he is roughly my age. At some point everything simply went quiet, his website faded, and the stream of material came to an end. If I recall correctly, what first brought him broader attention was a featured article in The Trinity Review that challenged the Banner of Truth and what he perceived to be its limp-wristed brand of Calvinism. The force and sharpness of that critique, along with many that followed, were uncommon for the time and served to open the eyes of many who had never been seriously challenged to examine the assumptions shaping Calvinistic thought in that period.

His newsletter, Outside the Camp, captured his developing thoughts as they emerged. Much of what he wrote centered on a truth that lay at the heart of his work and drew many to it. What he consistently asserted was the conviction that the gospel rests on Christ alone: His person and finished work as the sole ground and cause of salvation, without any mixture from man, so that salvation is wholly of the Lord from beginning to end. Yet in practice, this confession was becoming more and more qualified by doctrinal demands placed upon the believer at the moment of conversion, subtly relocating assurance from Christ’s accomplished work to the believer’s level of understanding at a particular point in time. For all of that, there was an unmistakable urgency and sincerity to his work, and for many, it struck a chord.

As time went on, the focus became more defined, and with that came a growing severity. Before long, it seemed there was little room left for disagreement. He stood beneath a protection stronger than any earthly prince ever provided Luther, not the shelter of a magistrate, but the conviction that everything was being done “to the glory of God alone.” It is a position that can feel unassailable, and once embraced, can become a refuge from scrutiny. Isaiah 28:15-17. Those who once appeared as companions in the faith were gradually placed outside the camp, their standing before God measured by increasingly narrow criteria. To that end, a Confession of Faith emerged, carrying the title “The Christian Confession of Faith,” which became the “divine” plummet line by which all truth, and too often all men, were to be evaluated. This confession exalts Christ verbally, yet secures assurance practically by doctrinal self-recognition, effectively locating salvation in the believer’s awareness of having believed correctly rather than in Christ’s finished work itself. It denies conditional salvation in words, yet reintroduces it in practice by grounding assurance in intellectual agreement at conversion rather than in Christ’s completed work. While genuine and weighty truths were certainly being defended, the line separating what was essential to the gospel from what was secondary or derivative gradually became blurred.

From his perspective, the opposition he encountered only confirmed that he was suffering for Christ’s sake, and perhaps he was, but one cannot help wondering whether we are all prone to interpret resistance in ways that reinforce our own convictions. His zeal for God’s discriminating grace and his careful attention to doctrinal precision resonated deeply with many, particularly those who had grown uneasy with a “form of godliness,” (otherwise known as Calvinism that,) which, despite containing some truth, functioned increasingly as a system and identity rather than a means of pointing men to Christ Himself. As his ministry developed, and as a few who resonated with it gathered around, the focus increasingly settled on a single point of distinction, which gradually came to define everything else. This narrowing was eventually expressed in a stark and simplified formula, often summarized like this: “Anyone who is an Arminian cannot be saved, and anyone who believes Arminians can be saved, or who believes they themselves were saved in Arminianism, cannot themselves be saved.” Whilst I recognize the desire to safeguard the gospel that animates such a statement, I cannot embrace its conclusion without qualification, knowing how readily the defense of truth turns into an absolute measure by which all men are condemned.

With those thoughts in mind, I have always found it striking, and somewhat ironic, to build an entire theological structure upon that one point. At the time, this perspective was relatively uncommon, which gave it a certain force and novelty. Many were drawn to it, some quite eagerly, and although the original platform eventually fell silent, the way of thinking it promoted did not. I embraced that defining principle myself, and in various forms the same mentality continues to surface in the language and assumptions of a number of people today. After all, it's a somewhat legitimate point of distinction, and let's face it, like most believers, we naturally want to appear as staunch defenders of the “one true gospel.” Yet it is here that a legitimate concern can eclipse what it was meant to protect, shifting the center from the gospel itself to its defense and becoming the measure by which everything else is judged.

It is here that the confession about Christ can begin to eclipse Christ Himself. The language remains orthodox, even precise, but the center of gravity subtly shifts. Assurance no longer rests in Christ’s finished work, but in one’s ability to articulate, defend, and police the correct account of that work. In such a climate, fidelity is measured less by trust in Christ than by agreement with the particular formulations used to defend Him. Christ may still be named, but it is the defense of Christ that determines fellowship, assurance, and belonging. In this way, what was meant as a safeguard becomes a gate, and the gospel, once proclaimed as good news, comes to function as a test.

Returning to that statement, which correctly identifies Arminianism as a false gospel, we are compelled to consider how believers who love Christ are to speak of those who have promoted it, whether in former generations or in our own day. The question is not whether such error must be opposed, but how that opposition is to be carried out faithfully, without compromising the truth of Scripture or assuming authority Scripture has not given us.

When I speak of men such as Wesley, Finney, Moody, or Graham, &c., I do not hesitate to say that the gospel they preached was false, heretical, and dangerous, and therefore opposed to Christ. In that sense, their ministries were antichrist, and to speak otherwise would be to deny the faith. I could never regard such men as Christians, nor speak of them in those terms, because to do so would be to give credibility to a “gospel” I believe Scripture condemns. Galatians 1:8-9. This language does not pronounce final judgment on a person, but refuses Christian recognition where the gospel itself has been set aside, a distinction Scripture consistently maintains. Such men are now in the hands of the Lord, whose justice and mercy are in no need of our assistance. Any posture that requires the condemnation of others to vindicate God’s righteousness misunderstands both judgment and grace, for apart from Christ we all stand condemned alike. Scripture itself leaves no ambiguity on the matter of salvation. “He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life, and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.” John 3:36.

The danger lies not in speaking too strongly against error, but in failing to speak rightly about those ensnared by it. Paul spares no language when describing false gospels; he identifies them as perversions of the truth and places them under divine condemnation. “For there are many unruly and vain talkers and deceivers … whose mouths must be stopped.” Titus 1:10-11. Yet when speaking to those entangled in such error, he often stops short of issuing final verdicts, expressing doubt, grief, and warning rather than presumption. Galatians 4:20. “And the servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men, apt to teach, patient, in meekness instructing those that oppose themselves; if God peradventure will give them repentance to the acknowledging of the truth; and that they may recover themselves out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will.” II Timothy 2:24-26.

Accordingly, though the judgment attached to a doctrine must be spoken plainly, the eternal state of every individual who promotes or receives it does not belong to us to determine. At the same time, apostolic faithfulness does not hide behind anonymity. Paul named men, II Timothy 4:15, warned the churches plainly, and refused to yield even for an hour. Galatians 2:5. Silence toward influential error is not charity. But neither is condemnation a proof of faithfulness. Scripture teaches us to judge doctrine rigorously, identify its messengers honestly, and leave final judgment where it belongs, with Christ. The reason this balance is so easily lost is that zeal for doctrinal purity can quietly harden into a lust for condemnation, especially when one becomes convinced he is guarding grace. History makes this painfully clear, that the fiercest condemnations often come not from those who deny grace, but from those most persuaded they are protecting it. Saul of Tarsus stands as Scripture’s own testimony to this truth. Acts 26:9-11; Romans 10:2.

That restraint, however, does not soften Scripture’s verdict concerning the ground upon which all men stand before God. This is the plummet line of divine judgment, from which there is no appeal, by which every religion stands exposed: Hinduism, Buddhism, Atheism, and Arminianism are false religions under which men remain condemned, and all who die outside of Christ, whether rejecting Him outright or embracing a false christ, will perish. “I said therefore unto you, that ye shall die in your sins, for if ye believe not that I am he, ye shall die in your sins.” John 8:24.

That verdict, severe as it is, does not stand alone; it rests entirely upon what God has accomplished in Christ. The shedding of Christ’s blood stands as the public vindication of God’s glory in the salvation of sinners. God is glorified in a Spirit-given confession that ascribes salvation wholly to its true source, resting entirely in the cross of Christ. “And that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” Philippians 2:11. Accordingly, anything that obscures or compromises Christ’s substitutionary death, where sin was fully judged and forever put away, John 1:29; Hebrews 9:26, however refined in “bible” or “gospel” language or sincere its tone, is engaged in a fundamentally evil work. II Corinthians 11:3. Such labor strikes at the very heart of the gospel itself. It must not be shielded by appeals to polite silence or excused by fear of appearing harsh. Tolerance toward men must never become indifference toward Christ. He alone is God’s appointed Savior, and apart from Him the world has no hope at all.

What Scripture does not grant us is authority to move beyond this and to speak with certainty concerning the final outcome of every individual life. We are commanded to judge doctrines, to name false gospels, to refuse fellowship where Christ is denied, and to warn men plainly. “Now I beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them.” Romans 16:17. Final judgment rests with Christ alone, whose justice stands complete apart from our assessments. “There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy, who art thou that judgest another?” James 4:12. Scripture draws a clear distinction between judging persons and defending the gospel. And yet, it also makes plain that the gospel does not depend upon universal doctrinal precision among believers. “Him that is weak in the faith receive ye, but not to doubtful disputations.” Romans 14:1.

The Bible does not teach that every believer possesses full doctrinal clarity, but it does insist that the gospel has a center of gravity. I Corinthians 15:3-4. Scripture itself makes this distinction. Apollos, for example, is described in Acts 18 as a man mighty in the Scriptures who knew only the baptism of John. His understanding was partial, his instruction incomplete, yet he was not condemned. Instead, he was taken aside and taught more fully, because his deficiency did not amount to a denial of Christ. By contrast, Paul’s language in Galatians 1 is uncompromising. He does not excuse good intentions or appeal to sincerity. He pronounces a curse. The contrast here has nothing to do with personality or severity, but with the substance of the error involved. Apollos lacked light; the Galatians were being turned from Christ Himself. One needed further instruction; the other was embracing another gospel. The line, therefore, is not drawn at imperfect knowledge, but at corruption of the gospel’s center, where Christ and His finished work are displaced, the strongest language of Scripture is rightly employed.

It is precisely at this boundary, between judging doctrine and assuming final judgment, that the spirit of this movement most clearly revealed itself. Though many have since attempted to follow in his steps, sharpening distinctions and asserting their own gospel fidelity, none matched MC in dogmatic certainty. Those who attempted to interact with him, particularly if their correspondence carried even a hint of critique, found little room for dialogue. Scripture was brought to bear swiftly and decisively, often in the posture of judgment “before the Lord.” He was adept at wielding the word as a battle axe, capable of cutting down opposition with remarkable force. I Samuel 15:33.

And yet, alongside that narrowing of emphasis, there remained a genuine concern to speak of Christ, II Corinthians 2:15, making the picture more complex than it might first appear. That mixture of earnestness and severity carried its own persuasive force, especially for those already dissatisfied with shallow religion. One cannot help but ask why such severity proves so appealing to some, and to answer that, I need only look back at my own former persuasions along these same lines. At the time, this position felt like faithfulness to Christ. It carried the appearance of seriousness, resolve, and doctrinal precision that others seemed to lack. And who among us does not want to be found faithful to Christ? To stand firm, to draw clear lines, and to be seen as one who will not compromise the truth holds a powerful attraction, especially for those who genuinely love the gospel, and who fear dishonoring Christ more than they fear being misunderstood by men.

This second assertion, (that anyone who believes they themselves were saved in Arminianism cannot themselves be saved,) does more than overstate doctrinal vigilance; it subtly relocates the ground of acceptance. Salvation no longer rests simply and entirely in Christ Himself, but in one’s conscious recognition of having believed the right doctrine at the right time. Assurance is no longer anchored in Christ’s finished work, but in a believer’s retrospective awareness that former error has been correctly identified and rejected. In this way, salvation is pressed into time and made to hinge upon theological realization rather than upon the once-for-all work of the Son of God. Scripture never places life in the moment a believer attains clarity, but in Christ alone, who finished the work before we ever understood it. To bind acceptance or assurance to the precision or timing of one’s understanding is to confuse growth in truth with the ground of salvation, and to substitute doctrinal consciousness for Christ Himself.

Taking all of this into account, I cannot escape the conclusion that the Lord did use him in a distinct way for a time. There were aspects of gospel truth that needed a sharper voice, and he provided it. I really wonder if he’ll ever emerge again. I hope he does, not to reopen former debates, but simply to see how the Lord may have dealt with him over time. As with many I have encountered over the years, I thank the Lord for him, and I can only hope that the Lord, in His mercy, will preserve what was truly good. “Prove all things; hold fast that which is good,” I Thessalonians 5:21, as we learn afresh to rejoice, not in our discernment, but in the grace of Christ that has been shown to us all, if found in Christ. Ephesians 1:6.

In summary, Arminianism, as a theological system, stands opposed to the finished, substitutionary work of Christ and therefore stands opposed to Christ and must be regarded as antichrist in character. Such error must be named plainly, and those who promote it, whether popular evangelists, revivalists, or respected religious leaders, must be identified and warned against, for the issue at stake is not inconsistency but corruption of the gospel itself. Scripture commands us to judge doctrine, to refuse fellowship, and to withhold Christian recognition where Christ is denied; it does not give us authority to declare the final outcome of every individual influenced by false teaching.

Salvation rests wholly and entirely in Christ Himself, not in a believer’s later doctrinal clarity or theological realization, and any position that relocates assurance from His finished work to human awareness subtly displaces the gospel’s center. True faithfulness guards Christ without compromise, contends for the truth without apology, and leaves final judgment where Scripture places it, in the hands of the Son of God, whose work is finished and whose judgment is perfect. Hopefully these thoughts are helpful as we are enabled to look to Christ, not only to contend for the gospel, but to rest in the ONE whom the gospel proclaims. Acts 4:12.

I realize this has been lengthy and, at times, repetitive, as these thoughts were pieced together over time in the way they pressed themselves upon me, and were further shaped by a helpful exchange with a close brother whose insights I did not want to leave out. At this point, I have neither the desire nor the energy to keep rereading it again and again, and I am content to leave it as it stands. My aim has not been to argue or to settle every question, but simply to speak as carefully and honestly as I can. If anything here is true, it is only because it accords with Scripture and points us to Christ. And if anything is mistaken, I trust the Lord to correct it. May He grant us humility to be taught, and grace to rest not in our clarity, but in His finished work. MPJ

Postscript: In light of some troubling things which I have since learned, I feel the need to clarify what I meant when I said that I thank the Lord for him. I do not mean that I approved of his spirit, his severity, or the real harm that came through his teaching. Nor do I believe that error or pride are ever excused because God is sovereign. Rather, I mean this in a qualified sense, that the Lord, who works all things according to the counsel of His own will, is able to use even painful and troubling encounters as instruments of correction and discernment, without excusing what was wrong. I trust that in his infinite wisdom, He was pleased to use what was flawed and misguided as a means of instruction. Through it, as with all things the Lord appoints and governs in our lives, I was taught caution, discernment, and perhaps most of all, my own continual need for mercy. In that sense, I thank the Lord, not for what was wrong in itself, but for His overruling grace, which alone is able to bring good even out of what was genuinely harmful. “Surely the wrath of man shall praise thee, the remainder of wrath shalt thou restrain.” Psalm 76:10.

PostScript #2. Thank you, my friend. I appreciate that deeply. I wrote it very aware of my own tendencies in these things, and I’m thankful if the Lord uses it as a reminder to us all. That “Carpenter” point of contrast, drawing hard lines between Arminians, the saved, and the unsaved, has been, in my own experience, among the most difficult matters a believer is ever called to navigate. It presses us to hold fast to Christ and His gospel, without losing sight of our own frailty and limited understanding. Where faithfulness to Christ ends and where patience and sympathy should remain is not always easy to see. Especially when we remember that apart from mercy we are left with nothing, and that any light we possess is borrowed light, without which we would still be in darkness. I don’t trust my lines to be straight, and I’m sure there is much amiss in what I believe to be true. I’m thankful the Lord is patient with us, and that He teaches His people, often in ways we least expect.

PostScript #3. His so-called ministry was one of the most evolving I’ve ever come across, which in my thoughts brings to mind Paul’s words, “not a novice, lest being lifted up with pride he fall into the condemnation of the devil.” I Timothy 3:6. When someone becomes convinced very quickly, and stands mostly alone in that conviction, it rarely yields the kind of wisdom that comes with patience. “He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding, but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly.” Proverbs 14:29. And when a man begins to think that almost no one else truly sees the truth, the ground becomes especially unstable. In that light, his story seems less mysterious than instructive, serving as a reminder of how easily doctrinal precision can become distorted.

PostScript #4. I’m never too busy, brother, you are always welcome to ask me anything. I’ve had a number of additional thoughts since then, though I wouldn’t say they’ve brought everything into sharp focus. This is one of those areas with a lot of gray, and that’s what makes drawing clean lines so difficult without either dulling the truth or overstepping it. You said, “Arminianism is a false gospel and I don’t believe anyone who doesn’t believe and rest in the accomplished death and imputed righteousness of Christ doesn’t believe the Truth of the Gospel. I don’t call them lost. I will just say that we don’t agree on what the Gospel is and we don’t believe the same Gospel,” and to me that’s a very important distinction that often gets overlooked. It keeps clear the difference between judging the message and pronouncing the final state of the person. Saying we do not believe the same gospel is a serious and necessary judgment, it names the issue plainly and doesn’t soften the error. But stopping short of declaring someone finally lost recognizes that salvation rests in Christ Himself, not in our ability to trace another person’s understanding or spiritual history. Along with you, I’m convinced of this, Arminianism is not the gospel and treating it as though it were does real harm. At the same time, I’ve learned to be careful about turning that clarity into a final judgment on another person. Scripture is firm about the message, but careful about speaking beyond it.

Holy Bible: I would imagine that most of us have a Bible nearby, preferably close at hand. As I glance over at mine, resting at the end of a small coffee table, I can make out the familiar words stamped on its spine: HOLY BIBLE. The phrase has become so ordinary to us that its significance is easily overlooked. The word “holy” is not decorative; it is declarative. It means that this Book is set apart, distinct in its origin, its authority, and its purpose. The Scriptures are holy because the God who speaks in them is holy. Leviticus 11:44. When we speak of the Bible as holy, we are confessing something about how it must be approached. Holy things are not handled casually; they demand reverence. Leviticus 10:3. The Scriptures are holy because God has sanctified them as the means by which He speaks, reveals Himself, and makes His ways known. Psalm 19:7-9.

What are our thoughts as we reach for that book each day? What do we assume we are holding when we open it? For many of us, the motion of opening the Bible has become second nature. We turn its pages almost by instinct, seldom pausing to consider the wonder of what we are holding. Hebrews 2:1. The Bible is so accessible, so present, that we can forget how astonishing it is that God has spoken at all, much less that He has preserved His words and placed them into our hands. Psalm 119:89.

Our treatment of Scripture reveals far more about us than our profession ever could. In principle, where God is truly feared, His speech is never treated as common. In practice, even where God is truly feared, believers frequently handle His Word with familiarity rather than reverence. To tremble at the Word is to believe that the living God stands behind every word He has spoken, though no visible sign compels us to think so. Such fear is not natural to us; it is the fear of faith, faith acknowledging an unseen reality and resting upon the conviction that God is truly present and speaking, even when nothing outward confirms it to the senses. To fear the Lord at His Word, then, is to approach Scripture with holy seriousness, with reverence, care, and an awareness that we are not dealing with mere ink and paper, but standing before God Himself in the act of reading. Habakkuk 2:20.

When the fear of the Lord has faded, the Word of God loses its gravity. The Scriptures are handled loosely, quoted selectively, and sometimes spoken of in ways that betray a lack of reverence. What once commanded silence now invites commentary. This loss of weight is seldom deliberate; it is the subtle fruit of unguarded familiarity. Perhaps those who stand most frequently before the Word are in danger of forgetting that they stand beneath it. The problem is not a lack of knowledge, but a dangerous comfort with sacred things. Isaiah 48:1.

The holiness of God’s name and the holiness of His Word cannot be separated. In Scripture, a man’s name represents his character, authority, and revealed identity, and this is supremely true of God, who has chosen to make His name known through His Word. Because God has bound His self-revelation to His Word, our posture toward Scripture is never neutral. God’s Word is not detached information about Him, but the appointed means by which He makes Himself known, so that our response to Scripture is, in truth, our response to God. I Thessalonians 2:13.

The unity of God’s name and God’s Word finds its fullest expression in the Person of Christ. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” John 1:1. The Word is not merely something God speaks; it is the ONE whom God has sent. “And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” John 1:14. Christ does not simply convey divine truth; He is the living self-disclosure of God. In Christ, the Word is no longer only written or spoken but embodied. Revelation 19:13. This same truth is echoed in our Lord’s prayer in John 17, where “name” and “word” are again inseparably joined. “I have manifested thy name unto the men which thou gavest me,” John 17:6, and again, “I have given unto them the words which thou gavest me.” John 17:8. Christ reveals the Father’s name precisely by delivering the Father’s Word. To hallow God’s name and to tremble at His Word is, in the end, to bow before the Son in whom both are perfectly revealed. Hebrews 12:1-2. MPJ

Fasting: “Moreover when ye fast, be not, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance, for they disfigure their faces, that they may appear unto men to fast. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.” Matthew 6:16. These words of Christ are often read in a way that safely confines them to another people and another time. Most commonly, they are handed over to the Jews, and to the Pharisees in particular, as though the danger our Lord exposes belonged uniquely to a bygone religious class. At other times, the passage is spiritualized in a vague and generalized way, reduced to a warning against outward show while still treating fasting as a legitimate expression of self-denial or discipline, provided it is performed with careful discretion.

In his comments on this passage, John Gill treats fasting as an outward religious act, historically practiced, morally neutral, and spiritually dangerous when treated as righteousness. The address is primarily to Pharisaical religion, but by extension to any who fast for recognition or reward. Gill is warning the church against religion performed for visibility and reward. In Gill’s theology, fasting is an external religious act, and therefore always dangerous when confused with inward godliness. This is all very good.

Likewise, Robert Hawker approaches these words of Christ from the same ground, yet presses the matter further inward. Where Gill exposes fasting as an outward religious act easily corrupted by pride and reward-seeking, Hawker is chiefly concerned with what fasting reveals about the heart’s reluctance to rest wholly in Christ. In short, Hawker understands a true fast as something entirely internal and Christ-directed and thus warns against Christians importing law-religion into gospel ground. The “secret” is not the closet as a better stage, but the heart emptied of confidence in anything but Christ. All helpful and clarifying considerations.

Another thought naturally arises, and I can’t quite resist it, namely that, judging from the surviving portraits of both Gill and Hawker, neither man appears to have suffered much from excessive fasting. Whatever their views on the subject, they were clearly not malnourished saints. If they fasted at all, one suspects it was not very often, or else over-compensated on other days. Let’s bring this a bit closer to home. Who here has fasted in the last year? Go ahead, hands up, and feel free to explain how it went. Crickets. Apparently fasting has fallen on hard times, which is ironic, considering how little hardship most of us actually endure. I doubt any of us are wasting away. On the contrary, we are comfortably padded, amply supplied, and thoroughly attached to the necessities and luxuries of present life.

If we turn from the commentators to church history, the subject appears in another form. During the puritan period, particularly in the Cromwellian era, fasting was often formally appointed by churches and even by the state. Beginning in the early 1640s, Parliament proclaimed regular national fast days, commonly called “Days of Public Humiliation” or “Solemn Fasts,” which were observed publicly through closed shops and mandatory church attendance. Under Cromwell these practices continued, at times alternating with days of thanksgiving, and became woven into the moral and religious life of the nation. Well-known puritan figures such as John Owen, Thomas Goodwin, Jeremiah Burroughs, Thomas Manton, and Richard Baxter participated in and preached on these occasions, generally viewing fasting as a means of humbling the flesh and aiding prayer, while still acknowledging the danger of outward form overtaking inward exercise.

And yet, when read alongside our Lord’s own words on fasting, these appointed fasts raise an unavoidable question, not so much about motive, but about manner. Christ’s instruction on fasting does not merely warn against hypocrisy of heart, but against making fasting a visible, scheduled, and publicly recognized exercise. As Christ describes it, fasting is not something planned in advance or observed as a public appointment. It belongs to the secret dealings between the soul and God, arising from immediate need rather than future planning. When fasting is fixed upon a calendar it moves from inward response to outward form. Isaiah 1:13-14. Whatever the difference in intention, the resemblance in practice is difficult to ignore. None of this is meant to forbid fasting, nor to judge the exercises of another man’s conscience. What must be resisted is turning it into a rule, a measure of spirituality, or a duty imposed where Christ has left liberty.

Whatever one concludes about the fasting practices of earlier generations, it is hard not to notice how thoroughly the subject has been sidelined in our own. It is therefore not at all surprising how quickly “fasting” is passed over in much of what is called preaching today, and when it is addressed at all, it is most often spiritualized into a broad principle of self-denial. Fasting is reduced to the idea of giving something up, restraining some appetite, or denying some aspect of the flesh. In doing so, the focus subtly shifts from Christ Himself to the believer’s ability to restrain the flesh, manage appetites, or demonstrate seriousness. What is lost in this shift is precisely what both Gill and Hawker warn against, the ease with which religious acts, even well-intentioned ones, can subtly replace resting in Christ with a confidence rooted in self.

At this point, the question is no longer whether fasting has been misunderstood, but why our Lord speaks of it so differently than we do. When Christ is asked about fasting, He does not respond by prescribing its frequency or promoting its usefulness. Instead, He answers by locating fasting entirely in relation to Himself. “Can the children of the bridechamber mourn, as long as the bridegroom is with them?” Matthew 9:15. By this single question, Christ reframes the matter entirely, turning it from religious activity to relationship. As long as the Bridegroom is with them, fasting, identified here with mourning, is out of place. Psalm 16:11.

Fasting, as Christ defines it, is not a religious act to be initiated, but a response that arises when the Bridegroom is taken away and consolation is withdrawn. John 16:20. This places fasting outside religious manufacture and within the realm of communion. Where Christ is enjoyed, joy is full; where that enjoyment is interrupted, sorrow will arise. Christ addresses this very reality not by calling His people to manufacture sorrow, but by directing them to the true source of joy. I John 1:3-4. My aim in writing these thoughts has not been to revive fasting, discourage it, or regulate it, but simply to consider the subject in the light of Christ’s own words, and to leave it there. “These things have I spoken unto you, that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full.” John 15:11. MPJ

Dying Grace: “And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43. The thief on the cross had nothing to offer, no works to present, no time to reform, no reputation to defend. His life was a public failure, his death a sentence well deserved. And yet, in the final moments of his life, Christ spoke words that forever define the nature of divine grace: “Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.”

This is precisely where the offense of the cross arises. For while most are willing to confess that salvation is “by grace,” few are content to let the cross strip them of every distinction. We instinctively seek some distinction, some feature that sets us apart. But the cross levels every claim and leaves us standing on the same ground. “For there is no difference, for all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God; being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.” Romans 3:22-24.

This is where we may want to ask ourselves, on what footing do we expect to stand before God? Most would never say it outright, but many assume their case will be heard on better terms than a condemned criminal gasping for breath beside a crucified Christ. Scripture, however, places the thief on the cross before us not as a one-time exception granted under unusual circumstances, but as a clear revelation of the character of God, revealing what kind of grace He gives, and to whom.

Nothing in the narrative suggests that his case required special handling, nor that the mercy shown unto him was a deviation from the rule. On the contrary, his salvation exposes the rule itself. Here, at the point of absolute moral and religious bankruptcy, grace is seen in its purest form, unconditioned, unbargained, and resting entirely in the word of Christ.

It is easy, even natural, to imagine that we will stand before God on terms slightly more respectable than the thief on the cross. And yet, the gospel dismantles that assumption. Any hope of salvation that rises above the footing on which the dying thief stood is already a denial of grace; for if a man imagines that he will stand before God on more respectable terms then he is not seeking salvation by grace at all, but by a different god altogether. Such a god would have to admire what men admire, reward what men call virtue, and reserve mercy only for those who appear worthy of it. Let that sink in for a moment! If salvation required anything at our hands, any condition to fulfill or step to ascend, he stood utterly without hope. Yet it was precisely there, at the bottom, with nothing left, that Christ met him with mercy. Any attempt to soften this truth, to suggest that the thief possessed some hidden virtue or preparatory condition, is simply an effort to rescue human pride. In the thief, we are given not a puzzle to solve, but a revelation to believe. Romans 3:27. MPJ.

Christ the Treasure: “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.” Matthew 13:44. Our Lord describes the “kingdom of heaven” as a treasure hidden in a field, discovered not by effort but by revelation, and received not through negotiation but with joy. The man does not labor to improve the treasure, nor does he barter for its worth; he simply recognizes what has been found. Everything that follows, selling all, purchasing the field, relinquishing former claims, flows from the surpassing value of the treasure itself. So it is with Christ. When He is revealed as the life and righteousness of His people, and as their true inheritance, the hold of lesser treasures quietly dissolves. Philippians 3:7-8. The soul is not forced to relinquish them; it does so willingly, even gladly, having discovered something of infinitely greater worth. Matthew 6:21.

Whether the treasure in the parable is understood as Christ Himself, or as the kingdom whose riches are found in Him, the point remains the same, the kingdom’s surpassing worth cannot be separated from Christ. Even if the treasure is not intended as a direct allegory of Christ as a figure in the story, the parable cannot be rightly read in a way that excludes Him as the substance of what is treasured. “In whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.” Colossians 2:3.

Just now when reflecting on Christ as this treasure, I couldn’t help but remember a gospel message I heard years ago on this particular passage. In his introduction, the brother said that we were going on a “treasure hunt.” It was such a simple and fitting way to put it, and it stayed with me. Even now, whenever I come across that verse, it’s hard not to think of those words, because Christ is not merely a treasure, but the treasure, the one pearl of great price. As a small side note, I heard that message nearly twenty years ago, and that same brother is still preaching the same gospel today. That, in itself, is a sweet reminder of the Lord’s faithfulness in keeping His people, both him and us, in Christ for so many years. I Thessalonians 5:24.

As hinted at above, the parable leaves no room for calculation. There are no terms to be met, no scales to be balanced, no future benefits weighed against present cost, only joy in the discovery of surpassing worth. The same pattern appears in the calling of the disciples. “And when they had brought their ships to land, they forsook all and followed him.” Luke 5:11. No bargaining is recorded, no conditions are proposed, no rewards are negotiated. Christ is revealed, and the response follows. Yet much of our religious thinking introduces precisely what the parable excludes. We begin to speak of salvation as a transaction, of faith as a qualifying act, and of obedience as a measurable contribution. In this way, the treasure is no longer central, and Christ Himself is subtly displaced.

For many, Christ is little more than a bridge to “heaven,” a requirement to be crossed rather than the treasure to be possessed. Heaven, as it is often imagined, becomes a moral merit economy in which faith functions as currency, obedience is tallied for reward, and Christ is no longer received as the inheritance, but reduced to a means of obtaining something beyond Himself. This inversion strikes at the very heart of the gospel. Scripture does not present Christ as the doorway to something better; it presents Him as that which is better. To treat Christ as a means rather than the end is to strip Him of His glory and to misunderstand salvation altogether.

But where Christ is revealed as the treasure, life, righteousness, and inheritance of His people, the heart is reoriented. Desires once scattered among many pursuits are gathered into one, and the soul learns to rest where God has placed its life. To have Christ is to have the riches of the kingdom already, for “he that hath the Son hath life.” I John 5:12. Here the gospel comes to rest, not in what we manage to maintain for Christ, but in what Christ has faithfully secured for us. MPJ.

Trinitarianism: “And if any man think that he knoweth anything, he knoweth nothing yet as he ought to know.” I Corinthians 8:2. “Thus, he is not a brother in Christ; he is a blasphemer and a cultist!” — “Although MPJ relies heavily on cult-like tactics, logical fallacies, and strawman arguments to challenge the Trinity, the only cure for the heretic MPJ is the true gospel of the Triune God.” — “MPJ loathes the concept of the Trinity so much that he created a straw man to argue against it.” Those lines, taken on their own, fairly capture the spirit of a lengthy article written about me, in which I was charged with denying the Trinity, or at least a particular formulation of it, and on that basis declared outside the faith. I cite it not to answer the accusation itself, but because it illustrates the manner in which the entire case was framed.

The name of the article was, “Abusing ‘Righteousness’ at the Expense of the Trinity: A Reply to Marc Peter Jacobsson, Sovereign Redeemer Books.” It was written roughly two months ago, though I only became aware of it yesterday, and that only because someone felt compelled to direct me to it. In one sense, I wish I had never seen it. I am generally content to walk quietly, to labor in my own corner, and to leave controversy where it lies. And yet, having now seen it, I find myself conflicted. Not because my confidence has been shaken, nor because I feel a need to vindicate myself, but because I cannot help but think of how such words might land on others, particularly on those who are weak, new to the faith, or simply trying to learn Christ without being caught in the crossfire of theological hostilities.

My primary concern has never been for those who feel firmly established in the faith, or for those who are confident in their theological systems and well-versed in doctrinal distinctions. My heart is much more with the weak, the young believer, and the one who is simply trying to look to Christ and rejoice in Him, without yet understanding many of these finer points of doctrine. It is to those that my thoughts continually gravitate, and with them in mind, I can’t help but wonder how such strong warnings, accusations, and condemnations might sound to ears that are not accustomed to sifting theological controversy. Such warnings are not light matters, and they ought to make all of us cautious, myself included.

My wife remarked, when I mentioned these things to her, “why does he even waste his time on you? Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” If these questions touch the heart of the gospel as he understands it, then to ignore them would feel irresponsible. In that sense, I do not doubt his sincerity, nor do I assume his motives are petty or personal. He believes he is contending for Christ, and that is no small thing. Seen from that angle, his words are not born of indifference, but of earnest conviction. I do not doubt that the author loves what he understands to be the truth, nor do I question his zeal for guarding the faith once delivered to the saints. Such concern, when rightly ordered, is commendable. I’m reminded of Calvin's words: “A dog barks when his master is attacked. I would be a coward if I saw that God's truth is attacked and yet would remain silent.” The church has always needed men who take doctrine seriously and are genuinely concerned about error where Christ is at stake.

If I am honest, what keeps me careful in moments like this is a sober awareness of my own frailty. I do not stand on any imagined ground of infallibility, nor do I presume a clarity that others must share. I have wavered before, and I have misunderstood the Scriptures more than once. There is much I do not see clearly. At times, the thought even crosses my mind, what if they are right in some way? Not in the accusations made, but in seeing something I have missed. I am no theologian. I do not pretend to possess a comprehensive grasp of these matters. There are things others claim to see with clarity that I struggle to see at all, even when I labor to set aside my own assumptions and preconceived notions. It is a mercy to remember that our hope does not rest in our theological clarity, but in the Lord’s kindness to preserve us, even from ourselves, and to keep us from serious error, even when we’re blind to it. Psalms 119:18.

Further, if I am to be consistent with what I believe about God’s sovereignty in salvation, then I must also accept that understanding itself falls under that same sovereignty. II Timothy 2:7. God may have opened my eyes to some things, and He has left me blind to others for reasons known only to Him. I trust that there are brethren who see more clearly where I remain unsure. Revelation is always a gift, never a possession. And if God is to be known, He must make Himself known. Matthew 13:11.

With those opening thoughts, I want to briefly and plainly clarify something, not as a rebuttal, and certainly not as a defense of myself, but for the sake of those who may be confused by the charges that have been made. I know that I am not a denier of the Trinity in the sense in which that charge is commonly understood. I do not deny the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. I do not deny the full and undiminished deity of Christ. I do not deny the Spirit of God, nor do I treat Him as an impersonal force. And I do not deny the testimony of Scripture concerning God’s self-revelation.

At bottom, the difference between myself and this critic is not whether the Father, the Son, and the Spirit are divine. On that point, there is no dispute. I affirm Christ’s full deity without reserve. I affirm the Father, the Son, and the Spirit without hesitation. I affirm the Scriptures without embarrassment or apology. The difference at hand is not whether God is revealed as Father, Son, and Spirit, but in how far we are willing to press certain theological formulations beyond the language and testimony of Scripture itself and then bind consciences to them as tests of spiritual life and death.

Theological systems do not arise out of thin air, nor are they born merely of pride or speculation. They are often formed in earnest attempts to safeguard truth, to answer real errors, and to give structure to the church’s understanding of Scripture. In that sense, they can be genuinely helpful. They provide language, categories, and guardrails that assist teachers and learners alike, especially in times of controversy. But systems, by their very nature, are secondary things. They help us speak about what Scripture teaches, but they are not themselves the measure of faith, nor the ground of our acceptance with God. Trouble arises when what was meant to serve understanding begins to govern conscience, when explanatory frameworks are pressed beyond Scripture’s own testimony and then treated as definitive tests of spiritual life and death.

Scripture invites clear and reverent confession, but it does not urge us beyond what God has revealed. It leaves unexplained things in His hands, where they belong. Deuteronomy 29:29. Its concern is not that we master metaphysical categories, but that we know the living God as He makes Himself known. John 17:3. Biblical confession centers on testimony: God is one; the Father sent the Son; the Word was made flesh; the Spirit gives life; Christ is Lord. Philosophical precision seeks to explain how these truths fit together. These can be helpful, but the danger is when an explanation replaces the confession, so that agreeing with a certain way of describing God is treated as equal to believing in Christ Himself. Scripture calls us to believe the testimony God has given of His Son; it does not require that we resolve every philosophical question that testimony raises.

One additional concern I feel compelled to note is a recurring pattern in how my words have been handled. Portions of my writings are quoted selectively, extracted and then interpreted through “oneness” or “modalist” frameworks that I have never adopted. It’s as though questioning certain doctrinal formulations automatically places me within those camps. It may help to say plainly what I have not said, and what I do not believe. I have never claimed that the Son is the Father, nor that the Spirit is merely a force. I have never taught that Christ is a created being, nor that the Son did not exist prior to the incarnation. Those ideas are rightly rejected because Scripture itself rejects them. What I have questioned is not the scriptural testimony itself, but the necessity of adopting later philosophical descriptions as though they were Scripture’s own speech.

The real disagreement, then, comes down to this, whether post-biblical metaphysical language, phrases such as “three eternal persons sharing one divine essence,” or carefully articulated distinctions like the Father as unbegotten, the Son as eternally begotten, and the Spirit as eternally proceeding, should be regarded as part of the gospel itself, or whether it represents a theological model developed to safeguard and summarize biblical truth? My contention has never been with the biblical testimony. It has been with the elevation of a particular explanatory framework to the status of gospel boundary. At this point, faith is no longer anchored in Christ as He is revealed in Scripture, but in one’s ability to articulate or affirm a particular theological construct. When those structures are elevated to the level of gospel boundary markers, the focus subtly shifts, from trusting Christ as He is revealed in Scripture, to affirming particular explanatory schemes as measures of spiritual life and death.

The Bible names the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, and bears faithful witness to each. It does not, however, speak in terms of three distinct, co-equal, co-eternal persons subsisting within one divine essence. That language developed later, particularly in the fourth century, as the church faced internal disputes over the person of Christ and the nature of God, (most notably in response to Arianism,) and began to employ philosophical terms drawn from Greek metaphysics to clarify and defend what it believed Scripture taught. If others wish to speak in that kind of protestant or confessional language, they are free to do so. I have no desire to police vocabulary, nor to silence those who find such formulations helpful. But neither do I feel compelled to follow where Scripture itself does not lead, or to labor to disprove systems I do not believe in. No believer, as far as I can see, is bound to accept a particular philosophical vocabulary simply because it became traditional.

And it remains an open and serious question, one that has not been demonstrated from that critique, how salvation itself is made to hinge upon affirming Nicene metaphysics rather than upon believing the testimony God has given of His Son. Scripture places eternal life not in mastering explanatory schemes, but in knowing the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom He has sent. John 17:3. MPJ

Offense of Christ Alone: “The world cannot hate you; but me it hateth, because I testify of it, that the works thereof are evil.” John 7:7. The world has never persecuted a man for speaking against vice. Such denunciations are often welcomed, and even celebrated, so long as they remain safely general and do not disturb the foundations upon which men rest. Luke 6:26. On the contrary, moral outrage is one of its favorite disguises. It allows the world to appear righteous while remaining untouched, to condemn obvious evils while preserving its confidence in itself. But when Christ says that the world hates Him because He testifies that its works are evil, He is speaking of something far deeper than the exposure of public sins. He is exposing not merely what men do, but what they trust in; not merely outward corruption, but inward righteousness. His testimony reaches beyond behavior to the very ground of human acceptance before God, stripping away every refuge of self-approval and leaving no standing except in Himself alone.

Christ bore witness against the world precisely at the point where it felt most secure. He challenged not its vices, but its virtues. He exposed the righteousness men boasted in, the religion they cherished, and the goodness they presumed would commend them to God. In doing so, He stripped away every refuge of self-justification. The Jews understood this clearly. They did not hear Him as a moral reformer, but as a threat to all they called holy and acceptable. John 5:18. And rightly so, for Christ did not come to improve the world’s righteousness, but to condemn it as insufficient, false, and condemned already apart from Him. John 6:29. He does not negotiate with human goodness; He declares it void. In doing so, He becomes an enemy to everything the world admires in itself. Luke 16:15.

How deeply offensive it must have been to those who prized their religion, their lineage, and their obedience, to hear a man they regarded with contempt openly declare that God was pleased with no one but Himself, and that the Father’s delight was singular, settled, and unshared. He asserted, with unwavering certainty, that the Father delighted in no righteousness, no devotion, no virtue under heaven but His own, and that no man could ever find acceptance with God except through Him. John 14:6.

In making Himself the sole object of the Father’s pleasure, He exposed every rival righteousness as false, and in doing so, made Himself unbearable to those who trusted in their own. The Jews recognized the implication immediately. What provoked their fury was not His condemnation of sin in general, but His declaration that apart from Him, even what men called good was evil. If He were right, then all they valued most was exposed as empty. And so, rather than abandon their righteousness, they resolved to destroy Him. John 15:22.

They would have listened eagerly to one who instructed them how to do the works of God, who assigned them a role, offered them some share in the work, and dignified their efforts with divine approval. But they could not endure the announcement that all their sincere thoughts, religious desires, and moral exertions were set aside entirely, of no value in securing acceptance with God. The claim that Jesus had come down from heaven not to assist men in their work, but to accomplish the work of God for them, and to do it alone, was intolerable. The scandal remains unchanged. It is found wherever Christ’s work is confessed as the whole of salvation rather than a means toward it, even in circles renowned for doctrinal precision and religious seriousness. MPJ