by Joel V Webb | Jun 5, 2026 | Orthodoxy Matters, Sacraments, Theology & Practice
What is reality? And if we have lost the picture of it in the Christian context, how do we return?
This question and more are handled by Zachary Porcu in this very easy to read and understand, yet deeply profound book. While coming from an Eastern Orthodox perspective, the nature of the topic is still immensely applicable to any believer in any context.
Out of the gate, Porcu sets the stage of where we are currently at. For the most part, many in Western Christianity while truly believing in Christ as Lord and Savior, are in every other respect, functioning secular materialists in their worldview and theology. One thing I have appreciated as I have studied the Eastern Orthodox world more is their intention in ensuring that the way we understand and experience reality is in line with the ancient worldview of the early Church rather than the development that culminates from 19th Century German philosophy. This way of seeing the world does not delineate between the spiritual and the physical as we are so use to. Instead, these two realities are intertwined in an inseparable way that was commonly understood in the ancient world, and by the first followers of Christ.
This way of looking at things has led to many unintended consequences. Rather than seeing how Christ may work in a comprehensive way in all things, we either find ourselves in a tug of war between Christ working individually through salvation, or through society to being about the perfect recreation as He intended. This tension between what can be boiled down to the political left and right, are ultimately incorrect in their ultimate assessment, because again, they are looking at the world, and her problems through the lens as a modern secular materialist.
So what is the answer?
Sacramental Christianity. This word might scare some who come from low-liturgy backgrounds, or have fundamentalist tendencies. Porcu makes the excellent point that the way God now, following the ascension of Christ and the coming of the Holy Spirit does not just interact with us in a spirit-to-spirit way, as many in the modern west act. Because of the incarnation, God coming in the flesh, that means that He also interacts through what we would call the physical, and this is through sacrament.
Rather than just looking for that “feel good moment”, sacramental Christianity is about knowing that God works through the means of Grace He has instituted in the Church. The primary focus of this is of course Eucharist (Communion, or the Lord’s Supper). As we journey to understanding the Christian faith is more than just a set of beliefs, but a participation in an ongoing story, we then see how we are empowered to follow Christ as we engage in the life of the Church.
Now, I will note, Porcu does list the seven primary sacraments of the Orthodox faith. As a Protestant, I affirm the two sacraments of Baptism & Eucharist. Yet, I do believe that the others on the list may provide similar sacramental benefit, as they are all involved in engaging us in receiving from Christ.
Through the book he uses a simple analogy. Being a electrical unit that needs plugged in to work. At baptism, the believer is plugged into the wall. And then as we participate in sacrament through the life of the Church (primarily Eucharist) it is the electricity that flows to power us. This can help us see the ongoing work of Christ in our lives, rather than always focusing on the one time salvation experience that we are trained to look for.
The focus of Sacramental Christianity is to retrain our minds and worldview, to see existence as the early followers of Jesus would have. Rather than being dulled by materialism and secularism, we are awakened again to a world charged with the presence of God, where heaven and earth are not competing realms but interpenetrating realities. This shift is not merely intellectual—it is deeply formative. It calls us not just to think differently, but to live differently, to recover practices that reorient our desires, our worship, and our understanding of what it means to be human. In many ways, this is a call to repentance at the level of imagination—a turning away from a flattened, disenchanted view of the world toward one that is alive with meaning, mystery, and divine presence.
Porcu’s strength is in his ability to take what could be an abstract philosophical and theological discussion and ground it in the lived experience of the Church. He is not simply arguing for a different framework; he is inviting the reader into a different way of inhabiting reality. That invitation is both challenging and hopeful. Challenging, because it requires us to unlearn deeply ingrained assumptions shaped by modernity—assumptions that have quietly catechized us into seeing faith as private, inward, and largely disconnected from the material world. Hopeful, because it offers a more coherent and holistic vision of the Christian life—one that refuses to reduce salvation to a moment or faith to mere cognition, but instead presents it as an ongoing participation in the life of God.
One of the most helpful contributions of the book is how it exposes the inadequacy of the categories we often use to talk about Christian life and mission. The common dichotomy between “personal salvation” and “social transformation” begins to break down when viewed through a sacramental lens. In a sacramental worldview, Christ is not working in competition between individual hearts and societal structures, but is redeeming and restoring all things in and through His Body, the Church. This reframing helps dissolve some of the ideological tensions that have come to define much of modern Christianity, particularly in the West. What we often interpret as theological disagreement may, at a deeper level, be the result of a shared but unexamined commitment to a secularized understanding of reality.
For those in pastoral ministry, especially within low-church or revivalist traditions, this book serves as a helpful corrective without being unnecessarily polemical. It does not caricature Protestantism, nor does it demand an abandonment of evangelical convictions. Instead, it gently but persistently presses us to consider whether those convictions have been unintentionally narrowed by a secular framework. It asks whether our emphasis on conversion, for example, has been detached from incorporation into a sacramental community, or whether our understanding of grace has been reduced to an internal experience rather than a lived, embodied reality mediated through the Church.
Why this book matters for Protestants
For Protestant readers in particular, Journey to Reality is valuable not because it argues for Eastern Orthodoxy, but because it exposes a blind spot many of us have inherited. Much of Protestant theology, especially in its modern expressions, has been filtered through post-Enlightenment assumptions that subtly reshape how we read Scripture, understand salvation, and practice the Christian life. The result is often a sincere but truncated faith—rich in conviction, yet thin in sacramental depth and cosmic vision.
Porcu’s work helps Protestants recover categories that are not foreign to our tradition, but foundational to it. The Reformers themselves held a robust view of the means of grace, even where they disagreed with Rome or the East on their number and nature. John Wesley, in particular, spoke of the sacraments as “ordinary channels” through which God conveys grace—language that resonates strongly with the vision Porcu presents. In this sense, the book can serve as a retrieval tool, helping Protestants reconnect with aspects of their own theological heritage that have been neglected or overshadowed.
Additionally, this book provides a needed corrective to the tendency toward individualism that pervades much of Protestant practice. By emphasizing participation in the life of the Church, it calls believers out of a purely personal or privatized faith and into a communal, embodied reality. This is not a denial of personal conversion, but a deepening of it—situating it within the ongoing life of worship, sacrament, and discipleship.
It also challenges the reduction of faith to intellectual assent or emotional experience. In many Protestant contexts, the Christian life is often measured by what one knows or feels. Porcu redirects attention to what God is objectively doing through the Church, inviting believers to trust in and submit to those means of grace even when subjective experience fluctuates. This can be especially grounding in seasons of doubt, dryness, or spiritual fatigue.
Perhaps most importantly, Journey to Reality helps Protestants see that recovering a sacramental worldview does not require abandoning core commitments to Scripture, justification by faith, or the authority of the gospel. Rather, it invites a fuller integration of those commitments into a way of life that takes seriously the Incarnation—that God works not only through words and ideas, but through matter, bodies, and created realities.
In that sense, the book is not a threat to Protestant identity, but an invitation to deepen it.
In that sense, Journey to Reality can function as a bridge text—helping Protestants recover a richer sacramental imagination without requiring full agreement with every aspect of Eastern Orthodox theology. As someone who affirms two sacraments rather than seven, I still found Porcu’s broader point compelling: that God’s grace is not limited to internal or invisible means, but is communicated through tangible, embodied practices that shape us over time. Even where there is theological disagreement, there is still much to be gained by wrestling with the vision he presents.
Another notable strength is the accessibility of the book. Porcu avoids overly technical language without sacrificing depth. His use of analogy—particularly the image of being “plugged in” at baptism and continually energized through participation in the sacramental life of the Church—is simple but effective. It provides a helpful way of understanding the continuity of the Christian life, pushing back against the tendency to overemphasize a one-time decision while neglecting the ongoing means by which God sustains and transforms His people.
This also has significant pastoral implications. In many of our contexts, believers struggle with assurance, spiritual dryness, or a sense that their faith is stagnant. A sacramental framework offers a different approach. Rather than constantly looking inward for evidence of spiritual vitality or chasing emotional experiences, it directs us outward—to the concrete means of grace given to the Church. It roots the Christian life not in fluctuating feelings, but in the steady, objective work of God through Word and sacrament.
At a broader level, Porcu’s work invites us to reconsider what we mean by “reality” itself. If reality is fundamentally sacramental—if it is created and sustained by God, and continually bearing His presence—then the Christian life is not about escaping the world, nor merely managing it better. It is about rightly perceiving it and rightly participating in it. This has implications not only for worship, but for ethics, vocation, and daily life. Work, relationships, creation care, and even suffering can be reinterpreted within a framework where God is actively present and at work.
Of course, readers from different traditions will engage the book in different ways. Some may find certain claims overstated or wish for more nuance in areas of theological disagreement. Others may feel a tension between Porcu’s presentation and their own ecclesial commitments. Yet even where one does not fully agree, the central thrust of the book remains valuable. It raises questions that many of us have not been trained to ask, and it challenges assumptions that have long gone unquestioned.
Ultimately, Porcu reminds us that Christianity is not simply about escaping the world or fixing it through purely human means. It is about participation in the life of God, made available to us through Christ, and continually mediated by the Spirit through the life of the Church. To return to reality, then, is to return to this participatory vision—to see, receive, and live in a world where God is truly present and at work, not just in extraordinary moments, but in the ordinary rhythms of sacramental life.
This is a short book, but it carries weight far beyond its length. It is accessible enough for the average church member, yet substantive enough to provoke deeper theological reflection and meaningful pastoral application. I would especially recommend it to pastors, teachers, and thoughtful laypeople who sense that something is missing in the way faith is often practiced in the modern West. For those willing to engage it seriously, Journey to Reality offers not just a critique, but a path forward—a way of recovering a fuller, richer, and more faithful vision of the Christian life.
by Joel V Webb | May 28, 2026 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
I think all of us are familiar with the words of Christ from Matthew 7:20, “Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them.” We all understand what is being presented, what we produce tells us what we are all about. This too can be said about the kind of disciple that the Church produces. A great example of this is to just look at someone’s pet. So often, the type of person someone is can be seen in their pet. How are they trained, are they skittish, aggressive, shy etc…
My hope is that this is all of our goals in life. The purpose of the Christian life is to be the image of God. To do what we were created to do and look like our creator. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition this theology goes under the name of theosis, “becoming like God”, or “deification.” In my own Methodist tradition we call this Entire Sanctification, or Perfect Love, where the love of Christ is made so thoroughly in us that while we are not perfect in our performance (still being a fallible human), our love, intention or bent has been wholly shaped towards Christ.
This goal, I believe, is the fullness of the Christian life. Not some shallow “fire insurance” joke, where we just skip outta going to hell, but the actual purpose or telos of our creation, to be like the one who made us and loves us. And, by extension of all of this, I believe that this is the mission of the Church. That above everything else is to produce saints—those that look like Christ.
A particular practice that I have picked up last year, when talking about certain people from the Bible and Church history, is to use the honorific “Saint” in front of their name. This title recognizes how that person imaged Christ through thick or thin, and set an example for all of us as to how to follow Jesus no matter what. The fruit of their lives is that they are remembered and known as a saint, one who became like Christ.
The Church is not called to produce leaders as its primary end, but saints, and that distinction shapes everything about how we do ministry.
But what happens when we in the Church forget what we are about? What do we forget, whether in language or action, our purpose and mission? Sure, we know we are to produce something, but what? In recent months I have been confronted with the tacit proposition that our goal is to produce leaders, and it is then through those leaders who produce disciples. For those who have the vision to produce leaders who then make other leaders and disciples, I have no question of their motives. They love Christ and love His Church, and have the best of intentions to grow the Kingdom. They want to see a next generation embrace following Christ and spreading the Gospel to a world in desperate need of His healing.
Where the disconnect comes in is how we go about doing it. There’s a lesson for us to be learned in our day. The methods of leadership development, coaching, advertising and structuring look attractive. They work in the business world, shouldn’t they work in the Church? But the question we need to ask is not, “do they work”, but rather, “is this what we should be doing?”
I spent time in the real estate world in the area of development. I’ve attended countless leadership development and coaching sessions, conferences and seminars all about building your sphere of influence, inspirational ability, sales pipeline, talking points and the like. Those things work, and they are good when you are trying to sell something. These events are crafted for the sake of moving people towards the skills they need to do their work well. And it does work. But is it for us in the Church?
We in the Church are in a completely different sort of work. We don’t sell. Through Christ we shepherd immortal souls. We are not out there trying to invigorate people to get excited about the next initiative. We are called to faithfully preach the Word, and administer the sacraments, knowing that through the power of the Holy Spirit we will be transformed to look like Christ.
During the height of Norse pagan conquest of Anglo-Saxon England, it was the missionary work out of Iona and Lindisfarne on Holy Island from faithful servants like St. Columba and St. Aidan that saw the ravaged land of England and boldly took the Gospel, slowly but surely reconquering the land for Christ as it had once been. These missionary monks were from Ireland, and had been trained by those influenced by St. Patrick, who himself had been from Roman Britain and went and evangelized and converted Ireland for the Gospel.
The entire time, their work was something totally unlike that of how those around them were conquering. While the pagan Vikings conquered England by the sword, these monks emulated Christ and boldly proclaimed the Gospel, even if it meant their death.
It is totally understandable. The Western world is tough right now for the Church, especially denominations. And I am not in a position of leadership outside of my local parish, so I don’t fully understand the perspective or the pressures. But what I do know is the difference in the work we are doing. Yes, we need structures and processes. We need to plan and strategize. But how we in the Church go about that is not acting as if we are dealing with a business that sells widgets and gadgets. Our task is good stewardship in what we have been blessed with. But the product of our work is not leaders or initiatives. It is saints.
How we go about the work of the Kingdom matters—not just that we are doing the work. Sure, we can dress up business models, leadership pipelines and development, growth initiatives and the like. And they might work for a time. We might see raging success and things happen. But in the end, is that work producing results…or is it producing saints? I firmly believe the Church is called to multiply and grow. Yet, the question sits in my mind: what are we multiplying, and how are we doing it?
Leadership is not the telos of the Church; sainthood is. Leaders may be necessary, even beneficial, but they are not the end for which the Body of Christ exists. The Church is not called to produce influence, scale, or organizational success, but to form people who bear the image of Christ in holiness and love. Leadership, rightly understood, emerges as a byproduct of sanctification; those conformed to Christ will often guide and shepherd others. But when leadership itself becomes the goal, we risk substituting competence for communion and effectiveness for faithfulness. The true measure of the Church is not how many leaders it raises up, but whether it is forming saints whose lives radiate the life of God.
When we forget to see the ends to which we are called, we can get lost in the means of going about it. When we get sidetracked by the methods and structures of how someone else operates and try to import it into our world, we start losing the plot to why we even exist. Sure, St. Aidan and St. Columba could have inspired the reconquest of England by Christians. But they knew that wasn’t their way of going about things. They embraced that their task was souls.
We are called to that same task today.
by Joel V Webb | May 26, 2026 | Holy Orders, Theology & Practice
In previous posts I have talked about the various Holy Orders in the Church (twice about deacons, once about pastors as priests). Now, we come to the third order for the function of the Church. The Bishop.
Before we look at the historical development of this role, and contemporary usage, we need to look at what Scripture presents, and clear up some things that might seem cloudy. In the New Testament we get the word bishop from the Greek ἐπίσκοπος episkopos, which when translated is the word overseer (used in Acts 20, Philippians 1, 1 Timothy 3 & Titus 1). In it’s usage the word seems fairly interchangeable with πρεσβύτερος, presbuteros, from which we derive the title Elder or Priest. But, in the usage of the word episkopos there does often seem to be this extra discussion of overseer and authority that is used with it.
Then, moving from Scripture into the first two centuries of the Church we see how this began to play out. What is often seen in the development of the role of bishop is the idea of “elder of the elders”, where the various elders from a given city would select and make one of their own their overseer, providing consistent oversight and authority. This tradition has been carried on where bishops come from the ranks of elders first.
In cities like Alexandria, we see through their history a fairly consistent practice of the elders selecting their bishop from among the elders, which is actually the method that John Wesley referred back to when consecrating Coke & Asbury for mission in America.
The pattern is important because it shows that the bishop was not originally conceived as a detached administrator, but as a pastoral elder among elders, one who carried a coordinating responsibility for teaching, order, and unity within the local church. That matters, because it keeps episcopacy grounded in the life of the presbyterate rather than setting it over against it as though the bishop were a different kind of creature altogether.
This is also why the historical development of the office is so illuminating. The church did not invent the bishop out of nowhere; rather, as the Church grew, the need for settled oversight became more visible, and the role that had already existed in seed form began to take on clearer shape. In that sense, the bishop is best understood as an organic development of apostolic oversight, not a later replacement for it.
That same pattern helps explain why the early church so often assumed that bishops should come from the ranks of the elders. If the office is a higher mode of oversight, then it makes sense that the one who exercises it would first have been tested in the pastoral work of shepherding, teaching, and governing. The bishop is not merely a manager appointed from outside the life of the Church; he is an elder who has been recognized for broader charge and wider responsibility.
This is also the logic that many Anglicans and Methodists have found compelling in tracing their own heritage. John Wesley’s appeal to the ancient practice of episcopal selection was not an attempt to sever the Church from its past, but to recover a pattern of order that he believed belonged to the early Christian witness. In that way, Wesley’s action with Coke and Asbury stands as a reminder that episcopacy has often been defended not as a novelty, but as a faithful continuation of an older apostolic instinct.
If we say it plainly, the bishop exists for the sake of the Church’s unity, doctrine, and mission. They ares called to hold together what is otherwise liable to fragment, to guard what is otherwise liable to drift, and to oversee what is otherwise liable to become disordered. That is why the title itself is so fitting: a bishop is, at root, an overseer.
Of course, this does not erase the close connection between bishop and elder. Rather, it strengthens it. The bishop is not less than an elder, but more properly the elder who bears the wider burden of oversight on behalf of the whole community. And that is precisely why the biblical language matters so much before the historical development is ever discussed.
That line of thought naturally brings us to the bishop as the pastor of pastors. If the bishop is an overseer in the fullest sense, then their first task is not to manage an institution, but to care for the shepherds who care for the flock. They stand in a unique place in the life of the Church, not above the pastoral office in a worldly sense, but within it in a wider and more encompassing way.
This is where the modern age can easily distort the office. When a bishop begins to think of themself primarily as a chief executive, a strategist, or an administrator, they may become efficient but spiritually distant. They may know how to organize systems, but lose touch with the burdens, joys, wounds, and prayers of the people and clergy entrusted to them. The bishop’s calling is not to become less pastoral as their responsibility grows, but more deeply pastoral precisely because it does.
A bishop must therefore be near to their elders/priests, deacons, and local pastors in the way a shepherd is near to their under-shepherds. They listen to them, pray with them, correct them with charity, encourage them in discouragement, and strengthen them for the work they cannot do alone. In this sense, the bishop’s authority is never merely juridical; it is fatherly, spiritual, and relational.
This is also why episcopal leadership must be measured by more than visible results. A bishop may oversee programs, budgets, appointments, and structures, but if they are not tending souls, they have missed the heart of their office. The Church does need order, but order only serves the deeper work of salvation, holiness, preaching, sacrament, discipline, and care. The bishop exists to make that work more faithful, not merely more manageable.
So the bishop must remain a pastor even when they are governing. They must preach as one who believes, counsel as one who has suffered, correct as one who loves, and lead as one who knows that every act of oversight is accountable before Christ the Chief Shepherd. The higher the office, the more urgent the pastoral character of the one who holds it.
That is the real test for bishops in every age. Not whether they can run an organization well, but whether they can carry the heart of a shepherd into the wider field of oversight. A bishop who remains a pastor of pastors strengthens the whole Church; a bishop who becomes only an administrator slowly empties the office of its soul.
by Joel V Webb | May 22, 2026 | Free Methodism, Theology & Practice
One of the hallmarks of corporate style leadership is the ability to take a question, and then use so many words you forgot what the actual question was. Yet, enough was said in that period of time it is assumed that the question was actually answered. When in fact nothing substantial was actually said, but the person answering feels they did so. Sure this is fine in the business world where shareholders need assurances (even though they can see right through it). But what happens when it happens in the Church?
Good Spiritual leadership requires more than just love for Christ and good intentions. I heard that phrase this morning as I listened to Jeffrey Rickman on his PlainSpoken livestream talk about the issues that led to the separation of the UMC, and not wishing to repeat those mistakes in the GMC. While I don’t always agree with Jeffrey on everything, I will always applaud and appreciate his goal of having plain conversation with people, especially those who are in positions of leadership.
In my own world of the Free Methodist Church we have a lot of potential changes on the horizon. Denominational restructuring, merging of conferences, job description changes and the ever growing pressure that people feel we need to change. The desire for change is not unfounded. We live in a very hard time for denominations. At least at this current moment they still seem unpopular, with loose networks of churches and independent church bodies seeming to be the thing in vogue, there is an inherent feeling that we need to adapt, and I don’t think that is totally wrong. The issue comes when we don’t know who we are, and the changes happen in obscurity and there is almost no clarity.
The first issue at hand is we don’t know who we are. If I decided I wanted to renovate my house, but I had no end design in mind and go at the project hoping for something to work out in the end. I would not call that vision. I would call that demolition.
And that is precisely the danger before us. You can tear down walls, move things around, and make constant adjustments, but without a clear telos—without a defined understanding of what the house is supposed to be, you will eventually create something unlivable. It may be new. It may even look impressive for a moment. But it will not be coherent, and it certainly will not be stable.
The same is true for the Church. If we do not have a clear theological, ecclesiological, and sacramental identity, then every proposed “change” becomes reactive rather than purposeful. We start responding to pressures instead of being guided by convictions. And when that happens, leadership begins to rely on language that sounds meaningful but avoids saying anything concrete, because clarity would require commitment.
And commitment, in a moment like ours, feels costly.
But clarity is not only needed in what we say, it is needed in how we develop what we say. One of the deeper issues we face is not just unclear outcomes, but unclear processes. Decisions appear to be formed somewhere “upstream,” and by the time they reach the broader body, they are presented as nearly finished products. At that point, feedback is not truly formative; it is cosmetic.
That is not how a healthy church discerns.
Development takes time. It requires patience. It requires creating real space for pastors and laity to wrestle with ideas, to ask hard questions, and yes, even to disagree. If we rush that process in the name of efficiency, what we gain in speed we lose in trust. And once trust is eroded, no amount of polished language can restore it.
This is where our gatherings, especially our annual and general conferences must be reexamined. Too often they function as inspirational talking sessions, where vision is cast in broad terms, testimonies are shared, and energy is generated. There is certainly a place for that. But if that is all they are, then we have misunderstood their purpose.
Conference should be, in part, an open mic. Not in the sense of disorder or endless debate, but in the sense that there is real, structured opportunity for the body to speak. For questions to be asked plainly. For concerns to be voiced without fear of being dismissed. For leaders not only to present, but to listen and to do so in real time, not through filtered summaries after the fact.
Because if we cannot speak honestly in our own councils, where can we? This kind of openness will slow things down. It will feel messier. It will expose disagreements that are easier to ignore. But it is also how clarity is formed, not imposed, but discerned together under the authority of Christ.
And that is the key distinction. The Church is not a corporation optimizing for efficiency. She is a body seeking faithfulness. Those are not the same thing.
There is another issue that must be named plainly: the increasing reliance on what can only be called “word salad.” By this I mean language that sounds important, full of talking points and polished documents but ultimately says very little. Phrases like “strategic alignment,” “adaptive vision,” and “contextual responsiveness” are repeated until they feel substantive, even when they avoid concrete meaning.
These documents, talks and podcasts are carefully constructed, yet when you ask, “What is actually being proposed?” or “What does this mean for the life of the Church?” the answer is often unclear. And that is the problem.
Word salad does not create unity; it obscures reality. It allows people to nod along because nothing is actually being committed to. It gives leaders cover, but it gives the Church no direction. When clarity finally becomes unavoidable, the underlying disagreements surface with greater force because they were never addressed honestly.
This is not a call for oversimplification. The Church’s work is complex, and careful language matters. But there is a difference between care and evasion. One seeks to illuminate; the other seeks to protect. If a proposal cannot be explained plainly, it is not ready. If a document cannot be understood by those it affects, it has failed its purpose.
Plain speech is not a lack of intelligence. It is a sign of integrity. In a moment where trust is fragile and clarity is desperately needed, the Church cannot afford to communicate in ways that obscure more than they reveal.
So what does it look like to move forward rightly?
It begins with naming things honestly. Who are we as Free Methodists? Not in vague aspirational language, but in concrete theological terms. What do we believe about the Church? About the sacraments? About authority? About holiness? About connectionalism? These are not secondary questions. They are the foundation upon which every structural decision must rest.
From there, we must commit to a process that reflects those convictions. One that allows time for development. One that invites participation rather than managing perception. One that treats clarity not as a threat, but as a gift.
And alongside clarity must come transparency. If changes are necessary, and some likely are then they must be communicated in a way that is direct, accessible, and rooted in shared conviction. Not every detail needs to be broadcast at all times, but the direction, the reasoning, and the theological grounding should never be hidden behind layers of institutional language.
The Church does not need more carefully worded ambiguity. She needs shepherds who are willing to say, “This is who we are, this is where we are going, and this is why.” And just as importantly, shepherds who are willing to say, “Speak, we are listening.”
That kind of leadership will not always be comfortable. It will not always be widely applauded. But it will be faithful. And in the end, faithfulness, not cleverness, not adaptability for its own sake, not institutional survival is the measure by which spiritual leadership is judged.
Why do I say all of this?
Because I love being in the Free Methodist Church. As someone who did not grow up in the denomination, I have grown to deeply love the calling and mission that the FMC historically has had, and I believe God is not done with the FMC. I want to see us be a thriving denomination that is surely grounded in our theological inheritance of Wesley, and confident we are faithfully proclaiming the Gospel. I would like to one day retire in the FMC. But all of this will only happen if we are clear and concise. If we remain faithful as members of the Body of Christ…the Church
by Joel V Webb | Apr 28, 2026 | Free Methodism, Holy Orders, Theology & Practice
The Free Methodist Church, like many Methodist denominations rooted in the historic orders of the Church, has the offices of Deacon, Elder (Pastor/Priest) & Bishop. These roles of servant leadership are seen instituted by and through the Apostles in the book of Acts, and through the epistles of the New Testament to see Christ’s Church function.
The role of Elder (presbyter from the Greek presbyteros) is the role we see most spoken of by St. Paul is his pastoral epistles as he is often writing to churches in need of issues resolved. Through his writings we see the outline of the role, and the qualifications needed for such a role (1 Timothy 3). We also see elders working in conjunction with the Apostles in Acts 11:30.
The next role that is often closely associated with elders is that of the overseer, from the Greek word episkopos, which is where we derive the term episcopal, and the title Bishop from. In the New Testament this term seems to be used interchangeably. What we do see early in Church history is this role being that of the chief elder selected to oversee a given church of a city, and would have been selected from among the elders of that city. This has been carried on through Church history to this day where the Bishop oversees a collection of churches, often in a geographical area providing oversight to the elders, deacons and parishioners within, sometimes called the chief pastor.
The final role is that of a deacon. Which arises very quickly in the narrative of Acts 6:1-4, “In those days when the number of disciples was increasing, the Hellenistic Jews among them complained against the Hebraic Jews because their widows were being overlooked in the daily distribution of food. 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.”
This role of deacon, created from the need for service in the Church, like the others has been carried on through the Church in a variety of ways to serve the body. Historically the diaconate is a role that seems to be a stepping stone for those pursuing elders orders, but otherwise is a position that is dedicated to the long-term care of the congregation, especially in polity situations where there is frequent rotation of clergy. (see my previous post on deacons).
This then brings us to the question of deacons in the Free Methodist Church.
You might be surprised to find out that they do actually exist!
Found in our Book of Discipline, ¶6600: Consecrated Deacons are members in good standing in the Free Methodist Church. They are persons of good reputation, full of wisdom and the Spirit, whose spiritual gifts from God have been confirmed by their societies. In response to God’s call on their lives, Consecrated Deacons offer servant leadership in particular areas of congregational life, according to the gifts and graces God has given and they have developed. Complementing the work of elders, Consecrated Deacons serve the Society by assisting and leading the membership to carry out its ministries to one another and the world.
There is more the BOD says about the role, particularly this: Consecrated Deacons remain members of the local Free Methodist church with no official standing in the annual conference. Consecrated Deacons may therefore serve as lay delegates to annual conference and General Conference.
Historically the role of Deacon has been a Holy Order along with being an Elder and Bishop. Ordained as such for ministry, a foot in both the world (congregation), and as clergy in their own way. In keeping with the Scriptural work deacons were created to fulfill, this is very often kept up in traditional expressions of the Chrisitan faith.
All that being said. I have never met a Free Methodist Deacon. (If you are one, I’d love to meet you!!)
What’s unfortunate is that as a denomination, we are missing a core Scriptural role and position that Christ, in His wisdom through the Apostles has blessed us with so that those who serve as Elders can focus on their distinct roles to serve the Body of Christ.
We in the Free Methodist Church need a revitalization of the diaconate. Why? Not only because it is found in Scripture and in the long tradition of the Church, but I believe it is one of the solutions to the clergy burnout crisis. Pastors are often saddled with so many tasks which may include visits and other elements of ministry of mercy and presence. And that’s not to say those of us with Elders Orders shouldn’t do that, we need to. But in some cases, there are pastors who are saddled with a large load of the work that Christ intended for Deacons to take.
Another aspect we might not be considering is in regards to the involvement of our laity. How many people do we have in our churches who feel a call to some kind of ministry, but all we really have to present them is to “become an ordained pastor”. But what if that’s not what they are called to, but rather feel the pull into the diaconate, but we are unaware and are not making use of this so important but unused role?
A final note I will make is I feel we have done a disservice in removing the diaconate from its historic placement in the ordination process of clergy. Historically, as it is also done in traditional expressions of the faith today, those pursuing Elder’s orders, as a part of the process, actually become deacons. It is during this time they serve in that role in serving the flock as they continue the process towards becoming an Elder.
In our current Free Methodist situation, the role of deacon has been seemingly separated from this historic track unless someone feels otherwise called or can’t carry on pursuing Elder ordination for some reason (see the rest of ¶6600 in the BOD). I’m not sure when or why this change was made in our polity, but I have a feeling it had subtle but noticeable detrimental effects. One possible suggestion would be to simply keep the process we have for ordination (LMC to CMC to Elder), but simply rename the CMC title to Deacon, to bring us back into historical alignment with the role, and modify the track to allow those to stay at that level if they feel it is their calling to ministry. And if someone then feels the call to remain in the diaconate, their membership can remain at the local level.
While some of this discussion may seem life insignificant squawking, we don’t often realize how changes from how things have been, even if they don’t seem important, can actually have major impacts down the road. And while the question of the diaconate seems like a small problem in a world gone mad, maybe the role Christ has given the Church to help serve the flock would help bring back some of our sanity to keep us going until He one day comes again.
by Joel V Webb | Apr 16, 2026 | Orthodoxy Matters, Theology & Practice
Whenever we open up the book of Revelation we immediately put on the glasses of “THE END OF THE WORLD!”, and in doing so we interpret everything that St. John writes is speaking to some future event(s) that will happen in a certain way. And while yes, there certainly are parts of Revelation yet to happen (in my view we are in-between chp. 20 & 21) that have yet to take place at the final consummation and the restoration of Eden throughout the whole world as we who are redeemed are raised to life in new resurrected bodies..
But what if in only at looking at Revelation this way is actually pigeon-holing the vision that St. John received. That by assigning only future value to what is written in the words of the strangest and most mis-understood book in Scripture we are missing out on the beauty and strength that the Holy Spirit has for the Church as we continue as faithful workers in the harvest field until He comes again?
I propose, rather than seeing the images as just future events, we instead look at Revelation as a rallying call for us here and now. Not just as a description of events in the first-century back then, or a future-century ahead of us…but rather as an immensely captivating stained-glass kaleidoscope of what we as believers living here and now are called to participate in. Revelation is not just an image of the end, but actually of the beginning that started in Acts 2 and carries on to us today through to Christ’s coming again.
The picture that St. John paints are not of literal future literal bowls, trumpets, beasts and destruction; but rather as prophetic and otherworldly icon of the worship of the Church as we join in endless worship of the Creator, Sustainer and Savior. The call to this kind of worship is to be faithful in the face of whatever the devil and world throw our way. Not as a get outta dodge at the last moment.
The Throne and Living Creatures
Revelation 4:2-11 (NIV) – At once I was in the Spirit, and there before me was a throne in heaven with someone sitting on it. And the one who sat there had the appearance of jasper and ruby. A rainbow that shone like an emerald encircled the throne. 4 Surrounding the throne were twenty-four other thrones, and seated on them were twenty-four elders. They were dressed in white and had crowns of gold on their heads. From the throne came flashes of lightning, rumblings and peals of thunder. In front of the throne, seven lamps were blazing. These are the seven spirits of God. Also in front of the throne there was what looked like a sea of glass, clear as crystal. In the center, around the throne, were four living creatures, and they were covered with eyes, in front and in back. The first living creature was like a lion, the second was like an ox, the third had a face like a man, the fourth was like a flying eagle. Each of the four living creatures had six wings and was covered with eyes all around, even under its wings. Day and night they never stop saying: “‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty,’ who was, and is, and is to come.” Whenever the living creatures give glory, honor and thanks to him who sits on the throne and who lives for ever and ever, 10 the twenty-four elders fall down before him who sits on the throne and worship him who lives for ever and ever. They lay their crowns before the throne and say: “You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being.”
Imagine the transcendent majesty of God’s throne, resplendent in jasper, carnelian, and an emerald rainbow encircling its glory, surrounded by a vast crystal sea and flashes of lightning that proclaim His eternal power. At its center stand the four living creatures, lion, ox, man, and eagle (the 4 images associated with each of the Gospel accounts), covered with eyes signifying divine omniscience, each with six wings veiling their forms as they ceaselessly intone, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was and is and is to come!” In reverent response, the twenty-four elders, clothed in white robes and bearing golden crowns, prostrate themselves, casting their crowns before the throne while declaring, “Worthy are you, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they existed and were created.” The early church fathers, such as Irenaeus, interpreted these creatures as emblematic of animated creation itself, representing noble wildness, faithful servitude, rational humanity, and swift spiritual insight, united in perpetual praise around the divine presence. This vision models the Church’s priestly vocation: vigilant, Trinitarian doxology that shapes our earthly liturgy, inviting believers today to join heaven’s ceaseless anthem with eyes attuned to God’s holiness amid the world’s distractions.
The Slain Lamb
Revelation 5:6-14 (NIV) – Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the center of the throne, encircled by the four living creatures and the elders. The Lamb had seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth. He went and took the scroll from the right hand of him who sat on the throne. And when he had taken it, the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb. Each one had a harp and they were holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of God’s people. And they sang a new song, saying: “You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased for God persons from every tribe and language and people and nation. You have made them to be a kingdom and priests to serve our God, and they will reign on the earth.” Then I looked and heard the voice of many angels, numbering thousands upon thousands, and ten thousand times ten thousand. They encircled the throne and the living creatures and the elders. In a loud voice they were saying: “Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!” Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying: “To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praised and honor and glory and power, for ever and ever!” The four living creatures said, “Amen,” and the elders fell down and worshiped.
From this sovereign scene emerges the Lamb, standing as though slain yet radiant with seven horns of perfect power and seven eyes, the seven Spirits of God, taking the sealed scroll from the right hand of Him who sits upon the throne. Instantly, myriads upon myriads of angels encircle in thunderous acclaim: “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!” Their voices swell as every creature in heaven and on earth, under the earth and in the sea, echoes back eternal “Amen,” while elders and living beings fall prostrate in clouds of incense-filled worship. Early interpreters like Victorinus of Pettau regarded this as the unveiled mystery of the gospel following Christ’s Incarnation, where the Lamb’s sacrificial triumph shifts creation’s praise from Creator alone to the Redeemer who conquers through blood. This Christocentric liturgy typifies the Church as the Lamb’s Bride, empowered to sing the “new song” of salvation in our sacraments; it calls us to Eucharistic participation today, savoring redemption’s foretaste and anticipating the great marriage supper of the Lamb in heavenly consummation.
The Global Multitude
Revelation 7:9-17 (NIV) – After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice:“Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” All the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures. They fell down on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying: “Amen! Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!” Then one of the elders asked me, “These in white robes—who are they, and where did they come from?” I answered, “Sir, you know.” And he said, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore, “they are before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple; and he who sits on the throne will shelter them with his presence. ‘Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat down on them,’ nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; ‘he will lead them to springs of living water.’ ‘And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’”
Before the throne and Lamb appears a great multitude that no one could number, drawn from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing robed in white with palm branches of triumph, their voices united in exultation: “Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!” Angels, elders, and living creatures encircle them, ascribing blessing, glory, wisdom, thanksgiving, honor, power, and might forevermore, revealing the blood-washed throng eternally shepherded, hungering and thirsting no more beside the river of life. The patristic tradition, linking this to Ezekiel’s life-giving river and Pentecost’s tongues of fire, understood it as the sealed Church emerging victorious through tribulation, the full harvest of souls waving palms in eschatological joy. This image embodies our present calling as a diverse priesthood in creation: conformed to heavenly citizenship now, our worship becomes a defiant conqueror amid chaos, embodying Pentecost’s promise until the final victory when every knee bows and every tongue confesses the Lamb’s reign.
A Call to Worship
These three prophetic images of the throne’s living creatures chanting Holy, holy, holy, the slain Lamb receiving universal blessing, and the global multitude waving palms in victory offer just a glimpse of the breathtaking beauty the Holy Spirit unveils through St. John. They reveal Christ’s Church, from the Spirit’s outpouring at Pentecost in Acts 2 to His glorious return in Revelation 22, perpetually joined in cosmic worship of the Lamb who was slain yet now reigns victorious forever on heaven’s throne.
Read Revelation this way; as Sacred Scripture truly intends and the glasses of fear and end-times dread shatter. In their place rises wonder, enchantment, and holy awe at God’s matchless beauty who He is: the Creator enthroned, rainbow-girded, eyes ever watchful. And what He’s done: redeeming us through the Lamb’s blood to sing the new song with every creature in sea and sky. This vision doesn’t paralyze; it propels. Our worship becomes defiant Hallelujahs! amid tribulation’s seals, trumpets, and bowls, faithful labor in the harvest fields where souls still ripen for the kingdom. We preview the throne-room marriage feast, robed in white, palms raised, as the Bride made ready.
Church, this is our calling now: to live these heavenly patterns on earth. Next week: How is Revelation’s worship reflected when you gather to hear the Word, receive the Sacraments and go into the world as a faithful witness of Christ our Lord?
