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 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.
by Joel V Webb | Nov 5, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters
When talking about historic theology, and the development of the Church throughout the ages, one of those topics that is bound to come up, particularly when talking to Roman Catholic or Orthodox brothers & sisters is the idea of Apostolic succession. According to classically define Apostolic succession, in order for a Church, holy orders, and thus sacraments to be valid, they must be administered by clergy, who were ordained by valid bishops, who have a direct line, similar to that of a family tree all the way back to the original 12 Apostles. For them, this means that there is an unbroken line of authority and teaching that has been passed down since the founding of the Church to today.
This is certainly fascinating history to dig into and examine; like this list from Orthodox Wiki that shows the entire line of everyone who has been the Patriarch of Antioch since St. Peter the Apostle would have instituted or planted that particular church. (https://orthodoxwiki.org/List_of_Patriarchs_of_Antioch) While Protestants at first glance might glance this idea off as insignificant or unimportant I think we need to take a moment of pause and to consider the importance of this. We have brothers and sisters in Christ who can trace their church leadership, by name and in great detail back to the 12 apostles. That is amazing in my mind, and a blessing that there has been such continuity in one of the original churches we have listed in the New Testament.
But this is where we hit a snag in the discussion. As a Protestant, according to the Catholic and Orthodox understanding of Apostolic Succession, I am not a part of a church with apostolic succession, and thus do not have valid ordination and valid sacraments. While I am considered a brother in Christ, I do not carry direct unbroken succession since the apostles, and thus am not apart of the One True Church that was founded by Jesus Himself.
This has looked differently throughout Church history since the reformation. Until the late 1800’s, Rome recognized Anglican ordination as valid, until a Papal Bull from Leo XIII axed their validity in Catholic canon law. But generally, anyone who is a theological descendant from the Reformation is not considered valid by the historic churches of Rome and the East.
The first question we might ask, “is this even important?” Certainly to those who descend from the radical reformation, with anabaptist tendencies the answer is likely no. Usually the argument goes that since the church fell away not long after the death of the apostles, the importance is that the true message of the Gospel is preached, and it is on that fact alone that makes a valid church. I think that this take, while containing truth goes too far. While ultimately the validity of the Church comes from it’s faithful transmission of the Gospel, we mustn’t be too quick to dismiss the importance of the institution in of itself.
It’s tempting, especially in our modern, democratic age, to think of the Church as purely a spiritual community, something fluid, dynamic, invisible, and inwardly held together by faith alone. But Scripture presents a far more balanced picture. The Church is both an organism and an institution, both mystical and visible. Paul calls the Church “the household of God” and “the pillar and foundation of the truth” (1 Tim. 3:15). The apostles did not just preach; they ordained elders, appointed deacons, and established tangible order in every city (Acts 14:23, Titus 1:5).
So when the ancient churches talk about apostolic succession, they are not wrong to emphasize continuity and order. God has always worked through tangible structures, through covenant, community, and leadership. The danger comes when we treat the structure as the substance, the line of succession as the guarantee of grace.
As Protestants, we often define the Church not primarily through institutional continuity but through fidelity to the apostolic Gospel—the faith once delivered to the saints (Jude 3). Yet, this doesn’t mean the visible and institutional Church is unimportant or something to shrug off. The Reformers didn’t reject the idea of structure—they rejected corruption and spiritual decay within it. They weren’t trying to destroy the Church’s continuity but to preserve its soul.
Richard Hooker, one of the great Anglican theologians, once argued that succession is only truly apostolic when it’s joined to apostolic doctrine. The laying on of hands, the continuity of ordination—these are good, meaningful signs, but they have to carry the content of the faith with them. John Wesley took a similar approach. Though he was never consecrated by a bishop in the ancient line, he understood himself and his Methodist preachers to be ministers in the apostolic spirit continuing the mission of the apostles to preach repentance and the forgiveness of sins. Though, interestingly enough there is an unverified legend that an Eastern Orthodox Bishop did consecrate Wesley as a bishop, thus potentially giving him valid Apostolic Succession. This is historically unverified, but does make an interesting thought experiment, that those in the Methodist tradition do have a potentially valid line of succession through Wesley himself to the Apostolic era. That being said, generally it is agreed that Wesley’s form of “succession” was not institutional, but spiritually rooted in faithfulness to the apostolic message rather than in the exact tracing of ordaining hands.
So when we talk about apostolic succession, we might say that yes, there’s a visible succession—an institutional passing down of ordination, authority, and office—and that’s important. It provides order, accountability, and continuity in teaching. But there’s also a spiritual succession—a faithful transmission of the Gospel through Word and Sacrament, empowered by the Spirit. Ideally, both should work together.
The institutional form protects the faith from fragmentation, while the spiritual vitality keeps the institution from turning into a museum piece. We need both: structure and Spirit, form and fire.
If there is hope for reconciliation or at least mutual understanding between Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox believers, it lies in recognizing that both the institutional and the spiritual aspects of apostolic succession are necessary.
The historic churches remind us that the Gospel does not exist in a vacuum; it is always embodied, always transmitted through real people in real communities. Protestants remind the wider Church that structures exist to serve the Gospel, not the other way around. Both perspectives, when purified of pride, reveal vital truths.
There is room for dialogue and even shared recognition here. Protestants might affirm that the historic episcopate, rightly understood, is a gift for maintaining order and unity, a visible sign of the Church’s rootedness. Catholics and Orthodox might, in turn, acknowledge that the Spirit of Christ is not bound to lineage alone, but continues to call and empower ministers who faithfully preach the apostolic faith even outside canonical boundaries.
Perhaps the way forward is not to erase differences, but to listen deeply: to see in one another a shared desire to remain faithful to what has been handed down, and to steward it well for future generations.
A truly catholic (small “c”) vision of the Church would see apostolic succession as both faith and form, a faith faithfully handed down, through an order faithfully preserved. The lines of succession that Rome and the East maintain bear witness to the Church’s visible continuity, while the evangelical insistence on the primacy of the Gospel bears witness to her living continuity. Both, in their own way, protect what Christ entrusted to His Church.
So perhaps the middle way is to honor both truths: to recognize and celebrate the historic continuity of the ancient churches, while also affirming that the living power of the Gospel cannot be contained by institutional boundaries. The Spirit is not bound by human succession, and yet He works through the visible Church to maintain order, teach truth, and transmit grace.
We may not be able to trace our ordinations back to Peter or Paul, but we can trace our message, our Scriptures, and our sacraments to the same source, Jesus Christ, the cornerstone. The continuity of faith, hope, and love across the ages is the truest form of apostolic succession.
In the end, apostolic succession, whether understood institutionally or spiritually is meant to remind us of this: that the Church does not invent itself anew in every generation. We are stewards of something we did not create, heirs of a faith that has been handed down, and participants in a mission that began with twelve ordinary men and continues still through us today.
by Joel V Webb | Nov 3, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
Recently I did a post about the need to refocus the role of pastors (derived from presbyter in the NT and also called priest in some traditions) back to its historic and Scriptural role of being a priest, rather than a business leader. Since then I have been thinking again about the roles of leadership in the Church, and that of deacon came to mind. From this I have taken a bit more of a look at this position, what it has looked like, what it often looks like (or doesn’t look like particularly in an evangelical context), and what the benefits would be for the Church to regain part of the historic nature that this role provided in serving Christ’s Body.
One of the cornerstones of the episcopal structure of Church governance is the three-fold group of Holy Orders of the bishop, elder (in some traditions called priest or pastor) and deacon. In many Christian traditions, the usage of these historic roles has fallen out of use, while maintaining some connection to the Scriptural basis of the roles found in Scripture (something we will touch on in a bit). But while evangelicalism has often sought to simplify church structure in the name of pragmatism, we have perhaps unintentionally surrendered a gift Christ gave to His Church—the ministry of deacons—and substituted something less theologically rich, less biblically rooted, and less spiritually fruitful.
We see the origination of the role of Deacon in Acts 6, where the quickly growing Church faced a problem, the Apostles, who were to teach the good news of the Gospel had much of their time taken with the practical side of alms and good words (nothing wrong with that of course, but focus is important when doing a job). “So the Twelve gathered all the disciples together and said, “It would not be right for us to neglect the ministry of the word of God in order to wait on tables. Brothers and sisters, choose seven men from among you who are known to be full of the Spirit and wisdom. We will turn this responsibility over to them and will give our attention to prayer and the ministry of the word.” Acts 6:2-4 NIV. This newly created role was not just to be a waiter like at a restaurant, but an extension of the Church as the hands and feet of Christ, serving with love and dedication.
Paul’s words in 1 Timothy 3 reinforce the seriousness of the office: deacons are to be tested, spiritually mature, and faithful. They are not simply board members, door greeters, or finance committee volunteers. They are ordained servants, carrying sacramental responsibility and pastoral care in the name of Christ. We also see the role of deacons in the function of the Early Church in the first few centuries. The early Church knew this role well. Deacons were entrusted with:
- Administering alms and mercy ministries
- Assisting at the Eucharist and preparing the table
- Serving bishops and priests in pastoral care
- Preaching, catechizing, and evangelizing
- Carrying communion to the sick
- Guarding the unity and order of worship
St. Ignatius of Antioch, in the early second century, wrote: “Let all respect the deacons as Jesus Christ, just as they respect the bishop as a type of the Father and the presbyters as the council of God.”In other words, the diaconate was not an afterthought—it was woven into the very structure of the Church’s life. For centuries, to remove or diminish the diaconate would have been unthinkable.
And this is what I think we in the Western Evangelical Church have lost sight of in the function and operation of the Church. While in some contexts there is an understanding of this role, much of the focus in running the church is focused on the programmatic operation like a business, rather than the people centric focus of sacramental presence and ministry to hungry people in a broken world. This is not a criticism, but simply an observation, just as I spoke of in the role of pastors and priests, that we as the church must reclaim the historic role of deacons as not just managers, but as ministers who assist in the shepherding of God’s flock.
But more than just returning to the proper function of deacons, many have completely abandoned the role. And in abandoning it, many evangelical churches have unintentionally forced pastors to carry both the apostolic proclamation role and the diaconal mercy-care role, resulting in pastoral exhaustion and congregational under-formation.
The Church needs priests who can pray, preach, shepherd, and administer the sacraments. And the Church needs deacons who can embody the compassionate hands of Christ, serving at the altar and among the poor, binding the church’s worship to its service in the world.
Here in the Free Methodist Church, we reclaimed the office of deacon after a long period without it. Yet we have not fully embraced its depth. At present, deacons are recognized locally, often as pastoral helpers or ministry assistants. This is good, but it can also stop short of the rich and historic calling Scripture and tradition give us.
Recovering the diaconate more fully does not mean abandoning our Wesleyan heritage—it means living into it. Wesley himself sent deacons, commissioned lay preachers, empowered class leaders, and believed the Spirit called people to particular vocations within the Body. Holiness, for Wesley, was not abstract—it was enacted love. And the diaconate is enacted love.
Pastors change from time to time. While the FMC practices longer appointments than other Wesleyan-Holiness denominations, there still can be pastoral turnover. Deacons historically have been a grounding force of ordained ministerial presence that comes up from within the congregation, and is planted in the church, staying consistent even through multiple pastoral changes.
Today, many of our congregations feel the pressure of multiplying needs: pastoral fatigue, growing community crises, loneliness among young adults, hunger for depth, and a longing for embodied faith. This is not a time to narrow the ministry of the Church; it is a time to strengthen it. Not by adding programs, but by recognizing callings.
To restore a robust diaconate—in prayerful, thoughtful, historically rooted ways—is to affirm that God still calls servants, and that the Church still needs them.
So what might it look like for the Free Methodist Church to lean into this calling anew?
It begins with prayerful discernment. By asking who among us God may be calling not simply to “help out,” but to embody the servant-hearted ministry of Christ in a particular and visible way. It looks like pastors and congregations encouraging those with a heart for mercy, intercession, visitation, table service, and Gospel witness in everyday places. It looks like laying hands on them, blessing them, and releasing them to a ministry that is grounded in worship and poured out in love.
We do not restore things because they are ancient; we restore them because they are alive. The diaconate is not nostalgia—it is discipleship. It is not hierarchy—it is humility. It is not about creating distance between clergy and laity—it is about strengthening the Body so that all may flourish.
In a restless age, a Church rooted in Scripture, nourished by sacrament, and enlivened by servant-hearted ministers will shine like a city on a hill. And in a weary world longing for tangible grace, deacons may once again become a signpost of Christ’s presence.
May we have the courage to listen, to bless, and to send those whom the Spirit calls. And may our Church, strengthened by the ministry of servants shaped by the cross, become ever more like the One who came not to be served, but to serve.
by Joel V Webb | Oct 24, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
The question and conversation of Sacraments, particularly in the Protestant context, is an interesting one. Primarily, it is not even over the number of Sacraments—that, as we’ll see, is a secondary concern. Often the prevailing question is, “Do Sacraments even exist?” As I discussed in a previous post on restorationism, there’s a strong wing in the Protestant Church that seeks to strip away the language of “sacrament” altogether, preferring the term ordinance. In this view, Baptism and Communion are simply things Jesus told us to do as reminders, symbols of faith and obedience, memorials of grace already received.
While there certainly are elements of memorial and obedience present in these practices, that’s a severely myopic view of what the historic Church has understood these actions to be. When we look at Scripture and the witness of the early Church, we find that the Sacraments are more than mere actions, they are means by which God actually works in the world and in our lives.
The classical definition, first clearly articulated by St. Augustine, is that a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.” That is, God uses material things, bread, wine, water, oil, hands, words, and even people—to communicate His unseen grace. Sacraments are moments where heaven and earth intersect, where the invisible grace of God touches the tangible realities of human life.
In the Protestant imagination, this definition has often been treated with suspicion. Some fear it implies a kind of “magical” view of the elements, as though grace were a substance dispensed through ritual. But that is not what the historic Church has ever meant. Rather, the Sacraments are relational and covenantal. God binds Himself to His promises through physical signs, and in faith we receive what He offers. As Augustine said, “The word comes to the element, and it becomes a sacrament.
Traditionally, the Church has spoken of seven sacraments: Baptism, Eucharist, Confirmation, Penance (or Confession), Anointing of the Sick, Marriage, and Holy Orders. The medieval Church taught that all seven were instituted by Christ, but during the Reformation, Protestant theologians made distinctions.
Luther, Calvin, Cranmer, and Wesley each affirmed that Baptism and the Lord’s Supper were directly instituted by Christ Himself, and therefore uniquely sacramental in nature. These two are what we might call the Sacraments of Christ—those commanded by Jesus and visibly tied to the Gospel. They are not merely symbols; they are Gospel enacted. In Baptism, we are buried and raised with Christ (Romans 6:4); in Communion, we are united with His body and blood (1 Corinthians 10:16). Both are means by which the Holy Spirit conveys grace to believers, nourishing faith and deepening union with God.
The other five—Confirmation, Confession, Marriage, Anointing, and Ordination—have deep biblical and theological roots, but were viewed by the Reformers as sacramentals or rites of the Church rather than direct Sacraments of Christ. They are practices through which God’s grace may indeed be experienced, but not necessarily instituted with a visible sign and direct command by Jesus.
At the heart of the sacramental vision is the belief that God is present in and through His creation. The Incarnation itself is the ultimate Sacrament—God taking on flesh. If in Christ, the invisible God becomes visible, then every sacrament participates in that same mystery. Bread and wine, water and oil, are all created means through which the Creator communicates Himself. When we lose the sacramental imagination, we risk reducing the faith to ideas and morals, rather than encounter and transformation.
This is why the early Church saw the Sacraments as mysteries—not puzzles to be solved, but realities to be entered. The Greek term mysterion carried this sense of divine participation, and the Latin word sacramentum added the idea of sacred commitment, a binding oath. Together they express that in the Sacraments, God commits Himself to us, and we respond in faith and obedience. They are not our performances, but God’s gracious initiatives.
The Reformers often spoke of the Word and the Sacraments as the “two hands of God.” Through the Word, God addresses our minds and hearts; through the Sacraments, He touches our bodies and senses. Both are expressions of the same Gospel. The Word declares grace; the Sacraments enact it. The Word proclaims forgiveness; Baptism washes it over us. The Word promises Christ’s presence; Communion feeds us with it.
When either hand is neglected, the fullness of Christian life suffers. A purely verbal faith can become cerebral, disembodied, and disconnected from lived experience. But a sacramental faith without the Word becomes superstition or magic. The balance of the two keeps us grounded—faith comes by hearing, but it is confirmed in tasting, touching, and participating.
If the Sacraments teach us that God works through physical means, then all of life becomes potentially sacramental. Every meal shared in gratitude echoes the Eucharist. Every baptismal remembrance at the sink reminds us we are washed and called. Every confession spoken in humility opens the way to reconciliation. Marriage, ordination, and anointing remind us that vocation, love, and suffering are all places where grace can dwell.
This is where Protestants can rediscover a rich theology of everyday holiness. The same God who meets us at the Table meets us in the mundane—at the dinner table, in the hospital room, in the workplace, and in the home. The “sacrament of daily life” does not replace Baptism or Communion; it flows from them. The worship service becomes the pattern for life, and life becomes an extension of worship.
In our age of rationalism and technology, mystery often feels like an intrusion—something we must explain away or control. Yet the Church is healthiest when it embraces mystery as the place where faith and awe dwell together. To confess that God is truly present in the Sacraments is not to claim we understand how, but to trust that He is faithful to His promises.
For Protestant churches seeking renewal, this may be the way forward: not abandoning the Reformation’s commitment to the Word, but deepening it through a sacramental imagination. We need not fear that reverence for the Sacraments will lead us back to superstition. Instead, it may lead us forward—to a faith that is once again whole: intellectual, embodied, communal, and full of wonder.
Perhaps it’s time for Protestants to see not just two sacraments and five extras, but a whole life that can become sacramental. The Sacraments of Christ remain the sure foundation—Baptism as entrance, Eucharist as sustenance. Yet the other rites of the Church remind us that grace pervades the ordinary: marriage, vocation, healing, reconciliation—all can become signs of grace when offered to God.
The task, then, is not to argue endlessly about number or definition, but to recover the reality they point to: that God delights to make Himself known through signs and symbols, through word and matter, through flesh and spirit. The Sacraments remind us that salvation is not an escape from creation but its redemption. And that, perhaps, is a truth our world needs to see again—grace that is not abstract, but embodied.
by Joel V Webb | Jan 7, 2025 | Orthodoxy Matters
Well…it finally happened. Wes Huff’s interview on the Rogan Experience podcast aired tonight. Since the beginning of the situation between Wes and Bill Carson (you can read my take HERE), the internet exploded with people calling for Wes to appear on Rogan’s podcast.
After a post last week showing the episode finally was recorded, I was estatic to be able to listen to it. And boy, can I say I am excited.
For a bit of background, Joe Rogan has not always been the most friendly to Chrisitanity, and the Bible. In the past, he has described it as no more than gibberish that has been mistranslated over and over again. But over the last two or so years there has seemingly been a subtle shift. Every once in a while a guest will be on the show that is a Chrisitan, and when discussions surrounding Chrisitanity comes up, Rogan has been much more friendly to yes religion in general, but also more positive about Christianity specifically.
Wes Huff appearing on the podcast marks a distinct difference from the past I highly recommend checking our Huff’s website, Youtube and resources. Wes is a legitimate scholar, academic, and authority on the text of the New Testament. Wes, even before I listened to the episode presented one of the biggest opportunities for Rogan to have his questions answered on the reliability of the Gospel text, and even more important, a direct conversation on the historicity and claims of Christ.
Over the course of three hours, the conversation covered a wide range of topics (most connected with the topic at hand). But once it entered the third hour, that is when the conversation more specifically became directed at the historicity of the Gospels, and towards the end a direct conversation about Jesus, the Gospel message, and what it means for our lives.
The payoff was just awesome in my book. Wes made a clear and concise case for the Christian faith on th 2 fronts that impact our culture. The first is the historic reality of the resurrection of Christ, and the second is the individual transformation that takes place when we encounter Jesus.
One side note, Wes’ comments about Jordan Peterson were spot on. Something I have noted for the last couple years is that Peterson certainly recognizes the importance of Jesus, but always comes up and short of the line of recognizing who He truly is. While there is “benefit” to the teachings of Christ, when we pass into simple moralism, we then enter the very territory He condemned during His ministry.
The Gospel, as Wes went to point on, is about more than just being better. It is about recognizing that we can never recover from sin, and it takes the work of Christ on the cross to change us into His image.
I hope that people who listen to this episode of Rogan will be intrigued by what was said, and the Holy Spirit does His work in drawing them to the loving arms of their creator.
