by Joel V Webb | Mar 27, 2026 | Orthodoxy Matters, Sacraments, Theology & Practice
Easter is just around the corner, and for the first time I’ll have the honor of administering the sacrament of baptism on Easter Sunday, one of the traditional days the Church has welcomed those into the Church. The discussion and debates in the church over baptism are a fascinating one. For every Christian, baptism is the universally recognized entrance into life in the people of God, but especially since the Reformation, certain elements of the Church, while acknowledging its importance, have lessened its impact, and flattened the reality and beauty of baptism to a simple, “tell people that you love Jesus.” But what Scripture, and the history and tradition of the Church demonstrates, it is so much more than that.
Before addressing anything more specifically, I want to quickly touch the base that Baptism is a Sacrament. In the Free Methodist Church, the denomination I am in, we recognize the two sacraments of Christ, the Eucharist and Baptism. They are the means of grace that Christ has given His Church. Eucharist (Communion or the Lord’s Supper), as spoken of by John Wesley is the ongoing and continual means by which God provides grace to the Christian in their life (see his sermon The Duty of Constant Communion). And, it is Baptism, as spoken of above, that serves as the rite of entrance into the people of God. In my church, the baptismal font is located at the back of the sanctuary, in direct line with the chancel of the altar, representing the truth that you must first pass through baptism to come into the life of the Church.
The word sacrament in this discussion is important because it focuses on the work of God that takes place as we engage in these means that Christ has given us. Yes, we are commanded to keep them in obedience to His word (Christ’s command to baptize in the Great Commission, and His command to keep the table in continual remembrance of Him). It is the witness of Scripture and the early undivided Church that these acts are much more than us doing, they are the avenue and channel of God to work in and through His people. Physicality matters because we are in a physical world, and God stepped in through the incarnation. So thus, God does not stop working through the physical, rather He has given to His people physical signs through which His graces flow. This is why I distinctively use the language of sacrament, rather than something else such as ordinance.
Now back to the main discussion.
Of all the verses, one of the most controversial is 1 Peter 3:21, “this water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also—not the removal of dirt from the body but the pledge of a clear conscience toward God. It saves you by the resurrection of Jesus Christ.” In this verse, Peter does not mince words—he articulates something that should cause modern evangelicals, especially those of a “believer’s baptism only” persuasion, to slow down and read again. “Baptism now saves you.” It’s hard to argue that Peter could have spoken more plainly. But immediately, he anticipates our misunderstanding: it is not “the removal of dirt from the body.” It’s not a magical washing, or a mere ritual dealing with externals. Peter wants us to understand that baptism’s efficacy is grounded not in ritual precision but in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In other words, baptism saves, not because of water alone, but because in baptism we are united to the saving work of Christ—the same Christ who plunged into death and rose up into new life.
The apostle’s words echo other deep currents running through the New Testament. Paul declares in Romans 6 that “all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death.” Baptism links the believer personally and mysteriously with the passion and resurrection of the Lord. It is not simply a symbol we perform to show our commitment; it is a real participation in Christ’s own redemptive act. Through it, we are joined to his dying and rising—our old self is buried, and a new self, reborn by grace, comes into being. In this way, baptism is not an optional external mark, but an entrance into life in Christ, a sacramental sharing in his work of salvation.
Here is where much of our modern understanding falters. We have come to think of baptism primarily as an expressive act—something we do to communicate something about ourselves: our faith, our repentance, our decision. But biblically and historically, baptism is primarily receptive. It is something God does in and for us. Yes, we approach in faith; yes, it is a sign of commitment to follow Christ—but at its core, baptism is an encounter with the divine initiative, not a declaration of human resolve.
This shift in emphasis is not a matter of semantics. It shapes our entire theology of grace and discipleship. If baptism is my declaration, then my faith stands primarily on the strength of my sincerity and memory of having “made a decision.” But if baptism is Christ’s act toward me, then my faith stands on divine promise and covenant faithfulness. The former centers on my experience, the latter on God’s grace. And this distinction lies close to the heart of the Reformation concern: that our salvation rests not on our performance but on the steadfast mercy of God.
John Wesley, of course, understood this sacramental tension well. In his sermon The New Birth, he draws together faith and baptism in a deeply practical way. He insists that baptism is both a sign and a means of grace—a vehicle through which God works regeneration. But he also recognizes that the waters alone do not automatically confer salvation; they must be received by faith. Wesley’s nuanced view allowed for both divine action and human response, and it serves the Church today as a helpful corrective to both extremes: the notion that baptism functions mechanically without faith, and the opposing view that it is merely a symbol without power.
Throughout Scripture, water is not a neutral or comforting image—it is chaotic, cleansing, and creative all at once. From the primordial deep in Genesis, to the floodwaters in Noah’s day, to the Red Sea and the Jordan River, God repeatedly uses water as the boundary between old life and new creation. It both destroys and delivers. Peter, drawing on the Noah narrative in the preceding verses of 1 Peter 3, connects baptism directly to this cosmic pattern: just as Noah passed through the waters of judgment into a new world, so too we are borne through the waters of baptism into the new creation of Christ.
The early Church Fathers grasped this profoundly. Tertullian, writing in the second century, called baptism the “seal of faith,” by which the Spirit marks and protects the believer. Cyril of Jerusalem described baptism as a “participation in the death and resurrection of Christ,” an event so transformative that he instructed catechumens to remove their garments before baptism as a sign of laying aside the old self, and then clothe themselves anew as a symbol of their resurrection life. These ancient witnesses saw baptism not as an addendum to salvation but as its visible threshold—the place where the promises of God and the faith of the believer meet in a sacrament of grace.
When I think about standing by the baptismal font this Easter, I can’t help but reflect on how baptism folds each of us into the larger story of redemption. It is not merely our story, it is Christ’s story, into which we are grafted. That’s why the baptismal liturgy traditionally includes the Apostles’ Creed, confessing the faith “once delivered to the saints.” In being baptized, a person doesn’t just say, “I believe in Jesus.” They are, more profoundly, saying, “I believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; I believe in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and I take my place among His people.”
The Church, in her wisdom, locates baptism at this communal crossroads. It’s never a private ceremony, because baptism ushers us into the Body of Christ. We are baptized into one Body, as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 12:13. The Church becomes the womb from which new Christians are born and the family into which they are adopted. That’s why the placement of the font at the entrance, aligned with the altar is so fitting. The believer enters through those waters to approach the table of grace, joining in the full life of the Church.
This brings us, inevitably, to the question of who should be baptized. For many evangelicals, the assumption is that baptism belongs strictly to those old enough to make a personal declaration of faith. And yet, the witness of the early Church and of Scripture itself offers a broader perspective. When Peter finishes preaching on Pentecost, his message concludes with a promise: “The promise is for you and for your children and for all who are far off” (Acts 2:39). Households are baptized, not just individuals. The covenantal logic that once applied to circumcision now unfolds in baptism. It is the sign of belonging to the covenant community—a sign that anticipates faith as much as it springs from it.
This doesn’t mean that faith is unimportant; rather, it means baptism operates within the economy of grace. For infants, it is a sign planted in hope, to be nurtured and fulfilled by future faith. For adults, it is the sacramental seal of faith received. In both cases, what matters is not the sequence of events but the grace of God uniting them.
John Wesley himself baptized infants with full conviction, but always with pastoral care, urging parents and the Church to raise those baptized children in the nurture of the faith. In that sense, baptism begins a process, not ends one. It marks the beginning of the journey of sanctifying grace, that ongoing “going on to perfection” that Wesley so cherished.
Peter’s grounding phrase, “by the resurrection of Jesus Christ,” cannot be overemphasized. Baptism saves because Christ’s resurrection gives it power. Every baptism is, in fact, a mini-Easter. The movement down into the waters mirrors the death and burial of Jesus; the rising up out of them signifies participation in his resurrection. This is why the early Church baptized converts at sunrise, and often on Easter—those being baptized would literally face the East, toward the rising sun, confessing that they were turning away from the darkness of sin and turning toward the Light of Christ.
Theologically, this resurrection motif tells us that baptism is not a static act but a dynamic participation in life eternal. We are not simply cleansed of sin, we are set free for righteousness. The grace received in baptism calls and empowers us to live differently. As Paul reminds us, “just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life” (Romans 6:4). Baptism, then, is both forgiveness and new vocation. It is an identity-forming event.
Every time a Christian witnesses a baptism or dips their fingers into the font and makes the sign of the cross, it is a renewal of that truth: “I have died with Christ; I have been raised with Him.” Baptism, while once-for-all, continues to shape the believer’s spiritual imagination. Martin Luther, when plagued by temptation or despair, would often cry out, “I am baptized!”—not “I was baptized,” but “I am.” The reality of that moment endured for him as a present-tense grace.
So when the Free Methodist Church, or any church, remembers the baptized, it is a way of re-rooting our faith not in our wavering emotions but in God’s covenantal promise. Whether we were baptized as infants or as adults, in a river or a font, the same divine life is at work. God’s act remains true even when ours falter. Baptism allows us to locate our lives within that steadiness, to live out of an identity that has already been defined by God’s promise.
What, then, does it mean to “live baptismally”? It means living daily out of the truth that we have been united to Christ. It means resisting sin not from guilt or fear but from identity: “that is not who I am anymore.” It means recognizing the Church not as a voluntary association of like-minded individuals but as the family into which we were birthed through water and Spirit. It means approaching the table each week as those who have entered through the font—as resurrection people who have been called out of darkness into marvelous light.
To live baptismally is also to live missionally. The Great Commission does not end with “make disciples”; it continues, “baptizing them… and teaching them.” Baptism and discipleship are inseparable. Every act of evangelism, every act of mercy, every proclamation of the gospel flows from our baptismal identity—those who have been joined to Christ and sent to embody His Kingdom in the world.
As the early Church would declare at the baptismal font: “You are buried with Christ; you are raised with Christ; you are sealed by the Spirit; you belong to God.” This is not mere poetic flourish—it is the substance of Christian life.
So when Peter writes, “baptism now saves you,” he is not contradicting the gospel of grace, he is articulating it sacramentally. Baptism does not replace faith; it embodies it. It does not operate apart from the resurrection; it manifests it. It does not substitute obedience; it initiates it. The water does not save by itself, but by the divine power that has chosen to work through it.
This Easter, as you prepare to stand beside the font and welcome new believers into the family of faith, you participate in an unbroken story stretching back to the Jordan River, to Pentecost, to the empty tomb. The water that splashes from the font bears witness to the same grace that parted seas and burst forth from graves. It is the water through which the Spirit hovers once again, bringing new creation from chaos. And every drop proclaims the gospel in miniature: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.
by Joel V Webb | Mar 10, 2026 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
One of the prayers I think every Christian prays for that echoes the words of Christ from St. John’s Gospel, chapter 17: “I pray that they will all be one, just as you and I are one—as you are in me, Father, and I am in you. And may they be in us so that the world will believe you sent me.” (v.21). Where things get sticky is what we all mean by “one.” If you are a Roman Catholic, Orthodox, or Anglican, your ecclesiology (theology of the Church) differs from that of your run-of-the-mill Evangelical or Baptist. For the traditional Christian, the Church is often visualized as an ark (like Noah’s ark) that is sailing through history, with people getting on and off as time passed. Whereas, in a low-church understanding, “the Church” is not a single entity, but a blueprint found in the Bible that is made to be reproduced. Because of these different understandings, the answer to the prayer to “be one” looks different.
In the New Testament, the Church is described as a body—many members, but one life. The image St. Paul gives in 1 Corinthians 12 goes far beyond metaphor: it is the reality of what the Holy Spirit does with the people of God. There aren’t multiple bodies of Christ, only one. When we are baptized, we are joined not merely to Christ but to one another, across all ages, cultures, and nations. Congregations are expressions of that one Body, not separate bodies with their own identity. To be a Christian, then, is never an individual or local affair—it is to belong to something both visible and historical.
But the Church through time has not always lived that reality well. It has divided again and again—sometimes for tragic reasons, sometimes for necessary ones. In truth, some divisions have been like emergency surgeries: painful, but at times necessary to save life. Others, however, have been the result of human ego, political pressure, or differing cultural forms. Once the crisis passes, though, the call remains the same—to heal what has been torn.
Take, for example, our own Methodist heritage. John Wesley never intended to start a new church. A lifelong Anglican priest, he described the Methodist movement as an effort “to reform the nation, particularly the Church, and to spread scriptural holiness throughout the land.” Methodism in its origin was not a schism—it was a renewal movement within the Church of England. Lay preachers, class meetings, and field preaching were ways to reawaken the life of grace in ordinary believers. It was only after the American Revolution, when Anglican clergy were scarce and Wesley reluctantly sent Thomas Coke to ordain new ministers for the colonies, that Methodism took on a distinct ecclesial form—the Methodist Episcopal Church. Even then, Wesley saw Methodism as a continuation of the one Church, not a replacement for it. The split was pastoral and practical, not theological.
A century later, the Free Methodist Church emerged from the Methodist Episcopal Church in the 1860s. The reasons were morally serious and historically necessary: a stand against slavery sympathizers, a desire for “free seats” when pew rentals had become a social barrier for the poor, and a concern to preserve holiness preaching when the larger body was becoming formal and complacent. B. T. Roberts and others didn’t separate to rebel, but to stay faithful to the Spirit’s movement within Methodism itself. The goal was not to leave the people called Methodists—it was to keep their original fire alive.
This is where we must recover a patristic vision of the Church: not as disconnected islands of believers floating independently through time, but as one unified body moving inexorably through history under Christ’s headship. The early fathers—like Ignatius, Irenaeus, and Cyprian—taught that the Church is a single, organic reality, handed down from the apostles, growing and correcting itself across generations. Splits may scar the body, but they do not create new bodies; the one Church persists, calling her wounded members back into communion. For low-church Protestants, this doesn’t mean hierarchy or ritualism—it means seeing our local assembly as a vital part of that ancient, living organism, linked by baptism, creed, and Scripture to every faithful Christian from Pentecost to today.
But the question we must ask today, with gratitude for those who came before us, is whether the reasons that once made divisions necessary still remain. The Church of England that Wesley knew is not the same as the Anglicanism that exists today. Interestingly, the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA) has been deeply shaped by the kind of Spirit-led, Scripture-centered renewal that Methodism championed in the eighteenth century. Anyone looking at ACNA congregations can see strong echoes of early Methodism’s heartbeat—biblical preaching, small-group discipleship, evangelistic zeal, and a hunger for holiness. In a sense, Wesley’s children have helped their Anglican mother recover her vitality. Perhaps that mutual influence is a sign that old wounds might be ready for healing.
Likewise, within Methodism itself, we find new alignments forming. The rise of the Global Methodist Church (GMC) represents a desire to reclaim both scriptural faithfulness and Wesleyan integrity. The brokenness that once split Methodism in the nineteenth century over moral and doctrinal drift may be resolving in our own time through renewed clarity, holiness, and mission. If the theological and moral crises that once necessitated fracture have given way to faithful reform, then perhaps it is time to ask not how to multiply more branches, but how those branches might graft once more into one living tree.
Christian unity doesn’t mean uniformity. It doesn’t mean abandoning our distinctives. It means recognizing that the Body of Christ is one—not only across geography, but across history. It means realizing that our hope lies not in our denominational franchises but in our shared participation in the life of Christ. If the Free Methodist, the Global Methodist, and the Anglican find themselves proclaiming the same gospel and pursuing the same holiness, perhaps it is time to start praying and working toward a visible unity that testifies to the world: Jesus truly is Lord.
Our divisions may have had their reasons, but when those reasons die, so should our excuses for staying apart. The Church is one Body, sailing through time like an ark on God’s mission of redemption. It’s time for those who have stepped off along the way to start rowing toward one another again—until the ship of the Church, battered but unsinkable, carries us all home together.
by Joel V Webb | Dec 10, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice, Uncategorized
Modern Christians love to sing about “tradition” when Tevye belts it out in Fiddler on the Roof, but many of us grow uneasy when the same word comes up in church. We instinctively feel the pull of Tevye’s point: tradition gives shape, identity, and continuity to a people; take it away, and everything wobbles. Yet when it comes to the Christian faith, we often imagine we can live on “Bible alone” in a way that somehow bypasses tradition altogether. The irony is that, just like the villagers of Anatevka, we already live by powerful inherited patterns—ways of worshipping, reading Scripture, praying, and organizing church life—that were handed down to us, even if no one ever called them “tradition.”
One of the cornerstones of the Protestant Reformation was the reclamation of Scripture as the central infallible rule of faith. Meaning that no matter what, Scripture is the ultimate authority in all things of faith and practice. As someone in a tradition downstream from Anglicanism, we see this in Article 6 of the 39 Articles (which are the confessional and theological foundation of Anglicanism, and were as well for early Methodism), “Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to salvation: so that whatsoever is not read therein, nor may be proved thereby, is not to be required of any man, that it should be believed as an article of the Faith, or be thought requisite or necessary to salvation.”
And I agree with this. Scripture is essential and of all importance because it is to us a direct revelation of God. Yet, from this also stems a primary frustration. For some Protestants there is always that ‘dirty word’ hiding in the corner…tradition. Like many, I grew up believing that tradition is bad, if not evil, and that tradition is what keeps people away from God. Whenever tradition came up, it always had something to do with those Catholics, Orthodox, Lutherans, Anglicans, or other Christians who dressed funny, and certainly didn’t worship “in the Spirit”, because they were all bound up by their traditions.
Well, for anyone who has known me the last several years, you know I now have a very different answer. Tradition is not bad. Ironically, WE ALL HAVE TRADITION! The question we often fail to ask is, “do I acknowledge my own traditions”. Because, if we don’t, we are actually more controlled by those traditions than we realize, because they are hidden. And this is the fatal deceit we Protestants often fall prey to. We think tradition is bad, and that tradition is not an authority.
But again, we can’t get away from the truth that tradition is always going to be there. And here’s the other thing we must realize. Interpretation of Scripture outside of tradition is just as likely to lead us into heretical teachings that it is into orthodox ones. Just ask Joseph Smith, Charles Taze Russell, Ellen G. White, and the list goes on. As Protestants we must have tradition, otherwise we will continue into an endlessly featuring web of church splits and every more specified denominations over small matters of interpretation.
Now, this is not to say there are no reasons for separation. There certainly are. But when we fail to understand that tradition is authoritative, sometimes we look to as a rule of interpretation, it can help us in maintaining true Christian unity.
Over the last few years, I’ve come to see that tradition, properly understood, is not a rival to Scripture but a servant of it. The great creeds and confessions of the Church were not written to replace the Bible, they were written to safeguard its message, to offer faithful summaries of what the Church across time and place has understood Scripture to teach. When we recite the Apostles’ Creed or the Nicene Creed, we are not adding to the Bible; we are joining our voices to a two‑thousand‑year chorus of believers who have wrestled with the same questions, doubts, and heresies we face today.
At its simplest, tradition functions like a set of guardrails on a mountain road. It does not confine us; it keeps us from tumbling into error while still allowing for movement, discovery, and growth. It gives us perspective—reminding us that the Church did not begin with our generation, nor with the Reformers, nor even with the apostles, but with the eternal purpose of God carried out through time. When we cut ourselves off from that inheritance, we risk spiritual amnesia.
The irony, of course, is that the Reformers themselves were deeply traditional. Luther and Calvin constantly appealed to the early Fathers—Augustine, Chrysostom, Athanasius—not because they thought those writers were infallible, but because they knew that faithful interpretation does not happen in a vacuum. “Sola Scriptura” never meant “Solo Scriptura.” The former places Scripture at the center of authority; the latter isolates it from the Church that bears witness to it.
Many modern Christians assume they have escaped “tradition” simply because they don’t follow a written liturgy or historic creed, but that does not mean they are tradition‑free; it just means their traditions are invisible to them. The way a church structures its services, chooses its music, teaches about salvation, organizes leadership, and even dresses on Sunday are all patterns that have been received, repeated, and defended over time, that is, they are traditions. When these homegrown traditions go unacknowledged, they are rarely tested against Scripture or the wider wisdom of the Church, and so they can quietly harden into non‑negotiable identity markers. The more Protestants distance themselves from historic Christian tradition; creeds, catechisms, classical liturgy, and a common sacramental life, the more each community is forced to invent itself from scratch, which only accelerates fragmentation, doctrinal confusion, and church splits. If this trajectory continues, the body of Christ will become increasingly divided into isolated tribes, each mistaking its own unexamined habits for pure, tradition‑less Christianity, rather than humbly receiving and discerning the tested traditions that once held believers together.
Healthy Christian tradition is not just anything that has been done for a long time; it is the Church’s tested, communal wisdom about how to believe and live the gospel under Scripture. Good tradition gathers up biblical teaching in stable forms—creeds, catechisms, liturgies, patterns of discipleship—that help ordinary believers confess the faith clearly and avoid well‑worn errors. At the same time, because Scripture remains the final norm, even long‑standing practices and assumptions must stay open to correction and reform. Naming this explicitly helps people see that the choice is not between “Bible or tradition,” but between unexamined, private traditions and accountable, Scripture‑shaped ones.
If tradition is to be received and discerned wisely, it has to be held by more than isolated individuals; it belongs to the Church as a concrete, visible community across time and space. Councils, confessions, agreed forms of worship, and recognized teachers are ways the Church has historically said, “This is what we together hear in Scripture,” rather than leaving every question to personal improvisation. When the gathered Church, under the Word and in dependence on the Spirit, tests and hands on tradition, it offers a shared framework that can restrain fragmentation and correct local excesses. Recovering this sense of the Church as a real, tradition‑bearing body helps modern Protestants move from “me and my Bible” toward “we, the Church, listening together to the Scriptures,” which is where genuine unity and faithful reform become possible.
Ultimately, the goal is not to exalt tradition for its own sake, but to love and know Christ more faithfully. Scripture is God’s Word written; tradition is the Church’s memory of how that Word has been lived and confessed. We need both if we are to remain rooted and flourishing in a fragmented world. Perhaps the way forward for Protestantism is not to abandon its Reformation principles, but to deepen them—to see in the Reformers not just critics of the past, but faithful heirs of a much older and larger communion of saints.
by Joel V Webb | Nov 21, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
One of the perennial issues of discussion, disagreement, and consternation in modern Christianity is how to solve a “problem” like the book of Revelation (cue The Sound of Music). It is one of the most talked-about and also one of the most misunderstood books of the Bible, precisely because of what makes it so beautiful. It is mysterious, symbolic, imaginative, and at first glance feels opaque enough that Christians often fall back on whatever interpretive framework they inherited. And for many in the Western church, that inherited lens is some version of the dispensational, end-times schema popularized by the Left Behind series.
Recently, a parishioner asked me how to understand Revelation, and I realized quickly that a simple five-minute conversation wouldn’t be enough. The questions behind Revelation are not only about interpretation but about imagination. We need to untangle what the text actually says from the assumptions we bring to it. And this is difficult, because for many Christians even those who do not personally identify as dispensational, our cultural imagination has been shaped by that system. The idea of a seven-year tribulation, an individual Antichrist, a secret rapture, and a sequence of future political events culminating in Armageddon often feels like it “must” be biblical because we’ve heard the system so often and so confidently.
But when we slow down, open the Scriptures, read Revelation in its own historical and literary context, and listen to the witness of the early Church, we discover something surprisingly simple: Revelation is not about decoding a timeline. It is about unveiling the triumph of Jesus Christ and the call for His people to remain faithful in a world that often opposes the Lamb.
It is striking that the book opens not with a puzzle but with a blessing: “Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of this prophecy” (Revelation 1:3). The early Church never treated Revelation as a secret codebook but as a proclamation, prophetic imagery meant to comfort persecuted Christians, strengthen their worship, and remind them that the Lamb reigns even when Rome seems unshakable.
This is precisely how the earliest Christian writers approached the book. Irenaeus, writing in the second century, did take Revelation seriously as prophecy, but he always tied its hope to the victory already won by Christ. He wrote, “The name of our Lord… is the faith which brings salvation” (Against Heresies 3.18.7). The point is not prediction. The point is fidelity. Origen, commenting on Revelation’s imagery, said that the visions “are to be understood spiritually” and that the book “reveals what Christ has done and is doing” (Commentary on John 2.2). Even Augustine, often accused unfairly of over-allegorizing, was simply following the pastoral instinct of the Church before him when he said that Revelation displays the reality that “the Church is always under trial… yet is always victorious through Christ” (City of God 20.9).
For the early Church, the primary message of Revelation was not fear of what might come, but confidence in what has already come: the Lamb who was slain now stands (Revelation 5:6). Christ’s victory is not future, it is the very lens through which the future must be seen.
This is also why the historic Church never taught a seven-year tribulation. That idea simply does not appear anywhere in Revelation. It emerged from a very particular reading of Daniel 9, developed in the 1800s, in which dispensational writers “paused” Daniel’s 70th week and moved it thousands of years into the future. No Christian writer, east or west, taught this before the modern period. For the early Christians, the “tribulation” was the reality of discipleship in a world that crucified Jesus and still resists His reign (cf. John 16:33). As Tertullian wrote, “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church”—not because the Church awaits a future seven years of horror, but because tribulation is the normal environment of faithful witness.
Likewise, the idea of a single end-times Antichrist figure does not come from Revelation either. The only place in Scripture that uses the word “antichrist” is the Johannine epistles, and there John says plainly: “Many antichrists have come” (1 John 2:18). It is a category, people and powers opposed to Christ—not a cinematic villain. Revelation’s beast imagery is not about a future political leader waiting in the wings; it is prophetic imagery about oppressive empire, idolatrous power, and systems that stand against the Lamb. Early Christians knew this. Victorinus, the earliest commentator on Revelation (3rd century), wrote, “The beast signifies worldly kingdoms… opposed to the Church” (Commentary on Revelation 13). Not an individual. Not a future dictator. A system. A pattern. A recurring reality in history.
In other words, Revelation is not predicting a future empire in exact detail, it is revealing the spiritual nature of all empires that wage war against the Lamb (Revelation 17:14). And the Lamb wins.
Even the Reformers and later theologians continued this historic reading. Luther was initially suspicious of Revelation, but even he insisted its purpose was to “reveal Christ and testify to Him.” Calvin did not write a commentary on Revelation, but he preached from it confidently, saying, “The sum of all prophecy is that God in Christ reconciles the world to Himself.” John Wesley, in his Explanatory Notes Upon the New Testament, reads Revelation as a symbolic depiction of Christ’s ongoing victory and the Church’s call to endurance. Wesley wrote, “The sum of this book is that God governs all things by His providence, for the good of His people.” He never once suggested an end-times timeline, a seven-year tribulation, or a single Antichrist figure.
It is important to say this gently and pastorally: the dispensational approach is very new. It arose in the 1830s through John Nelson Darby, was popularized through the Scofield Reference Bible, and became mainstream in America only in the 20th century. That does not make dispensationalists bad Christians, many of them love Jesus deeply. But it does mean their interpretive framework is not the standard Christian reading and should not be assumed as normative.
This brings us back to Revelation itself, the text, the imagery, the hope. When we set aside the pressure to decode it, Revelation becomes astonishingly clear: the crucified and risen Jesus is the center of all history. The visions unveil not chaos but order; not fear but faithfulness; not despair but triumph. Revelation tells us that the powers of this world may roar, but they are doomed to collapse. The martyrs may seem forgotten, but they stand before the throne in glory (Revelation 7:9–14). The Church may feel besieged, but she is protected by the Lamb who walks among the lampstands (Revelation 1:12–13). The dragon may rage, but it has already been cast down (Revelation 12:7–10). Babylon may boast, but she is fallen before the word is even spoken (Revelation 18:2). Heaven’s cry is not “fear what is coming,” but “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain” (Revelation 5:12).
Revelation is not announcing that Christ will win someday. It is announcing that Christ has won already.
And because He has won, the Church can be faithful even when the world looks like Rome, even when suffering feels heavy, even when the powers rage. Faithfulness is the call; worship is the weapon; perseverance is the witness. As the author of Hebrews reminds us, “we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken” (Hebrews 12:28).
When we read Revelation in continuity with the early Church, with the Reformers, with Wesley, and with the whole sweep of Christian interpretation before the 19th century, we discover that its message is not a coded warning but a cosmic proclamation: Jesus reigns. The Lamb has conquered. The nations will be healed. And God will dwell with His people.
Revelation is not a puzzle to solve but a vision to behold. And when we behold it, without the unnecessary weight of modern timelines—we find precisely what John intended his hearers to find: courage, clarity, and the unshakeable hope that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ” (Revelation 11:15).
If you wish to further explore this topic, here are some amazing resources to take a look at:
by Joel V Webb | Nov 16, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
Before I say anything, I want to affirm clearly and without hesitation that I believe in healings. I believe that God acts in the world today in ways that are truly supernatural, transformative, and beyond the reach of human explanation. I believe that the gifts of the Holy Spirit did not end with the close of the apostolic age, nor were they somehow meant to expire once the canon of Scripture was sealed. Rather, they continue to be given, continue to be used, and continue to bless the Church in every generation. In this sense, I am what most people would call a continuationist—not because of any particular theological camp I’m trying to align with, but because this simply seems to be the testimony of Scripture and the lived experience of the Church throughout history. The same God who healed through the apostles and prophets is the God who heals today.
Yet, even as I affirm this, I also believe that Scripture gives us clear guidelines, boundaries, and expectations for how these gifts are to be exercised. The Holy Spirit does not operate chaotically or in contradiction to the order He has inspired. And this is where I differ from many of the charismatic or Pentecostal expressions I grew up around. While I am grateful for the sincerity, zeal, and hunger for God that shaped much of my early faith, I also recognize that sincerity does not automatically equate to biblical practice. Scripture gives parameters for prophecy, for tongues, for healing, and for the discernment of spirits—not to restrict the Spirit’s work, but to protect it, to keep it grounded in truth, and to ensure that it builds up the Church rather than confusing or misdirecting it. Boundaries are not the enemy of spiritual gifts; they are the framework that allows the gifts to flourish in a healthy, Christ-centered way.
Secondly, being more traditional in my ecclesiology, I believe that the Holy Spirit’s primary mode of operation is through Christ’s Church—not merely through isolated individuals acting independently, but through the Body as a whole. Yes, God works through people, and yes, individuals can be uniquely gifted or called, but Scripture consistently shows the Spirit working in and through the gathered people of God, within the structure and sacramental life of the community Christ established. For me, this reinforcement of ecclesial structure is not about stifling the Spirit but about recognizing the Spirit’s own design. The Spirit gives gifts to the Church, not to lone spiritual entrepreneurs. So while I affirm the Spirit’s work in individuals, I also believe that He most often works through the ordered life of the Church—through her elders, her sacraments, her disciplines, her worship, and her unity.
That now being said, on to my main point. Recently I have been seeing a number of para church evangelist and healing ministries that have been making the rounds in my region of the United States. And, being the good social media marketers that they are, they have excellent websites and social media pages, with exciting and energetic videos of their ministries, showing the worship services, testimonies of healing, and how the power of God moves during their revival meetings.
And, generally, I don’t think it’s a bad thing overall. Even if we are not 100% on board with someone’s theology or their particular praxis of ministry, the reality is that God has a long history of working through imperfect vessels—sometimes in spite of them. St. Paul himself acknowledges this when he speaks of Christ being preached even through questionable motives. Somehow, in the mysterious economy of God, the Gospel has a way of slipping through the cracks of our human inconsistencies. People do hear about Jesus. Hearts are stirred. Lives are changed. And the Kingdom of God advances, not because any of us have perfect doctrine or flawless ministry methods, but because the Spirit blows where He wills.
So I want to acknowledge that aspect honestly. I have no desire to stand on the sidelines with crossed arms, smugly pointing out everything that’s wrong. I’m not interested in nitpicking every theological nuance or dismissing entire ministries simply because I find elements of their approach unbalanced or unhelpful. I can rejoice when Christ is magnified, even when the packaging isn’t something I would personally choose. And when people testify to encountering God—whether through healing, worship, repentance, or a renewed sense of His presence—I am inclined to take that seriously.
And I want to be clear: I am not a skeptic. I believe that healings happen, and that they are real. I don’t assume deception or fabrication as a first resort. I believe that God still touches bodies, minds, and spirits in ways that are genuinely miraculous. I have seen healing firsthand, witnessed stories that were far too specific and too well-verified to be emotional exaggerations, and walked alongside people whose lives were undeniably transformed by the power of God. So my concerns are not coming from a place of disbelief or cynicism, but from a desire to preserve the integrity of something sacred. If healing is a genuine gift of God, and it is, then it deserves truthfulness, humility, verification, and reverence.
But…
There seems to be a common denominator in the multitude of testimonies across most of these videos. All the healings are for ailments that are not visible. Hearing issues, back pain, eye problems, intestinal problems, one leg shorter than the other (don’t get me started on that rabbit trail). Now, I am not saying that these are issues that don’t need healing, or that God would not heal. I believe that it is possible, even probable that many have received healing. Yet, with that being said I have a big problem when almost all of the examples we get are with frankly falsifiable ailments.
The human body is really powerful and can do crazy things on its own. There are people who can consistently demonstrate various medical symptoms with no underlying condition, other than they think they have something. And who’s to say that in some of these healings, that through the energy and emotion of everything going on temporarily allows the symptoms to subside. But without follow up, do we even know?
Where in contrast, the healing ministry of Jesus almost exclusively dealt with health problems that were always visible. Leprosy, cripples, the blind and more. My question is not that these various evangelist ministries don’t have the power of God to heal. But, if they do, where are the verified cases of ailments like this, that have been demonstrated through follow-up, affirming through family/friends and medical professionals that something is different. In the case of the 10 lepers that Christ healed, His command was for them to go show themselves to the priest, to verify that they were healed!
While I certainly have theological differences and disagreement with someone like Justin Peters, a very reformed pastor who is a regular critiquer of the charismatic movement, he makes this point often. People like himself (who is very obviously in a wheelchair with a disability), are never the ones brought on to the stage of big healing ministries, because frankly the stakes or too high that the healing or miracle won’t take place, or look like it did. This should give us, to anyone will to self reflect to ask, when was the last time we saw someone totally disfigured be healed at one of these events?
The other question I have is more ecclesiastical in nature. Most, if not all of these ministries are parachurch. They by definition operate outside the confines of the authority or structure of a church, or denomination. That is dangerous. Primarily, because having oversight and accountability is something that we in the church have been learning the hard way for the last twenty years especially. What is the organization of their ministry, who are they accountable or answer to? Recent stories from ministries of people like Todd White continue to show the dangers of very charismatic (in personality) leaders, who have a lot of power, and no accountability. Abuses of people and resources ensue, leading to broken lives, trust and relationships.
And this brings me to the deeper pastoral concern that undergirds all of this. When ministries function without clear ties to the local church, without any real submission to recognized pastoral authority, and without any structure for discipline or correction, the people who end up suffering the most are often the vulnerable, those who come desperate for healing, longing for hope, and willing to trust anyone who speaks in the name of Jesus with enough confidence. When there is no oversight, the spiritual “safety net” that Christ intends in the Church is simply not there.
Because if we believe that healing is real, and I most certainly do, then we must also believe that it is holy. And if it is holy, it must be stewarded with reverence, patience, and discernment. The New Testament never presents healing power as a personal possession or a “brand” to be platformed, but as a gift entrusted to the Church for the care of souls. St. James does not say, “Send for the traveling evangelist,” but rather, “Call for the elders of the church.” He situates healing firmly within the community Christ established, the community where people know each other, where pastors are accountable for the lives they shepherd, and where claims can be tested because relationships actually exist.
This is precisely what is lacking when healing becomes detached from the Church and turned into a spectacle of spiritual entrepreneurship. Without the church’s discernment, without the theological and pastoral ballast of tradition, and without the sacramental context of prayer and repentance, the pursuit of healing can easily drift into confusion at best, and manipulation at worst. The line between genuine ministry and emotional catharsis becomes blurry. The line between faith and performance becomes negotiable. And the line between giving glory to Christ and building a platform for oneself becomes dangerously thin.
My concern is not that people are seeking healing, God knows we need more of that, not less. My concern is that many believers are being unintentionally conditioned to look for the extraordinary outside the very place Christ promised His presence: His Body, the Church. In our hunger for power, we often overlook the very ordinary, structured, accountable means by which the Holy Spirit is already at work among us. The same Spirit who parted seas is the One who works quietly in confession, in anointing, in Eucharist, in the gathering of the faithful, and in the long, slow healing of hearts and bodies that does not fit neatly into a 90-second testimony clip.
Furthermore, when healing is detached from the Church, there is no mechanism to follow up with the person who claimed to be healed. There is no pastoral care, no ongoing discernment, no walking with them in their continued journey toward wholeness. Whether their healing endures, deepens, or proves temporary, no one is there to accompany them. The result is that stories proliferate but discipleship does not.
And this has consequences. When people experience no lasting healing after being told they did, they don’t merely walk away disappointed—they walk away wounded. Often they quietly assume the problem must be with them: “Maybe I didn’t have enough faith. Maybe I didn’t believe hard enough.” They rarely blame the minister; they blame themselves. And this spiritual guilt, this sense of internal failure, is profoundly damaging. It is the opposite of what true healing ministry is meant to produce.
The irony is that the New Testament model for healing actually protects against precisely this kind of spiritual injury. In Scripture, healing is always relational, always communal, and always accountable. It happens in a context where truth can be verified, where people know your story, and where spiritual authority is not self-appointed but recognized by the wider body of Christ.
Do I believe God heals? Yes. Do I believe we should seek prayer for healing? Absolutely. But I believe this must happen within the life of the Church, in the light, with accountability, humility, and truthfulness. If something is real, it can be tested. If something is of God, it will stand. And if something is truly miraculous, it should lead to deeper discipleship, not bigger platforms.
What I am ultimately pleading for is not cynicism, but integrity. Not disbelief, but discernment. Not less expectation of the Spirit’s power, but a more biblical understanding of where that power is ordinarily found. Revival that does not lead people back to the Church is not the revival Scripture envisions. Healing that does not deepen union with Christ’s Body is not the healing Christ models. And ministries that cannot answer to anyone are ministries that cannot be trusted with the souls of the suffering.
If we are going to pray “Come, Holy Spirit,” then we must also be willing to receive the Spirit the way God intends not only in moments of intense emotion, but in the regular, accountable, embodied life of the Church. Because the Spirit does not just give gifts; He gives order. He builds up the Body. And He will not contradict the very structure Christ Himself established.
If we rediscover that, I believe we may also rediscover a more authentic form of healing, one that is quieter perhaps, slower, less cinematic, but far more rooted, far more verifiable, and far more transformative. The kind of healing that leads not merely to testimonies, but to lasting disciples. The kind that glorifies Christ far more than any stage ever could.
by Joel V Webb | Nov 12, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters
Over my lifetime, I’ve seen a massive shift in how our culture engages with ideas we disagree with. Growing up, disagreement was an opportunity to talk — to debate, discuss, and think through differences, strategies, outcomes, and intentions.
Now, that kind of dialogue feels almost impossible.
One of the biggest reasons for this shift is that we’ve moved from debating to diagnosing.
Instead of hearing another person’s argument at face value and engaging with what they’re actually saying, we jump to labeling or diagnosing what’s wrong with them.
When that happens, conversation stops. What could have been an exchange of ideas turns into an exchange of accusations.
Because of this, many pastors — who truly want to love and care for people — have lost the ability or the desire to say hard truths. The threat of being labeled or “canceled” looms large, so the easier path is to soften the message and avoid anything that might offend.
Even more troubling is how our world has redefined love into something completely unbiblical.
The modern assumption goes like this: If you love someone, you’ll never say anything that might hurt or challenge them.
You’ll “meet them where they are” and never call them to repentance or transformation.
It sounds compassionate — but it isn’t the kind of love the Bible calls us to. As ambassadors of the Kingdom of God, we are called to be salt and light. And sometimes, the most loving thing we can do is say the hard thing.
This becomes especially clear in the conversations surrounding gender and sexuality. The Church often swings between two extremes: full affirmation, welcoming any behavior or lifestyle without question, or harsh rejection, coming across as angry or hateful.
But both miss the heart of biblical love. They are two sides of the same coin — a coin that has lost the image of what love truly is.
To love in the biblical sense is to will and intend the best for another person.
Real love is selfless. It doesn’t prioritize our comfort or another’s feelings above truth. It seeks what is actually best for the person being loved.
As a father, I understand this better than ever.
My one-year-old son doesn’t always like the things I have to do for his good. Sometimes he cries, but I do it anyway — not because I’m cruel, but because I love him. Love that only comforts but never corrects isn’t love at all.
Yet this is exactly what many of us in the Church have forgotten. We’ve mistaken love for acceptance — for making people feel good — rather than seeing it as the pursuit of what’s truly best for them.
That tension becomes painfully real when someone we care about — a friend, a child, a sibling — embraces an identity or lifestyle that contradicts God’s Word.
For some, that moment hardens them into hostility.
For others, it softens their convictions and pulls them toward affirmation.
But followers of Jesus are called to live in the tension.
We know that cultural ideas about gender and sexuality contradict God’s design in creation and Scripture.
And yet we also know that every single one of us is broken by sin and in need of the same redeeming and transforming grace of God.
The Gospel doesn’t just forgive us — it remakes us.
Jesus lived this tension perfectly. He spent time with the outcasts and those on the margins, yet He always called them to repentance and offered transformation — the kind of transformation only He can bring.
This is the calling of the Church today:
To love as Jesus loved — full of compassion, full of truth. To call people to repentance that leads to healing and holiness. If we truly love someone, we will tell them the truth — not to wound, but to heal.
If we withhold truth out of fear, we don’t love them.
But if we speak truth without kindness and mercy, we don’t love them either.
Love without truth isn’t love.
Truth without love isn’t Christlike.
As followers of Jesus, we are called to be salt and light in a world that desperately needs both.
Salt preserves and adds flavor — it stands out.
Light reveals what’s hidden and shows the way forward.
To be salt and light means to be distinct and to guide.
We don’t blend in, but we also don’t blind others with harsh brightness. We shine with the warmth and clarity of Christ.
So, in that spirit, let us go — to love and serve the Lord.
To be people of both truth and love.
To speak hard words with soft hearts.
To live as reflections of Jesus Christ, whose perfect love always tells the truth, and whose truth always loves.
