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.
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.
