Master List of Publications at The Jack Miller Project
Updated as of 3 December 2025
(Grouped by Year — with Links to thejackmillerproject.com)
This archive collects the essays and long-form reflections I’ve written for The Jack Miller Project, along with selected historical and archival pieces that are publicly accessible. Most of these writings were originally published on my WordPress site and shared through my MailChimp list. They reflect the ongoing intersection of my pastoral ministry, Jack Miller scholarship, biblical-theological work, and engagement with the life of the church.
Jack Miller’s unpublished writings and intellectual property now belong to Serge (formerly World Harvest Mission), entrusted to them by his wife, Rose Marie Miller. While I await formal permission from Serge to publish new archival material directly from my digitized research library, I continue to write out of that body of study and engagement—interpreting and applying Jack’s thought rather than reproducing unpublished material.
As new essays and archival discoveries appear, I will continue updating this list. Each title below links to the original publication on thejackmillerproject.com.
The Jack Miller Project and the Gary North Challenge
—By Michael A. Graham
I began The Jack Miller Project in 2016 when I started my PhD work on the life and ministry of C. John “Jack” Miller.
As soon as I began interviewing people who knew Jack—people from all over the world—I realized I was learning far more than I could ever fit into the dissertation.
The dissertation eventually reached 599 pages. I had to get special approval because it far exceeded the usual limits. There was simply too much material—stories, history, context, and gospel insight—to fit inside academic boundaries.
The final title was:
Cheer Up! A Biographical Study of the Life and Ministry of C. John “Jack” Miller: A Twentieth Century Pioneer of Grace (2019)
If anyone ever wants to read the full academic version, I can provide a PDF upon request.
Because so much wouldn’t fit into the dissertation, The Jack Miller Project became a place to share the overflow: interviews, observations, historical context, and reflections from the research itself.
The Gary North Challenge — From Dissertation to Book
When the dissertation was complete in May 2019, P&R prepared to publish the adapted book. It came out in 2020 under the title:
Cheer Up! The Life and Ministry of Jack Miller
At that point, I wasn’t sure what to do with The Jack Miller Project. The research was done. The book was on the way. I wondered if the Project had reached the end of its purpose.
Then I received an email from Gary North.
Many people know how different Gary North’s career was from Jack Miller’s. But in the early 1960s, they worked together at the Center for American Studies. Decades later, North encountered Jack’s Sonship teaching through his pastor—and described its impact on him as comparable to The Gospel Mystery of Sanctification by Walter Marshall.
He had read my dissertation and sent some encouraging feedback. Then he said something that stayed with me:
“Nobody cares about history today. You need to make Jack’s teachings available.”
As surprising as it was—coming from Gary North—that comment helped me see The Jack Miller Project in a new light. Rather than treating it only as a place for research overflow, I began writing more directly about Jack’s teaching: his gospel focus, his theology of grace, and the biblical themes that shaped his ministry. The Jack Miller Project became a space where I could continue thinking about these things in real time—not just in the past tense.
A New Chapter
The next major shift came in 2025. Jack’s wife, Rose Marie—who will turn 101 this December—entrusted the rights to Jack’s unpublished writings to Serge (formerly World Harvest Mission). A smaller portion went to her son, Paul Miller.
Because of this, I now need permission from Serge before publishing anything new directly from Jack’s unpublished archival material.
At the same time, I still have the most complete digital research library on Jack Miller anywhere. I built it over nearly a decade—thousands of pages of letters, sermons, manuscripts, and interviews. I use that library constantly, and it shapes my writing. But unless Serge gives permission, I won’t be publishing anything new from it.
For a while I wondered if that meant the end of The Jack Miller Project. The dissertation was done. The book was published. And now the rights belonged elsewhere.
What remained?
The more I thought and prayed about it, the clearer it became:
The Jack Miller Project was never only about publishing archival materials. It has always been a place where I work out the gospel personally and pastorally—through Jack’s influence, through Scripture, through ministry, and through my own life.
What the Project Is Now
Today, The Jack Miller Project consists mostly of my own essays—reflections and studies rooted in Jack’s theology of grace, faith, repentance, and renewal, but written in my own voice.
It has become where I continue to wrestle with the gospel in the world we now live in—a world Jack never saw, but one where his insights still help me navigate faith, ministry, and grace.
If Serge gives permission in the future, I may be able to publish more archival material. If not, The Jack Miller Project will continue in its present form.
For me, the reason is simple:
The gospel Jack lived and preached is the same gospel I need today. Writing helps me think clearly about it and share it with others. And I’m grateful to keep doing that.
A Word About the Temptation to Make Too Much of Jack
One of Jack’s children recently asked me a fair question: is there a danger of turning Jack into an idol?
Yes, there is. That’s always a risk when we’ve received something good. Our hearts are built to overtrust what helps us. But that doesn’t mean the work shouldn’t be done. If I stopped every time I saw mixed motives in myself, I wouldn’t be able to do anything at all.
The better way is to continue—and to continue by faith in repentance.
That’s how I’ve approached this project from the beginning—writing about Jack as a real historical person, not a larger-than-life figure. And I’ve tried to engage his teaching seriously—not just as something to admire, but as something to examine, critique, learn from, and sometimes push back on.
I’m not doing this because Jack got everything right. I’m doing it because the gospel he preached is still worth hearing, and still shaping me.
That’s the ongoing work of The Jack Miller Project—continuing in the gospel, and continuing in repentance. I hope it serves others as it’s served me.
P.S. Want to explore the archive?
I’ve created a full Master List of publications from The Jack Miller Project—organized by year, with links to every essay:
[Master List of Publications (link coming soon)]
If you’re new here, feel free to subscribe. And if you’ve been around for a while, thanks for reading.
“Faith Working by Love”: The Relationship of Faith and Works from God’s Perspective and Ours
—By Michael A. Graham
I. Introduction—Faith and Works: The Story We Forgot
Scripture tells the true story of God and His people — a story of creation, rupture, wilderness, redemption, and a final completion when Christ makes all things new. Within this story, one theme rises again and again with particular clarity for the Christian life: how faith and works relate to one another, how they were originally joined, how the Fall tore them apart, and how Christ brings them back together in a way that leads forward toward the fullness of the new creation.
This is the thesis of this essay:
Faith and works live together in God, are torn apart in the Fall, and are reunited and brought toward completion in Christ.
We will test and trace this thesis throughout Scripture, doctrine, and experience to see whether it holds — and how it shapes the life of a believer today.
We feel the tension of this relationship before we ever understand it. We feel it in the conflict inside our own hearts — the strange pull between trusting God and striving to prove ourselves, between receiving grace and trying desperately to be enough, between longing to obey and fearing we never will. We feel it in our churches, where some cling fiercely to sound doctrine while quietly losing the joy of holiness, and others emphasize obedience but live under a relentless pressure to measure up. We feel it in our children, who grow up hearing the gospel yet struggle to believe that they are truly loved. We feel it in the wilderness of our daily lives, where faith seems fragile and works seem either heavy or hollow.
Something is out of joint — not only in the world, but in us. And Scripture shows us why.
In the beginning, faith and works lived in an effortless unity. Adam and Eve trusted God and obeyed Him without rivalry, suspicion, or fragmentation. Faith breathed, and obedience moved, as one life. They did not analyze the relationship between the two — they simply lived it. Faith received God’s goodness; works expressed it. Trust and obedience were not competing principles but the rhythm of a whole heart living in the presence of God.
But when humanity turned away from the Creator, that unity shattered. The Fall tore faith and works apart. Trust gave way to fear; obedience gave way to hiding. Works became a strategy for self-justification, an attempt to repair the rupture by one’s own strength. Faith became clouded by suspicion and shame. The heart became divided — wanting what is good while turning toward what destroys. The world that had been a garden became a wilderness, and the rupture between faith and works became the deepest wound in the human soul.
Into this wilderness, God did not abandon His people. He entered it.
The Father set His love on a people, the Son took on our flesh as the Last Adam, and the Spirit began the work of reuniting what sin had torn apart. In Christ, God brings faith and works back into their right relationship — faith restored as trust in the righteousness of Another, works renewed as the lived expression of His life within us. And this reunion does not return us to Eden’s vulnerability. Christ leads His people forward into a relationship with God that is secure, complete, and grounded in His finished work, not in Adam’s fragile innocence.
This essay explores that reunion. It follows the storyline of Scripture — from Eden to the Fall to the wilderness to Christ to the new creation — to understand how faith and works relate in the mind of God, in the life of Adam, in the gospel of Christ, and in the teaching of Paul and James. It is an attempt to recover the clarity and beauty of their relationship as God intended it — a relationship the Spirit now forms in the hearts of believers.
Along the way, we will see that salvation is not a collection of detached doctrines but one movement of God’s grace: the Father choosing His people, the Son justifying them, the Spirit uniting them to Christ and forming His life in them. We will see how election, justification, adoption, sanctification, and obedience all participate in this movement. And we will see how the renewed harmony of faith and works brings assurance to the fearful, rest to the weary, strength to the weak, joy to the repentant, and love to the world.
Most importantly, we will see Christ — the One in whom faith and works live together perfectly, the One who heals the rupture within us, and the One who will one day complete this work in the new creation, where the harmony of trust and obedience will be experienced in fullness forever.
This is the thesis we will examine.
This is the story the gospel unveils.
And this is the life into which every believer is invited to walk.
II. The Real Place Where Faith Lives
To understand how faith and works relate in the Christian life, we begin where Scripture begins — in the world God made, the place where humanity first lived in fellowship with Him. Genesis 1 and 2 show us what trust and obedience looked like before sin entered, and this starting point helps us see what was lost in the Fall and what Christ has come to bring to completion.
Before sin entered, before fear distorted the inner world, before shame bent the soul inward, Adam and Eve lived with a wholeness we can scarcely imagine. Faith and works were not concepts; they were simply the rhythm of a heart at rest in the presence of God. Trust was natural. Obedience was joyful. Communion was immediate. Their work flowed from their faith. Their faith animated their work. The two were never opposed, never confused, never separated.
They trusted because God was good.
They obeyed because their hearts were whole.
They flourished because they lived in communion.
This is the world faith was made for.
But this is not the world we live in.
The rupture of Genesis 3 tore through the very structure of human life. Faith — once the joyful posture of trust toward God — became suspicion. Adam hid. Eve feared. Both blamed. Their inward world fractured. The clear sight of God’s goodness dimmed behind the fog of unbelief. The external world fractured too. Work became toil. Childbearing became pain. Relationships became arenas of competition, desire, and hurt.
And in that rupture, faith and works were torn apart.
Trust no longer flowed naturally into action.
Obedience no longer grew effortlessly out of communion.
Faith collapsed into fear or self-dependence.
Works collapsed into self-justification or despair.
This is the deepest wound in the human soul.
It is the inner division we all feel — the sense of not being whole, of wanting good yet choosing evil, of longing for God but running from Him, of trying to obey but losing our way.
This is the world in which faith must now live: a wilderness where trust is contested, obedience is difficult, the heart is divided, and spiritual enemies oppose every step.
The serpent still speaks.
The world still deceives.
The flesh still resists.
The conscience still trembles.
The wounds still ache.
And the human heart still tries to repair the rupture by its own works — either by moral performance or by self-condemnation.
In this wilderness, faith often feels fragile and works often feel forced.
We oscillate between self-righteousness and self-loathing.
We compare ourselves to others.
We strive to “be enough.”
We despair when we fail.
We fear that God might be distant, or disappointed, or done with us.
This is the wilderness where faith actually lives —
not Eden,
not heaven,
but the world between the Fall and the new creation.
And it is into this wilderness that Christ came.
He entered the world as the Last Adam — the true human who lived the harmony of faith and works perfectly. Where Adam distrusted, Christ trusted. Where Adam hid, Christ obeyed. Where Adam grasped for independence, Christ surrendered in love. He lived the life we lost. He obeyed the Father in perfect faith. He accomplished the works prepared before the foundation of the world. He walked into the wilderness we created and defeated the powers that enslaved us. And in doing so, He brings back the unity of trust and obedience in a way that moves creation forward toward fullness — a unity rooted in His permanent, risen life, not in Adam’s fragile beginning.
And in His death and resurrection, He began the restoration of all things — including the restoration of the harmony of faith and works.
Not by giving us a new law to climb, but by giving us a new heart in union with Him.
Not by demanding strength from the weak, but by giving His own strength to the broken.
Not by returning us to the garden through our obedience, but by opening the way to the new creation through His obedience.
Faith and works will one day live together again as they did in Eden.
They already live together in Christ.
And the Spirit is restoring them in us, even now, as firstfruits of the world to come.
This is the real place where faith lives — in the wilderness between the ruin of Eden and the renewal of the new creation.
It is here, in our frailty and longing, that God speaks His promises, restores our trust, forms our obedience, and leads us toward the day when faith and works will once again move together in perfect harmony under the light of the Lord.
One challenge remains: because our desires and actions are divided, we sometimes imagine God’s will is divided too. We know what it is to intend good and fail to carry it out. We feel the fracture between willing and doing. And without realizing it, we project our brokenness onto God — imagining Him as willing things that might not happen or hoping for what might fail.
But Scripture teaches clearly that God’s will and God’s works are united.
What He purposes, He performs.
What He begins, He completes.
His faithfulness and His action are one.
The fracture that exists within us does not exist in Him.
This truth protects our understanding of election.
Election is not the Father expressing a desire that may not succeed.
Election is the Father’s settled purpose — carried out in Christ, applied by the Spirit, and moving His people toward the harmony Adam lost and Christ now secures.
This clarity also guards us from imagining salvation and judgment as symmetrical. Scripture does not present God as equally delighted in both. Judgment is His “strange work.” Salvation is His joy. Condemnation follows human rebellion. Salvation flows from divine mercy. Satan deceives. Humans sin. God rescues. Election expresses the Father’s determination that the rupture of the Fall will not have the last word.
III. Election as the Father’s Loving Initiative
If faith and works once lived together in perfect harmony in God’s creation, and if the Fall tore them apart in the human heart, then election is the Father’s first movement toward restoring that harmony.
Election is not an abstract decree or a cold doctrine. It is the Father’s eternal, personal love spoken into a world that has gone terribly wrong. To see election clearly, we begin with the reality we traced of the world shaped by creation, rupture, wilderness, Christ, and new creation.
In the beginning, faith and works were united in Adam and Eve. They trusted God fully and obeyed God freely. Their obedience expressed their trust. Their trust sustained their obedience. There was no tension, no rivalry, no fear, no suspicion — only communion.
But when humanity turned away from God, the unity shattered. Faith collapsed into fear. Works twisted into self-protection or self-promotion. Shame entered the conscience. The will fractured. Human desires became conflicted, relationships tore, and the world became a wilderness of confusion and sorrow.
Election speaks into that wilderness.
Into a world of ruptured relationships and divided hearts, Scripture declares:
“He chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world.” (Eph. 1:4)
This is not spoken into Eden’s innocence.
It is spoken into humanity’s rebellion and need.
Election reveals the Father’s eternal purpose to restore what sin destroyed.
It is God’s loving determination that the fracture between trust and obedience will not be the final story.
Before the Fall, before the serpent, before the shame, before the hiding — the Father set His love upon His people in Christ.
Election is the beginning of redemption’s story.
It is the Father’s initiative in a world that cannot repair itself.
It is His promise that the harmony lost in Adam will be restored in the Last Adam.
This is why Paul places election at the head of salvation’s order:
“Those whom He foreknew He also predestined … called … justified … glorified.” (Rom. 8:29–30)
Election is not a frozen decree sitting above history. It is the Father’s eternal love entering history.
The gospel begins with God’s delight, not our desire.
And because election is God’s purpose in a fallen world, it carries deep pastoral strength. It humbles the believer because faith is never self-generated; it is awakened by the Father’s prior love. And it encourages the believer because the Father’s love is older than their sin, deeper than their wounds, and stronger than their fears. Election anchors hope where circumstances cannot reach.
Election also moves.
It does not remain in eternity.
It moves into history through calling.
Paul makes this explicit:
“Those whom He predestined, He also called.”
Calling is election becoming personal.
It is election arriving in the human heart through the Spirit and the Word.
It is the Father’s eternal love drawing His children home.
This truth speaks tenderly to covenant families. Scripture declares that the promise is “for you and for your children” (Acts 2:39).
Covenant children grow up in the same wilderness as everyone else — surrounded by pressures, temptations, fears, and competing voices — but they grow up near the sound of the gospel, the witness of Christ in their parents, the rhythms of prayer, and the nearness of God’s promises. Election gives parents confidence that God’s love can reach hearts even when those hearts seem wayward or fragile.
To protect this hope, Scripture distinguishes election, covenant identity, and justification — not to diminish any of them, but to preserve their harmony.
Election is the Father’s eternal love.
Covenant identity is the Father’s nearness.
Justification is the Father’s verdict in Christ.
Adoption is the Father’s embrace.
Sanctification is the Father’s craftsmanship.
All are gifts. All belong to the same story. All serve the restoration of faith and works.
Before moving further, Scripture adds a needed clarification: God’s will and God’s work are never divided.
The fracture belongs to us, not to Him, and we cannot export our failings onto God.
We intend what we cannot complete.
We will the good yet fall short of it.
We begin what we cannot finish.
But God is whole.
What He purposes, He fulfills.
What He begins, He completes.
His love is undivided.
His action is united to His will.
This matters because the Fall’s fracture — the division between trusting and doing — often makes us project our dividedness onto God.
We imagine Him conflicted, hesitant, or half-willing, as if He intends one thing but achieves another. Scripture refuses such projections.
In God, there is no gap between heart and hand.
No distance between purpose and completion.
No hesitation between loving and acting.
This leads naturally to the question anxious believers often ask:
“How do I know I am among the elect?”
Scripture never invites the believer to peer into God’s secret counsel.
Scripture invites the believer to look to Christ.
Jesus says:
“Whoever comes to Me, I will never cast out.” (John 6:37)
Faith in Christ is the revelation of election, not its replacement.
The desire for Christ is the fingerprint of grace.
The turning of the heart toward Christ — however slow, however trembling — is the Spirit’s witness that the Father has set His love upon His child.
Election quiets the orphan spirit.
Election stabilizes the fearful heart.
Election comforts the wounded.
Election anchors the believer in the Father’s unchanging love.
Election is the Father’s eternal purpose of love — the beginning of the restoration of faith and works, the promise that sin will not write the final chapter, and the assurance that the God who loved us before time will finish His work in us through His Son.
IV. Justification as Christ’s Restoring Work in the Wilderness
If election is the Father’s eternal purpose to reunite what sin has torn apart, then justification is the moment that purpose enters the life of a sinner.
And to see justification clearly, we must keep the thesis of this essay in view: faith and works have always lived together in perfect unity in God Himself — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
God does not experience the inward fracture we feel. His purposes and His acts are one. His willing and His doing are never divided. Because the Triune God is whole, justification is His act of bringing His own unity and faithfulness into the lives of fallen people through the instrument of faith alone.
Justification speaks into a world marked by division. The Fall did not leave the human heart slightly misaligned; it left us condemned under the law, bent inward in fear and pride, and unable to trust or obey rightly.
In the wilderness of life, we often feel like two different people — longing for God while resisting Him, wanting to obey while choosing sin, craving righteousness while hiding in shame. Works become tangled in self-justification or despair. Faith becomes clouded by fear and suspicion. The unity Adam knew is gone. This is the world into which justification comes.
Paul states the heart of justification simply and directly:
“Since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (Rom. 5:1)
This peace is far more than a feeling. It is the settled relationship established by God’s verdict. Justification is the point where God’s undivided faithfulness meets human dividedness. It is the moment God declares a sinner righteous because the righteousness of Christ has been counted as theirs.
Faith receives what God has accomplished. Works no longer try to earn what only Christ can provide. The order God always held within Himself — willing and doing in perfect unity — becomes the foundation of a believer’s life.
Paul reinforces this:
“A person is justified by faith apart from works of the law.” (Rom. 3:28)
Faith is not a higher virtue, a new law, or a spiritual achievement. Faith is the act of receiving Christ and no longer relying on our own fractured attempts to repair what sin has broken.
Faith relies on the obedience, death, resurrection, and intercession of Christ. Faith is the Spirit’s instrument for uniting sinners to Christ — the sole medium through which the righteousness of Another is received. Faith justifies not because it is a virtue, but because it receives Christ as the believer’s righteousness.
Faith does not fix the sinner; Christ does. Faith does not complete God’s work; Christ has already completed it. In this way, justification reestablishes trust at the root, so that works can grow again as the fruit of a renewed life.
Jack Miller pressed this because he knew how easily believers turn faith into another work. Sincerity becomes a measure of worthiness. Emotional intensity becomes a way of trying to prove ourselves to God. But justification stops this cycle. It turns our eyes entirely to Christ. The basis of righteousness is not our faith but His obedience. The ground of acceptance is not our repentance but His blood. The confidence of salvation is not our consistency but His finished work.
Justification is both forensic and covenantal. It is God’s legal verdict — “righteous” — spoken over the sinner because Christ stood in their place. It is also the door into the Father’s household, where the justified person becomes a son or daughter. God does not simply remove guilt; He establishes relationship. He does not simply forgive; He welcomes. Justification does not leave us standing on the courthouse steps. It brings us into the family room.
Because justification is complete in Christ, Scripture does not treat it as a moment we move beyond. Paul says the believer “stands” in grace (Rom. 5:2). Justification becomes the environment of the Christian life. We pray, repent, obey, suffer, and persevere under its shelter. The verdict of righteousness is not fragile. It does not fluctuate with our sanctification. It is rooted in the righteousness of Christ, which remains constant.
This restored standing addresses both sides of our wounded hearts.
Some of us try to rebuild righteousness through our own self-effort. We want to prove we are enough. We want to measure our progress. We want to lift ourselves into favor. But justification frees us from this burden. Works cannot bear the weight of righteousness. They were not designed for that. God’s own unity — the unity of His faithful purpose and righteous action — becomes the believer’s foundation. Works are freed to become expression of love rather than currency for earning salvation.
Others among us live under the cloud of shame. We worry that our sin disqualifies us, that God must be disappointed, that we have failed too often. Justification heals this fear. Christ has borne the curse. The law has been satisfied. The accuser has no case left to make. God does not justify reluctantly. He justifies in accordance with His own undivided character — with a verdict that matches His purpose and His promise in election and calling.
Paul then lifts justification to its highest point:
“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Rom. 8:1)
This is the Final Judgment brought forward into history.
The verdict of the last day is spoken now.
The righteousness of Christ covers the believer now.
The assurance of “no condemnation” is not temporary or fragile.
It corresponds to who God is — the One whose will and work are one from beginning to end, everlasting to everlasting.
This unity of divine will and divine work is the reason justification has three dimensions:
initial justification when we first believe,
continuing justification as we stand in Christ’s righteousness day by day,
final justification when God publicly declares what He has already spoken.
In all three, the righteousness is the same.
The instrument of faith alone is the same.
The Christ is the same.
The verdict is the same.
And each step reflects the same truth: faith receives the unity of God’s purpose and God’s action — His faithfulness and His work — and rests in it.
Justification restores faith at the root so that works can grow in a new and living way.
Faith returns to receiving. Works return to expressing.
The human fracture between trusting and doing begins to heal, not because we succeed, but because Christ, the Hope of Glory, lives in us.
This restored order — faith receiving Christ, works expressing Christ — is the door in which sanctification enters, the foundation on which sanctification grows, and the umbrella under which sanctification shelters.
Now we turn to union with Christ, where this restored faith and renewed obedience take on the shape of the Son’s own life within us.
V. Union with Christ: Adoption, Sonship, and the Life of the Last Adam
If justification restores faith to its rightful place — receiving Christ’s righteousness — then union with Christ is the living reality in which that restored faith and renewed obedience take shape.
Union is the center of the Christian life. Everything God gives comes through it, and everything God calls us to grows out of it.
And as we continue tracing our thesis, we remember: faith and works have always lived together in perfect unity in God — Father, Son, and Spirit. The fracture we feel between faith and work, trusting and obeying, belongs to us, not to Him. In union with Christ, the Spirit begins to bring that unity back into the life of the believer.
Union with Christ is the believer’s new existence. Scripture describes it in many ways — being “in Christ,” Christ living in us, being clothed with Him, dying and rising with Him, sitting with Him in the heavenly places. These are not metaphors for inspiration (though they do inspire). They describe a real marriage bond. The believer is joined to the risen Christ by the Spirit, and the life of the risen Christ becomes the life from which the believer now lives.
Union is also the place where biblical language about our relationship with God must be handled with clarity. Scripture speaks in more than one way. Paul emphasizes adoption — a legal and covenantal reality where those once enslaved under sin receive the status and inheritance of sons and daughters. John emphasizes sonship in relational terms — children who belong to the Father and no longer live as orphans. These perspectives strengthen one another, but they are not identical. Adoption secures our status; sonship describes our communion. Paul highlights the transfer of standing; John highlights the closeness of relationship. Both are true, and both belong to believers in union with the Last Adam.
Union with Christ integrates these truths without blurring them. Through adoption, believers receive the full legal standing of sons and daughters — welcomed, named, and made heirs. Through sonship, believers learn the instincts of belonging — confidence in the Father’s love, freedom in repentance, courage in obedience. The Spirit does both: He secures the believer’s place in God’s family and cultivates real intimacy with the Father. This twofold work begins to heal what the Fall made painful and confused in us.
And when we speak about the restoration of faith and works in the believer, union is where that restoration genuinely begins. In God, faith and works have always been one. The Son trusts the Father perfectly. The Son obeys the Father perfectly. The Spirit carries out the will of the Father and the Son in perfect harmony. There is no inner rupture in God. But in us, trust and obedience pull apart.
In union with Christ, the Spirit brings the unity of Christ’s own life into ours. Our faith begins to take shape as trust, and our obedience begins to take shape as love. Not perfectly. Not without struggle. But truly — because Christ’s life is growing within us.
Union with Christ restores identity. Apart from Christ, we live spiritually as orphans or slaves — insecure, self-protective, easily threatened, and prone to fear. In union with Christ, the Spirit teaches us to live as sons and daughters. We learn to obey as those who belong, not as those trying to become worthy. Works now rise from the security of faith rather than anxiety. The heart begins to trust God’s goodness and respond in love.
Union also restores humanity by joining us to the Last Adam, not the first. Adam’s innocence was real, but it was vulnerable and could be lost. Christ’s righteousness is indestructible. Adam’s trust faltered; Christ’s trust held firm. Adam’s obedience failed; Christ’s obedience was finished.
Union means the believer shares in Christ’s humanity — not in its fragility, but in its permanence, testedness, and victory. In this way, union brings forward movement: the Spirit forms in us the life of the new creation, the life that will one day be complete when sin no longer distorts a single desire or act.
Union with Christ shapes sanctification. Sanctification is not something the believer generates out of self-effort. It is Christ’s life expressed through the believer by the Spirit. When we forgive, when we show love, when we turn away from sin, when we persevere, it is because Christ is active in us. Our efforts are real, and our obedience matters, but both flow from the presence and power of Christ. Sanctification does not compete with union; it grows out of union.
Paul expresses it clearly: “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Gal. 2:20). He is not denying responsibility. He is describing the new power and new identity the believer has in Christ. The believer obeys because Christ is present. The believer loves because Christ’s love is being shaped within. The believer works because Christ strengthens and directs the will.
Union also keeps us from projecting our fractured experience onto God. We continue to feel the tension between faith and works in ourselves — stumbling, returning, learning, repenting, and growing. But God’s unity never changes. Christ’s obedience never falters. The Spirit’s presence never departs. Union means the believer’s relationship with God rests on the undivided life of Christ, not on the divided nature of the self.
Union is both comfort and calling. It assures us that we are secure in the Father’s love, and it summons us to walk in the life Christ gives. Faith and works begin to move together again — not as rivals, not as burdens, but as the natural expressions of a restored relationship with God.
Some may wonder whether seeing everything “in Christ” leaves any room for true humanity — whether union with Him collapses our identity into His and erases the individuality God created. The gospel reveals the opposite. Union with Christ restores, enlarges, and dignifies our humanity. In the presence of Christ, we do not disappear; we finally become whole. Grace does not undo nature — it heals it. Christ does not replace our personhood — He renews it. The Spirit does not flatten our individuality — He brings it to its redeemed fullness. In Christ, we do not lose ourselves; we find the selves God intended from the beginning, alive with the freedom and purpose of the new creation.
This prepares us for the next movement of salvation — sanctification, where the restored unity of faith and works begins to take visible shape through love.
VI. Sanctification: Faith Working Through Love
If justification restores faith at the root and union with Christ gives us the life of the Son, then sanctification is where trust in God and obedience to God begin to show up in the believer’s actual life.
Sanctification is the Spirit shaping Christ’s character in us. And as we move forward with the thesis, we remember: in God Himself — Father, Son, and Spirit — faith and works have always existed in perfect harmony. He does not experience the fracture we do. His willing and His doing are one. Sanctification is the Spirit bringing that unity in God between faith and works into the lives of those who belong to Christ.
Believers still live in a world marked by disorder. Desire is mixed. Motives shift. Weakness surfaces. The remnants of the Fall remain in our experience. Scripture acknowledges this tension plainly. Sanctification does not remove the struggle; it gives the believer a way to live faithfully within it. The Spirit does not erase conflict, but He enables growth, endurance, repentance, and obedience.
Paul summarizes sanctification this way: “The only thing that counts is faith working through love.” (Gal. 5:6)
This single phrase gives a stable picture.
Faith receives Christ’s righteousness in justification.
Love expresses Christ’s character in sanctification.
Faith is restored at the root; love grows in the branches.
The same Spirit who unites us to Christ enables us to walk with Him.
Sanctification is personal. It is Christ’s life being formed within us. His humility. His patience. His purity. His courage. His compassion. His endurance.
The Spirit leads, strengthens, convicts, comforts, and teaches. He helps us turn from sin. He grants the desire to obey. He provides clarity where confusion once ruled. And He gives perseverance when the path is steep. Our obedience remains real and sincere, and it is energized by the presence of Christ through the Spirit.
Because sanctification flows from union, it grows within the security of being children of God. Believers obey as those who belong to their Father, not as those trying to earn their place. In Pauline terms, adoption establishes the believer’s standing. In Johannine terms, the believer lives as a child who has been brought near, no longer an orphan. These two strands strengthen one another without collapsing into the same category. Adoption gives the legal standing; sonship gives the relational confidence. Both come through union with Christ.
Again the thesis brings clarity: in God, faith and works, trust and obedience are always aligned. The Son delights to do the Father’s will. The Spirit carries out the Father’s purposes flawlessly. God’s unity does not fluctuate.
In sanctification, the Spirit takes what belongs to Christ — His trust in the Father and His obedience to the Father — and begins to shape those realities in the believer’s life. Trust and obedience do not immediately move in lockstep, but they begin to grow in the same direction again.
Sanctification also moves forward. It does not take us back to Adam’s innocence. It leads us toward Christ’s likeness. The Spirit cultivates the life of the new creation within us — the life that will one day be complete when the presence of sin is gone entirely. Every step of repentance, every act of love, every sacrifice, every forgiveness, every endurance is the Spirit preparing us for the fullness that Christ has secured.
Paul gives a clear picture: “We all… are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.” (2 Cor. 3:18)
This transformation is gradual, real, and rooted in Christ.
Faith and works begin to move together again because the One who trusted perfectly and obeyed perfectly lives within us.
Sanctification is not the end of the story, but it is the visible evidence that God’s restoring work is taking hold in our lives. It is the Spirit’s craftsmanship — forming Christ’s life within us, step by step, day by day.
And it prepares us for what comes next: James’s demonstration of how restored faith expresses itself publicly in works of love.
VII. The Demonstration: James and the Vindication of Living Faith
If sanctification is the inward formation of Christ’s character in the believer, then James gives us the outward picture of what that formation looks like.
James is not offering a different gospel than Paul. He is showing the visible expression of the same gospel. And as we continue with our thesis — faith and works live together in perfect unity in God, were torn apart in us through the Fall, and are being reunited in Christ — James becomes a crucial guide. He describes what it looks like when that unity of God’s faith and work begins to take shape in ordinary life.
James writes into a community where people profess faith but are tempted to separate believing from doing. This separation is the exact fracture the Fall introduced. Trust becomes claim without substance. Works become activity without trust.
James will not accept either distortion. For him, living faith cannot remain invisible. Faith that receives Christ will naturally express itself through obedience shaped by love. Works that arise from Christ’s presence become the demonstration that faith is alive.
James states his concern clearly: “Show me your faith apart from your works, and I will show you my faith by my works.” (James 2:18)
Or as Paul says, “faith works by love” (Gal. 5:6).
This is not a challenge to justification by faith.
It is a description of renewed life.
Faith and works are not interchangeable, and they are not confused.
Faith receives.
Works express.
The one feeds the other because the Spirit is restoring the unity between faith and works that was lost.
James draws upon the example of Abraham. Paul highlights Abraham’s faith in Genesis 15 — faith counted as righteousness. James highlights Abraham’s obedience in Genesis 22 — obedience that displays the reality of that faith. Abraham did not believe instead of obeying. Abraham believed and therefore obeyed. These two movements are distinct but inseparable. They move in harmony because God was restoring in Abraham what the Fall had broken.
The same unity appears in Rahab’s story. Her faith in the God of Israel shaped her actions toward God’s people. Her works expressed her trust. James holds her up as a second witness to make the point clear: living faith always moves outward in love, courage, and costly loyalty. The Spirit who restores faith at the root forms obedience in the branches.
James’s language of “justification” must be heard in this context. When he says a person is “justified by works,” he is describing vindication — the public demonstration or confirmation of faith’s reality.
Jesus uses this same sense when He says, “Wisdom is justified by her deeds” (Matt. 11:19). Wisdom is shown to be true, not declared righteous in a legal sense. James uses the word the same way. Works show that faith is alive. They do not replace faith, supplement faith, or compete with faith. They are faith’s visible fruit.
And as we carry our thesis forward, James’s contribution becomes clear. In God, trust and obedience, faith and works, are always united. In the Son, trust and obedience are lived perfectly. In believers, that unity is being re-established. James describes this re-establishment in concrete terms — mercy, endurance, care for the vulnerable, honesty, humility, integrity, and love. These are not attempts to earn God’s approval. They are the natural expressions of Christ’s presence in a believer’s life.
James is deeply pastoral. He knows how easy it is for people to mistake knowledge for faith or emotion for obedience. He knows how easily we settle for hearing without doing. He knows how quickly profession becomes a substitute for transformation. His letter cuts through these tendencies, not to condemn believers but to awaken them. He calls them to see that the Spirit is restoring in them what God always intended — trust that leads to obedience, obedience that grows from trust.
James also protects the church from a subtle danger. When faith is separated from works, the church can drift into a form of life that uses religious language but lacks love. Partiality grows. Tongues wound. Needs go unmet. Conflicts multiply. People hear the Word but do not live it. James steps into this environment with plain, steady counsel: “Be doers of the word, and not hearers only.” (James 1:22)
Not as a threat.
Not as a condition.
As a description of renewed life.
This is where James aligns perfectly with the thesis of this essay. Works do not complete faith. Works do not strengthen the verdict of justification. Works do not add to what Christ has done. But works reveal that God is healing the fracture the Fall introduced — the fracture between what we believe and what we do. Works are the Spirit’s craftsmanship made visible. They are signs of the restored relationship God is bringing to fullness in the lives of His people.
James’s voice is firm but never harsh. His call to action is serious but never despairing. He assumes the presence of the Spirit. He assumes the life of Christ within believers. He assumes that faith, when restored at the root, will bear fruit in love, courage, endurance, and mercy.
James is not pulling the believer back into self-effort. He is pointing to the reality that the Spirit is already at work, making trust and obedience move in the same direction again.
In this way, James completes the picture Paul presents. Paul guards the foundation — righteousness received by faith. James displays the expression — righteousness reflected through works. Paul speaks to the conscience. James speaks to the witness of life. Both describe the same restoration — faith and works, long divided by sin, beginning to work together again under the hand of the Spirit.
This leads naturally to the next movement of our study: how election, covenant, and justification maintain their distinctions while serving this one story of restoration.
VIII. The Distinction Scripture Clarifies: Election, Covenant, and Justification
As we continue tracing our thesis — faith and works live together in perfect unity in God, were torn apart in us through the Fall, and are being reunited and brought toward completion in Christ — Scripture requires that we keep several of its doctrines in their proper order.
Election, covenant identity, and justification each declare something distinct about God’s work. When those distinctions remain clear, the believer’s trust is strengthened, their obedience is shaped, and the unity of faith and works becomes visible. When these distinctions blur, confusion grows and the harmony of the Christian life becomes harder to see.
Election is the Father’s eternal purpose — His sovereign love set on a people in Christ before the foundation of the world. Election anchors the story. It assures believers that the fracture between faith and works will not have the last word, because God’s purpose is older, stronger, and deeper than the Fall.
Covenant identity is God drawing people near through His promises. Scripture speaks of households hearing the Word, receiving the promises, and living under the means of grace. Covenant identity gives proximity. It describes life within the community that hears God’s voice and names Christ’s name. But covenant identity, by itself, does not create faith. It nurtures the soil where faith may grow.
Justification is the Father’s verdict in time — the declaration that a sinner is righteous in Christ through the instrument of faith only. It is God’s legal act, His present judgment that corresponds to His eternal purpose. Justification restores trust at the deepest level because it assures the believer that their standing before God rests entirely on Christ’s finished work and not on themself.
These gifts do not replace one another. They work together.
Election is God’s eternal decision.
Covenant identity is God’s present nearness.
Justification is God’s declared verdict.
Adoption flows from justification.
Sanctification grows in adoption.
The entire story is shaped by the unity of God’s will and God’s work — His faithful purpose carried out perfectly by the Father, Son, and Spirit.
Scripture insists on these distinctions because they guard the harmony God is restoring.
If election is confused with covenant identity, believers may assume proximity to the gospel is sufficient for salvation. If covenant identity is confused with justification, people may trust their upbringing or environment instead of Christ’s righteousness. If justification is confused with sanctification, believers may try to ground their standing before God in their spiritual progress instead of Christ’s finished work.
Each confusion weakens trust and burdens obedience. Each one imports our fractured experience of faith and works back into God, as if His work were as divided as our own.
But Scripture keeps these graces in their proper place because God Himself is undivided. His will and His work are one. His mercy and His justice do not pull against each other. His promises are sure because His character is steady.
The distinctions within salvation reflect the unity within God. What He purposed in eternity, He executes in history, and He applies by the Spirit in the hearts of His people.
These distinctions also help us understand the life of covenant children. Children of believers grow up hearing the Word, witnessing forgiveness, receiving prayer, and learning the rhythms of worship. Covenant identity is a profound privilege. Yet Scripture continually calls covenant children to personal faith — to trust Christ, to rest in His righteousness, to receive the Father’s welcome. Election gives parents confidence that God’s purpose can reach the heart. Covenant identity gives them the context for nurture. Justification gives them the clarity of the gospel call.
Keeping these categories clear strengthens both faith and works.
Faith rests in the Father’s eternal purpose and the Son’s finished work.
Works grow in the environment of adoption and the power of the Spirit.
Confusion blurs this harmony.
Clarity strengthens it.
By upholding these distinctions, Scripture protects the believer from two distortions: trusting in their religious environment rather than Christ, or grounding their standing with God in their obedience rather than His righteousness.
Instead, Scripture presents one coherent story:
the Father chooses,
the Son redeems,
the Spirit calls,
the believer trusts,
and obedience grows.
This brings us to the next movement in our study — how Paul and James speak in harmony, not at odds, each contributing to the unity of faith and works from a distinct vantage point.
We turn to that symmetry next.
IX. The Symmetry: Paul and James as Complementary Voices
As we reach the voices of Paul and James, the thesis of this essay continues to provide clarity: faith and works live together in perfect unity in God, were torn apart in humanity through the Fall, and are being reunited and brought toward fullness in Christ. This unity is not abstract. It belongs to God Himself. In the divine nature, God’s willing and acting are perfectly one. And in the Incarnation, the eternal Son entered our fractured humanity — experiencing temptation, anguish, pressure, and the struggle of obedience — yet without sin. In Gethsemane, Christ’s human will trembled under the weight of the cup, yet He submitted wholly to the Father. In Him the unity of trust and obedience we lost is restored in a human life, the life of Jesus Christ, the Last Adam.
This unity in God and in Christ explains why Paul and James do not stand in tension. Their messages differ because the distortions they address differ. Their tones differ because the wounds in their congregations differ. But their voices harmonize because the Spirit is restoring in believers the unity of trust and obedience revealed perfectly in the Son.
Paul: Guarding the Heart from Spiritual Self-Dependence and Gospel Drift
Paul writes with pastoral urgency because Christians drift. His letters defending justification by faith are directed to believers who already trust Christ yet quietly begin to lean on themselves again. Jack Miller notes in Justification by Faith in the Twentieth Century that Christians “slip back under the law” and fall into “self-dependence” even after receiving the gospel. Paul continually preaches and re-preaches the gospel because the heart continually loses sight of it.
This drift is deeper than a passive forgetfulness. Scripture names it as spiritual warfare. The serpent who deceived Adam and Eve now deceives God’s people in the wilderness with far more subtle strategies. Satan rarely urges blatant rebellion; instead he urges Christians to lean on themselves in ways that feel spiritual.
He tempts believers:
to trust what they sense inwardly,
to evaluate themselves and others through fluctuating emotions,
to define growth by their own standards,
to rest their assurance on internal impressions,
to trade Christ-dependence for a spiritualized self-reliance.
These shifts do not immediately feel like disobedience. To the contrary, they can often feel like maturity (without the fruit) — which is what makes them so dangerous. They are the blinding logic of the flesh: inward turns the believer cannot detect without the Spirit’s help.
Paul confronts this drift directly:
“Having begun by the Spirit, are you now being perfected by the flesh?” (Gal. 3:3)
Paul’s opponents are not outsiders but believers drifting into self-trust. They begin justified by faith in Christ but attempt to continue in their justification by inward reliance. They trust Christ for justification but trust themselves for sanctification. Paul writes to pull them back to Christ as their ongoing righteousness. The gospel is for Christians because Christians forget the gospel.
James: Guarding the Community from Lovelessness and Dead Faith
James addresses a different distortion. His concern is not that believers will try to maintain God’s approval through self-reliance, but that they will claim faith in the living Christ without allowing that faith to take visible shape — hearing without practicing, confessing without loving.
James writes to Christians who:
speak of faith yet neglect the poor,
affirm doctrine yet fail to practice mercy,
hear the Word yet remain unchanged in community life,
cling to confession yet resist obedience.
This distortion is also fueled by the flesh and used by Satan. When Satan cannot coax Christians into self-dependence, he coaxes them into complacency. If he cannot corrupt the root, he will corrupt the fruit. He whispers that sincerity is enough, that words are enough, that correct doctrine alone is enough.
James answers with pastoral clarity. He warns of “dead faith” — not because true faith dies, but because a confession without love resembles nothing of the living Christ.
In “Continuance in Justification,” Jack Miller wrote: “Grace that does not lead to obedience is not the grace Paul preached.” James insists that union with Christ produces fruit. Mercy, integrity, endurance, and compassion are not optional extras but evidence of Christ’s presence.
Paul and James therefore confront two fronts of the same wilderness battle:
Paul confronts unbelief in the heart — unbelief shaped by self-dependence.
James confronts lovelessness in the life — lovelessness shaped by self-protection.
Paul guards justification.
James guards sanctification.
Both guard the unity of faith and works being restored by the Spirit.
Abraham: One Life, Two Moments, One Restoration
Both apostles appeal to Abraham.
Paul highlights Genesis 15 — Abraham believed God, and his faith was counted as righteousness.
This is the root: trust in God’s promise.
James highlights Genesis 22 — Abraham offered Isaac in obedience.
This is the fruit: obedience shaped by trust.
Paul shows how God restores faith.
James shows how God restores obedience.
They are not competing accounts but two movements of one restoration.
At this point someone might object: “Isn’t this too neat? Aren’t we oversimplifying Abraham’s life by treating Genesis 15 and Genesis 22 as clean proof texts for Paul and James?”
Abraham’s story itself guards us from that mistake. Years of waiting, fear, wandering, sin, failure, and stumbling trust lie between those two moments.
Abraham did not move from credited righteousness to demonstrative obedience overnight; God preserved and strengthened his faith across decades.
The obedience of Genesis 22 was not the achievement of a heroic believer but the fruit of God’s persistent work in a weak and inconsistent man.
And this is how the unity of faith and works appears in every believer — not through our harmonizing faith and works from below, but through God giving and sustaining our faith in Christ until it bears the fruit of obedience demonstrating a living faith in Him to the praise of His glory and grace.
Jesus: The Unity of Trust and Obedience Restored in a Human Life
Jesus reveals what the harmony of faith and works in restored humanity looks like.
He trusts the Father fully.
He obeys the Father fully.
In the wilderness, He resists Satan where Adam failed.
In Gethsemane, His human will is pressed to its limits yet remains wholly aligned with the Father.
He restores in Himself the unity of faith and works that humanity lost.
Paul draws on this unity to secure the believer’s standing.
James draws on this unity to shape the believer’s living.
A Pastoral Warning: Rejecting “Balance Theology”
Many Christians assume the solution to the human fracture of faith-and-works tension is to “balance” justification and sanctification — as if they were two equal tracks on which the Christian life runs.
Jack Miller rejected this entirely. He warned that “balance theology” is how the flesh tries to manage the Christian life. It treats justification and sanctification as equal weights requiring constant human calibration. And wherever salvation shifts — even subtly — onto the believer’s ability to maintain balance, Satan gains a foothold.
Scripture does not balance justification and sanctification.
Scripture orders them.
Election is the Father’s eternal purpose.
Justification is the Father’s declared verdict in Christ.
Union with Christ is the environment of salvation.
Sanctification grows from this foundation through the Spirit.
Jack warned that when sanctification rises to the level of justification, “the conscience loses its peace,” and when justification is reduced to an entry point, believers “quietly shift their trust from Christ to themselves.” And when union is neglected, sanctification becomes self-help rather than Christ’s life expressed by the Spirit.
Balance confuses.
Order clarifies.
Balance burdens.
Order frees.
A Second Clarification: The Priority of Justification Over Sanctification
Scripture not only orders justification and sanctification; it gives priority to justification.
Gerhardus Vos warned that treating justification and sanctification as equal strands produces “a duality hard to put up with.”
No believer can live with two centers of gravity. Vos concluded that the forensic principle (justification) is supreme, and the transforming principle (sanctification) must remain subordinate. His summary is strikingly clear:
“Justification sets the goal and fixes the direction; sanctification follows.”
Jack Miller communicated the same truth pastorally. Many Christians imagine justification and sanctification as two equal tracks, and the Christian life as a train that requires both tracks to stay parallel. Jack insisted this always misleads believers because it subtly shifts weight onto their ability to maintain equilibrium.
Jack also pointed out the inevitable result:
When justification and sanctification function as coordinate forces, sanctification inevitably consumes justification — like Pac-Man devouring whatever lies in its path — because the flesh gravitates toward what it can use for self-measurement.
This is not hyperbole.
It is spiritual realism.
The flesh wants sanctification to replace justification so the believer can trust themselves.
For this reason, justification must remain the believer’s foundation, union with Christ must remain the believer’s life, and sanctification must remain the fruit of the Spirit’s work.
Paul guards the priority; James guards its expression.
Both honor the order God established in His saving purpose.
A Third Clarification: Why Nothing in Us Can Share the Ground of Our Acceptance
The Reformers guarded justification with unusual care because they saw how quickly the human heart leans on itself. Luther, Calvin, Owen, the Westminster Assembly, and Jack Miller all insisted that our acceptance before God rests entirely on Christ’s righteousness, received through faith as the only instrument. Nothing within the believer — not even the graces the Spirit brings forth — belongs to the foundation of justification. These works are real and valuable, but they grow in us. Justification rests wholly on Christ.
Calvin warned pastors about allowing certain words into the wrong discussion. Jack loved to repeat Calvin’s counsel:
“When you are discussing justification, beware of allowing any mention to be made of love or works. Resolve to stand on the exclusive particle.”
Calvin understood that even a small opening invites the conscience to look inward. Once love or obedience enter the courtroom, the believer instinctively examines themselves. Assurance falters. Fear returns. The gospel becomes obscure.
Owen made the same point with striking clarity:
“There is no composition allowed between personal obedience and the righteousness of Christ.”
And again:
“To mix anything with Christ’s righteousness is to renounce the gospel.”
These are pastoral warnings. The flesh seizes whatever seems measurable. Even Spirit-produced obedience cannot belong to justification because its location is in us, and justification rests on Christ’s obedience alone.
Jack Miller brought this clarity into pastoral practice. In “Continuance in Justification,” he showed how believers often rely on things they would never call “works”: the depth of their repentance, the steadiness of their devotion, the warmth of their love. These are genuine graces — but they cannot stand where Christ stands. They are fruits; they cannot become the root.
Jack saw what happens when believers shift confidence toward inward change. The conscience becomes anxious. Joy fades. Fear or pride emerges. Pastors can unintentionally worsen this by speaking of obedience in the context of acceptance rather than in sanctification. Jack warned, “Whenever sanctification drifts toward justification, the heart will lean on the wrong thing.”
And here lies one of the gospel’s great ironies — one the Reformers loved to expose:
The very moment we bring our works into justification, even calling them “non-meritorious,” we undermine the holiness we hope to encourage. Justification by works destroys good works; justification by faith alone produces them.
When the heart rests on Christ alone, the Spirit brings forth genuine love, real holiness, and the obedience James describes. When the heart leans on its own obedience, sanctification withers. The gospel protects works by keeping works out of justification.
If works enter justification at any point, it ceases to be the gospel Paul preached.
For this reason, the Reformed tradition speaks with one voice:
Faith is the sole instrument because it receives Christ alone.
Love and obedience grow in us because we belong to Christ, but they never form part of the basis on which God accepts us.
Nothing within us — even Spirit-wrought grace — belongs in the courtroom of justification.
Scripture teaches that God delights to reward the obedience He produces in His people, yet these rewards belong to the life of sanctification, not to the ground of justification. The works the Spirit brings forth are precious to God, but they remain the fruit of grace, never the basis of acceptance.
Keeping justification wholly in Christ gives the conscience rest, frees repentance, and allows obedience to flourish as the Spirit’s work. The believer grows because Christ is their righteousness — entirely and without partner.
If Christ alone stands as the ground of justification, the believer stands secure.
If Christ must share that ground, the believer cannot stand at all.
This returns us to the thesis of this essay. The unity of faith and works begins with God, not with us. In the life of the Father, Son, and Spirit, trust and obedience are never divided. Christ lived this unity perfectly in His humanity. The Spirit restores that unity within us.
However, when we attempt to harmonize faith and works ourselves from below — by blending them in justification — we repeat the fracture of the Fall. Our attempts to harmonize faith and works from below repeat Adam’s mistake: seeking life in ourselves rather than receiving it from God.
But when we receive God’s harmony from above — Christ for us in justification, Christ in us in sanctification — the restored unity of faith and works begins to appear in our lives. What humanity cannot achieve by balancing, God accomplishes by grace.
The Symmetry Completed
Jack’s pastoral theology harmonizing Paul and James reveal the unity:
Paul preaches the gospel to Christians because their hearts drift toward self-dependence.
James exhorts Christians toward obedience because their flesh drifts toward self-protection and indifference.
These are not competing emphases but complementary shepherding strategies addressing different wounds in the same flock.
Paul restores faith at the root.
James restores obedience as the fruit.
Together they show the unity the Spirit is forming in God’s people.
Together Paul and James reveal the whole gospel:
Justification secures peace with God.
Sanctification expresses that peace through love.
Paul anchors assurance.
James activates obedience.
Paul exposes self-dependence.
James exposes lovelessness.
Both reveal Satan’s strategies.
Both honor Christ’s obedience.
Both rely on the Spirit’s power.
Both unfold the Father’s eternal purpose.
Both help restore in believers the unity of faith and works the Fall shattered.
This harmony leads naturally into the next movement — the joy, assurance, and freedom that rise when believers rest in Christ’s righteousness and walk in His love.
X. The Joy: How This Restoration Transforms the Heart
When the voices of Paul and James are heard together — not in tension but as partners in God’s restoring work — the Christian life takes on a new clarity.
The gospel begins to settle into the inner places where fear and confusion have lived.
The Spirit brings order where there was disorder, steadiness where there was drifting, and harmony where there was division.
The result is joy.
This joy is not loud or dramatic; it is steady and deep.
It rises as the believer walks in the life Christ has secured and the Spirit is shaping.
This joy grows in recognizable ways.
A. Assurance: Christ as the Foundation of Peace
When justification retains its biblical priority, the conscience finds a firm foundation. Peace with God is not an aspiration but a present reality. Paul declares this in Romans 5 when he writes, “we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” This peace reshapes the inner world. The believer is no longer tossed back and forth by inward assessments. Christ’s righteousness becomes the fixed ground for facing each day.
Assurance grows through this settled relationship. It deepens through union with Christ, because union teaches the believer that Christ Himself is their life. It strengthens through the Spirit’s witness, aligning the believer’s heart with the Father’s welcome. Assurance becomes the atmosphere in which the believer lives — not an occasional experience but a steady reality.
B. Repentance: Returning to the Father With Confidence
When Christ secures the believer’s standing, repentance becomes a return to the Father. The Spirit awakens the heart to see where trust has shifted toward self-reliance and draws the believer back into communion. Jack Miller often described repentance as turning from unbelief and returning to grace. Repentance in this sense has warmth rather than fear. It reconnects the believer to the Father’s love, restores clarity, renews trust, and becomes part of the daily rhythm of life with God.
God’s Ordinary Means of Grace
God carries this restored unity of faith and love into the daily life of His people through what the church has long called His ordinary means of grace — the Word, the sacraments, and prayer. Through these means, God Himself nourishes faith, strengthens assurance, deepens repentance, and shapes obedience. They are not techniques we use to climb toward God, but gifts God uses to draw us more deeply into Christ. These means are His appointed ways of restoring in us the unity of trusting and obeying that He Himself embodies and Christ revealed.
C. Prayer: The Voice of Restored Faith
Prayer is where the restored unity of faith and works becomes most relationally visible. In prayer, faith speaks and obedience kneels. Prayer is the trust of a beloved sons and daughters reaching toward the Father through the Son by the Spirit. It is the posture of a child embraced by the Father’s love. The Spirit teaches believers to cry, “Abba, Father,” not because their faith is strong, but because they belong to Christ. In prayer, the heart turns again from self-dependence to divine grace. Prayer becomes the place where the unity Christ lived — trusting the Father and obeying Him — begins to appear in the lives of His people.
D. Scripture: The Word That Restores Faith and Shapes Love
Scripture is the Spirit’s primary instrument for restoring what the Fall fractured. Through the Word, God reveals Christ, strengthens trust, corrects wandering, and forms obedience. Scripture anchors the believer outside himself and directs hope toward God’s promises rather than inward moods or performance. The same Word that announces justification also instructs in the life of love. As the Spirit opens the Scriptures to the believer’s heart, faith deepens and love takes its true shape. Scripture keeps justification clear, sanctification grounded, and obedience directed toward the Father’s will.
E. The Sacraments: God’s Visible Word Strengthening Faith and Love
The sacraments stand beside Scripture as God’s visible Word. In baptism and the Lord’s Supper, God confirms the grace He proclaims in the gospel. These are not human offerings but divine signs and seals given to His people. Through them, the Spirit strengthens faith, nourishes love, deepens assurance, and sustains obedience. The sacraments press the life of Christ into our senses — water, bread, and wine bearing witness to the Father’s promises, Christ’s righteousness, and the Spirit’s ongoing work. They anchor the believer in God’s initiative and help restore the unity of trusting and obeying.
F. Obedience: The Life of Christ Forming Within
Obedience takes shape through union with Christ. The believer participates in the Son’s life, and the Spirit forms Christ’s character within them. Obedience grows from this shared life. It emerges from faith that has taken root. It develops as the Spirit strengthens the will, clarifies the mind, and redirects desires. The believer’s obedience carries the marks of Christ’s life: humility, courage, patience, truthfulness, generosity, endurance, and purity. This obedience is sincere and active. It is not perfection, but it is real transformation.
G. Love: The Visible Form of the New Creation
Love stands at the center of sanctification. Scripture presents love as the fulfillment of the moral law and the signature of Christ’s life in His people. This love expresses itself in concrete actions: care for the weak, patience in conflict, compassion toward the hurting, and truthful speech that builds up. Love is the restored unity of faith and works in Christ made visible in us. Trust in Christ shapes how the believer sees others. The Spirit’s presence shapes how the believer responds to others.
H. Freedom: A Life Shaped by Grace
Freedom takes its shape from God’s saving initiative. When justification secures acceptance and union with Christ gives a new identity, the Spirit opens a path for real freedom. The believer is freed from the need to secure approval, freed from the fear of condemnation, freed from the weight of measuring themselves. This freedom creates space for growth and strength for obedience. It matures as the heart becomes more aligned with Christ and rests in the Father’s love.
I. Community: A People Formed by the Gospel
Even as these restorations take shape in individuals, the church collectively and concurrently also experiences renewal as a community. When justification is central, harshness softens and accusations diminish. When union with Christ defines identity, divisions lose their power. When sanctification flows from grace, obedience becomes shared rather than competitive.
A gospel-formed community welcomes the weary, strengthens the struggling, encourages repentance, models forgiveness, practices generosity, and walks in humility. Faith and works, restored in individuals, become visible together in community.
J. Hope: Joy on the Path Toward Glory
The restored unity of faith and works lifts the believer’s eyes toward the future. Paul and James both speak with conviction that the Spirit’s work will continue until the day Christ is revealed. Hope arises because Christ has secured the end from the beginning. It takes root because the Spirit brings the life of the new creation into the present. It grows because the Father has promised to complete His work. Hope strengthens endurance and feeds joy.
K. Sorrow: The Groaning of the New Creation
The restoration of faith and works in Christ does not remove sorrow from the Christian life. Until the new creation arrives in fullness, joy and sorrow walk together. Scripture describes believers as “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,” not because sorrow cancels joy or joy denies sorrow, but because both belong to the life of the Spirit in a fallen world.
The Spirit restores trust and obedience, but He restores them in a world still marked by loss, weakness, suffering, and delay. Sorrow becomes the groaning of the new creation within us — the ache of longing for the day when faith will become sight and love perfected. This sorrow is not unbelief; it is faith learning to patiently wait.
In sorrow, the believer turns to God with tears, trusting that the Father receives them, the Son walks with them, and the Spirit sustains them. Sorrow does not compete with joy; it deepens it.
This joy prepares us for the final movement of the essay — the beautiful simplicity of God’s salvation, where the unity God restores in Christ becomes the song of the whole Christian life.
XI. Conclusion: The Beautiful Simplicity of God’s Salvation
When the whole landscape of Scripture is allowed to speak in its fullness — election in the Father, justification in the Son, union with Christ by the Spirit, sanctification as the Spirit’s work, and obedience as the expression of renewed life — the entire story of salvation becomes clear and simple.
The unity God designed for humanity, shattered in the Fall, is being restored by the Last Adam. The harmony of faith and works that lived effortlessly in Eden, and was lost in the wilderness, is being brought to completion in Christ. What sin destroyed, God is restoring. What humanity fractured, Christ is healing. What the serpent corrupted, the Spirit is making new.
This restoration unfolds with a beautiful coherence.
Election reveals the Father’s eternal love.
Justification reveals Christ’s finished work.
Union brings the believer into Christ’s life.
Sanctification reveals Christ’s character through the Spirit.
Obedience expresses that life in love.
Faith receives; love reveals.
Christ holds both together in Himself.
The biblical order gives the Christian life stability.
The priority of justification protects the conscience.
Union with Christ gives the believer a new identity.
Sanctification unfolds as the life of Christ formed within His people.
This order holds because God Himself holds it.
It reflects the harmony within the Trinity, displayed in the humanity of Christ, and applied to the church through the Spirit.
This harmony is not theoretical; it shapes real lives. Believers learn to trust more deeply and to love more freely. They grow in patience because the Father is patient. They persevere because Christ persevered. They forgive because they have been forgiven. They serve because the Spirit forms Christ’s humility within them. They endure suffering because Christ walked the same path and remains with them in every weakness. They hope because God’s promises anchor the future.
The church becomes a community formed by this restoration. The weary find strength. The fearful find assurance. The proud are humbled. The wounded are comforted. Children hear the gospel with expectancy. Saints near the end of their race rest in the promise of glory. Believers strengthen one another as they walk together toward the new creation. Faith becomes communal. Love becomes shared. The gospel becomes visible.
And Christ remains at the center.
He is the One who reveals the Father’s love.
He is the One who secures the believer’s righteousness.
He is the One who unites the church to Himself.
He is the One whose life the Spirit forms in His people.
He is the One whose obedience shapes their obedience.
He is the One whose love shapes their love.
He is the One who brings faith and works together again in those who belong to Him.
The Christian life, in the end, is this: living from Christ, in Christ, and toward Christ, until faith becomes sight and love is perfected in glory.
This is the story God is writing.
This is the salvation Scripture proclaims.
This is the unity the Spirit restores.
This is the path believers walk today.
And this is the world Christ will reveal in fullness when He returns.
Faith and works will live together again, not through human balance or human strength, but through the grace of God — the grace that begins in the Father, shines in the Son, moves through the Spirit, and carries the people of God all the way home.
To understand the relationship of faith and works, we must begin where Scripture begins — with God Himself.
In the life of Father, Son, and Spirit, faith and works have never been divided. God’s willing and His working are one.
Christ reveals this unity in His own human life.
The Spirit brings this unity into the lives of believers.
The Fall fractured trust and obedience in us; the gospel restores them through Christ.
When we start with the relationship of faith and works from God’s perspective rather than man’s perspective, the whole story becomes clear —
Faith receives Christ; works express Christ; and the Spirit brings both into harmony as He conforms us to the Son.
This is the unity God always intended, the unity Christ lived, and the unity the Spirit is restoring — the unity of faith in Christ powerfully working out in love to God and others.
Some may feel that all of this is too much — too long, too layered, too theological. But the gospel is simple — breathtakingly simple — and its depth is inexhaustible.
The simplicity belongs to Christ Himself: Christ for us, Christ with us, Christ in us. Everything else in this essay is simply tracing that one truth through the places Scripture takes it.
We explore these depths not to complicate the good news, but because our hearts are complicated by fear, shame, self-dependence, and confusion. The gospel meets us in that complexity with a simplicity that holds: Jesus is our righteousness, and Jesus is our life.
Anyone who belongs to Him already knows the heart of this essay — even if they do not know all of its language — because they know Him.
In the end, the relationship of faith and works becomes clear only when we begin with God rather than ourselves.
In God, faith and works are perfectly one — the Father willing, the Son obeying, the Spirit applying. Christ displayed this unity in His humanity. The Spirit restores it in His people.
When we try to harmonize faith and works from our side, we lose both. When we receive God’s harmony from His side — justification resting wholly on Christ, sanctification flowing from union with Him — the unity of faith working through love begins to shine again in the lives of believers.
This is the way God restores what the Fall destroyed. And this is the life He gives His people through Christ.
Faith vs. Magic: A Biblical Theology of Science, Culture, and Discipleship in a Disenchanted World
Introduction
On a recent visit to Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom, I stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others under the shadow of Cinderella’s castle, waiting for the fireworks to begin. The crowd was packed in tightly. There were no masks. No reminders about social distancing. No visible concern for viral transmission. There was only the anticipation of spectacle, carefully choreographed music, and the childlike wonder that Disney has been perfecting and selling for nearly a century. It felt like things had returned to “normal”—as if the pandemic had never happened.
But rewind to the same place four years earlier, in 2021, and you would have witnessed a strikingly different scene. After months of global shutdowns, Disney had just reopened its parks to the public under strict COVID-19 protocols. Vicki and I went during that period. Entry was timed and limited. Crowds were reduced. Queues were spaced out with markers. Hand sanitizer stations were everywhere. Temperature checks were performed at park entrances. Plexiglass dividers separated guests in line. Staff routinely reminded people to wear their masks properly and to follow guidelines. The whole experience was a hybrid of nostalgia and unease—“the most magical place on earth,” sanitized, regulated, and scientifically justified.
The contrast between those two scenes—Disney 2021 and Disney 2025—is more than a shift in public health policy. It functions as a cultural parable. In both cases, decisions were made based on competing visions of truth, risk, authority, and hope. Both environments, in different ways, reflected the modern world’s deep desire to manage fear and uncertainty through external means. And both provide a living example of what Jack Miller once described as the difference between faith and magic.
In a lecture titled “Faith vs. Magic in the Modern World,” Jack Miller—a Presbyterian pastor, missionary, and professor—made a distinction that is both spiritually searching and culturally clarifying. He said that both faith and magic use things and words. They both act in the world. But the difference lies in the direction:
“Faith uses things and words in God’s creation to express surrender to God.”
Conversely,
“Magic uses things and words in God’s creation to try to control God.”
This contrast is not peripheral—it cuts to the heart of human experience. Magic, as Jack defined it, is not limited to the occult or to superstition. It is not confined to voodoo, séances, or fantasy novels.
Rather, magic is a spiritual stand that seeks control over life’s outcomes—especially control over the divine—by using the tools that God has made: things, words, rituals, ideas, relationships, even theology.
Faith, by contrast, is the act of entrusting oneself to God, relinquishing control, and receiving His promises. Faith is silent before God. It is humble and receptive. It begins with surrender, not leverage.
Jack’s distinction comes with deep biblical roots. Romans 1 says that humanity, in its rebellion, “exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator” (Rom. 1:25). That is magic: the use of created things—whether wood and stone, or scientific language and religious rituals—to try to secure power apart from surrender to God.
In contrast, Scripture consistently shows that the life of faith begins in silence (Hab. 2:20; Ps. 46:10), continues in surrender (Rom. 12:1), and ends in praise (Rom. 11:33–36).
The modern world, especially in its secular form, claims to have outgrown magic. We have science, reason, data, and evidence. We leave spells and charms to ancient cultures. But a closer look reveals that the structure of magic is alive and well, only now hidden behind the trappings of modernity. We continue to use language as incantation, especially in politics, therapy, and science.
This essay argues that the real spiritual conflict in modern life is not between faith and science. It is between faith and magic.
And because that distinction is rarely seen, we often get the categories wrong. We accuse faith of being anti-science, when the real issue is that science itself has been used magically—treated as autonomous and unquestionable.
This framework has wide-ranging implications. In the sections that follow, we will apply Jack Miller’s insight into faith and magic to multiple arenas of modern life:
We will examine how science—especially in public health—can operate either by faith or by magic.
We will explore how psychology and mental health, when separated from repentance and union with Christ, can offer counterfeit peace.
We will show how environmental discourse shifts into magic when nature is deified.
We will engage with political science, analyzing how politics becomes magical when it assumes redemptive power.
And finally, we will return to the church, where even the best of theology—especially Jack’s own Sonship emphasis—can also become a tool of magic when it is reduced to therapy or technique, rather than grounded in surrender to the living Christ.
In each of these domains, we will trace how created words and things are being used. Are our God’s words and God’s things in God’s good creation being offered up in faith, or are they being wielded in magic? Are they being trusted as means of surrender, or as tools of control? Are they leading us deeper into repentance and hope in Christ, or are they functioning as sacraments of self-reliance?
A second goal of this essay is to reframe the conversation around science and faith. Much of the public discourse—both in secular and Christian circles—frames the conflict as “faith versus science,” implying that belief in God is irrational, and that science is the path of truth.
We want to challenge that frame at its root. Science itself, as a method, is not the issue. It is the spiritual presuppositions under its practice that matters. Is science being practiced in faith—by people who know their limits, seek wisdom, and humbly submit to God’s truth? Or is science being wielded in magic—by people who seek control, certainty, and salvation through control, management, and technique?
Finally, we will return to the church. The test of this essay is not only whether we can critique the world’s use of science, politics, or psychology, but whether we can critique ourselves.
One of the most sobering realities is that even gospel-centered theology can become magical. As I’ll argue later in connection to my critique of Sonship, when we take phrases like “preach the gospel to yourself” and turn them into magical mantras, we fall into the very trap Jack warned about. We begin to use the words and things of God not to surrender, but to control.
This is why we must return, again and again, to the biblical vision of faith. True faith begins in silence, grows in surrender, and bears fruit through the power of the Spirit.
Biblical faith does not need to control, because it rests in the One who reigns. It does not seek shortcuts or incantations, because it trusts in the finished work of Christ. And it does not fear science, politics, psychology, or technology—because it knows that nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord (Rom. 8:38–39).
I. Jack Miller’s Theology of Faith and Magic
When Jack Miller stood before his students to lecture on “Faith vs. Magic in the Modern World,” he was not offering abstract spiritual categories. He was giving them diagnostic tools. Jack was concerned with how real people—especially believers and pastors—approach God and use His gifts. His insight was that people may do all the right things externally, and even use the right biblical words, but with a spirit of control rather than surrender. That, Jack said, was the spirit of magic.
A. Defining Faith and Magic in Jack’s Own Terms
The key to Jack Miller’s understanding lies in this fundamental distinction:
“Faith uses things and words in God’s creation to express surrender to God.
“Magic uses things and words in God’s creation to try to control God.”
While both faith and magic employ the same basic raw material—words, objects, rituals, actions—the difference is in underlying position and purpose. Faith submits to God’s character and promises. Magic reverses the relationship, using religious or natural tools to manipulate outcomes.
Jack organizes this difference around three key contrasts:
Silence vs. Self-Assertion
Faith begins by being silenced before the majesty of God. Jack cites Habakkuk 2:20 and Psalm 46:10 as entry points into true worship:
“Be still and know that I am God.”
Faith does not rush to explain, justify, or control. It bows. It yields. In contrast, magic is built on self-assertion—a refusal to be quiet before God. It must speak, must act, must take hold of something in order to feel secure.
Surrender vs. Manipulation
Faith surrenders to God’s terms, trusting in His mercy and love. It accepts God’s promises not as tools but as gifts. Jack references the Westminster Confession’s language of “accepting, receiving, and resting on Christ alone” as central to saving faith.
By contrast, magic tries to manipulate the divine. It uses formulas, rituals, or language—whether sacred or secular—to try to guarantee results. It presumes upon divine power without submitting to divine personhood.
Power Through Union with Christ vs. Power Through Technique
Jack is emphatic: faith has power—not because of what it is in itself, but because it unites the believer to Christ.
“Faith has power in it and in the Bible it’s virtually a synonym… for the presence of the Holy Spirit.”
Magic, however, seeks power through technique: saying the right words, doing the right steps, mastering the right systems. It seeks God’s power without God’s presence—results without relationship.
These distinctions are not unique to Jack, though his articulation is particularly clear and pastorally charged. He quotes Gerhardus Vos’s definition of magic:
“Magic is a paganistic reversal of the process of religion in which man, instead of letting himself be used by God for the divine purpose, drags down his god to the level of a tool which he uses for his own selfish purpose.”
That “reversal of religion” is central to Jack’s theology. It is the rebellion of Romans 1, the folly of Babel, the sin behind both ancient paganism and modern spiritual technique.
B. Words and Things: Jack’s Central Insight
Jack’s most arresting contribution is his focus on how both faith and magic use words and things in the created order.
This is the theological and anthropological key that unlocks not only biblical texts but contemporary patterns of behavior.
Faith, in Jack’s telling, uses physical things and spoken words sacramentally—not in a formal liturgical sense, but in a spiritual surrender of oneself to God. A prayer is not a means to control God, but a cry of dependence. A confession of sin is not a transaction but a self-emptying. Even Scripture itself, when read in faith, functions not as a tool to control God’s response, but as a window into His grace and holiness.
Magic, by contrast, uses those same words and things in God’s creation to manipulate God. Prayer becomes a form of leverage. Confession becomes a bargaining chip. Scripture becomes a formula: read the right verse, recite the right promise, and God will do what you want. Magic is not about whether one uses the Bible or theology or tradition—it is about how those words and things are used. Is the user in a position of surrender or control?
This distinction is urgently needed today. Even within the church, and often within conservative and Reformed circles, the temptation to magical thinking remains powerful. We speak of “means of grace,” but we often use them as means of control. We trust our spiritual disciplines to produce growth on our timetable. We wield doctrinal language as tools for emotional management. We confuse memorizing with trust. In short, we are not immune to the reversal of religion that Jack Miller and Gerhardus Vos described. We simply dress it in orthodoxy.
C. Biblical Foundations
Jack’s theology is deeply biblical, and the difference between faith and magic is on full display throughout the Scriptures.
Exodus 20:3–7
The first and third commandments forbid not only the worship of other gods but also the misuse of God’s name. Jack points out that the third commandment is not primarily about profanity but about attempting to use God’s name for personal gain. That is, magic. When we use God’s name to “make things happen,” we have already inverted faith into manipulation.
Romans 1:21–25
Paul gives a theological anthropology of idolatry: “They exchanged the truth of God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator.” The lie is not merely that idols exist—it is that power can be found in creation apart from submission to the Creator.
Acts 8:9–24 (Simon the Magician)
Simon attempts to purchase the power of the Holy Spirit. He wants to wield God’s power without yielding to God’s Person. Peter’s rebuke—“Your heart is not right before God”—gets to the issue: the use of sacred things for personal control is magic, not faith.
Acts 19:11–20 (The Sons of Sceva)
Jewish exorcists attempt to use the name of Jesus “whom Paul preaches” to cast out demons. The demon replies, “Jesus I know, and Paul I recognize—but who are you?” (Acts 19:15). The name of Jesus is not a spell. Without union to Christ, it has no power. This is a vivid biblical picture of using words without relationship.
Isaiah 30:1–3
“Woe to the rebellious children,” declares the Lord, “who execute a plan, but not mine… who set out to go down to Egypt, without asking for my direction.” Trusting in Egypt’s chariots rather than in God’s protection is a political version of magic. It’s the strategy of control, not the position of faith.
D. The Power of Faith — and the Futility of Magic
For Jack, the beauty of faith is that it receives real power—but never on its own terms. Faith is the human side of divine union. It is not a force; it is a vessel. In his words:
“Faith doesn’t save you. It only gives you Christ, who does save you.”
This is vital. Faith is not a work. It is not a kind of psychological achievement. It is not “doing better at believing.” It is a ceasing of self-effort. It is being still before God. It is, as Jack often repeated, “shutting your big mouth” and coming to Christ empty-handed.
Magic, by contrast, is inherently weak. Though it can have a kind of psychological or social power, it cannot deliver what it promises. It may bind, deceive, or distract, but it cannot redeem. The reason is simple: God is not a tool to be used. He is a Father to be feared and loved.
Jack understood this not only as a theologian but as a pastor. He had watched people confess their sins in order to manipulate outcomes. He had seen converts who used Jesus as a temporary power source and then abandoned Him when things got hard. He had seen himself fall into similar patterns. This is why, for Jack, the theology of faith and magic was never abstract. It was the most practical of doctrines.
E. From Theology to Culture: Setting the Frame
If Jack’s categories are true, they are not just theological—they are diagnostic. They help us interpret not only our personal spirituality, but the position on which entire cultures stand. They help us see how science, politics, therapy, education, and even Christian discipleship can operate either by faith or by magic.
The test is always this: Are we using created things and words in order to surrender to God—or in order to control outcomes? Are we humbling ourselves before the Creator, or are we exalting ourselves through His creation? Do our disciplines, doctrines, and decisions arise from a faith position of dependence—or from the spirit of control and mastery?
This is the question that will guide the rest of this essay. In the following sections, we will apply Jack’s framework to the modern world: to science and public health, to mental health and therapy, to environmental concerns, to politics, to technology and Artificial Intelligence, and finally to the church’s own gospel language. But in each case, we will come back to this basic insight: faith surrenders; magic controls. And the line between the two is not always where we expect it.
II. Cultural Misunderstandings of Magic
Ask a modern person what magic is, and they will likely think of sleight-of-hand card tricks, stage illusions, or the fictional spells of fantasy novels and movies. Some may associate it with ancient religious rituals or superstitions—voodoo dolls, astrological charts, or attempts to summon spirits. Others, shaped by post-Enlightenment rationalism, will simply dismiss magic as the irrational beliefs of pre-scientific people.
In the modern imagination, magic is often seen as the opposite of reason. We think of witches in the woods or Harry Potter casting spells. Magic is superstition. Science is truth. Enlightenment has replaced enchantment.
But Jack Miller challenged that tidy distinction—not to defend superstition, but to expose a deeper form of magic that pervades even the most “rational” and secular environments.
In fact, one of Jack’s great insights was that modernity hasn’t eliminated magic—it has simply relocated it.
What was once practiced with charms and idols is now practiced with credentials and language. What was once done in temples is now done in laboratories, therapy offices, polling stations, and even churches.
Jack’s definition of magic, drawn from the biblical story and sharpened by Reformed theology, is this:
Magic is the attempt to use the words and things of creation to gain control—especially over God—without surrender.
Magic is not anti-religious. It is a religious distortion—a reversal of true worship, as Vos called it.
“Magic is a paganistic reversal of the process of religion in which man, instead of letting himself be used by God for the divine purpose, drags down his god to the level of a tool which he uses for his own selfish purpose.”
—Gerhardus Vos, Biblical Theology, p. 153
Vos’s critique echoes the indictment of Romans 1: humanity did not stop worshiping. Instead, it “exchanged the truth of God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator” (Rom. 1:25).
Magic is not the absence of religion; it is disordered religion. Magic is worship turned man-ward. And because of that, magic can hide in anything. It doesn’t require a wand or a ritual circle. It only requires a heart that wants to be god.
This is why Jack was so concerned that Christians understand the biblical and spiritual nature of magic. It is far more widespread—and far more subtle—than we often imagine.
A. Magic in the Modern World: Reenchanted Secularism
Contrary to what secularism promised, the modern world is not disenchanted—it is reenchanted, just differently.
As historian Jason Ānanda Josephson-Storm has shown in The Myth of Disenchantment, modernity’s claim to have banished magic is itself an illusion; what actually disappeared was the vocabulary for naming it. The sacred was not erased but re-channeled—moved from temples to laboratories, from priests to experts.
The same spiritual hunger remains. The same desire to be in control, to escape vulnerability, to find meaning, and to protect ourselves from suffering is still operative. But now, the language has changed.
Magic now dresses in lab coats and therapeutic language. It speaks in technocratic jargon and moral imperatives. It presents itself as neutral, rational, and objective. But its purpose is still to use created things—especially words—to control the outcomes of life without bowing before God.
This is why language is one of the most powerful places where modern magic hides. We use phrases like:
Scientific / Technocratic
“The data speak for themselves.”
“The science is settled.”
“Trust the process.”
“That’s what the model shows.”
“We have the numbers.”
Therapeutic / Self-help
“You have to live your truth.”
“Don’t let anyone steal your peace.”
“You are enough.”
“Set your intentions and the universe will provide.”
“Manifest it.”
Political / Cultural
“We’re on the right side of history.”
“Silence is violence.”
“Make America great again.”
“Believe the science.”
“No justice, no peace.”
Technological / Algorithmic
“The algorithm knows what I like.”
“The app said it’s good for me.”
“There’s an update for that.”
“Just Google it.”
Each of these phrases can function at times like an incantation—a short, symbolic utterance designed not to persuade or submit, but to control the conversation, to close the door on dissent, and to declare power.
Jack saw this clearly. In his lecture, he warned that magic is often disguised by sincerity. “Talk to people who are into magic,” he said, “and they lay great stress on their sincerity.” But sincerity alone does not make something faith.
Faith is not just emotional commitment. It is surrender. It begins in silence. It leads to obedience. Magic can be sincere. But it is still about control.
B. From Enlightenment to Enchantment: The Secular Liturgies of Magic
In his analysis of modern secularism, philosopher Charles Taylor describes how modern societies are governed by what he calls “secular liturgies.” These are routines, rituals, and habits that shape how we imagine the world and our place in it—even if they are not formally religious. Shopping, voting, online behavior, school testing, and healthcare all function with implicit values, ultimate hopes, and narratives of salvation.
This is precisely where magic lives.
Take the liturgies of consumerism: we are promised joy, status, transformation, and even community through the purchase and display of goods.
Marketing functions as a form of magic: images and words are used to bend desire and behavior without addressing the heart’s deeper need.
Or consider the liturgies of politics: we are promised peace, security, and identity through national allegiance, policy victory, or institutional loyalty.
Political speech often functions magically—slogans like “Build Back Better,” “Make America Great Again,” or “The Right Side of History” operate as symbolic phrases that claim moral power without spiritual surrender.
Even scientific discourse, which claims to be the furthest from religion, can often become magical. This occurs not when scientists do science, but when the culture surrounds them with spiritual weight—treating data as sacred, consensus as infallible, and models as oracles.
These are not empty rituals. They are deeply formative. They shape how we imagine the world. But unless they are grounded in surrender to the Creator, they become—biblically speaking—forms of magic.
C. Kuyper, Bavinck, and the Reformed Critique of Modern Magic
This critique is not new to Jack Miller. It echoes the best of Reformed thought. Abraham Kuyper, for instance, wrote that the danger of modernity was not merely secularism, but autonomy—man seeking to live independently of God’s Word and rule.
“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
Kuyper warned against the religious pretensions of every sphere—science, art, politics, education. Each had a tendency to absolutize itself when separated from Christ’s lordship. This absolutizing tendency is precisely what Jack called magic.
Herman Bavinck also addressed this in his doctrine of revelation. He argued that all knowledge is covenantal—either in covenantal submission to God or in rebellion. There is no truly neutral knowing. To “know truly” is to know from a position of reverence and dependence. Bavinck insisted that modernity’s attempt to ground truth in human reason alone was a form of idolatry:
“A science that is divorced from God… loses itself in a boundless sea of relativity.”
In this light, faith is not anti-science. Faith is science’s only true foundation.
What Jack added to Kuyper and Bavinck was a sharp pastoral edge: he saw how this covenantal knowledge plays out in real people, real hearts, and real churches. He saw how the self-sufficient scientist and the self-sufficient preacher were not so different. Both can use words to control, rather than to worship.
D. Setting the Stage
This section lays the groundwork for what follows. By correcting the cultural misunderstanding of magic, we are prepared to recognize how it manifests today—not just in ancient paganism, but in modern politics, psychology, environmentalism, technology, and theology.
The question is never just “What are we doing?” but always “Why are we doing it—and how are we doing it?”
Are we operating by faith or by magic? Are we using words and things to surrender to God, or to secure our own safety, identity, and control?
As we now move into cultural case studies, Jack’s framework will help us avoid both cynicism and naïveté. The goal is not to reject public health, science, psychology, or political engagement. It is to discern the spirit behind how we use them—and to recover the faith position in all of life.
III. Science as Modern Magic
One of the clearest places where the conflict between faith and magic emerges today is in our use of science.
In much of contemporary public discourse, science is portrayed as the very opposite of faith—neutral, objective, progressive, and grounded in empirical truth.
Faith, by contrast, is seen as subjective, irrational, and concerned with unverifiable claims.
But this popular binary, so often repeated in media and educational systems, rests on a category error.
The real issue is not faith vs. science. It is faith vs. magic—and science itself can operate in either position.
Jack Miller was not anti-science. His life and ministry regularly engaged with physicians, psychologists, and scholars. But he understood deeply how modern people, even Christians, are tempted to treat science not as a gift of God to be stewarded in humility, but as a source of salvation to be wielded in control.
Jack saw that science, like anything else in creation, could become an object of misplaced trust—and therefore, of spiritual distortion. He saw how easily the language and tools of science could be used magically.
This section explores how that distortion works—and how a biblical vision of faith reclaims science for God’s glory.
A. The Magic of Modern Science: Promises and Positions
Magic, in Jack’s framework, is not the use of candles and potions. It is the use of created things and words to control life without surrender to God.
When science is used in this way, it becomes a form of modern magic and enchantment. It promises what only God can give—certainty, safety, identity, healing, peace.
Consider the language used around science today:
“The science is settled.”
“Trust the science.”
“We must follow the science.”
These are not scientific statements. They are cultural incantations—ritual phrases designed to invoke power, silence dissent, and signal moral superiority. Their function is not explanatory but authoritative, even salvific.
In this way, science becomes an idol—treated not as a process of inquiry, but as an unquestionable source of truth and control.
This is especially evident in public crises. During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, scientific data was treated with near-liturgical reverence. Charts and graphs were invoked like religious texts. Expert opinions were repeated as dogma. At times, changing policies were justified not through transparent reasoning but through appeals to invisible authority—“the science says,” even when the details were unclear or evolving.
Scientific uncertainty, which is normal and even healthy, was suppressed in favor of ritualized certainty. And those who questioned the application of science were often treated not as partners in discernment, but as heretics.
This magical position is not limited to public health. It shows up in climate science, economic forecasting, social data analysis, and more.
What all these share in common is the subtle shift from science as a method of exploration to science as a mechanism of control.
In other words, science becomes magic.
B. The Roots of Scientific Magic: A Theological Perspective
This distortion has deep roots. As Reformed theologians like Abraham Kuyper and Herman Bavinck observed, modern science emerged from a Christian worldview: a belief in an ordered creation, governed by laws that could be studied because they were designed by a rational God.
But over time, the West tried to retain the fruits of science while cutting off its theological roots. What remained was not truly neutral inquiry, but a new form of religion.
Bavinck warned against this drift. He saw that when science divorces itself from God, it inevitably becomes a religious substitute:
“In the rejection of God’s self-revelation, human reason seeks to become its own norm. But a science divorced from God cannot ground itself. It drifts into relativism—or worse, into idolatry.”
—Herman Bavinck, Reformed Dogmatics
Kuyper echoed this concern in more cultural terms. In his famous Stone Lectures, he explained how every sphere of human life—science included—is governed by spiritual presuppositions.
There is no neutral ground. All knowledge is covenantal: it arises either from a position of surrender to Christ or from a position of rebellion against Him.
“No single piece of our mental world is to be hermetically sealed off from the rest, and 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, Lectures on Calvinism
When science forgets this, it becomes what Jack Miller would call a system of magical thinking—a way of managing the world without yielding to the Lord of the world.
C. Biblical Warnings: When Knowledge Becomes Idolatry
Scripture warns repeatedly that knowledge, in itself, is not always a blessing. It can become a snare when used without humility and worship.
Genesis 11 – The Tower of Babel is the first scientific utopia: “Come, let us make a name for ourselves.” Human ingenuity is marshaled not to glorify God but to secure self-protection and self-exaltation.
Isaiah 30:1–2 – Israel’s leaders “carry out a plan, but not mine… to take refuge in the protection of Pharaoh.” They use strategy and diplomacy to control outcomes—but not in faith.
1 Corinthians 8:1 – “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” Paul warns against treating knowledge as moral superiority rather than as a tool for service.
Romans 1:22 – “Claiming to be wise, they became fools.” When knowledge is divorced from worship, it leads not to enlightenment but to darkness.
These passages expose the spiritual danger of scientific arrogance—not because knowledge is bad, but because human hearts are idol factories (as Calvin said).
When science becomes a tool for moral justification or a substitute for divine wisdom, it becomes magic.
D. Faith and Science: A Better Way
So how should Christians approach science? Not with suspicion or fear, but with faith.
Science practiced by faith:
Begins with silence before God—a recognition that we are creatures, not creators (Job 38–42).
Pursues truth over control—asking what is, not what we wish were so.
Embraces wisdom over certainty—knowing that knowledge is limited (Eccl. 1:18).
Aims for service over mastery—using knowledge to glorify God, love neighbors, and steward creation.
Remains accountable to Scripture and the church—refusing to place science above revelation.
Jack Miller’s pastoral insight was that power without surrender is always dangerous.
Even good things—even science—can become spiritual threats when they are used to avoid dependence on God. But when submitted to Christ, scientific work by faith can be an act of worship.
Scientists, doctors, data analysts, and engineers who walk by faith are not less scientific—they are more faithful and more scientific. They recognize that their work is part of God’s providence, and that their knowledge, however precise, is still contingent, still finite, still dependent on mercy.
E. Discerning the Spirit: Questions to As
In practice, how can we discern whether science is being practiced in faith or in magic? Here are some diagnostic questions, drawn from Jack’s categories:
Are we using scientific language to confess our limitations—or to assert our control?
Are we open to being wrong—or committed to being unquestioned?
Do we see science as a tool to serve God and neighbor—or as a way to save ourselves?
Do we begin with prayer and the Word—or with data and technique?
These are not merely academic questions. They are spiritual ones. For behind every spreadsheet, every model, every headline claiming “the science says,” there is a heart. And that heart is either bowing—or building a tower.
IV. Case Study: Public Health and COVID — Faith vs. Magic in Crisis
When the COVID-19 pandemic struck the world in early 2020, it created a perfect storm of fear, fragility, and dependence on authority.
In such moments of vulnerability, human beings instinctively reach for whatever promises control. We want solutions. We want protection. We want someone—or something—to tell us what to do, and to assure us it will work.
In that context, science and public health became more than tools for care. They became, in many cases, mechanisms of magical enchantment.
The use of data, models, protocols, and slogans—often divorced from transparency, humility, or spiritual framing—created a culture of what Jack Miller would unmistakably label modern magic.
This is not to say that pandemic science was inherently bad. Nor is it to dismiss public health efforts that saved lives. Jack himself would have affirmed that disease control, when practiced in humility and dependence on God, is an act of love. But when science becomes unquestionable, when language becomes ritualized, and when fear turns to manipulation, the posture has shifted. We are no longer acting in faith. We are practicing magic.
A. The Shape of Faith in Crisis
Before analyzing the misuse of science during COVID, we must be clear on what faith would have looked like. Faith, in Jack’s framework, does not mean spiritual passivity or mystical fatalism. It is not anti-science or politically disengaged. It is, rather, a position of surrendered stewardship.
A public health system acting in faith would:
Begin in silence before God, acknowledging human limits and the frailty of life (Ps. 39:5; Hab. 2:20).
Use medical tools with humble realism, recognizing that all healing ultimately comes from God (Exod. 15:26).
Communicate with transparency, rather than pretending to omniscience (Eccl. 11:5).
Frame its decisions in the service of God’s glory and neighbor love rather institutional preservation or cultural control (Gal. 5:13–14).
Avoid manipulation or fear-based compliance and instead appeal to conscience, reason, and community trust (2 Cor. 4:2).
This kind of faith is rare, but it is not impossible. During the pandemic, there were doctors, nurses, public health officials, and scientists who operated in this spirit—quietly, compassionately, and responsibly. But much of the public response bore the marks not of faith, but of magic.
B. “Follow the Science”: The Incantation of Control
One of the defining mantras of the COVID era was “follow the science.”
On the surface, this sounds responsible. But beneath the surface, it became a form of linguistic enchantment. It functioned less as a description of empirical process and more as a command, a moral imperative designed to silence dissent and secure compliance.
Jack Miller taught that magic uses words and things not to surrender to God but to control reality.
“Follow the science” often became a secular spell—invoked to validate any number of contradictory policies without transparency, reasoning, or acknowledgment of uncertainty.
When trust in “the science” became trust in infallible expertise, the relationship moved from rational dialogue to ritual domination.
This is not to suggest that all scientific advice was wrong or coercive. But the tone and position often shifted from persuasion to moral absolutism.
Complex debates about masking, distancing, vaccines, and lockdowns were not treated as areas for collaborative discernment but as binary moral tests. To question an approach was to defy the “priesthood” of science.
Such moralization is not new. But during a global pandemic, it became totalizing. Magic emerged not in the data but in the way data was used—to bypass moral complexity, personal freedom, and theological reflection.
C. Rituals of Protection: When Prudence Becomes Performance
Jack Miller would have recognized another hallmark of magic in the public health response: the creation of rituals of control. These included:
Six-foot spacing markers on floors.
Plexiglass dividers in schools and grocery stores.
Temperature guns at church entrances.
Daily case-count dashboards updated with the authority of sacred texts.
Individually, these actions could have been wise. Collectively, however, they often became magical performances—gestures of security that did not always correspond to scientific effectiveness.
People were told to wear masks outdoors alone, or to sanitize surfaces that posed no real risk, or to close churches while keeping bars and casinos open. The inconsistency suggested that the ritual itself was what mattered—not its efficacy.
This is classic magical logic: if I do this, the bad thing won’t happen. When such actions were ritualized without re-evaluation, they became talismans of safety rather than tools of love.
Jack often warned that even Christian practices like confession or evangelism can become magical when used to force God’s hand. The same logic applies here. Prudence became performance. Performance became control.
D. The Fear Beneath the Spell
Why did magic emerge so powerfully during COVID?
The answer is simple: fear.
Fear is a primal human response to threat. But when fear is not brought before God in prayer and community, it seeks false saviors.
This is what happened in Exodus 32, when Israel—waiting for Moses—constructed a golden calf. It wasn’t only about idolatry; it was about visible reassurance. Something they could see. Something they could do.
Modern people are no different. In the face of an invisible virus, global uncertainty, economic collapse, and death, people wanted something they could do—a way to be “on the right side” of safety.
Public health provided the ritual, science provided the authority, and media provided the liturgy. But beneath all of it was fear—and fear is a powerful tool for control.
Jack’s pastoral concern would have been this: Are we using our fear to drive us to surrender—or are we using it to construct elaborate systems of self-salvation?
E. Faithful Health: A Better Witness
So what does faithful public health look like?
It doesn’t reject science. It doesn’t promote recklessness. But it does:
Acknowledge limits, trade-offs, and complexity.
Refuse to use fear to force obedience.
Treat people as moral agents, not data points.
Leave room for dissent, conscience, and theological reflection.
Frame its actions in service of glorifying God and loving one’s neighbor—not institutional self-preservation.
Most importantly, faithful public health would acknowledge that no amount of ritual can remove the fragility of human life. Only God can do that—and He does not promise to do it in this life.
Faith does not guarantee safety. It guarantees salvation. And only when that is secure can we make public decisions in freedom, not in panic.
F. Discerning the Faith Position: Jack’s Test Applied
Returning to Jack Miller’s test: Are we using things and words to surrender to God, or to control outcomes apart from Him?
In the pandemic era, we used hand sanitizer, spacing, medical data, press conferences, and behavioral messaging. The question is not whether those were good or bad in themselves. The question is how we used them. Faith or magic?
Were we silent before God, or shouting at each other?
Were we servants of Christ, or engineers of certainty?
Were we led by the Spirit, or by fear?
When Jack taught on this, he wasn’t trying to build an abstract theory. He was trying to pastor people. To help them see that even good things—even life-saving things—can become spiritual traps if they are used to avoid surrender. COVID didn’t just test our immune systems. It tested our theology.
V. Case Study: Mental Health and Therapy — Psychology as Faith or Magic
In the last generation, the cultural authority once held by clergy has been gradually ceded to therapists. In times of crisis or moral confusion, people are more likely to seek out a licensed counselor than a pastor, and the vocabulary of “trauma,” “boundaries,” “self-care,” and “identity” has permeated nearly every corner of society—including the church.
What used to be confessed is now processed. What once was repented of is now reframed. What was once called sin is now called disorder.
In many cases, these shifts have brought genuine help, especially in confronting abuse and in understanding the complexity of human suffering. But when mental health becomes a closed system—an independent framework for healing and self-understanding apart from surrender to God—it stops functioning in faith and begins to operate in magic.
Jack Miller was keenly aware of this drift, even in his own pastoral circles. Long before mental health became a cultural juggernaut, Jack was warning about the ways people could use therapy, psychology, and even their own emotional pain to avoid the cross. His framework of faith vs. magic offers a way to discern the difference between counsel as surrender and counsel as control, between therapy as service and therapy as self-justification.
A. The Promise and the Problem
Jack was no enemy of psychology. In fact, he frequently collaborated with Christian counselors, spoke to issues of emotional pain, and gave serious attention to spiritual depression, anxiety, and shame. He affirmed that humans are not disembodied spirits but complex image-bearers with minds, memories, and histories. He recognized that trauma, abuse, and generational sin could leave deep scars.
But he also recognized the temptation to use psychological insight not as a doorway to humility and repentance, but as a tool of control—a way to name our pain without surrendering it, to analyze ourselves and others without being crucified with Christ.
He saw a growing trend where therapy and psychology began to take the place of repentance, prayer, Scripture, and community.
The position was no longer “Search me, O God” (Ps. 139:23), but “Let me understand myself well enough to fix myself.” In Jack’s terms, the shift from faith to magic had taken place.
B. Magic in the Counseling Room
Psychology becomes magic when:
The goal is control rather than surrender.
Emotional pain is named and processed, but never offered to God.
The individual becomes the center of the therapeutic universe.
The counselor becomes a priest, dispensing meaning and identity.
Diagnosis becomes a label of moral exemption rather than a context for godly sorrow.
Jack warned that even helpful psychological categories—like depression, anxiety, codependency, or even trauma—can become ways to evade conviction. He didn’t deny the reality of these conditions. But he feared that people would use them to build identity apart from Christ.
This is magic: using words and systems to control our pain without surrendering to the One who bore it.
We see this especially clearly in the rise of identity therapy, where clients are told to “live their truth,” to “listen to their inner voice,” or to “cast off external expectations.”
In such frameworks, the self becomes sacred, and any external challenge—whether from God, Scripture, or tradition—is labeled as toxic.
Jack’s categories apply sharply here: the created things of language and insight are being used not to yield to God, but to exalt the self.
C. Biblical Wisdom for the Suffering Soul
The Bible speaks deeply and tenderly to human suffering. The Psalms are filled with cries of despair, loneliness, anxiety, and grief. Elijah’s collapse under the broom tree in 1 Kings 19 shows that even prophets burn out. Paul speaks of “despairing of life itself” (2 Cor. 1:8). Jesus Himself wept, sweated blood, and cried out in anguish.
But the Bible never presents insight as a substitute for repentance. It never uses pain as an excuse to sidestep obedience. Instead, it invites the broken into deeper dependence. Suffering is not denied, but it is never used to cancel surrender.
Consider these examples:
Psalm 139:23–24 — “Search me, O God… and lead me in the way everlasting.” The goal is not self-understanding for its own sake, but sanctification.
James 5:13–16 — Prayer, confession, and healing are all communal acts of faith, not isolated acts of therapy.
2 Corinthians 1:3–7 — Paul locates comfort not in self-knowledge but in the God of mercy.
Romans 12:1–2 — The transformation of the mind comes through surrender to God, not through mastering our thoughts.
These passages ground the believer’s emotional and mental health not in introspection, but in the cross. Healing, in Scripture, always flows through union with Christ, not analysis apart from Him.
D. Psychology by Faith: A Reformed Alternative
What would it look like to practice psychology by faith?
It would mean:
Placing every diagnosis under the authority of Scripture and the gospel.
Treating emotions as real but not final.
Helping people name their suffering without assigning it sovereign power.
Directing people not merely to understanding, but to Christ.
Keeping the cross at the center of healing—not as a symbol of empathy, but as a substitutionary act of redemption.
Jack modeled this in his own pastoral care. He encouraged people to see their sin, yes—but also to see their Savior. He wanted people to walk into the light not just to expose themselves, but to be clothed in Christ. He called them to preach the gospel to themselves—not as a coping mechanism, but as a way of dying and rising again.
This is what Bavinck called a psychology of grace—a vision of human life that accounts for both our dignity and our depravity, our need and our hope. It does not pit theology against therapy but calls therapy to be reformed by theology.
E. Therapy as a New Priesthood
One of the most concerning developments Jack anticipated is the rise of therapy as a kind of substitute religion. The counselor becomes a high priest of inner peace. Confession becomes disclosure without repentance. Liturgy becomes scheduling, journaling, and mindfulness. Salvation becomes “healing from your past,” and justification is reframed as “accepting yourself.”
This is the son of Sceva version of healing: invoking powerful names without submission to the Person. It may feel comforting, even empowering—but in the long run, it leaves the soul unchanged and estranged from God.
Jack’s concern wasn’t simply theological—it was pastoral. He wanted people to be free. And he knew that the kind of freedom the gospel offers only comes through death and resurrection—not through emotional optimization.
F. Diagnosing the Spirit
In the end, the test is Jack’s:
Are we using psychology to surrender to God, or to control our experience?
Are we receiving insight with humility—or using it to sidestep repentance?
Are we treating our counselors as servants of the Word—or as sources of ultimate truth?
Jack believed that the gospel brings real change—not through technique, but through the indwelling Christ. Magic wants a path around the cross. Faith walks through it.
In the next section, we will turn to another form of modern enchantment: environmental science and our relationship with the created world.
There too, Jack’s categories expose the line between surrender and control—between creation rightly received and nature wrongly worshiped.
VI. Case Study: Environmental Science — Nature by Faith or Nature as Magic
There may be no domain in modern life where the use of words and created things more closely mirrors ancient religion than in the environmental movement.
In many ways, the language surrounding environmental science today parallels the liturgies of old: sacred spaces, moral imperatives, eschatological fears, prophetic warnings, and redemptive hopes.
And yet, for all its good intentions and valid concerns, much of this modern environmentalism slips—often imperceptibly—from stewardship in faith to spiritualized control through magic.
Jack Miller’s framework provides a way to see this clearly. The issue is not whether we care for the world God made. The issue is how we do it. Are we using the created world to submit ourselves to God’s design and wisdom? Or are we using it to construct a new identity, a new salvation story, and a new moral order apart from God? That is the line between faith and magic.
A. The Biblical Beginning: Dominion by Faith
The Bible’s story begins in a garden. God makes the world by His Word, calls it good, and places humanity within it—not as owners, but as stewards (Gen. 1:26–28; 2:15). The command to “subdue the earth” and exercise “dominion” was not a license to exploit. It was a charge to reflect God’s own character in the care, ordering, and fruitfulness of the world.
This dominion was to be exercised in faith—in relationship with the Creator, under His Word, and in fellowship with one another. The natural world was to be a context for worship, work, joy, and love. It was not to be worshiped. Nor was it to be destroyed. It was to be used rightly, in service of the God who made it.
This vision continues throughout Scripture:
Psalm 24:1 — “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.”
Psalm 104 — A hymn of wonder at God’s wisdom in creation.
Romans 8:20–21 — Creation groans, not because of nature’s failure, but because of man’s sin, awaiting the revealing of the sons of God.
Revelation 21:1 — The promise is not escape from the world, but the renewal of all things.
Environmental faith, then, is not a modern invention. It is a deeply biblical calling. But it only functions properly when God is God. When He is replaced—by the earth, by nature, by human systems of climate control or carbon economics—the creation is exalted over the Creator, and magic begins to take root.
B. Environmentalism as Magic: Words and Symbols of Control
Modern environmental discourse often borrows the structure of biblical religion while removing the presence of God. Consider the typical narrative arc:
Creation: The pristine earth, untouched and pure.
Fall: Human industrialization, pollution, and greed.
Prophets: Scientists, activists, and authors warning of doom.
None of this is necessarily wrong in terms of practical action. But when it becomes an autonomous moral order—one in which repentance means recycling, salvation means solar panels, and judgment day is measured in parts per million—it ceases to be faith. It becomes magic.
Jack warned that even good acts—confession, evangelism, moral choice—can become magic when used to bypass surrender and create a sense of control. The same thing happens when environmental practice is used as a symbolic gesture of righteousness, detached from a posture of humility and repentance before God.
Consider some common examples:
“Carbon footprint” language as a proxy for guilt and atonement.
Lifestyle performance (buying local, not flying, using glass containers) as virtue signaling rather than worship.
Earth Day celebrations filled with quasi-religious imagery but no acknowledgment of the Creator.
Doom predictions spoken with apocalyptic certainty, yet devoid of eschatological hope in Christ.
These reflect a posture not of surrender, but of symbolic self-justification—using the material world to atone for spiritual dislocation.
C. Romans 1 and the Worship of Creation
Jack’s categories draw directly from Romans 1:21–25. The passage describes humanity’s rebellion not in abstract terms, but in material ones:
“They exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever!” (v. 25)
This is the theological essence of environmental magic. The world, instead of pointing upward to its Maker, becomes an end in itself. Its preservation becomes an ultimate good. Its destruction, the unforgivable sin. And its care, the litmus test of moral worth.
Romans 1 reminds us that the problem is not that we stop worshiping. It’s that we start worshiping the wrong things—and that includes the earth itself.
D. From Guilt to Grace: Recovering Stewardship by Faith
So what does faithful environmental science and care look like?
It begins where Scripture begins: with God as Creator, humans as stewards, and creation as gift. It confesses that the world is not ours to abuse or to save—but to tend and submit back to God.
Faith-based stewardship:
Acknowledges human sin not merely in emissions but in idolatry.
Uses science to observe and understand creation, not to replace God.
Embraces action, but resists moral panic and self-righteous performance.
Frames hope not in ecological perfection, but in the resurrection of all things.
Affirms that repentance is needed—but not only for climate sins. For unbelief.
This is a profound shift. It means we do not approach nature as gods, judges, or saviors. We approach it as creatures—dependent, finite, called to love what God has made without worshiping it.
E. Kuyper and Bavinck on Nature and Grace
Abraham Kuyper insisted that the doctrine of common grace was essential to any Christian view of nature. Nature, in its post-Fall condition, is still upheld by God’s hand. It is not autonomous. Nor is it abandoned.
“The whole world, every creature, is still the Lord’s, and God uses them still to serve His purposes.”
—Abraham Kuyper, Common Grace
Bavinck emphasized that the doctrine of providence reminds us that the laws of nature are not self-sustaining mechanisms. They are the regular operations of God’s sustaining will.
“The order of nature is not independent of God, but is His constant, faithful, and free activity.”
—Herman Bavinck, Reformed Dogmatics
This means we approach environmental questions not in panic or pride, but in peace and prayer. We take real action, but we do so knowing that we are not the saviors of the world. There is only one Savior—and He has promised not only to forgive our sin, but to make all things new (Rev. 21:5).
F. Discerning the Spirit: Faith or Magic?
Jack’s framework, again, leads us to ask:
Are we using science, advocacy, and ecological concern to surrender to God, or to control the world apart from Him?
Are we caring for creation in hope of the resurrection, or trying to save the world in fear of its end?
Are we performing morality with compost bins and electric cars, or walking in humble repentance, trusting in Christ?
Magic can live in a recycling bin just as easily as in a golden calf. Faith, by contrast, can plant trees, reduce waste, and pass climate policy—but only when it does so for the glory of God and the love of neighbor.
In the next section, we’ll turn from the created world to the political world—and examine how political science and civic power can also be used either in faith or in magic.
VII. Case Study: Political Science and Politics — Faith vs. Magic in Civic Life
Jack Miller may not have spoke directly about politics in his sermons or lectures. But his theology of faith and magic is tailor-made for the political sphere.
Jack saw clearly that the human heart, left to itself, will always drift toward systems of control. And few domains offer more opportunities for control—symbolic, procedural, and spiritual—than politics.
As with science and therapy, politics is not inherently bad or opposed to faith. But when it becomes autonomous, salvific, and identity-defining, it ceases to be a servant of God and becomes a form of modern magical enchantment.
To be clear: Christians are not called to retreat from political life. Scripture gives a rich theology of public justice, righteous rule, and civic responsibility. But the way we engage—the postion we adopt—matters profoundly.
Jack’s categories help us ask: Are we using politics in faith, to serve the Lord and our neighbor? Or are we using it as magic, to control our future, preserve our tribe, and escape dependence on God?
A. The Posture of Faith in Politics
Faith, properly understood, produces political engagement—but engagement under God. A politics of faith begins not with party, ideology, or nation but with worship. It acknowledges the lordship of Christ over all earthly rulers (Ps. 2:10–12). It submits to God’s providence in raising up and removing kings (Dan. 2:21). It engages in civic life not to secure ultimate identity or power but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God (Mic. 6:8).
A politics of faith:
Affirms human life, dignity, and moral responsibility (Gen. 1:26–28).
Recognizes the limitations of all political systems (Eccl. 5:8).
Prioritizes the welfare of others, especially the vulnerable (Prov. 31:8–9).
Honors governing authorities (Rom. 13:1–7), while also recognizing when civil disobedience is required (Acts 5:29).
Lives in the tension of being citizens of heaven and yet ambassadors on earth (Phil. 3:20; 2 Cor. 5:20).
In this framework, politics is a realm of stewardship, not of salvation. It is a place faith works out in love (Gal. 5:6), not to secure ultimate control. But when politics is removed from this framework, it quickly becomes magic.
B. Politics as Magic: The Idolatry of Power
Jack Miller taught that magic begins where faith ends: where we try to manipulate God—or the world—using His gifts.
In politics, this often takes the form of symbolic religion divorced from spiritual submission. The result is politics as idolatry—the use of systems, rhetoric, and allegiance to achieve what only God can give: identity, protection, hope, and justice.
This is visible across the political spectrum. On the left, moral language is used to justify policies that flatten human nature and erase moral boundaries.
On the right, religious language is often used to baptize nationalism or maintain cultural dominance.
In both cases, politics becomes a surrogate religion.
Consider the magical elements:
Incantational slogans: “Make America Great Again,” “Love Wins,” “Trust the Plan,” “The Right Side of History.” These phrases do not clarify—they invoke.
Redemptive expectations: “If we pass this law, elect this leader, defeat that group—then the world will be safe, just, whole.”
Enemy essentialism: The belief that all problems are caused by the other side. Salvation comes not through repentance, but through defeating the enemy.
Sacred symbols: Flags, hashtags, protest marches, and constitutional phrases all become imbued with unchallenged power, even to the point of demanding obedience.
In Jack’s terms, this is the use of created words and things to manipulate the world in our favor—without surrendering to God. It is the sons of Sceva approach to politics: invoking powerful names (freedom, justice, democracy) without the character of Christ.
C. Biblical Portraits of Political Magic
The Bible is not silent about political magic. It repeatedly exposes the temptation to trust in political power apart from God.
1 Samuel 8 — Israel demands a king “like the nations,” rejecting the Lord’s kingship. They want visible power, predictable authority, and national prestige. God warns them: you’ll get what you ask for—but it will enslave you.
Isaiah 30:1–3 — “Woe to the rebellious children,” declares the Lord, “who carry out a plan, but not mine… who set out to go down to Egypt, without asking for my direction.” Seeking military and political alliances apart from God’s direction is spiritual adultery.
Psalm 146:3–4 — “Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.”
Jeremiah 17:5 — “Cursed is the man who trusts in man and makes flesh his strength, whose heart turns away from the Lord.”
These passages don’t reject politics—they reject autonomous trust in political solutions. They warn against confusing human power with divine authority. And they call God’s people to place their hope not in government, but in God.
D. Kuyper and Political Sovereignty under Christ
Abraham Kuyper’s theology of sphere sovereignty offers a helpful Reformed correction to political magic. Kuyper affirmed that politics is a legitimate and even noble domain—but that it must operate under the lordship of Christ and in its proper place.
“God has instituted several spheres in human life—church, family, state, labor, science—and each has its own God-given authority. But none is sovereign over the others, and all are accountable to Christ.”
When politics claims ultimate authority—either culturally, morally, or spiritually—it becomes a false god. Kuyper’s vision of limited, accountable governance reminds us that faith in politics must never become faith in political power.
Herman Bavinck likewise warned against placing messianic expectations on political ideologies:
“Politics, like science and art, must remain within its own sphere and serve humanity. When it seeks to save, it becomes tyrannical.”
In this light, both Kuyper and Bavinck would affirm Jack Miller’s warning: magic emerges when we drag God’s gifts into our own service, bypassing trust in Him.
E. Faithful Politics: A Better Witness
If the danger is political magic, what does faithful politics look like?
It begins with:
Prayerful discernment—submitting our political concerns to God before, during, and after acting (1 Tim. 2:1–2).
Moral clarity and humility—naming good and evil, but never pretending that we or our party are immune from sin.
Civic engagement without worship—loving our neighbors through political action, but refusing to build altars to Caesar.
Confession over outrage—acknowledging our own sin and complicity before attacking others.
Witness over domination—seeking the good of the city (Jer. 29:7), but remembering we are exiles, not emperors.
Jack’s categories help us here. Are we trying to control outcomes—or are we entrusting ourselves to the One who judges justly (1 Pet. 2:23)? Are we engaging in politics to avoid suffering—or to serve our neighbors in Christlike love?
Faithful politics is not naive. It understands sin, power, and policy. But it also understands that real justice begins at the cross, not the ballot box. It refuses to make enemies into messiahs—or messiahs into enemies.
F. Questions for Discernment
Jack’s test, applied to politics, sounds like this:
Am I using political engagement as a form of worship—or a form of control?
Do I treat my side’s wins as salvation—and the other’s wins as damnation?
Does my political language reflect surrender to Christ—or domination over others?
Can I grieve, confess, and walk away when needed—or am I trapped by fear and tribal loyalty?
When faith governs politics, we become servants. When magic governs politics, we become sorcerers.
In the next section, we’ll broaden out again—this time to consider technology and artificial intelligence, which may be the most potent magical temptation of the modern age.
VIII. Case Study: Technology and AI — Magic in the Machine
If Jack Miller were lecturing today on “Faith vs. Magic in the Modern World,” it is almost certain he would spend time on artificial intelligence.
Though AI had not yet reached its current prominence in his lifetime, the underlying spiritual dynamics of the digital age follow the same patterns he identified decades ago: human beings using created things—words, systems, and tools—not to surrender to God, but to seize control of life without Him.
In the age of smart devices, predictive algorithms, and generative language models, we have perhaps the clearest cultural example of what Jack would call magic in the machine.
This is not a call to abandon technology, nor is it an alarmist rejection of innovation. The question is not whether we use technology, but how. Does our use of AI and digital systems reflect surrender and stewardship—or does it represent a new Babel, built on self-reliance and a desire for mastery?
A. The Spiritual Shape of Technological Magic
Jack taught that magic is not about potions or witchcraft—it’s about using words and things of God’s creation to bypass surrender. In this sense, modern technology is one of the most seductive forms of magic the world has ever seen.
We are promised that our machines will:
Write our sermons.
Diagnose our illnesses.
Organize our time.
Optimize our emotions.
Simulate human empathy.
Replace difficult human relationships with personalized digital companions.
Much of this is marketed not as magic but as progress. But the deeper promise is salvation by control—a life without dependence, unpredictability, or need. It is a modern form of what Genesis 11 describes at Babel: “Let us make a name for ourselves… lest we be scattered” (Gen. 11:4). The spirit of Babel lives on—not in bricks and mortar, but in lines of code.
AI becomes magical not when it works, but when we believe in it—as oracle, moral arbiter, comforter, or redeemer.
B. Incantation and Automation: Language as Control
Jack was particularly concerned with how people use language—not to yield to God, but to manipulate outcomes. AI magnifies this risk exponentially. Generative models like ChatGPT (ironically, our own context here) rely on language prompts—short commands that produce long, meaningful responses. The better the prompt, the better the output.
This creates a new kind of magic: prompt engineering. The right combination of words can unlock power, answers, creativity, even emotional comfort. Users learn to “talk to the machine” to get what they want. And in that process, language becomes a spell, wielded for personal benefit, without relationship, humility, or accountability.
What Jack said about prayer applies here:
“Faith doesn’t use words to get God to do what we want. It uses words to submit to Him.”
Technological magic does the opposite. It turns words into levers, pressing the world into our mold without touching the heart.
C. The Rise of AI as Secular Priesthood
AI also fills a growing spiritual vacuum. In a culture that no longer trusts religious authority, AI becomes a substitute priest:
It is “always available.”
It does not judge.
It offers solutions immediately.
It mimics empathy without requiring relationship.
It personalizes truth to match your preference.
This is especially evident in mental health and spiritual arenas. Already, chatbots have been created to offer “AI therapy,” “AI spiritual direction,” and even AI-generated “Jesus” chat experiences. These systems offer a frictionless imitation of wisdom—and for many people, it is enough.
Jack would call this a reversal of real discipleship. The Spirit of Christ convicts, redirects, and reorients the soul to God. Magic, by contrast, seeks outcomes without surrender, comfort without repentance, insight without obedience.
The difference is not in the intelligence, but in the spirit behind it.
D. Biblical Foundations: Wisdom Over Control
The Bible is not silent about technological pride. While it does not speak to algorithms or processors, it speaks clearly to the heart that builds them.
Genesis 11:1–9 (Babel): Human beings attempt to create security and identity through architecture and language—without God. The result is judgment, confusion, and dispersion.
Isaiah 31:1 — “Woe to those who go down to Egypt for help… but do not look to the Holy One of Israel or consult the Lord.”
Jeremiah 17:5 — “Cursed is the man who trusts in man and makes flesh his strength.”
Proverbs 3:5–6 — “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.”
Psalm 20:7 — “Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
These are not warnings against innovation—but against idolatry. Against using the tools of man to replace the wisdom of God.
E. Kuyper, Bavinck, and the Reformed View of Technology
Abraham Kuyper, though writing in a pre-digital age, anticipated the spiritual risks of technological overreach. He warned that when human culture detaches from Christ, it does not stay neutral—it becomes religiously autonomous. Science and technology become tools of secular sovereignty.
“Unbelief… is never a mere negation. It is a positive force, animated by its own faith, ideals, and worldview.”
—Abraham Kuyper, Lectures on Calvinism
Herman Bavinck similarly saw that true technology is an extension of human calling in creation—but only when it remains within its bounds:
“All cultural labor must proceed under God’s will, and in service to His glory. As soon as it claims autonomy, it exalts itself against its Maker.”
AI is not evil. But without reverence, it becomes autonomous imagination—man building systems in his own image, for his own glory, by his own power. That is not science. It is magic.
F. Technology by Faith: A Christian Vision
What does it mean to use technology by faith?
It means we:
Acknowledge our limitations and the limits of our tools.
Submit our use of technology to the lordship of Christ.
Prioritize presence over efficiency.
Use machines to serve people—not people to serve machines.
Seek wisdom, not mere data.
Refuse to imitate God’s omniscience, omnipresence, and omnipotence.
Jack would say: if you’re using technology to avoid dependence, you’re not walking in faith.
Faith in the digital age looks like:
Sabbath rest in a 24/7 world.
Silence in the face of algorithmic noise.
Embodied community amid virtual distraction.
Weakness in a world addicted to optimization.
Word-centeredness in a world ruled by prompts.
G. Discerning the Posture
Once again, Jack’s test applies:
Are we using tools to surrender—or to control?
Are we drawn to AI because it is helpful—or because it offers the illusion of self-sufficiency?
Are we willing to let technology serve God’s purposes—or are we building our own towers of power?
Technology is a gift. But like all gifts, it must be used in faith. Not to escape weakness, but to walk in wisdom. Not to replace God, but to serve Him.
In the next section, we will turn to the church itself—and ask how even gospel truths, when misapplied, can become instruments of magic.
IX. When the Gospel Becomes Magic — Sonship, Therapy, and the Misuse of Grace
Jack Miller preached the gospel of Jesus Christ with unusual clarity, courage, and joy. His message centered on the free grace of God in Christ, the believer’s adoption into the family of God, and the ongoing call to repentance and faith. These themes were crystallized in the Sonship course, developed through World Harvest Mission (now Serge), which helped thousands of pastors, missionaries, and lay Christians rediscover the beauty of their identity in Christ.
And yet, as Jack would be the first to admit, even the most gospel-centered message can be distorted. Even good theology can become a tool for control. Even grace can be used magically.
This section explores how elements of Sonship—and especially the popular exhortation to “preach the gospel to yourself”—have at times been reduced to technique, repurposed as therapy, and twisted into magic, in precisely the way Jack warned against.
A. Preaching the Gospel to Yourself: From Surrender to Strategy
One of Jack’s most repeated exhortations was this:
“Preach the gospel to yourself every day.”
It was never meant as a mantra. It was a pastoral call to remember Christ—to silence self-condemnation, to kill self-righteousness, to rest in adoption, to confess sin without fear. It was a summons to surrender, not a strategy for performance.
But over time, the phrase took on a life of its own. In some corners of the Sonship movement, it became a technique for emotional management:
“Feeling anxious? Preach the gospel to yourself.”
“Can’t forgive someone? Preach the gospel to yourself.”
“Struggling with assurance? Preach the gospel to yourself.”
The impulse is not wrong. But the usage shifted. It became less about surrender to Christ and more about self-application of benefits. The gospel was turned into a kind of internal spell—a formula to recite in order to generate peace, joy, or behavioral change. Jack’s language, if misapplied, became magic.
B. Identity Theology and the Problem of Therapeutic Grace
Some skeptics have rightly critiqued how Sonship’s emphasis on adoption and justification has sometimes been received not as covenant realities but as therapeutic tools. Instead of seeing sonship as a relational reality in union with Christ, some have used it as:
A license to avoid sanctification.
A psychological “covering” to escape deep repentance.
A way to excuse relational dysfunction under the banner of “I’m already accepted.”
In this form, the doctrine of adoption becomes a self-esteem booster, and justification becomes a psychological buffer rather than a spiritual standing. The believer says, “I’m okay,” not because they’re abiding in Christ, but because they’ve learned to recite gospel language over themselves.
Jack would grieve this.
He did not preach the gospel to remove the cross from the Christian life. He preached it so that believers could carry the cross with joy, trusting that their identity in Christ could hold them steady in the face of real suffering, self-denial, and death to self.
But when the gospel becomes a protective mechanism—used to silence conviction, to shield identity from critique, or to manage emotions without surrender—it ceases to be faith. It becomes magic.
C. Magic in the Church: Confession Without Repentance
In his “Faith vs. Magic” lecture, Jack warned that even confession of sin can become magical.
People “confess” endlessly, even publicly, not to surrender to God, but to manage guilt, gain approval, or manipulate divine outcomes. Jack observed that such confessions sometimes resemble exhibitionism rather than repentance—where the act of disclosure functions like a cleansing ritual devoid of transformation.
The same danger applies to gospel-centered language. When Christians say:
“I’m preaching the gospel to myself,”
“I’m resting in my sonship,”
“I’m free from condemnation”—
—these can be expressions of faith, or they can be tools of control. It depends entirely on the position. Faith uses these truths to surrender. Magic uses them to insulate.
Jack warned that even the most heartfelt conversions could be faked—or distorted—when people were desperate to avoid surrender. He was not cynical; he simply understood the human heart.
D. From Framework to Formula: How Discipleship Gets Distorted
What began in Sonship as a framework for gospel clarity sometimes became a formula:
Learn the gospel.
Apply the gospel.
Experience change.
But life doesn’t follow formulas. God doesn’t bless magic. And the Christian life cannot be reduced to steps of inner preaching. When discipleship is driven by inner technique rather than union with Christ, we are no longer walking by faith. We are walking by spiritualized behaviorism.
Jack’s vision was far deeper. He wanted believers to encounter Christ—not just rehearse truth about Him. He wanted Sonship to produce repentance, not just relief.
The shift toward using the gospel therapeutically weakens the church’s understanding of the cross, mortification, and resurrection life. The result is a gospel that comforts but does not confront—a gospel that explains but does not transform.
E. Recovering Sonship by Faith
None of this invalidates Jack’s theology. It clarifies the need to recover it at the level of the spiritual position of faith verses magic. The solution is not to abandon “preaching the gospel to yourself” or stop speaking about adoption. It is to re-root those truths in the categories Jack himself gave us.
We must ask:
Are we using gospel truth to draw near to Christ—or to avoid Him?
Are we preaching to ourselves in surrender—or in self-management?
Are we finding peace through union with Jesus—or through rehearsing doctrine without communion?
Faith uses gospel truth as a path to dependence. Magic uses gospel truth as a means of control.
Jack’s goal was always surrender. In fact, he often said that the most freeing experience in the Christian life is not when you finally fix yourself, but when you finally give up trying to—and find Christ there waiting.
F. Discerning the Spirit in Gospel Ministry
The same test Jack gave in his lecture applies here:
Are you speaking the truth to surrender—or to engineer change?
Is your identity in Christ fueling repentance—or insulating you from it?
Do you use gospel language to deepen communion with God—or to shortcut your way around the cross?
When the gospel is used as magic, it becomes lifeless. But when it is received in faith, it leads to joy, weakness, confession, and love.
In the final section, we will return to Jack’s theology one last time—and bring together the biblical definition of faith vs. magic as the true conflict in our cultural moment.
The issue is not faith vs. science. It is not faith vs. reason. It is faith vs. magic—and the church must be the place where this difference is both seen and lived.
Conclusion — Faith or Magic? Reframing the Debate
What if the fundamental struggle of our age is not between faith and science, or between religion and reason—but between faith and magic?
That question, at the heart of Jack Miller’s theology, has shaped every part of this essay. And after surveying both Scripture and modern life—from public health to political science, from psychology to artificial intelligence—it becomes clear: Jack’s insight was not only theologically sound; it is prophetically urgent.
We live in a world full of created things and spoken words—technologies, institutions, rituals, slogans, identities, and tools. All of them can be used in two very different ways:
Faith uses words and things to surrender to God.
Magic uses words and things to control God—or life without Him.
This difference defines not only personal spirituality, but the character of entire cultures.
Throughout this essay, we’ve seen how that difference plays out:
Public health becomes magic when science is treated as a priesthood of certainty, rather than a tool of stewardship.
Psychology becomes magic when therapy is used to avoid repentance rather than face the cross.
Environmental science becomes magic when the earth is deified, and salvation is measured in carbon credits.
Politics becomes magic when civic power is invoked like a spell to destroy enemies and justify identities.
Technology and AI become magic when human language is used to manipulate machines for moral or emotional sovereignty.
And even the gospel itself becomes magic when Sonship and “preaching the gospel to yourself” are reduced to mantras for emotional control, rather than invitations to die and rise in Christ.
The ultimate spiritual divide, of course, is between those who believe in Christ and those who do not—between those united to Him by grace through faith, and those still trusting in idols. But Jack Miller’s insight presses deeper: even among professing believers, the temptation to live by magic rather than faith is real and ongoing.
The dividing line between faith and magic does not only run between the church and the world—it runs through every heart, through every pulpit, through every practice.
That is why this essay ends not merely with critique of the culture, but with self-examination in the church.
The Gospel Is the End of Magic
The good news is this: the gospel of Jesus Christ is not magic. It does not promise control. It promises Christ.
The gospel does not guarantee predictable outcomes. It promises a cross.
The gospel does not offer a set of techniques. It offers a Person.
The gospel does not equip you to manage your world. It calls you to lose your life.
And in that surrender, it gives back everything: justification, adoption, healing, hope, freedom, love, and power—but all through union with Jesus, never apart from Him.
Jack loved to remind people that faith “does not save you.” It only gives you Christ, who does save you.
That is the essence of gospel-shaped faith: it relinquishes power in order to receive a Person.
This is the exact opposite of magic.
Reframing the Public Debate
Much of the modern world remains stuck in a false dichotomy: faith vs. science, faith vs. reason, faith vs. progress.
But Christians must reframe that conversation.
We are not anti-science. We are against science-as-savior.
We are not anti-therapy. We are against therapy-as-substitute-for-repentance.
We are not anti-technology. We are against technology-as-god.
And we are not anti-politics. We are against politics-as-redemption.
The issue is not method. It is the spiritual position of faith or magic. The most important question is not “What are you doing?” but “Why—and how—are you doing it?” Are you walking by faith, or by magic?
The Church’s Calling in a Magical Age
The church must recover its vocation as the place where people are invited to lay down control.
Where leaders model weakness instead of strategic invincibility.
Where confession is not performance, but surrender.
Where gospel truth is not reduced to therapy, but pressed into transformation.
Where the cross is not a backdrop, but the Way.
Where people encounter God as Father, not as a formula.
We must become the community where the world sees what faith actually looks like: joyful surrender, humble courage, and deep union with the risen Christ.
Final Word: Jack’s Legacy
Jack Miller lived and taught in a way that made this contrast visible. He walked through failure, discouragement, and spiritual renewal. He confronted sin. He wept with broken people. He prayed with boldness. He took risks in evangelism and global missions. He taught Sonship not as a tool for personal optimization, but as the miracle of being brought into the Father’s house.
He warned his students, again and again, that even the best ministry can become magic if it is not constantly surrendered. And he kept calling them back—not to better technique, but to Jesus Himself.
In the end, Jack’s theology was simple:
Stop trying to manage your life.
Stop using religion to feel better.
Lay down your pride and despair.
Come to the cross.
Receive the Spirit.
Walk by faith.
Faith is not magic. And the church does not need more spiritual engineers. It needs people who have been silenced by the holiness of God, broken by their sin, loved by the Father, and filled with the Spirit of Christ.
That’s the only kind of person who can live faithfully in a world still magically enchanted by the sinful longing for control.
I’ve been reflecting on Pentecost and how it stands as God’s gracious answer to what Scripture calls “the sins of Jeroboam.”
1. The Sins of Jeroboam
When Jeroboam became king over the northern tribes, he faced a real pastoral and political problem. Worship required going to Jerusalem. He reasoned, “It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem,” and built golden calves at Bethel and Dan (1 Kings 12:28–29).
He longed for worship that was close and accessible—local, frequent, and convenient—but what he created replaced God’s design. Jeroboam reshaped the faith to suit human instinct rather than divine command.
• He shaped the object of worship—golden calves instead of the unseen LORD.
• He redefined the priesthood, appointing whomever he wished rather than those God had called.
• He rearranged the calendar, creating festivals “devised from his own heart.”
That refrain echoes through Israel’s history: “He did not depart from the sins of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, which he made Israel to sin.”
Each generation continued in the same pattern—worship born from human invention rather than from God’s Word.
The sins of Jeroboam became a recurring pattern of spiritual rebellion: a longing for God’s nearness without reverence for His holiness. Human creativity replaced divine revelation, and sincerity became a substitute for obedience.
2. Judah’s Mirror Image
Judah carried the same tendency in another form. They preserved the temple and the proper rituals, but they began trusting in the place instead of the Presence. Their reverence for the structure replaced their love for the God who dwelled there.
Jeroboam’s “convenience without obedience” and Judah’s “orthodoxy without repentance” reveal the same human impulse—to secure God’s favor while avoiding God’s authority.
3. The Cross and the Outpouring
At the cross, God acted decisively to draw near in redeeming grace. When Jesus died, the veil of the temple tore from top to bottom—an act initiated from heaven itself.
From the Garden of Eden onward, God has continually made a way to dwell among His people. His holiness required that His presence come through mediation, because the weight of His glory would consume sinners rather than comfort them.
After humanity’s rebellion, two cherubim stood to guard the way back to the tree of life (Genesis 3:24). Yet even then, God’s mercy found expression in covenant and sacrifice. The tabernacle and the temple proclaimed that grace: blood and mediation were His chosen means for dwelling among His people in holiness and mercy.
The tearing of the veil is therefore the revelation of divine grace. The wrath that once barred access fell upon Christ. The demand for death was satisfied in the death of the Lamb. The torn curtain declares that the judgment separating God and humanity has been satisfied forever.
Now God’s presence moves toward His people in the glory of grace. Through Christ’s finished work, His people are welcomed into resurrection life. Pentecost flows directly from that victory—the resurrection life of Christ shared with His people by the Spirit.
Jack Miller described this moment vividly:
“When God gave the Ten Commandments, they were written by the finger of God. But at the resurrection, there is not just the finger, but the hand and the whole arm of God come into history, raising Jesus the Son of God from the dead” (“Resurrection Power”).
That arm of God, stretched into history, reveals the glory of the Father—the living power that overcomes wrath with grace and death with life. The same divine arm that lifted Christ from the tomb extends to lift every believer into the living presence of Christ. Pentecost is that power distributed, the breath of the risen Son filling the world with new creation life.
At Pentecost, the Spirit came to dwell within believers rather than within stone walls. What Jeroboam sought to achieve through human design, God Himself accomplished as a pure gift. The Spirit filled believers in every tongue and place, creating a worshiping people who live in the very nearness of God.
This is the divine reversal of Jeroboam’s sin:
Grace restores what idolatry ruined.
Divine intimacy replaces human invention.
God’s own Spirit produces faith and repentance—the very gifts that free us from the need to manufacture nearness.
Pentecost reveals the new pattern of worship:
• Grace generates true nearness.
• Faith arises from divine initiative.
• Repentance becomes the joyful turning of hearts already touched by mercy.
The Spirit gives both the desire and the ability to worship in the way God delights to receive. The people who once said, “It is too much to go up to Jerusalem,” now find the living God descending to them in the fullness of His love.
4. The Words of Jesus at the Well (John 4)
This entire story grows even richer when we read John 4 as the gospel’s reply to Jeroboam’s legacy.
When Jesus walked through Samaria, He entered territory still bearing the spiritual marks of Jeroboam’s choices. The Samaritans were the descendants of the northern kingdom, whose shrines had stood at Bethel and Dan. They had mixed the faith of Israel with local traditions, establishing Mount Gerizim as their chosen sanctuary—a continuation of Jeroboam’s separation.
So when the woman at the well said, “Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews say that in Jerusalem is the place where we must worship,” she was echoing the centuries-old division that Jeroboam had begun.
Jesus answered with the words that heal that fracture forever:
“Believe me, the hour is coming when neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father… The true worshipers will worship the Father in Spirit and truth.” (John 4:21–24)
He fulfilled the longing of both Gerizim and Jerusalem. The where of worship gave way to the who. The form gave way to the substance. The same God who once filled the temple now stood before her, offering living water—the life of the Spirit welling up in those who believe.
In that conversation, Jesus reversed both Jeroboam’s fragmentation and Judah’s formalism. He brought the presence of God to the Samaritan woman herself and offered her worship empowered by the Spirit. Worship became a matter of divine gift rather than human design.
“The Father seeks such people to worship Him.” (John 4:23)
The capacity to worship rightly is itself an act of grace. The Father seeks, the Son reveals, and the Spirit enables. John 4 stands as the bridge between Jeroboam’s self-made religion and the Spirit-filled worship of Pentecost. The living Word declared that the Father Himself was coming to dwell with His people.
5. The Spirit’s Arrival in Acts 2
The Book of Acts gives the full picture of what Pentecost truly means.
“When the day of Pentecost arrived, they were all together in one place. And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.” (Acts 2:1–2)
The Spirit’s coming was the resurrection extended into the world—the breath of God breathing new creation life into His people. Tongues of fire rested on each disciple, showing that God’s holy presence now filled His people personally and permanently.
Jack Miller said that “the tomb is empty for me. The stone is rolled away for me. Jesus died for me and He rose for me” (“Resurrection Power”).
This is what Pentecost makes possible: every believer now lives in the power of that empty tomb. The Spirit’s arrival at Pentecost means that the resurrection life of Christ no longer resides in one place but fills the hearts of His people.
The nations scattered at Babel were now gathered into one body through the Spirit. The barriers Jeroboam created through self-chosen worship dissolved in the harmony of Spirit-given praise. Peter, filled with resurrection power, stood and preached the Word boldly. The same Spirit that raised Jesus raised Peter’s voice and pierced the hearts of three thousand listeners.
Jack explained that when the Holy Spirit comes, He “rolls the stone away from our hearts.”
Pentecost is the day the stone rolled away from the church’s heart, freeing it to live without fear. The power that raised Jesus—the arm of God that entered history—now gives His people courage to live boldly and joyfully in His presence.
This is resurrection life shared: the Spirit of Christ within His people, empowering fearless witness, joyful worship, and holy love.
6. The Full Arc of Redemption
Now the story comes full circle:
• Jeroboam fractured worship.
• Judah formalized it.
• Jesus fulfilled it.
• Pentecost multiplied it by the Spirit.
Through Christ’s cross and resurrection, God’s holiness and love meet in perfect harmony.
Through the Spirit’s outpouring, God’s nearness becomes the life of His people.
“The power which raised Jesus from the dead is greater than creation power, because it brings life where there was death” (Jack Miller, “Resurrection Power”).
That power now works in every believer, shaping faith, hope, and love.
So we pray, “Jesus, break our hearts of cement and then break into our lives.”
That prayer captures the heart of Pentecost: the Spirit continues to roll away stones, soften hearts, and fill the church with the same life that raised Christ.
Pentecost shows that God’s design for worship is both holy and local—rooted in His Word, enlivened by His Spirit, embodied in His people.
The church stands as one temple with many sanctuaries—every congregation a place where heaven and earth meet through the presence of the living God.
Jeroboam shaped worship according to human wisdom.
Christ shapes His church by divine grace through His Spirit and Word.
Every act of faith and repentance flows from that same Spirit.
Every gathering of believers carries the promise of the risen Lord still coming and speaking to His people today.
When the Word Comes and Speaks: Elijah’s Cave and the Voice of the Living God
I. Elijah — From Fire to Whisper
This reflection began in my own Bible reading of this passage, when I paused over the phrase recorded in 1 Kings 19:9 (ESV):
“And behold, the word of the LORD came to him, and He said to him, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’”
That simple clause stirred my curiosity—what does it mean for the Word to both come and speak?
I asked that question first for myself, out of habit as a pastor and researcher who reads and wants to know God and understand what He is doing and saying in His Word.
That curiosity led me into the conversation about the Memra—the “Word of the LORD” in the Targums—and how God’s Word has always been both near and active.
What began as a moment of study became this essay
Jack Miller once laughed that Elijah is the prophet who can make us both smile and tremble. He said,
“If Elijah was my neighbor, I would mow his lawn. I’d want his prayers on my side.” (“Christ: A Greater Prophet than Elijah”)
That mixture of humor and awe fits Elijah’s story: one day he calls down fire from heaven; the next he runs for his life into the wilderness, certain he is alone.
Jack saw himself—and all of us—in that Elijah irony. The same man who courageously faces down hundreds of prophets on Mount Carmel collapses in fear before a single threat from Jezebel.
Elijah’s larger story causes us to stand in awe and the Mighty God and then makes us laugh and weep at the same time in self-recognition and humility.
Elijah is no marble figure. He is every pastor, every believer, who has felt bold in public and small in private. He is the servant who stands for God one day and hides from Him the next. His life exposes the frailty inside even the most faithful hearts.
As Jack often reminded his listeners,
“To draw near to God and to have God near to us is the whole purpose of human life.”
That nearness—first fiery, then gentle—defines Elijah’s journey.
In the cave at Horeb we hear again the sentence that carries both mystery and comfort: “And behold, the word of the LORD came to him, and He said to him …” (1 Kings 19:9)
The personified “Word of the Lord” both comes and speaks. If the fire at Carmel displayed God’s power; the voice in the cave reveals God’s heart.
Elijah’s weariness becomes the setting where the living Word meets him again, to restore rather than to shame.
This essay follows that Word through Scripture and history—from the grammar of the Hebrew text to the witness of the early church and the Reformers—so that we can hear the same Word speaking in our own weakness today.
The story that begins with a prophet hiding in a cave ends with the gospel’s promise that God still comes near and still speaks.
II. Hearing the Hebrew Text
The verse in Hebrew reads:
וְהִנֵּה דְבַר־יְהוָה אֵלָיו וַיֹּאמֶר לוֹ
“Behold, the Word of the LORD came to him, and He said to him.”
Every part matters.
“Behold” signals a new act of revelation; something unseen now enters Elijah’s world.
“The Word of the LORD came” describes approach and presence. The Word moves toward the prophet as a visitor.
“And He said” gives the Word a personal voice. The subject of He said is the Word of the LORD itself. The Word is more than sound; it is the living presence of God who speaks.
The Greek Septuagint mirrors this precision:
καὶἰδοὺῥῆμα Κυρίου πρὸς αὐτόν· καὶ εἶπεν αὐτῷ — “Behold, a word of the Lord was to him, and He said to him.”
Both languages personify the Word. The prophets do not simply hear God from a distance; they encounter His speech as a personal presence that both arrives and addresses.
Aramaic (Targum Jonathan):
מֵימְרָא דַי־יָי אָמַר לֵהּ — “The Memra of the LORD said to him.”
The ancient Aramaic translation of this verse preserves the same movement found in the Hebrew and Greek but makes it even more personal.
Where the Hebrew speaks of “the Word of the LORD” and the Greek renders it as ῥῆμα Κυρίου, the Targum says “the Memra of the LORD.”
The translators wanted synagogue hearers to sense that the transcendent God Himself was addressing Elijah through His living Word.
In all three languages—Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic—the same truth stands: the Word both comes and speaks; God draws near and communicates Himself.
At this point a question naturally arises: Why does the Aramaic translation use Memra, and what did that mean for ancient readers?
The answer opens a door into Israel’s wider story. The Targums were part of a long tradition of hearing God’s Word as His active, personal presence—a conviction that runs like a thread from Genesis to the Prophets. The next section follows that thread.
Jack Miller once spoke of the way God restores weary servants through that same coming and speaking. He said,
“I find that I am a very weak person in many ways, but if I will pray with other believers even one hour, I am always changed into a stronger person.” (“Christ: A Greater Prophet than Elijah”)
That simple confession explains the cave as well as any commentary. God meets Elijah not with rebuke but with renewal.
The Word that comes is the God who draws near; the Word that speaks is the God who strengthens.
Elijah’s fear becomes the doorway for divine friendship. What begins as grammar ends as grace: the living Word enters human weakness and gives it voice again.
III. The Word in Israel’s Story
Having seen the Word’s movement across languages, we can now follow that same movement through Israel’s story itself—where hearing and speaking shape the prophet’s vocation.
When Scripture says, “The word of the LORD came,” it speaks of more than information. Across Israel’s story, the Word arrives as presence and power. From the first pages of Genesis, the Word creates: “And God said, ‘Let there be light.’”
The same speaking continues through every covenant. To Abraham, the Word brings promise; to Moses, command; to the prophets, revelation. The Word is how God steps into history.
The prophets often describe the Word as coming to them —as if it travels with intention and personality. To Samuel, it “was rare in those days”; then it appeared again when the boy heard his name called in the night. To Jeremiah, the Word touched his mouth. To Ezekiel, it entered him and set him on his feet. Each scene gives the sense of encounter, not simply dictation.
This personal dimension means that every prophetic voice begins with reception before speech. The prophet’s first act is listening; proclamation flows from hearing. Elijah’s cave repeats that rhythm. He listens, then he speaks. Jack Miller used to remind pastors that ministry always begins this way: we receive before we give, and when we stop listening, our words lose weight
Through these centuries God’s Word carries creation, covenant, correction, and comfort. By the time we reach Elijah, Israel already knows that when the Word comes and speaks, the living God is near. The story now prepares for something greater—the moment when the Word will come, not only to speak through prophets, but to dwell among His people.
This background explains why the later Aramaic translators could speak so freely of the Memra of the LORD. The Memra of the LORD comes from the Aramaic Targums—especially Targum Onkelos (on the Pentateuch) and Targum Jonathan (on the Prophets). These were Aramaic translations or paraphrases of the Hebrew Bible read aloud in synagogues after the exile, beginning as early as the 2nd–1st centuries BC. They gave ordinary worshippers access to God’s Word in their spoken language and, at the same time, safeguarded His transcendence.
In the Targums, Memra (מֵימְרָא) regularly appears in place of direct references to YHWH when the text depicts God acting, speaking, or appearing. For example:
Genesis 3:8 (Targum Onkelos): Hebrew – “They heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden.” Aramaic – “They heard the voice of the Memra of the LORD God walking in the garden.” → The Memra acts as the divine presence moving toward humanity.
Genesis 15:6 (Targum Neofiti): “Abram believed in the Memra of the LORD, and He reckoned it to him for righteousness.” → The Memra becomes the object of Abram’s faith.
Exodus 19:17 (Targum Onkelos): “Moses brought the people out of the camp to meet the Memra of the LORD.” → The Memra mediates the encounter at Sinai.
So when the LXX renders dᵉḇar YHWH as ῥῆμα Κυρίου (“Word of the LORD”), and the Targums render similar phrases as Memra of the LORD, both traditions express the same theological reality in different languages: God’s Word is His personal, active self-expression—the way the transcendent God draws near and acts within creation.
Aramaic Witness: The Memra of the LORD
The ancient Aramaic translations of Scripture, known as the Targums, echo this same truth in another language. Where the Hebrew text says “the LORD” and the Greek speaks of ῥῆμα Κυρίου, the Aramaic translators often wrote מֵימְרָא דַי־יָי — “the Memra of the LORD.” They used this expression to preserve God’s holiness while affirming His personal presence and activity.
The Memra appears walking in the garden (Gen 3:8), receiving Abraham’s faith (Gen 15:6), and meeting Israel at Sinai (Exod 19:17).
In every case, it is the living Word through whom the invisible God draws near and speaks.
To remain faithful to Reformed theology, we remember that these appearances of God’s Word are real revelations of the one Lord. They anticipate, but do not yet equal, the incarnation of the Son. Revelation unfolds progressively, leading to Christ without confusing earlier theophanies with the fullness of His incarnation.
IV. The Memra in the Targums
When Israel’s language changed from Hebrew to Aramaic during the exile, God’s people still needed to hear Scripture in worship. Translators rendered the Hebrew Bible into Aramaic paraphrases known as Targums. These were not commentaries but living translations read aloud in the synagogue. Their task was both linguistic and theological: to help everyday worshippers hear the holiness of God in words they understood.
The translators faced a challenge. The Hebrew Scriptures often speak of God in human ways—He walks, descends, appears, and speaks face to face.
In the ancient world, where idolatry filled every culture, the translators wanted to guard the mystery of the one invisible God while still confessing His real action in the world.
Their solution was to introduce the expression the Memra of the LORD—the “Word” or “Utterance” of God.
In the Targums, the Memra becomes the reverent way of describing God’s personal involvement without reducing Him to human form.
Genesis 3:8, for example, says in Hebrew that Adam and Eve heard “the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden.”
Targum Onkelos renders it: “They heard the voice of the Memra of the LORD God walking.”
God Himself remains transcendent, but His Memra—His living Word—moves within creation.
The same pattern appears elsewhere. In Genesis 15:6, Abraham “believes in the Memra of the LORD.”
At Sinai, Moses brings the people “to meet the Memra of the LORD.”
The translators are not inventing a new being; they are describing God’s self-expression—His presence in speech, command, and promise.
The Word acts as the bridge between the high holiness of heaven and the lived experience of earth.
For the worshipper in the synagogue, this language meant comfort. God was not distant. His Memra still spoke, blessed, and guided His people.
What Israel’s translators expressed linguistically, the prophets had experienced spiritually—the Word that comes and speaks.
These sources are not Scripture but historical witnesses showing how Jewish teachers tried to express truths already found in the Hebrew Bible.
Their work prepared the theological soil for the fuller revelation of God’s Word in Christ.
V. The Greek Vocabulary: ῥῆμα and λόγος
When the Hebrew Scriptures were translated into Greek during the third and second centuries BC, the translators had to decide how to render dābār YHWH — “the word of the LORD.”
They chose two terms that shaped the vocabulary of revelation for centuries: ῥῆμα (rhēma) and λόγος (logos).
1. ῥῆμα – the spoken word
The noun ῥῆμα comes from ἐρῶ (“to speak”) and means “that which is said,” a specific utterance.
In the Septuagint, ῥῆμα Κυρίου translates dābār YHWH in passages where God’s speech breaks into history: “The ῥῆμα of the Lord came to Jeremiah” (Jer 1:2 LXX).
The term emphasizes speech that acts—a message that arrives with purpose and power.
Luke uses the same word when the angel tells Mary, “Nothing will be impossible with God” (οὐκ ἀδυνατήσει παρὰ τῷ θεῷ πᾶν ῥῆμα, Lk 1:37).
Every rhēma from God carries its own effectiveness.
In 1 Kings 19:9 (LXX 3 Kingdoms 19:9), the phrase καὶἰδοὺῥῆμα Κυρίου πρὸς αὐτόν shows that what Elijah receives is an event of speech.
The Word arrives as a messenger. The emphasis is movement—the Word comes—and address—the Word speaks.
2. λόγος – the revealing word
While ῥῆμα highlights the moment of utterance, λόγος carries a broader meaning: “word,” “reason,” “account,” “ordering principle.”
In classical Greek it could mean the rational pattern that holds the cosmos together. When Greek-speaking Jews adopted it, they used λόγος to describe the wisdom and purpose of God active in creation and revelation.
3. Jewish Wisdom and Targum traditions
Long before Hellenistic writers, Israel’s own literature had prepared this way of speaking.
In Wisdom of Solomon 9:1–2, creation is said to come through God’s Word, and the Aramaic Targums regularly spoke of the Memra of the LORD acting within history.
These texts show that the people of God already understood His Word as personal and active.
By the time Greek had become the language of many Jews, the idea of a living, working Word was deeply rooted in Scripture and synagogue life.
4. Philo of Alexandria – a Hellenistic Jewish voice
Philo of Alexandria (c. 20 BC – AD 50) later expressed similar ideas within Hellenistic Judaism. He described the Logos as “the first-born of God” and “the image of God” (On the Confusion of Tongues 146–147).
Philo was not a Christian teacher but a Jewish philosopher trying to translate biblical faith into the language of Greek thought. He was no Gnostic; his goal was to express the transcendent and holy God of Israel in categories his culture could grasp. His writing shows how the Jewish conviction that God reveals Himself through His Word could be heard in the wider intellectual world of his day.
John’s Gospel transforms that vocabulary by identifying the eternal Logos with the living person of Jesus Christ.
5. Bringing the two together
By the time of the New Testament, both ῥῆμα and λόγος belonged to the language of faith.
The ῥῆμα was the living voice of God’s command; the λόγος was the eternal meaning and reason behind that voice.
The Gospel writers use both: Jesus says that we live “by every ῥῆμα that comes from the mouth of God” (Mt 4:4), and John opens with “In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God.”
Together they tell one story—the Word who speaks in time is the same Word who orders eternity.
For Elijah, the ῥῆμα Κυρίου was the presence that entered his cave and restored his courage.
For the church, that same Word has now taken on flesh and spoken in the voice of Jesus. In Him the uttered ῥῆμα and the eternal Logos stand together: the divine speech that creates, confronts, and comforts has become a person who still comes and speaks.
VI. From Prophecy to Incarnation
All the earlier voices—the Hebrew dābār, the Aramaic Memra, the Greek ῥῆμα and λόγος—move in one continuous line of revelation.
The Word that came and spoke to prophets now comes and speaks in human flesh.
What Elijah heard in the cave becomes visible and audible in Jesus of Nazareth.
John’s Gospel gathers every strand into one radiant confession:
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. … And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” (John 1:1, 14)
John describes the same divine voice that called Abraham, touched Jeremiah’s lips, and addressed Elijah in the stillness.
The Logos is the living God entering history in personal, saving presence.
The One who once said, “Let there be light,” now declares, “I am the light of the world.”
Early Christians recognized that the Word who spoke through prophets is the eternal Son.
Athanasius wrote in On the Incarnation (§ 16):
“The Word of God came in His own person, that as He is the image of the Father, He might renew man made after the image.”
The Word who revealed the Father through servants now reveals Him as Servant, sharing the nature He created.
Reformed teachers carried this same conviction.
Calvin, commenting on John 1, said the Son “was always the living Word of God, the fountain of all revelation.”
John Owen called Christ “the immediate author of all divine revelations from the beginning of the world” (Christologia, II.3).
For them, the line from Elijah’s hearing to the disciples’ seeing displayed the constancy of God: the same Lord who met the prophet in the whisper now meets sinners in the flesh.
The incarnation brings the story of revelation to its fullness.
When Jesus reads Isaiah in the synagogue and declares, “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing,” He places Himself inside the prophetic formula.
The Word that came and spoke is present in the speaker. Revelation now bears a face, a tone of voice, and human tears.
Jack Miller liked to remind believers that grace has a human voice. The cave at Horeb appeared empty, yet the Word filled it; the world appeared hopeless, and the Word filled it too.
In Christ, divine speech gathers all its expressions—fire, thunder, whisper, and mercy—into one living Person.
The fire that consumed the altar on Carmel now burns as the warmth of redeeming love.
The voice that stirred Elijah’s heart now invites every weary soul: “Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
The Lord who spoke through storm and silence is also the Lord who sleeps in the boat, for the One who can say “Peace, be still” to the waves is the same One who governs the storm to begin with.
The Creator who commands the elements rests among them, revealing the majesty of divine power joined to the tenderness of divine compassion.
The story of the Word moves from the prophet’s ear to the believer’s heart. In Jesus, God’s communication that once arrived as command and promise arrives as grace and truth.
The Lord who speaks in every age—through storm, through silence, through Scripture—walks beside His servants still, ever coming, ever speaking, ever giving life.
VII. The Coming and the Speaking — The Cave as Gospel
Elijah’s cave shows how the living God restores His servant through presence and speech. The prophet expects God in force; instead, he meets Him in gentleness. The narrative slows so we can feel the difference between display and disclosure.
“And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper.”
(1 Kings 19:11–12)
Each natural wonder announces divine power; each pause reveals that the power itself is not the message.
The “low whisper” (literally “a thin sound of silence”) marks a different kind of nearness.
The God who sends wind, quake, and flame chooses to speak in a voice so slight that it reaches Elijah’s heart before his ears.
Jack Miller described this scene in relation to the cross:
“Elijah really deserved the fire to fall on him because he too was a sinner. … But when Jesus went to the cross, the fire came on the Greater Prophet.” (“Christ: A Greater Prophet than Elijah”)
The irony turns into gospel. The fire that once proved God’s supremacy at Carmel now falls on Christ at Calvary.
In that exchange the whisper finds its truest meaning: mercy speaking where judgment once thundered. The same Word who conquered idols now consoles His people.
This pattern shapes the gospel itself.
In Jesus, the Word comes again—still mighty, still holy, yet clothed in humility. The incarnation repeats Horeb’s rhythm: power hidden in mercy, glory wrapped in gentleness.
The Son of God walks into human sorrow and speaks peace. The mountain-shaking voice that once said, “Let there be light” now says “Your sins are forgiven.”
For those in ministry, Elijah’s cave offers a pattern of renewal.
The Lord restores His servants by coming near, not by scolding from afar. He sends His Word as truth that heals.
When the Word comes and speaks again—through Scripture read, prayer offered, or gospel preached—it carries the same tenderness that filled that quiet space at Horeb.
VIII. The Angel, the Word, and the Lord
Across Scripture God’s presence appears in two recurring ways: sometimes as the Angel of the LORD, sometimes as the Word of the LORD. Both carry divine authority; both speak in the first person as God; both reveal the same personal reality of the one Lord.
1. The Angel of the LORD
From Genesis onward this figure speaks and acts as the covenant Lord Himself.
In Genesis 16, the Angel finds Hagar, promises her a future, and she names Him “the God who sees me.”
In Exodus 3, the Angel appears in the burning bush, yet the text says, “God called to him out of the bush.”
In Judges 6, Gideon meets the Angel, brings an offering, and the narrator concludes, “the LORD turned to him.”
The Angel is no mere messenger. He bears the divine name, receives worship, and forgives sin—actions belonging only to God.
The early fathers saw in this the Son of God appearing before His incarnation.
Justin Martyr, writing in the second century (Dialogue with Trypho, 56), identified the Angel as “the very same who appeared to Moses and who is called God and Lord.”
Irenaeus called Him “the Word of the Father, always present with the human race.”
2. The Word of the LORD
When prophets describe “the Word of the LORD coming to them,” they use language that overlaps with these visible appearances. The Word arrives, stands, touches, or speaks directly.
To Samuel the Word “revealed Himself;” to Jeremiah the Word “touched my mouth.”
These actions belong to a personal agent, not to abstract speech. In the cave at Horeb, Elijah experiences that same nearness in voice rather than sight: the unseen Word speaks into silence.
3. Unity of Angel and Word
The fathers and Reformers recognized that Scripture’s various forms of divine manifestation—Angel, Word, Wisdom, Glory—converge in one person.
Augustine, in The Trinity (II.17), taught that “the Word of God appeared to the fathers in the form of a created thing, yet remained uncreated in Himself.”
Calvin, commenting on Exodus 3, wrote, “There is no reason to doubt that the Angel was the same Son of God who was afterwards manifested in flesh.”
John Owen, in Christologia (II.2), summarized: “He who appeared unto the fathers under various names and forms was the eternal Word, the Son, who was afterward made man.”
Their point is not speculation but continuity: the God who reveals Himself in these ways is one and the same. The Word who spoke from the bush and whispered in the cave is the Christ who later walked among His people.
4. Theological Significance
Recognizing this unity keeps the story of Scripture whole. God does not change His manner of relating; He deepens it.
In the Old Testament He comes by vision and voice; in the New He comes by incarnation and Spirit.
The Angel who carries the divine name, the Word who comes and speaks, and the Lord who dwells among His people all belong to one continuous revelation of the Triune God.
Elijah’s cave therefore stands within that larger history. The voice that reached him is the same voice that later said to the storm, “Peace, be still.”
The God who once spoke through the Angel now speaks through the Son, and through the Spirit still comes and speaks to the weary hearts of His servants today.
IX. Reformed Reflection – Word, Spirit, and Scripture
The Reformed heritage stands within the same stream that runs from Elijah’s cave to Christ’s voice: the living God reveals Himself through the Word, and the Spirit makes that Word present and powerful.
The Spirit Speaking in Scripture
The Reformers described revelation as the ongoing work of the Spirit speaking in the written Word.
1. The Westminster Confession of Faith (1.10) expresses it clearly:
“The supreme judge by which all controversies of religion are to be determined, and all decrees of councils, opinions of ancient writers, doctrines of men, and private spirits are to be examined; and in whose sentence we are to rest; can be no other but the Holy Spirit speaking in the Scripture.”
That line compresses centuries of conviction: the same Spirit who spoke to Elijah still speaks in the text. God’s Word is still living because God Himself goes with it.
2. Calvin writes in the Institutes (I.vii.4):
“Scripture exhibits fully as clear evidence of its own truth as white and black things do of their color, or sweet and bitter things do of their taste.”
For Calvin, the Spirit’s internal witness (testimonium Spiritus Sancti internum) does not replace Scripture but illumines it.
The believer hears God in the Word because the same Spirit who inspired it now opens the heart to receive it.
3. The Word and the Spirit Together
John Owen, in The Causes, Ways, and Means of Understanding the Mind of God, warned that neglecting the Spirit leads to “a dry letter,” while separating the Spirit from the Word breeds enthusiasm.
Owen’s solution was balance: “The Spirit and the Word are the means of all divine illumination.”
The Spirit who spoke in prophets and apostles continues to speak through their writings, never against them.
4. Herman Bavinck later gathered the same truth in his Reformed Dogmatics (vol. 1, p. 456):
“Revelation is completed in Christ, yet the Word and the Spirit still accompany each other. The Word remains the form; the Spirit gives it life.”
This unity guards both the authority of Scripture and the vitality of faith.
Without the Spirit, the text would remain a closed book; without the Word, our spirituality would dissolve into imagination.
Together they preserve the same balance Elijah experienced in the cave—divine nearness that speaks truth with gentleness.
5. A Living Voice for Every Age
Reformed theology therefore sees preaching, reading, and hearing as moments of divine address.
When Scripture is read and proclaimed, the Spirit again causes the Word to come and speak.
This is not new revelation but renewed encounter.
As Bavinck said elsewhere (vol. 1, p. 604), “In the church, Christ himself, through the Spirit, continues to speak by his Word.”
That conviction frees the preacher from striving to be original. The pulpit’s power lies not in novelty but in the nearness of the same voice that whispered to Elijah.
The Spirit speaking in Scripture turns reading into hearing and hearing into worship.
Every time the Word comes to us in power, the Lord who once passed by the cave passes by again.
X. Faith Comes by Hearing — The Word Preached and Believed
“So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” — Romans 10:17 (ESV)
1. Paul’s line of thought in Romans 10:1–17
Paul’s theme is the movement of the Word from God to the world.
He begins with Israel’s unbelief (10:1–4) and moves toward the way salvation comes to all who call on the Lord (10:5–13).
Then he asks a chain of rhetorical questions:
“How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed?
And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard?
And how are they to hear without someone preaching?” (10:14–15)
Finally, he concludes:
“So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” (10:17)
That sentence (ἡ πίστις ἐξ ἀκοῆς, ἡ δὲ ἀκοὴ διὰ ῥήματος Χριστοῦ) completes the same pattern seen in Elijah: The Word comes and speaks, and the prophet or preacher first hears before he proclaims.
2. Reception before speech
The prophet in the old covenant and the preacher in the new share one vocation: they are both hearers before they are speakers.
Elijah hides in the cave until the Word of the LORD comes and speaks; the apostle preaches only what he has heard from Christ.
Paul’s phrase ῥῆμα Χριστοῦ — “the word of Christ” — echoes the same term used in the LXX for “the word of the LORD.”
The continuity is deliberate.
Just as the ῥῆμα Κυρίου came to the prophets, the ῥῆμα Χριστοῦ now comes through the gospel.
Hearing is still the first act of grace; speech follows as obedience.
This is why Reformed confessions place such weight on the external Word preached—the Spirit uses hearing as His ordinary means of faith’s creation (Westminster Confession 14.1).
3. The Word’s descent and ascent
Romans 10 is framed by the quotation from Deuteronomy 30:
“Do not say in your heart, ‘Who will ascend into heaven?’ … ‘Who will descend into the abyss?’ But what does it say? ‘The word is near you, in your mouth and in your heart.’” (10:6–8)
Paul applies this to Christ: The Word has already come down.
The movement is the same as in Elijah’s cave—the transcendent God comes near, speaks, and awakens faith.
The prophet’s listening prefigures the believer’s hearing.
Every Christian conversion re-enacts Elijah’s moment: the living Word approaches, whispers through the preached gospel, and faith arises.
4. The Memra and the Word of Christ
Our exploration of the Memra sharpens this connection.
In the Targums, the Memra of the LORD is the way God’s speech becomes encounter.
In Romans 10, that same divine dynamic reaches its fulfillment: the ῥῆμα Χριστοῦ is the Memra of the Lord made flesh and proclaimed.
The Word once heard by prophets in vision is now heard by sinners in the preaching of Christ.
Thus Paul’s sentence — “Faith comes by hearing” — is a New-Covenant form of “the word of the LORD came and said.”
The same living presence that addressed Elijah in a whisper now addresses the church in the gospel.
5. The pastoral implication
For Elijah, hearing preceded mission: “Go, return on your way.”
For the church, hearing also precedes mission: “How shall they preach unless they are sent?” (10:15).
Preachers, like prophets, must receive before they speak.
Faith is born not from inspiration or noise but from the living Word that continues to come and speak through Scripture, by the Spirit, in the preaching of Christ.
Jack Miller understood this as the daily rhythm of gospel life.
In his Overview of A New Life, he wrote that the gospel possesses three elements—facts, promise, and power—but that he discovered a fourth:
“It was that the gospel is a preached message. A word of grace designed to be presented with persuasion, gentleness, and the authority of faith. A message that has power as it is taken to people where they live and presented to them by believing hearts.”
Preaching, for Jack, was not based on personality but on participation in God’s own speaking. That means anyone and everyone in Christ can boldly preach the gospel to themself, to other Christians, and to those who have not believed in Christ.
He continued:
“The gospel is itself the cause of faith in those who hear it. ‘Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the preached word of Christ.’ Therefore, I must preach the gospel to myself as the instrument for believing.”
The same grace that called Elijah from his cave calls every believer and non-believer from self-reliance into hearing faith.
In the preaching of Christ, the ῥῆμα Χριστοῦ —the Word of Christ—moves again through human voices, re-enacting the miracle of Horeb in every heart that listens.
Romans 10 thus stands as a New-Covenant counterpart to 1 Kings 19: the Word still comes; the Word still speaks; and through that hearing the Spirit raises the dead to life.
Every act of faithful preaching becomes a new Horeb—a moment when the whisper of grace fills the silence of human need.
XI. The Word Who Still Comes and Speaks
Elijah’s cave ends with movement. The Word who came and spoke now sends. The prophet wraps his cloak around his face, steps into the mouth of the cave, and hears the command, “Go, return on your way.” The encounter restores his calling.
The same Word that once said, “Let there be light,” now says, “Rise and walk again.”
Grace always concludes with a task because divine speech renews both heart and mission.
Through Scripture that same rhythm continues. The living Word of God still comes through Scripture, preaching, and sacraments (what we call God’s ordinary means of grace), yet it is always the living God Himself who comes near to us and speaks to us.
After all, “To be near to God and have God near to us is the whole purpose of human life.”
God still meets weary servants where courage has drained away, still whispers forgiveness where pride has hardened, still gives direction where confusion reigns.
The coming and the speaking that healed Elijah belong now to the church, for the risen Christ walks among His people as the Word who lives.
Reformed faith calls this the living voice of Scripture—viva vox Dei.
When the Spirit illumines the text, the believer hears not a memory but a presence: the same Lord who spoke in the story now speaking through it.
Every faithful sermon, every prayer shaped by the Psalms, every act of forgiveness within the body becomes another echo of that voice.
The Word continues to come; the Word continues to speak.
Jack Miller ended his sermon on Elijah with this assurance:
“The Lord wants to help you. He loves you. He loves you in ways that you could never, never understand.”
(“Christ: A Greater Prophet than Elijah”)
That same tenderness fills Elijah’s cave and the gospel itself. The fire that once fell in judgment now warms in mercy; the whisper that called Elijah out now calls the church into mission.
That nearness of God defines the Christian life. The Word that came to Elijah still comes through the Scriptures, in the Spirit, through the Son—calling every believer out of fear into fellowship.
God still draws near. He still speaks. And those who hear Him rise, wrap their cloaks around their faces, and step forward into the light of a world that still needs to know that the Lord, He is God.
