Over the last couple of months, many of you have prayed with us as we have sought clarity about our future—specifically, whether we would return for another 18-month cycle of ministry after our Croatian residency ends on September 15.
When I first mentioned this in an update, I said we expected to have a decision within two weeks. Instead, it has taken the better part of six. We have gone back and forth praying, reflecting, and weighing what is best for the church, for our family, and for the future.
This has not been an easy decision. But after much prayer and conversation, Vicki and I have decided that we will not return to Europe after we leave this fall.
We will be finishing our time at New Life Vicenza, the church I was called to serve by Ministry to the Military and Internationals (MMI)—a commission of Southeast Alabama Presbytery in the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA).
When I first talked with Vicki about this call in early 2022, she told me she could commit to three years. And we have done that.
By the time we return to the U.S. in September, we will have served three and a half years—initially through a tourist visa and then through Croatian residency, combined with weekly cross-border travel to Vicenza.
We have made that unusual arrangement work, but we were never able to obtain Italian residency. The arrangement allowed us to manage the visa limitations, but it also meant we were gone from Vicenza most of the week—and created several other temporary situations, traveling between three countries and living in two—that we have been juggling ever since.
In addition to the residency challenge, there are a few other key reasons we have made this decision:
1. Family – Vicki’s mom has been dealing with ongoing health challenges, particularly with her knees, vision, and hearing. More recently, she had other challenges that have left her feeling unsettled and vulnerable in new ways.
It reminded us of what we went through with my own mom, when our family began rotating in to stay with her full-time.
This is not the only reason for our decision, but it has helped us recognize that now is the right time to step in and be closer to family—and to help shoulder that responsibility together.
We also want to spend more time with our grandkids and reconnect with family after several years overseas.
2. Health – I have some ongoing health issues, and navigating care between two countries has been complicated—especially with our insurance based primarily in the U.S.
If we take another overseas call in the future, we will need to approach healthcare and residency with greater stability and intentionality.
Vicki returned to the States this past weekend. It was a hard decision.
Our dear friends here, Val and Jeff, are preparing to welcome a new baby this week. Vicki really wanted to stay to support them—and I was ready to help with their sons, Sasha (4) and Misha (2), which I have grown accustomed to and have truly come to enjoy.
But alongside that desire was a growing concern for her mom. When I found a reasonably priced flight just before Memorial Day, we booked it. I dropped Vicki off at the Venice airport early Saturday morning.
By Sunday, Vicki had driven from Nashville to be with her mom.
It was hard for Vicki to leave, but I could see the relief in her face. It was the right thing to do, and we are grateful she could get there when she did.
Vicki plans to return to Italy on June 22 with our daughter Mary Helen and our granddaughter Carolyn, who will stay with us through the end of July.
Then, before the school year starts back in the States and summer help becomes more limited, Vicki will return to the States in early August to be with her mom.
Her brothers, Keith (and his wife Carlene) and Dan (and his wife Liz), have carried virtually all the weight of caring for her mom while we have been overseas. Vicki’s presence over the summer will allow them some much-needed breathing room during a full and demanding season.
I will remain in Europe until our Croatian residency ends on September 15.
Lord willing, my final Sunday preaching at New Life Vicenza will be September 14.
That final stretch will include not only saying goodbye but also wrapping up life here logistically including selling our Croatian-registered car (a 2023 Hyundai Tucson with less than 75000km if you are interested), which we bought to help with the cross-border travel that made this ministry possible.
We know that this decision brings significant disruption for New Life Vicenza and MMI as they begin the process of seeking a new pastor in Italy.
We are especially grateful to the people of New Life Vicenza, and to MMI and Southeast Alabama Presbytery, for the opportunity to serve during this season. We have been welcomed, supported, and greatly encouraged. It has been a joy to walk alongside this church and to partner in gospel ministry together.
If you are a pastor (or ordainable) in the PCA—particularly someone with a military background, Italian heritage (including through marriage), or a stable, provable retirement or pension—and you sense a call to serve overseas, please feel free to reach out to me or to MMI. I’d be glad to talk with you about the ministry of New Life Vicenza.
Even with several months still ahead, the impact of this transition is already being felt. We have seen that in conversations with leaders and in sharing the news with the church on Sunday.
It is hard to describe the sadness of preparing to leave people we have come to love and a church we have delighted to serve.
Having only served two churches in 25 years of ministry—both of which we have poured our lives into and they to us—this kind of transition is never just logistical. It is deeply personal.
That is what makes discerning God’s call so costly and the decision to leave so hard.
Once we return to the States, we will begin the process of selling our house in Mount Juliet, which may take some time.
We will also spend some extended time with family—especially Vicki’s mom and our grandkids—to reconnect and catch up after several years overseas.
This is not a “retirement announcement.”
I am still actively working on The Dayton Graham Project; a writing effort focused on the life of my father. I have also continued publishing essays with The Jack Miller Project, though I have not made any final decisions yet about whether and how to continue that work long-term.
I will revisit that once we are back in the U.S.
I have also been asked recently whether and where I would consider accepting another call.
The answer is: Yes, and wherever God sends us. I hope He is not yet done with us in gospel ministry. We are looking at both pastoral and teaching roles, depending on where the Lord leads.
We want to be mindful of Vicki’s ability to care for her mom, and of residency/healthcare availability—but most places in the U.S. would be far more accessible than Novigrad or Vicenza.
If you have insight, encouragement, or even suggestions as we discern where God may be leading us next, we would love to hear from you.
We will continue sharing more in the months ahead.
I will also be reaching out to many of you personally after we return.
Thank you for walking with us, supporting us, and praying with us through this unique and meaningful chapter of ministry.
We are grateful more than we can say.
How you can pray with us:
As we walk through these next few months, we would be grateful for your prayers in these areas:
For New Life Vicenza and MMI as they navigate this transition, seek new pastoral leadership, and make decisions for the future. Pray especially for Joe as he, more than anyone, has carried the weight of these transitions in the past.
For Vicki’s time with her mom—for energy, peace, and presence. And pray for me as we are apart. I am so much better when Vicki is partnering alongside me in ministry.
For our final months in Europe—to finish well and serve faithfully in Italy to the end, and as we wind down life in Croatia as well.
For wisdom and provision as we prepare for the next season of gospel ministry.
For clarity and endurance as I continue the writing projects, I would like to finish sooner than later.
This reflection was shaped by the same reading and questions that gave rise to “Popes, Presidents, and the Kingdom of God: Why Christ Still Wears the Only Crown,” which you can find at:
That essay traced a biblical theology of kingship. This one follows the historical implications of kingship during the Reformation—especially in relation to conscience, confessions, and the collapse of visible authority. Together, they trace a single question across time: Who really rules the Church? And what does it mean to live under Christ the King?
Introduction: A Quest of Questions
I’ve been reading about the Reformation and the political and religious world that surrounded it. Two books in particular—E.R. Chamberlin’s The Sack of Rome and Martyn Rady’s The Habsburgs—opened up new lines of thought. They made me want to understand the period more clearly, not just in terms of theology, but in how theology, politics, and power all played into one another.
While reading, I started asking questions. Who were the popes during the Reformation? What was happening around them politically? Why did Pope Paul III, in particular, focus so much on the Protestant Reformers at a time when the Church itself was unstable in other ways?
Those questions led to others. What role did Charles V play in all of this? How did Francis I of France and Henry VIII of England shape the landscape? Was the Reformation mainly a theological movement, or was it also a political one? And when the Reformers preached justification by faith, what exactly were they confronting?
I’m not a historian. I’m a pastor, teacher, theologian, and Jack Miller scholar. My formal academic work focuses on a small part of the larger conversation—the life and ministry of one man. But reading more widely has exposed how many other questions I need to think through to understand that part well. I’m a learner, writing for myself and perhaps others who are working through similar questions. Writing helps me slow down, test what I think, and put things together in a way that makes better sense over time.
The following reflections are shaped by questions that came up while reading. They’re written from a Reformed theological perspective, but they’re not aimed at proving anything. They’re part of a process—trying to learn from history, test what I already believe, and grow in understanding. If others find these reflections useful as they think through these issues for themselves, I’ll be glad to know that.
I. Plenty of Popes and Pressures, 1513–1585
Question(s):
Who were the popes during the Reformation—starting with Luther’s 95 Theses and continuing through Calvin’s death?
What were they dealing with, and how did their decisions shape the Church’s response to reform?
Answer(s):
One of the first questions I asked while reading Chamberlin’s The Sack of Rome and Rady’s The Habsburgs was simple: who were the popes during the Reformation? The period that most interested me began before Martin Luther’s 95 Theses in 1517 and extended through the decades following John Calvin’s death in 1564—down to the end of Gregory XIII’s papacy in 1585. I wanted to know not just who these men were, but what they were dealing with, what shaped their priorities, and what decisions they made in the middle of political and doctrinal upheaval.
Here’s a basic list of the popes during that period, with some brief context around each one:
Leo X (1513–1521): A member of the Medici family and a Renaissance patron. He excommunicated Luther in 1521. His papacy helped set the stage for the Reformation, especially through his support of indulgence campaigns and his role in funding the rebuilding of St. Peter’s Basilica.
Adrian VI (1522–1523): A rare “outsider” pope—Dutch, morally serious, and deeply concerned about corruption in the Church. He tried to begin reform from within but died after a little more than a year in office.
Clement VII (1523–1534): Another Medici, and pope during the Sack of Rome in 1527. His papacy was politically cautious, caught between the competing ambitions of Charles V and Francis I. He excommunicated Henry VIII, but only after the English king had already begun to act independently.
Paul III (1534–1549): Initiated the Council of Trent and approved the Jesuit order. He played a major role in shaping the Catholic response to the Reformation. His papacy marks a turning point toward internal reform and doctrinal definition.
Julius III (1550–1555): Reopened Trent after a delay but made little real progress. His papacy is often seen as a period of lost momentum.
Marcellus II (1555): Reigned for only three weeks.
Paul IV (1555–1559): Hard-edged and deeply committed to the Counter-Reformation. Strengthened the Inquisition and enforced strict measures to defend and restore Catholic identity.
Pius IV (1559–1565): Concluded the Council of Trent in 1563. His papacy helped consolidate the doctrinal definitions and reform policies that came out of the council.
Pius V (1566–1572): Enforced Trent’s reforms with vigor. He also excommunicated Elizabeth I of England in 1570. A highly disciplined figure, later canonized.
Gregory XIII (1572–1585): Known for the Gregorian calendar reform. He worked to implement the reforms of Trent, support missions, and expand Catholic education and influence globally.
These were not all the same kind of men. Some were politically shrewd, others pastorally serious, others reform-minded, and some focused more on discipline than dialogue. What stood out to me as I looked through them was how much they were reacting to—the Protestant movement, to be sure, but moreso, the overlapping political rivalries, military threats, and internal church failures.
For example, the decision to excommunicate Henry VIII came during Clement VII’s papacy, but it came late—after Henry had already moved to declare himself head of the Church of England. Clement had been trying to keep peace between major powers: the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V and the French king Francis I, both of whom were trying to use English alignment to their advantage. Clement’s delay wasn’t due to indifference. It was the result of political pressure on all sides, and probably a fear that one wrong move could make things worse.
The same was true with Charles V’s role in the Reformation. As Holy Roman Emperor, he wasn’t just dealing with Luther and the German princes. He was also fighting wars against France and the Ottoman Empire, and trying to keep some level of unity among dozens of semi-independent territories. That made his relationship with the papacy complicated. Sometimes he needed the pope’s support. Sometimes the pope needed him. Their cooperation could shift based on who had more to lose at the moment.
So the popes didn’t just face theological questions. They faced questions about survival, diplomacy, credibility, and reform. That doesn’t excuse their decisions, but it helps explain some of them.
At the same time, none of this makes the theological questions less important. If anything, it raises new ones. How do people with real power decide what theological issues to engage, and which ones to put off? What happens when church leaders are pulled between the need to preserve unity and the need to speak clearly? How does conviction survive when the cost of clarity is political instability?
Those are the questions I carry into the next part of this inquiry—where theology and politics run even closer together.
II. Charles V, Francis I, Henry VIII and The Papal States
Question(s):
What role did Charles V, Francis I, and Henry VIII play in the Church’s decisions during the Reformation?
How did their political ambitions shape or stall reform?
Were these men simply political actors, or did they directly influence the theological course of events?
Answer(s):
As I read more about the popes of the Reformation era, it became clear that they weren’t making decisions in isolation. Behind many of the doctrinal, ecclesial, and disciplinary choices they made, there was also the ongoing pressure of kings and emperors. These political figures didn’t always control what the Church did, but they shaped the environment in which church leaders had to act.
Three of them stand out again and again in this period: Charles V, Francis I, and Henry VIII. Each was a major figure in European politics. Each had a different relationship with the Church. And each, in different ways, affected how the Reformation unfolded.
Charles V: An Empire Too Big to Hold Together
Charles V was Holy Roman Emperor from 1519 to 1556. He inherited a vast empire that stretched across Europe and into the Americas. As emperor, one of his responsibilities was to maintain unity among his many territories, most of which were officially Roman Catholic when he came to power.
He also inherited the task of dealing with Martin Luther and the movement that followed. Charles was committed to Catholic doctrine, but he also needed the support of many of the German princes, some of whom were sympathetic to the Reformation. That meant Charles had to be cautious, even while opposing Protestant teaching.
At the same time, Charles was fighting on multiple fronts. He went to war against Francis I of France several times. He also faced the Ottoman Empire, which threatened parts of his territory in Eastern Europe and the Mediterranean. These pressures made it harder to respond decisively to the religious crisis inside the empire. He pushed for the Church to convene a council to address the theological issues, which eventually happened under Paul III, but it took decades.
Charles eventually went to war with Protestant territories in the 1540s and 1550s, but by then the Reformation was deeply rooted in many places. In 1555, the Peace of Augsburg allowed rulers in the empire to choose between Lutheranism and Catholicism for their territories. That outcome fell short of what Charles had hoped for. He abdicated a year later.
Francis I: Diplomatic Shifts and Religious Tensions
Francis I ruled France from 1515 to 1547. He was often in conflict with Charles V, not only over territory but also over influence in Europe. That rivalry shaped much of the political landscape of the time.
Francis didn’t support Protestant theology, but his policies toward Protestants weren’t consistent. Early in his reign, he allowed some room for reform-minded thinkers—especially those working inside the Catholic tradition. When it suited his political goals, Francis reduced pressure on Protestants in order to strengthen diplomatic ties with certain German territories. He also kept close control over the French Church, using his authority to appoint bishops and manage church affairs through the Gallican tradition.
But Francis’s tolerance didn’t last. After the Affair of the Placards in 1534—when anti-Catholic posters appeared across France, including one on the king’s bedchamber door—he ordered a strong crackdown on Protestants. Over the next decade, persecution increased, even as tensions with Charles continued.
In 1536, John Calvin addressed the first edition of his Institutes of the Christian Religion to Francis. In that letter, Calvin appealed to the king not as a sympathizer, but as someone with the power to protect his Protestant subjects. Calvin tried to show that the Reformed faith was biblically grounded, not socially disruptive. It was a serious theological appeal. Francis did not change course.
Francis didn’t promote Protestantism, but at times he tolerated it or used it as a diplomatic tool. That’s part of the wider pattern in this era—where kings and emperors often adjusted their religious policies to match their political needs.
Henry VIII: A Break with Rome on His Own Terms
Henry VIII ruled England from 1509 to 1547. His conflict with the papacy began over his marriage to Catherine of Aragon. When Pope Clement VII refused to grant him an annulment, Henry used Parliament to separate the English Church from papal authority.
This break didn’t begin as a theological one. Henry defended many Catholic doctrines and even earned the title “Defender of the Faith” from Pope Leo X for a work he wrote against Luther. But when Clement stalled on the annulment, Henry moved decisively. In 1534, the Act of Supremacy declared him Supreme Head of the Church of England.
That action changed the map of European Christianity. It created space for Reformers to gain influence in England, especially during the reigns of Edward VI and Elizabeth I. And it showed other rulers that rejecting papal authority was a viable political strategy, not just a theological stance.
From Rome’s perspective, Henry’s break was a serious blow—not only theologically, but politically. The pope’s authority had been defied by a major kingdom, and the English Church would not return to full communion with Rome for centuries.
The Papal States and the Crisis of Italian Power
While Charles V, Francis I, and Henry VIII shaped the future of Europe from their thrones, the Papal States faced a more immediate and unstable challenge. Rome may have claimed spiritual supremacy, but politically it was surrounded. Milan and Naples were battlegrounds between France and the Empire. Venice guarded its independence. Florence shifted with internal conflict. The pope was a ruler, but his lands were small, his armies weak, and his position fragile.
Clement VII, a Medici pope, tried to navigate between Francis and Charles. But neutrality offered no security. In 1526, imperial troops entered Rome. The pope fled to Castel Sant’Angelo and braced for a siege. Rome was spared only when Charles’s forces withdrew. But the message was clear: the old arrangement—pope crowns emperor, emperor protects pope—was already breaking down. Clement turned more decisively toward France. But the following year, Rome fell. In 1527, the city was sacked by imperial forces—German mercenaries, Spanish soldiers, and opportunists from across Italy. The destruction was brutal. The pope was imprisoned. And the illusion of a unified Christendom collapsed before the eyes of Europe.
In the aftermath, many in Rome and across the Italian nobility began to long for a strong protector—someone who could restore stability and defend the Church from external threat. Giovanni delle Bande Nere, a Medici soldier, came to represent that hope. Known for his battlefield skill and loyalty, he stood in contrast to the disorder and unreliability of mercenary armies. Machiavelli, writing a generation earlier, admired Bande Nere’s discipline and resolve. Though The Prince was addressed to Lorenzo de’ Medici, some historians suggest Machiavelli saw in Bande Nere the kind of Italian leader who could preserve Rome’s position and stabilize the peninsula.
The irony was sharp. While the Church defended its claim to universality, it longed for national protection. While it held to a vision of spiritual unity across kingdoms, it was caught between them—hoping for someone to save it through strength. That longing—for safety, for stability, for someone to preserve what seemed to be unraveling—was not unique to Rome. And it is not unfamiliar now.
In our own time, similar instincts surface in new forms. Many speak of the dangers of Christian nationalism. Others express concern for the erosion of global Christianity—a shared, unified expression of faith across borders. These categories are often flattened or weaponized in public debate, but behind them lie deeper human desires: the longing for identity, the longing for unity, the longing for visible power to secure what feels fragile. The Reformation did not invent these tensions. It revealed them—and pressed them into the open.
That world was already present in the early 1500s. And into that moment, the gospel was beginning to rise again—not because conditions were favorable, but because God was at work. His Word was not recovering influence. It was recovering clarity. And through that clarity, the Church was being called to remember the One who rules her still.
This complicates any simple reading of the Reformation as a Protestant disruption of a stable Catholic order. Rome was already unstable. The pope was already under pressure. And across Europe, power was shifting, consciences were awakening, and theology was beginning to speak into the heart of a world already in motion.
III. What Drives What—Theology or Politics?
Question(s):
Does theology shape political reality, or does political reality reshape theology?
What was really driving change during the Reformation?
Can the gospel stay central when theology and politics are so intertwined?
Answer(s):
Reading about the interactions between popes, emperors, and kings during the Reformation era raised a set of questions I could not ignore. What actually drives change in moments like this? Do theological convictions reshape political order, or do political conditions reshape theology’s public expression? Are we watching the movement of ideas, or the arrangements of power?
I’ve long believed that theology moves history. The gospel of Jesus Christ—justification by faith, the authority of Scripture, the headship of Christ—has never remained silent or passive. God has always spoken. His Word has always stood. Throughout history, it has been read, preached, confessed, and obeyed. But over time, that Word has often been clouded by distortion, buried beneath systems, or resisted by those who wanted its benefits without its authority. The Reformation did not create the truth. It recovered what God had already revealed.
In the sixteenth century, God again brought clarity. Preachers opened the Scriptures. Reformers returned to the promises of grace. The gospel of justification by faith, long present, came into public view once more. Churches were reshaped. Power was challenged. But the process was never clean. It unfolded through human limits, political intrigue, and personal ambition. Reformers were drawn into civic structures. Local leaders often mirrored the same strategies and compromises of the emperors and popes they had criticized. The Church was not remade into purity. It was brought again under the Word. As Luther said, Christians remain at the same time sinners and saints. The work of reform was real—but it was raw, uneven, and often bound up in the very systems it sought to change.
Theology moved through real places—through cities, alliances, rulers, and conflict. Frederick the Wise shielded Luther. Zwingli preached in Zurich with the support of the city council. Calvin led in Geneva under the protection of civic leadership. The gospel advanced through real people, real governments, and real political decisions—not because it relied on their strength, but because God, in His providence, chose to work through them. The gospel depends entirely on the power of God, and that power often moves most clearly through human weakness, tension, and conflict.
And theology reshaped power in return. Charles V had to confront religious division in his empire. Francis I adjusted political alliances as Reformation teaching reached France. Henry VIII’s dynastic concern with succession opened doors to theological reform he had never planned to consider. When theological truth surfaces, it changes what people ask, what rulers defend, and what the Church must confess.
This feedback loop between theology and political life continues. The relationship between Church and state, the desire for clarity in a culture of fragmentation, and the pressure to define faith along national or cultural lines continue to shape how theology is heard and lived. These tensions were already present in the sixteenth century and they remain with us today.
God has worked through these tensions before. The Reformation was not a contest between theology and politics. It was a moment in which God ruled through both, guiding His Church with truth, confronting her distortions, and restoring what had been obscured. Christ, as head of the Church, governs through His Word and by His Spirit. That truth reorders politics. It reorients the Church. And it restores the conscience.
This moment in history does not resolve the tension. But it shows us where to begin.
That’s where I turn next.
IV. Luther, the Papacy, and the Long Road to Trent
Question(s):
Why did the Roman Church take so long to respond to Luther’s protest with a council?
What was happening between Luther’s 95 Theses and the opening of the Council of Trent?
How did the pope, Luther, and the political world interact in the buildup to the council?
Answer(s):
Reading about the Reformation naturally leads to the Council of Trent. But that council didn’t come out of nowhere. It took nearly thirty years after Martin Luther’s 95 Theses for the Church to gather in an official response. That delay wasn’t for lack of urgency. It was the result of political pressure, competing interests, and a deep uncertainty about how to respond to what was no longer a small protest but a growing movement.
Luther’s Protest and the Question of Authority
Martin Luther posted his 95 Theses in 1517 after seeing the effects of indulgence preaching in the German territories. What began as a call for debate quickly grew into a larger challenge: What was the Church’s role in salvation? What was the place of repentance, of faith, of authority itself?
Luther’s earlier trip to Rome had already shaken his view of the papacy. He expected spiritual seriousness but found political maneuvering and signs of moral compromise. When his theological convictions deepened—especially through his study of Romans and Galatians—he became convinced that justification came by faith, not by any system of merit, indulgence, or priestly mediation.
His conflict with Rome came to a head at the Diet of Worms in 1521. There, standing before both Church and Empire, he made the claim that would define much of what followed: unless convinced by Scripture and sound reason, he could not recant. That wasn’t just a defense of personal conscience. It was a rejection of the idea that any human authority—pope, council, or emperor—could stand above God’s Word.
Papal Delay and Political Instability
The early papal response to Luther was uneven. Pope Leo X, who excommunicated him, treated the controversy more as a threat to Church order than as a theological crisis. His successor, Adrian VI, saw the need for reform but died within a year. Clement VII, who followed, was deeply entangled in political alliances. His papacy was marked by the sack of Rome in 1527, which left the papacy financially and symbolically weakened.
Meanwhile, the questions Luther raised weren’t going away. They were taking root—in pulpits, universities, and city councils. The more Rome delayed, the more alternative structures took shape. Theological reform was happening without the pope’s permission, and by the time Clement’s successor, Paul III, took office in 1534, the movement had already changed the landscape.
The calls for a council had been coming for years, but they stalled. Popes were hesitant. Some feared a repeat of earlier conciliar movements that had threatened papal supremacy. Others worried that inviting Protestant leaders would legitimize them. Political leaders had their own hesitations. And by the time the Council of Trent opened in 1545, the Reformers were already moving forward with separate confessions, church orders, and theological systems.
The Head of the Church
At the center of this long delay was a question that hadn’t yet been settled clearly: Who rules the Church? Rome taught that the pope, as Peter’s successor, had primacy. Councils helped define doctrine, but the papacy held the office of unity. The Reformers said something different: Christ alone is the head of the Church, and God alone is Lord of the conscience. These claims would later be written into the Westminster Confession, but they were already being preached and defended in the 1520s and 1530s.
When Luther and others said that no pope or bishop could require belief beyond Scripture, they weren’t simply calling for moral reform. They were redefining authority. The visible structure of the medieval Church was being reexamined in light of the gospel. Not all Reformers agreed on every detail, but on this they were clear: the Church belongs to Christ, not to any earthly throne.
That conviction had practical consequences. It led to new forms of church governance. It challenged the use of excommunication as a political weapon. It placed pastoral care and preaching above the mechanisms of control. And it opened the way for ordinary believers to read and respond to Scripture with responsibility and faith.
By the time Trent began, it was not a matter of negotiating small differences. The questions at stake had already reshaped churches, redefined ministry, and re-centered the conscience on Christ. The next scene turns to how the Roman Church responded—not only to Protestant teaching, but to the deeper challenge to its own authority.
V. The Council of Trent and the Question of Authority
Question(s):
Who has the authority to define doctrine in the Church?
How did the Council of Trent answer the Protestant challenge?
What did Rome affirm about its own authority, and how did the Reformers respond?
Answer(s):
By the time the Council of Trent opened in 1545, over two decades had passed since Luther’s 95 Theses. Much had changed. Entire regions had embraced some form of Protestant theology. New confessions of faith had been written. The printing press was spreading sermons, pamphlets, and catechisms at a scale no previous council had faced. And the Reformers weren’t just asking for reform. They were defining what the Church is, how it speaks, and how it remains faithful to Christ.
Trent was Rome’s formal response—not just to Luther, but to the broader Protestant movement. It stretched over 18 years, with breaks and changes in leadership, eventually concluding in 1563. The council’s goals included doctrinal clarity, moral reform, and institutional discipline. But at its core, it was also about reasserting the Church’s authority to speak definitively in an age of challenge and change.
Who Has the Right to Define Truth?
This is the question I kept returning to while reading about Trent: who decides what counts as true doctrine?
The Reformers answered: Scripture alone is the final authority, and every church tradition, council, or teaching must be tested against it. That didn’t mean they rejected tradition. They quoted the Church Fathers. They affirmed the early creeds. But they placed those voices under the authority of God’s Word.
Rome answered differently. The Council of Trent affirmed that Scripture and tradition are equal in authority—two expressions of one source of divine revelation. And it declared that the Church, through the bishops and the pope, has the authority to interpret both.
That difference may sound like a matter of structure, but it shaped everything. When Trent defined justification, the sacraments, the Mass, purgatory, and the role of priests, it did so with confidence that the Church had the God-given authority to declare what was true and binding. That authority wasn’t up for debate at the council. It was the starting point.
While the Reformers were shaping their theology from Scripture and early Church sources, the Roman Church—especially during and after Trent—was building much of its doctrinal clarity through the categories and frameworks of Thomism, the theological system associated with Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas had worked to synthesize biblical revelation with Aristotelian philosophy, offering a coherent and rigorous explanation of grace, the sacraments, and Church authority. His influence was not named explicitly in the Council’s decrees, but it shaped much of the underlying logic, especially on justification and the sacraments. Thomism would go on to become the dominant theological tradition in post-Tridentine Catholicism, further differentiating it from the Reformation churches, which rejected scholastic frameworks that seemed to obscure the gospel’s clarity.
The Challenge of Conscience
What the Reformers saw, and what I see more clearly now, is that the deepest issue wasn’t structure—it was conscience.
If the Church has the final word on doctrine, then the believer’s conscience must ultimately submit to the Church’s judgment. But if God alone is Lord of the conscience, as later expressed in the Westminster Confession, then that authority belongs to Christ alone, through His Word.
This doesn’t mean that every believer interprets Scripture in isolation. The Reformers valued teaching, order, and accountability. But they insisted that no human authority—no pope, council, or king—has the right to bind the conscience beyond what Scripture requires.
That conviction created a different kind of church life. Preaching took central place. The sacraments were restructured around the Word. And the question was no longer just, “What has the Church said?” but “What does God say in His Word?”
Why Trent Still Matters
For the Roman Catholic Church, Trent remains a defining moment. Its doctrinal statements are still authoritative. Its reforms shaped the next several centuries of Catholic life. But for those of us in the Protestant tradition, Trent also marked a formal parting of ways. The differences weren’t superficial. They had to do with how God speaks, how salvation is received, and who governs the life of the Church.
That’s why Trent wasn’t just a council about theology. It was a statement about authority—about who has it, how it functions, and what happens when it is challenged.
And for me, this is where the heart of the matter becomes personal. If Christ is the head of the Church, and if the Scriptures are His Word, then every other voice—however old, respected, or powerful—must stand under that authority. That conviction doesn’t destroy the Church. It reforms it.
The Reformers weren’t trying to create division. They were trying to recover clarity. And even though the Council of Trent closed the door on many of their concerns, the questions they raised remain: What does it mean to belong to the Church? Who speaks for Christ? And how does truth stay grounded when everything around it is shifting?
VI. Unity, Salvation, and the Cost of Clarity
Question(s):
How did the desire for unity shape decisions during the Reformation?
Was the Church’s visible unity considered necessary for salvation?
What did it cost the Reformers to speak clearly about the gospel in the face of pressure to remain unified?
Answer(s):
The more I read about the Reformation, the more I began to see how much weight was placed on the idea of unity. Popes, emperors, bishops, and even some Reformers seemed to hope, at least early on, that the divisions might be temporary. Councils might be called. Dialogues might bring understanding. Perhaps the theological differences could be explained or absorbed without tearing the Church apart.
But that didn’t happen. The longer the debates continued, the clearer it became that some differences couldn’t be reconciled without either obscuring key doctrines or redefining the Church’s authority. That’s when I started asking: what kind of unity were people trying to preserve? And what was it costing them to pursue it?
Is Unity Necessary for Salvation?
That question has deep roots. For centuries, the Church had affirmed the idea that outside the Church there is no salvation (extra ecclesiam nulla salus). This wasn’t always interpreted the same way, but it shaped how many leaders approached division. If leaving the Church meant leaving salvation, then keeping people inside the visible Church—under the authority of Rome—was a matter of eternal consequence.
But the Reformers didn’t walk away from the Church lightly. They believed they were calling the Church back to the gospel, not abandoning it. They didn’t deny the value of visible unity, but they argued that unity without truth is not what the Church is called to preserve.
They also believed that the Church is wherever the Word is rightly preached and the sacraments rightly administered. That meant the boundaries of the true Church weren’t determined by allegiance to Rome, but by faithfulness to Christ and His Word. The unity that matters most is unity in the gospel.
The High Cost of Clarity
When I read the confessions and letters of the Reformers, I don’t get the sense that they enjoyed being divisive. The tone is often urgent, burdened, and clear. They knew the consequences of what they were saying. They were calling into question the teachings of powerful leaders. They were challenging structures that had shaped Christian life for centuries. And they were doing it publicly.
But they believed the cost was necessary. To them, the alternative was worse: leaving people with a false sense of assurance, allowing confusion about the gospel to remain, or surrendering Scripture’s authority to institutions that claimed more power than they had been given.
In our own time, the cost of clarity may look different, but the tension is still there. We’re still tempted to believe that unity can hold everything together—even when key truths are unclear or avoided. And we’re still faced with situations where speaking plainly about the gospel creates conflict, not harmony.
That’s not an excuse for pride or division. It’s a call to ask what kind of unity we’re pursuing, and whether we’re willing to live with tension for the sake of truth.
Unity That Holds
The Westminster Confession later said that God alone is Lord of the conscience, and that Christ alone is head of the Church. That doesn’t mean every disagreement justifies separation. But it does mean that no visible structure can claim ultimate authority, and that no institution can guarantee salvation. Only Christ can do that. And unity with Him is the foundation for unity with one another.
The Reformers believed that a Church united in error would not serve Christ’s mission. They also believed that division, painful as it is, may sometimes be the only way to return to the truth. And that conviction still speaks. It reminds me that the peace Christ gives is real, but it may not always align with the peace we try to preserve through silence or compromise.
So I come away from this part of the Reformation with a clearer sense of what was at stake—not just theology on paper, but the shape of the Church, the nature of salvation, and the cost of faithfulness.
VII. The Gospel Reforms the Church
Question(s):
Was the Reformation mainly a protest, or was it a recovery of the gospel?
What does it mean to say that the gospel reforms the Church?
How did justification by faith and the headship of Christ reshape the Church’s life and structure?
Answer(s):
Throughout this reading and reflection, one thing has become clearer: the Reformers weren’t mainly arguing for structural reform or moral correction. They were making a theological claim about the gospel itself—what it is, how it works, and what it does to the Church.
That changes how I think about the Reformation. It wasn’t first about ecclesial realignment, or church governance, or even a reaction to abuses. It was about a conviction that the Church is always in need of being reformed by the Word of God, especially when it has drifted from the heart of the gospel.
Justification by Faith Alone
The doctrine of justification by faith alone (sola fide) became the center of this gospel recovery. The Reformers didn’t invent it. They believed it was the clear teaching of Scripture, especially in Paul’s letters. They also believed it had been obscured—gradually, but significantly—by the medieval Church’s teaching on grace, merit, sacraments, and the authority of the clergy.
Justification by faith alone meant that a person is declared, once and for all time, right with God not by any work or worthiness of their own, but solely through trusting in Christ, whose righteousness is counted to them by grace. This was not just a doctrine. It was the foundation of assurance, the source of peace with God, and the basis for Christian freedom.
The Reformers believed that this gospel changes people—and that changed people make a changed Church. Not because they reorganize structures, but because they return to the only source of life the Church has: the good news of what God has done in Christ.
The Gospel Displaces Human Control
As I reflect on this, I’m struck by how much was really at stake. The gospel doesn’t just tell us we are forgiven. It tells us who does the forgiving, and who holds authority to speak in God’s name. For the Reformers, it was vital that no pope, council, or priest could place themselves between the believer and Christ.
That’s why so many of their reforms centered on preaching, teaching, and access to Scripture. If the gospel is the power of God for salvation, then the people of God must hear it, understand it, and respond to it directly. And if Christ is the head of the Church, then everything in the Church must be shaped by His Word.
This is where I come back to the idea that the gospel reforms the Church. Not just once, but continually. And not only in theology, but in practice. It exposes where we have added to the gospel. It clarifies where we have grown vague. It calls us back when we have relied too much on systems or traditions.
Reform and Restoration
This view of reform is not about rebellion. It’s about restoration. The Reformers weren’t rejecting the Church. They were calling it back to what they believed Christ had always intended it to be: a people gathered by the Word, nourished by the sacraments, shepherded by faithful ministers, and centered on the promise of grace.
I’ve started to see this not as a one-time event in history, but as a pattern. The Church is always being drawn away from the gospel—by culture, by power, by fear. And the way back is not through strategy or innovation, but through clarity: returning to the gospel, reforming again under the Word, and remembering that Christ rules His Church by His Spirit through His truth.
That doesn’t make the Church perfect. But it keeps the Church grounded. And for me, it’s a reminder that what holds the Church together isn’t our authority or our unity, but the gospel itself.
VIII. Tradition, the Church Fathers, and the Reformers’ Claims
Question(s):
How did the Reformers relate to the Church’s tradition, especially the Church Fathers and Augustine?
Did they reject tradition, or did they place it in a different role?
How did their use of tradition differ from Rome’s?
Answer(s):
As I’ve continued reading and thinking about the Reformation, I’ve come back often to how the Reformers engaged with the Church’s tradition—especially with the early Fathers, and Augustine in particular. They didn’t reject tradition. They respected it, studied it, and made regular use of it. But they drew careful lines around how it should function in the life of the Church, especially when it came to questions of doctrine and authority.
This becomes especially clear when comparing how both the Reformers and the Roman Catholic Church appealed to Augustine—often looking to the same figure for support, but using him in different ways and for different theological aims.
Appeals to Augustine
Augustine’s writings appear frequently in both Protestant and Catholic sources from the Reformation era. His influence spanned topics like grace, sin, free will, the Church, and the sacraments. Both sides saw him as a central theological authority. But how they used him—and what parts of his theology they emphasized—tended to differ.
The Reformers—particularly Luther and Calvin—looked to Augustine’s teaching on sin and grace. They pointed to his insistence on human dependence upon God for salvation, his emphasis on divine initiative, and his strong response to Pelagianism. These themes supported their convictions about justification by faith and the necessity of God’s grace apart from works.
At the same time, the Reformers did not treat Augustine—or any Father—as a final authority. Calvin, for example, respectfully disagreed with Augustine on the nature of the sacraments. The Fathers were valuable witnesses to the early Church’s theology, but for the Reformers, Scripture remained the final and only infallible authority.
Rome also made extensive use of Augustine, often focusing on his views of the Church’s authority, the role of tradition, and the ongoing work of grace in the believer’s life. Augustine’s statements about the authority of the Church and the necessity of sacraments were important in shaping Catholic responses to Protestant claims. For Rome, the teaching office of the Church (the Magisterium) had the task of interpreting both Scripture and tradition in a unified way. In that framework, Augustine’s voice was part of the broader tradition that the Church carried forward.
A Different Approach to Tradition
Where the difference really shows is in how tradition was treated relative to Scripture.
The Roman Church viewed tradition—especially the teachings of the Fathers, ecumenical councils, and the lived practice of the Church—as a coequal stream alongside Scripture. The Council of Trent formally affirmed this view. Scripture and tradition, under the Church’s interpretation, together formed the basis for doctrine.
The Reformers didn’t deny the value of tradition. They leaned on it regularly to show continuity with the early Church. They quoted the Fathers in sermons, treatises, and catechisms. But they refused to treat tradition as a second stream of revelation. Instead, they insisted that tradition must be placed under Scripture—not above it, not beside it, but under its authority.
This approach allowed them to appeal to the Church’s past while also rejecting certain medieval developments. They weren’t trying to break from the Church. They were trying to recover and reform it according to Scripture.
Reading with Respect and Clarity
What stands out to me is the Reformers’ posture. They didn’t ignore history. They didn’t speak as if they were the first to discover the truth. They stood in a long line of witnesses. But they also believed that every witness—even the most respected—had to be measured by the Word of God.
That approach helps me as I continue reading today. It reminds me that the Church’s tradition is a gift. It helps us see how believers in other times wrestled with the same questions. But it also reminds me that clarity comes from the Scriptures, and that tradition serves the Church best when it stays under that authority.
The Reformers weren’t trying to erase the past. They were trying to recover what had been passed down in faithfulness. They used the Fathers, especially Augustine, to make that case—but never as a substitute for the authority of Scripture itself.
This leads naturally to the next scene, where the breakdown of visible unity between Church and Empire brings the theological claims of the Reformers into sharper focus—especially the claim that Christ alone is the head of His Church.
IX. The End of an Alliance and the Headship of Christ
Question(s):
What happened to the alliance between the pope and the emperor that once defined Christendom?
How did the collapse of that relationship shift the Church’s structure and self-understanding?
How does the Reformers’ insistence on Christ alone as head of the Church contrast with that older system of shared power?
Answer(s):
One of the most important shifts during the Reformation was the breakdown of the long-standing alliance between the papacy and the Holy Roman Empire. That partnership had once structured Western Christendom, holding spiritual and civil authority together. The pope spoke for the faith; the emperor defended its unity. Together, they maintained a visible order that reached across Europe and defined the Church’s relationship to the world.
By the mid-1500s, that arrangement was coming apart. The Reformation didn’t just introduce new theological ideas. It challenged the entire framework of authority the medieval Church had relied on. And in its place, it re-centered the Church around a deeper truth: Christ alone is head of the Church.
A Partnership Under Pressure
For centuries, popes and emperors had worked in tandem—often uneasily—to shape a unified Christian world. The arrangement wasn’t always peaceful, but it offered structure: the pope governed the Church; the emperor protected it. That system reached back to the crowning of Charlemagne and continued through the rise and consolidation of medieval Europe.
But by the sixteenth century, both institutions were under pressure. The papacy had lost spiritual credibility through corruption and political entanglements. The empire was large but fractured, especially under Charles V, who faced external threats and internal divisions. Protestant reformers challenged not only doctrines but also the authority structures that had supported them.
Charles V tried to preserve unity, but the more he pressed for it, the more it slipped away. The papacy, weakened by the sack of Rome in 1527 and hesitant to convene a council, was no longer in a position to lead effective reform. By the time the Council of Trent was called, the old alliance had already begun to dissolve.
A Different Kind of Authority
The Reformers didn’t try to restore the alliance between Church and empire. They didn’t want to transfer Rome’s power to another human office. Instead, they made a theological confession: Christ alone is the head of the Church. No pope, no emperor, no synod, no king could replace Him.
This conviction eventually found expression not just in sermons and tracts but in confessions and catechisms—documents meant to define faith clearly and teach it consistently. And just as earlier I had listed the popes from 1513 to 1585, now I found myself compiling another kind of list: the confessions and catechisms that gave voice to Reformation theology across Europe and into the British Isles.
Each was written in its own context, but together they tell a story of reform centered not on institutional power, but on Christ’s lordship and Scripture’s authority.
A Confessional Witness Across Europe
Luther’s Small Catechism (1529) – A short, accessible teaching tool for families and pastors, emphasizing the Ten Commandments, the Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the sacraments.
Luther’s Large Catechism (1529) – A fuller teaching manual for pastors and adults, offering a pastoral and theological framework for faith and practice.
The Augsburg Confession (1530) – The foundational Lutheran confession, presented to Charles V. It defines the Church as “the congregation of saints, in which the gospel is rightly taught and the sacraments rightly administered.”
The First Basel Confession (1534) – A Swiss document emphasizing unity in the gospel and the authority of Christ through Scripture.
The Geneva Confession (1536) – A statement of belief from Calvin and Farel’s Geneva, organized around Scripture and the headship of Christ.
The French Confession of Faith (1559) – Written under Calvin’s guidance, it affirms that all authority in the Church flows from one head: Jesus Christ.
The Scots Confession (1560) – Knox and others wrote it quickly, but with clarity: the Church belongs to Christ alone and is governed by His Word.
The Belgic Confession (1561) – Produced in the Low Countries under persecution, it affirms the true Church as governed by the gospel and Christ alone.
The Heidelberg Catechism (1563) – Known for its warmth and clarity, it begins with the question: “What is your only comfort in life and in death?” Answer: “That I am not my own, but belong—body and soul, in life and in death—to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.”
The Second Helvetic Confession (1566) – Bullinger’s confession affirms Christ as “the only universal bishop and the only head of the Church.”
The Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion (1571) – The doctrinal standard of the Church of England, balancing Protestant theology and Anglican structure.
The Westminster Confession of Faith (1646) – Written in a time of civil and ecclesial upheaval, it declares: “There is no other head of the Church but the Lord Jesus Christ.” (WCF 25.6)“God alone is Lord of the conscience.” (WCF 20.2)
The Canons of Dordt (1619) – A Reformed statement on salvation and divine grace, written in response to Arminian theology at the Synod of Dordrecht.
The Westminster Larger and Shorter Catechisms (1647) – Structured tools for teaching and preaching the faith, with clarity on human purpose, Christ’s kingship, and the Christian life under the law of grace.
A Roman Response
The Roman Catholic Church also offered a structured response. The Catechism of the Council of Trent (1566)—also called the Roman Catechism—was authorized by the council and published under Pope Pius V. It laid out the Church’s official teaching in four parts: the Creed, the sacraments, the Ten Commandments, and the Lord’s Prayer. Its goal was to unify doctrine, train clergy, and clarify the Catholic faith in light of Protestant challenges.
It was not framed as a confession in the Protestant sense, but it served a parallel function: to define the Church’s teaching authoritatively in a time of deep division.
Lord of the Conscience
Just as Christ alone is head of the Church corporately, God alone is Lord of the conscience personally. That line from Westminster (20.2) reflects a theological concern that runs straight through the Reformation: how a person comes to stand freely and faithfully before God without human mediators or institutional bondage.
But freedom of conscience doesn’t mean freedom from authority. The conscience is not independent. It is accountable to God. Jack Miller used to say that “the conscience is the courtroom of God in the heart of every person.” It is where a person stands—either condemned under the legal promise (“do this and live”) or comforted under the gospel promise (“Christ has done this—live in Him”). The courtroom still has a judge. The gospel doesn’t remove authority. It restores the right one.
That’s why the Reformers never treated liberty of conscience as a license to believe whatever one wants. They insisted that the conscience must be bound—not by the decrees of men, nor by the shifting authority of councils or princes, but by the Word of God, applied by the Spirit of God, under the lordship of Christ.
In fact, when this doctrine is misunderstood, it leads to the very opposite of freedom. It becomes a new legalism dressed in the language of autonomy. The radical wings of the Reformation made this mistake—some turning inward to private revelation, others outward to political revolution. The liberty of the gospel was replaced with a law of self: a conscience governed not by Christ, but by the individual will.
This is where the image of the gospel as a road becomes most helpful. The road is Christ—clear, firm, and full of life. But running alongside that road are shoulders lined with legalisms of all kinds—whether ecclesial, civil, theological, or moralistic. Over time, many who travel those shoulders grow cynical, distant, or hardened. Some slide further into nominalism, treating God as a distant figure with no relevance to daily life. Others fall into antinomianism, where “my freedom is my law” becomes the new creed, and licentiousness the fruit.
But all of these distortions share the same root problem: they misunderstand who holds authority. They may reject visible power, but they replace it with the self. They reject Rome, only to enthrone personal autonomy. And in doing so, they lose the freedom that comes from true submission to Christ.
The Reformers understood this danger. So did their critics. Some Roman Catholic observers warned that Protestantism would replace one pope with a thousand. In some cases, they were right. But the Reformers weren’t aiming at fragmentation. They were aiming at fidelity—to a Christ who rules with grace, truth, and authority.
To say “God alone is Lord of the conscience” is not to claim freedom from submission. It is to claim the right submission—to Christ and His gospel, under the law of love, by the power of the Spirit, as expressed through His Word.
A World That Now Needed Written Authority
One thing becomes clear in hindsight. The Church had not produced this many formal confessions and catechisms before the Reformation. That wasn’t because the theology was simpler, but because the authority structure had been concentrated: the pope and the empire had functioned as arbiters of doctrine and order. With that structure collapsing, churches and states alike needed to define themselves.
If Christ alone is the head of the Church and God alone is Lord of the conscience, then no authority could speak universally unless it spoke according to the Word. Churches needed to say what they believed. So did governments. This is the context in which written creeds, confessions, catechisms, constitutions, and declarations multiplied—not as abstractions, but as attempts to hold truth and order together in a shifting world.
Some used this moment to pursue real clarity. Others used it to seize new forms of control. The temptation to bind consciences didn’t disappear. It simply changed form.
That’s part of what makes the Reformers’ emphasis so enduring. They weren’t replacing one structure with another. They were recovering the only center that can hold: Christ, speaking in His Word, reigning by His Spirit, ruling over a Church that belongs to Him.
X. Reform, Fidelity, and the Church in Every Age
Question(s):
What does the Reformation teach us about the Church today?
What does it mean to remain faithful to Christ in times of instability and division?
Is the Church still being reformed, and if so, by what means?
Answer(s):
Looking back through the scenes of this project, it’s clear that the Reformation wasn’t only a historical crisis or a theological dispute. It was—and still is—a question of fidelity. Fidelity to the gospel. Fidelity to Christ as the head of His Church. Fidelity to the Word that continues to speak, correct, and guide.
The Reformers spoke with urgency, not because they believed they were inventing something new, but because they believed something essential had been obscured. What was at stake wasn’t just policy or structure. It was the gospel itself—how a person is made right with God, how the Church lives under grace, and how the truth is guarded in every generation.
That conviction didn’t end with them.
The Church Still Needs Reform
Ecclesia reformata, semper reformanda—the Church reformed, always being reformed—was not a call to innovation or restlessness. It was a call to keep listening. The Church must always return to the Scriptures, always test itself against the gospel, always remember that it belongs to Christ.
The temptation to drift doesn’t disappear. Sometimes the Church drifts into tradition for its own sake. Other times into power, novelty, tribalism, or fear. Sometimes it turns inward. Sometimes it chases culture. In every case, the solution is the same: to be brought back under the Word, to remember who is Lord, and to remember what He has said.
That’s part of what reading the Reformation has taught me. Reform doesn’t begin with programs. It begins with repentance. It doesn’t begin with systems. It begins with a clear view of Christ, a clear reading of Scripture, and a conscience bound to both.
Authority, Freedom, and Faithfulness
As I’ve read about popes and emperors, councils and confessions, reformers and critics, one thread keeps returning: who holds authority, and how does the Church relate to it? The Reformers didn’t reject all authority. They called for the Church’s authority to be exercised under Christ, by the Word, and for the sake of the gospel.
They also warned that liberty must be defined by submission—not to self, but to Christ. When liberty forgets that, it turns into a new legalism, a new law of autonomy. When authority forgets the gospel, it turns into oppression. Both errors distort the Church. Both must be reformed.
Fidelity doesn’t mean looking back nostalgically. It means looking to Christ clearly. It means refusing to let fear, convenience, or complexity mute the gospel. It means remembering that the Church’s health depends not on being large or impressive or politically protected, but on being faithful.
The Reformers Were Not the Last Reformers
This part of the reflection feels important to say. The Reformers did not complete the work of reform. They began it again. They brought the Church back to its foundation, but the need for clarity, correction, and humility remains in every generation.
The gospel has not changed. But the Church must keep returning to it. That includes my church. That includes me.
Conclusion: Christ the King and the Conscience Set Free
The Reformation brought forward two truths that remain central for the Church and essential for every believer: Christ rules His Church, and God governs the conscience. These truths gave structure to the Reformation’s doctrine, clarity to its pastoral work, and courage to its preaching. They continue to offer the same today.
Churches and nations have changed over the centuries. Laws have shifted. Institutions have risen and collapsed. But the human need at the heart of the Reformation has remained unchanged. The soul continues to long for righteousness. The conscience continues to bear guilt. People continue to search for a voice that can speak peace with authority.
Jack Miller understood the modern conscience with unusual clarity. In a world where the categories of sin and holiness have been blurred or rejected outright, guilt has not gone away. It has lost its context. It detaches from clear moral truth and floats through culture and conscience—attaching itself to causes, relationships, reputation, success, and shame. People carry it without knowing what it is or where it comes from. Jack wrote that “scientific naturalism has turned much of modern life into a wasteland,” and in that vacuum, the conscience “incessantly tells man, ‘You are not O.K.’”
When guilt loses contact with the holiness of God and the righteousness of Christ, it cannot be resolved. It must still land somewhere. And so people try to absorb it themselves—through work, reflection, conviction, or detachment—hoping to become whole. Jack described this condition as a kind of slow “internal crucifixion.” He saw modern people trying to reenact the cross inside themselves, attempting to justify their existence and quiet their guilt without a substitute and without a verdict from God.
This is the condition the gospel addresses. Justification by faith in Christ does not leave guilt unspoken. It names it, and then resolves it. It brings the righteousness of Another to the sinner. It offers peace with God on the basis of a finished work, declared by the Judge and secured by the Savior.
“Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience…”
— (Hebrews 10:22)
This truth gives rest to the soul and direction to the Church. It places the conscience under mercy and the Church under Christ. His headship orders the life of the Church—its worship, its witness, and its shared life. His rule gives the Church courage and clarity. The gospel that justifies sinners also grounds the people who confess His name.
Today, I am free to write this essay. I do not fear censure or exile. I will not be tried by council or court. But this freedom carries its own kind of weight. The distractions are unrelenting. The noise is constant. Many live under quiet pressure they can’t quite explain. Some feel the weight of falling short. Others carry the ache of not knowing what they were meant to be. The conscience still speaks, even when we don’t know how to listen.
I began this reflection because certain questions kept pressing in—questions I could not dismiss. I followed them through the history of the Reformation and into the present moment, where the need for clarity, rest, and peace remains. These are not questions I’ve answered completely. They are questions I have, and I’ve wondered whether others may find themselves interested in them too.
The gospel gives a place to bring those questions. It speaks a word we cannot speak to ourselves. Justification by faith holds the conscience and anchors the Church. It names our guilt and provides a substitute. It tells the truth and offers mercy. It opens the door to a life lived under grace.
“For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking but of righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit” (Romans 14:17 ESV).
The story of Scripture is the story of a kingdom. From Genesis to Revelation, from the garden to the cross to the empty tomb, the Bible unfolds a narrative of kingship—of rule, rebellion, and restoration. Yet this kingdom is unlike any the world has known. It is not founded on conquest or cultural power, but on righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit (Romans 14:17).
This essay began in the slow work of sermon preparation. I had been preaching through Romans 14, especially verse 17—“The kingdom of God is righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” That verse held more weight than I expected. Around the same time, I was reading E.R. Chamberlin’s The Sack of Rome, which describes how kingship functioned in medieval and early modern imagination. One sentence stayed with me: the king was “not simply the personification or the symbol of a people, but their whole purpose of existence.” It made me wonder how kingship has changed—and how Paul’s proclamation of the kingdom of God still challenges every vision of authority and identity.
As I prepared to preach and studied further, I began to realize how deeply this verse touches the core of Christian life. It speaks not just to doctrine, but to discipleship. It calls us to live from grace, under Christ, in the Holy Spirit. I later learned that Martyn Lloyd-Jones ended his fourteen-volume commentary on Romans at this very verse. Due to illness, he could not continue. But in the Preface, he admitted that even apart from his health, he may not have gone further. Romans 14:17, he said, revealed too much of the glory of the kingdom to rush past. That confirmed what I had begun to sense: that this verse—this gospel word of righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit—stands at the very heart of how the reign of Christ becomes real in the life of the church.
This essay is the fruit of those reflections. I didn’t plan to write it. But the more I sat with Scripture, with the history of kings and kingdoms, and with the presence of the Spirit in the life of the church, the more I sensed the need to trace the thread more fully. My hope is that others might benefit from that same path of discovery—not as a final word, but as a way into deeper joy in the reign of Christ.
We begin in Eden, where Adam and Eve were entrusted with royal stewardship under God. We follow the line through Abraham, Moses, and David, into the prophetic hope of a righteous ruler. We see its fulfillment in Christ—crucified, risen, and enthroned—and in the Spirit’s work of forming a kingdom people. And we conclude by considering how this kingdom confronts modern conceptions of power, justice, and identity—and what it means to live under the reign of Christ today.
I. Kingship in Eden: The Creator-King and His Image-Bearers
“Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion…’”
—Genesis 1:26
The language of kingship begins not with monarchy or empire, but with creation. God is the sovereign Creator-King, and He forms humanity to rule under His authority. The terms used—image, likeness, dominion—are royal. In the ancient Near East, kings were called “images” of the gods, and their statues were placed in conquered territories to represent their rule. God, however, places no statues. He places people.
Adam and Eve as Royal Stewards
Adam and Eve are not rulers in their own right. They are vice-regents—image-bearers entrusted with the task of extending God’s order, multiplying His image, and filling the earth with the glory of His name.
They are given:
A place: Eden, the garden-temple
A calling: to cultivate and guard
A word: God’s command to trust and obey
A crown: dominion over the works of God’s hands
The design is beautiful. The first humans are kings and queens under God’s authority—governing the earth in peace and communion. Creation is not their possession. It is their stewardship.
The Law Beneath the Rule
The structure of this kingship is not legalistic, but relational. The command to avoid the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is not a test of obedience in the abstract. It is a call to trust God’s definition of good and evil rather than define it for themselves. They are invited to live under God’s rule, which is the very essence of true kingship: to rule in dependence, not autonomy.
But this trust is broken.
II. The Fall: Rebellion Against the True King
“You will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
—Genesis 3:5
The serpent’s temptation was not simply to disobey. It was to dethrone—to declare independence from the Creator-King. At the core of the fall is a crisis of rule. The offer was to become like God—not in the image-bearing sense, but in the sense of autonomy, of being a law unto oneself. This was not the loss of innocence. It was the rejection of kingship under God in favor of kingship apart from Him.
A Counter-Kingdom is Born
When Adam and Eve take the fruit, they do more than break a command. They attempt to redefine the throne. They substitute submission for self-assertion, trust for grasping, dependency for control. The result is not freedom, but fear. They hide. They cover themselves. They blame. The world that was meant to flourish under their stewardship begins to groan under their rebellion.
In theological terms, what happens in Genesis 3 is the birth of the kingdom of self. And this kingdom will spread—into families, cities, nations, cultures, and hearts.
From Cain to Babel, from Pharaoh to Rome, human history becomes a tale of competing sovereignties—false kings ruling over broken people with a borrowed power that cannot sustain justice, cannot deliver peace, and cannot produce joy.
The Image Remains, the Glory Fades
After the fall, the image of God is not destroyed. Humanity remains royal in capacity—but twisted in allegiance. We still bear the imprint of dominion, of desire for order and beauty and purpose. But now we seek to rule on our own terms.
We still want righteousness, peace, and joy—but we want to define them ourselves. We want a kingdom—but we want to sit on the throne. And without the Spirit, that is exactly what we try to do.
This is why Paul says in Romans 1 that humanity “exchanged the truth about God for a lie” and began to worship and serve the creature rather than the Creator. This exchange is political as much as spiritual. It is an abdication of true kingship and the establishment of false sovereignty.
The Need for a New King
By the end of Genesis 3, Adam and Eve are exiled—not just from Eden, but from the full presence of the King. The way to the Tree of Life is guarded. The garden-temple is closed. Humanity is left with memory, desire, and longing—but no way back to the throne.
And yet, even in judgment, God makes a promise. The seed of the woman will crush the serpent’s head. A new ruler will come. And the true kingdom will rise again—not from the self, but from the mercy of God.
III. The Covenant and the Crown: God’s Promise of a King
“I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever.”
—2 Samuel 7:13
The fall introduced the kingdom of self, but it did not erase God’s purpose. Throughout redemptive history, God has been preparing not only to forgive His people, but to restore His reign—through a king, over a people, in righteousness and peace.
This restoration comes through covenant.
A. The Abrahamic Covenant: A People and a Seed
In Genesis 12, God calls Abraham and promises him three things: a land, a people, and a blessing that will reach all nations. But hidden within that promise is a royal thread.
“I will make you exceedingly fruitful, and I will make you into nations, and kings shall come from you.” (Gen 17:6)
This is not nostalgia for Eden. It is a forward-looking promise. Kingship will return—not through the self-exalting kingdoms of Babel, but through a covenant people formed by grace.
The king God will provide will not lead by power alone, but by promise.
B. The Mosaic Covenant: Law Beneath the Throne
At Sinai, God gives Israel His law. This is not just moral instruction—it is royal order. God is not merely saving a people from Egypt; He is constituting a nation under His reign. Israel is to be a kingdom of priests (Exod 19:6)—a people whose national identity is defined by their obedience to the living God.
But even here, the idea of human kingship is already in view. In Deuteronomy 17, God anticipates that Israel will ask for a king. And He gives detailed instructions:
The king must be chosen by God.
He must not multiply wealth, horses, or wives.
He must write out the law and read it daily.
He must fear the Lord and keep His commandments.
He must never exalt himself above his brothers.
In other words, God does not oppose kingship. He opposes kings who forget who the true King is.
C. The People Demand a King Like the Nations
In 1 Samuel 8, Israel finally asks for a king. But their request reveals their heart:
“Now appoint for us a king to judge us like all the nations.”
God tells Samuel, “They have not rejected you, but they have rejected me from being king over them.” (1 Sam 8:7)
This is not just a political pivot. It is a spiritual crisis. Israel wants the security of a crown they can see, not the presence of a God they must trust.
God gives them Saul. He is everything they wanted—tall, strong, impressive. But Saul fears people more than God. He builds his image, not the Lord’s altar. He grasps at authority rather than submitting to it.
Saul is a king like the nations. And he fails.
D. The Davidic Covenant: A King After God’s Own Heart
God chooses David—not because he is strong, but because he listens. He is flawed, but he returns. He sins, but he repents. David is not a king who replaces God’s reign. He is a king who reflects it.
And to David, God makes a promise:
“Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me. Your throne shall be established forever.” (2 Sam 7:16)
This is the hinge of biblical kingship.
The promise to David is not about political power. It is about a descendant who will rule with righteousness, establish peace, and reign in joy.
The prophets begin to look for Him:
A shoot from the stump of Jesse (Isaiah 11)
A king who will rule in justice (Jeremiah 23)
A servant who will suffer and rise again (Isaiah 53)
God is not abandoning kingship. He is preparing the world for the true King.
IV. The Arrival of the King: Jesus and the Kingdom of God
“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”
—Matthew 4:17
Jesus does not arrive in a vacuum. He enters a world full of political tension, religious longing, and messianic expectation. His people are waiting for a king. They are looking for a son of David. They are praying for justice, for national deliverance, and for the restoration of Israel’s glory. But the King they receive is not the one they expected.
A. The Kingdom Comes With a Person
From the first words of His public ministry, Jesus announces the kingdom of God. But unlike earthly kings, He does not ride in with armies. He heals. He teaches. He forgives. He feeds. He commands storms and demons, but also speaks in parables and walks among the poor. His authority is absolute, but His presence is humble.
Jesus does not describe the kingdom as a place. He describes it as Himself.
“If I cast out demons by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.” (Matt 12:28)
“The kingdom of God is in your midst.” (Luke 17:21)
The kingdom is wherever the King is. And in Jesus, the kingdom has come near.
B. A King Unlike the Nations
Jesus fulfills the covenant promises, but not by assuming worldly power.
He is born in obscurity.
He grows in wisdom.
He lives in holiness.
He resists every temptation to seize control.
At every point, Jesus refuses to be the kind of king the world knows:
Satan offers Him dominion. Jesus chooses the cross.
The people try to crown Him. Jesus withdraws.
Pilate asks, “Are you a king?” Jesus says, “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Jesus does not come to build His kingdom by conquest. He comes to bring the reign of God through surrender, suffering, and resurrection.
C. The Cross is His Coronation
The cross is not a pause in Jesus’ kingship. It is the moment His kingship is revealed.
On the cross:
He wears a crown—of thorns.
He is lifted up—not on a throne, but on wood.
He is declared King—not by His disciples, but by His executioners.
“This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.” (Matt 27:37)
This is not irony. This is truth in God’s language. In His weakness, Jesus defeats sin. In His silence, He speaks judgment on the kingdom of self. In His death, He opens the door to life.
The resurrection confirms it. Jesus rises not just alive, but victorious. He ascends not just as teacher or Savior, but as King of kings and Lord of lords. The kingdom of God is not an idea. It is a reign established in history and continuing now from heaven.
D. The Reign of Christ Is Present and Expanding
Jesus now reigns at the right hand of the Father. All authority in heaven and on earth belongs to Him. And through the Spirit, He now gathers His people into that reign.
“He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of His beloved Son.” (Col 1:13)
The kingdom has a King. His name is Jesus.
And all who trust Him are now citizens—not of a nation or a program, but of a kingdom marked by righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.
V. The Kingdom in the Church: The Holy Spirit and the Reign of Christ
“The kingdom of God is righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.”
—Romans 14:17
The risen Christ now reigns, not only in heaven, but among His people. He has ascended to the right hand of the Father, and from that throne He has poured out the Holy Spirit—not as an idea, but as the holy presence of God dwelling in His church.
Pentecost is not an event left in the past. It is the beginning of the King’s ongoing presence through the Spirit, who unites us to Christ and supplies the life of the kingdom here and now.
A. The Holy Spirit Is the Presence of the Reigning Christ
Jesus told His disciples, “It is better for you that I go away… for if I go, I will send the Helper to you.” (John 16:7)
That Helper is not abstract. He is the Holy Spirit, the Lord and Giver of life. He teaches, convicts, comforts, transforms, and glorifies Christ. He is the One who brings us into union with Jesus and forms the kingdom in our hearts and communities.
Jack Miller called the Holy Spirit “the Senior Sovereign Partner”—bringing the full capital of Christ’s righteousness and love into our lives. He makes the verdict of justification real, the presence of Christ known, and the power of grace effective.
The Spirit brings the life of the King into the people of the King. Where the Holy Spirit is, the reign of Christ is active.
B. The Spirit Establishes Righteousness, Peace, and Joy
In Romans 14:17, Paul summarizes the character of God’s kingdom in three words: righteousness, peace, and joy. These are not abstract ideals. They are the fruit of the Spirit and the marks of a people living under grace.
Righteousness is the standing given to those justified by faith. It is also the life that flows from that standing—love shaped by truth, obedience grounded in grace.
Peace is the reconciliation Christ has accomplished, now lived out in unity, forbearance, and forgiveness.
Joy is the delight of those who know they belong to the Father, who share in the life of the Son, and who are filled with the Spirit.
Miracles, emotions, and spiritual gifts all serve the King’s glory. They are signs, gifts, and responses that belong to the kingdom when they are centered in Christ and ordered by the Spirit. So do structures, callings, and delegated authority—all governed by God’s Word and made fruitful by the Spirit’s power.
The Spirit redeems what sin distorted. He restores joy to emotion. He brings holiness to power. He fulfills the purpose of the law—not as a system of self-justification, but as the living wisdom of God, now written on hearts.
C. The Church as the Outpost of the Kingdom
The church is where this kingdom life becomes visible.
The church is the people whom God has gathered, justified, filled with the Spirit, and made into a royal priesthood. We do not form the kingdom, but we live from it. We are no longer defined by the kingdom of self. We now belong to the rule of Christ.
The Spirit leads us in holiness. He forms endurance, gentleness, and joy. He sends us with truth, equips us with power, and knits us together in love. This is the Spirit’s work—not in isolation, but in community.
The Spirit does not erase the law. He fulfills it in us. He leads us into obedience not by fear, but by love. He strengthens our will and shapes our steps. This is the rhythm of kingdom life: the Spirit leading, the church responding, and Christ glorified.
D. A Better Kingdom Than the Self Can Imagine
The world still builds kingdoms centered on the self. Even its best language—equity of opportunity, equity of outcome—begins from comparison, entitlement, and measurement. These impulses may reflect deep longings, but they cannot produce righteousness.
The gospel gives what equity cannot: the righteousness of Christ to those with no righteousness of their own. The peace of God to those who were once enemies. The joy of belonging to those who had no hope.
The Holy Spirit makes this gospel real—not only in hearts, but in communities. He builds the church as the place where the reign of Christ is lived, shared, and witnessed.
Where the Holy Spirit is present, the kingdom of God is present.
VI. The Return of the King: Hope, Judgment, and New Creation
“He must reign until He has put all His enemies under His feet.”
—1 Corinthians 15:25
The reign of Christ is already present through the Holy Spirit. But it is not yet complete in visible form. The church lives in what theologians call the “already and not yet” of the kingdom—Christ has triumphed, but the full effects of His reign are still unfolding. We live by faith, not by sight. We walk in love, still surrounded by the remnants of the old world.
But the King will return. The story does not end with the church in struggle. It ends with the Son of Man returning in glory, the final enemy defeated, and the kingdom fully revealed.
A. The King Returns to Restore All Things
Jesus will return—not as teacher, not as prophet, not even as priest—but as King of kings and Lord of lords. Every knee will bow. Every tongue will confess. All creation will be set free from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God (Rom 8:21).
This return will not be the start of His reign. It will be the unveiling of the reign He has always had.
What began in the garden, was promised in Abraham, structured in Israel, fulfilled in Christ, and made present through the Spirit will finally be consummated in new creation.
This is not escape. It is completion.
B. Judgment and Joy Are Both Kingdom Realities
When the King returns, He will judge the living and the dead. His judgment will be holy and good. It will bring every work into the light. It will reveal every hidden thing. And for those in Christ, it will confirm the verdict already spoken: righteous in My Son.
This judgment is not terror for the justified. It is joy. It is the vindication of grace. It is the end of war, of sin, of tears, of division, of death.
The resurrection of the body will complete what the Spirit has begun. No more struggle with the flesh. No more resistance to the Spirit. Only love, peace, joy, and the face of the King.
“They will see His face, and His name will be on their foreheads.” (Rev 22:4)
C. The Glory of the King Fills the World
In the end, the kingdom of self will fall. Every other throne will fade. Only one reign will remain.
The King will dwell with His people.
The new heavens and new earth will shine with His righteousness.
The river of life will flow from the throne.
The leaves of the tree will heal the nations.
This is not fiction. This is the future. And it shapes how we live now.
We are not citizens of this age. We belong to the age to come. We are not building our own kingdoms. We are living in the kinghdom that has already come—and will soon come in fullness.
The church lives in hope. We walk in love. We rejoice in peace. And we do so in the Holy Spirit, as those already joined to the King who will reign forever.
Conclusion: The Kingdom Is Here, and the King Is Coming
The story of kingship begins in Eden, where God entrusted Adam and Eve with rule under His authority. It continues through Israel, where kings rose and fell according to their faithfulness. It culminates in Jesus, the true Son of David, who reigns by giving His life and rising in power. And it continues today in the church, where the Holy Spirit makes His reign known.
We do not wait for the kingdom to begin. It has already come—in Christ.
We do not build it with our strength. It is given through grace.
We do not rule it with autonomy. We live in it through union with the King.
The return of the King is not the beginning of the story. It is the glory of everything God has been doing all along.
Until that day, we walk in the Spirit.
We live in His righteousness.
We share in His peace.
We rejoice in His joy.
The kingdom of God has come near.
And the King is coming soon.
VII. Kingship in the Reformation: Luther, Calvin, and the Confessions
“Christ is not only a king to be worshiped, but a king to be trusted.”
—John Calvin
The Reformation was not only a recovery of the gospel—it was a radical reorientation of kingship. It challenged not only the pope’s spiritual supremacy but also the political theology that placed both church and state under the authority of human rulers. The Reformers re-centered sovereignty in Christ, not as metaphor, but as living truth.
A. Luther and the Two Kingdoms
Martin Luther introduced the distinction between the kingdom of the left hand (civil government) and the kingdom of the right hand (God’s spiritual rule through Word and Spirit). These terms do not correspond to modern political categories of “left” and “right.” Rather, they reflect two distinct modes of God’s governance: one through external order and restraint, the other through internal renewal and grace.
In the kingdom of the left, God rules through law, institutions, and temporal authority—for the sake of peace and justice in a fallen world. In the kingdom of the right, God rules by grace, through the gospel, forming a people who live by faith under the lordship of Christ.
For Luther, this distinction clarified rather than divided. Christ reigns in both kingdoms, but He builds His church not with swords or laws, but by justifying the ungodly and uniting them to Himself by the Spirit.
“I am subject to no one as a Christian,” Luther wrote, “but I serve everyone as a Christian.” The paradox of gospel kingship is that it produces freedom through surrender, strength through weakness, dominion through love.
B. Calvin and the Threefold Office of Christ
John Calvin developed a more comprehensive account of Christ’s kingship through his articulation of Christ’s threefold office: Prophet, Priest, and King. As Prophet, Christ speaks. As Priest, He intercedes. As King, He reigns—and Calvin saw this as the present, active, governing reality of the church.
For Calvin, Christ rules His people through the Spirit and the Word. His kingship is not delayed until the Second Coming. It is present now—visible in the gathering, sanctifying, and sending of the church. Calvin saw this kingship rooted in Psalm 2, Psalm 110, and Isaiah 9. The Messiah would rule with justice and righteousness, subduing hearts through grace rather than coercion.
He called this the spiritual reign of Christ—not because it was ethereal or symbolic, but because it was real and inward. True obedience flows from love, and true kingship forms people who love the King.
C. The Reformed Confessions and Christ the King
The Reformed confessions echoed and codified these convictions.
Heidelberg Catechism Q&A 31: Christ is King “because He governs us by His Word and Spirit, and defends and preserves us in the enjoyment of that salvation He has purchased for us.”
Westminster Confession of Faith (WCF 8.1, 8.4): Christ executes the office of a king “in calling out a people to Himself… and in ordering and governing them according to His Word.”
Belgic Confession (Articles 27–30): The true church is ruled not by hierarchy or pope, but by Christ as its only Head, through the ministry of the Word and Spirit.
These documents rejected both ecclesiastical absolutism and state interference in the spiritual life of the church. They affirmed that Christ alone rules His people, and that He does so through means of grace, not mechanisms of control.
D. A Return to the Crown of Christ
The Reformers were not anti-authority. They were anti-idolatry. They opposed any claim—papal or princely—that challenged Christ’s headship. Their vision was not anarchy, but rightly ordered sovereignty under the lordship of Jesus.
They offered instead a vision of the church ruled by Christ, filled with the Spirit, and walking in love. This vision shaped not only ecclesiology, but also preaching, discipline, worship, and public life.
Their commitment to Christ’s kingship stood in stark contrast to both the claims of the pope and the ambition of princes. And this contrast would sharpen in the decades to follow, especially in the tensions between crown and altar—most famously in Henry VIII’s break with Rome, which we’ll take up in the next section. There, the king did not relinquish papal control for the sake of Christ’s headship, but rather claimed it for himself, becoming both head of state and head of church—a move that exposed how easily kingship could be wielded in the name of Christ without submitting to Christ.
The Reformers offered a different kingdom—one that did not die when its leader did. In a world where messianic claimants rose and fell, where monarchs ruled by charisma or force, the Reformers preached a King who had died—and now lived. They proclaimed a gospel in which the cross was coronation and the resurrection was not merely proof of innocence, but the enthronement of the Risen Lord.
To be Reformed is to live under Christ the King—not only in confessional identity, but in spiritual reality.
The King speaks.
The King reigns.
And the King is building His church.
Where the Holy Spirit lives, that kingdom becomes visible.
VIII. Kingdoms in Crisis: Rome, Popes, and the City of God
“Two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the love of God, even to the contempt of self.”
—Augustine, The City of God
When Augustine wrote The City of God, Rome was already trembling. The Visigoths had sacked the imperial city in 410, and the world that had seemed immovable was cracking. Augustine responded not with nostalgia, but with vision. He described two cities: the City of Man and the City of God—two communities defined not by geography or politics, but by the object of their love.
The City of Man is built on the love of self. It seeks glory, safety, control, and permanence through human power. The City of God is formed by the love of God. It trusts in His sovereignty, seeks His righteousness, and lives by faith.
This vision became the enduring framework for how Christians would interpret the kingdoms of the earth: not merely in terms of who held power, but in terms of what kingdom their hearts belonged to.
A. The Medieval Synthesis: Pope and Emperor
For much of the Middle Ages, Christendom attempted to unite these cities—to create a world where the spiritual and the temporal were governed by a single order. Popes crowned emperors. Emperors protected popes. Church and state were braided together under a shared vision of divine order.
But this synthesis was always fragile. And it often became a contest of crowns—a battle between pope and emperor for final authority.
Was the church subject to the king, or was the king subject to the pope?
Who ruled souls—and who ruled bodies?
Could any human power claim to mediate Christ’s reign on earth?
These questions exploded in moments like the Investiture Controversy, the Avignon Papacy, and the fragmentation of the Holy Roman Empire. The deeper issue was not just political. It was theological: Who rules the kingdom of God?
B. The Crisis of Henry VIII
Nowhere did this crisis become more vivid than in the English Reformation.
When Henry VIII broke from Rome, he was not trying to recover biblical kingship. He was asserting a new form of sovereignty: the monarch as supreme governor of both state and church.
He replaced the pope not with Christ, but with himself. This was not reformation by gospel, but reformation by fiat. The result was an Anglican structure where royal authority and ecclesiastical leadership were fused in a way the Reformers never envisioned.
This reshaping of church and state would haunt English Christianity for centuries. It created space for reform, yes—but also confusion about where the church’s true authority resided. Was it in the crown, the bishops, the Parliament—or in Christ alone?
C. The Power of the Throne: Charles V and the “Sacking of Rome”
In 1527, the armies of Charles V sacked Rome. It was a brutal and symbolic end to the myth of a unified Christendom.
E.R. Chamberlin described Charles as a modern ruler who still clung to the medieval notion of monarchy—where the king was not merely a symbol of his people, but their purpose for existing. Like the king in chess: if he is removed, the game is over.
This was not metaphor. This was how kingship functioned. The death or failure of a king meant the collapse of the world order. That’s why so many messianic movements in Jesus’s day disintegrated the moment their leader died. A dead king is a failed king. A fallen kingdom cannot save.
Which is why the crucifixion of Jesus was not only scandalous. It was, to every earthly eye, disqualifying.
Kings do not die.
Kings are not crucified.
And if they are, their kingdom ends with them.
D. The Death That Crowned the King
But Jesus was not like other kings.
His death was not His failure. It was His coronation.
The inscription over His head, meant as mockery—“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”—was, in fact, the truth of the universe. His crown of thorns was His royal headpiece. His lifted body was His enthronement. And His resurrection was not only the vindication of His innocence—it was the declaration that His kingdom cannot die.
The resurrection shattered the logic of Rome and Jerusalem alike. A crucified Messiah was unthinkable. A risen King changed everything. The disciples did not simply rejoice that Jesus was alive. They confessed what no king could claim without resurrection:
Jesus is Lord.
This is the moment Chamberlin’s world could not imagine. This is the eucatastrophe, the joyful catastrophe that turns the world right-side up.
The City of Man could not hold Him.
The papal court could not contain Him.
The crown could not silence Him.
The tomb could not keep Him.
He is risen.
He reigns.
And His kingdom is coming.
IX. Christ and the Modern World: Kuyper, the Bavincks, and C. Van Til
“There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, ‘Mine!’”
—Abraham Kuyper
If the Reformers reclaimed Christ’s kingship over the church, modern Reformed thinkers have extended that vision into every sphere of human life. The kingdom of God is not limited to worship services or theology classrooms. It includes politics, science, education, economics, family, and the inner life of the soul. The modern world, fractured and self-governed, desperately needs to see again what it means for Jesus to be King—not just of the church, but of the cosmos.
A. Kuyper: Christ’s Lordship Over All
Abraham Kuyper, the Dutch theologian, journalist, and Prime Minister, helped the church recover a cosmic vision of Christ’s reign. His doctrine of sphere sovereignty emphasized that God has ordained distinct areas of life—church, state, family, school—and that each must submit to the Lordship of Christ.
For Kuyper, Christ’s kingship is not abstract. It governs real life.
Schools educate under the rule of truth.
Politics governs under the rule of justice.
Art, science, and business all operate best when they honor the order and purpose of the Creator-King.
This was Kuyper’s cultural antithesis to both secular neutrality and religious control. The goal was not to Christianize culture by coercion, but to live as citizens of the kingdom across every square inch.
B. The Bavincks: Unity in Creation and Redemption
Herman Bavinck and his nephew, J.H. Bavinck, extended Kuyper’s vision with deeper theological integration.
Herman Bavinck emphasized that creation and redemption are not separate stories. They are one divine purpose—unified in Christ. The original dominion given to Adam is restored and fulfilled in Jesus, the last Adam, who reigns now at the right hand of God.
J.H. Bavinck, a missionary theologian, showed that the reign of Christ compels mission, not just to save souls, but to proclaim the kingship of Christ over all peoples and cultures. The church exists not to escape the world, but to announce a new creation already begun in Christ.
For the Bavincks, theology is not detached from life. It is the lens through which every aspect of life comes under the reign of Jesus.
C. Van Til: The Antithesis of the Kingdoms
Cornelius Van Til, student of Kuyper and pioneer of Reformed apologetics, taught that there is no neutral ground. Every thought, system, and structure is either grounded in submission to Christ or in autonomy from Him.
The kingdoms of man are not simply confused. They are opposed to the reign of Christ. This is what Van Til called the antithesis—the unavoidable spiritual divide between those who acknowledge Christ as Lord and those who refuse.
Van Til’s insight sharpened the church’s vision for truth in a post-Christian world. To confess that Christ is King is to recognize that every competing authority—whether secular ideology or religious counterfeit—must bow.
While Van Til exposed the antithesis between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of self, Jack Miller entered that conflict with the heart of a pastor and the urgency of an evangelist—bringing the weapons of the gospel first to himself, and then to others.
X. Jack Miller and the Convicting Joy of the Kingdom
“There is no more humbling work in the world than to engage in elenctics. For at each moment the person knows that the weapons which he turns against another have wounded himself. The Holy Spirit first convicts us, and then through us, he convicts the world.”
—J.H. Bavinck, An Introduction to the Science of Missions
Jack Miller returned to this quote from J.H. Bavinck over and over in his teaching, counseling, and preaching, a quote that summarizes Jack’s life and ministry: to preach the gospel of God’s kingdom in the power of the Holy Spirit with the humility of a man who had first been pierced by it himself.
Where Cornelius Van Til exposed the spiritual antithesis at the heart of the modern world, Jack Miller brought that antithesis home—to the pulpit, to the church, and to the Christian conscience. For Miller, the conflict between the kingdom of self and the kingdom of God was not abstract or philosophical. It was immediate, personal, and spiritual. And it could not be resolved apart from the convicting presence of the Holy Spirit.
A. The Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of Self
Jack was deeply Reformed in his view of sin—not as isolated actions, but as life under the dominion of a false master. “The kingdom of evil,” he preached, “has power. It enslaves. That unholy life has a master from below.”
He never reduced sin to mere behavior. He always brought it back to the presence of God. The real problem with sin was that it replaced the love of God with the love of self.
“God deserves man’s love. And it is an awful thing to love yourself instead of God. It is a dreadful thing.”
He called this self-centered life “eccentric”—not in the trivial sense, but in its truest form: life lived off-center, where man attempts to orbit around himself instead of the living God.
B. Elenctics (Unmasking) as Spirit-Led Witnessing
In Bavinck’s framework, elenctics is the Spirit-led work of conviction. Jack embraced this not as a method, but as a way of life in gospel ministry. The one who brings the gospel must first be undone by it.
Jack believed that all faithful witness begins with repentance. The gospel is first for the preacher. Conviction is not merely a concept to explain, but an encounter to live.
He used vivid illustrations: a yearlong diary filled with every thought, word, and deed now lying exposed in the street; the image of a sinner seeking heaven without a changed heart, still clinging to his hatred of God. These stories pressed people to honesty—not for shame, but for restoration.
Elenctics, for Jack, always led to mercy. Conviction always led to joy.
C. Repentance and the Presence of God
Repentance, for Jack, was not just sorrow or behavior change. It was the Spirit’s work of returning a man to the presence of the King. He often reminded pastors that they must be the chief repenters in their churches—not because they sin more, but because they are called to lead in humility and love.
He would ask simple questions:
“Have you done anything this week because you love Jesus?
Have you stopped doing anything because you love Him?”
These were not tests. They were invitations—opportunities for people to return to the source of love and live again from grace.
Jack’s understanding of repentance was profoundly relational. It restored people to the presence of God and reminded them that the gospel does not operate at a distance. The Spirit is near. And He comes to convict, cleanse, and comfort.
D. A Kingdom of Spirit-Given Life and Joy
Jack Miller taught the kingdom of God as the life of Christ, given to sinners by grace and made real in the church through the Holy Spirit. He described the Holy Spirit as the King’s living presence—bringing righteousness to the conscience, peace to the body, and joy to the soul.
He preached that people don’t just need forgiveness. We need a King.
We need a Lord who reigns in love.
We need a Spirit who brings Christ near.
And we need a gospel that is not just true, but alive.
Jack’s vision of the church was always shaped by this: that where the Spirit convicts, the kingdom begins; where the Spirit cleanses, the kingdom grows; and where the Spirit sends, the kingdom advances.
This is what it means for the church to live in the Holy Spirit.
Not to possess power—but to share in the life of the King.
Not to carry burdens—but to walk in love.
Not to manufacture fruit—but to remain in the vine.
Conviction is not the end of the gospel.
It is the beginning of joy.
And joy is the sound the kingdom makes when grace takes root.
XI. The Ongoing Search for a King: Popes, Presidents, and the Theatrical Return of Monarchy
“They have not rejected you, but they have rejected me from being king over them.”
—1 Samuel 8:7
Kingship has never disappeared. Even in secular or democratic settings, the longing for a king remains embedded in the human soul. We still look for someone to represent us, unify us, carry our fears, and speak with unquestioned authority. In every age, this longing finds a figure—and too often, a spectacle.
The world still wants a crown. And it still looks in the wrong places to find one.
A. The Death of Pope Francis and the Election of Pope Leo XIV
With the recent death of Pope Francis and the election of Pope Leo XIV, the church once again watched the ceremonial fullness of spiritual monarchy. White smoke from the Sistine Chapel, Latin chants, and the announcement of habemus papam were not simply ritual—they were a global statement of continuity, stability, and divine sanction.
Pope Leo XIV inherits not only the office, but the weight of an idea: that the church is still ruled by a visible sovereign. His name recalls Leo the Great, the fifth-century bishop who confronted Attila the Hun and shaped the medieval ideal of a pope as both shepherd and ruler.
But the Reformation challenged this idea at its root. Christ alone is head of the church. His rule is not exercised through human succession, but through the Spirit and the Word. The pope may occupy a throne, but the crown belongs to Christ—and His reign is not conferred by conclave or preserved by ritual.
The kingdom of God is not established by pageantry. It is revealed by grace.
B. Presidential Kingship and the Spectacle of Power
In the United States, kingship appears in a different form—but the longing is the same. Though the nation was founded to reject monarchy, its political theater often reenacts it.
Recent visits by Donald Trump to the Middle East—marked by royal horses, ceremonial arches, gold-lit palaces, and formal greetings with hereditary monarchs—have made visible the emotional power of spectacle. These events are not about diplomacy alone. They are performances of sovereignty.
Trump presents himself not simply as a leader, but as a singular figure: a unifier, a definer of national identity, a stand-in for order and strength. His appeal, and the pageantry surrounding it, reveal something deeper than politics. They reveal a cultural hunger for someone who can symbolize rule, personify resolve, and speak as if the world rests on their voice.
This is not isolated. It is global. The desire for visible kingship remains alive in a world that has claimed to move past it.
C. Luther’s Theology of the Cross and the Glory of Christ
Martin Luther described two competing theologies. The theology of glory looks for God in strength, spectacle, and triumph. It seeks blessing in elevation and assumes that kings wear gold.
The theology of the cross sees God revealed in weakness, suffering, and shame. It does not deny glory. It redefines it.
True kingship is not performed. It is crucified.
When Jesus stood trial, His silence confounded Pilate. When He was crowned, it was with thorns. When He was lifted up, it was not onto a throne, but onto a cross.
“We preach Christ crucified…” (1 Cor 1:23)
That was not a concession. It was a coronation. And His resurrection confirmed what the cross revealed: this is the King who reigns not by force, but by self-giving love.
Every age faces this decision. Will we seek a king who confirms our glory—or a King who shares His?
D. The Kingdom that Cannot Be Performed
Modern longing for kingship will not disappear. It may be expressed through popes or presidents, artists or ideologies, but it always seeks the same thing: permanence, clarity, meaning.
When those desires are detached from the holiness of God, they produce idolatry, nostalgia, or authoritarianism. But when those desires are seen as a longing for Christ, they become a call to return to the One who wears the only crown that cannot fail.
Christ has already been crowned. His resurrection was His enthronement. His ascension declared His reign. And His Spirit now brings the power and presence of that kingdom into the lives of His people.
The crown does not need to be recovered. It needs to be recognized.
The church does not bear witness to the kingdom by performing strength, power, or spectacle. It bears witness by walking in the righteousness of Christ, by enduring in peace, and by rejoicing in the joy of the Holy Spirit.
This is the reign the world cannot manufacture.
This is the kingdom no pope can secure.
This is the throne no president can occupy.
This is the life God gives—in Christ, by the Spirit, in love.
Conclusion: The Kingdom Is Here, and the King Reigns Now
The story of kingship is the story of the Bible—and the story of every human heart. From Eden to the throne of David, from the temple to the cross, from Rome to Wittenberg to our own restless world, the question has always remained: Who will rule us?
The kingdoms of this world still rise and fall. Crowns pass from hand to hand. Ideologies parade like monarchs. Popes are elected, presidents perform sovereignty, and the public still longs for one who can unify, protect, define, and endure.
But the gospel proclaims something greater: the King has already come.
He did not rise by conquest. He was crowned with thorns. He reigned from a cross. And He lives—resurrected, ascended, reigning now at the right hand of the Father. His kingdom is not delayed. It is not deferred. It is present—in the Holy Spirit, and in the lives of those who belong to Him.
The church does not manufacture this kingdom. We receive it. We walk in it. And we bear witness to it—through righteousness that flows from grace, peace that flows from reconciliation, and joy that flows from belonging.
To live in this kingdom is not to escape the world. It is to live in the world with a different King.
It is to remember that the crown has already been placed. The verdict has already been spoken. The Spirit has already been given.
Christ reigns.
The Holy Spirit lives in His people.
And the kingdom of God is righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.
Introduction: Questioning the Language of “Empathy”
For some time now, I have found myself pausing when I hear the word empathy. It’s a word that often comes up—in conversations with and writing by people I love and respect. The language of “empathy” is usually spoken with moral weight and emotional resonance. And when it is, I do not necessarily bristle—but I do wonder.
What do we mean by empathy? Why is empathy presupposed as loving? Why does empathy carry so much authority? And what happens when we use empathy uncritically—as if empathy were a self-evident good?
This essay grows out of that wondering. It began with reading both popular and theological treatments, and it has grown through continuing conversations with family and others as I have tried to understand the meaning of empathy personally—as a father, a pastor, and a theologian.
Some call empathy essential to Christian love. Others warn it has become a modern idol. Still others assume it without question, as if not affirming empathy is equivalent to not loving. All of this made me want to look more closely, to explore what we might be asking of a single word—and what that word might be asking of us.
I wanted to invite you readers into my inquiry. What follows is not a takedown or a polemic. It is a shared exploration into how the word empathy appeared, how it evolved, and how it came to function today as something far more than a feeling. Along the way, we will trace how Christian thinkers from the early church to the Reformation to the present day have understood love, compassion, and judgment. And, we will ask whether empathy—as a cultural norm—may actually function as a new stumbling block, one that quietly displaces the only true one: the scandal of the cross.
My goal is not to deny the desire behind empathy. That desire—to be seen, understood, and carried—is deeply human. My question is whether the modern elevation of empathy has taken that desire and asked it to do more than it ever could. And whether, in doing so, we have exchanged justification by faith for something softer sounding, but ultimately heavier.
Section 1: The Word We Did Not Inherit—A Brief History of Empathy and Sympathy
The word empathy is a new addition to the English language. It first appeared in 1909, coined by British American psychologist Edward Titchener. But its roots go back a few decades earlier, to a German term used in aesthetics and art theory: Einfühlung, which means “feeling into.” It was a word invented in the 19th century to describe how a person might project themselves into a painting, sculpture, or building—how one might imaginatively enter into a work of art in order to experience its emotional power.
The German ein means “into,” and fühlen means “to feel.” So Einfühlung was literally “feeling into.” Titchener, when translating the term into English, did not want to use a clunky Germanic rendering. He instead intentionally chose classical Greek-looking roots to give empathy a sense of intellectual and moral weight:
em- (from Greek en), meaning “in”
pathos, meaning “suffering” or “experience”
Thus, empathy was born—not as a translation of any ancient or biblical idea, but as a modern psychological term dressed in Greek clothing.
It is worth emphasizing there is no biblical Greek equivalent for empathy. No word like empatheia appears in Scripture or early Christian literature. What we now mean by empathy—a kind of emotional fusion or perspective-taking—simply was not part of the classical or theological vocabulary.
By contrast, the word sympathy does appear in ancient texts and Scripture-derived traditions. From the Greek sympatheia, it means “suffering with.” It shows up in Hebrews 4:15, where Jesus is described as a high priest who “sympathizes with our weaknesses.” In the Greek, this is sympathēsai—to co-suffer, to feel alongside, to share in pain, but never to project oneself into another’s experience as one’s own.
There are other related biblical terms:
σπλάγχνα (splanchna) – the “bowels” or “inward parts,” used metaphorically to refer to deep compassion
ἐλεέω (eleeō) – “to have mercy”
ἀγάπη (agapē) – self-giving love
οἰκτιρμοί (oiktirmoi) – tender mercies
None of these imply the imaginative projection or emotional fusion that modern empathy demands. These Biblical terms all describe a movement of love toward the other rooted not in emotional resonance, but in action, mercy, and covenantal presence.
What this brief study shows is that empathy, as we now use it, is not a recovered virtue from Christian tradition. It is a newly created word from modern psychology, shaped by Romantic aesthetics and moral individualism.
That is not necessarily a condemnation. Not every good insight needs to be ancient. But it should at least give us pause. If this word is not part of the biblical or theological tradition, and if it appeared in a particular modern moment to name a particular kind of feeling, then we should ask carefully: What does it mean now? What are we doing with it? And what is it doing to us?
Section 2: From Psychology to Law—How Empathy Became a Moral Imperative
In the early 20th century, empathy moved quickly beyond aesthetics and experimental psychology. By mid-century, especially through the influence of humanistic psychology, it was redefined not just as a perceptual or emotional phenomenon, but as a relational and moral good.
Carl Rogers, one of the most influential psychologists of the 20th century, placed empathy at the center of his therapeutic model. For Rogers, empathy was not simply about understanding another’s emotions. It was a kind of moral posture—entering someone’s internal frame of reference, without judgment, and reflecting that inner world back to them in a way that made them feel deeply known. “Being empathic,” Rogers wrote, “is to perceive the internal frame of reference of another with accuracy and with the emotional components and meanings which pertain thereto, as if one were the person.” The phrase “as if one were the person” is key. It marks a decisive shift from “suffering with” to “feeling into.”
Rogers’ therapeutic model spread rapidly. Its vocabulary and values were adopted in pastoral care, education, parenting, and leadership. In many places, empathy was no longer just a counseling technique—it became a definition of love. To be loving was to be empathic. To withhold empathy was to harm.
What began as a tool of art interpretation had now become a measure of moral legitimacy.
Over time, this shift hardened into expectation. People began to speak of empathy as a kind of relational justice. Social trust came to depend on emotional resonance. If someone shared their story and you could not “feel it” with them—or if your response did not mirror their emotional tone—you might be seen as cold, unsafe, or even oppressive. Entire communities and institutions began to organize around empathic performance as a signal of care. The result was that empathy, while still dressed in the language of tenderness, functioned more like a law.
But this law was uniquely difficult to keep. Unlike traditional moral commands—do not steal, do not bear false witness—this one required emotional immersion. It demanded you feel what another feels or at least act as if you do. And it offered no clear standard by which to know whether you had done it correctly. The only way to prove your empathy was to have it accepted by the other person. And so, the self must constantly be evaluated by someone else’s internal world.
In this way, empathy quietly became a kind of emotional justification—a way of being declared good based not on truth or love, but on affective attunement. You are right if you resonate. You are wrong if you do not.
This explains why empathy is now nearly immune to critique. It is not merely an emotion; it is a moral claim. To question empathy feels like questioning kindness itself. Believe me, I have experienced those responses when I’ve questioned the uncritical ordinary use of empathy. And yet, that is precisely why we must think carefully. Because if empathy is functioning as a new moral law, we must ask: who does it justify? Who does it condemn? And what does it leave out?
Section 3: Empathy as Judgment—A New Stumbling Block
The Apostle Paul, writing to the early church in Rome, faced a situation that feels remarkably contemporary. Christians were dividing—not over heresy or immorality, but over food and holy days. Each group was using its convictions as a test of faithfulness. Paul’s response is stunning in its clarity:
Therefore let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother.
— Romans 14:13 (ESV)
What we don’t see at once in English is that the word “decide” is the same Greek word as “pass judgment”—krinō (κρίνω). Paul is saying, in effect, stop judging this way—and start judging this way instead. He does not eliminate judgment. He reorients it. “Judge this,” he says: not according to your own religious sensitivities, but with careful attention to what places burdens in front of others that God has not placed. Do not obscure the one true stumbling block—the scandal of the gospel—by introducing new ones.
This, in essence, is what empathy has become in our time: a new kind of judgment. It is no longer just a tool for understanding; it is a test of moral worth. A person’s goodness is often assessed not by their conduct or confession, but by how well they “feel into” the suffering of others. Emotional resonance becomes righteousness. Disagreement is not just error—it is harm. And the inability (or refusal) to empathize is seen as a failure of love itself.
Empathy, then, becomes not only a virtue, but a gatekeeper. It offers access to relational legitimacy. It grants permission to speak. It becomes the emotional currency of moral inclusion.
But what happens when this emotional expectation becomes a new law? It creates new burdens—subtle, but heavy. People begin to measure themselves and others not by the revealed mercy and justice of God, but by the emotional expectations of those around them. The result is a deeply unstable foundation. The ground shifts from what is revealed and finished in Christ to what is felt and demanded by others.
This is why empathy has become what Paul would call a stumbling block. It is a well-meant, emotionally charged, relational expectation that can obscure the true scandal of the gospel.
And what is that true scandal?
Paul tells us in Romans 9:33: “Behold, I am laying in Zion a stone of stumbling, and a rock of offense.” The stumbling block, the skandalon, is Christ. It is His cross, His grace, His righteousness freely given. It is the offense of a gospel that justifies the ungodly—not the empathic. Not the emotionally articulate. Not the morally expressive. But the guilty.
When we make empathy the precondition for care, or the standard of righteousness, or the proof of Christian love, we risk obscuring the only foundation that can bear the weight of sin and sorrow: Christ crucified and risen.
And that is no small thing. Because when empathy becomes our stumbling block, we lay down a new foundation—one that is humanly tender, but spiritually unstable. It sounds gentle, but it binds. It sounds humble, but it judges. And it distracts us from the only judgment that can truly heal: the one already given at the cross.
Section 4: A Tradition of Discernment—Sympathy, Affection, and the Gospel of Christ
Long before the word empathy entered our vocabulary, Christians had a clear and careful language for love. The church has long spoken of sympathy, mercy, pity, compassion, and charity—words grounded in Scripture and refined over centuries. These words were not sentimental or shallow. They pointed to something deeply human, and deeply theological: love shaped by truth.
The early church fathers cared deeply about compassion, especially in pastoral life. Gregory the Great, in his guide for ministers, urged gentleness with the broken but clarity with the truth. John Chrysostom said the same: kindness to the weak should never come at the cost of faithfulness. They spoke of compassio—suffering with others—not to mirror their emotions, but to walk with them in hope and holiness.
Augustine added clarity by reminding the church that love must be ordered. What he called ordo amoris—the right ordering of our loves—meant that even our deepest feelings could become disordered if they were not governed by the love of God. Good intentions and strong emotions were not enough. Love without truth could harm rather than heal.
The Reformers continued this concern. Martin Luther warned against emotionalism that confused feeling with faith. “Love is not silent in the face of sin,” he wrote, “nor does it flatter or deceive.” He believed deeply in mercy, but not mercy divorced from the gospel. True compassion, for Luther, was shaped by the cross—not by sentiment.
John Calvin spoke often about the affections, but he was just as careful. He affirmed that Christians are called to sincere affection and mutual compassion, but those affections must be ruled by Scripture and rooted in faith. In his Institutes, Calvin warned against a love that imitates the world—one that looks generous but is not grounded in God’s righteousness. For him, love was not an emotional performance. It was a spiritual response.
The Reformed confessions echo this same pattern. The Heidelberg Catechism reminds us that even when our hearts accuse us, we are justified by faith alone (Q&A 60). The Westminster Confession teaches that good works—including the works of love—are fruits of saving faith, not its basis (WCF 16.2). Biblical love flows from God’s mercy, not from human emotion alone.
The Puritans carried these insights into everyday pastoral care. Richard Sibbes wrote of Christ as a gentle Savior who would not break the bruised reed—but always with the aim of restoration. Thomas Watson warned that misplaced tenderness could actually be a form of cruelty. And John Owen wrote that real compassion sometimes requires hard truths, especially when dealing with sin. To comfort without truth was, in their eyes, to mislead.
Even Jonathan Edwards, writing in the 18th century, offered careful reflections on the affections. In Religious Affections, he insisted that true spiritual emotion flows from a heart changed by grace—not from intensity or sincerity alone. His contribution to the theology of love is a reminder that strong feelings are not always a sign of saving faith.
Across all these voices, the church consistently taught that real compassion is not emotional alignment. It is truthful love. It is not about becoming one with another’s feelings—it is about walking with them toward Christ.
That brings us to the shift.
Empathy, as we now know it, is not the extension of this tradition—it is the break from it. It was not drawn from biblical categories but created out of modern psychology and aesthetics. Vischer, Lipps, and Titchener introduced something new, not because Scripture was lacking, but because they believed the older terms—sympathy, mercy, pity—were not enough. Whether they realized it or not, they were making a theological judgment: that Christian compassion needed to be updated.
And many today have uncritically agreed.
Empathy now functions in many circles not as a companion to truth, but as its replacement. It becomes the measure of moral goodness. It determines who is safe, who is worthy, who is righteous—not based on grace, but based on emotional resonance. And this change has happened with little reflection.
But the church should reflect. We are not the first to care about pain. We are not the first to love the hurting. But we may be the first generation to confuse that love with emotional imitation. The danger is not just that empathy might be overused. The danger is that it might displace the gospel—offering emotional nearness where we actually need atonement.
Before we assume empathy is what Christian love has always meant, we should listen again to the long cloud of witnesses who came before us. They knew what it meant to weep with those who weep. But they also knew how to tell the truth. They did not collapse into others’ sorrow. They entered it—with hope, and with the Word of God.
Section 5: The Way Up is The Way Down—Jack Miller and the Substitutionary Ethic
Jack Miller did not discover justification by faith in the pages of a systematic theology textbook. He discovered it the way an orphan discovers he has a home, the way a drowning man discovers someone else has already pulled him from the water. It was not just true—it was saving. It was sanity.
From his earliest memories, Jack knew what it meant to be un-held by his father. His Dad died before Jack turned two. His older brother Leo stepped into that gap, becoming the most stable and tender fatherly figure in Jack’s early life. But when Leo was killed in World War II—just days before coming home—Jack was devastated. His stepfather was cruel and unpredictable. Poverty sharpened every grief. And the emotional vocabulary of the world Jack was raised in gave him no other language than “atheism” to explain his loss. He learned to survive by withdrawing, by working, by keeping his thoughts to himself and his fears under control. The silence around him shaped the silence within him.
Jack’s theology did not arise from a platform—it rose out of these ruins. The wounds of fatherlessness and abandonment ran deep, and they never disappeared. But instead of denying them or numbing them, Jack slowly began to face them through the gospel. The cross was not just a doctrine to defend—it was the only place where he felt fully seen, fully judged, and fully loved. He did not need Jesus to merely affirm him. He needed Jesus to save him.
And He did.
Earlier in his life, Jack had been deeply immersed in cultural and political thought. At the Center for American Studies, he worked alongside scholars shaping the American conservative movement, and later at Westminster Theological Seminary, he trained pastors with academic rigor and biblical clarity. But no amount of analysis or theology could reach what only the gospel could heal.
That word came through the gospel of justification by faith. It came not through a new insight, but through the terrifying and freeing realization that Jesus Christ had taken his place. That the full verdict of God had already fallen—on another. And that because of that, Jack could stop trying to secure his life through brilliance, or ministry, or self-protection.
In his 1978 essay “Justification by Faith in the Twentieth Century,” Jack sounded the alarm: the church was losing its foundation. And when justification fades, something else always rushes in to take its place. In Jack’s day, it often took the form of spiritual striving or doctrinal rigidity—a life built on theological correctness, ministry performance, or reputation. Today, it might be emotional resonance or moral sensitivity. The forms change. The instinct remains. When we forget we are justified, we will find other ways to justify ourselves to feel justified. And eventually, those ways will become burdens too heavy to carry. Jack believed this was not just a pastoral issue—it was a crisis of identity. And it called forsomething more than adjustment. It called for reformation.
Jack understood this. He had tried to be good enough, strong enough, smart enough. And he had failed. But that failure became the turning point. The death of self-confidence gave way to the life of faith. Not faith in faith. Not faith in feelings. But faith in a substitute—crucified and risen.
He wrote:
As the ethics of justification by faith, it is faith which leads me joyfully to embrace the First Commandment as the supreme goal of life and thereafter to do all good things possible to my neighbor out of love for the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Relieved of the terrible burden of trying to fulfill the unfulfillable law, my faith looks to the cross. I learn to live and die for others because I see by faith that Jesus died for me in all my ungodliness … From my faith in a substitutionary atonement, I inevitably pass into the substitutionary ethic required by the Golden Rule. I am able to put myself in another’s place in my human relationships just because that is what the Lord did for me in His death … Christ has come, and the age of faith has come with Him.
This quote was not just a theological claim for Jack—it was a summary of his entire life in Christ.
He and Rose Marie opened their home to people the world had given up on—people who frightened them, confused them, drained them. There was Gwen, who later confessed that while living in their home, she had wanted to kill them. There were pastors burned out from legalism. Missionaries undone by hidden sin. Students who came with questions but stayed because of love. Jack did not fix them. He walked with them. Because someone was walking with him.
Jack did not talk about a substitutionary ethic to impress others. He lived it because he had no other choice. The gospel had undone him. And now he could love—not because he finally understood everyone, but because he had been forgiven everything.
That is why when Jack said to Rose Marie, “You’re living like an orphan,” he was not correcting her from above. He was identifying with her. He had lived that way himself—acting like the Father had left, even when He was still present. Jack was not pointing out a flaw. He was naming something he knew from the inside. And he was inviting her, gently, to return with him to the place of security they both needed: the righteousness of Christ and the presence of the Spirit.
The only thing strong enough to quiet the inner orphan was the gospel Jack had spent his life returning to. For Jack, Sonship was never a new idea. It was a rediscovery of the gospel he had almost lost himself—a gospel that did not just save sinners but secured them in the ongoing verdict of justification. It returned him to the foundation he needed not once, but daily.
Their ministry in Uganda only deepened this. Jack collapsed from exhaustion. He got sick. He lost strength. And yet kept returning to justification by faith and crying out for the Spirit. Not because he was strong. But because he had begun to see weakness as his advantage. He did not need to secure his value. He did not need to finish someone else’s healing. He needed only to love because he had been loved.
And he was loved. That’s what Rose Marie’s presence reminded him of every day. Rose Marie once told Jack he could face anything as long as he and Rose Marie were okay. His children saw his insecurity. They saw his neediness. They saw his tears. And they saw his joy.
Jack used to say, “To be near to God and to have God near to us is the whole purpose of human life.” That nearness was not sentimental to Jack. It was not metaphor. It was the center of everything he believed—and everything he had come to depend on.
After the Fall of man, Jack taught, the only way for that nearness to be restored was through the work of Christ: justification from beginning to end, and the pouring out of the Spirit—the very life of the risen Jesus—into our hearts. That work did not stop at forgiveness and the imputation of Christ’s righteousness. It included the pouring out of the resurrection life of Jesus into the hearts of believers—the gift of Pentecost. The Spirit of Christ was sent to make the nearness of God not a concept, but a reality Jack came to lean on every day.
It was how he could love, even when he did not understand. It was how he could endure, even when he was exhausted, confused, or spiritually empty. It was how he could forgive, stay present, keep going. Not because he was emotionally strong, but because the Spirit of the risen Christ was in him—filling him, guiding him, reminding him that he belonged. The presence of God was not a theological abstraction for Jack. It was the reality that made love possible, even when nothing else seemed to work.
Justification gave Jack a foundation no sorrow could shake. Union with the Living Christ gave him the presence he had always needed. And the Spirit gave him a strength not of his own—the love of God poured into his heart, not once, but daily.
In that gospel, Jack did not just find answers.
He found his Father.
He found his home.
Section 6: A Foundation Far Greater than Empathy
What we see in Jack Miller is not a reaction to empathy. It is something deeper: a rediscovery of what the gospel is for. Not to elevate the emotionally strong. Not to create categories of the caring and the uncaring. But to justify sinners. To adopt orphans. To pour out the Spirit of Christ into those who could never save or sustain themselves.
Empathy, as we have seen, attempts something good. It names a longing to be known, to be seen, to walk with others in pain. But when a desire for empathy becomes untethered from the gospel—when it is asked to do the work only justification and union with Christ can do—it collapses under its own moral weight. It cannot carry us into healing. It cannot cleanse a conscience. It cannot hold together people who disagree, who fail each other, or who suffer alone in silence.
It may help us feel close. But only in the gospel are we both known to the bottom and loved to the bottom.
This is why the Reformed tradition has always insisted that our righteousness must be alien—outside of us, given to us, secure. And it is why Jack Miller spent his life helping Christians return to that foundation, not just for doctrine, but for spiritual survival. Because he knew firsthand how easy it is to look put together, to sound spiritually healthy, and to live with a heart that quietly aches for something more.
Jack knew that even those who try hardest to care—who offer presence, who look to enter others’ pain, who long to love well—can be the very ones most burdened by guilt, fear, or self-doubt. And he knew that the gospel of justification by faith alone was the only word strong enough to meet them there. It was not a reward for the faithful. It was a rescue for the weary. And it was the only place Jack had ever found rest.
What Jack offered was not a critique of empathy. It was an invitation to return to a foundation deeper than emotional connection: to the finished work of Christ. To the cross that does not just go with us in pain but stands in our place. To the risen Jesus who does not just confirm our suffering but justifies the sinner and sends the Spirit to dwell within us.
This is the heart of the substitutionary ethic: not simply that we imitate Christ’s love, but that we are united to Him—crucified with Him, raised with Him, and now sent to love others from Him. The gospel does not bypass emotion. But it gives us something sturdier to feel from. Something truer to judge by. And someone greater to live in.
Empathy cannot do that. It cannot hold that kind of weight. But justification can. Union can. The Spirit can. And that is why, for all its sincerity and appeal, empathy must never be our foundation.
Christ must be.
Conclusion: Christ Who Sympathizes with Us in Our Weakness
Hebrews 4:15 (ESV):
For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.
This essay began with a question—what are we doing when we ask for empathy? What are we looking for when we elevate emotional resonance as the sign of moral legitimacy or spiritual maturity? And what happens when we no longer feel safe naming our concerns about it?
Empathy has become one of the most unquestioned ideals in the modern world. It offers intimacy, moral clarity, and connection. But when we treat empathy not as a limited human response, but as a kind of substitute righteousness, we do not deepen love—we distort it. We create a new law that looks like compassion but binds the soul with expectations no one can consistently fulfill.
That is what I have tried to explore in this essay. Not to dismiss the ache that empathy arises from, but to name the deeper story behind it. The longing to be known, the desire to be safe, the hope that someone else might really see us in our pain—these are not trivial things. But they cannot be answered by emotional mirroring. They cannot be resolved by moral sensitivity. And when empathy becomes not just a gift, but a demand—when it becomes a standard by which we judge ourselves and others—it becomes a burden we cannot carry and a righteousness we cannot live up to. The gospel offers something better: not a feeling echoed back to us, but a Savior who bears our sin and stays.
Jack Miller understood that burden because he lived under it. As a man who had known profound emotional suffering and deep personal insecurity, he longed to be understood and received. But what changed his life was not the empathy of others—it was the righteousness of Christ. It was the message that someone else had taken his place. That he was justified. That he had been forever, once and for all time declared righteous not because of what he felt, understood, or could explain, but because Jesus had died and risen for him. And from that verdict came the power to love others—not as an emotionally whole person, but as one who had been made clean and secure by grace.
This is the danger we now face—not just that empathy is overused, but that it is uncritically used. That it has become a new law—one that we impose on each other and silently impose on ourselves. But the righteous shall live by faith. Not by emotional skill. Not by moral posture. Not by being understood. And not by understanding others perfectly. The righteous shall live by faith—because they have been justified, indwelt, and sent into the world to love not as orphans, but as sons and daughters.
To be near to God and to have God near to us—that is still the purpose of human life. And in Christ, it is not an ideal. It is a reality. He has justified us. He has come to dwell in us. And through His presence, we are free—not to manage the burden of righteousness through emotional effort, but to walk in the security of grace. That is our better foundation. And it is enough.
Is “Natural Theology” Fallen Theology? Recovering God’s “Natural” in Light of the Resurrection
This essay began forming in my mind during study and research for a sermon on Romans 14:5–12. As I studied and prayed through that text, themes of the resurrection life of Christ and living before the Lord—in the context of cultural and theological differences in the church about observing one day over another and food preferences— the difference between what God calls “natural” and what man calls “natural” began stirring up a deeper reflection.
Around the same time, I came across a brief but striking comment from Kevin DeYoung:
“Natural theology has been affirmed by the best minds in the church for two thousand years.”
That sentence stuck with me—not only because it reflects a growing interest among Reformed scholars in retrieving Natural Theology, but because it captured a broader trend I’ve been noticing: a renewed confidence in metaphysical reasoning and moral order as foundations for theological clarity.
For many, this retrieval offers a sense of stability in uncertain times, a way to reassert coherence against cultural fragmentation, and even a defensive posture against moral relativism or progressive theological drift. These concerns are real and often rightly motivated—but they have also made me wonder whether we have paused long enough to ask how these foundations are being shaped, and whether they are being built in active dependence on the risen Christ.
DeYoung’s quote also provoked a deeper line of questioning in my own mind. What exactly do we mean when we say “Natural” in “Natural Theology”? And most importantly, what does God call “Natural” and what is God’s “Natural Theology”?
This is not a scholarly critique or a doctrinal manifesto. I am still trying to think through this to understand it myself. As someone whose thinking tends to be more circuitous than linear, writing helps me see questions and answers more clearly. When I think others may have some interest in these questions, I pass along my writing to ask for helpful input and feedback—thus this essay.
I’m not aiming to critique individuals like Kevin DeYoung or institutions like First Things (for instance)—I do not know enough to do that responsibly. But I do want to ask questions of critique about this retrieval of “Natural Theology” (I will not keep on italizing natural from here) in the light of what God has revealed in Jesus Christ, the risen Lord?
When I speak of Natural Theology in this essay, I am not referring to the Reformed acknowledgment of general revelation or natural law in its proper place. I am referring to theological efforts to construct a knowledge of God apart from the gospel—that tries to build a vision of God from nature, reason, or moral intuition without the regenerating light of Christ and His Word.
This essay is an attempt to pursue that insight more theologically: to ask whether our talk of Natural Theology might receive help from being re-rooted in redemptive history and the Risen Christ, rather than in philosophical realism or historical continuity.
What if the categories of general and special revelation, natural and supernatural, common and saving grace, need to be reframed through the lens of resurrection? What if the problem with Natural Theology is not simply its limits, but its presumptions in a world where every thought is either held captive to Christ or exalts itself against Him (2 Cor. 10:5)?
I should also say here that I am not an expert in Aquinas, Aristotelian categories, natural theology, or the nuanced debates around Van Til, Clark, or Schaeffer. I have read some of these figures more than others—I have even stood in the room in Orvieto where Aquinas is believed to have written much of his Summa contra Gentiles—and I’ve directly engaged Aquinas’s Summa Theologica and more-so through the lens of the Reformers.
But this essay does not come from academic mastery. It flows out of years of pastoral ministry, study of Scripture, and over three decades of wrestling with the gospel, shaped by my study of Jack Miller—particularly the in-depth study of Jack Miller’s interactions with Norman Shepherd and other Westminster faculty in the context of The Justification Controversy at Westminster Seminary from 1974 to 1982.
That is what drives this reflection—not a desire to weigh in on scholarly debates, but to ask what happens when the gospel becomes backgrounded or assumed in the methods we use to talk about God.
1. Today’s Reformed Emphasis on Natural Theology: A New Cultural Apologetic?
In the current resurgence of interest in classical theism and natural law, many in the Reformed world have looked to retrieve the metaphysical categories of Aquinas and Aristotle as a way of shoring up orthodoxy, moral clarity, and cultural engagement. This has often taken the form of a renewed commitment to Natural Theology—presented not merely as a historic doctrine, but as a necessary pillar for theological stability and apologetic credibility in a secular age.
There are noble impulses here: a desire to defend the goodness of creation, to affirm the intelligibility of moral order, to engage culture with philosophical clarity, and to reassert the coherence of Christian doctrine in the face of relativism.
And yet, this retrieval effort often drifts toward a sanctification-loaded epistemology—an approach to theology that centers formation, virtue, and metaphysical logic as gateways to knowing God.
Even when these efforts are explicitly confessional and carefully qualified, they are often received by others as an invitation to shift the center of theological gravity away from the scandal and simplicity of justification by faith alone.
In this way, the retrieval of Natural Theology can begin to function not just as a tool, but as a lens that subtly reorients the Christian imagination around virtue, order, and reason rather than grace, judgment, and resurrection.
This shift also carries ecclesial consequences. It risks creating a new class of theological specialists—those trained in metaphysics, classical languages, and natural law theory—who are seen as the new cultural apologists or guardians of orthodoxy.
This is not to say that thinkers like Kevin DeYoung or contributors to First Things and other similar organizations are promoting such elitism. But the movement they participate in may, if not carefully watched, encourage it among followers who grow increasingly confident in philosophical systems and less rooted in the liberating message of Christ’s righteousness freely given. Such an emphasis may also discourage Christians in the pews by requiring a new form of some special theological-cultural knowledge.
We have seen this temptation before. In the late 20th century, the New Perspective on Paul and Norman Shepherd’s novel insights introduced views of justification, emphasizing obedience and covenant faithfulness as conditions or continuations of right standing before God.
Though different in method and aim, both perspectives tried to reread Paul’s doctrine of justification in a first-century historical context, suggesting that the Reformers misread the apostle and misstated justification by faith alone as it has been memorialized in the best Reformed confessions and creeds.
Today’s emphasis on virtue-centered epistemology and classical metaphysics, even when framed within a Reformed context, runs the risk of reintroducing similar confusions.
2. Van Til’s Critique of Natural Theology and Evidential Apologetics
This is where the work of Cornelius Van Til must be reengaged—not merely in academic apologetics, but in our ecclesial and theological instincts. Van Til critiqued Natural Theology precisely because it presumed too much from fallen reason. In his view, reason unaided by Scripture and the regenerating work of the Holy Spirit is not neutral, but rebellious.
Van Til opposed both Roman Catholic and Arminian versions of natural theology, which he saw as trying to build a ladder from man to God using general revelation as its rungs. In contrast, Van Til insisted that all true knowledge of God begins with God’s self-revelation, and that presuppositional apologetics begins by affirming the absolute authority of Scripture and the lordship of Christ over all reasoning.
This does not mean that Van Til dismissed general revelation. He affirmed its reality and clarity. But he insisted that general revelation, like all revelation, must be interpreted through the lens of redemptive history and within the framework of special revelation.
He was particularly cautious about forms of evidential apologetics that argued for God’s existence or the truth of Christianity from shared, neutral facts. Facts are never neutral. They are always interpreted within a worldview. And apart from regeneration, the fallen mind always suppresses the truth in unrighteousness (Rom. 1:18).
Interestingly, Van Til’s tensions with Francis Schaeffer on these matters reveal more of a spectrum than a binary. Though Van Til was concerned that Schaeffer leaned too far toward evidentialist instincts, he appreciated Schaeffer’s effort to engage culture presuppositionally. The disagreement may have been amplified by Van Til’s bruises from earlier debates with Gordon Clark, but the shared theological foundation—a deep confidence in the total depravity of man’s reasoning apart from grace—remains instructive.
Though Van Til’s presuppositional apologetic was sometimes criticized as dense or hard to follow, at its core, it rested on a simple and radical conviction: “You can take God at His Word.” That clarity surfaced again and again in his public witness, as he annually charged graduating students to preach Christ not just in pulpits, but on the streets—most memorably with Jack Miller and Bruce Hunt on Wall Street and throughout Philadelphia. Van Til, believed that if we truly submit all our reasoning to Christ, it will lead not to detachment or abstraction, but to bold, humble proclamation of the gospel—just as he modeled in the classroom and on the streets.
3. Jack Miller and the Recovery of Justification by Faith Alone
In many ways, Jack Miller stood on this same foundation. While Jack was deeply relational and accessible, he never abandoned the idea that the heart of man is not only broken but self-justifying—and that the only solution is not better reasoning or cultural consensus but the radical grace of justification by faith alone.
In the 1970s and 1980s, Jack Miller found himself at the center of a theological battle at Westminster Theological Seminary over the doctrine of justification. His two essays, “Justification by Faith in the Twentieth Century” and “Continuance in Justification,” were not academic footnotes. They were pastoral interventions. They were written with tears in his eyes and urgency in his voice.
Jack saw the creeping danger of a justification that was merely initial but not continuing, would necessarily be assumed, or obscured by sanctification and obedience. He sounded the alarm not only against Rome, but against a quiet drift within Reformed circles that threatened to bury justification under moral effort and covenantal ambiguity. He saw how doctrines could be affirmed in theory but denied in practice.
In his essay on “Justification by Faith in the Twentieth Century,” Jack recovers the Reformation’s robust understanding of justification as the definitive verdict of God, applied through faith alone, based on the imputed righteousness of Christ. But he does not isolate justification from the broader framework. Jack firmly roots justification in union with Christ. Union with Christ is the whole. Justification by faith alone is the foundation—the guarantee that faith alone means, and always ensures, Christ alone.
In “Continuance in Justification,” Jack addresses Norman Shepherd’s view, which blurred the line between justification and sanctification by introducing the language of obedience and covenant faithfulness as necessary for continuance in justification. Jack responds by insisting that justifying faith does not share its instrumentality with works, no matter how non-meritorious those works may be. Faith alone means Christ alone.
Jack was not rejecting sanctification, obedience, discipleship, or the law. He was defending the only foundation upon which those realities can be truly and freely lived out: the unchanging verdict of justified, pronounced by God, received by faith, and never revoked.
Jack’s writing and preaching were deeply Reformed and robustly Calvinistic. But they were also missional, pastoral, and shot through with the love of Christ. He did not treat justification as the entirety of the Christian faith, but neither did he bury it under assumptions. He presented it as the central message upon which we maintain our Spiritual freedom and power and that keeps the church alive to God and His will, and the message that the church must keep returning to again and again.
Jack’s theology of justification pulsed with this same missionary and pastoral heartbeat. Drawing from the Heidelberg Catechism, he described justification as the believer’s confidence that “God, because of Christ’s atonement, will never hold against me any of my sins nor my sinful nature … but grants me the righteousness of Christ to free me forever from judgment.”
For Jack, this wasn’t just a doctrinal stance—it was the lived center of Christian identity, courage, and joy. He believed that when the law and gospel are rightly distinguished, and the righteousness of Christ rightly proclaimed, believers are not led by the Spirit of Christ into some passivity but into assurance, freedom, and mission. His theological clarity never stood apart from pastoral urgency.
In this way, Jack’s defense of justification by faith alone stood not only in continuity with Reformation theology, but also firmly on the ground of Van Til’s redemptive epistemology—centered on grace, grounded in Christ, and fueled by the Spirit for bold, ordinary faithfulness.
And for the same reasons Jack saw the need for a recovery of justification by faith alone in the 20th century—rather than its diminishing or obscuring under the burdens of moral performance, covenantal overreach, or intellectual abstraction—we still need that same recovery today.
It’s important to recognize that Jack Miller was not only a pastor and theologian but also a serious scholar and cultural critic. He earned a Ph.D. in English literature from the University of the Pacific, with a dissertation examining themes of social decay in the works of James Fenimore Cooper. His academic career included teaching practical theology where he engaged deeply with both theological and cultural issues.
Jack’s intellectual rigor allowed him to take part meaningfully in complex philosophical and theological debates. Yet, despite his scholarly achievements, he consistently emphasized the transformative power of the gospel, particularly the doctrine of justification by faith alone. His life exemplifies that robust intellectual engagement and unwavering commitment to the gospel can and should coexist.
As contemporary Reformed theology increasingly engages classical philosophy, cultural apologetics, and metaphysical retrievals, the danger remains: that the gospel of free grace might be assumed, or quietly displaced, by natural categories that cannot carry its weight. Jack’s voice continues to call us back—not to novelty, but to the liberating power of Christ’s righteousness for the weak, the weary, and the world.
That call has not diminished. In the 21st century, we need a fresh recovery of Reformed theology’s justification by faith alone in its fullness—not as a slogan, but as the living power of the gospel for real sinners in real churches.
What I’m exploring here is not a rejection of the Reformed tradition. It’s a call to keep our theology tethered to its redemptive center: Christ crucified, risen, and reigning—and the Spirit’s application of His righteousness to real sinners, in real time.
4. Redefining the Natural: God’s View vs. Ours
As I was thinking through questions about Natural Theology, I realized I first need to ask a more foundational question: What does God call “natural”? Our instinct is to define “natural” as what’s common or intuitive—what people experience as normal. But Scripture doesn’t let us settle with a definition of man’s natural without considering what is God’s natural. Does God have a Natural Theology, and if so, what is it?
In the creation narrative, God’s definition of natural is clear. Natural meant life with God—walking with Him, depending on Him, delighting in Him. Natural meant listening to His Word, reflecting His glory, and living in freedom under His rule. That was not a distant ideal; it was Adam and Eve’s lived reality. Communion with God was not an add-on. It was human nature in full.
But after the fall, everything changed. Humanity didn’t just become guilty—we became spiritually dead to God disoriented to ourselves, to one another, to the world, and to God. We lost our bearings. We lost what it meant to be truly human. In time, we began calling things “natural” that God calls destructive: self-protection, pride, suspicion, blame, isolation, even death itself is naturalized as part of human life. These things feel normal to us now, but they are deeply unnatural in God’s world.
This shift hit me especially hard while preparing to preach Romans 14. Paul insists that we belong to the Lord (Rom. 14:8) and live to the Lord—but more often that not we live to ourselves. That contrast—between living as if we belong to ourselves and living in communion with God—exposes just how far we’ve come from God’s definition of natural.
I think this has major implications for how we approach Natural Theology. If we start with fallen assumptions about what is “natural,” we risk building an entire theological structure on a foundation God calls foreign and unnatural and abnormal. We normalize alienation. We sanctify self-reliance. We theologize what God came to redeem.
And so I am wondering here: Could part of the problem with modern appeals to Natural Theology lie in this unexamined assumption—that fallen human perception is a reliable guide to what is “natural”? What if instead of helping us see clearly, our natural instincts are shaped by millennia of distortion?
The fall didn’t eliminate God’s image in us. But it did fracture it. We are not blank slates, nor are we neutral observers. Our instincts about God, truth, justice, and goodness are deeply shaped by our blinding sinfulness—and unless those instincts are confronted and reshaped by the Spirit through the gospel, they will mislead us.
This is why, as I try to wrestle through questions of Natural Theology, I keep coming back to this central insight: We cannot know what is natural without first knowing what God has called good; what God calls natural. And that goodness is fully revealed not in our intuitions or logic, but in God’s Word that reveals to us Jesus Christ—the one true human, the image of the invisible God.
5. Natural Theology and the Suppression of Truth
And this is where another layer of contrast between man’s natural and God’s natural presses itself forward. One of the most unsettling things I’ve realized is that what fallen man now calls “natural” is not simply different from God’s natural—it is, in fact, less than natural, less than human, even sub-human. We are not what we are supposed to be and we know, whether we admit it or not, that we are not okay, we are not natural.
We are not just morally compromised; we are ontologically diminished. As Chesterton put it, we are not merely animals—we are broken statues. This means that our so-called “natural” instincts—especially those shaped by our human bell-curves of consensus, statistical norms, or psychological affirmations—are often reflections of something less than human, not more.
In a world where our quest for identity is derived from inner feelings, longings, or desires, what is considered “natural” shifts not only between individuals, but also across generations and cultures. What felt unnatural fifty years ago is now seen as essential to self-expression, and what is rejected today may be celebrated tomorrow.
This volatility affects the very concept of Natural Theology. If the “natural” starting point is grounded in fallen man-centered human consensus about social, psychological, philosophical, cultural, and political foundations and movements, then natural theology will always drift between more conservative and more progressive emphases, shaped by the sub-human norms of our cultural moment. In this light, natural theology untethered from redemption becomes not a bridge to God, but a mirror reflecting our instability. That’s why the question cannot be “What feels natural to man?” but rather, “What has God revealed about what is truly human in Christ?”
Romans 1:18–32 makes clear that the problem with humanity is not the absence of divine revelation, but the suppression of it. What can be known about God is plain—His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature have been clearly perceived in the things that have been made. But the result is not worship. It is idolatry.
As I have read and re-read Romans 1 in light of current conversations around Natural Theology, I’ve become more aware of how easily we miss Paul’s emphasis. Paul doesn’t present general revelation as a neutral or constructive theological tool; he presents it as the arena where our rebellion is most vividly on display. This has made me pause. I have long appreciated the beauty of creation and the possibility of reasoning toward truths about God. But Paul’s words are a stark reminder: apart from grace, what we perceive—even rightly—is bent away from the truth.
Van Til made this point repeatedly: natural theology, as a constructive project by unregenerate man, is doomed to failure not because nature is unclear, but because fallen man is unwilling and unable to rightly interpret it. As he once put it, natural revelation is objective and sufficient to condemn, but natural theology is a fallen, distorted response to that revelation—“not a ladder to God, but a mirror of our rebellion.”
Van Til reframes how we think about the human response to beauty, order, and reason in the world. What if our most sincere philosophical efforts—even our religious ones—are not neutral inquiries, but fallen strategies to avoid the God who has already made Himself known?
This doesn’t mean that general revelation is useless. Reformed theology has always affirmed that general revelation truly speaks. The heavens still declare the glory of God. But only grace enables us to hear that declaration rightly—and only the Spirit of Christ gives us eyes to see what God has revealed in the things that have been made.
But it does mean that theology built from general revelation—apart from the illumination of the Spirit and the framework of redemptive history—cannot arrive at the gospel. None of this is to say that the heavens no longer declare the glory of God. They do. But apart from Christ and the Spirit, we no longer see clearly what they are declaring.
If our epistemology does not pass through the cross and resurrection, it will always bend back toward self-justification. Any theology that begins with or relies on fallen reason instead of God’s revealed Word will ultimately end in some unnatural form of autonomy or idolatry.
6. Christ as the True Revelation of God and Man
This means that we cannot really talk about what is natural—either in theology or humanity—without turning our eyes to God’s natural revealed in the Person and work of Jesus Christ. In fact, this whole essay might be boiled down to one conviction I keep returning to: Christ alone reveals what God calls natural.
That may sound like a simple claim, but I have begun to see just how much it pushes back against the assumptions I often bring to theology. I have sometimes approached Scripture or theological questions with a sense that human nature—what feels intuitive or reasonable to me—can help set the terms. But the longer I meditate on Christ, the more I’m learning that He does not conform to our man-centered definitions of natural. He redefines them.
Jesus Christ is not just an exemplary human. He is the true Image of God (Col. 1:15), the radiance of God’s glory and the exact imprint of His nature (Heb. 1:3). In His life, death, and resurrection, we don’t just find the fulfillment of Scripture—we find the restoration of humanity. He is not a window into something higher. He is the very standard by which humanity must be measured.
In the incarnation, the Son of God took on real human flesh—not in theory or appearance, but in fullness. He experienced weakness, hunger, sorrow, temptation, fatigue, grief, misunderstanding, and betrayal. Yet in all of this, He never ceased to live in perfect fellowship with the Father and full submission to the Spirit. He lived the life we were meant to live—entirely dependent, entirely obedient, entirely joyful in His Father’s will.
But the most astonishing thing is not just that Jesus lived such a life, but that He now shares that life with us. As the risen and glorified One, He imparts to us His Spirit—not merely to guide us morally, but to unite us to Himself, body and soul. The New Testament calls Him “a life-giving Spirit” (1 Cor. 15:45). That’s not a metaphor. It is the declaration that the very life He lived before the Father is now poured out into us.
Of course, we do not become divine. The Creator/creature distinction remains firm. But in union with Christ, we truly participate in the life of God—not by nature, but by grace. This means that Christ is not simply the fulfillment of special revelation or the endpoint of redemptive history. He is also the interpretive key to general revelation.
In other words, we cannot understand the created world—or what it means to be human—apart from Him. He alone brings clarity to nature. He alone reveals what creation was made for.
So when we speak of Natural Theology, the starting point cannot be unaided reason looking out at the world. The starting point must be Christ—crucified, risen, and reigning. From Him we learn not only who God is, but also who we are. From Him we learn what obedience looks like, what love looks like, what justice looks like, what flourishing looks like, what holiness, humility, and hope look like. From Him we receive the Spirit, through whom we begin to see truly and love rightly.
This is what Chesterton helped me begin to see when he writes in The Everlasting Man, “It is not the study of man that explains Christ. It is the study of Christ that explains man.”
That insight realigns everything. It tells me that theology is not about rising through nature toward God, but about receiving the life of God in the Son, who descended to us, lived for us, died for us, and now lives in us.
The resurrection, then, is not simply a miracle to affirm. It is the beginning of a new order of reality—what Paul calls “the new creation” (2 Cor. 5:17). And Jesus is the firstborn of that creation (Col. 1:18). His resurrection body, scarred and glorified, is not a departure from what is natural, but its perfection. His life in the Spirit is not an exception to human nature—it is its restoration. He is the new and last Adam, and only in union with Him can we begin to speak of what is natural in the truest sense.
This is why any attempt to understand God, creation, or humanity apart from Christ—even if well-intentioned—will ultimately mislead. Because the fullness of God dwells in Him bodily (Col. 2:9), and we are filled in Him (v. 10). He is not only the capstone of our theology. He is the cornerstone (Eph. 2:20), the foundation upon which all truth—natural and revealed—must be built. Metaphysical categories and classical language may help us articulate certain truths. But they must remain subordinate to the risen Christ, not foundational apart from Him.
I’m not rejecting the tools of classical theology—I’m just asking what happens when those tools begin shaping the foundation, rather than serving it. Even good categories can mislead us if they’re not crucified and raised with Christ. If Natural Theology is to have a future contribution to Reformed theology, it must be reborn in light of Christ. It must begin not with the world as we see it, but with the Word made flesh, risen and reigning, who alone can open our eyes to see the world rightly.
This is what I am learning—not just in study, but in worship. We do not ascend to God through insight. We fall at His feet in faith. This isn’t a mystical or emotional detour—it’s the heart of Reformed theology. Union with Christ is not a slogan but the structure of our salvation. It’s the point at which doctrine becomes life, and life becomes worship. And there, in the face of Jesus Christ, we begin to see the glory of God and the truth about ourselves at the same time.
7. General Revelation Is Not Neutral Ground
This leads me to another reflection. One of the appeals of Natural Theology has been its ability to create common ground—to provide a bridge for dialogue between believer and unbeliever. But Scripture paints a much starker picture of our intellectual and moral starting points.
There is no autonomous or neutral ground. Every thought is either held captive to Christ or lifts itself against Him (2 Cor. 10:5). The mind set on the flesh is hostile to God (Rom. 8:7). The wisdom of the world is foolishness in God’s sight (1 Cor. 1:20–25).
These verses have challenged me. I have often wanted a space where we can “reason together” with the world. And in one sense, we must—we are called to give a defense of the hope within us (1 Pet. 3:15). But I have come to see that the bridge between the world and the gospel is not reason alone; it is the cross. It is the foolishness of God that proves wiser than the wisdom of man.
Common grace is real. It allows for communication, for cultural engagement, for neighborly love. But common grace does not mean common neutrality. It does not flatten the noetic effects of sin or create a neutral epistemological starting point. The gospel is still an offense—not just morally, but intellectually. And that offense is necessary, because it is only when we are confronted with the risen Christ that our reasoning is reshaped and our knowledge made new and conforms to God’s natural.
These reflections have not led me to dismiss the value of reason or engagement. But they have deepened my conviction that all true theology must begin not in common starting points, but in the scandal of the cross, the resurrection life of Christ poured out at Pentecost—and the grace that gives us new eyes to see.
8. Recovering God’s Natural: Resurrection as the New Norm
In the beginning, God’s original created order defined what was “natural” for humanity: a life of communion with God. In Eden, Adam and Eve enjoyed the zoe life—the vibrant life of God—in a creaturely measure, walking in fellowship with their Maker. This life with God was simply called life.
By contrast, after the fall, our sense of “natural” became tragically twisted. Cut off from the Creator’s fellowship, fallen humanity came to accept spiritual death and alienation as normal. What we now call human nature—a life curved in on self, marked by pride, fear, and futility—is in truth a distortion of the Creator’s original design.
We must clearly grasp this: the selfishness and estrangement that feel so normal to us now are unnatural in God’s world. Sin has blinded us, making us treat the life we were made for as strange and “supernatural,” when in reality it was meant to be God’s “natural” state for us. In Eden, life with God was normative; after the fall, life apart from God became the norm for fallen man’s thinking.
This is why fallen man’s so-called “natural theology”—his attempt to know God by his own natural reason and experience—is fundamentally “fallen theology,” arising from a disordered nature that no longer sees clearly. Apart from grace, we “suppress the truth” (Rom. 1:18) and exchange God’s glory for idols, even in our thinking about Him. What we now call “natural,” God calls “broken” and “lost.” We needed nothing less than a new creation to restore what was lost to God’s natural.
God’s new resurrection norm has come in Jesus Christ. In Christ, God has inaugurated a new creation (2Cor. 5:17), a humanity entirely different from the fallen Adamic race. Jesus came as the Last Adam (1Cor. 15:45), the true Man, to redeem and recreate us. By His perfect obedience and sacrificial death, He dealt with our sin and guilt; by His resurrection, He ushered in the resurrection life of Christ into His now fallen world. The risen Christ is “the firstborn from the dead” (Col. 1:18), the first man of the new creation, and the human being we were always meant to become. In Him we see what God calls “natural” for humanity—not mere biological existence or “survival of the fittest,” but communion with God in righteousness and love.
Indeed, Jesus is not an exception or aberration in humanity’s story; He is the very definition of true humanity. Crucially, the life Christ now lives is the life He gives to us. The New Testament calls Jesus “a life-giving Spirit” (1Cor. 15:45), for the risen Christ breathes out the Spirit of life upon His people (John 20:22).
When we are united to Christ by faith, we are united to His life. This means that the eternal zoe life that flows within the Triune God—the life of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—becomes ours as a gracious gift. Jesus declared, “Because I live, you also will live” (John 14:19). Just as the first Adam imparted to us an earthly life (and tragically, the curse of death), the last Adam imparts to us the Heavenly life of fellowship with God.
This resurrection life in Christ is not merely a future hope; it is a present reality and normative for all who belong to Him. When Jesus rose and ascended, He did not leave us to stumble about until the last day—He poured out His Spirit so that we might live now in His risen power. On Pentecost, the ascended Lord “clothed [the disciples] with power from on high” (Luke 24:49) by sending the Holy Spirit.
As Jack Miller puts it, Pentecost is not a past relic or “divine museum” piece, but the moment when “the resurrection life of Jesus Christ was imparted to the church by the Father as permanent and ongoing.” That does not mean that every event in the book of Acts is repeated, but it does mean that the Spirit was given once for all to Christ’s body, so that the very resurrection life of Jesus would animate His people permanently and continually.
Ever since that day, we have lived in the age of the Spirit, the age of new creation. The same resurrection power that raised Jesus from the dead is now “at work in us who believe” (Eph. 1:19–20). Pentecost opened a fountain of new life that will never run dry, because Christ’s Spirit now abides in His people forever (John 14:16–17).
Yet even as we live in the age of the Spirit, it’s vital to remember that the righteous have always lived by faith. From Genesis to Habakkuk to Romans to Revelation, the gospel logic holds steady: “The righteous shall live by faith,” and “the righteous by faith shall live.” This has always been God’s way. Old Testament saints were not saved by law or sacrifice but by faith in the promises of God—promises that find their Yes and Amen in Christ. The difference now is not in the nature of salvation but in the fullness of its revelation and the outpouring of the Spirit, who unites us to the risen Christ.
Even so, we must be careful not to overstate what resurrection life now looks like. It is already real, but not yet complete. We bear in our bodies both the death of Christ and the life of Christ (2Cor. 4:10). Jesus rose bodily, and His resurrection body still bears scars. His glorified humanity includes the visible wounds of redemption—not erased, but transformed. So too, our future resurrection bodies will carry forward the deep beautify and continuity of who we are as persons created and redeemed by God in Christ—not just perfected, but redeemed in the full sense, including our sufferings, our weaknesses, and even our scars. For the scars that once shamed us will testify to the grace that saved us.
Jesus is the only man who has ever loved God with all His heart, soul, mind, and strength, and loved His neighbor arguably more than Himself. He is not just a better version of us—He is the true Man, the Last Adam, the embodiment of perfect love and perfect obedience. As we walk in the Spirit now, we do not rise above our humanness; rather, we enter into our humanness, our true humanity for the first time, even as we groan with creation for the full unveiling of the sons of God (Rom. 8:23).
9. Conclusion: Glorying in God’s Natural in the New Creation
God’s work in Christ has not authored a new definition of “natural.” It has restored what was lost, revealed what was hidden, and reasserted what He always called life. What we call natural is not natural at all—it is sub-natural, less-than-natural, distorted, and false. The problem is not that God redefined the categories, but that we did. In our fallenness, we inverted the whole order—calling sin freedom, calling death natural, and calling the life of communion with God a supernatural oddity. But God’s “natural” has always been the same: life with Himself, through His Son, in the joy of the Spirit.
And this life—now revealed in the risen Christ and imparted to us by the Spirit—is the life we were made for.
This is why any Natural Theology constructed apart from Christ is indeed “fallen theology.” Left to ourselves, we would forever be, as Chesterton said, “shattered statues”—worshiping the fragments of our own reasoning and experience.
Apart from God’s omnipotent grace, our natural knowledge of God, ourselves, and the world is darkened and misdirected (Eph. 4:18; Rom. 1:21), inevitably exchanging the glory of the living God for the lie of self-made religion.
But thanks be to God, He has not left us in that darkness. What we could never discover or recover on our own, God has revealed in His Son. “For God, who said ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of His glory in the face of Jesus Christ” (2Cor. 4:6).
True theology—true knowledge of God—is now found in the face of Christ. By grace, we have been brought from the distorted “natural” of the old Adam into the glorious “natural” of the Last Adam. We have been effectually called out of darkness into God’s marvelous light, united to the very Son of God. In Jesus, the Wisdom of God, we behold the Father clearly (John 14:9) and are filled with His Spirit.
Central to this vision is the doctrine of justification by faith alone. Justification ensures that our relationship with God is built on Christ alone from start to finish. By faith—not by any works or native goodness—we receive the righteousness of Jesus credited to us.
This gracious verdict of justification by faith alone is the very foundation of the resurrection life we have described. It secures our life in Christ now—and it is by continuing to rest on this same foundation that we maintain our spiritual power and freedom in Him.
Therefore, when we read Romans 14:8, it is not a threat but a welcome. It is a gift, not a burden—the very reason we draw near to God and know that He is near to us: “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”
And at the final judgment, that same verdict will be brought forward again and confirmed before all creation. When we are finally called to stand before the judgment seat of God—each one giving an account of himself or herself, as every knee bows and every tongue confesses to God (Rom. 14:10–12)—the righteousness of Jesus Christ will be brought forward as our righteousness on that Day. It is the only righteousness heaven has ever accepted. God’s justice will be fully vindicated in justifying the ungodly by the finished work of His Son (Rom. 3:26).
Every accusation of the enemy will be silenced by the blood of the Lamb (Rev. 12:10–11). Even our good works—real as they are, born of the Spirit—will serve not as the ground of our justification, but as the public vindication of God’s grace, proving that His gospel truly makes new creatures.
On that day, not a single complaint will be raised against the Judge of all the earth. He will be shown to be both just and the justifier of the one who have faith in Jesus. This is the new creation natural: a life of communion with the Triune God, grounded in justification, animated by the Spirit, shaped by the cross, and carried by grace from election to glorification.
In this life, It is not flashy. It is not triumphalistic. But it is real—real enough to carry the righteous in Christ who live by faith and by their faith shall live—through death and judgment into everlasting joy. Real enough to endure weakness, wounds, and even scars, because it rests on the resurrected and still-scarred body of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
In union with Him, we now live coram Deo—before the face of God—as we were always meant to live. And when Christ, who is our life, appears, we also will appear with Him in glory (Col. 3:4), fully glorified in soul and body—fully and truly human at last, basking in the love of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit forever.
Why I’m Sharing Jack Miller’s Story Again (and Why I Hope You’ll Share It Too)
—By Mike Graham
I recently came across a review of Cheer Up! The Life and Ministry of Jack Miller that I hadn’t seen before. Written by Pastor Harry Metzger in 2021, it reminded me why I spent over a decade researching and writing this book—and why I still believe Jack’s story matters far beyond our smaller PCA and OPC circles.
Pastor Metzger opens with this question:
“How does a person move from abused child to school dropout, to atheist, to born-again Christian, to an effective church planter, to an unhappy seminary professor, to a fruitful seminary professor, to well-known author, and to founder of a world mission movement?”
That’s the story the book tells—not because Jack’s life was exceptional in the way we often mean that word, but because it showcases how God often works through weakness. Metzger calls it a critical biography, “warts and all.” That was intentional. This isn’t hagiography. It’s a portrait of a man who would have been the first to admit his flaws—and who understood that the Spirit works most powerfully through our weakness. That was Jack’s great advantage: when he was weak, Christ was strong.
Too often, both critics and admirers have engaged only a narrow slice of Jack’s life—one moment, one phrase, one role. But Jack’s ministry can’t be understood in fragments. He was a deeply Reformed pastor and thinker, but also a church planter and revitalizer, a missionary and seminary professor, a serious scholar and cultural critic. That combination gave him a uniquely holistic perspective on the church, the world, and the gospel’s power to renew both. His theology and practice were shaped not only by study but by decades of firsthand ministry—across pulpits, classrooms, mission fields, and hard conversations. What I discovered in writing this biography is that the whole of Jack’s life—the context, the struggles, the convictions, and the fruit—is what makes his story so compelling. Cheer Up! was my attempt to offer that fuller account, exposing the limitations of thin caricatures and inviting a deeper, more accurate engagement with his legacy and gospel vision.
So why share all this now?
For one, I’ve been struck again by how easily books disappear in the current publishing landscape. Over 2 million self-published titles are released annually, and even many traditionally published books never make it beyond a niche audience. I’m not uncomfortable promoting Cheer Up!—it’s simply part of the reality for authors today, especially those writing for smaller presses. But more importantly, I promote it because I think it’s worth promoting.
Jack’s story has something to say to the spiritually disillusioned, the burned out, the hopeful, and the struggling. It’s not a story of success in worldly terms. It’s about a man who came to see that grace really is greater than all our sin—and who never got over it.
Each chapter of Cheer Up! is named after one of Jack’s signature refrains:
Cheer up! What has happened to all your joy?
Cheer up! God’s grace is greater than you’ve ever dared hope.
Cheer up! You are far worse than you think.
Cheer up! God’s Spirit works in your weakness.
Cheer up! Justification by faith even in the twentieth century.
Cheer up! God’s kingdom is more wonderful than you have ever imagined.
Cheer up! Come on, let’s die together—it’s a great way to come to life.
These aren’t throwaway slogans. They’re a theology of grace in miniature. Jack believed that if you really understood your need and really believed God’s promises, then you could look honestly at yourself and still overflow with joy.
If you’ve already read the book, maybe this will prompt you to revisit it—or to pass it along to someone who needs it. If you haven’t, I’d be honored if you picked up a copy. And if you’re in ministry, I’d especially love for you to consider how Jack’s life might encourage your own.
Also, if you’ve read Cheer Up!—or if you do in the future—I’d truly love to hear from you. Whether it’s your honest takeaways (good or bad), a reflection on how Jack or Rose Marie influenced you, or simply a moment that stood out to you in the book, I welcome the chance to engage with readers. For me, that kind of dialogue is one of the richest parts of writing.
Thanks for reading—and for helping share a story that’s ultimately not about Jack, but about the grace of God that made him the man he was.
Pastor Harry Metzger’s Review:
“Although not the best biography I have ever read, Cheer Up! gives a detailed account of the life and ministry of a man who, ‘warts and all,’ touched, influenced, and changed the lives of many people who are almost household names in the Christian church today, including Timothy Keller, Steve Brown, Bryan Chapell, Jerry Bridges, and Joni Eareckson Tada.”
