— By Michael A. Graham
I. Introduction: Language Is Covenantal
I don’t always know where my words are coming from. But lately, as I’ve worked through Romans 15:4, I’ve been paying more attention to God’s Word and my words:
“For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.”
Sometimes it happens in the middle of a conversation when I feel pressure to explain or defend myself. Sometimes it’s when I pray and realize I don’t really believe God is listening. Sometimes it’s when I’m quiet—but not because I’m trusting anyone. I’m quiet because I don’t want to feel stupid. I don’t want to be wrong. Or I don’t want to deal with what someone else might say.
And then there’s the damage words cause—what mine have caused. I still carry some of the words others have spoken to me. I know others carry some of mine. Growing up, I heard that old line: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” I think whoever said that must have already been hurting and didn’t know what to do with it. They probably didn’t have words for the pain, so they covered it. But we all know it’s false. Words do hurt. Sometimes more than the sticks and stones. Sometimes they are what cause people to pick up sticks and stones in the first place.
I’ve been circling around the thought lately that language itself is covenantal. I’ve read Jack Miller on the infamous tongue assignment, and every time I think I’ve got a handle on it, I speak too quickly again. Or I hold back too long again. Or I use words in ways that hurt others or protect me more than they reveal Christ.
This is the simple thesis of this essay: Language itself is covenantal.
Words don’t just communicate information. They rise from the ground we’re standing on—either the faith position or the presumptive position. In many ways, this is a follow-on essay to one I wrote earlier, titled “The Presumptive Position.”
The faith position stands on God’s promises, speaks from dependence, listens with trust, and waits. The presumptive position stands on self, speaks from control, listens to respond, and often fears being exposed. What’s hard is that posture can mimic faith. You can sound gentle, even repentant, while still standing on the ground of presumption. I’ve done that more times than I can count.
Romans 14 and 15 have kept me in this space. Paul doesn’t flatten people or their strongly held biblical convictions. He enters into them. He bears with them. He walks people through conflict—not to make everyone sound the same, but to lead them to the same ground. He prays that they would glorify God “with one voice”—a voice that comes from our being welcomed all the way into the glory of God’s grace. It’s not agreement that unifies them. It’s the gospel of God.
I’ll be in Italy during General Assembly this year. I won’t be in the assembly room or the breakout sessions where the words are spoken, but I’ll be thinking about them. I’ll be praying. And I’ll be asking again where my own words are coming from—both the ones I’ve spoken and the ones I’ve kept to myself.
Prayer is the eye of faith. It’s hard to fake in prayer. Whatever I say there—individually and corporately—shows what I believe: what I think about God, about grace, and about my need. And maybe that’s where speech starts to get reshaped. Not by trying to talk better, but by learning to receive again in prayer. The more I pray, the more I see through the eye of faith—not just what’s around me, but where I’m standing. Prayer shows me whether I’m speaking from self or from Christ.
So this essay is an attempt to see again where my words are coming from—and to ask how speech can be shaped by the same gospel that silences self and gives us Christ instead.
II. The Bible’s Covenant Theology of Speech
God Spoke First
The first voice in Scripture is God’s. “And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” His speech creates. It reveals. It gives life. There is no background noise. No setup. Just a speaking God and a world that listens. That’s covenantal. Not just because God speaks, but because everything He says binds reality to Himself. His Word creates a world—and in that world, He speaks again, this time to image-bearers.
When God speaks to Adam, He isn’t offering options. His words carry promise and warning, blessing and judgment, life and death. “You may surely eat…” and “you shall not eat…” are not just permissions and restrictions. They are covenantal speech—divine words that call for human faith and obedience. And Adam responds with words. He names. He receives. He speaks back. Language was meant for communion.
Words Broke First
But in Genesis 3, the words begin to twist. The serpent speaks—not with power to create, but with power to question. “Did God really say…?” And something shifts. Eve responds, but not from the faith position. Her reply softens the command and adds to it. Then Adam stays silent—and silence can be speech too. What is left unspoken can carry just as much ground as what is said. The words are no longer resting on trust in the Word of God. They are now wrapped in doubt, control, and cover. The presumptive position begins to speak.
God still speaks. “Where are you?” His voice is not manipulative. It’s exposing, but still pursuing. His Word judges and invites, names and clothes. Even in judgment, He speaks promise. But Adam’s words no longer come from communion. He blames. He hides. His tongue turns to self-defense.
This is where the pattern begins: when speech breaks, covenant is already broken. And when God restores, He does it with words. Words of promise. Words of law. Words of mercy.
In Covenant, Words and Deeds Belong Together
In covenantal speech, words and deeds are never separate. God speaks, and what He speaks happens. His Word creates, commands, promises, and fulfills. “Let there be light”—and there was light. “I will be your God”—and He redeems. His words are not wishes or noise. They are acts.
When words and actions align, covenant life flourishes. When they break apart, covenant trust fractures. This is what happened in the garden: the serpent’s words distorted God’s. Adam and Eve’s mouths were silent when they could have sought God’s voice here with them in the Garden. They instead decided for themselves. And their actions no longer matched what had been given. It wasn’t just disobedience. It was speech broken off from trust.
The Law holds word and deed together. Promises, testimony, vows, commands—all are meant to reflect God’s own faithfulness in how we speak and live. “Let your ‘yes’ be yes,” Jesus said. Not because speech is fragile, but because speech is sacred.
James warns that faith without works is dead—and speech without follow-through is dead too. “If anyone thinks he is religious,” James says, “and does not bridle his tongue… this person’s religion is worthless.” And 1 John presses deeper: “Let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.” Covenant speech does not settle for sounding right. It moves into alignment with truth.
When Christ comes, He is called the Word made flesh. He doesn’t just speak truth. He lives it. His promises are not paper words. They bleed. He becomes what He declares. That’s covenantal speech: word and deed united in the Son—and now joined again in His people.
Throughout this essay, language has been treated as a covenantal act—not as a system to master, but as a way of revealing and receiving Christ. God speaks to make Himself known. But in the Reformed tradition, the Word is never only heard—it is also seen. The sacraments have long been called “visible words”—signs and seals that confirm the gospel preached. As Calvin wrote, “A sacrament is a visible word, because it represents the promises of God by visible signs, as if they were painted before our eyes.”
Covenant speech, then, doesn’t stand apart from the sacraments. It leans into them. Together, speech and sign form a pattern of communion—God speaking to us, and we responding in faith. This is covenantal communication: heard, seen, trusted, received.
The Tower We Still Build
If Genesis 3 is the start of presumptive speech, Babel is its architecture. It’s what happens when we use language to build a future without trust. “Come, let us build… let us make a name for ourselves… lest we be scattered.” Their speech is full of planning. There is no waiting on God. No remembering what He has promised. Their unified language becomes a tool for control.
The name “Babel” meant “the gate of God.” It was their way of making God come to them—on their terms. And God saw through it. Their language was unified, but their ground was self. This is the presumptive position made corporate. They spoke from the desire to ascend—to take control of the future. And so God confused their speech. Not to punish with noise, but to show mercy. Their unity would have led them deeper into ruin. Scattered speech was a kind judgment. It slowed the rebellion down.
Jack Miller once wrote that there’s always a tower being built in the heart—one that wants to reach heaven by strength, clarity, or self-effort. Babel still happens in committee meetings, presbytery meetings, General Assembly, session meetings, staff meetings, conferences, classrooms, and family systems. We still want to name ourselves. And we still try to use language to do it.
To be clear:
The presumptive position begins with this belief: “I already understand.”
From there, it says: “I already know what needs to happen.”
And then it says: “Now I will act.”
This posture often resembles faith because both carry confidence. But the object differs. The presumptive position trusts in self—whether through clarity, urgency, or experience. It speaks from control, pressure, or fear. It may sound biblical, but it rests on man—not grace. The faith position is different. It stands on God’s promises, listens with trust, receives what is given, and waits on God in prayer. The posture may look the same. But the position is everything. Speech rises from the ground beneath the tongue.
Speech Without Surrender
And yet, even when we speak falsely, God does not leave us wordless. In Exodus and Deuteronomy, we see Him binding Himself to His people again through words. “Hear, O Israel…” “You shall have no other gods before me…” These are not just commands. They are relational boundaries—spoken by a God who has already redeemed them. The commandments don’t initiate the relationship. They shape it. They were delivered by God’s own voice. And the people’s response? “Let us not hear the voice of the Lord our God again, lest we die.”
They are terrified. And rightly so. But fear alone doesn’t tell the whole story. The problem is that their fear turns them away. They ask for a mediator. And in His mercy, God gives one. But again, the pattern holds: speech rises from position. They are still God’s covenant people. But their posture bends toward management, not communion.
Later, the prophets expose this again. Hosea 6 gives us one of the clearest pictures of speech from the presumptive position.
“Come, let us return to the Lord: for He has torn us, that He may heal us; He has struck us down, and He will bind us up. After two days he will revive us; on the third day He will raise us up, that we may live before Him. Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord; His going out is sure as the dawn; He will come to us with showers, as the spring rains that water the earth.”
The words in Hosea sound like repentance. The posture seems right. The language is correct. But the position is off. God uses words to respond in Hosea 6: “What shall I do with you O Ephraim? What shall I do with you Judah? Your love is like the morning cloud, like the dew that goes early away.”
Hosea 7 makes that plain. God says, “They do not cry to Me from the heart, but they wail upon their beds … They return, but not upward.”
If prayer is the eye of faith, then as Jack Miller has seen, true repentance is a tear in the eye of faith. The words in Hosea sound like repentance. There are tears, but not the tears that come from a Godly sorrow. These are tears that wails upon one’s bed in self-pity. The tears come from a worldly sorrow of being denied something I want. God’s people in Hosea are using words to get something from God, not to receive Him. It’s speech without surrender. Language without love.
The Word Became Flesh
Still, God does not remain silent. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” That’s the most covenantal sentence in Scripture. The Word of God is a message about a Person within the Triune God’s story of redemption.
God didn’t just send prophets. He sent His Son. And Jesus didn’t come to correct our grammar. He spoke as one who had never sinned—and He spoke mercy to sinners who could no longer manage their lives with language.
“Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” That’s what Paul says in Romans 10. It’s covenant language. Speech from the faith position. Calling is not just a ritual—it’s what a person does when they believe the God who speaks will hear them and answer.
But how does that happen? “Faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” Even the faith to speak again is born from being spoken to.
And this continues to the end of the story. In Revelation 19, the multitude in heaven cries out with a loud voice. Not a divided voice. A voice shaped by covenant, by salvation, by the Lamb. This is where speech is going—back to praise. Back to clarity. Back to joy.
But that future voice begins now. In the church. In our homes. In our speech. I need to be reminded again and again: I can’t speak my way into the faith position. But I do speak from the faith position on which I stand. My words reveal the ground beneath me. My theology may be right. My posture may look right. But if I’m standing on self, the speech will show the presumptive position on which I stand. That’s why I want to listen better—not just to others, but to myself. To the voice I’m using. To the tone I take. To the words that slip out when I feel the need to protect myself.
If language is covenantal, then God isn’t asking me to master my tongue. He’s inviting me to return to the ground of faith, where speech begins to heal.
III. Romans 15 and the Formation of Gospel Speech
The Conflict Wasn’t Small
The church in Rome wasn’t split over a personality issue or a vague disagreement. The strong and the weak each held strong biblical convictions. Some were holding fast to food laws and Sabbath observance from the Mosaic tradition. Others were embracing their freedom in Christ to eat meat and observe days differently. This wasn’t a simple preference. These were deeply held, Scripture-shaped convictions. And both groups thought they were right.
Paul doesn’t flatten their views. He doesn’t tell everyone to stop being so sensitive. He enters into the tension and stays with it across two chapters. Romans 14 and 15 show how the church is called to walk together when we don’t all agree. But he doesn’t begin with outcomes. He begins with the ground we’re standing on. Are we speaking from self or from Christ? Are we using our convictions to manage each other—or to love each other?
How Speech Reveals the Ground
Paul’s appeal in Romans 15:1 is simple: “We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves.” But the language here isn’t casual. The word bear isn’t about tolerating others. It means to carry. Paul is calling those with strength to carry the weakness of others, not crush them under it.
And here the ground starts to show. The presumptive position says: I’ve arrived. I understand. Now I need to fix or correct those who don’t. But the faith position bears. It listens. It waits. It carries.
Then Paul sharpens it: “Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, to build him up.” That phrase to build goes straight back to Babel. Are we using words to build a name for ourselves, or to build others up under the name of Christ?
Christ Spoke From the Cross
Then comes the center of this passage. “For Christ did not please himself, but as it is written, ‘The reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.’” This is Psalm 69. It’s covenantal, sacrificial speech. Christ bore reproach. He received scorn. He carried the words that should have been hurled at us.
Jesus didn’t correct us from a distance. He entered into our blame. He didn’t come to manage the church. He came to die for her. And the words He spoke from the cross were not for control, but for mercy: “Father, forgive them.” That’s speech from the faith position—speech rooted in full trust of the Father and full love for His people.
The Eye of Faith Sees a Different Welcome
Romans 15:4 then turns our attention to Scripture: “For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.” This is not instruction for its own sake. It’s not just to be right or to win an argument. The Word of God gives the endurance, the encouragement, and the hope we need—because it gives Christ.
That’s why prayer is the “eye of faith.” When we pray, we are not just speaking to God. We are being shown again the ground we’re standing on. Prayer helps us see that God has welcomed us in Christ, not because we resolved our convictions, but because Christ bore our reproach. And when we see that—when faith looks to Jesus—our speech begins to change. We start to welcome others not from agreement, but from mercy.
One Voice, One Welcome
Paul continues: “May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus.” Harmony here doesn’t mean uniformity. It means a shared mind—not about everything, but about Christ. About His welcome. About His voice. About His cross.
Then the goal: “That together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” That one voice doesn’t come from winning a debate. It comes from being welcomed by the same gospel. It is not a voice of shared interpretation, but of shared mercy.
Paul finishes with this: “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God” or better yet “into the glory of God.” That welcome isn’t polite. It’s not temporary. It doesn’t hold others at the door. Christ has welcomed us all the way in—into the Holy of Holies. Into His righteousness. Into the presence of the Father.
Pentecost Undoes Babel
At Babel, people used speech to unify around their own name. And God scattered them by confusing their language. But at Pentecost, something else happens. The same Spirit who inspired Scripture now fills the church. And each person hears the gospel in their own language.
This is not a strategy. It’s not a marketing miracle. It is speech from the faith position—speech that proclaims the gospel across every barrier. It’s the Spirit declaring that Christ has reversed the curse. Where once we built towers to reach heaven, now heaven comes down in words of grace. And the people who once shouted “crucify him” now cry out, “What must we do to be saved?” And Peter says, “Repent.” In other words: turn. Lay down your own speech. Listen. Receive.
Our Speech Starts at the Welcome
This is where Paul is leading us. Not to agreement on every matter, but to speech that rises from the same ground. The presumptive position says: I’ve already spoken. I already know. But the faith position listens. It sees Jesus. And it begins again with welcome.
The church is not built by clever words or by shared strategies. It is built by a gospel that gives speech back to those who had nothing left to say. A gospel that gives us hope when we’ve run out of arguments. A gospel that forms a people around the Word of Christ who bore our reproach and gave us His welcome.
IV. The Church as a People of Gospel Speech
The Church Has a Word to Speak
The church doesn’t live by strategy. It lives by Word. And not a Word of our own making, but the Word that has made us. The same God who spoke creation into being has now spoken His Son, His gospel, and His welcome. And now, by the Spirit, we are called to speak again.
Pentecost wasn’t the church’s launch event. It was the restoration of what was lost at Babel. The curse of scattered speech is undone. In Christ, people from every nation hear the same gospel—not through human unification, but through Spirit-given clarity. And when the crowd asks Peter, “What shall we do?” the answer is speech: “Repent and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins.” In other words: believe. Speak again—but this time from the ground of mercy.
That’s the beginning of gospel speech. It’s not professionalized. It’s not restricted to the pulpit. It doesn’t require a platform. It begins in repentance. It begins in faith. And it spreads. The church is not held together by eloquence or shared talking points. It is formed by the Word of Christ—and it speaks as those who have been spoken for.
The Word of God Forms a Speaking People
This is why the Reformers insisted on Sola Scriptura—not because Scripture is the only authority we respect, but because it is the only final authority. The Westminster Confession of Faith puts it this way:
“The authority of the Holy Scripture… dependeth not upon the testimony of any man or Church, but wholly upon God (who is truth itself), the Author thereof; and therefore it is to be received, because it is the Word of God.” (WCF 1.4)
This means that the Word doesn’t need our permission to speak. It speaks because God speaks. And when we speak as the church, our authority comes not from our tone or position or office—but from faith in that Word.
That’s why WCF 1.6 adds that all things necessary for God’s glory, for salvation, faith, and life are either “expressly set down in Scripture, or… may be deduced… by good and necessary consequence.” We don’t invent clarity. We receive it. And when we do, it changes the way we talk.
The church is meant to be a people of speech. Not just formal speech, but covenantal speech. Encouragement. Confession. Correction. Intercession. Proclamation. The tongue is not neutral. It doesn’t just respond to our theology. It reveals the ground under our theology. That’s why James says that blessing and cursing should not flow from the same mouth. It’s why Paul tells the church to “speak the truth in love.” And it’s why Jesus says that “out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks.”
Jack’s Tongue Assignment Was About Christ
Jack Miller once gave an assignment that has become almost infamous in some circles:
“Don’t say anything negative about another person for 30 days.”
But it wasn’t about being nice. And it wasn’t a trick to make people behave. It was about speech—and about grace. Jack encouraged us to pay close attention to what was coming out of our mouths, not so we could improve ourselves, but so we could see our need of Christ. We may be able to bite our tongues, but we cannot bite our hearts.
Here’s how Jack framed the assignment in the Sonship course:
The Don’ts:
- Don’t gossip—don’t confess someone else’s sins.
- Don’t complain about anything.
- Don’t blame shift or make excuses.
- Don’t defend yourself.
- Don’t boast about anything.
That’s a hard list because the tongue assignment exposes our heart. Complaining often comes out when we feel we’re being overlooked. Defensiveness rises up when we feel misunderstood. Gossip comes out when we want to be seen as better than someone else. These aren’t speech problems. They are faith in Christ problems.
But Jack didn’t stop with the don’ts. He also gave a second list—what to speak instead:
The Do’s:
- Speak only good about others.
- Thank God for His plan for your life.
- Admit it when you are wrong or sin.
- Rejoice—you’re worse than you think.
- Boast—in your weaknesses (2 Cor. 12:9).
These aren’t moral upgrades. They are gospel responses. We can’t fake this speech unless we can fake God, who has searched us and knows all our offensive ways and anxious thoughts.
We can speak like this when we remember that Christ has already borne the reproach. That we have nothing left to prove. That we have already been welcomed all the way in.
This is why Jack also told people to “gossip the gospel.” Talk about Jesus the way people talk about what matters most—because there is nothing that matters more.
Speak about His welcome. His mercy. His promises. Speak about what is finished. And speak it to others like they need it—because they do. Speak it to yourself, too. Out loud. Not as a mantra, but as covenantal speech: the kind that’s rooted in grace and raised in faith.
That’s what the tongue assignment was about. It was about helping people see the heart behind where our words come from—and to bring those words under the cross again.
What If We Spoke From the Welcome?
What would happen if we stopped gossiping about one another—and started gossiping the gospel again?
What if we stopped using our speech to correct others first—and let ourselves be corrected by the Word?
What if we didn’t fill silence with commentary—but let the gospel be the thing that filled the room?
What if our homes were shaped by hope—not by managing outcomes, but by naming grace?
What if the next time we opened our mouths in conflict, the first thing out wasn’t what someone else should do—but who Christ is?
What would happen if the church became known again for how it speaks—not loudly, but clearly; not cleverly, but plainly; not to prove something, but to receive and proclaim the Gospel of God?
The gospel does this. It gives a tongue to the voiceless. It corrects speech without crushing it. It frees our mouths from self and gives them back to grace.
Speech Is Where the Church Begins to Be Seen
The people of God are not defined by programs or by policies, but by speech that flows from the welcome of Christ.
Our words are where the ground of our faith or presumption is exposed. They show whether we are managing others or bearing with them. Whether we are trusting the Spirit—or trusting ourselves.
When Paul says in Romans 15 that we are to glorify God with “one voice,” he doesn’t mean we will always say the same thing. He means our speech will rise from the same gospel. That when we correct, it will be from mercy. That when we preach, it will be from faith in Christ. That when we speak, we won’t be trying to win. We’ll be trying to give what we have received.
And what have we received? We’ve been welcomed. Not partially. Not politely. Not provisionally. We’ve been welcomed into the glory of God. That is the source of all gospel speech.
So we do not speak to finish something. We speak because something has already been finished.
Jesus has borne the reproach. He has silenced the accuser. He has spoken peace. And now, the church gets to say what we have heard ourselves.
V. The Fantasy of Words
Speech Isn’t Safe Anymore
We live in an age of extreme speech. Words are everywhere—and so is confusion. We are flooded with slogans, branding, narratives, and outrage. We curate what we say and who we say it to. We target audiences. We workshop language. We speak not to be known, but to be followed. Not to be corrected, but to be affirmed. This is a time when speech is used to construct reality, not to receive it.
And often, the speech sounds strong—like conviction. But when the ground under our language is off, the speech is off too. Because if language is covenantal, it isn’t just functional. It is revealing. Words don’t simply inform. They form. And in our cultural moment, language is being used not to confess truth of Christ, but to create a version of truth that lets us keep our lives.
Jack Miller described this as the difference between faith and magic.
Faith, he said, is when “a man is silenced by God, and then surrenders to the God he believes is for him.”
Magic, by contrast, is a reversal of religion. Instead of being used by God, the magician tries to use God—manipulating divine language for personal gain.
Fantasy Speech Is Always Presumptive
Gerhardus Vos once said, “Magic is a paganistic reversal of the process of religion, in which man, instead of letting himself be used by God for the divine purpose, drags down his god to the level of a tool.”
That’s the presumptive position applied to the sacred. It is language without surrender.
Fantasy speech does this. It doesn’t start from what is true. It starts from what is useful. And then it adds a little Jesus to keep it safe. We’ve seen this in political theology, in Christian nationalism, in progressive Christianity, in prosperity preaching, in culture war branding. But it also shows up in how we post, how we argue, how we flatter.
But that’s Babel all over again. Language used to ascend. Words used to climb. Reality re-shaped around what I already believe. And the danger is: it works for a while. It draws a crowd. It builds a name. But it doesn’t build the church.
Fantasy speech is everywhere. It’s in pornography, in the curated self-image, in the pastoral persona, in crisis management, and in “brand-safe” testimony. It uses spiritual phrases. It mimics Scripture. But the voice is hollow. It’s speaking from a position of self-protection—not from surrender.
And here’s the test: it can’t suffer reproach. It can’t handle being misunderstood. It breaks when it is not praised. It vanishes when it is not seen.
Magic Is Always Trying to Get God to Bow
Jack Miller said something once that has cut me and helped me at the same time: “You can even use confession of sin as a magical tool… making a kind of contract with God.”
That haunts me. Because I’ve done that. I’ve said the right words, not because I was repenting, but because I wanted to be heard, approved, restored, or even praised for my honesty.
But that’s not repentance. That’s still self. That’s speech meant to manipulate. And that is what Jack meant when he said you can preach the gospel from the presumptive position. You can say everything true. But say it from the wrong ground. And it makes the whole thing hollow.
This is what the third commandment is about. “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.” That’s not mainly about profanity. It’s about using God’s name as a tool. Using sacred language without surrender.
Jack called this the “white magic” of the church—repeating true words for false ends.
Fantasy Speech and the Illusion of Control
Fantasy speech doesn’t begin with Scripture. It begins with self. It imagines a different world—a world where I am more admired, more secure, more in control, more desired. And then it speaks from that imagined place. It creates a self to be believed, a world to be earned, a God to be managed.
This speech often sounds religious. But it is fantasy all the way down. We curate our words to protect our image. We speak with spiritual polish to avoid weakness. We tell partial truths and call them testimonies. We script the version of ourselves we wish others saw—and sometimes start believing it ourselves.
Jack Miller saw this in the church, in pastors, and in his own heart. He called it “white magic”—spiritual language meant to keep God close, but on our terms.
We take gospel words and use them like a charm. We confess to feel better. We repent to regain control. We pray because it helps us cope. It sounds faithful, but it’s presumptive. It’s magic.
And when it fails—when God doesn’t answer the way we imagined, or the spiritual words don’t deliver—we get angry.
James names this plainly: “You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel…” (James 4:1–2).
That is the rage of the fantasy life: I imagined what God would do. I prayed a version of it. I performed it in front of others. And when it failed, I blamed the people who got in the way—and the God who wouldn’t comply.
Some may wonder whether this language of “fantasy speech” softens or psychologizes sin. But the concern here is not clinical—it’s covenantal.
Fantasy speech isn’t simply about daydreams or insecurity. It is about the presumptive position, where we use our imagination to construct a life without dependence on God, where we long for more control and power over our own lifes. It is false worship—self-generated, self-protecting, self-elevating. And when it’s joined to our speech, it doesn’t just distort truth. It reveals our refusal to surrender. Fantasy is not soft sin. It is idolatry in a curated form.
Fantasy Speech in Real Life
This isn’t hypothetical. Fantasy speech shows up in every part of modern life:
- In pornography, it gives the illusion of intimacy and power without love or presence.
- In financial dreams, it promises control and dignity through accumulation.
- In ministry metrics, it preaches the gospel while measuring success by the size of applause.
- In the curated self, it builds a world where we are noticed, envied, admired, safe.
Fantasy speech often sounds like faith—but it must win. It can’t allow weakness. It never plans for failure. And when pain comes, it either hardens or hides.
The gospel dismantles that. Fantasy wants a story where we climb. The gospel tells the truth: we die, and are raised.
Fantasy speech flows from the presumptive position. It says: “I already know. I already understand. Now I will speak to shape the world I want.”
But gospel speech doesn’t build an illusion. It returns to reality—and then opens its mouth to receive.
The Gospel Names Reality, Not Wishes
The Word of God is not fantasy. It doesn’t paint a better version of the life we already have. It reveals the life we need—the one we can only receive. The gospel names us as sinners. And then it names Christ as our righteousness. It doesn’t flatter us. It frees us.
This is why Paul’s voice in Romans 15 matters so much. He is not appealing for harmony through compromise of convictions. He’s calling the church to glorify God with one voice. And that voice comes from a place—a faith position—where all presumption has been silenced. It is the voice of people who have nothing left to boast in—except Christ.
And this is why speech matters so much now. Because if we are not speaking from the faith position, we are speaking from self. And if we speak from self, we will not be able to speak hope. We will only speak strategies, systems, slogans, or reactions. And those things cannot bear weight of reproach.
The Only Speech That Can Carry a Church
Fantasy speech builds a name. But gospel speech bears a name—the name of Christ. It speaks mercy into grief, promise into fear, hope into sin. It doesn’t avoid reality. It names it. And then it speaks Christ into it.
This is the speech that Pentecost gave back to the church. And it is speech the Spirit still gives—when we stop pretending, stop ascending, stop controlling, and instead receive.
Language that begins with the welcome of Christ ends with the worship of God.
We don’t need more convincing speech. We need more covenantal speech. Words that rise from the ground of grace. Words that carry faith, not illusion. Words that reveal what’s real—even when it’s costly.
Because speech that costs nothing can carry no one. But speech that comes from surrender—that’s the speech Christ gives His church.
VI. Preaching to Ourselves or Preaching Christ?
The Phrase Has Been Abused
“Preach the gospel to yourself.” It’s been said so often in some circles, it’s become a slogan. It’s been turned into a mantra, a mood reset, a therapeutic loop. In some places, it has replaced actual preaching. In others, it’s been used to defend disengagement or mask disobedience. That’s the abuse.
But abuse doesn’t erase proper use. And the misuse of a phrase doesn’t invalidate the truth behind it. The goal of gospel speech was never to escape struggle. It was to return us to Christ—to remind the heart that we stand by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone. And this was never meant to be abstract. It was meant to be deeply personal.
Jack Miller Lived the Practice
Jack Miller didn’t invent the phrase. His son Paul likely coined it. But Jack lived it. He used it in prayer, in sermons, in letters, and in counseling. For Jack, preaching the gospel to yourself meant telling the truth to your own heart about your real condition—and about Christ’s real sufficiency.
Jack also wanted every person in the church to know the gospel message, to preach the gospel to one another in the church, and in view of sharing the gospel with others outside the church. In this sense, gossiping the gospel and praying in the light of the gospel—individually and together—was the gospel environment of Christian life in the church.
He believed it was possible to say the right words from the wrong position. That you could speak the gospel, but not stand on it. And he believed that unless the gospel was received again, personally, freshly, even daily, we would start standing on something else.
That’s why Jack told so many struggling pastors to pray the promises of God out loud. To say who Christ is. To say what He has done. To let their ears hear their own mouths say what their hearts were struggling to believe.
Jerry Bridges Learned It From Jack Miller
Jerry Bridges, longtime leader in the Navigators, openly credited Jack with shaping this view of gospel speech. In The Discipline of Grace, Bridges wrote:
“I also owe a debt of gratitude to my friend Dr. Jack Miller, from whom I acquired the expression ‘preach the gospel to yourself every day.’ I had been doing that, somewhat out of necessity, for several years, but Dr. Miller helped bring that concept into sharper focus and more conscious application for me.”
Bridges even acknowledged that his early work—The Pursuit of Holiness—lacked this clarity. It called for effort without anchoring it in Christ. But later, after encountering Jack’s message and Sonship materials, Bridges rewrote his framework: grace before effort. Gospel before action. Faith before obedience.
And this was never meant to be private only. Bridges said, “The gospel must provide a grace foundation for discipleship.” That means preaching the gospel to ourselves is never meant to stop with ourselves. It’s meant to change how we speak to one another, too.
David Martyn Lloyd-Jones Saw It in the Psalms
This wasn’t new to Jack Miller. And it wasn’t new to Jerry Bridges. Martyn Lloyd-Jones said the same thing in his series on Spiritual Depression. Preaching on Psalm 42, he said:
“Have you realized that most of your unhappiness in life is due to the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself?”
Lloyd-Jones saw that the psalmist doesn’t just vent his emotions. He addresses them. He preaches to them. He says: “Why are you cast down, O my soul? Hope in God.” That’s not a coping mechanism. That’s covenantal speech. He is reminding himself of the truth. Not a truth he invented—but one he received.
This is where the Reformed and Puritan tradition helps us. They didn’t practice gospel speech to sound wise. They used it to walk in faith. To preach Christ to their hearts when sin was loud, when suffering was near, and when Satan accused.
Luther and Calvin: On Beating the Gospel into Our Heads
Martin Luther never assumed people would naturally remember the gospel. In fact, he assumed the opposite. Even pastors, he said, forget it in the middle of preaching it. In his Commentary on Galatians, Luther writes:
“The truth of the gospel is the principal article of all Christian doctrine. Most necessary is it, therefore, that we should know this article well, teach it unto others, and beat it into their heads continually.”
—Martin Luther, Commentary on Galatians (1535), Preface to Galatians 2
Luther wasn’t being harsh. He was being honest. He knew that even the most faithful Christians drift toward self-trust, fear, performance, and despair. The gospel must be heard again—not because it changes, but because we do. Our hearts are forgetful. Our minds wander. Our speech slides back toward law. So the gospel has to be spoken—again and again.
John Calvin, though less sharp in tone, affirmed the same need. He wrote in his commentary on Hebrews:
“We must daily labor to be more and more enlightened by the gospel, lest the light we have received be extinguished by our carelessness.”
—John Calvin, Commentary on Hebrews, on Hebrews 2:1
Like Jack Miller, Luther and Calvin weren’t calling for gospel mantras. They were calling for gospel return. A daily hearing. A daily receiving. A daily speaking—to ourselves, to each other, and to the world—not to get God to move, but because He already has.
The Danger Isn’t Repetition—It’s Presumption
So the danger isn’t in repeating the gospel. The danger is in repeating it from the wrong ground.
From the presumptive position, gospel language becomes a strategy. A coping technique. A subtle contract: If I say the right thing, I will feel better, get through, be rewarded.
But speech from the faith position doesn’t work like that. It isn’t magical. It’s covenantal. It says, “I speak because I have been spoken for. I preach Christ to myself because I can’t live without Him. I speak not to move God—but because He has already moved toward me in Christ.”
When the gospel is spoken from faith, it humbles us. When it’s spoken from presumption, it hardens us.
Gospel Speech Is Personal, Corporate, and Daily
When we say “preach the gospel to yourself,” we’re not saying isolate yourself with your theology. We’re saying return to Christ again. Say what is true. And say it out loud—because that’s how speech works. It forms us. It reveals us. And it restores us.
The church needs this kind of speech. Not just from the pulpit. But in kitchen tables and hallways and email threads and texts. Gospel speech is when a sister reminds a brother that he’s forgiven. It’s when a father admits to a child that he sinned—and tells her why Jesus came. It’s when a church elder repents before his people. It’s when someone in the back row hears the words “welcome in Christ,” and believes they’re real.
Gospel speech isn’t style. It’s surrender. It’s the Word of God finding its way out of our mouths—not because we’ve mastered it, but because we’ve been mastered by grace.
VII. Building One Another Up: The Practice of Gospel Speech
The Church Is Always Speaking
Every person, church, denomination, mission’s agency, para-church ministry, and religious organization has a culture of speech. We are people of the Word of God. Some are quiet and slow to speak. Others are noisy, loud, and quick to speak. Some are full of opinions. Others are more restrained. Some speak Scripture fluently. Others speak with hesitation. But all churches are always speaking.
And so the questions become:
What are we saying?
What are we saying it from?
To whom are we saying it?
And how are we saying it?
Paul’s answer is not silence. In Romans 14 and 15, he calls the church to speak with one voice—not by suppressing differences, but by building from the same ground on which the faith position stands. The gospel becomes the shared foundation. And gospel speech becomes the way the church is formed, sustained, and built up.
Encouragement Strengthens the Ground Beneath Each Other
In 1 Thessalonians 5, Paul says, “Encourage one another and build one another up.” Encouragement is not light affirmation. It’s covenantal speech. To encourage someone is to call them back to what is true—about God, about grace, about who they are in Christ.
Encouragement restores footing. It lifts with truth when the ground feels uncertain. Hebrews says, “Exhort one another every day… so that none of you may be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin.” This kind of speech doesn’t flatter or pressure. It steadies. It clears space for repentance. It reminds people they are not alone—and that Christ is still at work.
Confession Lets Us Speak from the Gospel, Not for It
When we confess sin, we are naming what God already knows and what Christ has already carried. Confession is gospel fluency. It’s honest speech grounded in trust—never self-justification, never defensiveness, but surrender.
A church that confesses openly is not weakened. It is grounded. When someone says, “I was wrong,” or “I sinned,” they are not undermining credibility. They are bearing witness to grace. Because if Christ has borne our reproach, we don’t have to.
That is how gospel confession becomes communal. It allows an elder to repent before his congregation. It allows a parent to confess to a child. It creates a space where sinners are not treated as threats, but as people Jesus has already welcomed in.
Correction Can Be Gentle and Restoring
Correction is part of faithful speech. Colossians 3:16 says, “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another…” That word admonish means to bring truth close—especially when someone has drifted from it.
The goal of correction is not to win, but to restore. Galatians 6 says it plainly: “Restore him in a spirit of gentleness.” That means correction doesn’t speak from a pedestal, but from beside. It says, “Let’s return together.”
If gospel correction comes from the presumptive position, it will pressure or condemn. But if it comes from the faith position, it can be gentle, timely, and freeing.
Gratitude Gives Speech Its Strength
Paul says, “Do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks.” Gratitude is not decoration. It is foundation. It changes how we speak—especially in conflict, decision-making, or disappointment.
Gratitude trains us to see mercy. It keeps frustration from taking over. It helps us speak with perspective and clarity. A church filled with thanksgiving is not naive. It’s awake. It sees that grace has already gone ahead of us—and it says so out loud.
Jack Miller once said, “Real repentance ends in praise.” Without gratitude, we spiral into self-pity or pressure. But thanksgiving grounds us again in what’s been done—not what we must prove.
Silence Can Be an Act of Faith Too
Faithful speech sometimes sounds like quiet. There are moments when the best thing we can say is nothing at all—not to withdraw, but to wait.
Jesus was silent before His accusers. Proverbs says that even a fool is considered wise when he holds his tongue. Paul says that love covers many sins. Sometimes, silence is faith’s way of leaving space for mercy to do its work.
There’s a difference between silence from fear and silence from trust. Faithful silence isn’t defensive. It’s patient. It slows the impulse to correct or explain. It leaves space for God’s Word to land in someone else’s heart—and in our own.
Gospel Prayer Is Gospel Speech
Right after Paul says that Scripture gives encouragement, endurance, and hope (Rom. 15:4), he prays. “May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in harmony…” (v.5). That prayer is not a transition. It is the natural response to grace.
Prayer is “the eye of faith.” Prayer is not a strategy or technique. It is the way we speak as children to a Father who welcomes us. We pray because God has spoken, and because He hears. Prayer does not begin with eloquence—it begins with faith.
When the church prays like that—together, humbly, anchored in Christ—it begins to speak differently. Paul’s prayer doesn’t end with requests. It ends with praise: “that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” That’s where gospel speech goes—toward worship, clarity, and unity.
Gospel Speech Builds Because It Receives
We do not build the church by talking louder or more. But we do build by speaking faithfully. We do not have to speak perfectly. But we must speak from the ground of grace.
The church is not a platform. It is not a pretending to be better than we really are or pretending to know more than we actually do. It is a people. And that people is shaped by words. Words of confession, encouragement, correction, thanksgiving, prayer—and sometimes silence.
So we speak. But we speak as those who have been spoken for. We pray. But we pray as sons and daughters—those who belong. And when we do, the church becomes a place where grace is no longer just heard. It is spoken. It is lived. It is shared.
VIII. Conclusion: Spoken For
Language is never neutral. It either builds or breaks. It either reveals grace or reveals self. And that’s because language itself is covenantal.
Language rises from the ground beneath the tongue—either from the faith position, where Christ is trusted and received, or from the presumptive position, where we try to manage ourselves, others, and even God with our words.
This essay has traced that ground from Eden to Babel, from Sinai to Hosea, from Pentecost to the church in Rome. And through it all, we’ve seen the same pattern: God speaks first. His speech doesn’t manipulate or advise. His speech creates. His speech calls. His speech restores.
We were made to speak back. But we don’t always know how. Our speech falters. Our words are scattered. Sometimes we lose our voice. Sometimes we use it to build a name. And sometimes, we forget that we have been spoken for at all.
That’s why the gospel is not a formula or a technique—it is a message. A message from God. A message that announces what Christ has done. It tells the truth about who we are, what Christ has borne, and what the Spirit now gives. It is not therapy or advice. It is news: Christ died for sinners. Christ rose again. Christ now reigns—and calls you to come.
That message changes everything. It is the power of God unto salvation. It calls. It convicts. It raises the dead and builds the church. And when that message is believed, it gives a new voice. Not a louder voice. Not a cleverer voice. A freer one—a voice that no longer needs to prove anything because it has already been spoken for.
You do not have to invent a way to speak. You have already been welcomed into the speech of God. That welcome is not polite or partial. It is full and free. You are not left to find your own voice. You have been given one. In Christ, you are spoken for.
And because you are spoken for, you can speak again—by faith. You can pray. You can confess. You can encourage and correct and give thanks. You can speak Scripture. You can speak silence. You can speak the gospel to one another without fear, because the One who bore your reproach has given you His name.
So speak plainly. Speak slowly. Speak as one who listens. Speak from the gospel—not from pressure or fear, but from trust. And when you find yourself speechless again, return to the One who speaks mercy.
The church doesn’t live by strategies. It lives by the Word. And now, that Word is yours—not to control, but to receive. Not to reshape, but to rest in. Not to wield, but to believe.
You are not your words. But your words do reveal you. And because Christ has been revealed—because His Word stands—your words no longer need to carry you. He already has.
You are spoken for. So speak.
