by Joel V Webb | Jul 13, 2026 | Uncategorized
“You keep using that word; I do not think it means what you think it means.”
It is one of the most iconic lines in modern cinema. In The Princess Bride, Inigo Montoya delivers this line in response to Vizzini’s constant use of the word “inconceivable,” a word he clearly does not understand, given how frequently he misapplies it. The humor works because the audience recognizes the gap between the word’s meaning and its usage.
That line often comes to mind when I encounter discussions, especially online, about what are commonly called “Second Commandment violations,” or “2CV” for short.
The argument usually runs like this: because Exodus 20:4 says, “You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above…,” any depiction of Jesus, whether in painting, film, or other media, is a direct violation of God’s command and therefore sinful.
To that, I find myself thinking: you keep using that word; I do not think it means what you think it means.
The biggest pitfall with this interpretation is not sincerity. Those who hold this position are often deeply committed believers who want to avoid idolatry at all costs. That instinct is good and worth honoring. But sincerity alone does not guarantee accuracy.
Where this position begins to break down is in two key areas.
First, it fails to read the commandment in context, and not just immediate context, but canonical context.
Sound biblical interpretation requires us to ask not only, “What does this verse say?” but also, “How does Scripture itself apply and clarify this command?” The Second Commandment does not stand alone as an abstract prohibition. It is embedded within a covenantal framework and immediately explained: “You shall not bow down to them or serve them” (Ex. 20:5). The concern is not merely the existence of images, but how they are used.
But the context deepens even further.
In Exodus 32, Israel violates this very commandment with the golden calf. What is striking is not simply that they made an image, but what they claimed about it: “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!” (Ex. 32:4). This is not so much the introduction of a new deity as it is a false representation of the true one, an attempt to render Yahweh visible, controllable, and immediate. That is the heart of the violation.
And then, almost immediately after this, God commands the construction of the tabernacle, which includes images.
In Exodus 25, the Ark of the Covenant is to be fashioned with golden cherubim overshadowing the mercy seat. In Exodus 26, cherubim are woven into the very fabric of the tabernacle curtains. Later, Solomon’s temple is adorned with carved cherubim, palm trees, and open flowers (1 Kings 6:23–29). These are not incidental decorations. They are divinely commanded elements within Israel’s worship.
Even more striking is the bronze serpent in Numbers 21. God commands Moses to make it, and those who look upon it in faith are healed. Yet in 2 Kings 18:4, Hezekiah destroys it because it had become an object of idolatrous devotion.
That example is decisive.
The problem was not that an image existed. The image was commanded by God. The problem was that the image was misused. It shifted from sign to substitute.
So whatever Exodus 20:4 forbids, it cannot be a blanket prohibition on all visual representation. Scripture itself does not allow that conclusion.
The issue is not images. It is idolatry.
Second, it ignores what idol worship actually looked like in the ancient world.
In that world, images were not simply artistic representations. They were understood to participate in the reality they depicted. Through ritual acts, an idol was believed to become a dwelling place of the deity. Offerings were made to it. Prayers were directed toward it. The image functioned not as a reminder, but as a localized presence of the god.
This is the backdrop of the Second Commandment.
God is not prohibiting art. He is prohibiting the construction of rival presences, attempts to represent Him in ways that make Him manageable, containable, or subject to human control. The commandment guards the freedom and transcendence of God.
At this point, an important question arises: what about traditions that use images devotionally, such as icons and statues?
Here we need both clarity and charity.
Before critiquing Catholic or Orthodox practice, we must represent those traditions honestly. It is easy to construct a strawman by assuming that bowing before an image automatically equals worship, or that such practices are simply paganism in Christian dress. But those claims do not reflect how these traditions understand themselves. As Christians, we are called not only to truth, but to truthfulness.
Both Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox theology carefully distinguish between worship (latria), which is due to God alone, and veneration (dulia), which is honor given to saints, with a unique form (hyperdulia) accorded to Mary. The Second Council of Nicaea (787) articulated that honor given to an image passes to its prototype. The image is not the endpoint, but a means of directing honor toward Christ or His saints.
In the Eastern Orthodox tradition especially, this is often expressed through the language of the icon as a “window.” An icon is not understood as a container of the divine, but as a witness that opens the viewer toward a greater reality. It is something one looks through, not merely at. The purpose of the icon is not to localize Christ, but to direct the heart and mind toward Him.
This is deeply tied to the theology of the Incarnation. If the Son of God has truly taken on visible, tangible human flesh, then He can be depicted. The icon becomes, in this sense, a visual confession that the invisible God has made Himself known in Christ. As John of Damascus put it, “I do not worship matter; I worship the Creator of matter who became matter for my sake.”
That is a serious and historically grounded position, and it deserves to be engaged on its own terms.
At the same time, from a Protestant perspective, several concerns remain.
The distinction between worship and veneration, while theologically precise, is not always easily maintained in practice. The Reformers were responding to real pastoral conditions in which the line between honoring and functionally relying upon images had become blurred.
This is strongly reflected in the 39 Articles of Religion of the Church of England, XXII. Of Purgatory. The Romish Doctrine concerning Purgatory, Pardons, Worshipping and Adoration, as well of Images as of Relics, and also Invocation of Saints, is a fond thing, vainly invented, and grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the Word of God.
Further, even the “window” language, helpful as it is, raises a question of pastoral caution. Windows are meant to be looked through, but human nature has a way of lingering on the glass. What is intended as a means of directing attention to Christ can, over time or in certain contexts, become an object of misplaced focus.
Here again, the bronze serpent provides a helpful biblical parallel. What God once commanded and used for good can, when misdirected, become an occasion for idolatry.
Finally, the New Testament offers no clear mandate or example of the use of images in the worshiping life of the Church. While that silence does not settle the question, it does suggest that such practices are not essential and should therefore be approached with care.
So we should avoid two equal and opposite errors. We must not misrepresent our Catholic and Orthodox brothers and sisters. At the same time, we must not ignore real pastoral dangers.
The question is not simply whether an image can function as a window.
The question is whether, in practice, it consistently remains one.
The Second Commandment is not violated by the mere existence of an image of Christ.
Scripture itself includes divinely commanded images, even within the holiest spaces of worship. The commandment, therefore, cannot be about representation as such. It is about the misuse of representation, treating something created as if it were the Creator, attempting to bring God under our control, or substituting a manageable image for the living and holy God.
To have a painting of Jesus, to portray Him in film, or to use visual depictions for teaching is not, in itself, a sin. The question is not whether an image exists, but what role it plays.
Does it point beyond itself to the risen Christ revealed in Scripture, or does it subtly replace Him?
The true danger is not that we might depict Christ. It is that we might reduce Him, whether in image or in imagination, to something safer, smaller, and more controllable than He truly is.
And that is precisely what the Second Commandment was given to prevent.
by Joel V Webb | May 15, 2026 | History, Methodism, Sacraments, Uncategorized
Whenever a movement or a group of people is looking back to make an assessment of where they are and where they’ve come from, part of doing that correctly is doing so honestly. It’s not about dishonoring the past or those who were faithful in the past with what they had. But we should be able to rightly see where they may not have been, how they should have been, and course-correct from there.
Recently, I have been taking something of a deep dive into early Methodist history. Specifically looking at not just John Wesley himself, but the early pioneers of American Methodism. As someone who did not grow up in the movement, I take seriously the responsibility to understand the place I now call my ecclesiastical home. There is so much of American Methodism to look at with thankfulness to God, for how those faithful trailblazers spread with the pioneers to bring the Gospel to the frontiers of America, leading Methodism to represent the biggest American denomination by the early 19th century.
Yet, with that heritage and legacy, when we look at Methodism today, we see a different story. With about 50 different Methodist/Wesleyan denominations in existence, with a broad range of theological takes and reasons for why they split, including more recent divisions, what has happened here?
In a paper about sacraments in early American Methodism, Paul Sanders writes this:
“Early Methodism in America had failed to achieve sufficient coherence to enable it to preserve the marrow of its legacy while at the same time adapting it to the demands of a new time and a new land. Although maintaining a halting loyalty to its Wesleyan heritage, the church was clearly more concerned with evangelism than with sacramentalism. Wesley’s synthesis was dissolved. As revivalism was not the same as Wesley’s evangelical ministry, so the confused sacramental
teaching and erratic sacramental practice of the Americans was not the same as Wesley’s own. The loss of the fertilizing vitality which results from keeping each close to the other was serious enough; but the loss was finally more serious. The church had been rendered peculiarly vulnerable to the infiltration of alien ideologies, and would find itself unable to maintain either evangelicalism or sacramentalism under the impact of the rise of rational idealism.”
I know there’s a lot going on in that paragraph, and I highly encourage you to look up and read Sanders’ paper, as he does a deep dive into Wesley’s sacramental theology and the importance it played in his life and ministry. And it is this major component that was missing for American Methodism, that didn’t allow for the “marrow” of Wesley’s legacy to endure in totality.
Looking at the reasons that led to this, I get it. You’re in America; you don’t have enough clergy to rightly administer the sacraments (both communion and baptism were an issue), and so very quickly the pragmatic realities set in. Even if you think things like weekly communion are important, you simply can’t do them, and they fall out of practice. And in this, I don’t fault my predecessors for how history went down. Could they have done something differently? Maybe. But I can’t make that call. All I can do is see where there were potential issues and try to course-correct from there.
So that leads us to the question. What was the fatal flaw? In my mind, from the research I have done, the fatal flaw was that early American Methodism didn’t solidify its identity because it failed to maintain the sacramental reality of Wesley’s life and ministry along with his evangelical zeal.
Because there was a lack of this cohesive identity grounded in the table, Sanders suggests—and I would agree and posit—that the multiplicity in American Methodist denominations exists because the sacramental grounding of the movement was not solidified. The focus became the practical necessity of expanding with rapidly growing America. And in this growth, cultural influences were able to weave themselves in at various times and in various places, leading to the muddled landscape we have today.
Now, in the 21st century, the Methodist movement has a new opportunity. With the major realignment of Methodism in the Global Methodist Church, the possibility is open for us across the board to look at where we came from, reassess who we actually are, and then put our noses to the plow of the Gospel work we have to do.
So what is this new path forward?
Recenter the table.
Now, it is a bit more complicated than that, but not by much.
As Methodists, we need to recapture the Spirit-fueled heart of our movement, which was the encounter with the Risen, Ascended, and Reigning Christ that takes place at Holy Communion. It means our pastors and our laypeople need to not just practice and participate, but also understand the how and why. To not just come and remember, but to come and receive the fullness of the work of Christ that He offers to His Church.
Yes, we need excellent preachers, and those who have a passion for evangelism to go out and proclaim the Word. That will always be essential, as it was for Wesley. But backing that up must be a thoroughly grounded understanding and practice of the means of grace. Not just as a catchphrase we use when talking about Wesleyan theology, but as the heartbeat of what we are about.
Looking back at our Methodist forebears, we have so much to be thankful for. They loved and served Christ faithfully. It is not to denigrate their lives and work for the Kingdom, but rather to see the fruit of what they themselves truly desired to see: an American nation captivated by the Gospel, and the power of Christ flowing to every believer as they receive Him week by week.
In the limited scope in which I’ve read the life and works of B. T. Roberts, I am thankful to be a Free Methodist. We have a place and a role in the Kingdom of God to accomplish His will on earth. And through recapturing the heart of Wesley’s life and ministry in the Table, we can bring to fullness what Roberts and others desired to see: a people who lived lives of holiness and set captives free.
What better place to do that than the meal that Christ instituted where it started for us all?
by Joel V Webb | Feb 5, 2026 | Uncategorized
One of the things I often ask my wife after a Sunday service is, “how do you feel it went?” Seems like a normal question, right? We want to know how things went, if they were good, or if things bombed. But in recent months I have been working by God’s grace to shift my focus from asking about how things felt, to if they were faithful.
I think this is one of the biggest traps of the modern evangelical world. The question we are always seeking to answer is, “how do we feel about this?” And while our emotions are from God, and are important, I think we have put too much focus on whether or not something felt right, rather than focusing if things were faithful, and that we encountered God. It’s like we’ve built our spiritual lives around chasing that next emotional high, the kind that comes from a perfectly timed light show or a song that hits just right in the chorus. We walk out of church buzzing, convinced we’ve had a profound encounter with the divine because our hearts raced and tears flowed. But what happens the next week when the music doesn’t land the same way, or the preacher’s message feels a bit flat? Suddenly, doubt creeps in. Did God show up? Was it real? This cycle leaves us fragile, tethered to our moods rather than to the unchanging faithfulness of Christ Himself.
The Psalms model this beautifully for us. David cries out in the rawest emotion, from despair to ecstasy, but he always circles back to God’s steadfast word and promises. “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path,” he declares in Psalm 119:105. That’s not about feeling enlightened; it’s about faithful obedience in the dark. This emotionalism didn’t come from nowhere. It traces back through revivalist traditions, where manipulating crowds for decisions became the measure of success. Charles Finney and his “new measures” in the 19th century turned meetings into high-stakes emotional theaters, complete with anxious benches and public professions designed to wring out responses. It worked for a season, filling pews and sparking movements, but it planted seeds of shallowness. Today, we see it in worship sets engineered like rock concerts, sermons crafted for viral soundbites, and metrics obsessed with attendance bumps or altar call counts. Emotions become the goal, truth the casualty. Jonathan Edwards saw this danger early on, warning in his treatise on religious affections that not every tear or thrill proves the Spirit’s work. True godliness flows from a renewed mind delighting in God’s glory, not from stirred sentiments that mimic conviction.
Contrast that with the ordinary means God has given His church: the faithful preaching of the Word and the right administration of the sacraments. These aren’t flashy tools for excitement; they are the steady channels through which Christ pours out grace, week after week, whether we feel it or not. Picture the early church in Acts 2:42: “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.” No mention of emotional metrics there, just persistence in Word, sacrament, and prayer. Paul hammers this home in 1 Corinthians 11, rebuking the Corinthians not for lack of feeling but for profaning the Lord’s Supper through division and selfishness. The Table isn’t valid because it moves us; it’s powerful because Christ is truly present, feeding our souls with His body and blood. The reformers like Calvin echoed this, insisting that God binds Himself to these visible signs, making them efficacious for faith not by our emotional response but by His faithful promise. Faith comes by hearing the Word (Romans 10:17), and the sacraments confirm it tangibly, sustaining us in dry seasons when emotions fail.
Theologically, this anchors us in God’s covenantal fidelity. Hebrews 10:23 urges us to “hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.” Our perseverance isn’t self-generated enthusiasm but participation in Christ’s own faithfulness, mediated through preaching that declares His finished work and sacraments that apply it to us personally. Baptism marks our dying and rising with Him once for all (Romans 6:3-4), a seal that no mood swing can undo. The Eucharist proclaims His death until He comes (1 Corinthians 11:26), nourishing us with grace that outlasts every high or low. This is paleo-orthodox wisdom, recovered from the church fathers who saw Word and Table as the rhythm of divine life in the body of Christ. Augustine called sacraments “visible words,” precisely because they convey truth beyond what feelings can grasp or guarantee.
Emotionally driven worship, by contrast, risks idolatry. It elevates experience over revelation, making the Spirit’s work dependent on human techniques rather than sovereign grace. John 4:24 commands worship “in spirit and truth,” where truth proclaimed and enacted precedes and provokes any genuine affection. When churches prioritize “what moves us,” they breed consumerism, where believers shop for services that deliver dopamine hits, abandoning the ordinary when it grows mundane. The result is fragility: shallow roots that wither in persecution or trial, as Jesus warned of the rocky soil in Mark 4:16-17. True spiritual vitality grows through steady feeding on Christ in His appointed ways, producing fruit that endures by the Spirit’s hidden labor.
In terms of praxis, this shift demands rigorous discipline. Begin with the pulpit: Preach the whole counsel of God, letting Scripture dictate the content rather than chasing relevance through felt needs or cultural hooks. Let exegesis drive application, trusting the Word itself to convict, comfort, and convert. For sacraments, recover their frequency and centrality. Move toward weekly Eucharist not as an add-on but as the climax of every Lord’s Day gathering, offered to all baptized believers without barriers of performance or worthiness. Administer baptism with catechetical preparation, teaching it as the foundation of Christian identity that no emotion can confer or revoke. Structure services around these means: Call to worship from Psalms, confession and assurance rooted in gospel promises, creed for shared belief, sermon for grounding and growth, Table for nourishment, and sending with benediction. Soak every element in prayer, drawing from the church’s historic offices to guard against novelty.
Evaluate Sundays by faithfulness, not feedback. Ask: Was the Word handled accurately, free from gimmicks or personal anecdotes that overshadow Christ? Were sacraments administered reverently, pointing beyond themselves to the Lord? Did the liturgy form us as a covenant people, confessing sin together, receiving grace together, feasting together? Train leaders and congregations alike in this metric through teaching and example. Small groups can reinforce it by studying Scripture exposition, sacramental theology, and the lives of saints who persevered without spectacle. Youth ministry shifts from entertainment to catechism and Table, equipping the next generation to value fidelity over flash. Even outreach flows from this: Evangelism proclaims the same Word preached inside, inviting sinners to baptism and Supper as entry into Christ’s body.
This praxis isn’t anti-emotion; it’s pro-truth. Holy affections, as Edwards described them, arise naturally when we behold God’s glory in the face of Christ through faithful means. Joy erupts at the Table’s foretaste of the kingdom. Awe fills preaching that unveils the cross’s depths. Love binds the fellowship around shared bread and cup. But these are fruits of the Spirit, not engineered results. When faithfulness governs, God surprises us: Quiet services become profound, dry seasons yield growth, and unity deepens amid diversity. Churches marked by this rhythm resist cultural drift, standing as outposts of the kingdom where God’s faithfulness holds His people steady.
Historically, this recovers the best of our traditions. Wesley, though his ministry is known for revival, urged constant communion and saw sacraments as “means of grace” where God works beyond feeling. The Free Methodist heritage, with its love feasts and emphasis on holiness, points toward a sacramental renewal that integrates evangelical zeal with ordered worship. Broader catholic practice, from Anglican formularies to Reformed confessions, affirms Word and sacrament as sufficient for the church’s life. In our time of hype and hurry, this theology and praxis offer rescue: a return to what God commands, because He is faithful to save and sustain through it.
The call is clear and urgent. Let us measure church life by alignment with divine appointment, not human applause. Prioritize preaching that thunders gospel truth. Elevate sacraments as the pulse of gathered worship. Persevere in these means through every season, confident that Christ builds His church upon them. Emotions will ebb and flow, but His word endures forever (Isaiah 40:8). In faithfulness over feeling, we find the treasure: a people held by God’s steady hand, encountering Him truly every Lord’s Day.
by Joel V Webb | Jan 29, 2026 | Uncategorized
The phrase “life giving church” gets thrown around a lot these days. It’s used in prayers, fills mission statements, church websites, and social media posts that promise energy, joy, and transformation. It sounds good on the surface. Who wouldn’t want to be part of something described as life giving? Yet when I hear it used so casually and so often, I grow skeptical. What exactly do people mean by it? And why does it so frequently carry the whiff of criticism aimed at churches that don’t fit a particular mold?
For many, the phrase describes a certain atmosphere: lively music, passionate preaching, a palpable sense of excitement in the room. It feels alive, modern, relevant. I’ve sat in those spaces and felt the draw. But let’s be honest. The way “life giving church” gets deployed often functions as coded criticism of historic expressions of the faith. Quieter, more liturgical congregations, with their ordered prayers, ancient creeds, and reverence for sacrament, get quietly dismissed as lifeless or outdated. The implication hangs in the air: if your worship doesn’t pulse with contemporary energy, if it doesn’t chase emotional highs, then it must not be giving life. Is that fair? Or is it just a subtle way to elevate one style while sidelining centuries of faithful Christian practice?
That skepticism runs deep for me. Life in the biblical sense cannot be reduced to mood, tempo, or emotional experience. If “life giving church” means anything substantial, it must be rooted in something deeper and more enduring than surface vitality. Otherwise, it risks becoming a slogan that divides rather than builds up the body of Christ.
Over the last few decades, the phrase has morphed into a kind of brand identity. Churches wield it like businesses tout “fresh” or “authentic,” signaling a cultural style over theological depth. The assumption seems to be that the church’s job is to manufacture an atmosphere of aliveness, as if the Holy Spirit’s work depends on our production values. But does it? There is a place for joy and warmth in worship, to be sure. God wired us as emotional creatures, and joy is a fruit of the Spirit. Yet the early church never marketed itself as life giving because of its energy or entertainment. It simply abided in communion with the risen Christ, letting His life flow through ordinary means. When we make liveliness our yardstick, we exchange the living water of the gospel for decorative fountains, pretty but ultimately shallow.
The Book of Acts offers the clearest scriptural portrait of life together in Christ. Luke records, “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.” There’s the pattern, plain and unadorned. They were alive because they were devoted. Life wasn’t manufactured; it flowed from nearness to the living Christ through four unchanging practices.
They clung to teaching, the apostles’ doctrine handed down from Jesus Himself. That Word was their anchor, not an optional add-on. Wherever Christ’s truth is faithfully proclaimed and received, the breath of life stirs. They practiced fellowship, true koinonia, where believers bore burdens, forgave freely, and shared generously. Life grows when it is poured out for others. They gathered at the breaking of bread, the Eucharistic feast where Christ offers Himself as bread for the world. In that sacred mystery, the church finds its pulse, feeding on the One who conquered death. And they prayed without ceasing, their lives a constant turning toward God’s presence and will.
What strikes me most in this picture? The absence of any mention of style, mood, or method. No guitars or fog machines, no emphasis on feeling “filled.” The church in Acts was life giving precisely because it fixed its gaze on Christ, not because it nailed the perfect vibe. To question that is to question whether we’ve learned anything from the first Christians.
Jesus Himself cuts through the confusion: “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Life isn’t a sensation; it’s a Person. Paul unpacks this in Romans: “We have been united with Him in a death like His… united with Him in a resurrection like His.” The church’s vitality is participation in Christ’s risen life, mediated through Word and sacrament. Baptism buries us with Him and raises us anew. The Eucharist feeds us with that same life, week by week. This isn’t fleeting emotion but deepening communion. A life giving church makes Christ present: His Word thundered or whispered, His table spread humbly, His Spirit moving among the gathered faithful.
Such a church might look traditional or contemporary, urban or rural, high church or low. Skepticism of the phrase “life giving” arises precisely because it so often polices those boundaries, casting shade on historic forms as if they can’t possibly pulse with divine life. But they can, and they do, when rooted in the same devotions.
We needn’t scrap the phrase altogether. It holds truth worth reclaiming, but only if measured by Scripture, not trends. A life giving church centers the gospel, forgives sinners, welcomes strangers as family. It feeds the hungry in body and soul, weaves prayer and hospitality into daily rhythm. Its life shows in love’s generosity, not song’s volume. This frees us profoundly. Pastors needn’t stage excitement. Congregations needn’t mimic the popular. Life is gifted in Christ; we simply abide and receive.
Recall Christ’s post-resurrection moment with His disciples: He breathed on them, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” That breath, divine life shared with dust, animates us still. A life giving church carries that breath outward, becoming springs of living water through Word, sacrament, fellowship. It’s presence, not performance, echoing from Jerusalem’s upper room to today’s pews and folding chairs.
The church isn’t called to sell liveliness but to live it faithfully, devoted to Acts’ four pillars until the world glimpses Christ dwelling among us. That’s a truly life giving church: not styled by preference, but saved by a Savior; rooted in Word and Sacrament, sustained by prayer, bound by love. It may not always thrill, but it endures. And in that quiet endurance, it gives life to the world.
by Joel V Webb | Jan 26, 2026 | Uncategorized
According to the old liturgical calendar, this last Sunday (Jan. 25, 2026) was the last Sunday of Epiphany. That seems strange, because in modern lectionary and liturgical calendars, we still have three more Sundays until Ash Wednesday, and the official start of Lent. But in the old calendar, like the one we use at my church (the 1662 Lectionary with OT additions from the Canadian Prayer Book Society), we are getting ready to enter into what has been known as the pre-Lent season, with three strangely titled Sunday of; Septuagesima, Sexagesima and Quinquagesima Sunday’s. The three names of these Sunday’s come from the Latin origins, stating how many Sunday’s we are away from Easter. Going 70, 60 & 50 days.
These three Sunday’s provide a unique opportunity to ease into the penitential nature of Lent from the joys of Christmas, and the season of Epiphany where the power and nature of Christ are revealed.
Known collectively as Gesimatide (from the old German for these Sundays), this violet-clad interlude, roughly three weeks long, shifts the church’s tone without the full rigor of Lenten fasting. Gloria and Alleluia vanish from the Mass or Mattins, Tract replaces the Alleluia, and a somber expectancy builds, much like church bells tolling faintly before the Lenten knell. Retaining these in traditional Anglican, continuing Anglican, and some Lutheran rites honors a practice traceable to St. Gregory the Great around 600 AD, bridging Epiphany’s manifestation to Quadragesima’s (Lent’s) forty days.
Opening this trio about 63 days before Easter (not precisely 70, but evocatively so, recalling Israel’s 70-year exile), Septuagesima calls us to spiritual toil. The Gospel’s parable of the vineyard laborers (Matt 20:1-16) shatters merit-based thinking: latecomers receive the same denarius as early risers, revealing God’s prodigal grace. Paired with St. Paul’s runner straining for an incorruptible crown (1 Cor 9:24-27), it urges disciplined training, temperance in all things, for the heavenly prize. Adam’s curse of sweatful labor echoes here, yet Christ’s generosity redeems it.
Roughly 56 days out, Sexagesima turns to providence amid trial. Noah’s ark (Gen 1-8 in some uses) and the sower’s parable (Luke 8:4-15) dominate: seeds fall on varied soils, but God’s Word endures floods and thorns. Paul recounts his thorn in the flesh (2 Cor 11-12), modeling perseverance. It’s a Sunday for battered faith, joy in weakness, trusting the Seed that multiplies despite rocky paths.
At ~49 days (echoing Jubilee’s 50), Quinquagesima crowns the season with love’s supremacy (1 Cor 13). The blind man’s sight restored (Luke 18:31-43) mirrors our Lenten unveiling, as Christ foretells His Passion. Abraham’s faith may appear in OT lessons, but charity binds all: without it, even prophetic gifts clang empty. Shrove Tuesday confessions often follow, purging the soul for Ash Wednesday.
This pre-Lent rhythm, far from archaic, offers graduated resolve, like an athlete’s warm-up or a laborer’s dawn hiring. In our rushed age, it invites deliberate turning toward Easter’s victory, one numbered Sunday at a time. But its deeper importance lies in reclaiming a lost art of spiritual preparation, countering the modern temptation to plunge headlong into disciplines without reflection.
Consider our fractured world: instant gratification erodes patience, self-promotion mocks humility, and superficial faith withers under trial. Gesimatide counters this with measured mercy. Septuagesima dismantles pride in our “early arrival,” teaching that God’s kingdom values grace over merit, vital for a culture obsessed with achievement. Sexagesima steels us against despair, reminding Noah-like believers that God’s ark preserves through storms, and His Word, sown generously, yields harvest in unlikely soil. Quinquagesima then clothes these truths in charity, the “greatest” virtue that outlasts all, preparing hearts not just to endure Lent but to love through it.
Historically, this season echoed Eastern asceticism, where Lent’s intensity demanded forewarning, and Western monks buried the Alleluia at Septuagesima’s close in symbolic funerals. Today, amid secular calendars that rush from holiday to holiday, it restores sacred time’s cadence. For pastors and parishioners alike, it fosters communal momentum.
In Free Methodist or Anglican contexts like ours, embracing Gesimatide bridges confessional depth with evangelical zeal. It humanizes Lent, making repentance feel like a gracious invitation rather than a grim duty. These Sundays whisper: Run well, endure faithfully, love supremely—not for corruptible crowns, but for the imperishable joy of Resurrection. Let us, then, heed their numbered call, stepping from Epiphany’s light into Lent’s refining shadow, hearts attuned to Easter’s dawn.
by Joel V Webb | Jan 17, 2026 | Uncategorized
If it hasn’t become clear, one of my favorite topics in theology and Christian practice are the Sacraments, particularly communion (Lord’s Supper, Eucharist etc…). The enduring and central nature of it’s celebration has been the core of Christian worship since the time of Acts, as we know the early church “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer” (Acts 2:42 NIV).
In past posts and articles I have spoken of some of the reasons why coming around the table has become infrequent in some parts of the modern Church. Part of the disconnect that I think there is centers around a question that many of us take for granted. What is worship? For many, the word worship evokes the idea of music and singing, and I think that’s what most of us think. When we speak of a worship service, we also include prayer and hearing/sharing from the Word. But we have to ask, is that the extent of worship?
Before we came come to a contemporary assertion or application we have to ask the question, what did worship look like in the Old Testament? We certainly see Psalms and songs, and other things that we often associate as worship. Yet, the summit and pinnacle of what we see as worship of God’s chosen people is sacrifice. There is never worship to the one and true God that does not include the offering and giving of something.
Now as a note, the sacrifices in and of themselves were not what ultimately pleased God. The prophets are filled with chapters speaking about how the sacrifices and religious practices of Israel are detestable to God because of their disobedience to His law, and so all worship, whether sacrifice, song or anything else must always be paired with a broken and contrite heart as the psalmist writes in Psalm 51.
Now as a note, the sacrifices in and of themselves were not what ultimately pleased God. The prophets are filled with chapters speaking about how the sacrifices and religious practices of Israel are detestable to God because of their disobedience to His law, and so all worship, whether sacrifice, song or anything else must always be paired with a broken and contrite heart as the psalmist writes in Psalm 51.
If worship in the old covenant reached its height in the offering of sacrifice, then the coming of Christ brings this reality to its perfect completion. In Jesus, we see both priest and victim, the one who offers and the one who is offered. The cross becomes the once-for-all act of worship, the great oblation in which sin is finally dealt with and humanity is brought into reconciliation with God. The letter to the Hebrews proclaims this with clarity: where the blood of bulls and goats could never take away sin, Christ’s self-offering has done so forever.
And yet, that singular sacrifice did not end worship, it transformed it. The Church, in every generation, participates in that one sacrifice through what Jesus commanded us to do: “Do this in remembrance of me.” When we gather at the Table, we do not offer a new sacrifice, but rather enter into the one eternal sacrifice of Christ made present by the Spirit. This is why the Eucharist is not just a symbol or a memorial meal; it is participation. It is communion, not only with one another, but with the very life of God through the risen Christ.
This is what makes the Table the beating heart of Christian worship. Every prayer, every reading of Scripture, every hymn, and every act of fellowship ultimately orients us here, to the place where heaven and earth meet, where Christ is both host and feast. Without the Table, our worship easily drifts into abstraction or emotional expression alone. But at the Table, we are grounded again in God’s concrete grace, in bread broken and wine poured out.
If worship is the offering of ourselves to God, then here is where that offering finds its true pattern. We come forward not merely to receive, but to be made into an offering, “living sacrifices,” as Paul says in Romans 12. The Table is where we learn what it means to worship in spirit and in truth: not only with our lips, but with our lives.
If we recover this understanding of worship, that it centers not on what we bring, but on what Christ has already brought before the Father, then the call to return to the Table takes on fresh urgency. Regular communion is not just about returning to a historic pattern; it’s about rediscovering who we are as the Church, the Body of Christ made one in Him.
The Table is not the privilege of one denomination or cultural expression, but the inheritance of all who are joined to Christ through faith and baptism. In a world fractured by ideology, nationalism, and individualism, the Eucharist becomes a counter-sign, a visible witness to the unity that already exists in the risen Lord. Around this Table, there is no hierarchy of worth, no division of class or nation. There is simply grace received together.
When we kneel or stand side by side to receive from the one loaf and one cup, we are participating in something that heals the fractures of both Church and society. The early Christians knew this: the meal that bound them to Christ also bound them to one another. It was their act of resistance against the world’s ways of dividing and excluding. Perhaps that is why, in our fragmented and polarized age, the Spirit is stirring the Church across traditions to return again to frequent communion, not as ritual nostalgia, but as a prophetic act of unity and hope.
For those of us in the Free Methodist and broader Wesleyan traditions, this means seeing the Table not as an optional add-on, but as central to our life together. Each time we share in the bread and cup, we are declaring that Christ’s sacrifice is enough, that His kingdom is breaking in, and that we belong not only to Him, but to one another. If we could begin to live as people shaped by this Table, forgiving as we have been forgiven, giving as we have received, then the unity we proclaim would become visible in a world desperate for reconciliation.
In the end, “Why the Table?” Because this is where the Church becomes truly herself. This is where the world catches a glimpse of what it longs for: a community reconciled by grace, gathered not by preference or power, but by the love that was broken and poured out for us all.
